#I'm just. tired. i was gonna stick this in my drafts and call it a night but i think i want this out in public actually

[autistic-shaiapouf]

It's 11pm so I know this is influencing my feelings but. make it make sense, no one in this household has beef with me bc 1) I'm never home and 2) I ingratiate myself with everyone so everyone thinks I'm on their side, when in actuality I can't stand any of them. What I am witnessing has me developing more bitterness for other people than my year and a half of customer service has done. Not one person here has a functioning brain and yet expect me to feel pity. To reach out.

Leave.

[scorchedhearth]

3, 7, 24, and 43 :] <3 <3

thank <3

3 Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

it always starts with getting an idea that'll motivate the writing, can be the whole concept as in 'i wanna bring up those themes with this specific plot with this ending' or vague ideas like a scene, a gesture or an exchange i wanna write around

then i'll quickly draft a plot/timeline, depending on how long, how much goes on, etc, which is me writing lines and paragraphs describing the whole piece in broad strokes so i know where i'm going. if i know it's gonna be a more complex piece then i'll go into the details, but usually i just make sure to pin down important things for the overall message or feelings i wanna get across, like specific words, gestures, descriptions, etc to make sure i write them in the appropriate places and the right order to get the effect across. for example in the other side of the coin i tracked all the mentions of kyle being tired in one way or another, as well as the repetitions and literary devices i wanted to use

i work in bits and patches, from this point on it's not writing from start to finish, i usually write what i can until it's complete, so often it'll be big scenes, the first idea, what i've got in mind already first and then at the very end finding the small bits to connect the pieces already done (or, as i call it, the fun first and the struggle for the end). for fanfic i usually don't bother doing multiple drafts unless i think the piece is worth it, so then it's editing over a period of days to weeks depending on how long and how much i struggled writing it and then posting

7 How do you choose which POV to write from?

im boring and will stick to the limited third-person pov in my work, i like how it forces u into a character's spot, unless i specifically wanna try something else. i don't usually like alternating pov, so i pick the most interesting one, as in the one i can do the most with. so the pov that'll provide the most interesting insight, or the one that'll be the most fun to play around given the tone and goal of the piece. that's why i usually pick kyle in my jk fic, unless jason's unreliable narrator vibe is what i want. it also often coincides with who the piece is about, i usually give the narration to the character i'm focusing on

24 Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

i don't think i was ever given a bad advice. i wasn't given a lot of advice in the first place, most of what i do when writing comes from fucking around and finding out so. that being said i think the idea that u have to know everything about ur character is stupid, u just need to know what u need for ur plot, and sometimes it can basic favorite food but often times it is not and it's not worth pondering over it for hours

43 Do you take a sadistic joy in whumping your characters, or are you more the "If you hurt them I would kill everyone and then myself" kind of person?

oh the first one absolutely >:] from the words of the great @captaincrais 'u gotta crack them open to get to the good stuff' and i absolutely stand by that. ur characters will crumble under pressure and that's when u can open them up and dig ur hands in the meaty parts and pull it all apart and study it. if ur character is happy then it's boring to write and boring to read and boring is good in real life not in fiction. also im an enjoyer of gore and violence so there's an extra kick for me in it. that's why unhappy and bittersweet endings do it for me, why doomed relationships and stories are my things, why i like situations with no good solution for anyone involved

fic writer asks

[tchallasbabymama]

7, 10, 13

7. Post a snippet from a WIP.

Here's a little sumn sumn from the first draft of Troubled Waters chapter 19:

N’Jadaka sighed impatiently as he leaned against a column in the bowels of the Necropolis. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his foot wouldn’t stop tapping as if it had a mind of its own. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he got tired of standing, and let his body slide to the floor as he stared at a torch across the room. 

“I’m getting too old for this,” he grumbled under his breath and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cool marble column as he tried to ignore the way his shoulder ached from fighting Chiku. The bouda had gotten some good licks in, but N’Jadaka was faster, even without the heart-shaped herb in his system. However, his body still ached. Years of being rough on it had begun to catch up on him, and he started seriously contemplating changing his ways when he unintentionally drifted off to dreamland.

“N’Jadaka,” called a voice that he hadn’t heard in years… decades, even. It had been so long, that he forgot what she sounded like. In his dream, he felt an intense wave of sadness wash over him. How could he forget his mother’s voice?

“N’Jadaka,” she called again, and he felt a hand shake his shoulder. 

