#caesar mode

[chikaoofka]

i need to get better with backgrounds, i think, but i hateee colouring it all so here's a few sketches. Yay! I Hate Perspective and such. The first image is a bit old, the second less so, and I just finished the third. In order, they depict: Edgar's bedroom (nothing much more to say), the lighthouse (Cass' and Ed's "secret place"... that lighthouse has been defunct and haunted for decades at this point! It's all theirs........), and hmmm. Cassius celebrating Christmas and whatnot with his family. :) (Look! He's teaching the kid to play the piano! Isn't that cute? The piano is all out of tune, though.......)

Also in the last image Caesar is covering up these two little bird guys. I just want everyone to see them because theyre awesome ok?

[mcsm-confessions]

Aiden is so Brutus Core

“I don’t want what you have, I WANNA BE YOU!” Ahh Mf

~~~

[curierx]

Caesar is now my fav character now, I'm so happy to pull her but I can't get her W-Engine :(

[ssupod]

Episode 4: 1.2 Special Program - Chili de Inferno

[hauntingblue]

Caesar needs to be tried for war crimes no only being beaten by luffy. We need actual legal repercussions here and impel down is not enough

[seianusfanboy]

this was the peak of italian rep

[death-rebirth-senshi]

Can I live can I breathe? Apparently not

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTEXT chapter five, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, caesars interviews, rafe and reader bonding, the last night before the games, i havent slept im so ready to start writing i havent even worked on the masterlist for this LMFAO sorry im spewing these out so much i just love thg

main masterlist | tag list | previous next

the day after the scores, you’re told it’s your rest day, but there’s no such thing as rest here.

enobaria calls it a “refining session.” brutus, on the other hand, tosses a lopsided grin and says, “boot camp.”

you literally don’t even laugh.

the two of them are already planted on the velvet couches in the living room when you step in, hair still damp, expression blank. rafe drifts in behind you and flops down beside you on the couch, one leg bent beneath him, his elbow thrown lazily over the back of the cushions. when brutus eyes him, he shrugs.

“what?” rafe says, stretching his arms with a quiet crack. “we’re all friends here.”

enobaria rolls her eyes. brutus just exhales like he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

what follows is not friendly. it’s sharp-edged and exhausting, a full-blown psychological breakdown of what you’re supposed to be tomorrow when you step on caesar flickerman’s stage. not who you are, but who they want you to become.

“you’re not just tributes,” enobaria says, pacing slow. “you’re symbols, metaphors, breathing metaphors. do you understand?”

you nod, though you’re not sure if you do.

brutus rubs a hand over his face. “we’re giving you roles to play,” he says, a little softer. “you have to sell yourselves to the capitol. they’re going to fall in love with the idea of you.”

they look at rafe first.

“you’re the knight,” enobaria says. “protector of panem. young soldier from district two. charming, powerful, noble. someone who doesn’t fight because he wants to kill, but because it’s his duty.”

“chivalrous,” brutus adds. “but intimidating when you need to be.”

“someone the audience trusts,” she finishes, “but knows better than to cross.”

rafe lifts an eyebrow. “so you want me to be terrifying and trustworthy?”

“exactly,” enobaria says, not missing a beat.

he leans back again, mouth twitching at the corner. “guess i can do that.”

you wish it were that easy. but they turn to you next. enobaria studies you for too long, like she’s trying to peel your skin back to see what’s underneath.

“you’re not fire,” she says. “don’t try to be.”

you raise your chin, something cold curls in your gut. okay.

“you’re elegance,” brutus says. “grace, a flower that blooms in the middle of a battlefield.”

enobaria steps closer. “you’re the divine feminine, not to be underestimated. you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.”

you don’t know whether to feel flattered or furious. how the fuck do you portray that in an interview?

instead, you just breathe in slowly, eyes fixed on the window across the room. you’re too tired to argue.

they give you sample questions, hypothetical answers. you sit there for over two hours, repeating lines until they sound rehearsed in your own head.

rafe plays along easily, his tone slipping into charm when he’s asked about his strengths, letting a grin tug at his lips. you catch glimpses of what he’ll be like on stage. it’s convincing. dangerously so.

you get a break after that, barely ten minutes. just long enough to want to be anywhere else.

you’re standing near the sliding doors to the balcony, arms crossed, head pounding. the sky’s just starting to turn a hazy kind of blue. the city below doesn’t look real. nothing here does.

behind you, you hear rafe’s voice. “you wanna go?”

you turn your head slightly. he’s holding open the door with one hand, eyebrows raised.

“spar,” he clarifies. “just you ‘n me.”

you don’t answer, just step past him. you roll your shoulders back as you turn to face him, bare feet shifting against the smooth tile.

“first hit wins?” you say.

he smirks. “you won’t land one.”

you launch at him without warning, and he catches your momentum easily, spinning to throw you off balance, but you recover fast, ducking under his arm and aiming a quick jab at his side. he dodges, just barely.

your bodies move in rhythm. it’s dance-like and clean. but he’s faster, more grounded. his strength is in his restraint. he never uses more force than necessary. you can tell he’s holding back again, testing you, watching how you move.

