#District of Misery

[s-e-c-t-i-o-n-8]

[mailperson]

Lies of P not at all bad but I feel like it’s just baaaaaaarely short of what it needs to like hard hook me.

The razzle dazzle arspects are just a little too few and far between. I’m not really the biggest fighter for majorly convoluted areas or inter connectivity just for the sake of it, but many areas are just kinda one corridor into the next and nothing more.

[ghostfacd]

SAVE THE GIRL

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!mentor!reader

summary: when you start to feel bad for the tributes, it’s when snow slowly starts to crack. when you snuck into the arena to properly send your goodbyes to one is when he loses it, making it his mission to get you out, even if it means costing his life

warnings: SPOILERS. descriptions of killing, Snow being a bad friend to Sejanus and manipulative, reader essentially replaces Sejanus in the movie’s original scene

“We all know how this works right guys?” Lucky Flickerman says, his eyes held a sparkle within them. “As soon as your tribute dies, you’re out!”

The screen flickers on the arena, its dusty surroundings filled you with a sense of dread.

You had gotten Lamina, a girl who you were afraid would die as soon as the timer went off. But she managed to impress you, and completely won you over when she had speared the other tributes’ pain and suffering by killing them with an axe.

“Coryo,” you whisper to the blonde hair boy who was almost drifting into sleep. “Coryo.”

“Hm?” He fixes his posture, “is something wrong with Lucy Gray?”

You shake your head, and only pointed to the empty desks surrounding you. “Many died.”

“Your point?”

It almost seems as if Coriolanus was bored of your commentary, he probably was, you did wake him from his sleep.

“This doesn’t feel right Coryo. Not at all. Any of it.”

Coriolanus lets out a breath of annoyance. It was always like that with him, he seemed always to be one step ahead—or at least he presented himself in that way, and he seemed like he was annoyed with anyone who wasn’t on the same level as him.

You and Coriolanus went way back. You were the first few to have known of the death of his father, Coriolanus had told you about it with tears in his eyes. Not because he missed his father, not really, but because he was afraid that there would be nothing left of the Snow family by the time the war was over.

When you first entered the Academy, Snow linked himself with Clemensia Dovecote, a pretty black haired girl who he had gotten close with, and if anyone didn’t know better, they might’ve been more than just friends. But Coriolanus and Clemensia came off as acquaintances by association to you more than anything.

He stopped doing group projects with you so he could do it with her, and he had made himself friendly with Sejanus, a boy who was originally from the Districts but managed to buy his way into the Capitol. Or at least, that’s what all of your seething classmates said as they looked at him in disgust.

“You sound like Sejanus.” Is all Coriolanus says, glancing back at his small television screen.

“Sejanus is our friend, Coryo.”

“Sejanus is district.” Coriolanus slams his hand on your desk, making you flinch. “No matter how much money he has, no matter how much he tries to fit in, he will always be district. And you? You might as well be district with him if you keep acting like this.”

Your brows furrow, and you start to get angry. Who the fuck does Coriolanus Snow think he is?

“And I suppose you’re so well off Capitol yourself, Coriolanus?”

The way your words drip with such venom makes Snow almost crumble, but he doesn’t, instead, choosing to inch his face just a meter over yours. “Don’t say anymore things you don’t mean, Y/N.”

And that was the end of it. Coriolanus Snow wins every argument, and you hated him so much. Why couldn’t he see this was wrong? You knew he had a heart in there somewhere, which was why he was helping Lucy Gray Baird in the first place. Unless he was doing it all for the Plinth prize, for the money.

As you watch your tribute fall to her death, the loud crack adding all to your misery, you wanted to throw the television and desk across the room, just like Sejanus had previously. They were monsters, all of them.

“I’m sorry Y/N.” Coriolanus says, his eyes flickering up to meet yours.

But Coriolanus Snow can’t be sorry, he can’t feel empathy, he can’t feel pain, and most importantly, he can’t feel love.

As the games went on, Coriolanus was slumped into his chair, sleep overcoming his senses.

Dr. Gaul clears her throat, her loud but snake like movements made Coriolanus jolt awake, hissing as he accidentally hurt himself on the edges of the desk.

“I see you’re still here, Mr. Snow.”

“Is something wrong?” Coriolanus asks, eyebrows furrowing. “Is Lucy Gray okay?”

“Oh her? She’s fine.” Dr. Gaul waves the girl off like she meant nothing. “It’s your friend, I’m worried about.”

“My friend?” Coriolanus whips his head around to try and find you, but you were gone, leaving no trace.

“Yes.” Dr. Gaul motions to the wide television in front. “She’s in the arena right now. Doing this goodbye thing for her tribute.”

Coriolanus doesn’t want to believe Dr. Gaul, but how could he not when you’re shown so clearly in the cameras, putting flowers into the hand of your tribute. Almost as if you saw her as human.

“Now Miss. L/N hasn’t done anything like this in the past, so it does spark questions in my mind as to why she’s suddenly..” Dr. Gaul pauses. “Rebelling.” She says this as if it were poison on her tongue.

“From Sejanus, I would expect this. But from our own people, Coriolanus? Now this is absurd. I’ll make sure to get the name of the peacekeeper who let her in and have them executed.” Dr. Gaul gives him a smile, one that sends chills up Coriolanus’s back. “Now I happen to know you two are friends, close friends even; so I need you to go into the arena and fetch her out.”

“Me?” Coriolanus stutters out, hesitance clearly showing in his voice.

“Is that hesitance I hear, Mr. Snow?” Dr. Gaul steps even closer. “Everyone in the Capitol is asleep by now, which means they won’t see the foolishness Miss. Y/N is currently causing. You will go into the arena and take her out before she does anything more stupid. I will not let these rebels make mockery of my game, Mr. Snow. I will simply not allow it.”

And Coriolanus knows he has no choice but to obey Dr. Gaul’s orders.

He makes his way quietly into the arena, making sure his footsteps weren’t creating such loud noises to alert the tributes.

“Y/N,” he whispers as he gets close to your kneeling figure. He watches as you slowly put your hand over Lamina’s eyes, closing them for her. “Y/N.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you reply, not bothering to turn around to face the boy.

“But I am.” He grunts out in annoyance. “I’m here to save your ass because that’s what friends do, Y/N. So help me, and get up.”

You don’t listen to him, choosing to keep kneeling and watching your dead tribute instead. She looked peaceful, and you felt so guilty knowing there was nothing you could do to save her.

“Y/N, I mean it.” Coriolanus says in a more assertive tone. “You’re going to die out here. These tributes? They might as well be animals now, they’re gonna kill the both of us if we don’t get out.”

He grunts in annoyance when he doesn’t see you move, so he carefully walks over, placing his arm under yours, practically dragging your body up from your kneeling position.

“Cmon Y/N, you’ve got to help me.” Coriolanus whispers out. “You don’t want to die here, trust me.”

“HEY! YOU!” The two of you whip your head so quickly at the voice that it sends a dizziness into your head. “HEY!”

The remaining tributes, none of them were Lucy Gray, Wovey, or the boy from 11 with speed so quick that it took the breath in your lungs away.

“CMON!” Coriolanus grabs your hand, the both of you fiercely running towards the doors.

One of the tributes with one of his eyes shut had a sharp blade in his hand, successfully slicing into Coriolanus’s back and your arm. The two of you let out a moan of pain, the frenzy feeling of adrenaline overwhelming the both of you.

Coriolanus lets your hand go for a second, pushing the tribute back harshly, managing to make him drop his weapon. Coriolanus picks up one of the broken poles, repeatedly hitting the male tribute with it until his body stopped moving completely.

You thought he’d be done with it, but he lets out a scream of anger, plunging the pole into the tribute’s body, making you shriek out in horror.

“You’re okay, you’re okay!” Coriolanus breathes out to you, practically limping hand in hand with you as he sees the other tributes catching up from the distance. “Open the door!”

The peacekeepers opened the door, closing it right as one of the more fiercer tribute sticks her trident out. “You’re lucky you’ve escaped this time.” She growls out.

You fall onto the ground as soon as Coriolanus lets go of your hand.

“Hey,” he croaks out, kneeling to cup your face into his hands. “Hey, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

He sounds so reassuring, so kind, and not like the Coriolanus you had despised from earlier.

“I..” you can’t even get a word out before you’re full on sobbing, not caring if you were embarrassing yourself in front of Coriolanus and the two peacekeepers.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He places his hand on the back of your head, bringing you into his chest. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“No one will ever hurt you, Y/N.”

And if there’s one thing Coriolanus Snow is good at—it’s ensuring he gets what he wants.

[gremlingottoosilly]

what would emperor!Konig do if the reader who is pregnant gets sick. How do you reckon he would act?

Huge fan of you emperor series.Can't wait for the next update.

As the empress, you will always have the best healers on the continent at your side. Blessed doctors, scientists, professionals - he wouldn't allow any crazy research, of course, no experiments on his precious pregnant wife, but you will be treated up to the finest points in modern medicine. With a bit of elixirs, maybe some fancy medicine that costs like a small kingdom - empire has money for this, of course, only the best for the bearer of an heir...but most of all, you'd be finally afforded relaxation. As an empress, your main goal is to show up in front of the court and your people, always grazing the poorest districts of the empire with your visits so the peasants could feel like something bigger than themselves. Konig isn't the best public speaker and acts more as a military commander than a ruler - so you have to be his social lube, gracing peasants with your presence and making sure their needs are met. Orphans are getting families, poor are getting money, starved are getting food...and the whole empire wails in misery as your visits suddenly stops. You're loved as an empress - you're young, beautiful, with softness that acts so perfect next to the coldness of your husband. And you're not here anymore, your health deteriorating due to pregnancy. News about your state are flowing around the kingdom, and you will have so many little gifts send from each colony - it's almost cute if half of the assassin population also didn't decide on taking you down in something that would look more like a merciful kill...Krueger has to abandon his duties as a royal knight and be your bodyguard, which he fucking hates. Konig is often with you, however - he would push his duties aside and just lay beside you, always a hand on your stomach and feeding you only with food that passed through him first. No one would dare to attack you while he is around...and of course, he wants to cuddle as much as possible while none of you have royal duties.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[gatheringbones]

[“Poverty is embarrassing, shame inducing. Misery (misère), the French sociologist Eugène Buret once remarked, “is poverty felt morally.”

You feel it in the degradation rituals of the welfare office, where you are made to wait half a day for a ten-minute appointment with a caseworker who seems annoyed you showed up. You feel it when you go home to an apartment with cracked windows and cupboards full of cockroaches, an infestation the landlord blames on you. You feel it in how effortlessly poor people are omitted from movies and television shows and popular music and children’s books, erasures reminding you of your own irrelevance to wider society. You may begin to believe, in the quieter moments, the lies told about you. You avoid public places—parks, beaches, shopping districts, sporting arenas—knowing they weren’t built for you.

Poverty might consume your life, but it’s rarely embraced as an identity. It’s more socially acceptable today to disclose a mental illness than to tell someone you’re broke. When politicians propose antipoverty legislation, they say it will help “the middle class.” When social movement organizers mobilize for higher wages or housing justice, they announce that they are fighting on behalf of “working people” or “families” or “tenants” or “the many.” When the poor take to the streets, it’s usually not under the banner of poverty. There is no flag for poor rights, after all.

Poverty is diminished life and personhood. It changes how you think and prevents you from realizing your full potential. It shrinks the mental energy you can dedicate to decisions, forcing you to focus on the latest stressor—an overdue gas bill, a lost job—at the expense of everything else. When someone is shot dead, the children who live on that block perform much worse on cognitive tests in the days following the murder. The violence captures their minds. Time passes, and the effect fades until someone else is dropped.

Poverty can cause anyone to make decisions that look ill-advised and even downright stupid to those of us unbothered by scarcity. Have you ever sat in a hospital waiting room, watching the clock and praying for good news? You are there, locked on the present emergency, next to which all other concerns and responsibilities feel (and are) trivial. That experience is something like living in poverty. Behavioral scientists Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir call this “the bandwidth tax.” “Being poor,” they write, “reduces a person’s cognitive capacity more than going a full night without sleep.” When we are preoccupied by poverty, “we have less mind to give to the rest of life.” Poverty does not just deprive people of security and comfort; it siphons off their brainpower, too.”]

matthew desmond, from poverty: by america, 2023

[libertyybellls]

FEMALE ROBBERY !

pairing; finnick odair x dist4!victor!f!reader

summary; meeting finnick at your capitol victor party, he is nothing short of entranced.

contains; fluff! just pure fluff, innocent- sweet, comforting, brief mentions of forced prostitution but no detail.

a/n; i was lowkey turning into anakin skywalker when i started writing about how much reader hates sand but it adds personality ok…

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

you were shivering, teeth practically chattering. the wide doors that led to the back of the luxurious party-mansion were wide open. your dress offered little warmth and neither did the people around you- their arrogance and bright colors offered no heat, no coziness, no reminders of home.

your wearing a corset dress- low cut, your chest on great display, you feel like the short hemmed bottomed makes you out to flash everyone at this party.

your hair has braids scattered about- your original hair texture is long gone with the amount of heat styling they’ve done on it throughout your victory tour and interviews. bows adorn the ends of each small braid that lays on your now, flat- straight hair.

the meaningless conversation, and congratulations throughout this party is enough to drive you mad. you need air- oh-so cold but nonetheless you needed more air. you’re feet are moving past people- people who grab at you, yelling praises, trying to get a passing word with you.

but you’re mind is racing, you need to sit in silence and breath.

you find a garden- you don’t have enough greenery back in your district, more ocean, too much sand, too much heat.

the sand got everywhere. you couldn’t complain about the ocean- oh, how you loved the water. but once the sand got in your hair, your shoes, your towel, your clothes- it couldn’t get out. it seemed sand would never leave you alone- president snow reminded you all too much of sand.

it felt like an infirmary sentencing, a life estimation. once the words ‘capitols doll’ left his mouth, ‘desirable’, ‘young, sweet, and pretty’ you felt sick- you’d live your life in misery until another innocent tribute would come along and take all of the heat. but you’d always be in a hotel room, in the capitol, entertaining the people like a puppet on a string.

you don’t think you’ve been warm since you heard those words, you don’t think there’s been enough air- but now, in this garden, everything seems okay.

you sit on a bench, rose bushes surrounding you, a few flowers you can name but never seen- only in books.

your hands are in your lap now, fingers playing with one another- your deep breathes began to lower your blood pressure.

until you hear footsteps nearing on the cold- crunchy grass that’s been frozen over from the weather.

he’s tall- shirtless. what stylist would do that to someone in this nippy weather? but you think your stylist would send you off to these parties naked if he had no decency, too.

he’s finnick odair. even the wind flirting your eyes can recognize that. how couldnt you? the poster boy of your district, sex symbol of panem, but you don’t comprehend any of it.

“you’ve found my spot.” he’s smirking, you can understand why people in the capitol swoon over him- not even six seconds and your body rushes with warm blood.

then you process his words, slowly scrambling to grab your clutch and rising to your feet. he puts his hand up, signaling for you to halt your movements.

“it’s nice to have company.” and so you move your bag over , allowing him more room to sit on the bench.

you don’t speak, atleast you don’t know what to say- you don’t ask questions or say something stupid. finnicks voice breaks the thick barrier of silence; “nice party they gave you.”

he’s joking, and his slight laugh makes you laugh. you’d won nearly a month ago- many sleepless nights covered with makeup and fake eyelashes. “yeah, i’m so grateful for them all.” you breathily laugh off.

the playfulness of this all is refreshing. it almost makes you long forget about your grim past and even darker impending doom.

he turns his head towards you, scanning your face- then to the rose bushes surrounding the both of you- then back to your face. “too many roses every where, i’m starting to hate the smell of them.”

you pick up on his small talk, and you almost laugh a little- he’s acting like a grade-school boy. “i’m beginning to think it possibly the ugliest thing natures created now.”

“mags told me about how mentoring you went, we were all relieved when you won.” you wince when you think about that, he knows that better then anyone here. the heart sinking feeling when your brain slips up for a second- that you don’t let yourself think to hard about, nor too long.

“thanks.” he doesn’t even know you yet, but he know that even if you don’t speak too much the ones you do vocalize have meaning, no vacancy in them. “are you cold?” you can’t help but voice your curiosity.

he looks down on himself, almost as though his body brings him guilt in a way. like he’s ashamed to own it, you’re sure you’ll understand soon.

but within seconds his guard is back up, back to the capitol darling. he simply places your hand on his shoulder, he’s forcing your body to move but in the most genuine way anyone has ever done so.

you feel your cold finger tips merge with his radiant shoulder, like a hypothermic to a heater.

finnicks aura is simply heat, not a touch of coldness. you wonder if it’s his insides pouring into his physical being. does he not have any cold feelings in his heart? is he genuine? “how are you warm right now?”

he only laughs as you try to remove your hand from him in the least awkward way you can, placing your hands back into your lap. there’s so many things you want to ask him, tell him. his soul is like a confession booth, that you’ve heard before. all the secrets he knows, all of the words only he’s been told.

“does it get better? even if you’ve been told something that doesn’t make you think it will?” he can only imagine what your last words mean, and now his heart drops. no- not someone like you? so young so unsuspecting, but weren’t they all?

“if you have someone to lean on, you’ll be okay.”

you frown at this, despite your fear of making yourself seem like a complete and utter loser to the golden boy of panem- you say; “and if i don’t?” you can’t help but think about your overworked tired parents, never home, never cared too much. your friends who you don’t see all too much.

“if you don’t,” he looks up from his lap now, eyes locked onto yours, only your eyes ever- not your exposed chest or the dress that rides up your thighs. “you have me if you’re willing, i think we’ve gotten on well.”

this makes you smile to yourself, you can’t look into his eyes any longer you think you’ll get lost. you feel like a school girl, unable to breathe around the presence of your crush. “i don’t know you all that well, finnick odair.”

he shakes his head, “haven’t you read the news, y/n l/n?” he’s mimicking your words, almost in a sing-song way.

“i don’t tend to make premeditated decisions on who someone is based on what the capitol news says. i prefer to get to know them instead.”

“well, let’s get to know eachother then.” his body turns toward you. flattening his hands onto his lap. “favorite color?”

you look at the grass before you, the stems of the flowers around you, the feeble, poor excuses of barely full bushes that line the sand before the water in district four. “green, not a dark green. something in the middle.” your eyes flick back to his, almost the perfect green you were talking about. “and you?”

“blue.” his two fingers pick up the bows at the end of your hair, you almost roll your eyes at this. too charming you could laugh.

“what are you scared of?”

he thinks about this one, taking a moment to relay his thoughts. it wasn’t death, no. he wouldn’t be scared when his time came, he would just hope the people he loves would be okay, that they’d get through it without him.

“becoming one of them.” he nods his head back to the people scuffling about in frilly dresses and skirts around the main party center. “so moral-less, so demanding. so many things i don’t want to be.”

you shake your head now, “i don’t think you could ever be one of them.” to anyone else this would be an insult, being apart of the capitol was little girls and boys dreams. to live so lavishly and carefree. but once you’ve seen it all, you just want to be by the ocean- at peace, unbothered with those who meant the most to you. “you’re much too good for that.”

finnick believes you, it’s like all he’s needed his whole life was your words that had no hint of second meaning. only pure, true, clean. “if it means anything, i know you couldn’t be anyways. no matter how many bows they put in your hair.” he laughs again, that charming chuckle that sends a butterfly to your stomach. “you have a good heart, i hope that it stays that way.”

it’s all so honest , the whole interaction. but you’ve been away from your own party far too long and you’re almost scared to upset people. “i have to go. i’ll see you around, finnick.” his name is foreign to your tongue almost, but its welcome.

finnick then stands quickly, “when will i see you again?” he almost looks worried.

“soon. we live in the same village after all.”

-

inspired by my favorite, @mrsnancywheeler ‘s fic

masterlist

inbox open!

[saberlight1]

exit music (for a film) — coriolanus snow

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

warnings: slight tbosas spoilers, mentions of past abuse, trauma, violence, ptsd, established relationship, reader almost gets assaulted, Y/N usage, possessive!snow, a toxic ex attacks you, hints towards past sexual assault, standard ballad of songbirds and snakes warnings.

authors note: soo i was needing some comfort, and i realized there are not a lot of hurt & comfort fics for coryo!! this is a big injustice so i decided to write this. just a fair warning: this fic contains themes that can be hard for some people to read; including sexual assault and domestic violence. if you aren’t comfortable with these topics, feel free to go read some of my other coryo stories here! i hope you all enjoy this, much love<3.

masterlist

When you first laid eyes upon the white-haired boy, you didn’t think he’d become as important to you as he is now. He was assigned to be your mentor in the Hunger Games, and you were slightly relieved when you saw him standing at the train station, waiting for you.