His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked them into focus. That same torch nearly blinded him so that all he could see was her silhouette, but he knew it was her.

“Mom?”

“Wh- no… it’s me.”

Nia’s voice was clear, but he had been sure he’d heard his mother….

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” N’Jadaka said through a yawn, “Just been a long day.”

His eyes finally rested on Nia, and he could see a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“What’s up?”

“Someone wants to see you.”

N’Jadaka’s face twisted like he had tasted a sour lemon without warning.

“Who?”

Nia stood from her crouched position, and N’Jadaka finally looked past her to the two figures that hovered just a few feet away.

“My son…”

10. Do you work on multiple WIPs or stick to one fic at a time?

I used to be able to multitask and write multiple at a time, but Troubed Waters sort of became all I could write for the last several months. I'm gonna take a fic writing break after I post chapter 20 because I'm feeling a little burnt out. Who knows what I'll be like when I come back!

13. Do you listen to music while you write?  If yes, what have you been listening to recently?

I either need silence to focus or I zone out to music. When writing TW, I listen to the playlist I made for the series or specific songs. Right now, I'm also working on an original short story, and this song has been my vibe when writing that one:

[toko-writing-imagines]

Toko Fukawa/Genocide Jack x Wife! Reader Headcanons please?

You got it !! But like being a wife or whatever to Toko and Jack sounds absolutely amazing to me-

I wanna be wifey to them so bad

Anyways enjoy your hcs !! ^^ ♡♡

Toko and Genocide Jack x Wife!Reader headcanons

【Toko Fukawa】

• mmm wife good

• Toko probably has and will still write tons of books inspired by you and her because like- you are so amazing to her

• She has you read over her drafts for any new books and always asks you for your criticism - what she can improve on, if the story is too bland or cliché, etc (even if she is the [former when an adult] Ultimate Writing Prodigy, there is still stuff she can improve on)

• Sometimes she wonders how you were able to stick with her for so long to the point that you guys got married (you gotta have the patience of a saint if you wanna marry her )

• Tons of self care!! Before getting married and you two were just dating, you made this thing where once a week you guys just don't work and just- treat yo self. Buying new clothes, going on a small date, staying indoors, baking, fun skin care stuff, etc

• Though old habits die hard, so Toko still has problems with self care and even basic hygiene sometimes

• She still hasn't fully overcome her fear of showing, so to help you just bathe her while talking about whatever is on your mind

• Toko likes to brush your hair, whether it be long or short, she just enjoys the soft texture when feeling it

• There's never really a lot of time to go since she's almost always working to publish new books (as a famous author when older) so whenever she doesn't have to meet some sort of deadline, you two just end up cuddling together in comfortable silence

• That or just really just doing whatever as long as it's relaxing for the both of you in the end

【Genocide Jack/Syo】

• crazy crazy wife

• She *playfully* likes to point her scissors at you for no reason at all

• Jack is one of those people who would call you from a different room and would not reply when you respond

• Also she does this thing where she likes to call you out whenever you walk into the room she is in and that's literally it

• Follows you around a lot just for the heck of it

• Jack is pretty straightforward or blunt for most things, so there are time where she says stuff she could have said more nicer

• No killings!! While the cops still have never caught her, and probably never will, she hasn't killed anyone since you started dating her and that streak still holds up (or at least that's what she tells you... your choice to believe her or not)

• Though she always emphasizes that even if she doesn't kill, she will kill anyone if you told her to

• Loves to hug you from behind a lot, even at the most random times she still hugs you

• Sometimes she writes random letters for you, and while her skills for writing aren't as close to Toko's (not bad, but not close to Toko's), it still leaves something that only she can write (with the occasion vulgar language on the margins)

꒦ ͝ ꒷ ͝ ꒦ ͝ ꒷꒦ ͝ ꒷ ͝ ꒦ ͝ ꒷꒦ ͝ ꒷ ͝ ꒦ ͝ ꒷꒦ ͝ ꒷

↳ ੈ‧₊˚ It's been way too long since I wrote something in my drafts I'm so sorry

but like- I'm finishing requests now so.. yay

I'm tired as heck rn I'm gonna sleep 🚶‍♀️

Take care everyone ♡

~ Mod Toko 💜

[meltwonu]

✦ 👻  𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖍 SEASON 2 👻 ✦

↪ ✧ GALIPETTE ✧

this chapter pairing; snake-hybrid!woozi x reader

genre&warnings; snake-eyes!au, snake-hybrid!woozi, dom!woozi, ‼️split-tongue/forked tongue‼️, oral[fem receiving], dirty talk, degradation, slight name-calling, breeding/impregnation kink, masturbation, fingering.