but you’re not weak. you’re sharp, light on your feet. your hits are quick and calculated.

there’s a moment where he catches your wrist and twists, and your breath catches, but instead of panicking, you roll with it, using your other hand to push him back, your legs sweeping under his.

he stumbles, just for a second. you both pause. then you laugh, he does too. you wipe sweat from your brow and shake your head. “you’re better at this than i thought.”

“i’m better at everything than you thought.”

you roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest has eased. the sparring is the most normal thing you’ve done in days.

he steps closer, not in a threatening way. he holds your gaze. “you’ll be good out there,” he says, voice low.

you don’t ask if he means the interview. or the arena. you just nod. “yeah,” you murmur. “you too.”

the morning of the interview, you wake before the sun.

there’s no need to, no call time that early, no knock on the door. but your body just knows, like it’s wired to the pressure now. your stomach turns the second your eyes open, heavy and hollow all at once. you lie there for a while in the dark, the sheets tangled around your legs.

you don't remember falling asleep. you barely remember yesterday. the rehearsals blurred together, your body and brain pushed past the point of tired, and now you're on the other side of it.

you keep hearing brutus’ voice in your head.

you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.

whatever the hell that means.

you rise slowly. everything you do feels deliberate now, like it matters. like they're watching. even now. even here.

you step into the shower and let the heat burn against your skin. it's too hot. you don’t care. the steam curls up around you, beads of water streaming down your back like they’re trying to rinse off the nerves, the fear, the truth of where you're going.

when you step out, you don’t bother looking in the mirror. you know what you’ll see. your prep team does, too.

they're waiting when you step into the room that’s been transformed into a personal studio. valis is standing to the side, arms folded in a sleek black outfit, surveying your approach like a general waiting for her soldier.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks you over and nods. you’re a canvas, and she’s about to make you perfect.

the prep team descends in silence, gloved hands on your shoulders, guiding you gently toward the chair. your damp hair is already being combed through, braided, twisted. there’s music playing somewhere, no real words being sung, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own thoughts.

you murmur to yourself under your breath, just words from yesterday’s rehearsal, like the phrases they drilled into you, the fake answers, the poised smiles, the things you’re supposed to say when they ask you about the games, or about your partner, or what makes you different from every other tribute.

you think about your parents, what they’ll see. you wonder if they’ll even recognize you when you step on that stage.

a warm hand lifts your chin, guiding your face as the stylists start to work. powder, shimmer, subtle contouring that sculpts your features but doesn’t hide them. they know the image valis is aiming for.

the dress appears partway through. someone wheels it in carefully, draped over a velvet mannequin, covered in clear silk. your eyes lock on it instantly.

it’s breathtaking.

it doesn’t scream district two. not really. but there’s a nod in the design. it’s less armor, more divine regalia.

you catch your reflection now.

valis steps up beside you and nods once. “you’ll have them in the palm of your hand.” but you don’t answer.

you’re standing in line.

the stage is just beyond the doors, a glowing, blinding light on the other side. the screen above will play each interview in real time, showing the faces of the tributes in front of you. it’s where you’ll laugh, charm, and lie.

the line forms by district, starting with one. you’re somewhere toward the front again, right behind topper. your heels are quiet on the smooth floor, your body still, your breath slow.

topper stands in front of you, hands loose at his sides, relaxed in a way only someone from district one can be. he plays with the button on his jacket, bouncing slightly on his heels. you can hear him humming. he’s not nervous. he’s performing.

diamonte is already on stage.

you don’t even realize you’ve been tuning her out until caesar starts clapping and thanking her. her voice was quiet, her answers clipped. gee, her mentor must be exhausted.

the moment she exits the stage, the prep team swarms her like flies. and once his name is called, topper steps forward, a grin blooming across his face like it’s second nature.

you let your attention drift as the cameras pan to him.

his laughter fills the hallway as he starts his interview, all teeth and charm and easy. caesar eats it up. so does the audience. you let your eyes flick to the screen above, only half-listening. it’s hard to focus. you’re running through every question brutus made you answer yesterday, every phrase enobaria made you repeat.

the words still live in your mouth like muscle memory.

you’re so deep in your head, you don’t realize your hand has drifted back until you feel something warm brush your fingertips.

you blink, focus sharpening. his fingers. rafes.

you glance down, startled, but don’t move. his hand is at his side too, casual like yours, but his fingers are grazing yours like they’re asking a question.

his movements are slow, hesitant, like he’s checking if you’ll pull away. but for some reason, you don’t. instead, your hand stays there.

rafes fingers finally press softly into yours, and you stare at the floor. his thumb brushes along the inside of your knuckle once, kind of grounding in a way.

it’s stupid. and still, you squeeze his hand back.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to, you just feel the warmth and the way it anchors you for a second when the world feels like it might spin off its axis.

topper’s name is shouted overhead in that sing-song way caesar flickerman always does, a final cheer ringing out from the crowd. on the screen, topper flashes his signature smirk, presses a hand to his chest, nods once like he’s accepting a crown, and walks off into the wings where his team waits for him like he’s already won.