Although you were both cautious of the other, coming from different, yet similar lands. But once you warmed up to him, you never wanted to part.

After the arena got bombed with you all in it, Coriolanus getting injured aand trapped, you stayed behind even if there was a clear opening for you to run— because you found yourself caring for him.

He had protected you so far, treating you with kindness and respect as he guided you through this hellish period in your life. So you had to do the same. Anyways, that was what told yourself when you risked everything to stay back and attempt to help him.

You brushed your hair behind your ears, ignoring the stinging pain in your side from being burnt as you started off into a sprint towards the boy who was crying out in pain, the pole he was trapped under catching fire.

“Coriolanus!” You called out as you neared him. “I’m here, I’m here.” You tried to soothe him as you tried to push the pole off of him.

He let out a sigh of relief at the sight of your face, and almost looked confused at your act to help him.

After a moment of struggle, you finally got the pole away from him, but it had got him badly. You immediately bent down to his level, your hands going to cradle his face softly, he leaned into it.

“Oh, are you alright?” You whispered, his shaky hands coming out to grip your wrists, rubbing softly in thanks. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, I—” You did your best to explain, but you were cut off by a sharp grip on your arm, dragging you away from him. The boy reached out for you as you were taken away, only making your heart sink further into your stomach.

“No!” You thrashed in their hold, but to no avail. You watched your mentor lose consciousness from the pain as you could do nothing to help him.

And even though you only met him a couple days prior, you realized in that very moment how much you truly did care for him.

That was one of your earliest memories of Coriolanus, the next time you saw him after that was the first time your lips touched. From that night on, you became much more to each other than you ever would’ve guessed.

You sighed, moving from your spot in your window as reality set in. You hadn’t seen the boy in question in over month. He had promised to protect you, and he kept it surely. He cheated to get you out the games, and it ended with him locked up, as you liked to believe. People around twelve said that the Capitol had him killed.

You wished he had left you to die if it meant he’d be free and you the one in the grave. You were in misery in your district, missing your lover deeply. But, alas, you had no choice. And with all the fighting you did in that arena, you refused to give up now.

Even if it meant living without the one you craved most.

You grabbed your bag, another hard breath leaving your lips as you walked out the comfort of your small home that was in the outskirts of District 12. You liked it better that way, being away from it all. When you were younger you used to live down by the Hob, which was located right next to the Hanging Tree.

After years of hearing the grueling sounds of somebody loosing their life, the jabberjays in the wind repeating their loved ones cries, sometimes even their last words, you simply couldn’t bare it anymore.

So you left, opting to live out by the forest and the lake, giving you pockets of peace where you could forget it all. Or, at least the things you tried to forget. Some things seemed to haunt you forever.

You quietly walked into town to go get some food from the Mellark Bakery, your head down and gaze low the whole way. You could feel eyes on you— you always did when you came out of your home. You hated their stares, their judgement, that was the one thing that seemed to haunt you the most.

You finally looked up, meeting eyes with your ex boyfriend who was stood with his friends, a sly smirk being worn on his face. You internally shrank, your steps picking up as you tried to get closer to your destination.

Anxiety flooded your bloodstream as you heard loud, hard footsteps pick up behind you, sounding as if they were only inching closer and closer. Your eyes screwed shut as you felt like you were back in the arena again, your flight or fight instincts kicking in.

You tried to calm yourself down, repeating the words ‘It’s all in your head’ like a mantra under your breath. You had recently been plagued with the worst paranoia and anxiety, and the only reason of why you could think of was because of the time you spent in that godforsaken arena. Most of the time you felt as if you being hunted, all of the horror you felt when you were in that arena never leaving your nervous system.

Most days you had to talk yourself out of a panic attack, little things setting you off and sending you into a 20 minute state of panic. It was normal to you by now, and that is what you thought was happening.

Until a harsh grip yanked you out of your head, dragging you into an alley and pinning you to a wall. A loud yelp left your lips as you hit the wall, taking you a moment to process what was happening.

When you looked up, the pit in your stomach only grew further as an overwhelming sense of dread came over you. Your ex-boyfriend, Jay, was standing over you with that same soulless smile that used to haunt your dreams.

“My, Y/N. It’s been a mighty long time since I done seen you around here.” He taunted, his hot breath hitting your face, causing your eyes to screw shut as the past memories of him doing this very same thing to you swirled around your brain. “Thought after you got a taste of the Capitol.. of that Coriolanus Snow,” he said with disgust on his tone. “That you thought you were too good f’me. For Twelve.” He spat, harshly.

It was funny how with a few words he could turn you right back into that naive girl he manipulated all those years ago. You cowered in fear, refusing to look him the eye.

“Jay, please..” You whispered, your head turned away from him in an attempt to get as far away as possible. “Just let me go, please. I won’t come back around here, I swear.” You begged, tears filling your closed eyes as you fought for your composure.

“Nah, girl.” He whispered back, getting so close to you that you could feel his breath on your cheek. “I’m gon’ do what I want with you, like old times.”

Your eyes shot open his words. “No, God, please, no.” The tears fell from your eyes as you continued to plea with him.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N.” He coldly smiled. “You used to be fun,”You felt his grip on your forearms travel back down to your hips, squeezing. The act left a bad taste in your mouth, making you want to throw up. You sobbed as you prepared yourself for what was coming, wishing you had just stayed cooped up in your home.

Your wails from the alley only increased in volume as his touch began to move downward. “Shut the fuck up,” He hissed, his hand slapping over your mouth. You prayed to whatever God was above, wishing he would just kill you now.

And just as his hand ghosted over the waistband of your skirt, the man’s touch disappeared all together, being replaced with the sound of someone hitting the floor.

You opened your tear-stained eyes slowly to find your attacker on the ground, and in a flash of throwing punches you saw that white hair adorned by the boy you adored so much.

You stood there in shock as you watched Coriolanus, who now wore a Peacekeeper’s uniform with a shaved head, beat Jay into a pulp. Tears still left your eyes as you slid down the wall, your knees coming up to your chest as you began to process what almost just happened to you.

Anxiety took your breath from your lungs as the panic finally began to set in once you realized you were safe. Your vision started to go blurry with tears as the will to breathe got harder.

“Hey, hey.” Coriolanus appeared in your line of vision, his hands wiping the tears from your face. “I’m here, you’re alright, baby.” He sighed before sitting down next to you and bringing you into his arms. You dug your head into the crook of his neck, hugging him close.

“Did he hurt you?” He asked, his hand on the back of your head, rubbing softly. He tried his best to comfort you, and tried to calm the fiery rage he felt when he saw that man on top of you.

“N—No,” You shakily got out. “He.. he tried to—”

Coriolanus’ head fell to your shoulder, hugging you just as tight as a sigh of relief left his lips. He had been walking by when he first heard your pleas with that man, and he dropped everything and ran at the sound of your voice. When he saw that man on top of you, the muffled sobs leaving your lips, your eyes screwed shut— God, he saw red. He would be lying if he didn’t say he didn’t miss you in the time you were apart.

Your body shook with your sobs, the boy’s heart hurting of the sight of you this upset. “Shh, you’re safe. I’m here,” He repeated, leaving kisses on your face, neck, and shoulders whilst he whispered sweet nothings in your ear in an attempt to calm you.

Once you somewhat calmed down you pulled back slightly, just to make sure he was real.

“Oh, Coryo,” You cried, your forehead resting on his. “Thank you, thank you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he took in your state. He had never seen you like this, so scared, so vulnerable. The sight of it only made him bring you back into his arms, holding you impossibly closer.

“I’ve got you, my love.” He hushed your cries, leaving another kiss on your head. “No one’s gonna hurt you if I’m with you, it’s okay now.” You wrapped your legs around his waist as he stood up, you still in his arms. He placed you down slightly, his hands angling your jaw up so you’d look at him. “C’mon, let’s go to your house. Get you away from this piece of shit,” he pointed to the bloodied face of Jay who was unconscious on the ground. You nodded, trying to pull yourself together, your eyes flickering back to Jay to make sure he was still knocked out.

Sensing your anxieties, he pulled you back into his arms for once last hug. “Shh,” He rubbed your back. “You’re alright. He won’t hurt you, I won’t let him.” He comforted, leaning down to kiss your tears away. His movements made you smile as you sucked in a breath before you lead him out the alley and to your home.

Once you arrived and walked through the doors, it felt as if a weight was lifted off your shoulders. You were finally home, and you had Coryo with you.

Your heart felt full as it sank in that you were finally reunited with him, with Coryo. You got him back. A smile was on your face, despite your previous cries as you turned back towards the man who shared a similar smile to yours as he looked around at your home, and launched yourself into his arms.

He chuckled slightly, hugging you back like a delicate flower in his palm. After a moment of holding each other, you pulled back again, your hands cupping his cheeks. “I thought you were dead, Coryo. I thought.. oh, I thought they took you from me.” You sighed, leaning forward to connect your lips with his for the first time in months. You poured all of the longing, all of the tears, and emotion into that kiss, trying to show all your love with just an action.

He smiled against your lips, his hands on your hips being comforting as he leaned forward, tilting his head to deepen it. When the pair of you pulled apart for air, the smiles stayed.

“You should know by now that I’ll always find you, Y/N.” He joked, tucking hair behind your ear.

“Good,” You left one last peck to his lips, before going grabbing his hand and leading him to your bed. After all of the crying you had done in the past hour, all you wanted to do was lay with him.

He instantly knew what you were trying to do, a love-sick smile on his face as he laid down next to you, pulling you into his chest. You giggle as you settled in, your hand tracing patterns into his undershirt.

“I missed you,” He whispered after a while of quiet, looking down at you.

Blush dusted your cheeks as you rolled on your stomach to give him your full attention, your chin on his chest. “I missed you, too. Probably more.”

He smiled at your words, his hand coming up to grip yours lovingly, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand. “You’re beautiful,” He said after a beat of silence, admiring you in the candlelight.

You smiled at his words. “You’re prettier, Snow.” Your gaze flickered down to your laced fingers, noticing his cut and bruised knuckles.

“Oh, Coryo,” You sat up slightly, bringing his hand with you to get a closer look. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. That wasn’t your fault. I’m alright, baby, doesn’t even hurt that bad.” He tried to talk you down, a soft smile still on his face.

“Thank you, I mean it.” You met his eye. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t save me.” You swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “You always save me.”

It was his turn to blush now, as you bent down to kiss his injured knuckles softly. When you finished he grabbed your jaw softly, bringing your lips to his. He kissed you hard, just like he always did. It seemed like he tried to show how much he loved you with just one simple action, and trust, he accomplished that goal.

You hummed happily against his lips, letting him pull you down on top of him, your lips still connected. When you pulled back for air, he continued to cradle your face, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He whispered, his lips still leaving kisses. “I’ll always be here to protect you.”

You smiled, giggling as you snuggled closer to him. The pair of you had quieted down once again, sleep and comfort taking over your minds.

But you cracked your eyes open one last time, leaning up to leave kisses on his jaw. “I love you, Coryo.”

His eyes opened immediately as he stared down at you in shock, before a soft smile took over his face. “I love you, too.”

And just like that, all you had been longing for was under your fingertips, and you now thanked whatever God was looking down on you for bringing this man into your life.

[lucy-gray1075]

On the Sea

synopsis: finnick teaches you to surf, the only water activity you never learned

dear reader: i know nothing about surfing lol. all i know is that i'm in love with this man and would very much be more head over heels for him if he taught me how to surf <3

w/c: 1.5k

౨ৎ･ﾟ:*

"Come onnn, babe," Finnick runs ahead of you, surfboard clutched under one arm. "It's gonna get dark soon. And cold." It already is. Although it never really goes below 40 degrees in District 4, the water still feels frigid to you. Finnick, however, pretends it's a sunny summer day like the golden boy he is.

"It's freezing, Finn," you complain. You hate being whiny, but you can't bring yourself to take off the thin shawl you're using as a cover-up.

He turns back to see you struggling against the wind, shivering in your skimpy swim clothes.

"Aw, c'mon babygirl," Finnick pouts at the unmistakable misery on your face. He jogs back to you, stooping to pick you up with one arm and throw you over his shoulder like you're a sack of potatoes. He runs full speed toward the water, giggling like an overexcited toddler when you yelp.

"Let's go!" he booms, jiggling your body as you hold onto him for dear life. You scream the entire way to the water, but he doesn't mind.

Finnick wades in a few feet until he can safely set down the surfboard, then plops you down on it. He instructs you to straddle the board so you don't fall off it.

"Okay, baby, I'm gonna push you out a little bit here." He gently turns the board around so you're facing the waves. He pats your bum lightly, earning a scowl from you that he repays with a cheeky grin. He really is a twenty-four year old teenage boy.

You clutch the sides of the board as you feel Finnick pushing you further out to sea.

"Alright, this seems like a good spot to start out." He turns you back around to face the shore before coming to stand beside you. He's chest deep in the water now, meaning you would be covered up to your eyes if you fell in. You try not to think about that as Finnick instructs you to lie flat on your belly.

"You're gonna paddle, keeping your arms close to the board. Then, I'll instruct you when to pop up." He holds your board steady as you shift from your seated position onto your stomach. You look down to see your hands trembling.

"Aw, you cold, honey?" Finnick seems genuinely concerned, but you don't want to disappoint him.

You plunge your hands into the water, smiling wide despite your now-frozen fingertips. "Nope, all good."

"M'kay." He looks skeptical of your cheerfulness but takes it in stride. "Paddle forward and wait until you catch a wave. I'll tell ya when to pop up, okay baby?"

"Wait!" You place a hand on his arm to stop him from pushing you out to sea. "How do I pop up?"

"Oh, we should probably practice that," Finnick laughs, tapping a fist to his forehead to chide himself for being too eager. "I'll hold you in place. Now, I want you to grip the board with two hands and shift from your belly to your feet."

You use your arms to give yourself enough momentum to pull your legs up under you in a crouch. You can tell by the way his arms are flexed that Finnick is holding the board as steady as possible for you. Even still, it's hard for you to keep your balance, and you have to throw your arms out as you wobble from side to side trying to stand up.

"That's my girl!" Finnick booms when you're successfully on two feet.

"I didn't even do anything yet," you roll your eyes, smiling down at him. You sit back down on the board to avoid falling in.

"Oh, you did too. You popped up on your first try! Most of the kids I teach don't get it until an hour of practice." Finnick reaches up to place one hand on your midback and the other on your cheek, leaning up to capture your lips in his. Somehow his hands are still warm despite the frigid water. You lean down to deepen the kiss, straddling his broad chest. He tastes of sea salt and the green apple he had as a snack before this. You could never tire of your golden boy.

You pull away because he's smiling brighter than the sun now and he can't seem to stop. "What're you so happy about?" You giggle at the mere sight of his dimples.

"Nothin'," and just like that his grin is cheeky again. He slides his hands down your body seeming to drink in your appearance. He gives you a quick pat on your bum before his hands leave your body to find the edge of the surfboard again. “Off you go, now.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the worst before lying flat on the board and peddling yourself forward. After a few seconds, you feel yourself catching a wave and wait for Finnick's direction.

"Okay, baby, pop up now!" he yells.

You try your best to do it like before, but it's harder without Finnick's steady grip on your board. You end up taking a headlong tumble into the water sideways. You come up spluttering to hear Finnick chortling his head off.

"Hey!" You wade over to splash him, forgetting about your surfboard for the moment.

"Hey!" Finnick mocks you with a teasing smirk painted on his stupidly handsome face. He wraps his thick arms around your waist, forcing you to wrap your thighs around his middle so that you can't splash him.

You pout down at him but wrap your arms around his neck anyway, allowing him to kiss yours.

After a few more failed attempts, you finally pop up and stay on the board long enough to ride out the wave. You're tired but it's all worth it when you see Finnick's face.

He's looking up at you like you're made of starlight.

"Baby, that was so incredible!" He pulls you off the surfboard and into his arms, spinning you around and around until you think he's dizzy enough to drown. You revel in his congratulatory embrace before realizing it's gotten much colder. What with all your tumbles into the sea and the wind picking up speed, you are now shaking like a leaf.

"I think it's getting a little chilly," you glance down at him. Even Finnick notices how violently your teeth are chattering now.

"Ohh, let's get ya home, honey," he rubs his arms up and down your back, trying to convey the warmth he seems to radiate like a furnace.

Once you're back on shore, Finnick takes off, running full speed toward your cottage. "Race ya back!" he has the decency to holler after he's already fifteen feet ahead of you.

"Hey, no fair!" you call out. Your legs feel numb and leaden. They're absolutely unresponsive to any sense of urgency you feel. Even with the surfboard tucked under his arm, Finnick is somehow faster than you.

A few seconds later, he turns back around, presumably to wait.

"Can you walk any slower, grandma?" Finnick taunts. His smile is a mile wide. Everything had to be a competition with him.

"Almost there!" you call back sweetly, not taking the bait. If he sees that you're annoyed, he'll be overjoyed, and you are not letting him win today. "Oh my god, is that a pelican?" You point up at nothing.

In the time it takes him to confirm your ruse, you speed ahead. You use up every last ounce of your energy and almost make it to your porch before you feel a big arm snake around your waist. You're flipped to face away from the porch as Finnick cheers for himself.

"Finnick!" You can't hide your annoyance now. You won fair and square. Just because he's twice your size, doesn't mean he can throw you around like a spare surfboard.

"I won!" You yell up at him.

"I'm the one on the porch, sweetheart," he chuckles, putting his arms up.

"I won, and you're giving me a foot massage," you storm past him opening the front door. "And a back rub." You slam the door then giggle. You don't actually mind his antics. But acting annoyed now ensures you an evening of relaxation, courtesy of your handsome boyfriend who is extremely talented in masseur-ly duties.

"Yes, ma'am," Finnick walks in. "You just go start the fire and relax for me, sit real pretty. I'll make your favorite soup and we'll have some of that bread Peeta sent us last week. And after we eat, I promise to give you the full Finnick Odair spa experience."

"That's what I thought," you smiled, pointing at your cheek for a kiss he happily delivers.

[jooshergoober]

Silence of Voices

𖤐 Peeta Mellark x Reader

On the 74th Annual Hunger Games reaping day, District 12 gets another tribute taken in. That person is you, yet are you really ready?

I haven’t seen any peeta fics where the reader is a badass and where the reader doesn’t take the place of katniss so here you go ^_^

[masterlist] | [next]

1.

Reaping day started no differently. Trying to spend your possible last moments before getting your name picked to kill or be killed for the sake of their entertainment.

Walking through the hellhole called district 12 was nothing special. Perhaps you couldn't say anything because you had no one, wow what a way to put that. Yet, having no one means that you had nothing to lose, that is, if you were reaped.

You walked past the silence of people, making your way to your makeshift home. You had only started to properly live in it to avoid talking to anyone. Everyone can go die, you thought, but was it worth it?

Living until your twelve and putting your name into the raffle just to be picked off to die. District 12 has no chance of winning, but maybe you would be picked and get sent off to your misery.

You were always alone, your stoic persona led people away from you. Not that you minded, obviously, you wanted to avoid contact with anyone ever since the passing of your parents. Not bothering to pay attention to the outdoor distractions, you looked through a crappy drawer that contained a limited amount of clothing, yet it still worked its purpose. You took out the light blue dress and scoffed at its color.

Instead, you stripped from your original clothes, and put on the ‘pretty’ dress. The dress went to your knees, with a soft pattern of trills on the bottom of it. You kept your hair down, not bothering to put it up or make a good appearance. You knew you weren’t going to get picked, your name has been put in it for years.

After keeping your worn shoes, the reaping alarm was heard, telling the people of district 12 that it was time for the annual reaping day.

You only let out a small sigh and began to leave your makeshift house, looking at it one more time, before turning away and walking towards the reaping ceremony.

Walking in, the crowd is getting larger and larger, you being one of them. As you were walking, you noticed a girl around your age, 16, consoling a younger girl, most likely her first time. Shaking your head, you pushed past and got into the line. You stuck your hand out for them, pricking your finger and pushing the wound against the paper.

