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ssa-dado · 3 days

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6 - Synthesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, slow burn

Summary: After an intense case, you and Hotch struggle with unresolved tensions from a previous argument. On the train back, Hotch overhears Peter comforting you about a recent tragedy, realizing he’s been blind to your pain. Later, Hotch unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, opening up and apologizing for his emotional distance, leading to a heartfelt moment of mutual vulnerability. That evening, you attend Peter’s welcome-back party, feeling lighter and reconnecting with the team. That's when Peter makes an unusual bet with you.

Warnings: death, grief, emotional abuse, domestic violence, family dysfunction.

Word Count: 7.6k

Dado's Corner: Phi posting two chapters in less than 12 hours? More likely than you think. I was supposed to wait until tomorrow, but I just couldn’t help myself. Thank you all so much for the love and support you’ve shown for the series so far! Each of you holds a special place in my cold little heart. Please don’t hate me after this - it hurts me, too - but hey, there’s some interrogation room Aaron to sweeten things up. I’m particularly proud of this cute, lovely chapter. It doesn’t make me want to jump out the window. Not even a little bit. Embrace the pain.

previous part ; masterlist

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

●

The observation room was dimly lit, casting long, uneven shadows over you and Peter as you stood behind the two-way mirror, your heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent light. You watched Hotch on the other side, preparing to interrogate the suspect, he appeared calm as usual, wearing his mask of stoicism proudly on his face, but you could tell the tension was palpable.

The room beyond the glass was stark, the suspect sat at the metal table gleaming under the harsh light with a smug expression, arms casually draped over the back of his chair, utterly unbothered. Te view was borderline infuriating.

The hair on your arms stood up, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled over the case. You couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you were grasping at straws, the weight of the local police’s blunders pressing heavily on your chest. They had fumbled, and badly. Critical evidence had slipped through their fingers, lost or contaminated in the chaos. You didn’t even want to hear the whole story—you were too furious, your senses shutting down as the same detective who had once doubted your work stumbled through a pathetic apology. All you had now was Hotch. No physical proof, no solid evidence to tie this man to the crimes you knew he’d committed.

Your gaze flicked back to the suspect, his arrogance nauseating. He knew the game, knew the system, and worse, he knew how to manipulate it to his advantage. There was a clock ticking in your mind, every second precious, the sense of urgency suffocating. If Hotch couldn’t break him - if he couldn’t find a way past the layers of lies and smug indifference - you’d lose him. You couldn’t afford that, not now.

Peter’s jaw clenched as he observed the scene, his frustration evident. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “We warned them not to bring him in without something solid. Now we’re stuck trying to clean up their mess.”

You nodded, your mind still reeling from the argument with Hotch the night before, as if all of this mess wasn’t already enough for your nerves to handle. The tension between you two had lingered, unresolved and heavy, adding another layer to your frustration. You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you, making it even harder to focus. “Yeah, and now Hotch has to pull off a miracle,” you said, your voice tinged with both a tinge of annoyance and worry. “He’s got one shot to get this right.”

Peter turned his attention back to the interrogation room, his eyes narrowing as Hotch sat across from the suspect. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. I’ve seen Hotch work multiple times, and somehow he even looks sharper, more intense.”

Inside the room, Hotch began his interrogation with a measured calm, his eyes locked on the suspect, who lounged back in his chair, exuding a quiet confidence. Hotch started with the basics, the routine questions meant to establish rapport, but the suspect was playing his own game, answering with a smug smile and evasive nonchalance.

Hotch leaned back, crossing his arms as he observed the suspect’s every move, every twitch. “You’ve been careful,” Hotch said, his voice steady but probing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve covered your tracks well. But you slipped up, everyone makes mistakes, especially when they think they’re untouchable.”

The suspect smirked, feigning boredom. “You’re wasting your breath, Agent Hotchner. You and I both know you have nothing on me - no evidence, no witnesses. You’re grasping at straws.”

Hotch’s gaze remained unflinching, but you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he leaned in just slightly, narrowing the space between the two of them. “You’re right, we don’t have physical evidence, but we do have you, and that’s enough. Because here’s the thing - you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’ve made this personal, and personal is messy.”

The suspect chuckled, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as if this were a game to him. “Oh, please. I’ve seen every tactic in the book, and I’ve got an answer for all of them. You can’t intimidate me, Hotchner. I know my rights. You’ve got nothing.”

Hotch’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flash of determination in his eyes. “You think this is about intimidation? You’re missing the point. This isn’t about fear, it’s about you and the mistakes you’ve made. You’ve left a trail, little hints of who you really are. You think you’ve hidden them, but they’re there, buried in the details.”

The suspect’s confident facade faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered, scoffing. “You’re reaching. This isn’t some TV show where the bad guy breaks down in a dramatic confession. I’m not saying a damn thing without my lawyer.”

Hotch’s demeanor shifted, a cold, calculating edge creeping into his voice. “Your lawyer? You think your lawyer’s going to save you? They’ll do their job, make sure you’re comfortable, make sure you feel safe. But at the end of the day, they’re not in here with you, they’re not the ones facing the consequences of your actions - you are. And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Hotch methodically chip away at the suspect’s arrogance. Each line of questioning was a carefully placed strike, designed to weaken his resolve, but the suspect wasn’t giving in easily. He deflected, twisted Hotch’s words, and tried to turn the conversation back on him.

“You think you’re so righteous, don’t you?” the suspect sneered, leaning forward with a glint of disdain in his eyes. “Sitting there, acting like you’ve got the moral high ground. You don’t know me, Agent Hotchner. You don’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through, the people I’ve dealt with - you think you’re better than me?”

Hotch didn’t flinch even if the last words reminded him of the argument he had with you down at the lobby. “No, I don’t think I’m better than you, but I do know who you are. You’re the guy who blames everyone else when things go wrong, the guy who hides behind his intellect because he’s too scared to admit he’s just another coward trying to prove he’s not afraid. But guess what? That act doesn’t work on me.”

The suspect’s composure slipped, his anger flaring as Hotch hit a nerve. “You don’t get to judge me! You sit there like you’re some kind of saint, but you’re just as flawed as the rest of us. You have no right—”

Hotch cut him off sharply, his voice cold and unyielding. “You’re right. I’m not perfect. I’ve made my mistakes, and I own them. But I’m not the one hiding behind excuses, you are. You’re the one who thinks he can play God, decide who deserves to live or die based on your twisted sense of justice. But here’s the thing: you’re not in control, not anymore.”

From the observation room, you felt your chest tighten. Hotch was relentless, pushing the suspect further than you’d ever seen him push anyone before. It was as if he’d tapped into something raw and unforgiving, something that drove him to keep going, to tear down every last defense the suspect had.

Peter glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen him go this hard. It’s like he’s on a mission.”

You nodded, the tension from last night’s argument still simmering inside you. You knew why Hotch was pushing himself like this: because of you, because of the unresolved words between you, and because he needed to prove something, maybe even to himself. “He’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”

Inside the room, the suspect’s attitude was crumbling. Hotch leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with a quiet menace. “You think you’re untouchable, that you’ve covered all your bases. But I’ve spent years in courtrooms taking down men just like you, men who thought they were too smart to get caught. I know every trick, every lie, every pathetic attempt to weasel your way out of the truth.”

The suspect’s face tightened, his hands clenching into fists as he tried to maintain control. But Hotch was unrelenting, his gaze piercing through every layer of the man’s defenses. “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re scared, I can see it in your eyes. You’re terrified that the truth is going to come out, that all your carefully crafted lies are going to fall apart right in front of you - so, here’s your last chance. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you did it.”

There was a beat of silence, a heavy pause as the suspect’s composure finally shattered. His shoulders slumped, his defiance giving way to resignation. He looked up at Hotch, defeated and angry, his voice breaking as he finally confessed, each word a bitter surrender. “Fine. Fine, you want the truth? I did it. I killed them. But you have no idea why. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless.”

“No you’re right, I don’t.” Hotch sat back, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, though his expression remained guarded: he had what he needed. The confession was out, raw and unfiltered, pulled from the depths of the suspect’s desperation.

Peter let out a low whistle, still reeling from what he’d witnessed. “That was... intense. I’ve never seen Hotch like that, he’s kind of intimidating.”

You nodded in agreement, your gaze still fixed on Hotch as he calmly gathered his notes, preparing to leave the room. You could see the toll it had taken on him, the emotional weight he carried even as he walked out victorious, and as much as you wanted to celebrate the success, the confrontation from the night before still lingered, leaving you with the unsettling realization that this fight wasn’t just with the suspect - it was within Hotch himself.

When Hotch stepped out of the interrogation room, the tension in his posture seemed to ease, but only slightly. His face was set in its usual mask of calm control, yet there was a heaviness in his eyes, a flicker of something raw that he couldn’t quite hide. Peter clapped him on the back, a mix of admiration and relief in his expression. “Hell of a job, Hotch. You tore him apart. I’ve seen you work, but that was something else entirely.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, his jaw still clenched, but his gaze was already shifting past Peter, landing on you. His eyes were searching, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction, seeking some unspoken acknowledgment from you. “Thanks,” he said, his voice measured but tinged with exhaustion. “It had to be done.”

You stood there with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall, trying to maintain a composed exterior, but inside, you were anything but calm. Watching Hotch in that room, ruthlessly tearing down the suspect’s defenses, stirred something deep within you. It was impressive, yes, but also unsettling. You had never seen him so relentless, so driven - and you knew exactly what was fueling his determination.

As Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, there was a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the emotional battlefield you both were navigating. The words from your argument the night before still echoed in your mind, sharp and unresolved, like an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. The case had forced you both to set your personal issues aside, but now, in the aftermath, they were still there, hovering between you like a shadow neither of you could ignore.

Peter glanced between the two of you, sensing the charged atmosphere but choosing not to comment. He knew better than to pry, but even he could tell that whatever was going on between you and Hotch went deeper than the usual tension of a difficult case. “We got what we needed,” Peter said, trying to break the silence. “That’s what matters. Now we can finally put this bastard away.”

Hotch nodded, but his eyes never left yours, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in a silent standoff where neither of you knew how to take the next step. You wanted to say something, anything that would bridge the gap that had formed between you, but the words caught in your throat, tangled with the emotions you’d been trying so hard to keep in check.

The triumph of the confession felt hollow against the weight of what was still left unsaid. You and Hotch had always been able to read each other, but now, standing on opposite sides of this unspoken rift, it was as if the connection you’d relied on had fractured. There was so much you wanted to ask him: why he’d pushed so hard, why he seemed so desperate to prove something today, and why he couldn’t let his guard down, even for a moment. But instead, you just nodded, swallowing back the questions that burned at the back of your throat. “You did what you had to do,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered slightly. “Good work, Hotch.”

Hotch’s gaze softened for a brief second, a flicker of regret or maybe gratitude crossing his features, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice lower, more personal than before. “We all did.”Peter’s presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone, but it didn’t ease the tension that thrummed between you and Hotch. As Hotch turned to leave, the weight of your argument still hung heavy, unresolved, and painful. You watched him go, the distance between you feeling wider than ever, despite being just a few feet apart.

And as you stood there, with Peter by your side and the echo of Hotch’s footsteps fading down the corridor, you realized that the hardest part of this case wasn’t just about catching a killer, it was about facing the fractures in your own relationships, the ones that no amount of profiling or interrogation could ever fix.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was a dull, constant noise that filled the otherwise quiet cabin. You sat alone, your head down and your pen moving steadily across the paper as you filled out your case report. It was a task you’d thrown yourself into, your way of avoiding the one thing you weren’t ready to confront: Hotch.

Hotch sat a few rows behind you, his back to you, mirroring your actions as he worked on his own report with a similar intensity. It was almost poetic how the two of you were so much alike: both of you throwing yourselves into your work to avoid the harder truths, and neither willing to make the first move toward reconciliation.

As you focused on your writing, you heard footsteps approach. You didn’t need to look up to know it was Peter; you’d recognized the casual confidence in his stride from a mile away. He slid into the seat beside you without asking, his presence a familiar and oddly comforting interruption.

Peter glanced at your half-filled report, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You never could sit still, could you?” he said, his voice soft but laced with a hint of fondness. “Always working, always thinking.”

You tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just trying to get this done before we get back,” you said, your tone evasive. You knew why he’d come over, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the conversation you’d been avoiding since you’d seen him again.

Peter watched you for a moment, his expression shifting from casual to serious. He took a deep breath, glancing at the report before returning his gaze to you. “Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been wanting to tell you this since I got back, but I didn’t want to bring it up while we were in the middle of the case.”

You stiffened, knowing exactly what he was going to say but hoping he wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your dad’s funeral,” Peter said, his voice heavy with regret. “I wanted to be, but I was stuck overseas. I hate that I wasn’t there.”

You clenched your jaw, staring down at the paper in front of you, your pen hovering uselessly above the page. The memories of that day flooded backstanding at the grave, the heavy weight of loss pressing down on your chest, and the overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly alone. You’d been surrounded by people, but none of them had truly understood, none of them had been him.

“It’s fine, Pete,” you said, though your voice was shaky. “You were doing your job. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve changed anything.”

Peter shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “No, it’s not okay. You were always there for me, even when we were just kids trying to figure out what the hell we were doing with our lives. And I couldn’t even show up when you needed me the most.”

Peter studied you, his eyes searching yours. He could see the cracks you were trying so desperately to hide, the way you were holding yourself together with sheer willpower. “I should have been there,” he insisted gently. “I know how much you went through with him… I remember everything you told me about him.”

A knot formed in your throat as you thought back to your childhood, your father’s relentless work ethic, his unyielding drive for perfection. He had been your hero in so many ways, but he’d also been your downfall. You’d inherited his toxic trait of overworking yourself, the constant need to be better, to be more. It was how you’d coped with the chaos at home, the screaming matches between your parents that had been your daily soundtrack. Your mother, exasperated and exhausted, would often switch languages mid-argument to keep you in the dark, to protect you - or maybe just to exclude you - from the mess they had created.

“I was just a kid, you know?” you said quietly, your voice tinged with bitterness. “All I wanted was to understand why they were always fighting. I started learning every language my mom switched to, Italian, Spanish, anything that would give me a clue, but instead of finding answers, I just… found more reasons to stay away.”

Peter’s eyes softened, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he listened. “You drowned yourself in books, in knowledge, just to escape,” he said, his voice low. “I remember you telling me that once, how you’d sit in those lecture halls at the university, absorbing everything because it was better than being home.”

Your childhood had been filled their voices rising in heated exchanges that always seemed to end in silence, your father retreating to his study to bury himself in more work, and your mother seeking solace in her books. To escape the turbulence at home, you’d thrown yourself into your studies with a fervor that bordered on obsession. You’d devoured literature, philosophy, psychology, anything that could distract you from the reality of your parents’ failing marriage, to gain a semblance of control in a world that often felt chaotic and out of reach.