your hand tightens slightly around rafe’s. his thumb strokes yours once more.

then you hear your name.

his touch disappears, you’re the one pulling away. you take one breath, two, and you don’t look back. you lift your chin, and walk.

once you step out into the light, it floods you all at once. you feel the heat on your skin, the flutter in your chest. your shoes hit the stage like they belong here,

smile, you remind yourself. so you do. not too big. just enough.

your lips curve gently, like a subtle invitation. you walk like you’ve done this before. like you’ve walked on runways made of bone and silk. like you’ve never known fear.

you cross to the velvet armchair opposite caesar flickerman, who beams like he’s just seen a goddess step into his living room. his blue hair sparkles under the lights, suit more outrageous than ever. it’s something gold and high-collared tonight, glowing like it was made of static.

you sit, and the applause simmers down to a purr as caesar leans forward, hands clasped.

“welcome, welcome,” caesar says, beaming at you. “you look stunning, my dear. absolutely radiant. tell me—who is responsible for this masterpiece of a dress?”

you glance toward the audience, then down at the gown.

it’s a dark wine red, almost black under the lights. the fabric flows like water, high-necked with a slit up one leg, the cut hugging you like it was poured on. petals are made from delicate glassy mesh climb up the bodice, unfurling across your chest and one shoulder.

“valis and my prep team,” you say. your voice is clear, calm, just a little smoky. “they worked very hard on it, caesar.”

“they deserve a raise,” caesar says dramatically. the crowd laughs. “and is it true we have a theme going on with this look? i’m sensing something floral, something . . .”

you smile again. just slightly. “roses,” you say, letting the word linger. “a reminder that something beautiful can still be dangerous.”

a hush falls. then applause.

you see it in caesar’s eyes. you’ve got him. he adjusts in his seat. “now i have to say, there’s been a lot of talk about you. your training score was . . . well, let’s just say it had everyone leaning forward. and the quiet ones, oh, we know what they say about the quiet ones. i mean, it was the highest score received this year.”

you keep your expression unreadable. “what can i say?” you reply softly. “i prefer to let my actions speak for me.”

the crowd loves that. they cheer again. even caesar claps a little, but you feel yourself settle into the moment. you were born for this, weren’t you?

“so tell us,” caesar goes on. “what’s your strategy going into the arena? any strengths you want to share? anything we should be watching for?”

you pause for a breath.

“i’m not here to make friends,” you say simply “i’m here to survive.”

another pause.

“but i do think there’s a . . . poetry in surviving. it’s not just about killing. it’s about reading the arena, understanding people, knowing when to wait, and when to strike. and how to turn the odds.”

caesar whistles. “spoken like a true daughter of two! and is there anyone, back home maybe, who’ll be watching you closely?”

you let the question hang in the air. your eyes flick to the camera softly, and you nod. “i hope my parents are watching,” you say. “i hope . . . they know i haven’t forgotten who i am.”

that earns a quieter reaction. people are still respectful, just a little more curious. you don’t say anything else.

caesar stands with you, takes your hand, raises it to the crowd, “district two’s rose—y/n!”

the applause swells. you let them cheer, let them look at you and see exactly what you want them to see. you smile, but it never quite reaches your eyes.

you step offstage into a rush of motion. the applause is still buzzing in your ears. immediately, you're swallowed by hands. valis’ voice hits first, sharp with breathless praise.

“you were perfect,” she says, adjusting the fabric at your shoulder, like there’s something to fix even though there’s not. “the smile, the posture, the answers. perfect.”

your prep team swarms in next, touching your hair, smoothing your dress, giving you anxious, excited looks. they all talk at once. someone hands you water, someone else mutters something about a strand of hair being out of place. you don’t listen. not really.

enobaria appears behind valis, arms folded. “well done,” she says simply. “you said everything we wanted them to hear. you owned the room. didn’t overstay, didn’t overshare. you were exactly what we needed you to be.”

you nod, just once, like you’re absorbing it, but your eyes are already moving up, to the screen above the door.

caesar’s still standing on stage, soaking up the applause that followed your exit. “and now,” he announces, voice rising again, “please welcome to the stage . . . our male tribute from district two—rafe cameron!”

the camera follows him as he steps into the light. his suit is simple, dark, collar slightly open like he couldn’t be bothered to wear a tie. and a small, barely-there detail: a single rose pin at his lapel. it matches the petals from your dress.

he takes the chair opposite caesar, leans back like he’s done this a thousand times, like he’s not about to enter a deathmatch, but like he’s sitting at a bar about to tell you a story.

you don’t realize you’ve stepped forward until valis gently tugs your elbow, ushering you to sit. but you don’t sit. not yet. your eyes stay locked on the screen.

you watch as caesar leans in, grin wide. “rafe cameron. i think you’ve just broken quite a few hearts in this room.”

rafe’s laugh is low, warm. just the right amount of amused. “that’s not my intention,” he says. “but i’ll take the compliment.”

the audience swoons. you can already see the headlines. the capitol’s favorite solder, the face of two, panem’s protector.

“now, you’re quite the mystery, rafe,” caesar says, smiling. “the training scores don’t lie. and you’re not exactly the loudest tribute we’ve had, but there’s something about you . . . something commanding. tell us, where does that come from?”