[ (reader) (lastname) ]

The machine read, before you turned and got into the separated groups. You felt bad for whoever was to be chosen, it puts a lot of pressure, you thought.

After everyone was finally registered, you stood in your place, watching as individuals dressed in smooth suits and fancy clothing walked out, taking their seats to enjoy the show. The tall microphone in the middle was empty, before a woman dressed in magenta and elegant clothing. She tapped the microphone before speaking, a smile on her face.

“Welcome, Welcome, Welcome.” Her bright voice rang out for all to hear. Her dark eyes scanned the crowds as she smiled.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds ever be in your favor.” She gave a nod, which made you want to gag.

Having to hear her voice another year was extremely annoying, yet you thanked her for never pulling your name out.

“Now before we begin—“ she started, but you couldn't care less. You ignored the sound of her voice and watched the video appear on the screen with a blank look. The capitol could die, especially the president.

You couldn’t care who died, especially if it was the president. Maybe if he died, the hunger games would stop.

Only hearing the muffled voice of the president and you took your time to look around you, glaring at the peacekeepers that were located near you.

“—As usual, ladies first..” the woman said slowly, taking small steps towards the container that held your name in it and plenty of others. You only bothered to pay attention now, but you stared at her hand as she grabbed a piece of paper with someone's name on it.

She moved back to the microphone and opened the paper, opening her mouth to say the sacrificed lamb.

“Primrose Everdeen.”

You only stood there as you watched the young, blonde, and scared girl walk slowly and away from the people near her, the woman edging her to come onto the stage. You recognized her as the scared girl, how unfortunate that her first day she gets reaped.

You watched silently as the other girl, whom you saw comforting her prior to the reaping, stepped out and called her name.

That caused the peacekeepers to hold her back before the words came out of her mouth.

“I volunteer! I volunteer!” As she pushed the guards away from her and finally with a calm voice saying, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Your eyes widened at her actions, wondering how crazy she was for sacrificing her own life for a kid that would go through this again.

Apparently, this also shocked the woman on the stage as she urged the volunteer to come up instead.

When she finally arrived onto the stage, with a hint of hesitance, she now stood next to the woman.

“What's your name?” The colorful lady asked, looking at the first ever volunteer.

“Katniss Everdeen.” She said quickly.

You now know why she did that. She did it to save her sister. Was it really worth it? Then again, could you really say anything.

You drowned out their voices yet only stood to watch them. You noticed the people around you did that hand sign again. You brought your index, middle, and ring finger to your lips and held it up, along with everyone else. You brought your hand back down as you watched the white haired woman make her way to the boy’s selection container.

She put her hand in, again, and grabbed a paper. She made her way back to the microphone and opened the paper, saying the name loudly.

“Peeta Mellark.”

You turned your head to where everyone else was looking. The boy you saw made you pause. His face, mouth opened as the light in his eyes slowly disappeared hearing his name.

You could only watch with silent eyes as the boys around him moved away, giving him space to walk towards the stage. He made small steps and was finally on the stage.

“Before we.. conclude our tributes.” She paused for a second before smiling.

“There was an anonymous voting, and district 12 was chosen for having an extra tribute.” She smiled sweetly and looked at a peacekeeper and nodded.

Two peacekeepers brought a smaller bowl of names, and it was held in front of her while everyone looked at each other in fear.

“Twenty people were nominated to be the extra tribute, and will be determined right now.” She gave a nod and put her hand in, quickly grabbing one and opening it. The peacekeepers holding the container pulled away and stepped aside.

“(reader) (lastname).” Her voice broke you from your trance. Your eyes widen as you look at the woman in shock. She beckoned you onto the stage and you only stood frozen in your spot, watching as the girls around you only stared at you.

You finally began to move your feet, quickly moving onto the stage and standing next to the boy, Peeta, you think that was his name.

“Now, let’s give an applause for our 3 tributes, from district 12!”

She motioned for them to shake hands, and you only stood to the side, not wanting to interact with the two. They stare awkwardly at each other as the woman gives one last statement.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.” She smiled as she put her hands on the first two tributes shoulders and pulled them with her, you following behind quietly. The doors closing behind all of you.

[ulltraviolences]

let the light in | haymitch abernathy

pairing: haymitch abernathy x fem!covey!reader

synopsis: deciding to indulge in old habits after a particularly hard night & glimpses of his past life, haymitch doesn’t expect to be comforted by the voice of a beautiful songbird in the hob of 12.

warnings: mentions of war, canon violence, ptsd, alcohol, mention of blood, flirting, age gap (reader is in early 20s), slight sexual themes, kissing, fluff-ish, sweet haymitch

song included: the ballad of lucy gray baird

a/n: this is something I’ve had for so long in my drafts & now that we’ve got the prequel announcement, what better time than to post it! <3

Maysilee’s loud screeches echo through the trees, the mockingjay’s repeating the blood curdling sound as they start to encircle him. Haymitch’s feet moving fast beneath him against the dirt trail in order to lose the career pack behind him. His movements beginning themselves before his mind can process them and the fact that she’s gone. The wind being his sole helper in drying the tears that threaten to keep flowing, catching a glimpse of his hands still stained red from the way he held her before she passed.

The only thing on his mind now being that he survives this, for her, for his family, for his district, and more importantly so he can show that they don’t control him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sound of glass shattering against the hardwood floor is what finally pulls his consciousness out of the nightmare of the arena. Flailing his arms around as if to protect himself from ever being touched again, haymitch is quick to his feet to stand up and surveil the empty dining room for the slight hint of the ghost of a past tribute looking to attempt to take his life once more.

He stands completely still as he finally takes into account his surroundings, his heart still pumping out an extra beat per minute and silently waiting as he catches his breath. it’s just a dream. you survived. you’re here. you’re home. He repeats the mantra in his head over and over again till it hopefully sticks this time.

It isn’t until he feels a slight trickle drip down onto the table that he sees the fallen glass shatter all over the floor and mixed with the hint of crimson from the shards stuck to his palm.

It feels like a cruel joke almost, a reminder. The blood that he’ll forever have stuck to his hands. The mess of blood that no matter how hard he tries to clean up will just keep flowing in an endless cycle no matter what he does to prevent it from happening again.

A bitter chuckle escapes him at the thought. Amused by his own misery and the situation he’s found himself in. He backs up and slowly treks himself to the kitchen sink to turn on the faucet, relishing in the slight sting that the lukewarm water elicits from his wounded hand.

A small price to pay for the families he thinks about every waking moment that he’s, no doubt, wounded for life by surviving the games against their children. Their loved ones that they’ll never get the chance to see again. Yet, whose faces and names haunt him every night since he’s stepped foot out of that arena.

The pain of not only them but his parents. His sisters. His girl. And Maysilee. Her family. People who he couldn’t save even here at home and after the games. All because he wanted to show them, the capitol, that they couldn’t control him they way they did everyone else.

The growing pit in his stomach now feeling inescapable the longer he stands in front of the running faucet. Shaking his head, he slams the faucet switch off, grabbing the alcohol beside him to disinfect the wound. Hissing and banging his leg against the drawer beneath his sink when when the liquid hits his palm. He slowly bends down to open the drawer and finds the bandaging wrap that he keeps for instances like these, which have happened to become routine for him. He bandages up the rest of his hand until he looks down and hums in slight satisfaction at his work.

As soon as he’s finished, his mind is already preoccupied with what the next choice, or beverage, of distraction he is in need of. It can’t be here though. Anywhere but the empty, cold house in the almost unoccupied, lone victor’s village.

Walking towards the front door, he quickly shrugs on a light coat and his boots. Stepping out into the cool, autumn night out in district 12. He continues down the path towards the main part of the district. Letting the sound of the wind be the only thing present in his mind before he decides to sit down at the hob and think more about his decisions in life so far.

As he nears the hob, he can hear the slight sound of music making its way through the open doors to the outside. Both young and old residents of the district out tonight and drinking, the only semblance of fun and normalcy you’ll find them indulging in despite the circumstances of their situations.

He walks in, immediately making a straight beeline towards the bar. Trying as hard as he can to ignore the lingering stares and pointed whispers of those who recognize him. The only lone alive victor of district 12. Eyes filled with both curiosity and pity as they follow his frame to the bar. All were surprised that he had decided to grace them with his presence for once. As his absence was growing long enough for him to almost be forgotten till the painful reminder on reaping day each year.

Haymitch settles onto the stool near the end of the bar, ordering whatever scarce brew is available for the night. Once it’s placed in front of him, it’s almost gone just as it was full. Already raising his hand to catch the attention of the bartender for another glass. Opting to ignore the judgmental stare and low warning given to him before the bartender hesitantly slides another glass his way.

Lost in thought of the nights earlier events and his second helping of beer, his mind is pulled away by the loud cheers of the people in the hob. Still nursing his beer, he takes a small peak from the corner of his eye to where everyone else’s attention is on to the girl twirling her way onto the stage with guitar in hand.

He’s a bit taken aback for a second, not ever having seen much of her before around the district or even hearing of her name. Yet, he might be the only clueless one as to who this girl is, he thinks. Spotting even, off duty peacekeepers who’ve decided to join in once they see the young woman take the stage.

“Well hey y’all!”, The girl beams, “Now just how might all of you fine folks out here in district 12 must be doing tonight?”

The crowd roars in excitement at the question. Never had he ever seen in life someone command the attention of a majority of a district in such a way that wasn’t related to the games. In a joyful way, nonetheless.

“Alright! Alright! Settle down y’all, I hear you all quite clearly, no need to go rupturing my ears now!”, You say as you playfully roll yours eyes at the crowd, “For those of you who may not know, or have been living under a rock, my name is Y/n Ivory!”

As the crowd around him laughs at the charming display of your personality in full force, Haymitch finds out he’s not immune to the power of your charisma either. He finds himself, still secluded in the dark corner of the room, cracking a small smile at your undeniable stage presence.

Pale white dress flowing freefully over your body landing just right above your knees with flowers woven through your hair and all. You’re the purest untainted vision of beauty he’s ever seen dancing in a place that has seen so much violence and pain as 12. It’s a wonder, he thinks to himself, how he’s gone so long without ever seeing or hearing of you.

He doesn’t know if he should be mad at himself for not getting out more or grateful for the fact that he chose to leave tonight. By having it lead him right here tonight as he watches you illuminate the room with every step you take and smile never breaking off of your face for even a second.

“Now don’t you worry, I’m gonna sing y’all a special one tonight,” you say, strumming the guitar as you continue to speak, “this one is a little tune some of you might know, a ballad we’ve all heard passed down, figured something slow is fitting for a nice night like this”

Haymitch watches you slightly clear your throat a little as you strum the chords on your worn leather guitar. He marvels at the intactness of it, such a prized possession to be in hold of that he’s sure has seen so much in its time. Figuring to himself that it has to be some sort of heirloom, as he knew at least no one, not even him, could afford such a luxury except if you lived in the capitol.

“ When I was a babe I fell down in the holler

when I was girl I fell into your arms

we fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

you went to the dogs and I lived by my charms ”

Your voice is sweet, he thinks. Melodically beautiful, just as he expected, yet it doesn’t take away his surprise nonetheless. The glide of the strings paired with your voice forces him to shake his head a bit just to make sure he wasn’t dead yet from the alcohol and your voice was mistaken as angel from above.

He concludes that regardless, there’s not much of a difference. As he takes in your frame, almost floating above the crowd as high as the sound of your lungs can take you, he figures that you might as well be an angel.

“ I danced for my dinners, spread kisses like honey

you stole and you gambled, and I said you should

we sang for our suppers, we drank up our money

then one day you left, saying I was no good

well, all right, I’m bad, but then you’re no prize either

all right, I’m bad, but then, that’s nothing new

you say you won’t love me, I won’t love you neither

just let me remind you what I am to you

‘cause I am the one who looks out when you’re leaping

I am the one who knows how you were brave

and I am the one who heard what you said sleeping

I’ll take that and more to my grave ”

The lyrics are familiar, he concludes to himself. He remembers the ballad well, one his mother would often sing to him & his sisters when they were younger. It would be a way for her to calm them down each night before a reaping.

He remembers the stories she would tell along with it, of how before the rebellion, there were these people who’d call themselves, “covey”, traveling from district to district singing to their hearts content for the enjoyment of others. She knew them well, she’d tell them. Telling them how the covey eventually settled into district 12.

His mother would talk about the nights where she would go to the hob and dance away. Making great friends with the girl who sang these infamous songs that had been passed down. The girl who also coincidentally introduced his mother to his father one night. Pushing his father until he asked his mother for a dance.

She would end each story by telling Haymitch, “well, now you know that you have someone to be thankful for making sure that you exist”.

The story seemed so mythical to him then, as it still does now. To think of a time when there was so much free will that people once held, especially outside of the Capitol’s restraints. To how something so frivolous as singing was enough to be one’s way of survival. A life of fulfillment and light melodies sung with no threat or existence of the games to ever ruin them.

The sound of Y/N’s voice sweetly coaxes him out of his thoughts. It is then, as he hears her, that he does believe in the stories. That if he continued to hear her voice for the rest of his life, it would be enough to ensure his survival for good. Not even the games would be enough to take him away from her. Not if he could help it.

This line of thinking scares him as it does entice him. He hasn’t felt this way since his first love, the one that they took away him. He feels like a teenager once again, heart practically bursting at the sight of the girl in front of him.

Her eyes roam the crowd as she continues singing, before they eventually catch his awe stricken expression. She smiles slightly, lightly fluttering her lashes at the attention. All before closing her eyes, swaying and losing herself in the music once again.

Not one for ever caring about appearances, he suddenly feels hyper aware of himself. He’s not used to feeling like this, he’s not quite sure how to process it. Just desperate, hoping that when her eyes linger a bit longer on him that she hopefully is feeling what he is too.

When she eventually looks away, he finds a part of himself chasing the high that she had bestowed upon him. Thinking how nothing could ever compare to the way he’s feeling now, not even the smooth liquor that would soothe his mind enough to make him forget things that have happened to him.

Now abandoning the half drank pint in front of him, he finds himself wanting to remember this night. This moment where he doesn’t need anything stronger than your presence to tell him that everything is okay.

The song ends, much to his dismay. The last few chords of your guitar lingering in the air before the hob breaks out in a harmonious applause, praises & hollers being shouted out your way. He watches you graciously thank the crowd, letting the band behind you take over. His eyes linger on you as you exit the stage, watching you laugh & thank everyone who meet on your way through the crowd.

It isn’t until he sees your frame slowly getting nearer that he suddenly feels shy, quickly diverting his attention down to his drink. Hands getting slightly clammy as he registers your sweet voice beside him, asking the bartender for a pint for yourself.

“Well my, my, to what do I owe the pleasure of dragging a victor out to one of my shows tonight?”, you say while letting out a slight giggle at the sight of him.

He’s a bit bewildered at first. Not exactly not knowing how to respond out of fear of embarrassing himself. His mouth slightly opens, letting out a playful scoff at the nickname victor, before replying back in the same playful manner you had.

“Just had to come down to hear what all the yapping around the district was about a pretty girl singing her heart out here each night”, he lightly flirts, hoping it lands well with her.

The action is thankfully welcomed as her laugh floats through the air. He wishes he could bottle the sound up so he could hear it over and over again.

“Now you’re just a peach aren’t you? Trying to butter me up .. hm?”, she says. Poking fun at his attempt of flirting before adding on, “And? Did I meet your expectations?”

His heart flutters at the question, chuckling to mask his nervousness that she so easily seems to trigger.

“That you did, sweetheart. Better than I could’ve thought”, he says, relishing in the way her wide eyed expression lights up at the praise he gives to her.

He feels himself mirroring her contagious smile. Nerves still present, but easing themselves when he sees her relaxing into his gaze.

“You’re a very sweet man, Haymitch Abernathy”, you tell him. Warmth slightly flooding your cheeks as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Quickly, taking the opportunity to glance away from the intense eye contact to take in the details about him. You take notice of the way his hair falls around his face, carefully framing it in a way that was too-professionally done to be of his own doing as the rest of the men in the district. A small testament to his time back and forth between his home and the calling of the Capitol. His slightly rugged appearance combats this, a small show of rebelliousness in the appearance the Capitol attempts to smooth over in a Victor, yet still seeming so distinctively him.

To anyone else, his demeanor would have been enough to ward off lingering stares here in the district. To you, it radiated a rare aura of comfort & warmth around him that you had never felt around another man before. You had wanted to get lost in it, envisioning yourself spending late mornings, running your fingers through his locks and humming a secret tune just for you both.

He chuckled dryly, swirling around the ale in his pint before glancing back up at you, “Sorry to disappoint sweetheart, tell anyone else here that and you might get a different answer”.

He watches as you cock your head to the side, a sly smile on your face, “Well good thing I wasn’t planning on asking anyone else”, sternness lacing your tone before scooting closer towards him, “Anyways, I think I like that I might be the only one in this damn district that can tell the difference”.

Haymitch could feel the way the way his heartbeat practically sped up, his hands fidgeting around the handle of the pint in front of him. Taking a deep breath before turning his attention back to the way your wide eyed gaze is fixated on him, eyes slowly analyzing him as if he’ll run right off. The thought crossed his mind for a minute, more so out of fear of embarrassing himself.

Taking a leap of faith, he brings his hand up to run his hand through a lock of your hair, tucking it behind the flower adorned between your ear. He hums at the pretty detail before plucking it to hold out in his palm, “A primrose?”.

You can feel your body still at the motion, warmth pooling in your chest at the feel of his hand. Carefully eyeing his expression, something that reads as a mixture of wonder and adoration at you. You remember to let out a small breath in the midst of the intimacy this situation, softly smiling as he hums in notice of the flower that lays against your hair.

“It was one of my mama’s favorites”, he can feel the wistfulness in your tone as you recall her, “She used to tell me stories of how my grandma and her great aunt would collect different flowers from their travels in the covey to use to bathe her and her cousins, since the borders between districts closed in the dark days, she gathered primroses here from the fields instead for me”.

He takes notice of the way you softly grasp onto his hand, your smooth palm contrasting with his hardened one and its tiny scars littered that hold unspoken memories of the arena. Your finger lightly traces the petals he holds in his palm, he watches as the mixture of nostalgia and sadness battle in your mind as you recall these memories.

Haymitch feels his own heart twinge, thinking back to what he can remember of his own mother, her voice, her stories, her mannerisms, anything. There’s a thick layer of understanding in the air between the two of you, unspoken feelings and experiences of loss and familiarity. The scattered chattering of the hob and instrumentals seem far away as the two of you take in each other’s presence.

He makes the first move to break the stillness between you two, bringing his hand back up to place the flower in your hair once again. You sigh softly as you feel his hand go to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb softly tracing back & forth on your skin. Haymitch feels the ghost of a smile threatening to overtake his lips as he feels your nestle your face further into his grasp before asking, “Would you wanna get out of here?”.

You softly nod at his question, not trusting your own voice to betray you and tremble at the delicateness in which he’s treating you. Standing up, you envelope your hand into his as his other finds it’s way onto your waist to lead you through the crowd. A motion so easily done as if it is second nature to you both. There is nothing but comfort and safeness in the act.

The cold air hits you both as you walk out, not feeling quite sure if the goosebumps forming on your skin is a result of that or the proximity of the man that still has a firm hold on you. You don’t seem to mind either way. You take a small peek over to him, watching the internal battle with himself as it plays on his face, eyebrows creased in deep thought. Yet still, he holds onto you, as if it’ll ground him.

You stop walking after a minute or so, watching the confusion in his expression as he snaps out of his thoughts. You pull him over to the small alley way, taking his face in both of your hands and forcing him to look into your eyes. His eyes trace over your questioning expression, taking a hard swallow before he speaks, “I .. I haven’t done this in a long time, sweetheart”.

“And what exactly are we doing?”, you say while lightly laughing.

He feels his nerves dissipate little by little at the sound of your amusement, still battling with the lingering fear in the back of his mind. He hesitates in his action, slowly leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, hands tightening their hold around your waist.

He can feel your breath hitch, your nose slightly touching against his own as your lips part, begging for him to make a move.

“If I do this, I don’t think I’d want to ever have another day where you’re not near me, at least to where I know you’re safe”, he whispers gently as his lips begin to ghost above yours.

“You won’t have to, I’ll be right here”, you whisper back. Your voice filled with reassurance and desperation, willing to give almost every part of you to him if it takes.