notes; You know I had to include at least one snake eyes au fic for MMS2! 🥴😮‍💨💕 I watched this film a long time ago where the main guy in the film had a forked tongue and it decided to revisit me in my thoughts when I was drafting for MMS2 so I thought wow what perfect timing! 🥴💕 Hehehe ALSO again, if y’all think this is weird - just keep scrolling dlkjfhksdfh ☠️ leave me and my nasty fics alone LMAO 😭😩 I’m tryna seeeee somethin! And jihoon with a forked tongue or pierced tongue is one of them okay! 😭 Also I decided I’m going to wait to reply to all the MMS2 inbox msgs until the end bc some of them have spoilers so I will do a big MMS2 inbox roundup after it’s all done 💕 Enjoy ch 7 and have a good day! 😈🎃 

word count; ~2500

chapters; 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - x - x - x - x - x - x

i'm not the one that you knew before,

baby got a new M.O!

since I took a trip to the candy store,

i push 'em down like a domino!

“Well?”

“Ummm… I’m going to be honest, I don’t know.”

Wonwoo laughs light-heartedly as you stare dead-eyed at the bespectacled man.

“You… You’re a hybrid specialist and doctor and---and you don’t know!?” You yell back - Jihoon grimacing at the tone of your voice.

This was not how he expected his checkup to go.

“I--well, yeah, I’m gonna be honest. I’ve never seen anything like this happen.”

Wonwoo rolls his stool back towards Jihoon; patting him on the shoulder and ushering him to open his mouth again.

Jihoon sighs as he parts his lips and sticks his tongue out - the appendage now forked about an inch down from the tip.

“It… Doesn’t hurt, right, Jihoon?”

The snake-hybrid gently shakes his head ‘no’ as Wonwoo hums and calls for Joshua to come into the room.

“Do you think I should prescribe something for this? He said it doesn’t hurt and quite frankly, I’m at a loss for words.”

“I’m not too sure either, Wonwoo.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t know what’s going on…” You mumble; arms crossed against your chest as you focus your eyes on Jihoon who looks beyond bored.

Wonwoo laughs again and tells Jihoon he can close his mouth as the snake-hybrid retracts the appendage.

“Well, most hybrids typically have all of their features at birth. His siblings most likely all had forked tongues when they were born, right, Jihoon?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Right, so it’s… Odd that Jihoon only gained that feature now. I’ve never seen it in all my years of medical practice or hybrid studies. I can’t tell you if this is temporary or not, to be honest. Or if he’ll continue to gain more features from here on out.” Wonwoo takes his glasses off - wiping the lens as he sighs.

“The best thing I can tell you for right now is to just monitor it. And maybe lay off the vocal practice while we try to figure out what’s happening.”

And all Jihoon can do is nod.

The journey back home is quiet and tense as the two of you try to figure out how you’re going to deal with the changes - whether or not they were going to be permanent.

So much for a quiet weekend, Jihoon thinks.

The two of you go to bed, tired out of your wits that night.

Waking up equally as tired the next morning as the two of you lay in bed longer than either of you anticipate.

“You okay, Jihoon?” You ask quietly; a gentle hand on his chest as it rises and falls with each breath he takes.

“I think so? I don’t sound different, do I? I’m kinda worried about that.” He chuckles.

“No, you sound the same… Everything about you is the same except for… Well, y’know.”

“Mm… Do you think it’s temporary? Like a weird side-effect or something?”

You hum in response as you sit up to look at the male, frowning at the tiredness in his eyes when he looks at you.

“I don’t know, Jihoon… You heard Wonwoo though, we’ll just keep an eye on it for now.” You smile encouragingly. “It’s… pretty interesting though. Can I see it again?”

Jihoon laughs and sits up with you - peeking his tongue out as you watch each side move on it’s own.

“Did you feel it when it happened? Or was it just… like that when you woke up yesterday?”

“It was just like that? I went in to brush my teeth and almost had a heart attack thinking I did something to myself in my sleep.” He explains; hands folded in his lap as he stares off into his lap. “Like I said, it doesn’t hurt… Just feels weird. Having control of both sides is a weird feeling.”

“It’s hot.”

Oops, did I say that out loud?

“Uhhh… you did not hear that.”