rafe shrugs slightly. “i grew up around people who didn’t let words mean much,” he says. “they taught me that actions matter more. if i make it out of that arena, it won’t be because i talked my way through.”

gee, you two are looking like two peas in a pod now.

“so no fancy speeches?” caesar teases.

rafe smiles again, slower this time. “if i give a speech, it’s probably because i’m buying time to get behind you.”

the crowd loses it.

even caesar laughs, clapping his hands. “oh, i like you.”

valis murmurs something beside you, something about how his phrasing is perfect, how he’s sticking to the plan, how he’s a dream.

caesar asks about the arena next, like what he’ll do when it all starts.

“i’ll fight,” rafe says. “that’s what i’ve been trained to do.”

“and if you’re not the last one standing?” caesar asks, voice softer.

rafe pauses.

and for a second, you see it, something flickering in his expression. “then i’ll make sure the person who is . . . deserves to be.”

caesar lets the silence hang for just long enough before rising to his feet and calling out his name like a victory bell, “rafe cameron!”

the applause slams through the studio again as rafe rises, nodding once to the audience, then turning to disappear into the wings.

when rafe walks past the prep teams and camera cords, he doesn’t stop until he’s beside you.

you nudge his arm, “panem’s protector?”

he hums like you’re challenging him, “our rose of panem?”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a smile in it.

the ride back to the apartment is quiet. brutus has already mumbled something about calling it a night and disappears into his room the moment the elevator doors open. enobaria lingers in the living room, speaking in low, clipped tones into a thin communicator tucked into her wrist. a family call, maybe. her voice softens when she says the name lynna. it makes you smile, even though you don’t know who that is.

you don’t listen in anyway. it’s not your place.

instead, you let valis and your prep team start their work.

they're gentler this time, quieter, more careful, like they know tonight is different. it’s not just an end to the public show, but the last stretch of normalcy before it all crumbles into the arena tomorrow.

the dress is removed, handled like it’s priceless. and maybe it is. your skin is wiped clean, their fingers warm as they dab off every trace of shimmer, rouge, gloss. even the kohl lining your eyes. it’s all erased, like none of it ever mattered.

you're back in your loungewear again. it’s just you.

you hear the other prep team working on rafe in the room across from yours with muffled voices, maybe some quiet laughter. his team has always been a bit more relaxed than yours. you wonder if he’s smiling. if he’s pretending he’s not scared.

you don’t speak to each other yet. not with all these people still here. but when they finally start to pack up, hands gentle and final, you feel a strange kind of grief tug at your ribs, like losing something you didn’t even know you were holding.

valis kisses the top of your head before she leaves. you don’t stop her. she doesn’t say goodbye just yet. she’s probably saving it for tomorrow. but she squeezes your shoulder and goes.

rafe’s team probably does the same. you hear the soft footsteps and hushed murmurs, and then the front door hisses shut behind them, and it’s just the four of you now.

brutus is silent behind his door. snoring, probably.

enobaria’s still talking in the living room, but her voice is fading into something calmer. laughter, even.

you don’t mean to sit down on your bed. you just find yourself there. your fingers twist the edge of the blanket without thought. your gaze is trained somewhere between the floor and nothing at all.

you should rest, but your mind doesn’t want to. it’s loud now. strategies, maps, faces, weapons, alliances, weak points. it’s all there, all fighting for space in your head.

it feels like studying for an exam in school, except this time, a wrong answer doesn’t just mean a bad grade. it means a knife in your throat. a cannon fire. a name in the sky.

you hate that thought. you hate it. but it’s real. you have to be the one who survives. you can’t afford not to be. not after all this. not with how many people are counting on you. but then again . . . the games don’t care what you deserve. and luck doesn’t care either.

you’ve seen it in old games before. it doesn’t even matter if you’re strong, or fast, or smart. one misstep, one wrong branch or trap or breath, and it’s over. that’s what scares you, not the killing.

you shift and lay back, arms at your sides, eyes on the ceiling. you think about the arena, what it might be.

a sunken city, maybe. collapsing buildings, rusted steel and water pooling beneath cracked rooftops. a place where every step is a risk.

or maybe something dry and open. a desert with no real water source comes to mind. but no, they wouldn’t do that. it would end too quickly. there’d be no tension, no drawn-out battles, no long, bloody entertainment.

they need a spectacle this year. the tributes are too good. the scores too high. no one wants to see a short game.

you sigh, and roll to your side. the fabric of the blanket scratches slightly against your cheek. you’d watched the rest of the interviews once you were back in your room earlier. nothing stuck except for a girl from five. her name slips your mind, but not her face, her hands didn’t fidget when she spoke. and the guy from eleven. there was something in the way he hesitated before answering certain questions. something he didn’t want to give away.

you’ll remember that if you see them again. like, you’ll see him before the bloodbath surely, but once you’ve taken what you need tomorrow and start to survive in the arena? it’s weird to know you might never see them again.

you close your eyes for a second, but the quiet only sharpens. the light dims in your room after it’s suspected no movement from you, and you let it. maybe your room without light will make you calm down.