You feel the wind knocked out of you, as if you’ve forgotten to know how to breathe once you feel his lips against your own. Your mouths molding perfectly against one another as if this is what you’ve both have been waiting for your entire lives.

You whine softly as he deepens the kiss, his mouth claiming you with purpose. Whether it’s his way of subconsciously ensuring to himself that he won’t let anything happen to you or to convey his own worthiness to you, he can’t tell. The only thing taking up space in his mind being the way you sound as he familiarizes himself with you, tongue exploring yours while his hands grasp at your body.

You both finally break apart after what feels like an eternity, your heart racing as you try to catch your breath. Unable to shake the burning feeling of that his lips left against yours in their wake. Your lids flutter open, already finding his gaze with what reads as both love and protectiveness staring back at you.

“I …”, he clears his throat before finding a way to gather the right words he wants to say to you. He goes over every possibility of what this could mean between the two of you, of letting you in. It would be easier if he could just act like this was meaningless, that he could walk away now and never think of it again. But as with everything else, he knows that you will ruminate in the back of his mind forever with no avail. Not now that he already has you in his arms.

“I won’t be able to give you much”, is all he is able to choke out. A twinge of disappointment lacing his words.

“That’s okay, I’m not looking for much anyways”, you hum. You tip your head up slightly to look at him, “Just want you, it’ll be enough for me”.

“Yeah?”, he says softly. His eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, relief blossoming in his chest when he doesn’t find any. The only thing staring back him being the firmness in your vulnerability as you hold him in your palm. He pulls his hand from your waist to grab ahold of your hand against his face, bringing your knuckles to his lips, before leaning back in to press another kiss to your lips.

A part of him knows that it’ll always never be this simple. He will do his best to make sure he can protect you from what he can, if it ever comes to it. But right here, right now, in this moment. It’s not something even, Snow himself, can ever take from him.

[wonderlandwalker]

The Will of the Moirai | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: Part three of Remember and Trying to Forget. Time passes in district 13 and Finnick wonders if everything will ever be as it was, but the moment everything feels like it did before, fate interrupts

Content Warnings/Tags: Angst, memory loss, blood, gunshots, major character injury, hurt/very little comfort, my love of Greek mythology, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: So turns out I lied and I wrote this before my exam but since I did I might as well post it. Look I tried to make it less sad but as I was writing it somewhere my thoughts just took over. If anyone knows how to make happy endings let me know cause by the gods we all know Finnick deserves one. I also nerded out a bit on the mythology part I'm sorry

Vocabulary:

Moirai = the three fates which determine the length of someones life

Atropos = one of the fate sisters who cuts the thread of someone's life

River of lost souls = one of the five rivers of the underworld, the river of misery

Lethe = one of the five rivers of the underworld, the river of forgetfulness

He knows someone died today, he knows because whenever this happens there is always an announcement. And he’s never sure why they do this, because to him it feels like they're just adding salt to a fresh wound. He doesn’t understand the custom, and he hopes he will never get the chance to learn either, hopes that Atropos will have mercy on him for a little longer. He doesn’t know who it is that passed away in the hospital wing, he hears them mention a name but he’s not listening. He can hear someone else, someone yelling about how the doctors did something wrong, how they messed up. And he isn't sure if it’s insensitive, but he does not care much, he can’t get himself to care because it isn't you. You are standing next to him and to him, all is right. For the most part

It’s comical almost, the way he gets excited every time, as if this is the last piece of the puzzle and the picture will be complete, but every time there is still another piece lost somewhere. And while he’s grateful every time that light of recollection passes through you, it’s not enough. It will never be enough because you do remember him, but you don’t remember him like he remembers you. He thought he knew what patience felt like, because first, he spent his time waiting for you to fall in love with him the way he had always known he loved you. then he was tested whenever you would wear something just a little too revealing to a party, making him wonder if patience really was a virtue, and if it was, he’d prefer spending his time searching for vices. 

Yes, Finnick thought himself a patient man, but as the days continued to pass by he found himself reevaluating the standard. Because he wasn't annoyed, he wasn't anxious, and he was surely not tolerable. So maybe this wasn't a question of patience, maybe, he thought, this was a test of his love for you. And with that thought, he went to bed every night. He went to sleep not with the comfort of you next to him, but with the comfort of knowing that this was a scrutiny he would spend eternity enduring in order to get you back.

With that he spends his days next to you, knowing that even if it takes forever, he will still be there. So he makes conversation with you during dinner and makes you laugh at parties, he makes sure everyone knows he is yours, even if you don’t know it yet. So when someone interrupts him from the hypnotizing effect you have on him, he tries not to pay it any mind, but unfortunately, that is not an option this time. Because the man he had seen making a commotion the other day is here, he is even more upset than he had seemed before, and this time he has a gun.

He sees the man step closer, and he is about to take his chances to try and disarm him when he sees you stepping forward. You take a step closer to the man while holding out your hands, you look as if you’re trying to address an easily startled animal. But it’s working, and Finnick can’t say he’s surprised, because who could say no to you? You’re trying to reason with him, and usually, Finnick would have said it’s no use, but he knows how persuasive you can be. He remembers how you were always the one to reason, even when he didn't see the point. You always had to try, because you had told him about the good of people, but you were the only one Finnick saw any good in. You’re telling the man about the importance of memories. Youre talking about the fondness you hold to your own memories, but they're not just yours, they're your memories with him. You’re talking about that day in the arena, you’re saying how scared you were, scared that those would be your last moments. But you didn't care, because you knew Finnick was alive, and he would never let the memory of you die. You’re asking the man about the woman who died, he still can't remember her name, but you do, you remember. And it’s working, it’s all working like a tower of cards put together by the gentlest of hands. 

But it doesn't take much to destroy what you’ve built, the smallest gust of wind can knock it over. He watches it happen, he sees the soldiers slowly and silently entering the room to try and put a stop to the rampage the man has caused. He sees it and he knows everything is about to start to crumble down. So he does the only thing he knows how to do, he reaches for you. He reaches for you because he knows that once the man notices what is happening, your tower of cards will be knocked over and you will have lost the battle you’ve been trying to win. And he can’t stop it from happening, but he can save you from the fall. He reaches out to you and he can feel your soft skin against his as he tugs you towards him. And he can’t explain it, because he knows there isn't a logical way to do so, but the moment he feels your touch, he knows everything is back in its right place. He knows you remember.  He gets to you, and he hears the shot echo through the room, but he doesn't want you to have to see it, he shields you from everything that's happening because youre letting him, for the first time since the games you’re letting him. 

But he should've learned by now that things are never this simple, and every time he thinks he’s won, there is always something there to push him off the pedestal he’s just built. He looks and he sees the man standing there, and he doesn't understand. Because he heard a gunshot, but the man is still standing, being surrounded and being detained, but standing. He doesn't understand until he can feel you collapsing, he looks back to you as he supports you and his blood turns to ice. Because he sees his hands, the hands that were supposed to save you, and they’re covered in blood. They’re covered in your blood. He can see the blush disappearing from your cheeks and the way your eyes are starting to close. And for once he wished he didn't remember. That he couldn't recall the last time this happened, because he wants to have hope, he wants to convince himself that tomorrow everything would be okay, because he’s managed to get you back yet again. But the memory hangs over him like a dark storm he should’ve seen coming. He spent days, weeks begging whichever god would be listening to make you remember, to give you back to him. And it turns out they heard him, but they have never been known to be fair. He remembers the strength it took you to get here, and he doesn't know if you have enough left to do it again. 

And if he could, he’d offer himself to the river of lost souls, he would spend eternity reliving this misery as long as he knew you wouldn't have to. He would dive into it like the sea on a summer night back home, because to him, that would be better than seeing you be taken to the Lethe again. And he knows the moirai do not care what he has to say, that they do not care what he is willing to offer, but he is still pleading to them anyway. Because you open your eyes when he asks you to, and you look at him the same way as when he found you in the capitol, you look at him as if nothing is wrong, because he makes it all right. And surely, he thinks, this cannot be how it ends. He’s desperate, and he’s scared. But he’s no longer scared you’ll pull away when he kisses you, because your lips are melting together with his again and he’s sure this is what heaven must feel like. Except the moment you stop kissing him, the moment your hand falls from where it was holding his face, he knows this was never heaven, this is his hell.

Next part: One day at a Time

Taglist: @hesperdern @mrsnancywheeler

[phoward89]

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2:

White hot pain courses throughout your body as you lay on your stomach, on your small bed in the corner of the room. The room that was your bedroom, kitchen, and living room all in one cramped spot. Sitting on the bed next to you was Coryo.

He was washing your wounds, causing you to wince; let out sobs and whimpers since he wasn't very gentle.

“Stop whining, I'm almost done, darling.” Coryo told you with an edge to his baritone.

“It hurts, Coryo.” You cried, feeling like you just wanted to die- that's how much pain you're in.

And it seems that the asshole next to you, the peacekeeper responsible for your situation, isn't very empathetic despite claiming that he's your man now. Oh hell…how did this happen to you? Is your luck really that shitty?

“My friend, Sejanus, has some morphling for a bum knee. I'll find him; get some for you.” He told you, cleaning the last of your wounds. “Okay, pretty girl?”

“Okay.” You said, relieved that your tormenter (err new peacekeeper boyfriend?) was going to get you something for the pain.

“I'll get you some food too.” Coryo said while pulling your blanket on you, so that you wouldn't be cold. “Can't have my girl starving while she's hurt and healing, can I?” He rhetorically asked, standing up and taking the bowl with the bloody water and stained wash cloth over to the sink.

You heard the sound of the bowl clanking against the counter as he set it down. You also heard the sound of cabinets opening and closing as he looked for something in your sorry excuse for a kitchen. Curious about what he was doing, you turned your head only to see him taking your box of teabags out of the cabinet you stored them in. Oh, how nice of him. He's making you tea after he got you whipped; got your back torn to bloody shreds.

Oh yes, a cup of tea’s going to make everything all better. You'd rather have the morphling. You'd also rather be alone right now to wallow in your misery as well.

After leaving a cup of tea by your bedside and telling you to rest, Coriolanus left your apartment to go buy some groceries. After buying a bag of food, enough to feed the both of you for the week, he searched for Sejanus. Coriolanus was only seeking out the annoying district dog because you needed morphling; Sejanus was his only option to get it for you.

Well, that's not exactly true. Coriolanus can always acquire some from the local black market, but it'd cost him a fortune. Plus, he's not even sure that a morphling dealer would even sell to him considering he's wearing denim blue Peacekeeper fatigues. And he couldn't waste his time trying to haggle with some drug dealer, not when you're in desperate need of pain meds.

Oh, if only you didn't steal that apple; then Coriolanus would've never turned you in and you wouldn't be hurt. Why did you have to be so desperate? Couldn't you have just waited for him to approach you, to offer to buy you a treat of some sort?

Coriolanus knew that he'd have to teach you some patience. It is, after all, a very important virtue to have. He, in fact, is a very patient man. Perhaps that's why he was able to put up with all of your sobbing while cleaning up your bloody; shredded back. If he was a lesser man, he would've backhanded you and tossed you into the shower.

But, he's a patient man, so he'll deal with your bullshit in order to get what he wants. Oh, yea, and what he wants is you. You getting his dick wet more precisely. And also being the mother of his children, his wife, and his future First Lady since he finds you to be both beautiful and captivating.

He just has to teach you patience and maybe some manners too. At least you’re smart, or he thinks you are since you didn't try to run from him or beg your way out of your punishment.

So, when Coriolanus finally spots Sejanus (talking to some shady looking locals, of course) he jogs up to him- causing the sack of groceries slug over his shoulder to jostle around. “Sejanus, I need some of your morphling. My girl, Y/N, was whipped real bad this morning; I've been taking care of her since, but she's in pain- tear inducing pain.”

Of course, Coriolanus wasn't going to tell his friend that he's the one who turned you in; the one who got you whipped. Why would he? It wasn't any of Sejanus' business. He didn't need to know that tiny, insignificant detail. The district born dog didn't need to know everything about you and Coryo's life.

Sejanus' eyes went wide at his friend's words. He heard from a local rebel contact that a girl was stripped naked and badly whipped on the snow over an allegation of a stolen apple, one that she didn't have on her. But he didn't know that it was Coryo's girl that got whipped that morning.

“I heard about that, but I didn't know she was your girl, Coryo. Of course, I'll give you my morphling for her.” Sejanus told Coriolanus, sticking his hand in his pocket and quickly pulling out a bottle of morphling. Handing it over to the platinum blonde, he said, “If she needs anymore, just take it out of my lockbox.”

Yes! Score!

Coriolanus was ecstatic that he was able to manipulate stupid, sweet, do-gooder Sejanus into giving him some morphling. He wasn't expecting him to tell Coryo to wipe him out of his drug supply, but he's not going to turn that down.

No…

He's going to make good on that offer, snag up all of Sejanus' morphling so that you won't be in pain while you heal. You're just so pretty; Coriolanus hates the idea of you being in so much pain. And over something that could've been easily avoided too.

“Thank you, Sej. Really, I don't know what we'd do without your help.” Coryo told the dark haired peacekeeper, clasping him on the shoulder before taking off to get back to you.

You were half asleep (actually, you were half passed out from pain) whenever you heard the door creek open. Turning your head towards the door, you saw Coryo enter the small one-room apartment in the rundown tenant building you call home. A sack was slung over his shoulder.

Going over to the kitchen counter and setting down the sack, he announced, “I got us some groceries; got you the morphling from Sejanus too.”

Us? Since when does he live with you? Doesn't he live on base? Oh fucking hell…

As if he could hear your mental musings, he explained, “I'm trading days with some of my squad, taking their days off and then working for them, so I can spend some time here with you until you can get up; do for yourself.”, while unpacking the sack of groceries.

Great…

Just great…

Now he's dead set on staying with you, taking care of you til you're able to move around, and he's trading work days to do it. Oh by the gods, how the hell did this insane man find you? He's acting as if you're his lover, not some girl he turned in for punishment- for whipping.

Hell…

Why did you listen to Ashlie? You should've stayed home, in District 12. At least you wouldn't be dealing with delusional Private Coryo if you’d stayed in 12. God, you hate District 8 so much right now.

“Did you drink your tea?” Coryo asked, as if he really gave a fuck about your well-being, while grabbing some produce and putting them away in your small fridge.

“Some of it.” You answered right as a knock sounded at the door.

“You expecting anyone?” The platinum blonde demon of a man asked while going over to the door.

“No.” You simply told him, earning you a nod.

Coriolanus answered the door, only to be met with a petite young woman. “Are you here to see my girl, Y/N?” He asked the brunette, who was trying to look around his large frame and into the apartment.

“Your girl? She didn't mention taking up with a peacekeeper last time I saw her.” You heard Ashlie, your late brother's girlfriend that abandoned you after dragging you out here to this hellhole called 8, tell Coryo.

“Yes, well, it’s a fairly new development. But she's mine all the same.” Coryo told Ashlie in a diplomatic tone, a shit eating grin on his face.

He has power over you and like hell some ratty whore was going to poke and prod him about his relationship with you. It was none of her business that he just scooped you up today, literally.

“Send her away, Coryo.” You loudly ordered, since with didn't want to be bothered with Ashlie. Didn't she have better things to do, like live her new life with that rebel boyfriend of hers, then to check in on you? Not like she's been going out of her way to see you before you got hurt.

Looking between you and the door, Coryo simply nodded and, without warning, slammed the door shut in Ashlie's face. She tried to open it back up, but he threw his tall body against it- slamming it shut again and quickly locked the lock and placed the door chain in place.

Crossing the room, making a beeline towards your bed, Coriolanus asked, “Who was she, Y/N?”

“She used to be my brother's girl til he got blown up to bits during the summer when our rebel neighbor bombed the mines.” You explained to him as he pulled out a vial of morphling from his pocket.

Crouching down next to you, he popped the cork of the vial and tilted your chin up, only to pour the pain medicine down your throat. “Mines? But 8 doesn't have any mines.”

“Thank you.” You gratefully told Coryo as he set the empty vial to the side, next to your half empty teacup. “I'm originally from 12; just applied for a district transfer cause Ashlie couldn't handle her grief over Rein's death. She begged me to come here with her when word got out that a plague decreased their workforce; made district transfers available.” You explained, even tho you probably shouldn't be. He is a peacekeeper after all. And the one to get you whipped. But what harm is there in telling him your story? It's not like you have anyone anyways, you're an orphan- truly alone.

“I take it you're not on good terms with her.” Coryo said knowingly.

You're at the mercy of a delusional white-blonde peacekeeper. Thanks to Ashlie taking off. And any hope there was at repairing the sisterly friendship you once had flew out the window once you go whipped and became the the girl of some peacekeeper grunt- who's a hand short of a full deck.

“Not long after moving here she hooked up with some guy she met; left me all alone. So, yea, we're not on good terms.”

“I'm sorry she did that to you, darling. Family should never abandon family.” The blonde told you, lifting up your blanket to check on your wounds. “I'm here now, baby. You're my girl; I'll never let you be alone again.’ He promised, pressing a kiss to an unblemished part of your shoulder.

You didn't know what was worse. Being alone or being stuck with him. And something deep in your gut tells you that you'll never get rid of him. That he's worse than a tick on a bloodhound.

“Some of these lashes are deep. I can see some muscle and bone.” Coryo informed you. Well, that would explain why your back hurts like a bitch. At least the morphling he got you’s taking the edge off.

“You'll have to stitch me up, Coryo, or else I could get an infection and die.” You honestly told the peacekeeper, since the last thing you wanted was to get gangrene or sepsis. You really didn't want to get stuck going to the rundown public district hospital. You didn't have money for that, plus you heard some horror stories from coworkers at the peacekeeper uniform plant about the hospital.

No thank you, you'll take your chances at home with the devil.

“Don't talk like that, my darling. I'm not going to let you die; I'm going to take care of you.” Coryo said, petting your hair and pressing a soft kiss on your cheek before leaving your side to go find your sewing kit in order to stitch you up.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @tian-monique @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @twinkletwinklenotastar @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @shellybellysstuff @zombicupcake3

[fushipurro]

Red Lights Red Flags

Chapter 1 - Services

Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

☆ Synopsis: After recently being sold to a brothel, your new life as a low-rank courtesan began. Try as you might to survive until your debt is paid off, life just keeps kicking you when you're already down. One day, you're tasked with serving none other than an infamous samurai by the name of Toji Zenin who makes you a promise he intends to keep.

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, f!reader, ronin!toji, courtesan!reader, forced prostitution, graphic violence, implied/referenced alcohol, abuse, implied/referenced sexual assault (not Toji), hurt/comfort, angst

☆ Word Count: 4k

It wasn’t all that long ago you began working as a courtesan in the Red-Light District ─ or rather ─ forced to become one.

This was never the life you envisioned yourself having. Growing up, surrounded by family, life was simple, easy, without any complaints until your mother passed away from an illness that plagued her years before her demise.

It’s because of this tragic part of your history that your father decided to drink his misery away, finding solace in the embrace of courtesans at the very establishment he sold you to. “You’re the spitting image of her,” was about all he could say before handing you off to your new life.

A voice shouts your name from the kitchen, “Come here and help deliver this tray to the VIP room!”

As you’ve come to learn through rather forceful methods, you’re in no position to argue or even think of denying. So, without a moment to breathe, you enter the kitchen and receive the tray containing one of the more intricate dishes the brothel has to offer. No doubt there’s an important guest present, several even given the other low-ranked courtesans gathered alongside you.

You and the other unfortunate souls make haste to the designated room, arriving before a set of hand-painted shoji doors that detail an assortment of vibrant flowers ─ the primary theme for this particular brothel. The leader of the group announces your arrival before sliding the doors open, politely bowing upon entry. You follow suit, taking note to the identity of the clientele.

The Zenin Clan.

One of the three largest clans in this section of Japan, gifted in brute force military talent to enforce the everyday laws of Emperor Tengen. Their appearance here is commonplace, mainly reserved to courtesans higher up the chain. It’s rumored they discuss their plans for war within these walls, and that it’s preferred for them over the sanctuary of their own estate. Something about their “family pride” and other misogynistic values you’re barely able to stomach for appearance’s sake.

This is your first time even being in the room with such highly valued guests, and a heavy reminder to not make any blunders or there will be hell to pay.

You are among the last to enter the room, with only one Zenin still awaiting a tray. A man bearing a loose, dark colored robe and an equally dark head of hair. He has his face turned towards the courtesan at his side, hiding the rest of his features from you. But of everyone in the room, he seems the most out of place. Going as far as to ignore the banters of his family to focus solely on the woman clinging to his arm.