You had become fluent in the languages they used to hide their pain from you, and in doing so, you became fluent in the art of distancing yourself from your own emotions. The habit of overworking, of pouring yourself into every task with unrelenting focus, was something you had learned from your father, a toxic legacy that you couldn’t quite shake, even now. It had been the source of countless arguments with your mother, who had begged you not to follow in his footsteps, to find balance, to live a life that wasn’t dictated by the demands of work. But it was easier said than done, and as the years went on, you found yourself mirroring his habits more than you cared to admit.

You nodded, swallowing hard against the emotion that threatened to choke you. “I kept pushing myself, kept chasing after something I couldn’t even name. My dad… he always told me that hard work was the only thing that mattered, he never slowed down, never stopped, and neither did I. Even when their marriage fell apart… even when he got sick. I just… I couldn’t stop.”

You hesitated, your eyes welling up with tears that you refused to let fall. “I didn’t even cry at his funeral, I just stood there, feeling nothing. And I haven’t been to visit his grave since.”

Peter gently reached out, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, tightly hugging you. “It’s okay not to be okay, Y/N,” he murmured. “You don’t have to carry this all on your own. The least I can do is be the shoulder you can lean on.” Peter squeezed your shoulder gently, his eyes filled with compassion. “Your dad was tough, but he loved you, Y/N. And you don’t have to prove anything to him, not anymore. You’re allowed to grieve, to feel lost, to not have all the answers.”

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “I know. But sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”

Hotch sat just behind you, his back facing yours, he had intended to keep to himself, to give you the space you needed, but the quiet murmurs of your conversation had carried over. He couldn’t help but overhear Peter’s words, and as he listened, a wave of guilt and realization washed over him.

Hotch had always prided himself on his ability to read people, to see through the masks they wore, but he hadn’t seen through yours. He hadn’t seen the pain you’d been hiding, the grief that had been eating away at you just beneath a slim surface. And suddenly, your words from the night before came crashing back: how he didn’t know you, how he’d never bothered to look beyond the professional facade you’d built.

His own mind flickered back to his childhood, the memories of his father’s anger, the violence that lurked behind every door. Hotch had spent years burying and hiding those scars, never letting anyone see how deeply they ran. He had kept it all locked away, just as you had, believing that the only way to survive was to keep moving, to never let the pain catch up.

For the first time, Hotch truly understood why you had lashed out at him. You had seen in him the very thing you feared in yourself: the relentless drive to work, to control, to avoid facing the hurt that lingered beneath. He realized now that you were so much more alike than he had ever imagined, both of you haunted by the ghosts of your pasts, both trying to outrun the pain that always seemed to catch up.

As Hotch stared out the window at the passing scenery, he felt a deep sense of remorse. He wished he had known, wished he had been able to offer you the support you so clearly needed. But all he could do now was hope that you would one day trust him enough to let him in, to share the burdens you had been carrying alone for far too long.

Peter’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch from his thoughts. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know that? But it’s okay to let someone else be strong for you, too.”

You nodded, wiping away the tears that had finally escaped. “Thanks, Pete. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“I know,” Peter said softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Hotch listened to the quiet exchange, the raw honesty between you and Peter striking a chord deep within him. He knew now that he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that the walls he had built were enough to protect him or you. As the train sped toward Quantico, Hotch made a silent promise to himself: he would do better, he would be better. For you, and for himself.

Because in the end, you both deserved more than just the comfort of solitude. You deserved to be understood, to be seen, and to finally let go of the burdens you had carried for far too long.

Peter on the other hand had always been the kind of friend who could read you like a book, even when you tried to keep the pages closed. And after this emotional confrontation he knew he didn’t have to push further. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you were holding yourself together by the thinnest thread. So, he did what he always did best, he tried to lift your spirits, if only for a moment.

He leaned back in his seat, studying your expression with a knowing smile. “You know, Y/N, you don’t have to unload everything on me right now. You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself. You don’t owe anyone your pain.” His tone was light, but there was a deep, unspoken understanding beneath it. He knew you were struggling, and he wanted you to know that it was okay to take your time.

You gave him a small, tired smile, grateful for his patience. “I know, Pete. It’s just... hard to talk about. I’ve been so focused on work, it’s easier that way. It’s all I know.”

Peter nodded, his eyes softening with empathy. “I get it. But maybe it’s time to leave work behind, just for a little while. You don’t have to think about everything right now. Start small. Maybe try coming out of your room every once in a while?” He said it with a teasing grin, nudging your shoulder playfully, hoping to coax even the smallest laugh out of you.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I know, I’ve been a bit of a hermit lately. I guess it’s easier to just shut myself away.”

Peter’s smile widened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, lucky for you, your presence is strictly required at my welcome-back party tonight. The team’s putting it together, and you have no excuses not to come. I already told them you’d be there.”

You groaned, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Seriously? Peter, I don’t know if I’m up for-”

He cut you off, holding up a hand. “Ah-ah, no excuses. We’ll be back by early afternoon, you’ll have plenty of time to rest, take a shower, and then you’re going to show up and have a good time, even if I have to drag you there myself.”

You rolled your eyes, but his enthusiasm was infectious. There was a warmth in his insistence, a reminder that you weren’t alone and that there was still joy to be found, even in the smallest of moments. “Fine, fine. I’ll be there. But only because you’re the most obnoxiously persistent person I know.”

Peter laughed, giving you a mock bow from his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, Y/N, it’ll be good to see you outside of the office for once. We all miss you, and I promise, you’ll be glad you came.”

You nodded, feeling a small flicker of anticipation amidst the exhaustion. For the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to look forward to something that wasn’t work, something that didn’t involve endless reports or painful memories. It wasn’t a solution to all your problems, but it was a start—a chance to reconnect with the people who mattered, to take a breath and remember that there was more to life than the shadows that had been chasing you.

As you looked at Peter, his familiar smile reminding you of all the good things you’d shared over the years, you felt a small surge of hope. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The train ride back to Quantico had felt endless, but the weight of the unresolved emotions made the journey back to your apartment even more suffocating. Peter’s words lingered, tugging at wounds you hadn’t dared to touch, and Hotch’s distant presence weighed heavily on your mind. The familiar solitude of your apartment was supposed to be comforting, but tonight, it felt more like a reminder of all the things you’d been running from: your grief, your past, and the fragile, fraying connection with the person who had come to mean so much to you.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, letting it fall with a thud that echoed through the empty space. You leaned against the kitchen counter, feeling the cool surface against your palms as you tried to ground yourself. You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was as if you’d locked them away, buried them beneath layers of duty and distraction.

But then there was a knock at your door, soft and tentative, almost like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there. You hesitated, wiping at your eyes quickly as if to compose yourself, and moved to answer. You half-expected to find Peter, still worried about you after the train ride, or maybe even no one at all, just a mistake. But when you opened the door, it was Hotch who stood before you.

He looked different, more vulnerable and uncertain than you had ever seen him. His usually composed demeanor was frayed, and there was a rawness in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy burdens. He stood there awkwardly, clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, his face etched with a mixture of hesitation and determination.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a fragile thread, one wrong move away from snapping. Hotch looked down, swallowing hard as if searching for the right words. He wasn’t in his usual pristine suit but rather dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, his attire as out of place as the uncertainty written across his face.

“Hotch?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, tinged with both surprise and concern. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, as if he was struggling to find the right words, struggling to let down the walls he had spent a lifetime building. He stepped inside, and you quietly closed the door behind him, your heart pounding as you waited for him to speak. He took a few slow steps into the living room, glancing around as if trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar space.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice strained and brittle, every word heavy with unspoken pain. “I know this isn’t… I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but I needed to talk to you. About… about what you said last night, and today on the train. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with Peter.”

This wasn’t the composed, confident man you knew at work, this was Aaron, someone you never got to see, someone who was barely holding it together. “ You were right, Y/N. You were right about everything.”

You stood there, frozen, as his words hit you like a wave. You had never heard Hotch sound so vulnerable, so broken. He was always the strong one, the unshakable agent who never let his guard down, but tonight, he was just Aaron, and he was struggling.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep things separate,” he began, his voice trembling. “I thought if I could just focus on the work, I could ignore everything else—everything that hurt, everything that felt out of my control. But I can’t keep doing that. It’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to be anymore.”

Hotch’s hands shook as he tried to steady himself, his eyes brimming with emotions he had kept buried for so long. “My father... he was abusive. He was cruel in ways that I can’t even put into words. He’d tear me apart with his words, his fists, anything to remind me that I was never good enough. I grew up in a house that felt more like a battlefield than a home, where silence was never safe and every day was just another fight to survive.”

His voice cracked, and you could see the weight of those memories in his eyes: the fear, the shame, the endless need to be perfect because nothing less would ever be enough for a man who thrived on control. “I tried so hard to protect my mom, my brother, but I was just a kid. There were nights when I’d lie awake, praying he’d leave us alone, praying I’d be strong enough to make it stop. But it never did. And I swore that when I grew up, I’d never be like him. I’d never let anyone see that weakness.”

You listened, your own tears finally breaking free as his pain washed over you. You had never imagined Hotch’s past had been so brutal, so deeply scarred by violence and fear. He had always seemed so put together, so composed, but now, you could see just how much he had been hiding, how much he had been carrying all this time.

“I thought if I kept that part of myself locked away, I’d be able to move on. I thought… I thought if I became Hotch, the profiler, that it would erase all the things he said I’d never be. But it’s just made me more closed off, more afraid to let anyone in. And I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, and you could see the desperation there - the plea for understanding, for forgiveness, for something he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know how to let people in, Y/N. I don’t know how to not be this… this guarded version of myself. But if I’m going to try, if I’m going to let anyone see me, I want it to be you. Because you were right when you said I don’t know you, but I want to. And you deserve to know me, too—the real me.”

The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside you, and without thinking, you closed the distance between you and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug. Hotch tensed at first, unaccustomed to such unguarded intimacy, but then his arms wrapped around you, and you could feel him finally letting go. His head bowed against your shoulder, and his entire frame shook with the silent sobs he’d been holding back for too long.

You clung to him, your own tears mingling with his, and in that moment, it felt like the dam you’d both been holding back had finally broken. You were no longer the stoic agents who always had the answers, always kept it together. You were just two people, scarred and hurting, trying to find solace in the only way you knew how: by holding on to each other.

Hotch’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he held you closer, as if you were the lifeline he had been searching for. He whispered apologies between his tears, his voice cracking with the weight of his regrets. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you.”

You shook your head, burying your face into his neck, your tears soaking through his t-shirt as you let out all the grief you’d kept buried: the loss of your father, the unresolved pain of your parents’ broken marriage, the way you had thrown yourself into work to keep from falling apart. You had been running for so long, hiding behind your accomplishments, just like him.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Aaron,” you whispered through your tears, the use of his first name slipping out naturally in this moment of raw honesty. “I had no idea. I was so angry, and I—”

He shook his head, his voice soft but firm as he whispered back, “You don’t have to apologize. You were right… about all of it. I needed to hear it. I needed to face it.”

The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped up in each other’s pain and understanding, the weight of your shared burdens finally feeling just a little bit lighter. There were no perfect words, no easy fixes, but in that embrace, you found something neither of you had expected—comfort, solace, and the beginning of a new kind of trust.

“It’s okay,” you whispered through your tears, clutching him tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

For the first time, it felt like you were truly seen, truly understood, and the relief of it was overwhelming. You didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to be strong or perfect or put together. You could just be, and he could just be, and that was enough.

Hotch pulled back slightly, your eyes finally met, both of you still teary but no longer hiding. There was a silent understanding there, a promise that from now on, things would be different. “No more walls. No more hiding.” He murmured, his voice shaky but filled with a quiet determination.

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it. You didn’t know what the future would hold, but as you held each other in that quiet, tear-stained moment, you knew that you weren’t alone anymore. You had each other, and that was a start. It was messy, and it was painful, but it was real. And in that, you found hope - hope that maybe, together, you could begin to heal. You weren’t just partners in the professional sense anymore; you were something more—two people learning to let each other in, to lean on each other’s strength when your own wasn’t enough. And in that simple, fragile moment, you both knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone, that your new friend would be right there at your side.

The evening had settled over the city, and the Irish pub next to your apartment block was buzzing with energy. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of lightness, excitement bubbling at the thought of spending time with Hotch, Peter, and the rest of your colleagues from the BAU. After everything that had happened, the weight of unresolved emotions had eased, if only slightly, and you found yourself looking forward to reconnecting with your team outside the pressures of the job.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d stopped by a bookstore, the small shop tucked between a row of cafes and boutique stores you often passed but rarely visited. As you browsed the shelves, your eyes fell on a book titled "Hegel for Dummies." It was a perfect, lighthearted gesture, a small symbol of your newfound friendship with Hotch, and a callback to the night you’d spent poring over Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs at the library. You thought that maybe, after his recent dive into architecture, he might take an interest in philosophy too, especially Hegel, one of your favorites. The book felt like a tiny olive branch, a way of letting him into your world a little more, just as he had let you into his the night before.

You imagined him reading it, piecing together Hegel’s ideas on thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and maybe learning something about you in the process. And who knew? Maybe one day, if you were lucky, he’d hand you one of his favorite books, offering you another glimpse into the parts of himself he rarely showed.

When you walked into the pub, the warm light and chatter were an immediate comfort. You spotted your team at a long wooden table near the back, and to your surprise, you saw Gideon sitting there, crutches leaned against the wall, his leg injury having kept him out of the latest case. Rossi was beside him, the two of them looking as inseparable as ever, trading stories and laughs over pints of beer. It was a sight that immediately lifted your spirits.

“Look who finally made it!” Rossi called out, waving you over. “Come on, we saved you a seat.”

You grinned, making your way through the crowd. “Rossi, Gideon, you two didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

Gideon leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, you didn’t think we’d miss the party, did you? Besides, someone has to make sure Peter doesn’t get too full of himself.”

Peter shot you a wink, raising his glass in greeting. “They’re just here to bask in my glory, Y/N. But don’t let them fool you, they’ve been talking about you all night.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you took a seat between Gideon and Peter. “I’m sure they have. So, what did I miss?”

Before anyone could answer, Hotch walked in, his presence as commanding as ever, though there was a new softness in his eyes when he spotted you. You exchanged a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the night before, and of the steps you were both taking toward something new, something vulnerable.

“Hotch!” Rossi greeted, patting the empty seat beside him. “Come sit, we’re debating where Peter’s new desk should be. Since Y/N’s parked herself at his old one, we might need to reshuffle the whole bullpen.”

Hotch took his seat, glancing at you with a teasing smile. “I think she’s gotten too comfortable. I doubt she’s giving it up.”