there’s a soft knock at your door, like three light taps.

you blink, lifting your head slightly, already assuming it’s enobaria. maybe she’s just checking in, saying goodnight before finally calling it. you half expect her voice on the other side, ‘rest up. don’t waste your nerves now.’

but instead, the door cracks open slowly, just enough to reveal a boyish, crooked smile, like he’s trying not to laugh. like he’s about to say something really stupid. your heart flickers in your chest when you realize it’s rafe.

he doesn’t say ‘wakey wakey,’ but the look on his face might as well scream it. he leans his head in a little more, eyes squinting like he’s checking if you’re already asleep. when your mouth twitches into a smirk, he smiles wider.

you sit up slowly, brushing a blanket wrinkle smooth with your hand. “you look like you’re about to break in and rob me,” you mutter, eyes squinting back at him, amused.

he gives a dramatic glance over his shoulder, like he’s being tailed, before slipping fully inside and nudging the door shut behind him with his heel.

“can i crash here for a bit?” he scratches the back of his head like it’s casual, like it’s normal for him to just be here, hovering in the half-dark with his hair still a little tousled from the prep team’s touch.

you raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t explain. he just doesn’t have to. you figure he just wants to go over strategies, maybe revisit some of the things you two talked about earlier. one last brain meld before the big plunge. you nod and scoot back until you’re flush with your pillows, tugging the blanket over your lap and leaving plenty of space.

he takes the opportunity immediately like a damn cat. rafe shuffles across the floor in a quick motion and flops forward onto your bed, stomach first, the heels of his feet hanging off the edge. he sighs dramatically into your mattress like he’s just dropped the weight of the world behind him. which, to be fair, he kind of has.

for a little while, you just talk. nothing important. dumb things, mostly.

you make a joke about brutus’s snoring sounding like a broken hovercraft. rafe brings up how his prep stylist nearly burned off his eyebrows with some kind of capitol serum today. he mimics the voice of caesar from earlier, going all wide-eyed and grand, waving his arms in mock imitation, “the stunning, the spectacular, district two's shining girl, y/n!” and then immediately butchers your last name on purpose.

you laugh. you genuinely laugh. it feels strange in your throat. his grin is lazy, but then it gets quiet.

not awkward quiet. not heavy yet. just quiet enough that you can hear the tick of the wall clock and the hum of some ventilation system in the room. you realize you’ve been playing with your fingers for a while. twisting them in your lap, knuckles cracking faintly. your breath feels a little tighter.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his head turns slightly toward you, like he knows it’s coming. and then you ask.

“do you think they’ll make it fast?”

he blinks, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “who?”

“any of us.” you keep your voice low. “or if they’ll . . . drag it out. for the audience.”

they always want a show when someone dies. the words feel like glass in your mouth, but you say them anyway. it’s too close to tomorrow not to. and the longer you hold them in, the more they burn.

rafe’s smile fades a little. he rolls onto his side to face you better, his elbow propped up beneath his cheek. “depends.”

“on what?”

he shrugs. “how interesting they think we are.”

you look at him, really look at him. you know that you two have to be one of the most interesting of the litter this year. no doubt about it. it’s not even being cocky, but you don’t even have to question whether you’re interesting enough.

his brows are furrowed, like he’s working through something of his own now. whatever mask he wears for everyone else, it’s off tonight. it’s just rafe. he exhales softly, like something’s sitting heavy in his chest.

“sometimes i think . . .” he starts, then stops. his fingers drum lightly against your blanket. “i think i’ve spent my whole life being trained to win a game i never actually wanted to play.”

your heart twists. none of his words are you. you can’t relate to that, at least not fully, but you shift slightly closer. “then why play?” you ask, just above a whisper.

he stares at the ceiling. “because people expect me to. and because if i don’t . . . someone else dies in my place, i guess?”

he turns his head toward you again, his eyes softer than before. you both sit in the quiet for a long moment.

at some point, you don’t know what time it is, don’t even bother to check the clock, but you know the night’s not long enough. not with tomorrow looming the way it is. the games. the arena. the countdown that won’t stop ticking.

rafe’s still lying on your bed, arms folded under his head, his legs half hanging off the edge. his shirt is rumpled, and there’s a faint line across his cheek from where he must’ve pressed his face against his arm a little too long. he’s quiet, but not asleep. you can tell. his eyes are still open.

you don’t talk at first. it’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel awkward, just tense, like you’re both listening to the same thing.

nothing will be the same after tomorrow.

you shift, pulling your blanket higher over your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. rafe swallows, shifting slightly.

“i think . . .” he starts, voice low as he breaks the silence. he hesitates. you don’t think it’s the kind of hesitation that means he doesn’t know what he’s about to say, but maybe it’s the kind where he does, and it scares him.

finally, his voice breaks through the hush again, “i think my dad rigged the reaping for me.”

you blink, hard. your first reaction is confusion. your mouth parts slightly, like the words don’t compute. you stare at him, processing. “what?”

he finally shifts. he sits up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, like he can’t say it lying down. “i think my dad rigged the reaping,” he says again, quieter now. like he’s still not sure if saying it out loud makes it more real or less.