Slowly, you approach, taking notice that it’s not just any woman at his side, but one of the few elite courtesans the brothel has to offer. Botan, a youthful beauty that holds the imagery title of the peony flower to distinguish her from the rest. She’s leaning heavily into the Zenin man, forcing his arm to rest between the valley of her breasts with eyes ignited in playful lust.

While setting the tray of food and sake in front of the man, the peony’s gaze flickers to you, her expression turning to one of disdain. “About time,” she sneers, raising the sleeve of her loosely tied kimono to cover the arrogant smile on her face. “We can’t keep our favorite guests waiting now, can we?”

“My deepest apologies, Master Zenin.” Your voice is meek, bowing until your forehead meets the tatami mat below.

You hear a scoff from the woman. “Leave us,” she spits with added aggression, and you have no choice but to oblige. While making your exit, a brief flash of green hits you that causes you to falter, if only for a moment before the sliding doors come to a complete close.

Your shift for the remainder of the night is as usual. Equal parts cleaning and servicing other customers. It’s a relatively tame night as far as standards go, and in all honesty, not everything about this line of work is the stuff of nightmares.

There are however plenty of times where it is, and those are the nights that truly haunt you. Men who come through the front doors looking only for a pretty enough face they can ruin, going as far as they’d like so long as you’re able to function again the following night. You’ve had the displeasure of being one of those poor souls one too many times. Some courtesans do well to hide the pain or take pleasure in some twisted way over it, but you? It’s become much too hard to ignore the dark thoughts that linger in your mind, pulling you into an abyss the longer you allow yourself to even entertain the idea.

You didn’t want to be here. Not now and not ever.

You miss your mother, your siblings, sometimes even the father that casted you aside for a bottle of sake. And now all that’s left is for you to drown in this horrifying decadence.

While preparing yourself in one of the communal rooms, you hear the proprietor calling your name. “You’re needed in the Peony Room. Now.”

Botan?

“Uhh– right away, Hanami!”

One thing to note about this brothel is that nearly all the courtesans named after flowers also have their own personal room. It’s a given for the higher ranks, and seldomly so for the other flowers. For a low rank like you to be invited to the Peony Room of all places has your stomach twisting into knots.

This can’t end well.

Nevertheless, you make your way over to her room, easily found by the hand-painted peonies across the sliding doors and the carving of one on a sign above the framing. You take a bow, announcing yourself before entering the room.

“Finally, someone shows up,” hisses the courtesan. You’re unable to see anything other than your view of the tatami mat, but Botan most definitely rolled her eyes. “My lovely guests have been waiting too long for some entertainment. Play us some music, would you?” She adds on with a smile that’s anything but genuine.

“My apologies for the wait, esteemed guests,” you murmur, deepening your bow.

Before Botan has a chance to say anything more, another voice chimes up with a much deeper, more gravely tone, “Lift your head.”

You do, and you’re met once again with a pair of green eyes that tug on something deep in your heart for whatever unknown reason. Only now are you able to see his features in full. Raven hair drapes down over said greenery, a pointed nose with a chiseled jawline, and most interesting to you is the scar brandishing the side of his lip.

He looks to you with a narrow, intimidating gaze, deep in thought but with a hint of softness buried even deeper. At his side is man who is undoubtably not a member of the Zenin Clan, perhaps even a foreigner. The Zenin tonight wears a navy-blue robe, while the other adorns a soft shade of brown similar to his own hair and stubble.

Entertaining guests with the art of music is one of the few parts of this lifestyle you can safely say you enjoy. There’s no need for polite conversations, hard scrubbing, or forced prostitution. Just you and the sounds your fingertips create to ease the atmosphere. Your instrument of choice for the night is the Koto, and you have a feeling the Zenin approves from the way his eyes refuse to leave you.

A few times they meet yours, and you have to be careful lest the nervousness take over and you miss a note. More and more, Botan’s gaze burns into you as even she has trouble holding the attention of the man at her side. He lets her hang off him but does nothing to reciprocate besides idle chatter mostly geared towards the man named Shiu Kong. Much to Botan’s dismay, neither end up staying the night for any sort of romance, and that only adds to the fire burning beneath your feet.

“Thank you for your patronage,” is what you and the other courtesans say to the men, bowing as they exit the room. After a few moments, you’re tugged back harshly by your hair.

“Lowly bitch!” she spits, tugging at your hair as you bring your hands up to her wrists, only for them to be slapped away. “Toji is mine, you hear? Stick to the pigs better off for someone like you!”

“Hanami told me to come here!” you protest, further proving your thoughts from earlier. As if you would want to spend the night with the jealous peony herself over any other courtesan.

A harsh slap comes down upon your face, leaving behind the feeling of fire from her hand. “You don’t get to talk back to me! Don’t you dare forget where you rank here.” She huffs, giving you the most disgusted face riddled with envy despite hownone of this was in your control. “Get out of my sight.” It’s an order you’re more than happy to accept, clutching the burning flesh of your cheek and trailing tears as you rush out.

(cw: implied non-con | skip to next line break to avoid)

Every brothel in the Red-Light District comes with their own set of rules and a hierarchy, so to speak. All about maintaining positions of power or holding sway over the people; it’s a whole other level of depravity that goes beyond sexual favors. At the end of the day, human nature and negativity always comes back to one thing, and one thing only.

Greed.

That’s why despite the fact that Hanami is the owner and proprietor, if one of her best moneymakers comes to her with a proposition that offers zero chance of impacting her funds, she’ll gladly accept. In this situation, Botan’s envious nature stoops to an even lower level.

It wasn’t enough that she needed to reprimand you through physical force, but she felt the need to ─ as she so kindly put it ─ remember your place.

Your workload increased exponentially the following week. If something needed to be done, you were the first (and only) one given the task. Hanami had her own discussion with you, highlighting just how disappointed she is that your presence is bad for Botan’s business. Even though really, how is it any bit your fault?

The cherry on top of this are all the distasteful customers being sent your way to deal with. Drunken, egotistical scum of the Earth who on normal circumstances would be sent away for some other brothel to deal with, but not anymore. “You want to make up for Botan’s business, don’t you?” As if you aren’t the one shouldering a pile of a debt.

This agonizing week grows longer by the minute, and the light at the end of the tunnel seems as distant as the stars above. The awful thoughts in your head have returned tenfold tonight, glued to the forefront of your mind like your soul was thrown into a pit of brambles, thorns wrapped tightly around your body until the water runs red.

“Quit your squirming, whore!” one of the men shouts, following up with a resounding clap to your face when dared to so much as whine. “Fucking bitch.”

The other three in the room chuckle, each of them reaching out to stake claim on your body in an effort to hold you down. Screams and cries were futile attempts.

No one will save you.

These men are infamous to the district, barred from entering the premises of a dozen shops and counting but tonight, their business is a treat for Hanami and the root of your torture. As long as she makes her money and her highest ranked flowers are happy, you’re just discarded meat for the wolves to feast.

This night went on for several hours until the light of dawn came and faded away those very twinkling lights you’ve come to memorize, round after round of pleasing each of the four. By the end of it, you’re bloodied and bruised, unmoving from your spot on the floor. To say your appearance is disheveled is an understatement for the horrors you had to bear head on.

A few other courtesans near your rank in blue came to check on you afterwards. Enough to set you upright and help clean you off, but not enough to stick around and become the next target for Botan’s fury.

So much for the love, honor, and happiness a peony flower offers.

Not even the suffering of the previous night is enough to spare you another night of pleasuring clients.

Hanami’s cursed soul reigns supreme, making sure your skin is peppered in fair-colored powders to hide any hideous marks and tainting your worth. It’s one thing to let you be on the receiving end, but another let it get in the way of making her money.

You’ve had enough, you decided. After tonight, one way or another, you will find a way out of this hellhole.

For now, you were instructed to head over to where you’ll service your client for the night, someone who ensured they’d have you all to themselves that entire time to come. The feeling of dread is endless in your body as you make your approach, and every bang and cry along the way sends panic to your heart and the need to take a breather.

To you, it felt like an eternity kneeling outside the plainly patterned doors to whatever demon is awaiting you inside. Just one more night, becomes a mantra through hushed whispers, inspiring the confidence to finally present yourself to the maw of man.

“Lift your head.”

You comply, and faster than you normally ever would to meet the green eyes of Toji Zenin for the third time in only a week. You fearfully glance around to discern who else is in the room, but you come to find that it’s just the two of you.

His expression is unreadable as ever, but he pats the tatami at his side to beckon you closer. “Come here,” he says, with your name punctuating his command.

Like a trained puppy, you approach, sitting neatly and folded ─ albeit tense and riddled with stress. Within that moment, his hand reaches out and causes you to flinch, shutting your eyes tightly to avoid what you feel is coming.

You fully expect pain to follow, but the soft grace of his fingers under your jaw begs to differ. You feel the heat of his breath as he draws himself closer, but to your surprise, there is no clash of lips to signal any erotic advances.

Slowly, you open your eyes, tensing when they meet with his own. It sends a strange feeling similar to electricity through your body, like old nerves reigniting from a familiar sense. He turns your head with his hand, as if analyzing your features. Jade homing in on areas makeup fails to cover given the damage inflicted upon you.

He doesn’t say anything when he releases the feather-light grip on your face, nor when he leans back into his seat to give you some space. You’re unsure what to say, but given what anyone else who comes here desires, you can all but guess as you begin undoing your robes with eager to get this night done and over with.

However, the same hand used to hold your face return over your own, stopping you from further undressing. He shakes his head. “I didn’t call you here for this.”

“I-I’m sorry, Sir…”

You lean back, attempting to fix your robes in a fit of embarrassment and even panic. Did you do something wrong? Are you not performing your duties properly?

“Close your eyes and open your mouth for me.”

Huh?

You obey with cautiousness evident in your features, trying not to let your body shake in fear of the shuffling noises you hear. You don’t know who Toji is, what he’s like, and especially how he treats women. From what you can see beneath another set of loosely fitted robes, he’s the definition of muscular strength. The type of guy who’s able to snap you like a twig if he so desired.

What lands on your tongue actually ends up being the savory taste of your brothel’s very own meal from the singular tray he had placed in front of him from your arrival.

“Eat up,” he says, placing said tray in front of you instead of himself. “You need it more than me, sweetheart, I can see your bones.”

In a way, he’s right. Meals were already selectively given to lower ranking courtesans depending on your earnings, and more so when Botan began heavily restricting your servings if you were even granted anything more than what’s needed to stay alive.

You lower your head. “Master, I… I can’t, it’s my duty to serve you first and foremost.”

“Your master is telling you to eat,” he huffs. “And I want ya to call me Toji.”

He lifts another mouthful of food up and you know saying no isn’t an option. Deep down, you’re grateful to finally have a real meal instead of the bottom of the bowl scraps you’ve been having. It’s reminiscent to Toji, seeing you polish off every bit of food like a starved animal.

“So how’d you end up in a place like this?” he asks, resting a fist against his cheek.

“The same reason as others, I suppose… I was sold by my father to pay his debt,” you tell him with a sullen look on your face.

Divulging this information to clients is frowned upon, but you don’t see the harm in it or the need to lie. Few courtesans willingly sell themselves to the business. It all comes back to money at the end of the day. With wealth, comes power and the control others desire.

“That so?” Toji leans into your space once more and the look he gives you makes you feel oh so small when compared to him. He reaches out, his fingers grazing a violent bruise around your neck hiding away under powders. “Who did this to you?”

You recoil in response, as does he. Flashbacks run in your mind of the men and all the ways they beat you. You don’t even notice how your own fingers softly sit over your throat or the stray tears descending from your eyes.

Toji sighs, “What were you up to before all this?”

You’re grateful for the change in conversation, swallowing the lump in your throat as your breathing steadies itself. “My father was away for work often, so I always helped my mom around the house and with my siblings.” A look of longing fills your eyes with a glossy coating. “I loved my life, but then my mother fell ill and w-when she passed… everything just fell apart.”

He hums in acknowledgement, grasping the hand shaking on your lap and offers soft circles of comfort.

“It was just me and my younger sibling, Koichi. My father became a drunk a-and–“

You snap back into reality, realizing how comfortable you’re letting yourself be when this is work. “I’m sorry– it’s not right for me to go on like this after you paid for my services.”

The hand you pulled back to your chest is retrieved by his own, pulling you into chest. “Shh, it’s okay.” His arms coil tightly around you, offering you a vague familiar sense of comfort.

Teardrops cascade down your face between muffled apologies. His rough palm runs smooth down your back hoping to settle you back down. Toji doesn’t offer you any words of comfort, but you’re okay with that. The embrace he holds you in is warm, inviting. It’s something you haven’t felt for many moons now and never thought you’d experience again. After tonight, you were ready to greet death and the cold embrace they offer, but now confliction is at an all-time high.

Eventually the tears run dry, and you lift your head from his chest. There’s a noticeable wet spot left behind that has you grimacing. “I’m sorry for messing up your robe…” Your voice is hoarse from the relentless sobs, and it makes you hope no one outside these four walls heard enough to care.

“Don’t be, this is nothin’,” he grins with a hint of something more hidden in the forest of his eyes.

Toji is by far the biggest mystery you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. An enigma. For that, you hope to find a way to repay him.

You shimmy back into a proper position, drying your face off before flashing him a smile of your own. “May I play for you?” you ask, directing his attention to a Koto setup in the room. He nods, and you move to the wooden spectacle.

Brothels typically train you in the art of music, but when it comes to the Koto, that was all your mother’s doing. For the kindness Toji has given you tonight, you return the favor with various melodies all from your childhood. Reminders of the better days when you yourself were once happy.

He remains focused like the time before, maybe even more so. His eyes are unwavering, admiring every pluck of string and harmonic tune. This goes on for a time until your fingers tire and you’ve run out of all those memorable pieces. At the end, you’re much calmer than you were before, finally being able to relax in full.

“You play as beautifully as you look,” he tells you, sending a flood of goosebumps down your neck.

You shrug, “It must be pretty terrible then…”

“Come here.”

“Huh?”

He taps the tatami surface in front of him until you move yourself back over. There, he reaches up with one hand on your shoulder and the other holding your head up.

“Those bruises don’t make you anything less than you are.” He says your name right after with a cold expression but his voice betraying that. “You are beautiful, and I’ll kill the fuckers that did this to you.”

Who knew such brutal words could spark such opposite feelings in your heart?

“Toji…” you drawl, flashing him a look of concern rather than the fear he might’ve been expecting.

His lips stretch further apart like the maw of a hungry wolf. “You think I’m joking?”

“N-no, but–“

“I’m not going to watch you get hurt again, not anymore,” he says, and you can’t help but feel there’s a certain undertone you’re not understanding. For whatever odd universal feeling, you believe him.

Toji stands, walking over to a closet in the room before pulling out a spare futon. You look to him with confusion written all over your face, watching as he sets it up adjacent to his own as he settles down onto the available space of the one.

“You coming?”

“W-what would you like me to do, Mas– Toji?”

His chest rumbles a low husky laugh as he pats the second bedroll. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s late and I’m sure you could use the extra beauty sleep.”

“I thought I was already beautiful,” you half mumble under your breath in a teasing manner, making your approach to his side.

He huffs with amusement, surprising you with how he managed to even hear your softspoken voice. “You are, don’t worry.”

You plop down onto your side facing the samurai, your heart beating a mile a minute. You understand that he’s giving you space, thankful he hasn’t once forced himself upon you like he so easily could.

“Thank you, Toji.”

He doesn’t respond just yet with anything more but a calm yet reassuring face, not while you’re visibly awake at least. Over time, you find yourself inching closer and closer to the warmth that radiates from his body, lulling you into the most restful night you’ve had in years.

Toji’s gaze falls to all the marks over your skin, evidence of the trauma you’ve suffered. Regret fills him deeper than you could ever imagine, and in time he hopes to restore you to what once was.

“I will save you from this.”

☆ Notes: I wrote this series on a whim when I got the idea, and honestly didn't plan much of the future until like chapter 6 so if you're reading this now, just be aware that I rewrote the first six chapters! plot's the same, but i'm much happier with it now so i hope you guys still enjoy it!

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 8

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 8 Warnings:

Noncon elements, drugging, somnophilia, Snow being creepy af, experiments conducted on children (because it isn't Hunger Games without it lol), jealous Snow if you squint, violence

Replay Level 7

Ready? Level 8 Start:

You’re startled back to your senses when your communicuff beeps in your pocket. Not even halfway through the week and you’re already feeling the effects of not getting enough sleep since you began working for Coriolanus Snow. Even during the weekend before, when you were supposed to be resting, or going out for coffee or shopping, or whatever the hell it is that young adults such as yourself do during their spare time, you were hiding in your room, paralysed with worry for the direction your uncle’s project has gone to.

His name and yours, now part of the mindless slaughter of district children whose only crime was to be born poor in the wrong place.

You get nightmares almost every day now since you began working at the Citadel. Not that you can remember any of them; they slip from your grasp like smoke the moment your Uncle Cas wakes you. Every time he gently shakes you back to reality and tells you that you’ve been crying out for your parents again, all you see is his face, worn beyond his years of working, toiling, taking care of you, worrying about you, making sure you were happy. Knowing what you already know about where his life’s work is heading, kills you inside just thinking of telling him.

You play the voice message, thankful it isn’t from your tyrannical new boss who always seems to find new ways to hog your time all to himself. It’s embarrassing enough you got woken up by him to find his coat draped on you, with F3 arriving for his shift just in time to see him plant a kiss on your head. This morning, you had hardly placed your bag down on your desk when F1 made teasing remarks about you being in denial.

What’s the old saying? About denial not only being a river in Egypt? Did it also say anything about being willing to drown oneself in it to be put out of misery?

The message you play is from F2. She says there’s a shipment waiting at the gates for Acacius Innis, which they suspect are the drives your uncle supposedly ordered for his station, and you need to sign off on it as his replacement. Maybe he ordered them before discovering he was going to be promoted.

You take your barely coherent self to the entrance where a man in courier uniform flipping through receipts on a clipboard is waiting for you, a few medium-sized boxes stacked by his feet with the Innis Tech logo and a District 3 seal. He looks up from his clipboard and greets you with a smile as soon as you get near him. You know that greying hair and the lines at the corner of his eyes.

The bartender at Strabo’s party.

“Sign here, please,” he says as he hands you his clipboard and a pen.

He doesn’t seem to recognise you, but even in your sleep-deprived state, those features are unmistakable. He acknowledges your signature with a tip of his hat, a small ‘thank you,’ and walks away.

Maybe he works two jobs, you surmise. You think nothing of it any further as you head back to your work, while a couple of peacekeepers lug the boxes along. They take them to your office where you pore through their contents – as expected, they’re just empty drives, plus a single floppy disk with a blank label. You stow the disk in your drawer, thinking it must’ve been just a freebie or some playful inside joke between your uncle and his ex-wife.

It's almost nine by the time your final batch of unit testing is finished, and when Coriolanus Snow arrives in your office to check your progress, you give him the news he’d been waiting for:

“We’re ready for integration testing.”

The perversely delighted expression that grows on his face is something you’d never like to see in many other circumstances.

This night’s sleep proves elusive, just hours of tossing and turning, drifting in and out, only for you to fall asleep then wake up again with your uncle’s worry-plastered face, your lack of proper rest affecting the both of you. In the end, you don’t get any more shut-eye aside from the three or four hours you already had. 

As you take your third cup of coffee at a quarter past eight in the morning on a Wednesday, that’s when you know you’re eventually going to crash. You just hope to anyone who bothers to listen that it doesn’t happen during your presentation to Volumnia Gaul.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re making your way to the designated testing room a few doors away from your office. The night shift crew from last night scrambled to finish the set-up according to the end-of-day report from F3, and since you’re early anyway, checking for last-minute adjustments can’t hurt.

You flick the lights on inside the room, gasping at the sight that greets you.

The space is humongous, with its high ceilings and carpeted floors. The room slopes towards a flat centre which has already been fitted with several computer sets, just like you instructed, arranged in the form of a pyramid, with the three in the middle set-up with multiple screens. The entire set faces a total of twenty-nine monitors built into the wall: twelve on either side, with four more below the largest one at the centre. To your left are three windows made of glass, covered from the inside with curtains you can’t see through. You find it peculiar that three more sets of computers are installed just before the windows, but you decide to ignore it, thinking it might just be something they couldn’t remove before this day. The thing is massive, after all.