Peter leaned in closer to you, his voice low and conspiratorial whispering into your ear “Wanna make a bet?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “See that woman behind Hotch’s shoulder? If she doesn’t come talk to him, you get to keep your desk.”

You eyed the woman briefly, noticing her casual yet elegant demeanor, but she seemed engrossed in her own conversation. Hotch was engaged in a discussion with Rossi, showing no sign of noticing her. You were confident this would be an easy win, especially given Hotch’s typically reserved nature. “Alright,” you said, turning back to Peter. “And what do you get if you win?”

Peter’s grin widened, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. “A date. With you.”

The unexpected proposition caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt your cheeks warm. You glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was serious, but his expression remained light, teasing. You brushed it off with a laugh, pretending he was just messing with you. “Okay, you’re on.”

But no sooner had you accepted the bet than the woman, as if she had somehow overheard your conversation, moved toward Hotch with an expression of surprise. You watched in stunned silence as she approached, her voice soft and familiar. “Aaron? What were the odds?”

Your heart sank as Hotch’s face lit up, a rare and genuine smile crossing his features, his cheeks flushed slightly, and there was a familiarity between them that made your chest tighten. You felt Peter nudge you, his voice breaking through the shock. “Looks like you owe me a date.”

You barely registered his words, too fixated on the interaction unfolding in front of you. Hotch returned to the table with the woman by his side, her presence seeming to fill the room in a way that made you feel suddenly small and out of place. Hotch’s voice cut through the noise, introducing her with a casualness that belied the weight of the moment. “Everyone, this is Haley.”

You barely managed to hold your composure, the pieces of this unexpected puzzle falling into place as you processed Hotch’s flushed expression and the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. This wasn’t just anyone, this was someone from his past, someone who clearly was very close and definitely had shared some sort of romantic history with him. The bitter thoughts stung more than you wanted to admit.

Before you could say anything, Gideon, ever the observant one, leaned over, catching sight of the corner of a book sticking out of your open purse. “Hegel for Dummies?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in his voice as he picked it up to inspect.

You nodded, still too stunned to fully engage, your mind elsewhere. “Yeah. It’s… it’s just a little joke,” you managed, though the words felt hollow in the moment.

The words hung heavy in the air, and as you sat there, watching Hotch interact with Haley, you couldn’t help but feel the truth in them. Life was messy, a constant push and pull of opposing forces, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader

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x-gabrielle-x · 3 days

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Withered Cards | III

Pairings: Jason Todd x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death.

Summary: Despite the many different problems you overcome with Jason Todd, you always eventually make it back to each other. Even after his death, how could you still love a man who changed so much? Even when you made a turn for the worst.

Series Masterlist

Jason Todd 5:48am

"Mistakes are not something you can afford to make, Jason," Bruce commented, though his gaze was trained on the screen before him. "I told you this was an intel mission. You should have waited for my queue."

I adjusted my position on the chair I was currently sat on, my gaze burning into Bruce's back the longer he continued to stare at the projective computer before him. The tape that he had collected from the mission played on repeat, and truthfully, it was becoming painful having to rewatch it over and over.

Yes, I had been given strict orders to merely stay hidden within the shadows and report back to Batman with the intel I was instructed to gather, but I wanted to do more than be a sidekick to gather information.

“How was that a mistake?” I retorted, pointing to the screen. “If I hadn’t gone, you would have never known what was happening down there.”

Finally, Bruce turned in his chair, his voice just as deep as always. Like a parent scolding his child - which was true to an extent.

"You're telling me that you found out what that whole ordeal was about?" He questioned, gesturing a hand to the screen. "Because it sure doesn't look like you do."

It angered me more than I would have liked to admit that he was mostly right. The most I knew was that the Joker was up to something, but when was he not? The best possible answer I got was that he has an alliance of some sort. The girl seemed to be around my age, possibly younger, and yet she was one of the most skilled fighters I've fought. She was experienced, and no doubt deadly.

My nose ached from the harsh punch she had thrown, the wet rag that was now soaked with crimson blood was discarded beside me.

When Bruce noticed my silence, he continued to ignore me from then on. His fingers dancing along the computer and leaving an uncomfortable silence I wished to break.

Alfred walked in with a tray of coffee; something Bruce had waved him off to go and grab whilst he worked. Whilst the silence lingered, Alfred's gaze flickered up to the screen of the masked girl.

"I do not recognize this criminal," Alfred spoke as he settled the tray down. "Have we seen this girl before?"

Bruce shook his head, a frown etched on his features. "No, but there have been witnesses. Apparently, she's only showed up around Gotham the past two months."

Alfred hummed. “And what does this criminal do, exactly?”

Bruce pushed his body away from the desk with a long sigh, his brows still pinched into a deep frown as his hand dragged down his face. “Jason’s body cam just managed to pick up a little of their conversation before she ran off. The Joker is in on this, too. She knows him, and well.”

My curiosity was piqued. What was the Joker's intentions, now? Surely it was another scheme to lure Batman into a trap.

“Perhaps another laughing gas?” Alfred suggested as he glanced over at me, gesturing toward the tea as he offered to pour some, but I shook my head.

"Not a laughing gas," I concluded, digging into the suit that I still wore. I pulled out the familiar vial that I had managed to snatch from the masked girl, holding it up for everybody's view. "I'm thinking maybe a drug, or maybe some sort of crazy mutation serum!" I looked between the two, a satisfied smirk on my face.

Bruce remained silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving the vial in my hand. I was expecting praise, a congratulations, maybe even a pat on the back and allowed more freedom whilst on patrol. But Bruce's face remained stoic.

"Jason," he started, tone very far from what I had expected. Was it anger? Disappointment? Shock?

He was quick to saunter over and take the vial from my hand, analyzing it carefully as he twisted it in his grasp.

With a shake of his head, his frown deepened. If that were even possible. He placed the vial carefully onto the desk beside the computer.

"You're too reckless," he began. "Not only did you go against my orders, but now you are involved with a crime much deeper than what you can handle. You've put yourself in danger. And not only yourself," he pointed to the screen again. "But you got her in danger, too.

I felt my anger boil, ready to spill over any second. Could Bruce not see my success for once? Could he not give me the approval I desperately wished for? It was risky, but I got the job done.

"I did what I had to," I defended, the anger evident in my voice as I took a step closer.

Bruce quickly snapped back. "And what you did was wrong."

A pause.

"Next time something like this happens, you follow my order... otherwise the title of Robin goes to somebody else."

In the heat of my rage, I stormed past both Bruce and Alfred and made my way out of the Batcave, cape flowing behind me with every long stride. Before the door had slammed shut behind me, I just managed to hear a little of Alfred's voice.

"They're both just children, Master Wayne," he tried. "Much like you once were."

"I cant have him making more mistakes."

Y/N Y/L/N 5:27am

A harsh slap landed against my cheek, my head snapping to the side from the force. The burning sensation left behind caused for my eyes to sting with tears, my vision blurred.

His maniacal laughter was all i could hear despite the ringing in my ears, and I didn't fail to notice the very evident annoyance behind each deep inhale of laughter.

"I cant believe it!" Joker paced. "You really let that little rodent slip past your fingers, just like that? My, my, I might have placed just a little too much faith in you."

He crouched down before me, masking a frown as his thumb came up to swipe the blood from my lip. My tongue darted out to swipe at the cut he had left, the metallic taste lingering in my mouth.

"I must say I am very disappointed," Joker hummed, but oddly enough his hand came to rest on my shoulder, like an odd way of comforting. "But that's why there's always room to learn from mistakes!"

The vial that I was sent to retrieve merely a few hours ago was no longer tucked away safely in my pocket.

I had only realized once I was in front of Joker's latest warehouse that he used as a current hideout, my hands searching every pocket, each shoe in search for the vial. Robin had managed to slip it out without me noticing, and it enraged me.

He was fast, skilled, and very obviously sly. Although it was a tough fight, it brought some adrenaline and excitement into my night. Something I had craved for a while.

Joker clicked his tongue in thought, now sat on a torn couch across from me with his leg propped up on his knee.

"You'll make it up to me, right, my little clown?" his tone was almost mocking. "Perhaps next time you might run into the little birdy again, oh, that would spice things up!"

I inhaled a shaky breath. "I'll get it back," I said, but he waved me off.

"Nah, I'll just get the doc to make me a new one. Although, we cant afford any more mistakes now, can we, Y/N?"

He looked at me expectingly, dread washing over me the longer his gaze pierced my own.

"No, we cant."

"That's my girl!" He clapped his hands. "Harley! Come get the poor girl cleaned up, will ya? She looks like she's been through hell!" He let out a loud cackle at what he considered a joke, slapping his knee.

Harley's head popped from around the corner of the cracked wall, pigtails swinging with every movement she made. With one look at me, she was rushing over.

"Puddin, what happened?" She practically squealed, ushering me to stand up, though the small smile never left her lips. "Oh dear, lets get you all nice and cleaned up!"

The bathroom that she had practically dragged me into smelt of urine and had broken tiles scattered across the floor. Mold was growing along the ceiling and puddles of water crowded at the base of the sink. I had to hold back the look of disgust when Harley took a small rag and wet it under some water.

It wasn't long until Harley was finally finished with dabbing my split lip with the cold water and tending to the few cuts I had littered over my flesh. It was a poorly done job, but the moment I got to step into my own small room - a storage space that barely managed to fit the worn mattress I used to sleep on, I was instantly flopping down.

It was quiet and dark, but nothing I wasn't already used to. I enjoyed having some time away from the two clowns, after all.

Looking over, I reached for the same small bear that I've kept over the years, only now it wasn't as soft as it used to be, and the familiar smell of my old home was gone from the fur. Instead, it was now covered in dirt and grime. A button had been sewn on poorly as an eye after the last had fallen off, and its right arm was barely hanging on by a thread. Still, I carefully held it against my body as I laid on my side, alone and tense.

My mind refused to settle, thoughts swarming with the Robin boy who had managed to make my night go from alright to horrific in only a few hours.

He had outplayed me - tricked me - and still somehow, he had managed to get my mind swimming. Our fight was oddly thrilling, and it confused me with his cocky comments. Batman was nowhere to be seen, meaning that Robin had let me go. Why?

My knuckles had tightened their hold on the bear, a reminder of my life before any of this had happened. I didn't dwell on it, knowing that there was no way back. But the sadness lingered once I buried my face into the soft fur, allowing for the sleep to catch up to me. As usual it was never a peaceful one, but instead filled with nightmares and an all too familiar wide grin.

@annabellelee @stormz369

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

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turtletaubwrites · 1 day

Text

Numbers Game ~ Chapter 34

Can You Pretend?

Pairings: Cross Guild Polycule x Shanks x Fem!Reader x ???

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 11331

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Chapter Tunes: Taste of You ~ Rezz Feat. Dove Cameron | Crazy On You ~ Hidden Citizens

Summary: Getting to know the hunters is getting to you, especially when your own past gets too much attention.

Ch. 33 ~ Recap: You decided that you would kill Shanks for Buggy if he forced you to marry him, and Shanks realized that there was hatred behind your eyes. Mihawk confessed his plan to be the villain so that he could bring you back to Buggy. Crocodile and Buggy encouraged him to try to find another way.

Author's Note: I can't believe that all of these random thoughts I braindumped months ago are finally getting into the story 🥰🥰

Dark Content Warning: There's plenty of fun in this chapter, but there are some extremely potentially triggering scenes. PLEASE DO NOT READ if these might be triggering for you!!! I’ve included a summary directly below the scenes, so that you won’t miss the story if you need to not be in the BIG FEELS of the scene. The summaries will be bracketed with ~⚫~SUMMARY~⚫~ Please take care of yourself, you are not alone! 💜

Also, I hope everyone remembers the tag/warning: Cross Guild Boys are VILLAINS. It’s been there since day one, so 🤷‍♀️ I didn't bracket that scene, but please remember who they are! I still love my sweet, bad boys 🥰 but you have been warned!!!!

~ 1st ⚫ ~ PLEASE DO NOT READ this section if childhood trauma regarding parents fighting could be triggering. Flashback of very small children witnessing/hearing their parents having a very heated argument, from the child's POV. The topic of the fight is a bit of a spoiler, so if any kind of relationship trauma could trigger you, you can check the summary first before diving in.

~ 2nd ⚫ ~ PLEASE DO NOT READ this section if severe mental illness episodes, treatment, or hospitals might be triggering for you.

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic currently contains spoilers for up to chapter 1064 or episode 1093. As we get further into Egghead Arc where our lovely boys are showing up more, there will be more spoilers as time goes on. Sorry y'all, I'm trying to keep most spoilers small details, but Cross Guild is endgame, lol.

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Mental Illness, Grief, Hospitals, Doctors, Mental Health Treatment, Toxic Family, Childhood Trauma, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Relationship Drama, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Uncle Cedrick Has Become His Own Warning, Death of an Unnamed Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

Kat wasn’t here.

Your sister wasn’t here with her wide eyes that were usually sharp with disdain, but always held concern for you. Always held an attention to your needs that you didn’t want her to carry.

But not tonight.

“How is this supposed to be protective? Shouldn’t you be giving me some fucking oven mitts?”

Your sister was nowhere to be seen, and you were trying extra fucking hard not to scream at the staff while they squeezed you into this too-tight, leather get up. The endless straps and studs seemed to be purposely placed in the least comfortable places.

“I assure you, Miss Sylvad, this outfit will be highly protective.”

That voice came wafting over from the corner, Uncle’s favorite assistant finally breaking her silence when she slinked toward you. Her unnervingly straight hair was almost hypnotizing as it swayed with her movements.

You scowled at her.

“Funny, I’ve never seen a chef in leather before.”

“Then you haven’t been in the right kitchen,” she teased. “Bethany, please demonstrate to Miss Sylvad how to undress on her own, just in case. Baking can be so messy.”

Darla reached out to touch one of the dangling zippers along your side, and you almost gave in. Almost lunged for her fucking throat.

“It’s been almost two years now, hasn’t it,” you asked instead, letting true pity coat your voice.

“Since what, Miss Sylvad,” she smirked. She was still too fucking close.

“Since you became his favorite,” you soothed, patting her shoulder. “Better set aside all the berry you can now, Darla. When Uncle drops people, they tend not to get back up.”

“There’s no need to be cruel, sweetie,” your mother breezed in with a smoothie. She took a sip while she walked up to you, giving the assistant no choice but to move out of the way.