you just stare. your brain takes a second to catch up. “okay, but how can . . . how can someone even do that?”

he huffs. “if they’ve got enough pull. i told you my dad’s a high-ranking peacekeeper. i wouldn’t put it past him.”

you just watch him.

he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m eighteen, it’s my last year. last shot. he’s been pushing for this forever since i was a kid, always said it was ‘in my blood’ or whatever as if he ever did it when he was my age. warriors, winners, glory, all that bullshit. i thought maybe i’d made it through. like maybe he gave up. but then my name got called and . . .” he shakes his head. “i knew.”

the silence between you thickens.

“so,” you say slowly, “you didn’t even want . . . to be here.”

“not like this.” he says it flatly, like he’s already accepted it. like it’s just a fact.

you nod, but your stomach turns. you think about how fast you raised your hand, how fast you moved toward the stage. how you didn’t even hesitate. you wanted it. you asked for it. and he didn’t. he was shoved in, boxed up and dropped into it like a piece on a game board.

you look away for a second, a sharp tightness in your chest. guilt? maybe. maybe something more complicated than that. you shouldn’t care. don’t get too attached. everyone should accept their fate, but for some reason, you just can’t let this shake.

“i didn’t know it could even be rigged,” you say after a moment.

“most people don’t. the blame would go immediately to the capitol for it, and they can’t afford that. already have too much to worry about.”

you glance back at him. he’s looking straight ahead now, somewhere past the door, unfocused. he looks tired. not in the way everyone looks tired, but in a way that’s deeper. oh. he’s been carrying this for too long.

“so then what was it like?” you ask. “growing up with him.”

he doesn’t answer right away. then he laughs dryly. “loud. exhausting.” he rubs at his jaw. “everything was a test. everything had a consequence. there was no playing. no room for mistakes. if i cried, i was weak. if i hesitated, i was a failure. he used to time me doing drills in the backyard. would get pissed if i didn’t beat my last record.”

you don’t say anything. you’re not sure what you could.

“i don’t think he ever really saw me,” rafe mutters. “just some idea of who he wanted me to be.”

you shift closer without thinking, just enough that your knee almost touches his. your blanket shifts with you. you don’t say anything dramatic, don’t try to fix it. you just sit there with him.

“i’m sorry,” you say hesitantly, quietly, something you’re not used to. but you’ve been thinking that maybe you should now.

he shrugs. “nothing to be sorry for. just how it is.”

you nod. it’s quiet again. but this time it feels different. there’s no performance here. no prep team, no sponsors, no cameras.

he leans back again, rests his head against the bed, eyes shut. you keep your gaze down.

he stays quiet for a while like he’s trying not to think too hard. and then, after a few more seconds pass, he speaks. “oh, but what about you?” he asks. “what were you like before all this?”

you glance over at him. “what do you mean?”

“before the games, or the training center, or before your name was even in the pool. what’d you care about? what’d you want?”

you don’t answer right away. the question sits in your chest like a stone.

he isn’t asking in that surface-level way people do, the way interviewers or capitol hosts might. he isn’t fishing for a soundbite. he’s just asking because he wants to know. maybe because it makes everything feel a little less isolating if he knows someone else used to be a real person too.

you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. sigh. “i don’t know. i think i was bored.”

it’s a poor way of starting this, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything. he just watches you, listening.

you shrug a little. “my mom works in records for the district. basically just moves files around and makes sure everyone else is on time. it’s as dull as it sounds. she's been doing the same thing since before i was born. every day. same path to work, same lunches. she gets home, sits in the same chair, turns on the same channel, and that’s her night.”

you pick at the blanket in your lap. “my dad’s a peacekeeper too. nothing like yours, i think, but he plays the game. he keeps his head down, follows orders. they’re both good people. i know it. i think they’re just . . . resigned. like they don’t expect anything more. i was probably gonna end up doing what my mom does, to take over her job eventually. get slotted into the same chair, the same shifts. get used to silence.”

your voice drops. “and yeah, i didn’t want that.” you glance at rafe again, “i didn’t want to be invisible.”

you laugh once. “i thought volunteering would make me matter. thought it’d give me some kind of identity, some pride. like maybe people would look at me and see me for once, i guess.”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you wonder if it sounds ridiculous out loud. like a kid trying to win gold stars in a system designed to kill them.

but rafe just nods, slowly. “makes sense.”

you exhale, finally letting your back rest against the wall too. you turn your head slightly. “what about you?” you ask, softer now. “if you didn’t get reaped. if your dad didn’t, whatever the hell he did to get you here, what would you be doing right now?”

his jaw clenches a little. you can tell he’s thinking, but you can also tell the answer’s not easy.

“i’d be home,” he says finally. you glance at him, but you don’t push. “probably walking sarah to school,” he adds. “she hates waking up early. always complains the whole way there.”

a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t last long. “wheezie would already be up, probably trying to get out of eating whatever our stepmom cooked for breakfast. she used to slip it into her jacket pocket and then flush it when no one was looking.”

you smile, just a little. it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk about them. “you have siblings?”