You look around, your eyes landing on the glass observation deck where you assume Dr Gaul would stay. From that cushy little box, she would observe the entire experiment with her piercing, mismatched eyes, revelling in the future horrors your work will bring about.

The door to the testing room echoes as it opens, making you almost jump in place. You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves, or the caffeine, or the lack of sleep that’s making you more agitated than usual, but also maybe it’s because of the person who had just arrived, taking calculated steps towards you with his footsteps echoing despite the carpeted floors.

“Good morning, Nellie,” Coriolanus Snow greets you with a tilt of his head and a smile, and as warm as that greeting might look, it’s often hard to tell what lies behind that mask of his. Whatever it is isn’t good.

Still, you greet him back just as warmly as if the fact that he’d be evaluating your performance today isn’t bothering you at all. “Good morning, Coryo.”

Your mentor comes close inches before you, invading your space as always. He peers into your face with those striking blue eyes before worry etches into his. “Sugarplum, you have not been sleeping well,” he deduces correctly. “Are you okay?”

You wave off his concern with a shake of your head. “I’ll sleep better when the tests are over.”

“Tell me about it,” he says with a chuckle. He pauses for a while, his gaze never straying from your lips. You quell the need to move away from him. As an afterthought, he assures you, “You’ll do perfectly today; I know that much.”

You wish you had the same confidence he has in you as you have for yourself.

The twins arrive for a final inspection thirty minutes before your presentation to Dr. Gaul. You spend the rest of the remaining time inspecting the equipment with them, ensuring everything is in place. Every monitor mounted on the wall is turned on, and the computers begin powering up, prompting the screens to flash the Hunger Games screensaver. They check the computer facing the glass windows last, which as far as you remember, isn’t on the list of equipment you had asked them to prepare. You ask them why it needs a look over, but their response is vague.

“It’s the first agenda for after lunch’s presentation. Mr Innis supervised the testing for this before, so we’ll take care of the demo,” F2 says.

Volumnia Gaul arrives exactly at nine, escorted by two stoic peacekeepers in their grey-blue uniforms. Today, she wears her usual lab coat, pristine white morphing into scarlet, her gloves made of leather of the bloody shade. You join in when everyone in the room welcomes her.

“Mr Snow.” Her drawling voice greets your mentor. “You have been hard at work, you and your little apprentice,” she glances at you, drumming her gloved fingers together her smile widening in anticipation. “Now I gather you’ve a little show for me, Mr Snow. Let the theatre commence!”

At her cue, Coriolanus officially welcomes her to the integration test, while you initiate Begin Game on the main command console.

You step aside so you can show Dr Gaul the main command console’s user interface: everything from camera control, drone management software, motion tracking and the tribute odds system, the vital signs tracking software, and overall game environment controls software, each displayed on a single monitor hooked on main – everything you and your uncle spent blood, tears and sweat on, contained in a single computer station.

“...In other words,” you conclude, “The main command console is the brains of the entire operation. It oversees everything, even the consoles used by the gamemakers, the mentors, and the operators. This is what we use to begin the Game, and it’s programmed to automatically save game data when only one tribute remains, which it detects because of the vitals tracking device. Override requests go to this console, as well.”

Dr Gaul’s eyes are glowing, but you know that it isn’t because of the lights on the monitors. A despicable grin dances on her features as she chuckles lowly to herself.

“My, oh my, what a promising start, Ms Innis,” she says softly with delight, her eyes shifting only from screen to screen. “This is just magnificent.”

You move on to the console beside the main, the one you’ve programmed as the gamemaker console which F1 will demonstrate. She navigates the interface while you expound the functions: the ability to shift camera angles, alerts for donations made to a tribute on the tribute status screen, tribute status and odds percentages onscreen...

“...and most importantly, the game environment control. Basic commands such as the activating of traps and releasing of any mutts...availability, of course, depends on the environment.”

F1 chimes in, “If I may direct your attention to the test arena being flashed on the monitors, please.” He waves a hand to the camera angle showing the Citadel basement: nothing but grey walls and decommissioned equipment archived or otherwise abandoned.

“Putting that useless old space to use, I see,” Dr Gaul smirks.

“The team has installed several mini explosives in the space, which we can activate with a single click,” says F2.

“That, and an artificial weather control system – bring on the heat, or the cold, or the rain,” F1 adds proudly. F2 runs a command on the console, letting artificial rain down on a small section of the makeshift arena, which darkens the grey walls and initiates a spark in one of the abandoned equipment.

“Some of those might still be plugged into an electrical source, which could prove hazardous,” you comment, but F1 brushes off your concerned look.

“Oh yeah, we hooked it up to a separate source,” he just replies vaguely.

“Add acid rain.”

Everyone’s heads turn to Dr Gaul at her suggestion. Her smile just widens, revealing her white teeth, her eyes brimming with barely contained excitement. She drums her fingers together and elaborates, “Acid rain, acid rain; melt their skins, o what great pain!”

You turn away to feign browsing through the console’s tabs, while Coriolanus clears his throat and casually suggests adding burn medicine and burn relief ointments to the mentor inventory.

F1 and F2 merely nod, and you three move on to the mentor console.

“We decommissioned the bulkier communicuffs from the previous games to make way for this,” you gesture to the computer F2 navigates. A wave of nausea hits you, but you attempt to mask it by leaning into the back of a computer chair for support. “The mentors will be assigned one of each console, which they will use to send items and gifts and track their tribute’s odds.”

You go on further by establishing the best modification yet to the way the mentors send their items: mentors can now send multiple items at once, with a maximum weight of five kilograms.

“That way, we minimise drone damage and repair costs. Also, before the mentor hits send, they will get a preview of how their tribute’s odds will approximately change when they receive and use the items, thus helping drive mentors’ decision-making in looking out for their tributes and ensuring their win.”

Your boss’s boss tilts her head in curiosity. “I just love it when they get competitive – that drive, you could almost smell in the air, it just makes it all the more fun to watch.”

You nod once at F2, who clicks on a bottle of water and a slice of bread on the inventory and hits send, and all of you watch with bated breath as the drone circles the area and drops it gently on a flat surface, directly on top of an ancient analogue computer.

“We don’t have a tribute registered as an official player yet, but once we do, it will deliver the goods just like before, but with better accuracy rates owing to enhancements in the facial recognition software,” F2 explains.

Dr Gaul hums. “And what of the sponsor system?”

F1 takes care of the operator console demo, and your mentor chooses this moment to draw closer to your side, his face radiant with pride. I guess that means he likes your performance. His eyes then hone on your hand still clinging to the chair’s backrest, but before he can say something, you approach F1 and look over his shoulder as he explains how the last console works.

Pretty simple, actually: the operator receives a call for a sponsorship; they enter the sponsor’s bank account details, the amount or the item on the system and their designated benefactor, the system alerts the mentor who received the gift and gets an alert on their console, and an alert goes to the gamemakers’ and the main as well.

F2 adds helpfully that the operator console should be run by a representative from the Citadel’s finance department, to which Gaul agrees.

You surmise it’s the same entity running the betting system where the Games rakes the most money.

To finish the demo, you mention the existence of backup computers on standby in the event of a hardware malfunction. While it’s unlikely as all the equipment is brand-new, it’s something your uncle would do: to be one step ahead of everything.

Something you wish you would’ve done before ever engaging with Coriolanus Snow.

The first part of the integration tests finishes with you and your team opening the panel for questions, which you all answer with practised ease. When she seems satisfied with everything, she announces lunch on her, and within minutes, you’re being driven by a large van to The White Knight, where you’re all waited on graciously by the restaurant staff. Everyone takes their seat at a rounded table, with you beside Coriolanus, who has taken you here for dinner a few times since last week.

And all of those times, you made sure to order the angel food cake.

Today, however, you can’t bring yourself to eat that much, so you skip the cake, thinking it doesn’t deserve a half-assed digging-in, and opt for an affogato instead. That counts as dessert, right? Still, the ever-observant Coriolanus squeezes your thigh gently under the table, making you peer into his face, subtly questioning you. You just flash him a smile and concentrate on your dessert. You could slap that hand off too, but then he takes it off slowly, dragging your skirt up a little in the process.

You lose whatever remaining appetite you have, but you push through. Only half a day left, and you can maybe just hand in your resignation tomorrow and forget about this whole thing. And then maybe live in the woods, after.

Everyone is taken back to the Citadel at twelve-thirty, and Dr Gaul gives the go-ahead for the second part of the integration test at one.

Nursing an incoming headache courtesy of the espresso from lunch, you miserably accompany F1 and F2 to prepare for their demo on the computers right before the glass windows. Dr Gaul makes her entrance on time, so you stand back and watch with Coriolanus as the siblings take the reigns on the stations they set up before the windows.

F1 runs a command on his computer, which turns the lights on behind the curtains before they’re drawn to the side, and what you thought were initially windows reveal a shocking sight – something else you hadn’t been expecting to see.

Behind each glass pane, separated by thick walls, are three captives, one male and two females, all of them looking not much older than in their late teens. They seem to have been awakened by the sudden blaring of lights inside their enclosure and are stirring awake from their cots. They look a little thin and pale, but there is not an ounce of confusion in their expressions, as if they had been there for a while and are used to being woken up like so. The brown-haired male mouths something that you read on his lips as ‘hello.’

You could feel your own eyes widen at the sight of them, your mouth opening on its own accord to let out a protest, but your throat dries up as a cold, firm hand closes on yours. Coriolanus Snow’s cold cerulean orbs, pinning you to place, spell a single, well-understood warning:

‘Don’t.’

F2’s voice floats in the space as she introduces the second stage of the integration test.

“What you’re currently seeing is one of our many additions to the game interface: we’ve inserted a microchip into the test subjects you see in the windows which transmits real-time data to our system: heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and other vital signs, plus levels of cortisol, serotonin...”

F2 drones on with her explanation of how the microchip works, just as you watch while the three teens are served food through a small slot at the far end of their cells. 

“We will spend the next three hours observing how the chip works and how it transmits data that could influence audience betting, sponsorship, and decision-making. Mr Innis designed a learning algorithm that makes use of motion-tracking software to study the tributes’ every move in real-time, which contributes largely to the accuracy of the odds on our screen. We hope to gather their responses to a number of stimuli we’ll be exposing them to within the said time to demonstrate the software’s capabilities.”

When they begin eating, F1 begins explaining to Dr Gaul, who approaches the computer screens to look at the data, how the system measures hormones related to food intake, among others.

You could feel your head start to throb and can’t help wincing at the pain. Coriolanus’s hand is still on yours, he feigns looking over at the computers then meets your eyes, shooting you a questioning look.

Are you okay?

You blink once, indicating you’re fine and break the eye contact just as he releases his grip on you. He doesn’t really care, you know that much; his only concern is the success of this presentation, and you’re not about to fuck it up for him. Instead, you peer curiously at the food they served the three teens, noting how little they’re given: a slice of stale, brown bread, a small bowl of soup, and a single bottle of water.

The male, however, finishes his meal rather quickly and raps on the glass impatiently, mouthing something you can’t quite make out.

“Their enclosure is soundproof, even their walls so they can’t hear each other; they can’t see through the glass, either. In each cell, however, we placed a screen on a corner of each wall, where they could see and hear us individually when we address them through the intercom,” F1 says. That’s when you notice that each computer station is equipped with a small, built-in camera on top of the monitor.

F2 nods and elaborates, “We figured they’d be more likely to cooperate if they see a face guiding them through the experiments.”

You take the remaining computer station beside F2, activate the teenage male’s intercom and place him on speakers.

“...Hey, hey, I can see you!” He shouts at the screen, waving frantically. “Can you hear me? Been talkin’ for a while now, did anybody get that?”

“No, I’m sorry...” you say through the microphone. You scan through his uploaded background information on the computer. “Callahan, you’ll have to say that again, please.”

“Whoa,” Callahan stares in wonder at the intercom screen in his room. “Uh, I was just askin’ when ya’ll’re gon’ let me out, but...it’s nice to hear from anyone, really. Been cooped up here a long time.”

You inhale sharply as you turn off your mic. This is going to be a long three hours. “Honestly, I don’t know,” you confess to him on the mic. According to all the files on the test subjects, they're promised a sum of money and a year’s worth of grains once they’re sent home. In seventeen-year-old Callahan Brody’s case, home is District 3.

Where the Innises began building their empire.

“Our timetable is based on the success of the experiments you’re recruited for,” you add.

He bats his eyelashes at the monitor, his eyes innocently bulging in awe. It’s odd to see him ogle at the piece of tech, knowing he’s seen much more impressive stuff in his line of work if his file is to be believed. “Hey, as long as...I’m not talkin’ to meself all the damn time.”

Coriolanus approaches your side, placing his hand on the back of your chair.

“Whoa, you’re really pretty.” Callahan chuckles bashfully at the screen. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ stuck here for days if it means I get to see you.”

He was staring at you and not the tech, you belatedly realise. Your glance automatically goes up to your mentor, whose hardened eyes betray his displeasure at the interaction, no matter how blank he keeps his expression.

“Flattery won’t get you out of this sooner,” you say.

F1 casually mentions an increase in oxytocin and testosterone levels detected by the software on Callahan’s profile tab.

You could feel Coriolanus’s ire radiating off him in waves.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Callahan asks through the intercom.

You give him a false name for the experiment’s sake. This a scientific pursuit, you remind yourself. You and the siblings take turns getting him to talk about himself, so the software can continue logging his vitals in the process.

He tells you that his favourite food is roasted chicken and gravy, but that he only gets to eat it on special occasions. During his spare time, he likes taking apart the family radio and the old television that he inherited from his grandfather, and he had two siblings who’d help him put them back before their father got home. He says he used to work for one of your family’s factories before he came here, confirming the data logged on his file. He talks about the assembly line he was a part of before A.I.-powered machinery replaced him, rendering his job, and him, obsolete. He says he was just one of the hundreds laid off and replaced by robots.

Does your uncle know about this?

“I used to be a computer technician,” he continues. Really? That isn’t on his file, you note. “But then I lost my drive.”

You had to put your hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh brought about by that unexpected joke.

“Nerd.” F2 pokes your arm teasingly as she laughs along.

F1 verbalises a spike in endorphins in between soft bouts of laughter. “Sorry,” he tells Dr. Gaul, whose eyebrow is raised in mild amusement. “We’re a sucker for puns.”

“Of all the people they could get from the districts, they settle for another nerd,” F2 says under her breath.

Callahan seems to be delighted to entertain. “Hey, I got ‘nuther one: why do programmers hate going outside?”

F1 quips excitedly. “Ooh, I know that!”

“Because outside’s full of bugs.”

F1 and F2 both crack up, with F2 suggesting ‘we should keep him.’

You decide to play along with Callahan if only to get a rise out of your mentor, the only one who isn’t finding anything amusing out of the exchange.

“What’s a computer’s favourite snack?” you ask him on the intercom.

“What?” He and your computer engineers ask in unison.

With suppressed smile you say, “Chips.”

The laugh you get out of your subject from District 3 records the spike, while Coriolanus rolls his eyes in exasperation. He suggests moving on to the other test subjects, and the three of you oblige, repeating the same experiment.

The girl beside Callahan’s cell is significantly more reserved, and it takes a while for the three of you to elicit a response from her. Tansey Page, barely fourteen with her curly red hair and wide, almost scared eyes, is from District 11. Based on her file, she’s been living with an aunt, her only living relative, since her parents perished in the war. Her aunt had been unable to work due to a bad fall from a nectarine tree from which she never recuperated, and Tansey had to earn a living for both of them at the age of nine. As your software does its job logging spikes to her vitals, you can’t help but think about how dire her situation was that she had to enlist for this test and leave behind an aunt who barely seems to have the capacity to take care of herself.

Once Tansey opens up, you discover she’s a soft-spoken, sweet girl who loves jellied blackberries. She says she loves to read, but since they couldn’t afford books, she would often copy stories by hand on paper from borrowed books. Hearing her recount this pains you, but you follow the siblings’ example and not let it affect you. Besides, there isn’t anything you can do for her at this point but succeed in the tests so they can all go back home to their families in the districts with the payment they’re promised.

The third and last subject, Audrey Mills, blond and pale with shifting reddish eyes, is the most difficult to work with out of the three. She barely looks at the screen in her cell, just huddled on her bed with her knees to her chest, only tensing slightly when she hears anyone of you three ask her a question through her intercom. The uploaded file tells more about her than she does: she’s from District 7, aged sixteen, abandoned by rebel parents who are presumed dead, and raised by her grandmother who recently passed away. She was targeted by a trafficker nicknamed ‘The Wolf,’ probably due to her unique features, but she fought him off and murdered him by bashing him on the head repeatedly with a blunt axe. It took four peacekeepers to haul her away from the body, and unlike the other two teens, she didn’t willingly sign up for the tests and was sent here with only the promise of being pardoned for her crime.

In the end, F1 gives up with an annoyed sigh, and having only an hour left for the tests, he decides to move on to another pursuit.

“This last portion of the test will showcase the software’s ability to record vital signs in the event of negative stimuli. The subjects will be injected with a slow-acting compound laced with a hallucinogenic that targets the amygdala, or the fear centre of the brain, and mimics anything the test subjects may define as hostile. We hope to gauge the effectivity of our software by recording any physiological and hormonal changes on each subject as they would in a natural, stressful environment.”

F1 fishes out a walkie-talkie from his lab coat and through it, he says, “Begin with Test Subject 3.”

Even before you can open your mouth to object to the experiment, two peacekeepers enter Audrey’s cell from a concealed door behind her bed, followed by a female nurse carrying a large syringe. Audrey puts up a fight and tries to evade what to her would be an unknown chemical being forced upon her, but her weakened state proves no match to the peacekeepers who pin her arms and legs to the floor, while the nurse injects her with the compound. She just lies on her belly, presumably screaming, and they eventually leave her alone in her cell, having done their job. She gets to her feet and back to cowering on her bed, visibly shaken by the way she was manhandled.

These are the kind of tests Uncle Cas had to endure conducting under his supervision.

F1 commands through his walkie-talkie for Test Subject 2 to be injected with the same compound.

You and F2 exchange looks. She explains, trying to keep her voice straight, “We’re dosing them at the same time because it takes about fifteen to thirty minutes for the drug to take effect,” she glances sideways at her brother and asks, “Aren’t we going to give the dose to Test Subject 1?”

F1 considers the question, but replies, “No, we leave him as control. Besides, he’s the only one that didn’t piss me off today.”

You watch numbly as the peacekeepers and the nurse from a while ago enter Tansey’s cell. Compared to Audrey, Tansey keeps perfectly still, her eyes fearful and wary and darting from between the peacekeepers’ guns to the syringe needle. She exposes her arm mutely to the nurse, who promptly sticks the syringe into her before stepping out of the enclosure and taking the peacekeepers with her. The wait begins – a long, depraved contest of who gets affected first between Test Subjects 2 and 3. 

Tansey’s breathing rate begins to increase at the fifteen-minute mark. She slowly rises from her perch on the cot while she stares with wide eyes at something in the air. Her heart rate increases, according to the system, along with rising levels of adrenocorticotropin.

“Cortisol levels are also rising,” F2 observes aloud. “Test Subject 2 exhibiting signs of stress.”

“What are you seeing, Tansey?�� you ask the teen.

But all you get from her is panicked screaming, so you put her to mute at once, helplessly watching as she flails her arms and runs around in her cell in an effort to swat away whatever she’s seeing, which seems to be attacking her from the air in all directions.

“I think she’s seeing tracker jackers...” you whisper to no one in particular. “Which makes sense, given her work environment...”

You’re about to ask if they also developed an antidote for this compound, but a dull thud on the glass startles you – Audrey just banged on the glass with her palms, her vitals are a disarray, and her blonde hair is matted with sweat. She keeps glancing behind her and screaming and hitting the window with her balled fists, almost like she’s begging to be let out.

F2 urgently asks through the intercom, “Audrey, I need you to describe what you’re seeing.”

For the first time today, Audrey opens her mouth to speak, her voice hoarse and filled with despair. “The Wolf.”

“She’s hallucinating her attacker,” F2 says as she turns her mic off.

“That means the drug is working, and the software seems to have an accurate read on all physiological and hormonal spikes. Control subject is fine and his vitals are stable,” F1 notes in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everything in their cells, by the way, is being captured by our motion tracker and being fed to the algorithm in real time.”