You were too busy getting a brain freeze to spit one of your usual retorts, although the urge to ask about your sister nearly pushed past the discomfort.

~~~

The courtyard filled with applause at the sight of you, and your Sylvad smile deepened when you imagined the most satisfying ways to silence the vultures. The huge screen showed you strutting down the path, which was the only way you could fucking walk in that domestic dominatrix outfit.

They’d even given you a tiny, studded apron.

Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t let it in.

There she was.

Kat was staring at you, her face comically shocked, and you hoped your own shock didn’t show.

Your sister was seated with the Vinsmoke family, and the brothers seemed to be caught in a loop of gawking at you, and returning their attention to her. Their lustful, puppy dog eyes were comical on their own, but watching them look at her like that flashed too many feelings through you that you didn’t have time to name.

Yeah, it would be weird to marry her favorite.

“May I offer you a ride, Miss Sylvad?”

“A ride,” you asked, almost squeaking when that velvety voice draped over you. You’d been so distracted by your sister, you hadn’t realized that the massive pillars you were heading toward were covered in leather and spurs.

And waiting for you.

“A ride...”

Your head barely reached above his knees, which happened to have deadly looking spikes on them, pointed straight for your throat. Thankfully, Katakuri shifted them away before he kneeled down. He waited for your nod, then grabbed you so gently around the middle, and it took everything in you not to squeal when you soared through the air.

“You can hold onto this if you like, but I promise that I will catch you if you fall.”

“Mhm, thank you,” you hummed nervously to the side of his face, clinging to another large spike on his shoulder that was hidden beneath his scarf.

It was surprisingly warm this high up as you perched on the heat of his body. The feathers of his scarf were comfortable, slightly tickling around you.

“Are you afraid of heights?”

“I think I’m supposed to be,” you joked, earning what you thought was a smile beneath all those feathers. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be taller than these trees.”

“I’m not a giant, Y/N.”

What a voice… If you weren’t scared of getting knocked off of his shoulder by a branch, you might have passed out.

“Just, uh, king-sized then?”

That crimson eye turned its attention to you, and his next words almost did knock you out.

“I hope that you’ll find me… husband-sized, Miss Sylvad. May I set you down?”

“Mhm,” was all you could manage, until you were clinging to his hand again. Your date held you aloft while he sat cross legged on a grassy hill, setting you down in front of the strangest kitchen equipment you’d ever seen. There were two sets of everything for your different sizes, all in neon colors that looked surreal under the golden sky.

Your grin faded for a second when you noticed the staff and their snails in the surrounding trees, but you shook it off.

“What are we making?”

~~~

You were so messy.

“They don’t have to be perfect, Y/N,” Katakuri chuckled while you struggled to shape your dough into circles. “And we need to let the dough rise for an hour before we fry them.”

“An hour?”

“Good things take time.”

He motioned you toward the sink, and you washed yourself up before giggling while you held out the hose for him. His soapy water slid down the side of the hill, and your mind flashed an image of you leaping onto it like a water slide.

“This is a good laugh. I hope to hear more of this one from you.”

Katakuri had frozen you again, your laughter fading while you watched him dry his hands on a towel the size of a rug.

You never thought you’d feel smaller than you had with…

No.

Buggy had a real name.

You’d gotten rid of the names from before. “First love.” “Second love.” They weren’t real.

But what should you call them?

Nothing. Stop thinking about them.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” you took a breath, fixing your fucking face. “I’m just thinking about our doughnuts. We really have to wait an hour?”

“Would you like to go somewhere while we wait,” Katakuri’s voice rumbled over you until you shivered. “I can give us some privacy so we can speak freely.”

Privacy.

With this “not a giant,” giant man. A very pretty, giant man.

“I’d like that.”

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

They had all known this was going to happen, that Y/N would have to date the other men before she could leave with him.

Yet Shanks couldn’t stop feeling like a failure, so he latched onto any idea that might help him fix this.

His current idea was making him sick, but not as sick as Buggy must feel, listening to—

“Looks like we’re not the only ones hoping for a peek,” the red haired Vinsmoke laughed to his brothers.

Shanks needed to get his shit together. He’d noticed the three men before they emerged from the trees, but he’d forgotten why he should care about them.

Normally, they wouldn’t be a threat to him.

The blue haired one stepped up to smirk at him, and Shanks was almost sure his name was Niji.

“The Emperor of the Sea wanted another look, eh,” the blue one asked. “Didn't get enough of our little princess last night? Well, that’s a good sign. I’m looking forward to having a taste for myself.”

“Looks like we’re out of luck,” the green one— Yonji complained, pointing through the trees toward a large hill.

Shanks looked away from the princes so he wouldn’t hurt them. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t risk getting kicked out.

He couldn’t see her through that dome of mochi the massive pirate had caged her in.

She’s okay. She has to be.

“There might not be enough left of her to taste when he’s done with her.”

Shanks had to leave before he killed them, finding his own reclusive spot to stare at the giant wall between him, and the woman his two lovers loved.

Buggy was listening. Or maybe she wasn’t wearing the locket?

It was a small hope that did nothing for his guilt, or the well-deserved hate he’d planted in her.

Mihawk’s golden eyes filled his mind, tears making them impossibly beautiful when he apologized.

When he finally said it back.

It felt like hours went by while he watched that unmoving room. Useless.

I’ve never had… She helped Hawk open up. She made Buggy feel loved. It was her.

Shanks hit the back of his head against the tree he’d leaned on, until he remembered all of those cam-snails in the forest.

So the Emperor tried his best to imitate her. To put on that face. To pretend that everything was alright.

He had no idea how she hid so well. Shanks’ own hidden truths were stuffed so far down that he almost didn’t believe them himself, but she had to lie with every breath.

Y/N has a strength I never knew someone might need. Not like this.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

He wondered how many hours of his life had been drained away in dingy taverns just like this one. Hiding in the darkest corner, a book with a dragon on the cover still unread in his hand, the World’s Greatest Swordsman listened.

Mihawk didn’t expect to hear anything of note here, but he’d landed at Majiatsuka just early enough to book a room for the night. He couldn’t think about anything besides his need to protect her, and resisting his need to hop back on his boat, and go straight there.

“Hey, did you catch the feed tonight,” a red faced patron called out as two other drunks joined his table.

“Shh, Jacob, don’t say that shit so loud,” the one on the right laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You know the whole thing’s illegal, right?”

“Yeah,” the one on the left spat, “and I know for a fact those assholes would only get a slap on the wrist, but poor folks like us? I don’t wanna know what kinda fine we’d get if we’re caught watching.”

That unread book was shut.

“I really hope they show the good stuff soon,” Right complained, leaning forward with a hushed, slimy tone. “Can you imagine what that giant dick must have done to that rich slut’s cunt?”

“Oh yeah,” Left agreed with a laugh. “I imagined it plenty of times after the feed last night. Can’t wait for that whore to—“

“Jacob, was it?”

Mihawk shoved Left’s headless body to the floor, stealing his chair to sit across from the whimpering man. He ignored the screams while the place cleared out, and he ignored Right’s headless body that was leaking blood onto the sticky table.

He had dirtied Yoru on their weak blood, so he cleaned his blade while Jacob pissed himself.

“Would you like to tell me everything you know about that feed, Jacob,” Mihawk drawled, more death waiting to pour from him. Endless death until he held her again. “Or…”

“I-I’ll tell you, please sir, p-plea—“

“Don’t waste my time, Jacob. Tell me about the feed.”

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

"I'd like that."

His eyes looked even prettier when you said those words.

He’s still a hunter. He’s still using you. Don’t forget.

“I’m going to use my devil fruit power to create a room around us. No one will be able to see or hear us, but I promise to lower it whenever you wish.”

He’s so careful with me. This leech must really want to win.

Your consent had hardly left your lips before your world became soft and pale, his power enveloping the entire hilltop, including the little kitchen and lamp posts that came with it. He'd kept everything except for the rotating pedestals that the nearest cam-snails had been perched on.

The smell in the air was slightly sweet, but the feeling of being trapped still crept in, almost leaving your throat in a scream.

“It’s alright, Miss Sylvad. I’ll drop it right now if you want me to, but I’d like to talk without the surveillance. I won’t move. I won’t touch you.”

Katakuri’s voice had lost the slight tease he’d been giving you, speaking in an almost businesslike tone.

So he’s good at pretending too.

“Thank you, Katakuri,” you mirrored his tone. “What would you like to speak with me about?”

Here it was. The old, familiar rhythm of negotiation that your dad had spent so many years making sure you understood.

“My little sister has been kidnapped by Emperor Blackbeard. Since my mother was defeated, I am ashamed to admit that we are not equipped to get her back on our own. Pudding is only sixteen, Y/N,” he urged, enough emotion in his words to make you pause, even with your determination to keep him out.

“I’m so sorry, but how can—“

“My family needs this marriage to happen, but I wanted you to know my true intentions. Please, marry one of us, Y/N. With the financial support your uncle has promised, we’ll be able to afford to bring an army with us to get her back.”

Those pretty eyes were urgent now. Almost desperate.

“There is nothing more important to me than protecting my family,” he whispered, although his voice was too large to feel quiet. “I swear that we will care for you. We will protect you with our lives. I’ll get you away from these people, Y/N. You’re an older sister, are you not?”

“Yes, but I’m… I’m sorry, but I can’t make any promises yet. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

A heavy fear gripped your heart, your whole body fighting not to shake beneath this man’s fierce request.

He needed this.

What will he do to get it?

“I understand,” he nodded, taking a breath that could have sucked the air from the room. “We need you, but our relationship doesn’t need to be for duty alone. May I return to showing you the kind of husband I will be?”

“I’d like that.”

The truth of that surprised you, and you would have scolded yourself, but he moved. Stretching out his long legs, he laid on his side, propped up on his elbow.

“You didn’t choose these clothes,” he noted, almost a tease.

“How could you tell?”

Sarcasm, seriously? I really am insane.

“Leather molds to your body when it’s worn regularly. You don’t look very comfortable in that.”

Heat shivered through you, and his eyes went a bit wide.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I wasn’t trying to—“

Laughter filled that sweet, soft room, a dam of tension breaking loose, and you would have joined him on the ground if your outfit wasn’t so stiff.

“Oh,” you caught your breath, “I’m laughing because you were right, not because I wouldn’t…”

Holy shit, I want to fuck him. There’s that fucking death wish again.

“What have you heard about me, Miss Sylvad?”

Absolutely nothing. Totally blank. Your brain couldn’t recall a single thought until you looked away from him, pacing over the soft ground.

“You’re a Sweet Commander of the Big Mom Pirates,” you started listing the few details you could remember. “You ate the Mochi Mochi fruit. Your bounty is over a billion berries. Uh, you’re not a giant.”

You shrugged when you turned back toward him, and almost lost your thoughts again.

“Oh, and you never lie on your… Are you a side sleeper, then?”

Tingles danced over your skin while Katakuri laughed full out, an overwhelming sound. He leaned his head back, the feathers that covered his face moving with his breath.

“Why didn’t I think of that,” he rasped, still chuckling. “Would have been more comfortable than all the walls I’ve slept against.”

He sighed at the confusion on your face before rolling onto his back.

“So, you do lie on your back, but you sleep sitting up,” you frowned as you walked closer, almost reaching out to touch him.

“It was a lie I told to protect my siblings. A sacrifice that has made me strong for them, but always alone.”

“I’m sorry, Katakuri,” you reached out now, smoothing your palm over the pink skull tattooed on his arm.

“Don’t be,” he hummed, seeming so relaxed while he laid before you. “I recently lost a good battle, and it’s made me wonder if there are better ways that I can be a good brother.”

“Must have been one hell of a fight if Charlotte Katakuri is on his back for a stranger.”

You leaned against his arm, hoping that he’d take the playful tease. All the talk of protecting his siblings was taking your mind to places you’d rather not go.

You’d rather be following that death wish of yours.

“I don’t want you to be a stranger,” he whispered as he rolled back onto his side to look at you. “I want to take you away from these people. I want you to meet my sister, and we can bring yours with us. We can protect them both.”

“I don’t—“

“But my goal for tonight is to help you relax.”

There was absolutely no way you could relax.

“You’ve been doing so well, carrying whatever this weight is that your family has given you,” Katakuri praised. The touch of his fingers along your arm, and stroking down your back, felt dreamlike. Everything was strange and fuzzy.

“Thank you.”

“I have one more thing to share,” he rasped, taking back his hand to touch his scarf. “Hiding was something else I did for a sister. I think that reason is gone now, so all I’m left with are my own fears.”

“Is it fangs,” you breathed, trying to be light. “That’s what my guess is, which is totally fine! I’d be more freaked out if you had puppies under there or something.”

“Puppies,” he huffed a laugh, cocking his head.

“I don’t know,” you squeaked, unable to shut yourself up. “Is it scars? I thought I saw… you know, I actually think that scars are—“

“Cute.”

“Uh, y-yeah,” you froze as a very large finger tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “That’s not the word I was thinking of, but they can be…”

“You are very cute, Y/N,” Katakuri hummed, and your mind blanked out again. “May I show you?”

You remembered how to nod, and luckily you’d already prepared yourself for what your suitor might be hiding.

That scarf was a small mountain of feathers when he removed it, all that softness gone, and replaced with sharp fangs, and scars that stretched from the corners of his lips to above his ears on either side. His fangs seemed almost like tusks, jutting out to stretch over his lips.

Then he opened his mouth.

“So I was right on both counts,” you gave a nervous smile at the sight of all of the sharp teeth in that mouth, not just the four large fangs that he couldn’t hide. “Do I win a prize?”

You knew that you’d been right about when he’d smiled before as you watched his whole face move with it now.