he huffs a breath, a little like a laugh but not really. “yeah. two sisters. sarah’s sixteen. we used to fight all the time, over nothing. she’s stubborn as hell but she’s smart. too smart, sometimes. wheezie’s thirteen. she’s got this habit of pretending she’s not listening, but she remembers everything. like . . . everything. it’s creepy.”

you smile, surprised. not because he has sisters, though that’s new, but because of the way he’s talking. you’ve never heard him like this. not in the training center. not in the interviews. not even on the rooftop.

“they sound like a handful,” you say.

“they are.” he pauses, then adds, quieter, “they’re good, though. better than me. wheezie would slack off during training more than me, but sarah’s good for it. all the camerons are.”

“you think they’re watching?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “i hope not. not if they’re smart.” he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying not to let something show. “they probably think i volunteered, talked my dad into saying my name,” he mutters. “i wonder if that’s worse.”

you don’t say anything. you don’t know what the right thing would even be.

he runs a hand down his face and lets it drop, then turns to glance at you. “any siblings?”

you shake your head. “just me.”

he nods like he figured. “that explain the volunteering?”

you almost laugh. “no. i mean . . . maybe a little.”

he waits. doesn’t push. but he’s looking at you now, and it feels like you owe him something, but you’ve already said it. “i just didn’t want to end up like my mom, you know,” you say like he already understands, and he does.

he looks at you for a beat longer, then nods like he gets it.

you both fall quiet again. you’re tired, and not just physically. it’s in your bones now, all of it. but sitting here, next to him, it’s a little easier to breathe.

and neither of you says it out loud, but you both know this might be the last night you ever get to talk like this. maybe that’s why it matters so much. maybe that’s why you don’t want to move.

but then there’s another knock. you and rafe both glance up at the same time, barely a beat after it lands, and the door creaks open. enobaria stands in the doorway, shoulder leaned into the frame. she lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“are you two having a sleepover?” she drawls.

you deadpan right back, “why, you wanna join?” you toss her a look over your shoulder, one part playful, one part exhausted. it’s not a real invite, but it’s not not one either. you’ve never seen her act normal.

she huffs, something that’s almost a laugh, and crosses the room to pull the desk chair out. it gives a small squeak as she turns it around and drops into it backwards.

“cute,” she mutters. “but let’s talk strategy again.”

you groan immediately, flopping backwards like she’s just sentenced you to death early. rafe doesn’t miss a beat either, dropping his head until his forehead nearly hits the mattress, arms sprawled out beside him.

“what is this, homework?” you mutter into your pillow.

enobaria doesn’t smile this time. she’s watching both of you now, eyes sharp, tone steady. “listen,” she says. “you can complain all you want, but in the next week, one of you might die. or both of you. i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. i’m not good at that. but i know what works.”

you sit up again, slowly. rafe’s already half-propped on his elbows, listening now, even if his head’s still turned to the side.

“you two watch each other’s backs,” she says. “no matter what. no splitting up unless you have to, and even then, you circle back. don’t assume anyone’s dead unless you see it with your own eyes. and if it happens, if one of you goes, you make it mean something. don’t let it be for nothing.”

you can feel your throat tighten and your stomach turns. you glance at rafe. he doesn’t even look at you.

enobaria leans forward. “you don’t have to kill each other,” she says. “but one of you needs to come back. one of you has to. you understand me?”

you nod. it’s faint. rafe gives a slow blink. another nod.

“use everything you’ve learned,” she continues. “everything. don’t wait to be clever. if it’s brutal, be brutal. if it’s manipulative, fine. lean into it. alliances are fine for the first few days, but they always burn out. you two are a unit. don’t forget that.”

you shift in place, something in you itching. “you’ve seen this a lot, huh?” you ask.

enobaria gives a quiet nod. “more than i’d like.” she leans back again, resting her head briefly on the top of the chair.

“last year’s kid from four, ria, remember her? she got cocky in the final five. thought she had enough food stockpiled to wait the others out. didn’t account for an acid rain trigger that melted her stash. by the time she had to come out, she was half-starved and stumbled right into the final three’s ambush.”

you wince.

enobaria’s voice drops lower, thoughtful. “always account for change. for traps. for things that feel unfair. because they are. it’s a game, but it’s also a show. that means it’s rigged for drama. that means they want surprises. don’t fall into them.”

you nod again, slower this time. “okay.”

she exhales, like she’s getting tired of the weight of her own words. then she adds, almost offhandedly, “also . . . i don’t know. if it gets desperate, you could always start a fake romance or something. no one’s done a believable one in a while.”

you groan like she’s your older sister telling you something you don’t wanna hear, but rafe huffs out a soft laugh into the mattress.

she grins. “i’m just saying. the capitol eats that stuff up. doesn’t have to be real.”

“goodnight,” you say, waving her out.

“just keep it in your pocket,” she smirks, standing. you scowl at her through narrowed eyes. rafe’s still half-buried in the bed, clearly choosing not to comment. enobaria starts for the door. “get some rest. you’ll be up late enough tomorrow.”

you turn your head on your pillow as she leaves, watching her go. she stops in the doorway just once more.

“noon,” she reminds the two of you. “we’ll say our goodbyes then.” and then she’s gone.