Jihoon raises a brow at you - eyes blinking slowly as he watches your expression turn into that of an embarrassed one.

“I--sure.”

For now.

Jihoon has one more checkup with Wonwoo on Halloween day - telling you he could go alone as you stayed in for the day, cuddled up under a blanket on the sofa.

He was still the same, forked tongue and all, but earlier in the morning he’d looked at you differently - eyes lingering on you for a little longer before he’d slipped on his leather jacket and left for the day.

You didn’t think twice about it at the time, but now that you were alone, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander as you sat on the sofa.

The very place where Jihoon had fucked you many times; the cum stains hiding under the blanket you’d thrown over yourself.

“Surely he won’t be back anytime soon…” You mumble to yourself as you maneuver into a more comfortable position.

You were embarrassed that he’d heard you the first time you’d said his forked tongue was attractive, but now that you had the time, you let yourself indulge as you slowly eased a hand into your lounge shorts - soft moans leaving your lips as you gently touched yourself over your panties.

The mental images of Jihoon between your legs, forked tongue on your clit makes you mewl as you add pressure to your touches; a rush of wetness soaking your panties as you continue to daydream.

‘Yeah, you like how it feels, huh, baby? My tongue playing with your cute ‘lil clit like this~ Making you cum on it like the good girl you are~’

He leans back down as he pokes out his forked tongue again - both sides of the split appendage flicking at your swollen nub in alternating flicks that have your back arching off of the sofa as you cum again.

‘O-oh, Jihoon!’

“Ngh… Fuck…”

You sink in two fingers into your soaking cunt - curling and scissoring them inside as you get lost in your fantasies.

Too focused on your pleasure to notice that Jihoon’s been watching you for the last three minutes of you fingering yourself on the sofa to the thoughts of him eating you out with his newly acquired features.

“Well, well, well…” He mutters softly enough to catch your attention as your fingers pause. “Wanna tell me if this has anything to do with what you said the other day?”

“Uhm… L-let me explain…” You sit up; slowly dragging your fingers out of your pussy as you moan at the loss. “I--m-maybe…? I’m s-sorry, Jihoon, I don’t---”

“Take your shorts and panties off, right now. I want you to hold your legs open for me and don’t let go or else I’ll punish you.”

The grit in his voice makes you scramble to get the blanket off - your shorts and panties quick to be flung over the arm rest as you shakily part your legs and hold them still for him.

Jihoon slides his leather jacket off and tosses it with your discarded clothes; the plain black tee underneath hugging all the muscles in his arms and torso as you fight the urge to drool.

“Look at you… You’re dripping onto the sofa already, baby~ Were your fantasies that good? Did you imagine my tongue on that sensitive ‘lil clit of yours, hmm? Or did you think about it inside your cunt? Getting your nice and ready to take my cock.”

“Y-yes… All of I-it.. I--I w-was just curious… Since it’s--it’s split the way it i-is…” Mumbling, you watch as he sinks down onto his knees between your spread legs - forked tongue peeking from between his lips as he moves each side individually.

“To be fair, I thought about it too… How you’d cum on my tongue like this. D’you think I can get you to cum faster than I usually can~?” He teases.

“I--p-please, Jihoon…”

“You’ll hold still while I eat your cute ‘lil cunt out. Understood?”

“O-okay, y-yes, anything!” You whine back - too close to getting what you wanted to stop there.

And Jihoon wastes not a second more as he leans in - his fingers already teasing your entrance as he lays his tongue flat on your clit.

You let out a shaky exhale at the familiar feeling, but you’re quickly melting into a pleasured mess when you feel the way he uses both sides of his tongue to tease you - sharp cries of his name leaving your lips as you do your best to not clamp your thighs shut around his head.

“Oh my g-god, oh my god, I--fuck, fuck…” Your teeth chatter from the new sensation; confusion making your brows furrow at how it felt like there were two tongues on your clit at the same time.

Jihoon pulls back for just a moment as he sinks his index and middle finger into your warm cunt - meeting no resistance as he sinks them in both knuckle deep.

“How’s it feel, baby? You already look so wrecked for me and I just started~”

“O-oh my god… Jihoon, it--it feels like…” You gulp slightly, watching as he fixates on his fingers thrusting into your pussy. “It feels like t-there’s two tongues… t-teasing me…”

He smirks to himself as he curls his fingers right into your g-spot; pulling a loud whine out of you as your back arches off of the plush sofa.