But, what for, when you’ve already covered that portion in the first part of the integration tests?

You spend the last fifteen minutes of the tests completely dumbstruck, petrified and wishing everything to be over so you can put this horrible job behind you and move on with your life. You keep stealing glances at Coriolanus, but his face is as stony as ever, and Dr Gaul just seems to be having the time of her life watching the test subjects run about in their cells letting out screams only they can hear, tormented by horrors only they can perceive.

By the time F1 declares the tests a success, you’re barely paying attention to his words – you just stare at the computer monitor, waiting for the save progress to reach a hundred percent before you can shut it down. Coriolanus places a hand on your shoulder, which you take as your cue to stand while your department head gives her verdict.

The Head Gamemaker dons a pleased smile as she delivers her final feedback. She seems absolutely thrilled with the tests so far and commends everyone hard at work on seeing the program to completion.

Dr Gaul clasps her hands together as she asks, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I heard your team mention a trial Hunger Games using the test subjects?”

It can’t be, it just might be your physically and emotionally exhausted state mishearing her. You just blink, careful to pay more attention.

F2 gives an affirmative nod as she adjusts her glasses. “It’s called grey-box testing. The idea is to pool in end-users, ideally those who have partial knowledge of the internal structure, to help us test the software. We have F3, whom we’ve already asked prior to this, and Mr Snow has also volunteered himself and his apprentice, Ms Innis, to participate as test mentors.”

Dr Gaul nods her head in approval. “Indeed. I am glad that your team understands the exigency of this project, Mr Snow. The Twelfth Hunger Games is upon us, and I’d like to see this thing of beauty put to great use.”

Your world is in a tailspin. Your grip on the back of your computer chair is the only thing that keeps you from falling. Your hands are shaking even as you pretend you only had to grab the bottle of water on the station behind you to dissuade your mentor’s worried looks.

So, this is what they were recording them for, you conclude. To top it off, your boss has enlisted you as a test mentor, which means you will be responsible for the death of one or more of the teenagers you had just observed minutes ago being needlessly tortured so more could take their place this July.

Unable to control your lightheadedness any longer, you fall sideways with nothing to break your descent but the chair you had been sitting on.

A pair of strong arms is on you at once, gathering you and carrying you bridal style, ignoring your weakened protests. Everything is a blur, and you get dizzier in its hold, but you fight to stay conscious no matter how fleeting. The world only steadies when you’re set down on what feels like soft leather.

You wince at the bright light that floods your eyes. There’s a muffled voice you can make out that seems to be calling your name. When your vision and hearing clear, you finally make out the source of that blinding light: a penlight held by Dr Gaul herself, which she turns off; that voice belonging to none other than Coriolanus Snow whose hands are clasping one of yours. 

“There she is, your little pet. Poor thing is fatigued, by the looks of her,” Dr Gaul chuckles lightly and raises an eyebrow at him. “You ought to keep your hands away from her every so often.”

Coriolanus merely exhales in relief, but his jaw remains tense. “She is merely preoccupied with the program, Dr. Gaul. She hasn’t been sleeping very well for the past weeks.”

The woman simply clicks her tongue in impatience. The sound of peeling latex gloves breaks the quiet in the room momentarily, followed by the opening of a sliding door shelf, the clinking of glass bottles and the closing of said shelf. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the doctor hand your mentor something you can’t see.

Gingerly, you sit up on the infirmary bed, and Coriolanus helps steady you by placing his hands on your shoulders.

Dr Gaul’s voice echoes in the room. “I’d like you to be in tip-top shape, Ms Innis, so I will give you the day off tomorrow. I will delay the trial, but only for a day more. Take her home, Mr Snow. Get some rest, both of you. Come this Friday, we’ll continue.”

She turns on her heels and walks away. Coriolanus’s sharp eyes follow his mentor’s retreating form until she disappears from the room. He then turns to you, his concerned blue orbs raking your form.

He cups your cheeks as he whispers, “You gave me quite the scare, my sugarplum.” He kisses you on the forehead, then asks, “Tell me what you’re feeling. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Other than my head pounding? I’m fine, I guess. I just need some sleep,” your hushed tone says. And other than your tights sustaining a rip on the right thigh from your fall on the computer chair, everything else on you seems to be intact, so you try to stand. The floor seems to move the moment you get to your feet, and Coriolanus catches you before another stumble.

“You’re coming with me to my place,” he says firmly.

You begin protesting, “Coryo, I can just go home –”

You’re interrupted by your own yelp of surprise – to your mortification, he carries you in his arms just as he did when he brought you to the infirmary.

He raises a chastising eyebrow at you. “I’m having none of your complaints. You’re in no state to walk, or to go to your home – it’s too far. My apartment is closer.”

You can’t find the words to argue this logic, so you burrow your face further into his coat in embarrassment. He carries you to his car and instructs his driver to head to his home. You count a few blocks before you arrive at the entrance to this new luxury apartment building. You remember this building from a flyer; despite its ridiculous markup, it targeted uni students, promising luxury features that somewhat rival that of The Corso’s.

It takes a while for you to assure him that you can walk fine on your own, but he relents in the end with a purse of his lips. You could tell he’s displeased by your refusal to be carried like a damsel in distress, but he settles for putting his arm around your shoulders as he walks you across the building’s fine lobby and to the elevator. It’s his private elevator, he says – a perk of owning the largest penthouse spanning the entire top floor. That and exclusive access to the rooftop, he adds.

All this extravagance bought and paid for by the family of a man he presumably betrayed, you bitterly think.

This begs the question: how much longer you can overlook the possibility that he had Sejanus executed?

You silence that snide voice in your head, only because it just served to amplify your pain.

He’s greeted by a maid right in his foyer, who takes both your coats, before he instructs her curtly to make some tea. With his hand on your lower back, he leads you to his spacious living room with windows overlooking the Capitol bathed in the orange gleam of the setting sun, and you can’t help but look around you in amazement at the sheer elegance of his unit. You could see why it would appeal to students; it certainly favoured contemporary interior decor compared to that of The Corso’s art deco leanings. He ushers you into the velvet crimson loveseat in a corner near a window adorned with silky throw pillows.

“Take your shoes off and lie down if you want,” he suggests. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You lean against the backrest with a sigh of relief. Finally, a friendlier surface than the computer chair you’d been lounging around in all day. You’re almost tempted to do as he instructed and make yourself comfortable, if it isn’t for the fact that you’re technically in enemy territory, and you’re a war prisoner being lured with the promise of freedom in exchange for betraying your side.

Instead, you make do with hugging one of the pillows, cursing yourself for landing in this situation – after all, it’s partly your fault that you’re here instead of home where you’re sure you're safe, and most importantly, away from Coriolanus Snow’s clutches.

Coriolanus is back within minutes, taking a seat beside you. He’s taken off his waistcoat and unbuttoned his white shirt halfway through, you observe. He rolls up his sleeves as the maid enters with a steaming teapot, cream, and sugar bowls on a tray along with two sets of teacups. She sets them all down on the coffee table in the middle. He instructs her to bring out the cake from the fridge as she exits.

He pours you a cup of tea, the inviting aroma of a rooibos and valerian root blend drifting in the living room air before he adds just the right amount of milk and sugar as you would make it yourself.

“Drink this, sugarplum. It’ll help, trust me,” he says as he pushes the teacup towards you. He pours some himself, only adding two cubes of sugar and a lemon wedge squeeze, as is his occasional preference. You watch him take a sip before you do.

And of course, your cup tastes perfect. It’s almost scary how he knows the littlest of details, including how you take your tea, of all things.

The maid arrives with what looks like a matcha-flavoured angel food cake from The White Knight before he instructs her to go home early for the night.

You try not to be nervous at being left alone with him in his apartment and focus on the tea.

Coriolanus takes the liberty of slicing you a piece of the cake and placing it on the empty plate the maid had brought in. He urges you to eat.

“I noticed you didn’t order that angel food cake you seem to be partial to when we had lunch. I thought you might like to have a bite after such a successful day.”

The smile he gives you is full of pride, while you feel nothing but shame at the abomination you had just willingly participated in. Still, you take a few bites of the cake to placate him. You’re in his turf where his rule is absolute, and heaven forbid any missteps on your part that would warrant any sanctions.

He watches you quietly for a short while over sips of tea while you contemplate the best exit strategy. Even with your slice of cake gone and your cup of tea empty, you come up with nil excuses. Surprisingly, the food helped a bit with the nausea, and you could feel your limbs starting to relax further into the couch. You can’t even fight your yawn, only stifling it with your hands, as you sink into the pile of throw pillows.

Okay, maybe just a little nap…surely, he wouldn’t mind.

The last thing you see as you drift off to blackness is Coriolanus and his lopsided grin, his slender fingers brushing off the hair framing your face.

According to Coriolanus’s watch, it took about thirty minutes for the sleeping draught he put in the milk bowl to take effect, but he allows ten more minutes to make sure you’re deep in your sleep and won’t be waking in at least a few hours. He still had some of the draught in his medicine cabinet as he’d used in the past, making sure not to touch the other bottle he’s supposed to give you courtesy of Dr Gaul. 

He spends the rest of the ten minutes just admiring your face, finally deep in your own little world, blissfully unaware of your reality. For the first time in a long while, he’s completely alone with you, so allows himself this little treat of brushing your cheeks and stroking your hair. He wonders what you dream of. He wishes it was filled with the things you love. He wishes he was in it somewhere.

He eventually decides that this loveseat is no place for his sweet, little sugarplum to spend the night in.

He carefully removes your shoes and places them neatly by the foot of the couch. He carries you with ease like a prince claiming his princess bride before walking off to the sunset. He is gentle when he sets you down on his bed. He doesn't need to close his door; it’s just you and him on the entire floor, after all. He straddles your hips as he climbs on top of your sleeping figure. His eyes greedily take you in: your hair spread out on his pillow, your lips slightly parted, the curve of your neck beating your pulse...it’s what he’s dreamed of for so long; you sprawled underneath him ready for his taking...

He finally just lets his intrusive thoughts take over and licks that enticing pulse point of yours.

The moment his tongue latches on your skin, Coriolanus knows he wants more. He hurriedly unbuttons your blouse and gently peels it off your torso, exposing the swell of your breasts, modestly covered in a cream-coloured bra. Watching your exposed bosom rising and falling in steady breathing has his blood rushing from his head to his groin.

And then you had to let out a tiny, adorable whine from the back of your throat.

Coriolanus groans in frustration as he wipes a bead of sweat off his temple. The rational part of him tells him to stop, put your shirt back on and keep away from your sleeping figure because he’s aware your first time with him shouldn’t be while you’re asleep and unable to respond to his touches. He knows you’re a virgin and he’d prefer that you remember your first experience with him, and that taking you on the night of your wedding means you’d have no reason to refuse him as your husband.

But there’s this other side of him – primal, impatient, irrational, and ravenous,  that part of him he normally conceals from you, most especially – that’s threatening to surface. The part of him that knows he’s been so good to you, and he’s waited long enough for even just a taste of how right at home you’d make him feel when his rock-hard cock is burrowed deep inside you...

As his gaze dips further down the skirt you’re wearing, now slightly hiked up and revealing your stocking-wrapped thighs, a thought successfully marries his rational and irrational side: he doesn’t have to fuck you tonight – he can still save you for your wedding night and still get to taste you and satisfy that painfully growing erection of his.

He seals your lips with a searing kiss, which eventually dips to the valley between your breasts, which he then squeezes through your bra. He fights the entire time not to suck on your skin and leave bruises, figuring you’d easily see if he did. He kisses and licks and massages every part of your body he can reach, while his hand travels underneath your skirt. He gathers the material to your waist, revealing your lower half and peels off that pesky pantyhose, careful not to aggravate that little tear.

And once again, Coriolanus pulls away to admire the sight of you, on his bed, in your underwear, his breathing turning shallow in anticipation.

Just a taste, he assures himself, as he removes your panties, leaving your cunt bare to him and sending more blood to his already-engorged cock. He hastens in taking your legs apart and hooking them under his arms, and from there, he begins his worship.

The kiss he plants on your inner thigh slowly travels downwards, and he allows himself to suckle on your soft skin while still avoiding any visible welts. He does the same with your other thigh, but this time, he suckles and bites down on a tender spot near that hole in your stocking, and he only stops when an angry little red blotch begins to bloom on the flesh. He kisses it one more time for good measure, just before he dives in to feast on his main course.

Coriolanus moans indecently when his tongue begins to part your folds. He chuckles to himself when he feels you jerk a little in his hold – his sweet, delicious sugarplum, so sensitive to his touch...

What was that thing they used to say as children? I licked it, so it’s mine.

He runs this tongue over his lips before continuing his quest of lapping at your cunt, making sure he takes everything you offer him. He sucks on your clit as he listens to your breathy little whines, your body tensing in your sleep as he drinks and licks your juices – you taste just like honey on his tongue – he’s parched like he’s been that way since he can remember, and your cunt is the only thing that could quench that life-long thirst, and he doesn’t stop drinking you in until your entire body is tensing up and your thighs are quivering in his arms. He pulls away in time to watch your pretty face, frozen in pure bliss, your mouth parted as you let out those airy little moans and whines.

Did he just give his little sugarplum her first-ever orgasm in her sleep?

Your limbs relax eventually as he releases your thighs. Still drunk on the taste of you in his mouth, he quickly takes his shirt off and wastes no time unzipping his pants. He can only ignore his raging erection for so long, after all.

Like he’s done countless times, he takes his cock in his fist and begins pumping himself as he watches you – as per usual, he indulges himself in fantasies about you, moaning and screaming his name, writhing underneath him in pleasure and making a mess of his bedsheets, except your face in his mind is clearer than ever before, now that he’s seen the expressions and the sounds you’d make as he makes you come around his cock again and again. He imagines himself taking you over and over even as you stay limp underneath him, too fucked out to moan anything coherently.

It doesn’t take Coriolanus long to reach his peak. With a loud, guttural groan, he finishes on your stomach, making sure he doesn’t spill anywhere else even amidst the waves of pleasure engulfing him. He brings his forehead close to yours as he steadies his breathing and lets his high fade. Once he’s regained his composure, he pulls away from you, zips his pants back up and gets off you completely, opting to sit beside you as he leans against the headboard to collect his thoughts.

He knows he couldn’t leave you in your half-dressed state for long lest you catch a cold, so he begins to erase any evidence of the little bit of fun he had with you. Shame, really, when you look so inviting covered in his spend.

He starts by gently wiping his cum off your stomach with a damp towel, ensuring that he leaves no trace of himself on you. He finds wiping you clean easy and satisfying, vaguely wondering what it would be like to have the two of you soaking in a bathtub together and doing the same for him. The next task, getting you back in your stockings, isn’t as easy as the previous, given that he has to arrange the run on the cloth back where he remembers it to be. Miraculously, he too, gets that task out of the way, and putting your shirt back on proves way less challenging. By the time he’s done, the only sign he’d been on you is the little love bite he left, now purplish-black, conveniently camouflaged by that little tear on your stocking you’d be quick to dismiss it as a byproduct of your fall.

For now, that little beast in him has been sated and has retreated to the far corners of his psyche. He kisses your crown as he tucks you in the covers, but notices how troubled your expression looks.

Are you having a bad dream, he wonders?

You stir in your sleep as you turn away from his side of the bed, muttering a word he couldn’t catch. He climbs back in beside you, leaning against the pillows, his eyes landing on the vial of smelling salts on his nightstand. If this worsens, maybe he could use that to tear you away from the dream that’s bothering you.

Then he hears sniffling.

You curl up in a ball beneath the sheets as the sniffling grows more audible. He peers further into your face, finding fresh trails of tears on your temples.

Coriolanus almost internally panics.

Did he do this to you? Had he somehow given you a dream you’re now struggling with because of what he did? He rubs his face as he thinks of the possibilities.

Maybe you’re dreaming of Sejanus. Perhaps in this dream, he’s breaking your heart, or he’s hurting you, maybe even cheated on you and you had caught him in the middle of messing around with another girl.

Things Coriolanus would never, ever do to you.

He finds comfort in the thought somehow, and he can at least hope this dream version of himself would come in and punch the daylights out of dream-Sejanus for making you cry.

“Mommy…”

It’s faint, but he hears it.

“Mommy, wake up, please…We have to find daddy..."

Ah, you’re dreaming of that day.

Coriolanus recalls the day Sejanus approached him with good intentions (like always, he couldn’t help his nature) and began talking to him about you. It was one of his many deluded attempts at igniting friendship with him. He didn’t really care back then whatever he had to say, much less about you, but then he had to reveal how your parents died.

Such needless deaths brought about the vindictiveness of rebels who were bitter about your parents choosing the correct side.

And Coriolanus knew, better than anyone, and certainly better than Sejanus, what it was like to lose a parent the way you did.

For a moment there, he sees his younger self in you, calling out for his dead mother in the middle of the night and waking up realising she’ll never come back.

His heart wrenches at your pain, so he gathers you in his lap as you sob in your slumber. He’d never thought he’d see you this vulnerable around him, so it gives him an odd sense of ease knowing he’d seen a side of you you’d normally hide from him, and making you feel safe in his arms like this is something a dutiful husband would definitely do.

He almost ignores the phone ringing in his living room in favour of keeping you in his embrace.

Except the call drops and the phone rings insistently three more times, making him gently peel you off his lap and wanting to yank it off the plug.

Instead, he picks it up. What compelled him to do so, he doesn’t know, and he can’t pinpoint whether it was a good or a bad decision.

“Coriolanus. This is Acacius Innis.”

Fuck. Just when he’s finally got you to himself.

Acacius Innis inquires more persistently on the other line.   “Is my niece with you?”

“Yes, Mr Innis. She –”

“Why?”

Coriolanus does not appreciate Innis senior’s tone, nor the way he just cut him off. “She almost passed out at work this afternoon, sir,” he says. “My place was the closest I could bring her to.”

A pause on the other line. “I’m coming over,” says Mr Innis.

“I can bring her over instead, sir –”

“No, I’m picking her up,” Innis says, as sounds of scuffling are heard in his background. “I know where you live. And, young man, if you so much as try anything funny with my niece, if you dare lay a finger –”

“I have no such intentions, Mr Innis,” Coriolanus replies with just as much conviction.

My tongue did all the work. He licks his lips, extremely pleased he could still taste you on them. “Nellie is safe with me; you have my word.”

“Good to know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Coriolanus hears the click of the receiver, followed by the dial tone.

The meddling prick.

A sharp sensation in your nose stirs you awake, followed by fingers softly stroking your hair to help you come out of it.

“Sugarplum, I’m sorry to have woken you up, but you were crying in your sleep.”

The compassionate voice of none other than Coriolanus Snow makes you rise at once and assess where exactly you have ended up.

You remember falling asleep on his couch, and yet, here you are, on a bed with his shirtless self, and a just few seconds ago draped all over his lap, apparently crying in your sleep again.

"What was I saying?” you ask as you wipe your tears with your palms.

“You were calling for your parents,” he explains. “I assume you were dreaming about the day they died.”

Damn this day. You just had to fall asleep in his presence. It’s a stupid move, you berate yourself. You extricate yourself at once from what obviously looks like his bed. Coriolanus's eyes follows you with a doleful look. “I had no idea you still had nightmares about them.”

He too, gets to his feet, picking his shirt up from the sheets and putting it back on. What the fuck even was it doing off? He approaches you with eyes cold enough to freeze your blood. “And we know gave us this pain, Nellie. We’ll make them pay for it. Every single one of them.”

You’re relieved when he finally leads you away from his bedroom and back to the living room where your shoes are. You sit on the loveseat so you can put them on, but he’s on his knees at once, assisting you with your shoestraps.

“Your uncle knows you’re here,” he says as he ties your laces. “I told him you had a long day and you were resting. He’s on his way to pick you up. He also mentioned a subtle, tasteful threat of bodily harm if I ‘tried anything funny.’”

He looks up at you, smiling as he brushes his knuckles on your cheek.

“Like I’d ever harm my little sugarplum.”

The two of you retrieve your coat in the foyer, and you quietly thank him for letting you stay at his home. Instead of responding, he just fixes your hair and wipes your cheeks with his thumb, which later brushes over your lips.

Please, don’t let him kiss me…

“Coryo? Please…” you whisper shakily.

But then he releases you, donning a satisfied look. “There, all better.” When you look at him with questioning eyes, he adds, “I don’t think your uncle will ever forgive me if he thinks I made you cry.”