“Well, I believe it’s almost time to fry our doughnuts.”

~~~

“Mm, fuck! That’s so good, Katakuri.”

He laughed at you then, tossing the rest of the massive doughnuts into his wide mouth that seemed just a little less dangerous when it was filled with sweets.

You still had a plate of the smaller, glazed pastries, but the numbers were dwindling.

“This has been a lovely date,” you hummed, honestly feeling good for the moment. Katakuri had taken your mind away for a while, and it was a gift.

“Would you like it to be over,” he checked in, his brow arching even higher while he scanned you.

He’s still so pretty.

He made you shy, but you were bold enough to shake your head.

“Then would it be alright if I looked at you, pretty thing?”

Holy shit…

Katakuri had barely grazed your hip with his finger, but his voice went so deep, so dark, that you threw your head back, knees almost buckling.

He chuckled, helping you stay balanced while you struggled with all of the stiff bits of leather strapped to your body.

Your locket fell out from where you’d stuffed it into the tight material, and you tried to leave it on the ground. You really tried to leave it behind.

It was a chain of guilt and brightness around your neck, and the best you could do was carry it with you while you tried not to think about drifting further and further away from that daydream of a life.

“You are so beautiful, Y/N. May I create a bed for you so that I can see you better?”

Soon you were lifted up, perched on a mattress made of mochi that was too high for you to relax completely, until you forgot all about it.

“You want me to touch you, don’t you, Y/N,” he asked in that tone that sent you reeling. He had set you up a little higher than his shoulders, and he leaned over you, his face so close as he took in a breath. “Gods, you smell so sweet.”

Why am I already whimpering?

“I’m going to touch you now, but let me know—“

“Touch me, Katakuri, please!”

The sound he made when you begged made you arch your back, but then you were gasping, fear creeping back in as he spread your legs. He held your thighs apart with his hands while he stared at you like you were a treat for him to eat.

“I’ll be careful,” he breathed, a soothing threat while his sharp mouth hung open at the sight of you. “I’ll keep my head right here. Let me taste you, please. Let me fuck my tongue into you. I’ll be so—”

“Please! Gods, please— oh gods, oh f-fuck.”

Katakuri…

Katakuri’s tongue felt so good, so insanely good. You’d never thought to imagine what a tongue that size could do, but the press of it, the strength, the size, had you twitching and begging within seconds.

And he’d told the truth. He was so careful. Careful to hold your twitching legs so they wouldn’t go near his fangs. Careful to keep his mouth away from your skin, just his tongue reaching out.

That was all he needed.

“Kata-Katakuri…”

The precision he had was unbelievable. The flick of that huge tongue kept finding your clit over and over, and his pleased moans vibrated through you like a toy, an incredible toy. Then he did what you’d begged for.

Your nails looked so small digging into the back of his hands. He went slow, but soon his tongue was inside you, making you forget the world again.

“Don’t stop,” you begged weakly, surprised you could speak at all while the mochi bed sank toward the ground.

“We don’t have to stop,” he promised, smiling down at you while he traced his fingers over your skin. “But the bells are ringing outside. I believe our time is up.”

You whined.

“Does this mean that you’d like to see me again,” he laughed while you still struggled to move.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to answer that,” came your grumbled response.

“Mm, what about now?”

Katakuri had brought you one of those giant towels, but he dropped it to trace his finger all the way up your thigh, barely touching the twitching, needy flesh he’d just tasted.

“Fuck, yes. Please.”

“Good girl. I’m gonna take such good care of you, Y/N. My cute, little bride.”

~~~

No favorites. No least favorites.

Over and over and over.

You hadn’t expected to have any favorites, and you were pissed that you already seemed to have them mapped out.

Uncle Cedrick would use it against you, so it was better not to care either way, but your stupid brain wouldn’t stop.

Katakuri had joined your family for breakfast, so polite as he sat on the grass by the patio.

“What is your role, Kathryn?”

“Role,” Kat frowned at him.

“Position,” he tried again, glancing at you. “What do you do?”

“Kathryn is invested in her family,” Cedrick bragged, before scowling at you for speaking at the same time.

“Kat’s been studying business. Have you started your masters program yet,” you asked cheerfully, hating yourself for not asking sooner.

“No,” she mumbled as she caught your uncle’s gaze. “Too much family stuff going on.”

…

“I brought you all some doughnuts.”

~~~

Today’s hunt was for the “truth.” It had been your choice, but you were sick of this shit already.

“You’re a dog person,” Niji declared while his eyes traveled down your body.

“Well, I love dogs, but we’ve always had—“

“You don’t like spicy food.”

Oh thank gods, the bells.

~~~

Each hunter had to submit a list of their own questions, along with their guesses at what your answers would be. A lazy idea, but it was giving you a glimpse into what they thought of you.

“You really like my brother.”

“I don’t think it’s fair for me to answer that either way,” you teased.

How does he keep his hair from burning with those sparks?

Cracker gave you another maniacal grin, his bare chest like a wall that kept you from checking your Uncle’s expression. Yours was on display again, spread across the side of the building, so you did your best to school it.

“That’s alright. Everyone likes my brother. But you… You’re a picky eater.”

You gave him the win. It was true enough when it came to the food your family served.

~~~

“Redwoods are your favorite trees.”

“That’s right, Mr… Iceburg,” you smiled. You still hadn’t trained yourself to hate him for being here, for being a leech. He was still Mr. Iceburg in your mind, and that held too much weight.

He’d guessed the most truths so far, and that teenage crush of yours wanted to crush all of your caution away when he patted you on the head at the end of his turn.

Stupid brain.

~~~

“You like cookies.”

“I’m not sure if that counts, Emperor Shanks,” you flirted while you planned his gruesome death.

“You’re right, who doesn’t like cookies,” he smiled that infuriatingly charming smile. “I think that you like to dance, but might need a little more practice.”

More images flashed in your mind. Too fast. Too real.

His pulse against your skin. His strong fingers controlling you, digging into your hip while he pressed himself—

The ringing of those bells was your new favorite sound.

“I’ll give you that one, Shanks.”

You covered your hate with fluttering lashes, and a gentle bite to the lip that he always loved to stare at.

He wasn’t staring at it today.

Hot rage turned to icy fear when you saw that look in his soft eyes. Like he was seeing too far, too deep.

What did he see?

~~~

Giberson already smelled like whiskey when he folded his lanky body into the chair across from you. You were more jealous than anything else, wishing that you could numb this shitty lunch away.

“How are you doing, my dear?”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“Oh no,” he laughed, that sharp smell getting stronger when he opened his mouth too wide. “Just call me Gibby. That’s what my friends call me.”

“Of course, Gibby,” you smiled. You knew you could do this. You could feel all the eyes on your skin. Appeasing an old man was nothing.

Just boring.

“Alright, where should we begin?”

The old man cleared his throat loudly, squinting at a notebook he’d pulled from his jacket, the silk lining gleaming in the sun.

“You received your degrees from Pucci University. Excellent school,” he hummed while you tried not to frown. “I would have expected a Sylvad to attend an older institution, given your connections, but I’m sure that the food alone had to be worth it. Did you enjoy your time in the Gourmet City?”

“I did...”

“Well, let’s keep going. We are on a time limit after all, and I’ve been looking forward to having you all to myself,” he winked before diving back into his notebook.

The Concealer. Information broker. Emperor of the Underworld.

What the fuck did he find?

“Ahh, you worked at Polestar Principal Bank, I believe? Upstanding establishment, and just a ferry ride away from Loguetown too. Did you meet any interesting pirates when you weren’t making the rich even richer?”

“W-well—“

“And I noticed that your family always moved with you when you went to a new island,” Giberson beamed, flicking the paper while he nodded. “I just love those strong family bonds. Shows true value.”

Smile. That was a compliment.

You didn’t believe the lie, but hoped that your face sold it while shame poured through you. Your eyes darted over to your sister against your will, finding her strained smile to reinforce your guilt.

Wherever you moved, your family had followed, dropping Kat’s life away every time.

“You enjoy reading fantasy novels, eating spicy food, and you’ve always loved cats.”

“Yes, I—“

“St. Poplar is your family’s original home. I saw that you attended St. Poplar Private School, but took a year off for independent studies before you returned to graduate at the top of your class. It’s strange though, I couldn’t find a scrap of information about that year, and it’s been bothering me for weeks now. Were you traveling abroad? I didn’t find any records of travel, or salaries for home tutors, or…”

Breathing. Were you breathing?

Eyes. So many eyes.

“Oh, dearie me,” Giberson sighed, setting down his evil notebook. “Please, forgive an old man his forgetfulness. That was after your father passed, was it not? Well, I’m grateful that you were able to take that time to be with your family, and I’m so sorry for—“

“It’s fine,” you lied in a voice that was too high, and too fucking fragile. “Do you have any other truths to guess?”

“It’s not a guess if it’s the truth,” Giberson teased while he raised his boozy drink, the ringing of bells coming to your rescue too late. “You are the loveliest, little lady in the New World.”

~~~

Having private conversations in front of servants had never felt comfortable, but this shit show kept leaving you with no other choice.

Tonight’s outfit was thankfully close to “normal” clothes, but hair and makeup were still taking too long to wait for privacy, and Kat had started first.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday.”

You snorted at her little grimace, knowing that you were probably the only person she ever apologized to.

“Sorry, it’s all good,” you appeased her narrowed eyes.

Your sister had clearly been making an effort to be positive around you since you arrived, but it was comforting to see her being more herself.

“Did you have a good time with the Vinsmokes?”

“Yeah, it was alright,” Kat brushed off, but she pinched her fingers together in her lap, and that odd guilt crept back in. “How was your date with Katakuri?”

“It was surprisingly lovely,” you rushed, ignoring her raised brows while you pushed on. “Do you not want me to marry a Vinsmoke? Because I can try not to end up with your favorite. I wouldn’t want you to—“

“Stop worrying about me,” your sister scolded, shaking her head while she huffed a laugh. “I actually wouldn’t mind being their sister-in-law. I’d love to go see their tech. Fucking hover boots? Honestly, you should marry one of them just for the shoes. I think you’d like their sister too, I hope you get to meet her soon. Their dad seems like a dick, but…”

The lead makeup artist caught your scowl when he blocked your view, so he turned your spinning chair, letting you see your sister’s flustered face.

“Are you sure,” you checked in again, too much guilt to stamp out so quickly.

“Would you shut the fuck up already,” Kat rolled her eyes. “You’re about to go on a date with a two story tall merman. I don’t need you to protect my feelings. I don’t even have any feelings about this, alright? I promise.”

…

“Cut it out,” she groaned at your searching eyes, “and tell me all about your lovely date with that giant, leather boy.”

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

~~~

~~~⚫️⚫️⚫️~~~

kitty kat’s gonna wake up.

Loud noises had woken you. Loud, angry noises.

“You really think I can’t do math, Delaine?” Daddy’s voice sounded scary. “Whatever that thing is in there, it’s not mine.”

“Please, Arbo.” Mommy was crying. “Kathryn was premature, you heard what the doctor said.”

Mommy and Daddy were fighting about little Kitty Kat.

“Doctors that accept bribes tend to accept even higher bribes, wife.”

You couldn’t open the crib, and you knew you shouldn’t. You weren’t strong enough, or tall enough to climb inside with your little sister, so you dragged one of your chairs over to stand on, and reached your hands through the bars.

“It’s okay, Kitty Kat,” you whispered as you covered her tiny ears, pressing your face between the wooden bars to watch her breathe.

You didn’t want Sissy to be scared.

“Since you’re done denying it, why don’t you tell me who you were out fucking when you should have been with our daughter? How often did you leave her with the governess so you could go sink your claws into some other poor bastard?”

Daddy sounded mad, and sad.

“And where were you, husband?” That didn’t sound like Mommy. She sounded mean. “You expect me to wait around for months while you're out working, only for you to bore me to death when you grace us with your presence? Oh, please, Arbo! I just need to hear another one of your math stories. Please–”

why are they hurting each other? why won’t they stop?

“Shh, Kitty Kat, everything’s gonna be okay.” Sissy was starting to make little noises, and you couldn’t let her hear.

“Who was it?”

“Arbo–”

“WHOSE BABY IS THAT, DELAINE?”

“Daddy… Shh, Sissy. We’re okay.”

“S–Samson. It was Samson. Please, don’t hurt him, Arbo.”

“I’m not going to hurt the fucking chauffeur.” Daddy laughed. Scary laughs. Sad laughs. “I’m going to do him a favor, and make sure he never has to see your face again. Set him up with a nice job on the other side of the fucking planet.”

“Thank–”

“Don’t you dare thank me. You know what? You’ve got two choices, Delaine. Take his baby, and go live out your happy life with that unlucky chauffeur, or get your shit together, and pretend.”

“What–”

“If you want to keep being ‘Mrs. Sylvad,’ which I know you love more than your own family, then you need to put in the fucking work. Think you can do that, Delaine? Can you pretend to be a loving mother? A happy wife? That’s all I’ll ever ask of you, since I know there’s no real heart in that hollow chest of yours. Can you pretend?”

…

“Of course, Arbo, dear.” That sounded like Mommy. “I’ll do anything to make things right. Whatever will make you happy.”

“Just keep pretending. I’m taking my daughter to the East wing.”

“But… of course, husband. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

~~~

“Hi, sweet– oh, angel, no! Shh, shh, Daddy’s here.”

Daddy rushed toward you, wiping your tears as he pulled you away from Sissy’s crib. He looked scared, and you couldn’t stop yourself from crying.

He carried you out before you woke her up, walking so fast until you were far away when he set you down.

“Daddy’s so sorry, sweetheart. We didn’t mean to scare you. You were protecting your– protecting Kathryn, weren’t you?”

“Why were you and Mommy so loud?”

Daddy was crying.

“We were just talking, sweetheart, we’re okay. Everything’s okay, Y/N, I promise.”

Daddy was lying.

“Okay, Daddy.”

i can pretend for daddy. i can help him be happy again.

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~⚫~SUMMARY~⚫~

The scene above is from the reader’s POV as a small child. She woke up to hear her parents arguing loudly about her baby sister, so she reached through the bars of the crib to cover Kat’s ears so she wouldn’t wake up, and get scared.

During the argument, Arbo accused Delaine of cheating, and asked who Kat’s father was. She admitted to the infidelity after Arbo implied that he had bribed the doctor she had bribed to keep it a secret. She told him that it was Samson, their chauffeur.

Arbo accused Delaine of neglecting the reader during her affair, while Delaine accused Arbo of expecting her to wait for months, and of “boring her” when he returned from business trips.

Arbo gave Delaine the option to take Kat, and go live with the chauffeur, or continue to be “Mrs. Sylvad,” by pretending to be a good wife and mother, and stated that he believed she cared more about that than her own family. Delaine agreed to pretend.

From the reader’s very young POV, she noticed that they both cried at different times, that Arbo often sounded mad, scary, or sad, and that Delaine sounded mean, and then “like Mommy again,” after she agreed to pretend.

Arbo came to get his daughter to stay with him in the East wing, and found the reader with her hands over Kat’s ears. He panicked and carried the reader away. He apologized for scaring her, and told the reader that they had just been talking, and that everything was okay.

The very young reader knew that he was lying, but decided that she would pretend too, so that she could help her dad be happy again.

~⚫~SUMMARY~⚫~

~~~

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

This prince was already out of the game, but you were good at pretending. It helped that your costume for Fukaboshi’s date made you feel like a princess instead of a sex doll.

The crowd was still applauding while the platform lifted you into the air. Your light, flowy dress moved like gentle waves in the breeze, matching the shifting, ocean colors of the fabric.

You could have gone without all the shells in your hair, and the iridescent scales that were painted around your temples, your shoulders, and along the backs of your hands and wrists.

Fukaboshi’s soft smile was worth it though, as soft as shark teeth could be.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he tilted his head toward you, his mane of hair falling forward like glittering curtains. “You are as beautiful as sunlight on the water.”