“Oh? What a lucky girl you are, huh, baby?”

Licking his lips, he leans back in as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks hard.

“Mmnh, fuck…!”

Your fingertips dig into the skin of your trembling thighs as you watch his head between your legs, his forked tongue making an appearance every so often when he pulls back to tease you.

“O-oh my god, I--I really, ngh, am g-going to c-cum…” You sob - hips bucking up to ride the feeling of his forked tongue flicking at your clit and his fingers pumping into you.

Jihoon doesn’t pull away to say anything more as he starts to finger you faster - his forked tongue flicking at your clit harsher as he rushes you throw you over the edge of an orgasm.

And it works as your body goes rigid against the sofa cushions - thighs clamping shut around his head as you scream his name in a hurried fashion.

“Oh my god, oh my g-god…! Jihoon!”

He feels his cock throbbing as you continue to cry out his name and in the midst of your high, you feel him withdraw his fingers from your still fluttering walls and slowly start to ease up from between your legs.

“Okay, you’ve had your fun. It’s time for me to have mine now, baby~”

You’re still recovering from your mind-melting orgasm as Jihoon resituates between your legs - this time, his cock heavy in his slicked palm as he positions himself at your entrance.

“Open up~” He teases - a grin on his lips as he sinks his cock into your, still, spasming cunt.

“Oh, fuh--fuck…” You mewl, back arching off of the sofa again as he bottoms out in a single thrust.

“Ready for me to breed this ‘lil cunt like it deserves?”

“Y-yes!” Whining, your clammy palms find purchase on one of the sofa cushions above your head as Jihoon spreads your legs wide and starts fucking you at a harsh pace. “I-it’s been a, ngh, w-while since y-you’ve bred my--my pussy, Jihoon… I want, a-ah, it all… Cum s-so deep inside of m-me so I’m full of it…”

Your eyes flutter shut as the head of his cock taps your cervix - walls clamping down onto his shaft in a vice grip as he smirks down at you.

“Aww, I know, baby. I’ve been so busy with work… I haven’t been able to breed you like the good ‘lil cocksleeve you are, huh?”

The word ‘cocksleeve’ has a shiver running down your spine as you only crave more of him.

“Y-yeah… M-my pussy feels, mmh, s-so empty… M-miss your cum sliding d-down, ah, my legs… It’s been so long s-since you had the time, mmh, to f-fuck me like this…”

In truth, Jihoon had been too busy lately with his studio time that on most nights, he’d come home and slide into bed without you - too tired to be intimate.

And when he did have the time, it was usually a hurried fuck in the shower before bed or a quickie in one of the empty studios when you had the energy to come with him to see him work.

“I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll be sore for weeks, baby~ And I’ll have to let you get another taste of my tongue in your pretty ‘lil pussy before this goes away~”

You let a disappointed moan fall from your lips at the thought of it - only wanting to see how else he could make you feel good with his forked tongue.

“And I’ll have to breed you and cum inside your pretty ‘lil cunt every single day while I’m on vocal rest and get you so satisfied that you’ll feel me inside your pussy even when I’m not fucking you.”

He laughs airily as you sob and beg him to hurry and give you his cum.

“Oh, I’m going to, baby~ Think you can take it all?”

“Y-yes! Breed me l-like the, ah, good ‘lil cocksleeve I am!”

Jihoon’s thrusts become erratic as his cock throbs inside your tight warmth - only a few more quick snaps of his hips before he’s throwing his head back and cumming in your pussy.

Biting down on his tongue as a metallic taste fills his mouth.

“Fuck!”

And when the two of you go to bed that night, the two of you sleep better than you have in days; cuddled up under the warm blankets as you nuzzle into Jihoon’s chest.

“...Looks like you’re back to normal, Jihoon! Congratulations! Guess it was temporary, after all. What a relief, huh?”

Wonwoo beams just as you and Jihoon share the same mildly disappointed look.

It’d only been a week.

“Oh… How lucky, huh, Jihoon?”

[septicstories]

Big Life in a Small Town (Part 1)

A/N: This is based on the song "Santa Fe (Prologue)" from the Newsies musical! It's not based on the plot of the musical. The song will be altered a tad, but not too much! In the next part though, I'll have to do some edits. But for now, you've got this... mess? I dunno, I'm writing this before it's done. This is post-X-men Apocalypse, so Peter is in his late 20's.