“Th-thanks.”

“You can thank me by getting better,” he says lightly. He leads you to the elevator with his hand on your back. “You have the entire day off tomorrow, so get all the rest you need. In fact, I have something that may help you get better sleep.”

He fishes this small, crimson vial from his pants pocket and places it in your hands. The cork stopper on the bottle is still sealed with wax.

“That should help. Take a teaspoon before you go to bed. It’s a non-addictive formula they developed at the Citadel. Tell me if it works for you so I can get you more.”

You nod and mutter your thanks. “Coryo, can I ask you something?

“Of course, sugarplum.”

“When do you think I can start working for my uncle again? Now that I’ve already finished fixing the code?”

His eyes darken at your question, but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by simple curiosity.

“Why, sugarplum? Are you that eager to wriggle free from me?” he jests. 

“No,” you deny, no matter how much his observation rings true. “It’s just that he’s been looking unwell lately, and he won’t tell me anything. He’ll never tell me if he’s sick or what, and I worry about him.”

What you said is partly true, but you also just want to be done with everything that has to do with him. If you don’t work for him anymore, you won’t ever have to interact with him ever again and be part of whatever he’s building. He’s not your friend, no matter how much he tries to make it look like so. He’s dangerous, you know that, and the faster you can keep him at arm’s length, the better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sugarplum. I know the past week has been stressful for you. For both of you. But you don’t want to leave the program now, do you? Not when we’re so close to accomplishing what your uncle had started. And if you really want to help your uncle, finish his work, and help build his legacy.”

So, it seems you’re stuck with him, and you’ll still be participating in the trial Hunger Games this Friday.

The air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re pinned against the cold, steel walls of the elevator, and the gasp you let out is silenced by Coriolanus’s mouth latching onto yours.

Having caught you off-guard, you attempt to push him off, but he’s always been leagues above you in physical strength. As his tongue finds yours, you simply close your eyes and let him.

However, just as soon as it happens, he releases you, just in time for the elevator door to reveal the lobby with a ding.

“How about I recommend people I know who’d be perfect as his apprentice?” he suggests as if nothing happened. “After all, I have a track record for finding the perfect one. I’ll have it sent to his desk next week.”

You’re exhausted beyond words, not having the will to snap, so you just nod along. Through the glass doors, you spot your uncle leaning against his car with his hands inside his coat pocket, looking more cross than you’ve ever seen him in public. Still, you have never been more relieved to see him.

You open your mouth to greet him as you step outside, followed by Coriolanus, but Uncle Cas’s eyes land on the tear on your stocking. Acacius Innis’s eyes harden, and the next thing you know, he’s lunging at the younger man behind you. You hear a dull thud, indicating he landed a punch somewhere.

“Uncle Cas, no!” You squeal, wrapping your arms around his torso and attempting to wrench him away from Coriolanus.

“What the fuck did you do, you little – !”

“Uncle, I fell, and I tore my tights. He didn’t do anything!”

Uncle Cas simmers down upon hearing your words. “Is this true?” He asks Coriolanus.

Your friend holds a slightly bleeding lip with his thumb, but he smiles just as disarmingly as if he wasn’t at all fazed by your uncle’s outburst. “Yes, sir. It was merely an accident.”

Your uncle huffs to himself. For a moment, he seems like he's considering punching him again with the way he furls his fist, but then he dips his head in apology. “Then you’ll have to forgive me, young man. I truly am sorry for jumping to conclusions. Are you alright?”

Coriolanus merely chuckles, but it's bereft of any humour. “I was a peacekeeper once, sir. I have certainly taken much worse.”

This was a clear challenge, and you wish with all your might that your uncle wouldn’t take the bait. Fortunately, the older man just tenses his jaw and nods. “Once again, you have my apologies. I thought you had hurt my niece, and it was wrong of me to not reign in my temper.”

Snow straightens to his full height and graciously replies, “I completely understand, Mr Innis. I’d protect Nellie just as ferociously as you would.”

Your uncle all but drags you to the car’s passenger seat and follows you inside, taking his place in the driver's seat. Now, even with everything that happened that day, this is a bizarre sight, as Acacius Innis has not driven a car himself in a long while. You remain quiet as the engine roars to life, almost swearing to yourself that you hear him mutter “insolent fucking cunt” under his breath as he drives off at full speed.

Enter Level 9

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!

Sorry for any typos, I am not the best of health rn and I will be editing this when I wake up 😊 please stick around!! Snowball has more tricks up his sleeve 😈😈😈

[alavestineneas]

Together

pairing: Johanna Mason x fem!reader

summary: Johanna hears the baker assure Katniss. District 12 tributes remind her so much of them. She was once seventeen, and she was once blindly in love. It irritates her—why are they allowed to be like this? Why did she have to hide?

warnings: mentions of suicide attempt, typical hunger games violence

''I think I'll retire quite sooner than I intended with that girl,'' Blight announced, flopping down on the sofa with a distinct sound.

Haymitch chuckled at the man's visible misery, passing him a glass from the nearest tray. ''Is she back at it again?''

Blight nodded in defeat. ''I tried to be understanding, you know, with all of that happening to her family, but my nose is bleeding for the second time this week.''

Haymitch mastered a sympathetic face.  "I've met a lot of monsters, but teenage girls are by far the worst beasts.''

Y/N rolled her eyes at them. ''I'll talk to her.''

Blight looked at her as if she had three heads. "There is no point unless you want a black eye instead of that makeup.''

''Well, I am also a teenage girl, which is what you are so afraid of,'' Y/N said as she stood up from the couch and straightened her dress. ''If I am not back after half an hour, call security.''

''Or doctors,'' muttered Blight under his breath.

"Or doctors." Y/N shrugged.

To be fair, Y/N was quite intrigued by Johanna Mason, the most recent victor. Cunning, quick, and violent—this is what the media tried to portray her as. Y/N knew better than to trust their vision—after all, according to them, she herself was the Capitol's darling, bathing in love and fame for the past two years.

Judging from the sound, somebody was moving furniture in the room. Y/N knocked, more out of habit than from need. The doors in the Capitol are never fully locked—another illusion for a fake sense of privacy.

"I said go fuck yourself, or did I completely knock out your brain?'' a girl's voice responded from within.

Y/N chuckled. "Is this how you talk to your elders?"

The pacing around the room stopped.

''Who are you?'' the Mason girl asked, obviously surprised.

"You'll find out when you open this door—not the best way to start a friendly conversation, is it?"

The loud thuds continued as if nothing had happened.

Y/N sighed. Why can't things be easy for once? She pressed the hidden silver button, and the door unlocked.

A girl with black hair looked at her with wide eyes. She was standing on the chair, holding a piece of rope.

''Hanging? Very original, I'll give you that.''

''What do you want?'' the girl grumbled, undoubtedly dissatisfied with the failed attempt.

''I want you to come down and get dressed,'' Y/N answered, glancing at the undone bed and shattered glass everywhere. ''As simple as that.''

''No.'' The girl looked determined, still standing on the chair. ''I am not going to another idiotic party with those fuckers.''

''Really? I hope you believe in ghosts, because you'll be dead tomorrow morning.''

''I don't care. I don't want to live anyway.''

''Has anyone ever told you that you are such an egocentric bitch?'' Y/N asked, leaning against the wall. She surely got Mason's attention with that—the girl looked at her, insulted.

''Excuse me?''

''You should've just died in that arena and given somebody a chance to live. Take my tribute, Elly. Do you know how much she wanted to survive? Why steal her chance if you'll waste yours anyway?''

"My entire family is gone, and you want me to smile for the cameras?"

"You are correct; they would have been overjoyed to learn that you honored them by killing yourself over a damn party."

The girl stared at Y/N, debating whether she should listen, before getting off the chair with a slight thud.

''I'm Johanna.'', she mumbled.

Y/N grinned.  "Nice to meet you, Johanna. Now let's show these bastards who they are messing with.''  

-

Y/N writes to her almost every week. Johanna has learned the schedule by now - she writes on Saturdays, and on Thursdays, a white envelope is sitting on the porch. She complains about life in District 8, the horrendous dresses she got as presents for her birthday, or how her make-up team appeared to lose their taste after changing the designer.

Johanna never answers. She tells herself it is for the best—she can't get attached to anybody. Mason keeps all the letters neatly stocked in the first drawer of the closet. She won't admit it, but she rereads them every evening. Then, it's easy to pretend they are just two ordinary 17-year-olds.

She doesn't allow herself to answer. Not until Y/N mentions that she is back at the Capitol. Johanna knows what it means—while her friend got to keep her family, it cost her a lot. Only then, she takes a pen and sits at the table, scribbling a response.

It looks messy—nothing like the nicely curved letters Y/N has. She rewrote half of a paper five times. Johanna shoves it into the envelope and sends it off before she can change her mind. She can't help but smile when she gets an answer. Y/N doodled a funny figure, suspiciously similar to Johanna's, covered in spikes. Mason gets the message—she will write more often.

-

Johanna mentors for the first time; her tributes are both alive, which has been rare for so long in the Games. The mentors' lounge is not as crowded as it was in the morning; most of the past victors take turns monitoring the arena. The quiet chatter is the only sound besides the screen. They talk about a dinner tomorrow, a new escort, stylists—anything but the Games.

Y/N is also here - the boy from District 8 is still hiding. They both know the game makers won't allow it for too long. Y/N anxiously fidgets with the rings on her hands, staring at the void. Johanna guesses they are never getting used to it—even older mentors are visibly uneasy, almost too drunk to walk a straight line.

A scream draws her attention back to the screen. A massive, tiger-like creature charged at the boy Y/N mentors. He tries to fight it off with the nearest stick, screaming in horror as the animal opens its mouth and takes a bite of his leg, tearing it off.

Johanna's head flies at Y/N; she is already watching, lips pursed into a white line. More screams ring in the now silent room, along with sounds of growls and what Johanna believes to be the sound of tearing flesh. Finally, the screaming stops; the camera changes to Career's pack.

The mentors try to hide their gaze from the Y/N's figure as she stands up from the couch and leaves the room, her steps echoing in the hallway.

The District Two mentor pours himself a glass of whiskey, downing it in one go; most mentors follow him, and the conversation completely vanishes.

Johanna tries to recollect herself, adjusting the hem of her shirt. The boy's blood-stained face still runs through her mind, so she doesn't notice a figure behind her until somebody places a hand on her shoulder.

''Go talk to her. I'll watch.''

It's a blonde woman from District One - Cashmere or Gloss, Johanna was not sure. She wants to argue but quickly changes her mind. The woman obviously means no harm. So, Johanna nods.

She finds Y/N easily - she is in the training room, sparring with animated figures with a spear. Johanna recalls Y/N telling her that the only reason she chose spears was because they resembled the sticks she used to practice with at District 8. Mason thinks she was joking - her friend was hitting every target with ease right now.

Johanna sits down beside the girl on the burnished metal floor. She was never good with words; it was Y/N who always seemed to know what to say.

''I'm sorry.''

''He was very happy to eat ice cream, you know?'' Y/N says, her voice faint.

"It was his wish?"

Y/N nods. ''It makes them feel better, I think. Hell, it makes me feel better about sending them to their deaths—to know I did something good for those kids.'' She looks down at her hands, her lips trembling. ''He was a nice kid and died such a horrible death, Jo, such a terrible, cruel death.''

Y/N's voice breaks.

She leans into Johanna's embrace, and Mason almost instinctively wraps her hands around her friend's shaking shoulders. It was the first time she saw Y/N like this. Without a mask Capitol made her wear, without the walls she built around herself. Just Y/N.

''We are going to be alright,'' Johanna says.

She hopes her words sound convincing. Of course, they're a lie - nothing is ever okay in this messed-up world. They both know this, but Y/N still whispers a small thank you.

Johanna's heart aches, and a familiar warm sensation spreads through her chest. She resists the urge to wipe the tears off her friend's face. They are friends, and Johanna is happy with that. It is still a lot more than she deserves.

-

Today is Y/N's birthday, and the Capitol is throwing a big party for "the favorite." Johanna doesn't ask why she has this title. Of course, they adore her - Y/N won the Games when she was fifteen. She grew up in front of the camera, and, what is more flawed, she grew up with people behind it.

It is easily seen when Y/N's face changes each time she walks on the stage. Her warm eyes transform into big doe eyes, and a picture-perfect smile appears. She is a perfect actress, quick to come up with a witty remark or play into the naïve girl they view her as.

She won the Games that way; Johanna has to remind herself. Y/N got a 3 as a training score, possessing almost none of the fighting skills. She did, however, know what the Capitol wanted: someone charming, attractive, and willing to put on a show. That and the desert arena got her where she is now.

The perfect victor now lays on the floor next to Johanna, her head on Mason's lap. They are both twenty-one now, not that their age ever stopped them from stealing the alcohol. The party is tomorrow, and Snow wants to put on a show. For now, they can live.

''Jo, can I tell you something? But you must promise not to be angry.''

Mason responds with a hum; she enjoys hearing her rash ideas. The braid she is making out of Y/N's hair is coming out not like she intended, and Johanna huffs in annoyance. ''Just spill it, would you?''

Y/N's face becomes serious. ''I think I am in love with you. And to be fair, it scares the shit out of me.''

The world stops for a second. Johanna thinks she did not hear it right, but there is no other way to understand this. She feels her heartbeat in her ears, loud enough to cover any other noise.

''Well. Yell, scream, or say something. Anything.'' Y/N sits up, a half-finished braid falling undone.

''We can't,'' Johanna says nervously, licking her lips.

''So, you feel this way too?''

"No, that is not the point. We can't do this.''

''Why?'' Y/N takes her hand in hers. ''They'll have to allow it. We can even be a secret if you want to. We'll figure it out, I promise.''

''No.'' Johanna shakes her head. ''You know what happens to the people I love, Y/N. One wrong step, and you will be dead. I can't do this, not again.''

Y/N pauses. "I think you are just afraid to be happy."

"No," Johanna whispers, "I'm afraid of losing you."

Y/N blinks, fighting the tears gathering in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but Johanna was faster.

''I'll go. It's late.'' If she stays any longer, she might lose it.

The door behind her closes with a loud bang. The realization comes suddenly - she lost the only person who loved her. Johanna lets out a few choked sobs, sliding against the nearest wall in a small, empty hall. The worst part is that she loved her too.

-

Johanna is mad—furious even. The Capitol already did everything in its power to break her, yet here she is, going back into the arena. Her reaping wasn't that much of a surprise; she is the only female victor in District 7. Johanna is convinced every name drawn wasn't random—a brother and sister from District One, Finnick and his sweetheart Annie, Y/N.

They meet in the bathroom before the interviews, of all places. Y/N is attempting to remove the mascara from her eyelid, and Johanna is trying hard not to laugh - if only the cameras saw her like this, she would undoubtedly win over all of the sponsors. No other victor radiated as much anger and determination as she does now.

''Stop laughing and come help me,'' Y/N grumbles.

Johanna grins. ''I wasn't laughing.''

''Yeah, whatever.'' Y/N watches as Johanna picks up a napkin and dips its end in the water.

''Close your eyes.''

Y/N does what she is told, the corners of her lips twitching. ''Yes, ma'am.'' She earns a slap on the hand from Johanna. ''Ouch! What was that for?"

"Not everything has to be a sex joke, you know?"

''Well, where is the fun in that?" Y/N opens her eyes. Johanna's face is inches away from hers. ''Jo...''

''Shut up," she mumbles, covering the girl's lips with hers.

Y/N throws her arms around her, pressing Johanna's body as close as humanly possible. The kiss is hard. Griping. Almost painful. It's like they can't get enough of each other. But Johanna wouldn't want it any other way.

Y/N pulls away first, watching Johanna take a few rushed breaths in. ''I thought we couldn't do it,'' she jokes.

Mason rolls her eyes.  "I liked your mouth closed better."

Y/N's face turns serious, her playful expression vanishing. ''Regarding that. Give them hell. For me.''

Johanna nods. ''I promise.''

-

It wasn't supposed to be easy, and Johanna is reminded of that by stupid birds; while she pities Finnick and Katniss, she is also jealous - they still have someone to care for. Mason doesn't know if Y/N is still alive - the last time she saw her was at the Bloodbath. She can't swim.

''They won't touch Prim!''

Johanna hears the baker assure Katniss. District 12 tributes remind her so much of them. She was once seventeen, and she was once blindly in love. It irritates her—why are they allowed to be like this? Why did she have to hide?

''Your fiancé's right. The whole country loves your sister. Forget the districts; there will be riots in the Capitol if they torture or harm her.'' Johanna turns to the cameras and yells. ''Hey, how does that sound, Snow? What if we set your backyard on fire? You know you can't put everybody in here!''

She feels the stares of her alliance on her, but frankly, she does not care anymore. ''What? He can't hurt me. There's no one left that I love.''

Finnick glances at her, eyebrows raised. He knows. Y/N was his friend too.

-

Johanna tries to meet her fate with anger at first. It served her well throughout her life, as she dealt with every adversity with sarcasm and insults. Mason maintains her arrogance, refusing to allow them to hear her screams or begs. Johanna refused to be turned into entertainment, even after losing. She didn't cry when they cut her hair or beat her. She told herself, "The help is near.''

It provoked them more. The torture becomes more violent day by day until Johanna is exhausted. She has endured it for weeks, and help still hasn't come. She just wants to slump in her chains and silently take it.

The breadboy's cells are next to hers; she hears his screams more than she does her own. Johanna wasn't sure how much time had passed until she heard another familiar cry.

It's Y/N. Mason can swear on the remains of her sanity that it was her voice. She was alive. It takes Johanna everything not to show how much those shouts affected her—it could mean more torture for the District 8 victor.

Johanna now awoke from Y/N's screams and drifted into unconsciousness with them, as if by clockwork. The torture was sometimes worse than electricity. Her biggest fear came true—she sacrificed their happiness for nothing.

Mason is drawn away from her thoughts by another couple of screams. The sound of water pouring fills her ears - it's all happening again.

-

Johanna finds herself even more isolated when they are finally rescued. In a sense, they were in this together in the Capitol; she could at least hear other people, even if it was just screams. Johanna was now completely alone; whereas Peeta had Katniss and Annie had Finnick, Johanna had no one to look out for her. Johanna doesn't want to fight anymore. She is tired. There is a void in her soul, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

The doctors here tell her it's okay not to feel understood, but Johanna knows old Y/N would. She always somehow did. Mason wonders why everyone in her life despises her - what has she done to deserve this? Why do others have someone to return to, someone in their right mind? Why couldn't it be them?

Y/N was still under the constant attention of the doctors. They meet twice a week under strict supervision. Y/N listens to Johanna attentively each time, but something about her gaze feels odd. She can't place it - Y/N is distant and quiet, but that's unusual. Mason tells herself that it was the outcome of the torture they had to survive and that she'll get better with time. It's not her Y/N, but Johanna can't be the one speaking. The Capitol changed them both.

It finally clicks for Johanna when she hears that doctors found a knife in Y/N's room. A knife that she intended to use. It was the absence of hope in her eyes that felt unusual; before, it was always there.

''You are such a hypocrite, you know that?" Johanna tells her. They are in a hospital ward. Y/N's face is tear-stained, and yet, she doesn't answer. ''Remember what you told me the first time we met? That you have to live for those who can't?''

Johanna is angry. She is furious, both with Y/N and with herself, as well as with everyone in this dreadful building. Why can't they understand?

''Well, maybe I lied.'' Y/N's voice is hoarse. It was the first time she had spoken since their rescue. ''There is no point in living anymore, Jo. There always was none.'' She shifts on her bed, looking up at Johanna. ''It never gets better. So it's fairer if we end it now and save ourselves a lot of suffering. ''

''No.'' Johanna's hands are in fists, and she comes closer to the woman in front of her. ''You are not fucking allowed to decide that, not when I spent all those days staying alive and sane for you. Do you hear me? Not for me, for you! I woke up and listened to your screams. I thought about you before I fell asleep because I knew we would get a chance to finally have a normal life when this was over. And now you're saying there's no point?''

Y/N's lower lip trembles, with glimmery tears running down her sunken cheeks. ''I'm sorry.''

Johanna sighs and settles in next to her. ''Look, I can't promise anything. I don't know if it will ever be okay. But we can try.''

Y/N looks at her, and her eyes are finally warm again. ''Together?'' she asks.

Johanna feels the knots in her chest loosening for the first time in a while. ''Together.'', she nods.