No favorites. No least favorites.

~~~

“How did you know this was my favorite spot,” you beamed, trying not to feel woozy on the platform that had been perched atop your favorite cliff.

“I merely searched for the most beautiful waves on the island. You must know these waters well,” Fukaboshi praised, filling you with a strange pride for such a small thing.

You did know them well.

Fukaboshi’s people treated you like a princess, doting on you like you were already theirs. They caught and cooked your food before the sky grew dark. There was music, and stories, and dancers, and it should have been lovely, but with every moment, the tide crept further in.

Soon the waves were crashing loudly along the staggered cliffs, just barely reaching over the edge in a cascade of white that would grow and grow.

It had always been your favorite spot to scream.

“They are no longer listening to us.”

“Hmm?”

“I spoke too loudly the other day, didn’t I,” the prince sighed, glancing around at the now empty cliff. “My mother was never quiet in the face of injustice, but it seems that I have lost my chance now. You will be sending me home soon, will you not?”

Your mouth opened, but you took too long to lie.

“They are not listening, but I understand your caution. I want you to know that even if I do not get the resources my people need, I will still help you. We can leave right now, if you wish.”

Fear, hope, grief, and guilt all hit your veins like poison until you almost cried out in pain. Yet, you smiled. Not your Sylvad smile, but a true, sad curve to your lips before you could answer.

“I am so grateful for the offer, Fukaboshi, but I have to stay. I have my own responsibilities, and I won’t abandon them again.”

Silence rolled in, gentler than the growing tide.

“It may seem a strange thing to say given our situation, but you remind me of my mother.”

“Oh?” You didn’t know what kind of smile to give.

The merman pulled a locket the size of your face from a satchel at his side, and you turned to let the soft lights of the lanterns below show you what it held.

“That’s your… mom?” You’d left out the rudest word in that shocked sentence, but there was absolutely no way that tiny woman could have physically birthed him. No way she could have been with the person who had to be King Neptune, his face not even in the picture because he towered over her so thoroughly. “She was beautiful.”

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, looking at the picture before tucking it away. “But she was also strong. Fearless.”

Your memory finally kicked in, and Queen Otohime’s assassination formed into something real, not just words on a page.

“I apologize,” Fukaboshi smiled. “You are carrying a weight, and I have added more.”

“No, it’s fine,” you didn’t lie. Sometimes just seeing pain that looked like yours felt like relief, a tiny respite from loneliness. Still, you tried to make things light. “I’ve been wondering about that bubble around your waist. Is it like the ones at Sabaody? I didn’t think they could last this far from the mangrove.”

Why am I so bad at making things light?

“So you’ve been to the archipelago,” the prince questioned. There was just a hint of anger in his words, but that hint felt very large as it shook through his enormous form.

“I… we have a home there. It was mainly for business, but my dad would always bring me so I could see the trees. I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”

Sweet memories of bubble rides turned vile when you remembered how privileged you were.

“Well, I hope that you did not have to witness what my people are subjected to there. Children should be protected from such ugliness. Unfortunately, the rest of the world seems to ignore or relish in that ugliness, and my people suffer the price.”

“I’m so sorry, Fukaboshi.”

The stars were difficult to see on the water now, the tide slamming against the cliffs again and again until the air was filled with salt. The prince stared at the spray, his fists clenching, almost shaking, and you hated that you could do nothing for him besides letting him leave, or getting him killed.

“My sister was chained while the celestial demons laughed at her tears,” he growled, shaking the wood beneath your feet. “I was forced to watch in silence with the crowd of cowards that are meant to govern this world. They were going to make her their pet!”

This terrifying, two story tall prince bared his teeth, raging at the sky, yet you were still far more afraid of the people he despised.

“The Dragons…”

“There is no way for me to salvage this, is there,” Fukaboshi implored, his breath heavy.

You took too long to lie.

“Let me help you, at least,” he begged, dipping his head toward you. “I cannot see your chains, but I know that they are there. These monsters are using you for their entertainment. I don’t want to leave you here like this.”

Living under the sea might have been nice.

“Thank you,” you choked out. You couldn’t afford to feel this. Even without the eyes on you, you couldn’t afford to cry anymore.

You might never stop.

“I’m sorry, but I have to stay. I left before, and…” Stop it. That crack in your voice was too much. You had to stop.

Bells.

They were distant, but ringing closer while you stared into the eyes of a truly good man that you wanted to send home this instant. He didn’t deserve to rot with these leeches. This prince needed to get as far away from you and your Sylvad smile as possible.

“It has been an honor to meet you, Y/N,” Fukaboshi hummed before the leeches and their snails arrived. “If you ever need a friend in the water, you will find a country’s worth when I tell my people of your kindness and strength.”

“Please, I haven’t done anything to deserve such high praise.”

“I would not survive a challenge such as this, yet you face it with a warrior’s will,” he praised, filling you with a strange pride for such a lie. “I hope that your responsibilities do not keep you from finding true happiness.”

There was no time to answer before your privacy was stripped away again, so the prince joined you in silence. The tide carried your rage for you, violent sprays of white dancing along the cliff.

It would have felt so good to scream, but at least you knew that another kind soul existed in this world.

At least you knew that he’d be free of you soon.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

“What the fuck are you doing, mom?”

“Y/N, please, calm down,” your mom tried to soothe while you grabbed her nearest belongings to throw against the wall.

You hadn’t been in this manor since you were little, and hated that you had to step into it now. College was supposed to be your escape, but they’d all just picked up and followed you to the nearest family property. You tried to pretend they didn’t exist, but your last call with Kitty had sent you into a rage.

“She’s only in high school, mom, she’s still a kid! I really thought you cared more for her, but you don’t give a fuck, do you? All you do is pretend.”

“Y/N, you have no idea what the world is really like,” she condescended, her chin lifting just a bit. “You have no idea what I have had to–”

“Save your sob story for someone who gives a fuck, mother,” you snarled in her face.

It probably should have worried you how satisfying her gasp felt when she backed up against the wall. Nowhere to hide from your anger now.

“If you let him marry her off, especially to a fucking Dragon, then you won’t get a single berry from me. So figure it out, mom. Will you get more money from selling your youngest daughter or your oldest daughter, because you can’t do both, you greedy bitch.”

All that satisfying fear on her face melted away, leaving Mommy with her perfect smile.

“Of course, sweetie. I’ll try to convince him to wait, but your uncle just wants what’s best for her, and for our family.”

“I don’t care,” you breathed rage against her mask. “I’ll kill you both before I let one of those monsters touch her. I’ll make you poor, and dead. Don’t forget, your daughter’s not well!”

A satisfying hint of fear showed in her eyes before you walked away, harsh laughter following you through the halls.

Your laughter.

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

That was a lot.

A giggle left your throat at the dumb thought, and at the sound of all the shells falling from your hair beneath the too hot water.

I’m not strong. Not kind. Not brave.

The sick guilt in your heart made you want to run across the island to find the prince and beg his forgiveness for making him think that you were anything more than a selfish, entitled, rich girl. You weren’t doing anything special.

Just trying to fix your mistake. Your failure.

Trying to run from the cowardice and selfishness that had haunted you since you tried to run the first time.

Then the second time.

And the third time was the charm.

So selfish. Selfish piece of shit. I just left her. Abandoned her.

You tried to take the locket off. It was comfort and torture.

It was proof that true love existed, and it was a reminder of what a disgustingly selfish bitch you were. You had left your sister to the wolves, so you could go have an adventure, and let a bunch of pirates fuck you like a whore.

The warm metal dug into your palm as you gripped it, but you couldn’t take it off.

My last selfish thing.

You pleaded with yourself, bargaining with your own thoughts as you crumpled to the floor in defeat. Sobs built up in your throat, and you didn’t have the strength to fight them.

Never again. I won’t be selfish again.

I’ll protect her.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🐊🤡~~~

“So what were your big, evil plans?”

“What are you asking me,” Crocodile arched a brow at the man. He tugged on Buggy’s hair, his lips curving into a smile before he caught a hint of fear in those crystal eyes.

He didn’t want to see that fear anymore, especially since his brave, little clown kept trying. Buggy had even told him about Red Hair’s shit with Y/N’s father yesterday, because “secrets keep fucking shit up.”

His clown had made him promise not to kill the pretty boy, though. Not for that, at least.

“Sorry, that’s a dumb question. What, uh…” Buggy panicked, remembering how grumpy the man got whenever someone mentioned Baroque Works. “Where did you grow up?”

“You wanna get to know me better, so you start with my evil plans,” Crocodile stopped laughing enough to tease. He had to hold his breath when he saw the clown grinning at him, practically glowing.

“Well, we are bad guys after all.”

“We’re not the true villains of this world,” he rasped, taking a swig of scotch before returning his hand to that lovely, blue hair. “But now our guild gets to hit back.”

“I thought Mihawk was the one with a grudge. ‘The Marine Hunter,’ right? I wonder what that’s—“

Buggy turned to ice when that large hand gripped under his chin to tilt his head up, but he melted under Crocodile’s soft gaze.

It still didn’t make any sense.

“What about you, little clown?”

“Me? I just,” Buggy cleared his throat, heat moving up his neck, his face.

This man was overwhelming.

“I wanted to find treasure,” he shrugged, the lightness leaving his voice too fast. “Now I just wanna find her.”

Crocodile’s chest felt tight every time Buggy’s voice dipped like that. Everyone was hurting. He hadn’t kept any of them safe from pain.

“I wanted to build a place, a home, where I could protect everyone I cared about from those true villains,” he recalled, the shame of that failure hitting differently now. “I wanted to keep my people safe, but I got too… All I cared about was my big, evil plan, until I didn’t have anyone left to protect.”

The silence between them was soft, and Crocodile let out a breath when a gloved hand touched his.

“Well, daddy,” Buggy soothed with a laugh, “you’ve got a bunch of freaks to look after now. Do you—“

The snail.

The one for agents. And Mihawk.

Buggy’s hands flew toward Crocodile’s giant desk to answer while they clambered off the couch.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Zala,” Crocodile relaxed, still pulling out his notepad. “What’s the mission status? Is Marianne—“

“Hey boss, it was amazing! We should definitely go on more heist missions after some PTO.”

“Are you saying the mission’s complete? You only arrived in San Faldo yesterday. How did you infiltrate it so quickly?”

Crocodile reached out to gently nudge Buggy’s nervously bouncing body parts behind him so he wouldn’t be distracted while he stared at the snail. The clown mumbled his apology, sending his fidgeting limbs to the corner of the room while his head floated above the desk.

“All I had to do was cry, and scream a little, and they locked me right up,” Marianne reported, cheerfully. “Creepy place to put an asylum, though. Every time I looked out a window I saw people in masks. Yikes.”

“Masks,” Buggy asked quietly.

“It’s that carnival city near Water 7,” Crocodile hushed, returning to his own questions. “Zala, what’s your report?”

“Marianne is right, we made a great team.”

“It was so badass, you should’ve—“

“She was able to use the fingerpaints during art therapy to color trap the staff while I used my spikes as lock picks. It was child’s play.”

“I didn’t wanna mess with the patients though, so I hope you don’t mind that we let them out. After I made all their mean nurses cry and drool first, of course. They really liked that.”

“She’s scary,” Buggy praised, impressed with the terrifying teen.

“Well, what did you find on him?”

“Oh, we didn’t find anything on the doctor,” Marianne drawled, and the sound of frantic snapping came through.

Luckily, Zala’s voice cut in before Crocodile’s veins could pop.

“There wasn’t anything useful on Dr. Vorsan, but we did find something on the CFO.”

“A lot of somethings actually.”

“Marianne, why don’t you go check on them? Make sure they're alright?”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Buggy growled, his whole body connected now as he spoke too close to the snail.

The scarred man reached out to calm him, but felt his own sickness start to fester, coiling in his stomach.

“Well, Miss Sylvad was listed as a former patient, so we looked for her files, and she had two cabinets dedicated to her.”

“You didn’t read them, did you?”

Buggy wasn’t breathing right.

“Of course not, Mr. President,” the agent assured, some fear coming through her voice now. “We brought all of her files with us, but there’s more.”

“Definitely more,” Marianne noted, her voice sounding closer as she went on. “I’m glad we stopped for more food, they look hungry.”

“Explain.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Yes, Mr. Zer—Executive Crocodile, sir,” Marianne stuttered, finally sounding serious, but Zala took the lead.

“Some of the patient files included cam-snails with their initials and dates on the shells. I assume they’re recordings of sessions. Most patients that had recordings only had one or two snails in the group enclosure.”

“How many does she have,” Buggy choked out. He was shaking, even with Crocodile’s warm hand on his back.

“At least thirty, Mr. President,” Marianne said gently.

Gentleness couldn’t ease the chaos inside him.

“ETA,” Crocodile managed, having to pull back his own shaky hand.

“About fourteen days. The soonest would be eleven if Daz can snag us a coated ship before we meet at Sabaody. We picked up the other agents too, so we shouldn’t run into any issues getting through.”

“That’s too late. Buggy, whatever’s in there could–”

“I’m not letting random people watch Y/N’s–watch whatever’s on those snails! It’s bad enough that I’m already listening, and all those people are watching her all the time. It’s not right!”

“Sir, we did steal their encryption snail,” Zala offered. “They must have used it for patient privacy, but the white snail is ours now, and it’s already set up to transmit.”

“Transmit…”

“Yes, Mr. President. If you have a healthy pro-snail, we could securely transmit the recordings to you one at a time. We wouldn’t need to watch them ourselves.”

“No,” Buggy sneered at the larger man, who grimaced before giving orders.

“Wait for our call, agents. We’re gonna talk it out.”

“No, we’re not watching them. It’s too much!”

“Sir, there’s one more thing you should know,” Zala hurried, not pausing before she let it out. “There were instructions on care, and data transfer from old to young snails, as well as backup transmission logs dating back years. Someone else has all of these recordings.”

…

“Sir, are you still there?”

“We’ll call you back.”

~~~

“She keeps getting violated! No fucking PRIVACY! We can’t watch them without her permission, we can’t do it. Please, Crocodile,” Buggy raged through the air, until she started to cry, too far away for him to hold.

Buggy was learning how to go empty like she did, and it chilled Crocodile to the bone. He guided his clown to slump onto that green couch again, wanting to take away the pain that kept making that painted face crumple.

“Let me do it, little clown,” he whispered, kissing his temple.

“No, she wouldn’t want…” Buggy’s voice broke.

Those distant sobs were too much to take.

“Remember that night you helped me carry our girl out of Adam’s room?”

“Yeah,” he frowned, not sure if he should go along with the distraction.

“You said you wanted–”

“I am taking care of her,” the clown snarled, pulling away from the comfort his star couldn’t feel. “We shouldn’t watch.”

Crocodile leaned back, resisting his old ways that had earned him nothing but pain and loneliness.

“Our sweet girl told me something that night, Buggy,” he confessed, watching his clown’s face shift from rage to confusion. “I don’t think she meant to tell me, and she made me promise not to tell anyone.”

“So don’t–”

“I’ll never tell,” he vowed again, and might have smiled at the way Buggy’s head tilted if he didn’t need him to say yes so badly. “But I’m pretty sure I know why Y/N was in that asylum. I’ll watch the recordings, so you don’t have to, and no one else will.”

Crocodile begged now, choking on his old, miserable soul.

“Please, let me help her too, Buggy. Let me help my sweet girl.”