Genre: Bittersweet fluff

Warnings: alcohol, drinking, mentions of broken limbs, daddy issues, no beta reader, minimal editing

Word count: 1.3k (1,385 words)

The X-mansion was quiet, the cool midnight air only changing currents occasionally when a silver blur sprinted around.

Pietro had his younger brother in his arms, running around. Peter injured his leg a while ago, stuck on crutches. ANd it was killing the young speedster.

And Pietro noticed.

So he scooped his younger brother up out of his room, running him around the mansion's vast yard until he smiled. That's when he brought him up to one of the rooftop balconies of the mansion.

The two siblings weren't the only ones in their family who lived in the mansion. Pietro's twin, Wanda, was fast asleep, her room near the balcony.

Pietro, as immature as he may seem, was wise beyond his years. He'd seen more things than he ever would have wanted to for a 35-year-old man. Hell, anyone would be unsettled when you find your mother died of sickness, and your father was out of the picture when your younger brother was born a few years after.

Pietro and Peter sat on the balcony, a case of beer between the two, a sudden scoff came from the older speedster.

"What's up, you alright?" Peter asked, looking at his brother.

Pietro's eyes were glued to the ground below them, a sour expression on his face.

"Those streets down there," Pietro began, a dry laugh leaving his lips. "They sucked the life right out of our old man. Well, they aren't doing that to me."

Peter pursed his lips, watching as his older brother took a swig of his beer.

Pietro has always hated staying in one place for too long. The mansion hadn't really ever been his favorite place. Staying at their aunt's house in D.C. was something he looked forward to every summer. But, even then, he could only stay there for a few days before needing to go somewhere else. Not just from his need to move, but the U.S. government still wasn't absolutely fond of mutants.

"But everyone wants to come to New York," Peter let out a small chuckle. To an outsider, it'd sound like he was in disbelief, but he understood how Pietro felt.

Staying in one place was hard. But Peter also managed to make himself a family here at the mansion as he grew up. He met the ever-sweet Jean Grey when he was 20 years old. The poor girl had some trauma that no one but Chuck knew about. He got to meet Hank, and Raven, and all of the other younger kids. He thought of them all as his younger siblings.

He couldn't leave.

"You keep your small life in the big city. Give me a big life in a small town."

Pietro's words snapped Peter out of his thoughts, looking to his older brother. Pietro's eyes had lifted from the ground, looking up to the sky.

"They say folks are dying to get here."

"What about you, Piet?"

"Me? I'm dying to get away... to a little town out west that's spankin' new," Pietro said with a grin. "And while I've never been there, I can see it clear as day! If you want, I bet you, you could see it, too.

Peter has always had a particular question on his mind, that he always knew the answer to.

Then why haven't you gone? What's stopping you?

But, as always, Peter kept his mouth shut. He didn't want Wanda and Pietro to leave, as dumb as it may be. They were the only family he had left. Well, that he knew of and that knew of him.

Erik was another person he'd address when he had the courage.

But not...

Not now.

"Close your eyes."

Peter looked at his brother again, who was staring back at him. Honestly, he was waiting for his brother to snap in his face and use what became his favorite phrase after a few movie nights: "Hello, McFly?"

"Come with me, where it's clean and green and pretty, and they went and made a city out of clay."

Clay? A city out of clay? That sounds... odd. Peter hasn't stayed too long in other parts of the world, opting to stick to the Northeast area of the U.S. Occasionally, he'll go further South or a little bit further West. But never past Kansas.

"Why, the minute that you get there, folks will walk right up and say, 'Welcome home, son. Welcome home to Santa Fe!'"

Being called son was something the Maximoff boys wanted more than they would ever elude to. Their father? Out of the picture for the most part, up until they realized he was a terrorist. And he didn't even know about Peter.

Of course, the townsfolk of Santa Fe may not call you "son" as soon as you land on the premise. But, two bastard sons can dream, can't they?

"Planting crops. Splitting rails. Swapping tales around the fire," Pietro's grin grew as he spoke. He really thought about this a lot, didn't he? "Except for Sunday when you lie around all day."

Peter didn't know how much Pietro truly thought about leaving. Pietro's mind was full of places to go and see, places where he could take his family and live without having to deal with attacks from the U.S. government.

Santa Fe was where they'd go next in the U.S., but Sokovia was certainly the next best option. The U.S. government wouldn't come looking for them in Sokovia.

Right?

"Soon your friends are more like family, and they're begging you to stay! Isn't that neat?" Pietro asked as Peter took a large sip from his beer. "Living sweet in Santa Fe."

Pietro trailed off, almost in a dream-like state, making Peter flinch. He really fucking wanted out, huh?

"Hey, no one worries about a bad leg in Santa Fe. You just hop on a palomino, you'll ride in style!" Pietro joked, knocking his shoulder into his brother's.

"Feature me, ridin' in style," Peter giggled, taking a swig of his beer again.

"Hey, I bet a few months of clean air, you could toss that crutch for good!"

"Santa Fe," Peter and Pietro mumbled in unison, one happy and the other more tired. "You can bet, we won't let those bastards beat us. We won't beg anyone to treat us fair and square. There's a life that's worth the living, and I'm gonna do my share."

"Work the land, chase the sun." Pietro ran his hands through his hair, standing up.

"Swim the whole Rio Grande just for fun!" Pietro and Peter shouted together. The two had massive grins spreading across their faces, just happy to see the other smiling.

"Watch me stand!" Peter stood up quickly, only to feel a sharp pain jolt through his bad leg. His hands flew to the balcony railing, gripping it tightly as he let out a choked noise of pain.

"Watch me run..."

Pietro frowned when he saw his brother's grimace, watching Peter set himself down into a sitting position. The poor kid was gritting his teeth and sucking in harsh breaths as he set himself down.

"Hey, hey..." Pietro began softly, sitting down beside his brother before slapping a hand on his shoulder. "Don't you know that we're a family?"

Peter's eyes met Pietro's, painting over his grimace with a weak grin. "Yeah, b--"

"Would I let you down?" Pietro asked.

Peter let out a weak laugh as his brother continued.

"No way. Just hold on, kid, until that train makes Santa Fe."

The younger speedster let out a yawn, leaning his head on his brother's shoulder.

"Let's get you to bed, okay?" Pietro said, only getting a nod from Peter.

Pietro scooped his younger brother up in his arms, speeding through the mansion into Peter's room before setting him down.

"Good night, Peter."

"Good night, Pietro."

Pietro sped out of Peter's room, only to be stopped when he passed Wanda's room. His sleepy twin gave him a look, one that he didn't see often, and it concerned him.

"Pietro, we're being called to Sokovia," Wanda whispered sleepily.

"What? Why? All three of us?"

"No. Peter needs to stay here. He's got a broken leg, Pietro. Just you and I."

Pietro took in a quick breath before nodding.

"When do we leave?"

"... you didn't see that coming..."

A/N: Haha, cliffhangers are fun, ain't they? Okay, but, here's what you have for now! The other one is already in my drafts, and I've got plans for that! So, I'll get all that shit out, and we'll be good! I've got so much shit in my drafts, holy shit. Okay, uh... I don't have much to say, so thank you for reading! I don't necessarily have a tag list for this sort of stuff, so if you want to be on a tag list, let me know! And please let me know if you find a typo or something that doesn't make sense. Like I said, there's minimal editing.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.) 

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter​ for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

[flightfoot]

I'm not someone who watches Miraculous Ladybug but why are there so many Marinette/Damian fics? I keep seeing them when I scroll through Timsteph fics.

OH HELL. You know, I’ve been wondering what Batman-only fans must think of the flood of Marinette/Damian. It’s uh. Yeah it doesn’t make a ton of sense. 

See, here’s the thing; there’s a LARGE section of the ML fandom devoted to salt, specifically salt towards one particular episode; Chameleon, where Marinette - the main character - has her seat reassigned during class so she has to sit at the back away from all her friends in order to make way for a returning student who *claims* she has a hearing disability so she can sit in the front row. However, said character, Lila, is a notorious liar, as Marinette, Adrien (the deuteragonist and Marinette’s main Love Interest), and the audience know. Adrien actually offers to go sit in the back instead, but Marinette and Lila both shut down that idea and Marinette stews in the back of the classroom for awhile. 

Then at lunch, Lila tells more stories of her fabulous life and gets people to bring a tray of food for her since she claims she hurt her wrist. Marinette tries to tell two of her other friends that Lila’s a liar and a fake, but can’t actually produce any evidence to prove it, so she throws a napkin at Lila to try to prove she’s faking her injury... which Lila then catches, but pretends to have hurt her arm. Her other classmates scold her for throwing a napkin at Lila and causing her to hurt herself, Marinette storms off, and Lila corners her in the bathroom and threatens to turn all her friends against her and stop her from ever getting close to Adrien unless she sides with her.