Buggy stared up at that frightening man, and at the hint of tears that threatened to spill down that scarred face.

He really does love her.

Now Buggy reached for the comfort that his star couldn't feel. He clung to that warmth, squeezing tighter when those hums of surprise and satisfaction vibrated through that massive body.

“Little clown…”

“Protect her,” Buggy gave in, exhaustion nearly stealing his voice. She was still sobbing in his head, still losing her fight to keep her pain inside.

“Our girl needs you. She needs her Daddy.”

~~~🐊🤡🐊🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🐊🐊~~~

The ex-Warlord didn’t want to do it in here. He’d helped Y/N fall apart right over there, so beautiful in the dress Mihawk had picked out. Always so beautiful.

But it would take too long to set up another room, and he couldn’t make her wait over his own selfish wish to keep that memory untouched. Even if she never said it back, never felt it, she had opened him up. Crocodile had told his sweet girl that he loved her in this fancy conference room.

Now he’d locked himself inside that room with two snails, and a bottle of scotch, about to ruin that memory.

He couldn’t think about it while he waited. Just let the thick smoke of his cigar fill his mouth, the feel of it unable to calm him while he doodled a little bananawani in the corner of his notepad.

He never got to show her…

“Zala?”

“Yes sir, are–”

“I’m ready. Send the first transmission.”

“Right away, sir. I believe this is the oldest recording. We’ll try to go in order, but it’s a little difficult keeping them all lined up.”

“Just send it.”

~~~

~~~⚫️⚫️⚫️~~~

Fifteen. She said she was fifteen when he died, so this can’t be too long after that.

The image was cleaner than it should be. All the care and transfer to young snails must have kept the recording from degrading, even after all these years.

Y/N’s young face was so clear on the projector screen, so clear that he almost walked to it, until the snail backed away from just her face, showing her at a table, slumped against the wall. Her eyes were almost crossed, staring into nothing.

Then a voice came.

‘Good morning, Y/N, it’s Dr. Vorsan. Could you repeat your name for me?’

Sick laughter poured from the child’s lips, and Crocodile felt his long-neglected heart breaking more with every second it went on.

‘I don’t need to repeat it. You know it. You all know it.’

‘Everyone here wants to help you, Y/N. We want you to get well.’

‘And I want you to fucking DIE! Haha HA!! That's right, you piece of shit, I’m going to fucking KILL YOU!! You think you can– FUCK YOU, don’t fucking touch me! DONTFUCKINGTOUCHMMMN—‘

Nurses had swarmed her, blocking his view, but not before he noticed the restraints at her wrists. Her skin looked raw, like she’d tried to tear herself free with her nails, tried to tear through her own flesh.

Crocodile didn’t notice the long lines his hook had already torn into the conference table.

He could see her again, and he memorized every face around her, every hand that held her trapped. One nurse even covered her lips until she bit them, only to let out another vile laugh before she cried.

‘No, please, don’t. Don’t touch me!’

‘It’s okay, Y/N. You’re not well. Just breathe, we’ll help you through this.’

The doctor’s offscreen voice didn’t stop her from snarling and pleading while another nurse stuck her with a needle.

Y/N’s eyes started to flutter, her rage slowing until she was practically drooling, barely able to hold herself up in the wheelchair they dumped her in.

‘daddy, please…’

She was so quiet.

‘why’d you leave me here, daddy?’

~~~

Crocodile stared into nothing when the recording faded out, his ears ringing with a rage that could have drained the whole island of life.

He couldn’t think. Almost charged through the door to find a fucking boat. Almost destroyed everything in sight.

My girl. My sweet girl.

The scarred man chugged half of the scotch since he knew he’d break the bottle soon, before making the call.

“Hello sir, did the–”

“Send the next one.”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~⚫~SUMMARY~⚫~

The above scene is from Crocodile’s POV as he watched a recording of the reader. The recording showed the reader at the age of fifteen, not long after her father passed.

She was restrained at a table, and Dr. Vorsan’s voice came from off screen. He told her that they were trying to help her get well. The reader reacted with unsettling laughter, cursing, and death threats.

Nurses were shown holding her down while she resisted, and ultimately gave her a shot that made her slump into a wheelchair. She called for her dad softly, asking why he had left her there.

Crocodile struggled with fury at not being able to help her. He drank, and called Zala to transmit the next recording.

~⚫~SUMMARY~⚫~

~~~

~~~🐊🐊🐊~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

“Y/N, what happened? Did he hurt you?”

Kat growled her rage, her fingers digging into your skin while she struggled to pull you onto her lap.

“N-no, he didn’t,” you coughed, then sobbed, then tried again. “He’s a good p-person.”

“Well, if good people make you cry like this, I’m glad we don’t get a lot of them around here.”

Laughs and sobs.

And shame.

So fucking selfish. Making her take care of me again. Always about me. Fucking entitled brat, selfish bitch, weak��

“I’m so sorry, Kat,” you begged. Your pathetic sniveling came out muffled as you wrapped your arms around your head, curling in on yourself.

“Sis, you’re okay. You’re safe. I’m safe. Why do you keep apologizing?”

Her fingers stroked along the side of your face, the parts that weren’t hidden by your shaking arms. Every memory of your failures as a sister filled your throat, threatening to spill and burn the world like lava.

“I left you.”

Kat blinked slowly. Then frowned that perfect frown before she shook you, shocking your sobs away for a moment.

“Don’t fucking do this! I’m a full ass adult, sis. I told you I didn’t want to run off with your clown, remember? Hey?”

Her words should have found their way inside, but you had already slipped out of yourself, your body limp, and useless beside her.

Your sister sighed, returning to gentle touches that didn’t feel real.

“I don’t need you to protect me anymore,” she whispered, somehow reaching that floating part of you as though she knew where your mind had flown. “And if you only came back for that, then I need you to get the fuck out.”

A soft whine hit your throat, your body moving slowly.

“You really want to be with those pirates,” Kat asked, voice soft and low while she studied your heavy eyes. “I don’t want you here if it’s going to tear you up like this. Maybe we can… I’m not watched like you are. Do you want me to try to call them? If I tell them you want to go back… I don’t know what they could do, but we can try.”

A million years were held inside you now. A million years to make the right choice.

“I’m sorry, Kat, I didn’t want to tell you... You were right. I don’t ever want to see those murderers— those monsters again. I shouldn’t have left. I should have listened to you.”

The best lies were true, but when truth was lost, you had to use what remained.

You used the agonizing grief of losing your love to sell your tears, and you used every shred of hate you held for that traitor to make yourself believe your own rage.

“Did they hurt you?”

You took too long, letting silence lie for you.

“I’m going to kill those fuckers. I bet we could hire someone to do it. Let me talk to Uncle—“

“Please don’t, Kat! I don’t want anyone else to know. I just want to forget it, all of it.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not a lie.

“Are you okay,” she asked after staring at you for long enough that you were afraid you'd failed again. Exhaustion fell on you, but you gave a weak smile at her question.

Another Sylvad specialty.

“I’m trying.”

You had missed those narrowed eyes so very much.

“Really, I want to be here, Kitty Kat,” you told the truth, laughing at the instinctual eye roll she gave at the old nickname. “I’m just having a rough time right now.”

“Have you ever not had a rough time? It feels like I’m related to a tragedy sometimes.”

Kat looked so pleased with herself when your jaw dropped, wiggling away from you when your shaky fingers started to poke at her ribs.

“Real nice, sis. Thanks!”

“I am extremely nice,” she deadpanned while she climbed to her feet. “There's a box of cookies in my suite if you want some. I ate like four of them before I came in here, so they should be—“

“Gimme!”

“Just don’t eat all of them,” she scolded, laughing as she walked away.

“I would never!”

Your mock outrage made her laugh harder, and then she was gone. That lie of a smile fell from your lips while you stared at the empty space she had just left.

Kat wasn’t there. She doesn’t know. She can’t.

Slipping away… but it was a different kind of lost. No more limp and useless limbs. No more tears unless you needed them to lie for you. You knew what you had to do.

i can pretend for you, kitty kat.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

Author's Note: I've still been disappearing from the world. I've received some very recent help that might make things a bit easier IRL, so I hope I can talk to humans again soon. For now, I'm just so very very grateful for all of you. This story is helping me through some tough shit, and it wouldn't exist without all of the support, encouragement, and inspiration that y'all give me. I know this one was heavy. I hope that if it hit you hard, you know that you are not alone. Sometimes just seeing pain that looks like ours is a relief, a tiny respite from loneliness. I hope that my words can be that for you, and that we can all get through the tough times with just a little less loneliness. 💜

Fic Updates & Extras: I've included a map below with OP Canon and Numbers Game locations in case y'all would like to see where everybody's at and where the reader's memories occurred. I only included relevant locations and this is definitely not to scale. This map began as my need to ensure that the travel time between Karai Bari, Oak Roots Estate, and then Alabasta and the asylum made sense within the One Piece world. (Although that world doesn't make sense, lol. I added up just the travel time of the Straw Hats journey between islands, and with no stops it would take approx. 22.5 days to get from Alabasta to Egghead 😅) I apologize that I don't have the map or the timeline in text format yet. I will be adding that soon since images aren't accessible for everyone. Please let me know if you'd like that so that my adhd brain doesn't forget!!

Sources: The vast majority of the canon details were compiled by the sweet, glorious, super heroes at the One Piece Wiki, and The Library of Ohara. I would be lost without them!!!! 🙌😭🙏🏼 I'm basing the Numbers Game geography mainly off of This Map by xads181 on Reddit. It is so gorgeous and helpful! 😍 I also referenced This Map from the One Piece Wiki, and This Map from ClayStage.com. I made this map using miro.com.

Numbers Game Map ~ Chapter 34

Part 35

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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autistichalsin · 3 days

Text

My chapter-by chapter analysis of The Hunger Games, chapter 1

Disclaimer: this and all future chapter analyses will contain spoilers for all the books.

What really strikes me about this chapter is what a masterpiece it is; a masterpiece of foreshadowing, establishing moments of characterization, worldbuilding and more, all without ever feeling like we're actually getting infodumped on. This is accomplished with Katniss's stream-of-consciousness storytelling. I've heard it criticized so much, but even aside from the very salient point that it fits her characterization as an emotionally stunted, traumatized, poorly-educated teenage girl, it still helps the story in moments like this. We feel Katniss's inner chaos, and it makes the story that much more immersive.

On to the spoilery part of the analysis:

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

There was a post, a while ago, that I can't find but wish I could. In it, the OP talks about how Prim is literally doomed by the narrative, not "heavily foreshadowed death," but literally doomed by the narrative, and this paragraph is the first sign, because Katniss reaches for Prim and feels emptiness instead. And re-reading this, I agree. The first thing we see Katniss do is reach for Prim, and find nothing. This time, it's temporary, but by the end of the series, it won't be. We've been warned, even if we don't realize it yet: Prim is doomed.

Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Katniss loves her sister and will do literally anything for her. Katniss also has no moral qualms about drowning kittens. With just one paragraph, we learn what a simultaneously harshly practical yet beautifully caring, loving person Katniss is. She has no room in her life for useless things like pets, and drowning strays probably helps the people of 12 in the long run by leaving vermin to be eaten by those on the verge of starvation. But her sister wants to keep Buttercup, and so she will. Katniss will sacrifice anything to keep Prim happy.

Foreshadowing. Prim is doomed.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

STILL more foreshadowing, for different themes: both for one of Katniss's biggest complexes (I'll get into details about this later) and for the theme of love. Katniss doesn't truly love anyone but Prim. Her entire world, we know, is going to be shaken when she does finally feel that for someone else again. Once again, we are being introduced to the recurring themes of love vs practicality and the classic question, "how much pain is love worth?"

Katniss is going to answer this question again and again: for Prim, there is no amount of suffering too great. For others... she'll find different answers. Eventually.

My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

The first hints of Katniss as a deeply traumatized girl emerge. Sometimes, when you're traumatized enough, thoughts can segue into The Event with no warning, just by proximity. And through the combination of blunted language and stream-of-consciousness leaps, we can see just how broken this has left Katniss. Unfortunately, this is only the start of Events for her.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best customers.

A brilliant bit of worldbuilding. The Peacekeepers are working off of deeply corrupt laws, which they ignore because they too are being mistreated and systematically starved, even if they aren't as at risk as the people of 12. The system doesn't care about the very same people it safeguards to enforce its rules. This is the first hint we get that the system isn't sustainable, and it comes before we even fully understand what kind of hell this government is.

The theme of "bread and circuses" is going to be hammered down to us again and again that this is how tyrannical governments, including this one, pacify the masses. But when only the bourgeoisie are being given the bread and circuses, well.... the proletariat aren't going to take it forever.

The book hasn't shown itself to be the anti-capitalist masterpiece it is yet, but this is the first hint that we're reading a tale of class warfare.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

I have seen criticisms that this is an egregious case of showing and not telling, with Katniss constantly talking about the dangers of badmouthing the government while never facing them. But in truth, it's the opposite. Yes, Katniss hasn't been caught despite repeated statements that she could have, but we'll learn, here and in future chapters, that 12 has been receiving a sort of tradeoff with other districts; their more severe poverty places them below notice. No one thinks them capable of causing real trouble, and even their district specialty- coal- is later proven to be basically useless, busy-work. So they get ignored... for now. Until the oligarchs start seeing what the proletariat can actually do and crack down all the harder to ensure they keep their cheap labor.

Are you seeing the resonance with the real world yet?

Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

Here we see the dual themes of parentification and sacrifice. Katniss will be the adult, even though she ISN'T an adult, for her sister. She will keep quiet on things that hurt her, and upset her, to set a better example for her sister and keep her from getting hurt. Prim gets to have the normal and safe childhood Katniss never had, because Katniss has invested everything into ensuring she does.

We are taking a step up the ladder of self-sacrificial acts, here. In other words: more foreshadowing. Katniss will give everything for Prim. Prim is going to die, because Katniss is going to lose everything she cared about in the process of protecting everything she cared about.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Katniss can't be a teenage girl. She has to be Prim's mom. She has to be tough. She has to be a provider. She has to be a trader. An advocate. She so rarely complains about it, too. But it shows here just how much she's given up. Only one place, and one person she can be herself with, and yet...

Gale.

Isn't this ironic. Because we are about to see, throughout the entire series, that this day is going to be the last time Gale actually lets Katniss be herself (and even here, there are strong hints that Gale wants Katniss to be something very different).*

*Disclaimer, because it seems important: my opinion on the Katniss/Gale vs Katniss/Peeta ship war is "team nobody." I think both of them were very bad for her in different ways. Any comment I make that seems like it is favoring one ship or the other... isn't.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

Maybe I'm overanalyzing, but I feel like this sums up the Katniss/Gale relationship so much. Katniss tries to speak, and Gale doesn't hear or understand her. Gale projects something onto her, and Katniss rolls with it. Sure, in this case it's a cute nickname, but it represents so much more to me.

Gale doesn't understand Katniss. Fundamentally. He understands the Katniss he wants to exist. The one who will run off with him and play house in the woods and indulge his little fantasies. He doesn't know very much about the real Katniss, at least as long as he's looking at her through a romantic lens.

“Look what I shot.” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh.

Despite what I just said, I do love Gale and Katniss's friendship, and it breaks my heart that their friendship was as doomed as Prim. (Hint. Hint.) Katniss needed someone who understood the unique pain of parentification due not to abuse, but poverty- the kind where you aren't 'allowed' to feel angry at anyone within reach. Which is the worst kind of injustice. Getting mad at someone who harmed you is one thing, but getting mad at a system you can never (... yet) hope to change is different.

She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam.

It's said in a casual and sort of admiring way here. But Katniss is going to learn firsthand about the intersection between love and sacrifice. With the generational mirroring as a theme, especially between Katniss and Peeta, we're being given more foreshadowing that Katniss has self-sacrifice "in the blood."

I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

Another little glimpse into Katniss's pain and trauma. Her mom wasn't there when Katniss needed her most, and Katniss and Prim both almost died as a result. It wasn't her fault, and we see later that she regrets it deeply, but this still leaves scars. Your parents, above everyone else, are supposed to protect you. Katniss's mom didn't, Katniss nearly died, and because of that, Katniss had to sacrifice what remained of her childhood to become Prim's mom.

Katniss and Prim's relationship never goes back to just normal sisterhood after this. From the moment Mrs. Everdeen's trauma rendered her catatonic onwards, Katniss and Prim's relationship was infused with a mother-child dynamic that never left, not even when Mrs. Everdeen became well again.

It's so painful, all the more so because it's so real. I lived this with my little brother, albeit with stakes maybe 1% this high, when my mom became an alcoholic and my dad was too busy just trying to survive to really do anything. I was the one to take care of him emotionally, to show someone cared, to provoke my mom's anger so he wouldn't be hit, to make sure homework got done and he didn't skip school (I failed. Badly.) He still considers me more his parent than either of our parents. It never really goes away, even when you're both adults; that overdeveloped feeling of responsibility stays with you. Always.

And the worst part of it is when the parent who made you have to do this decides, on their own, that the time is right for them to come back. Katniss's mom is far more gracious about it than my own. She at least understood Katniss's pain, and didn't try to force the role on her; it happened only when Katniss was ready. But that too, as we'll see in a minute, was painfully real for me.

“I never want to have kids,” I say. “I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale. “But you do,” I say, irritated. “Forget it,” he snaps back. The conversation feels all wrong.

Once again, a hint that despite their sweet friendship and similarities, these are two tragically, fundamentally incompatible people. Katniss is in too much pain to think of ever having a family, and Gale is in too much pain to think of not ever having one. Katniss wants to survive the way she always has (which she doesn't realize isn't her destiny yet) and Gale wants to flee and survive literally any other way.

Both change in the end, but the underlying incompatibilities in their life approaches are still there.

And even if we did . . . even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s never been anything romantic between Gale and me. [...] Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

A few very interesting things are happening here. One, we're getting another hint, first dropped during Katniss's thoughts about Buttercup, that Katniss has a pathological inability to believe others actually like her- romantically or otherwise. Part of it is low self-esteem, part of it is putting Prim on such a pedestal that Katniss feels she can never live up (and giving her more self-esteem issues) and feeling like anything she attributes to herself might take away from Prim, and part of it is just raw cynicism. And maybe a dash or two of the feeling of permanent othering trauma gives you. Especially when that trauma involves a realization that you're never going to be able to rely on others to meet your own needs. You're responsible for your needs and your loved ones' too.

(Katniss is one of the most complex and real characters of all time. I relate to Katniss an uncomfortable amount sometimes.)

The other interesting thing is that you're getting a sense, for the first time, of how much trouble Katniss has recognizing and processing her own emotions- a very common trait in neurodivergent people. She can sort-of-understand a feeling of jealousy, but can't quite put her finger on the reason, and fitting with her attitude of relentless practicality, she decides that it's the worry of losing a useful hunting partner. Because, after all, Prim is the only person she loves, she can't care for anyone else, there isn't room for that. To care about anyone else would be to "take away" something from Prim.

Katniss repeatedly raises the question of when self-sacrifice crosses the line into self-harm by proxy. When altruistic love becomes self-negation instead. It's sweet that she loves Prim so much, but the codependence... If this is the benchmark for love for Katniss, it's no wonder that she feels at this point that she can't feel it for anyone else. This isn't sustainable.

(Prim is doomed. We've been warned.)

I found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

This is going to be a recurring theme; Katniss is too impulsive and lacking a sufficient cause-effect pathway to be a planner/strategist. Gale makes the plans now; later it'll be Peeta and Haymitch.

(Also, this is foreshadowing Katniss's lack of agency. She is about to become an audience member in her own life story. She found the strawberries, but she didn't decide what to do about them. Gale did. That's about to become her entire life.)

No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

There is a hierarchy still, where the Peacekeepers are starving, but not as starving as the people in the communities they're sent to. Everyone is hungry, but some are hungrier than others.

Hint. Hint.

“That’s not her fault,” I say. “No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

"Remember who the real enemy is." Katniss gets told this repeatedly, by Haymitch and others, and eventually she learns the lesson in time to lead a successful revoltuion.

Gale does not learn this lesson. He will end up destroying everything he cares about in his pursuit of revenge against the Capitol and anyone associated with it.

Gale would normally say that there is a huge difference between Madge, the mayor's daughter who is pampered and comparatively privileged, versus the willfully malicious Peacekeepers; the middle class are still part of the proletariat, after all. But Gale, in his pain and fear, loses sight of it and lashes out. This time, it's just words. By the end of the series, when he gets actual power, it will lead to something far more catastrophic.

Prim is doomed to die, Gale and Katniss's friendship is doomed to end in the most bitter way possible, and Gale is doomed to be his own worst enemy.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I’m sure she thought was a harmless comment.

Gale knows he's wrong to say things like that. But again, as said above, his pain and fear get the better of him, and cause pain to those around him. His normal philosophy is correct, but he loses sight of and discards it far too easily.

(Gale is going to lose everything because of his scorched-earth approach to anger.)

Also, a note: this is how the real world operates too. Culture wars to distract from class war. For an entire generation of readers, this was their introduction to the basic principles of socialism.

But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things fair. It doesn’t fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Katniss is still hung up on practicality. When she rants about the Capitol, she is, subconsciously, crying for help. But venting for the sake of venting doesn't make so much sense to her, given her stunted emotions.

Another bit of characterization I really enjoy here is the realistic teenage behavior. Yes, they're the oldest in their families, responsible for their entire family and only able to support them by hunting, and they should "know better". But they're teenagers in a fascist government, with an already extreme list of traumas and corresponding problems with emotions. Of course they're going to act irrationally at times and scare off game because they're having a meltdown- even non-traumatized teens would do that sometimes!

They're teenagers. Incredibly well-written, realistic teenagers. They don't have fully developed frontal lobes with the corresponding gifts of planning, impulse control, cause-effect relationships, and other things yet. They're more mature than most, but they're still going to behave foolishly sometimes.

Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins.

This is probably a "the curtains are blue because they're blue!" moment, but this is another bit of symbolism I enjoy. Katniss, at Prim's age, was hunting and entering the Hob. Prim is being kept alive by both Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen. She has a dress that mostly fits. She has good meals now. She is protected where Katniss wasn't. The dress represents both the sacrifices Katniss made for her and the fact that now, Prim has the adoring mother Katniss didn't have. She has two loving people looking out for her, willing to do anything to keep her safe, healthy, and happy.

(Prim is doomed.)

To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes. “Are you sure?” I ask.

Katniss can't comprehend her mom doing motherly things for her. Both because of the parentification, and because Katniss still fundamentally can't believe that anyone, even her own mother, actually cares for her enough to want to do anything for her. Not after four years of Katniss carrying the entire family on her back. It's incompatible with the world she's lived in for the last four years.

Katniss is painfully relatable.

I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me.

Painfully. Relatable.

What Katniss is feeling in this scene, I don't think I can describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It's relief-bitterness-anger-hope-longing-mistrust.

"Oh great, look who's finally here to help now that things are okay again and I figured everything out on my own! I want you back. I want a parent back. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop it. I can't trust you not to make me do it again. I'd better keep doing it so I don't get my hopes up. How do I even live without doing this? How do I live as a person and not a caretaking robot for my family? Am I allowed to do that? What kind of selfish person would I be if I did, especially now that I've seen what will happen if you fail again? No, I'm not letting you do this. I'll let you pretend to the little one because they need a parent figure and they deserve to feel normal, but me? Hell no, do you think I'm stupid? I am taking care of myself, I already learned what it costs to trust other people to see to my needs and that is not a price I'll pay a second time, thankyouverymuch. Yeah, mom I love you. I'm glad you're okay now. And thanks for doing this for me, I guess."

It goes something like that.

But I digress.

In just this paragraph Katniss expresses so much of the pain of parentification, so succinctly yet vividly that it makes my chest hurt.

I just really, really love Katniss, okay?

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice. “And nothing like myself,” I say.

Ow. Just... ow. She says it so matter-of-factly. Like she's just accepted it into her worldview; Prim, the embodiment of everything good in the world, is beautiful. Katniss, the leftover, the thing that exists just to take care of Prim, is ugly. That simple.

I wish we could have seen Prim respond here; surely she doesn't like anyone, even her sister herself, talking about Katniss this way? Or maybe Prim is so used to these kinds of casual self-put-downs that she's stopped trying to talk Katniss out of it.

Again: painfully relatable.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

Once more: Painfully. Relatable. You put so much into protecting 'your kiddo'. And then something comes along and reminds you that you're even more powerless than the useless adults in your life. It hurts. It feels like you failed. It's one thing for you to get hurt, you already know how to deal with it, but them?

Ugh. Dystopian fiction isn't usually where my inner abused and parentified child gets validated, but this series unlocked some things in my neural pathways.

Thank you, Suzanne Collins, for Katniss. I feel so seen in so many ways through her and her story.

Sorry. I know this is supposed to be an analysis, not a love letter, but damn if Katniss doesn't play my heartstrings like a fiddle.

“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.” “Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me.

Sorry, I am going to try to not repeat myself so much, but once again it just... Prim gets to be a child, because of Katniss. She gets to be a normal-ish 12 year old who makes silly animal noises and can't tuck her dress in. Katniss was fighting for her life and trying to find food. And of course it's not Prim's fault- I love Prim. But there's something just so painful about this contrast. Katniss had her childhood stolen from her, first by the tyrannical government she lived in, then her father's death, then her mother's mental illness, and finally the needs of a child she never should have been responsible for.

It's no wonder Katniss spends so much of the series in that emotional state abused, neglected, and traumatized children know all too well. You're simultaneously precocious and childish. Too grown-up one minute and acting like a child the next. Katniss never got to experience linear growth, and her psychology sure as hell shows it.

Painfully. Relatable.

Also, yet again: Prim. Is. Doomed. She's the most important thing in Katniss's life, the rationale for every decision Katniss makes, the reason she gets out of bed in the morning. The one person who makes Katniss's life worth living. Precious, sweet Prim, who retains her innocence and kindness in a world that aggressively stomps out both, is doomed by the narrative in every possible way.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker. The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. [...] I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

When you're a child, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your parents, because your life experience just hasn't shaped yet to show you that it's even possible. You don't understand that it can happen.

When you're an adult, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your child, because your life experience has shaped to show you exactly how it's possible. You know exactly how it can happen, so you can't believe that it can actually happen.

Katniss is at a stage of her life that would already be transitional in normal circumstances, where she'd start contemplating mortality- but she's already dealt with it for years.

Her own death doesn't scare her anymore. Her sister's scares her so much that she doesn't even think it's a possibility. After all, everything she's done for the last four years of her life has been for Prim. To keep her alive and give her the childhood Katniss lost suddenly and traumatically.

Prim is doomed.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

We got hints of apathy and cruelty before, but now the curtain is, for the first time, being peeled back. This isn't a system built on simple oppression. It's a system built on raw sadism.

It's another sign that Panem isn't sustainable. People can endure a lot of cruelty when their loved ones are hostages, but there are limits. When those limits get pushed (hint), something will have to give.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others.

Bread and circuses. The poor give labor (food) and entertainment, and the rich receive them. The rich live sequestered lives full of privilege, yet ultimately just as much under the thumb as the tyrant as anyone else. But still supporting the system because they lack the empathy to want change when they benefit from the status quo more than they would from a new system, so they think. They are simultaneously disgusting and pitiful.

Like the comfortably wealthy Trump-supporting boomers we all know and loathe.

The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

Our very first, incredibly subtle hint, that winning the games might be even worse than losing them. The first time reading, of course, you'll take this at face value. Later, though, you'll think of this and realize it was all only mockery and isolationism, a way of guaranteeing that the victors would be scapegoated by their District, ensuring they would never find companionship again even if their trauma didn't prevent it. And they can't complain, because, after all, they now have a life of comfort.

So many things are intersecting here; class warfare (Victors being an allegory for "temporarily embarrassed millionaires" and the American Dream) and the isolation of trauma and mental illness and more.

But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

Katniss so rarely worries about herself, only those she cares for. Again; her own mortality is okay to her. It's those she protects she can't let this happen to. But since she can't even bear to face the possibility of Prim being chosen (Prim is doomed) yet, she focuses her feelings on Gale, not only worrying that he'll be picked, but worrying that he will be upset that she might be. She only spares thoughts for herself for a few brief seconds, in the next paragraph.

Katniss gets accused of being selfish so many times, but it's notable that those moments only happen once she volunteers to go into the arena, once her survival depends on a bit of selfishness. Before then, she's one of the least selfish people in the entire series, and I'd argue that even at her worst she doesn't count as truly selfish. She's a teenager trying to survive and return home to her family, not a toddler who won't share toys.

I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

But, of course, even when you are theoretically okay with dying, being faced with the actual thing will still inspire terror. So for just a moment, Katniss lets herself lapse into worry about herself.

For just a moment, she thinks about herself- and just that fast, Prim is placed in danger.

(This is how Prim will die too, by the way; being put in danger the one time Katniss is focused on something other than her. Prim is doomed.)

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen.

The unthinkable has happened, and Katniss's life has been changed forever.

And even though she can save Prim this time, it's only temporary.

Prim is doomed. Nothing in the world can prevent it now. Prim would die in the arena, but by going instead, Katniss has put herself in a position where any and all actions she does will spark a revolution that gives her a Pyrrhic victory.

There is no version of events where Prim lives.

Prim is doomed.

#katniss everdeen #thg #the hunger games #hunger games #primrose everdeen

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