Adrien actually catches up with Lila soon after that and asks her to please stop lying, that she doesn’t need to do that and she’ll only turn their classmates against her, and offers to help listen if something’s bothering her. He doesn’t  realize that Lila’s targeting Marinette, or that she’s actively malicious in general, just thinking that she’s lonely and is lying to try and make friends.

Lila brushes him off and purposely seeks out an akuma to get herself akumatized, turns into a villain, tries to defeat Ladybug and Chat Noir, the usual jazz.

Anyway, at the end after defeating her, when Marinette’s about to try to publicly call Lila out for switching up which ear Lila has Tinnitus in, Adrien asks her whether she thinks exposing her will actually help anything, and that humiliating her will make her hurt more, and making a bad guy suffer has never turned them into a good guy.

So Marinette decides not to do that, and when they go back to the classroom, Adrien goes to the back and sits next to Marinette of his own accord. Then the whole class decides that they liked the old seating arrangement better, and everyone goes back to their old seats and Lila’s left sitting by herself in the back (she’d claimed her tinnitus magically got better, so she didn’t need to sit in the front anymore.)

Salters took that episode and RAN with it, writing fic after fic of epic revenge fantasies that WAY ramped up how bad any of the characters could POSSIBLY be, making the class force her to do commission after commission for them for free, never showing her proper appreciation for all she does for them, and when Lila shows up and starts manipulating people, have the class scorn and shun Marinette for being an awful person, rip up her stuff, and beat her up, often with her (former) best friend Alya leading the charge, and Adrien just standing and the background telling her to take it.

A lot of people writing these hate Adrien’s guts, having decided that he’s a sexual harasser/assaulter/potential rapist, and wanted to ship her with other people - her second canon Love Interest, Luka, and the scrapped first draft for her partner from the original concept for ML, Felix, at the top of the list.

Felix, notably, was generally perceived as being cold, aloof, and no-nonsense, but with a heart of gold. So he was sometimes used to inflict punishment on everyone the salters hated, plus Marinette could be one of the few people to slip past his cold exterior and become someone he cared for.

Then Felix was gonna be made canon. And someone new was needed to fill that role. 

One tumblr user wrote a story where the polite, yet aloof, young man Damien hears a girl screaming in trouble, sees Marinette in Gotham, and instantly falls in love with his Angel, and she ends up staying in Gotham instead of with all the horrible, horrible Everyone Else In Her Life.

Yeah, Damian wasn’t remotely in-character in those early fics at least. His name was often misspelled with an “e”, actually. 

But anyway. A few advantages to this; Damian can be made to be super sweet and a perfect gentleman around Marinette, who can instantly see all the worth that everyone else in her life threw away, and as a bonus, can reap revenge on her classmates who tried to beat her up/destroy her notebook/poison her/whatever the fic writer came up with, since Damian might feasibly be willing to inflict cruel punishment on them (not that being in-character has ever been valued much in these fics), plus Marinette gets the entire Batfamily to dote on her and be her new family and be totally removed from everyone the author doesn’t like, which tends to be most of the ML cast. Except for her canonical bully who made her life miserable both before and during the actual series, Chloe; she’ll often become Marinette’s new best friend. Though I don’t think that’s as common with the crossover.

It mixed up the Chameleon salt formula, which I think even the salters had gotten a little tired of (though it’s still going strong), and gave possibilities for a lot more different character interactions, and just generally breathed new life into it.

At this point it’s kinda become its own thing, and some people are actually stepping away form the salt and bashing that birthed the pairing and just shoving her in with the Batfamily generally, because... honestly I suspect there’s some wish fulfillment going on there. And people seem to have a slightly better idea of how the Batfamily works now? Maybe? From what I’ve seen, I think people may have at least STARTED doing some research.

Anyway, yeah. They’re basically a separate fandom at this point, pretty much just devoted to like. That one episode of ML, the first episode of season 3, that released over a year and a half ago.

But uh. Yeaaaah, don’t judge ML by what you see in those crossover fics. Their relation with canon, especially canon characterization, is tenuous at best.

As you might be able to tell, I don’t ship it. I also hate the OOCness, but actually like the potential for the crossover, and wrote my own ML X Batman crossover fic, “We’re The Same”, that was sticking with the canon ships, characterization, and overall just dropping the two franchises into each other in a more canon compliant way to see what would shake out. Especially since dammit, ADRIEN AND DAMIAN WOULD BE FRIENDS.