the door clicks shut, leaving the room. you exhale hard into your pillow, bury your head deeper into it.

rafe hasn’t moved much. he’s still stretched out across your bed, holding himself up on his elbows, staring at the far wall like it might offer answers.

you stare at the pillow beside you. you don’t know why, but neither of you say anything. you just sit there, processing.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14

[dioslesbianwife]

Can I please request the Jojo's with the most wholesome cinnamon roll partner the type of person who cried because she stepped on a bug and now the bug family must miss them.

Their partner making the cutest lunches ever with notes saying how much she loves them 💖

sure this is so cute, i hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting :33

Jonathan Joestar

Jonathan is already the human embodiment of a golden retriever boyfriend, so when he meets someone even softer than him? He’s absolutely smitten.

When you cry because you accidentally stepped on a bug and whisper, “What if he had a little beetle wife and three beetle children…” Jonathan kneels down beside you and holds your hands so gently:

“Let’s say a prayer for him, my dear. May his beetle family find peace.”

He's genuinely touched by your compassion. Your gentleness gives him strength, and he tries to match your level of empathy in everything he does.

The first time you pack his lunch, he’s shocked by how beautiful it is. You cut the fruit into little hearts and arranged tiny sandwiches shaped like flowers. And then he finds the note.

“To my brave and handsome gentleman ♡ ♡ ♡ I’m so proud of you!! Eat lots and don’t forget you’re loved ♡  –Y/N”

He tears up. In front of everyone.

Joseph Joestar 

Joseph acts like a goof, but when he sees how sincere and tender you are, it absolutely melts him.

He teases you when you cry over the squished ant (“Was his name Tony?! Did you kill Tony the ant?!”), but when he sees how genuinely sad you are, he immediately goes full boyfriend mode. “Hey, hey, c’mere- how about we save a worm from the sidewalk next time? Bug karma, right?”

When you start packing his lunches? He brags to EVERYONE.

“Look at this adorable rice ball!! Shaped like me!! She made it with love, Caesar, try to compete with that.”

He reads the notes out loud with a sappy voice and kisses the paper like a drama king.

“To my one and only, the most heroic dork in the world- ♡  GOD she loves me so much- wait, what’s this? A stick figure of me punching a vampire? I’M FRAMING THIS.”

Jotaro Kujo

At first, your overflowing affection and softness confuse him.

You wept for a full 10 minutes because he killed a spider that “wasn’t hurting anyone!!!” and now you’re pacing the kitchen whispering, “What if he was bringing food home to his babies-”

Jotaro: “…You want me to go dig a grave for the spider?”

You: “... Could you?”

He does it.

He acts annoyed by the cutely packed lunches, but he never misses a single one. They always disappear. Every single time.

The first time he finds a note that says, “Don’t forget you’re amazing, Jotaro, Star Platinum isn’t the only one who’s got your back!” he hides it in his wallet and reads it on lonely nights.

Jotaro isn’t good with words, so when you cry over injured pigeons or send him off with “have a heroic day, my angel!” he just blushes and grunts,

“…Yare yare… you're too good for this world.”

Josuke Higashikata

The minute he realizes you have that kind of softness? He vows to protect you with his life.

Josuke is good at matching your emotions too, so when you cry over accidentally stepping on a caterpillar, he’s right there with tissues like,

“He probably had a name… like, uhh… Mr. Squiggles or something. It’s okay, babe. We’ll plant flowers in his memory.”

When you give him a lunch box shaped like a cat’s face and inside is a smiley-face made out of rice and seaweed?? He SCREAMS.

He takes selfies with his lunch every day and sends them to you with captions like:

“Best. Girlfriend. Ever. Look at this masterpiece!!!”

He keeps every love note, even the silly ones like “you’re the king of my heart (and my favorite pompadour ♡)”

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno is so used to cruelty and cold ambition, he doesn’t know what to do when he meets someone genuinely sweet.

You once cried because a bee drowned in your tea. Giorno silently used Gold Experience to make a new one, then handed it back to you like nothing happened.

You whispered, “You’re my hero,” and he literally looked like you just stabbed him with love.

He sees your kindness as revolutionary. He’s so moved that you choose to care so deeply about the smallest lives.

Your bento boxes are art. You include color themes, edible flowers, and once even made a tiny pastry version of his ladybug brooch.

Giorno is silent when he reads your love notes… then folds them carefully and tucks them into a hidden drawer.

They remind him of the world he wants to create: gentle, safe, and full of warmth.

Jolyne Cujoh

Jolyne pretends your wholesome vibes are way too much for her, but secretly? She’s obsessed.

“You’re crying over a bug again? Ugh… c’mere you soft weirdo, let me hold you.”

(She’s rubbing your back while you sob about how “he probably had tiny dreams and little bug hopes-”)

When you start packing her lunches- either from outside the prison or getting to the lunch line early to make the gross cafeteria food at least presentable- She’s shook.

You make every meal look so cute along with a note that says:

“You’re the coolest girl in the world and I love you more than butterflies love sunshine and nectar ♡”

She straight-up flexes that lunch in the prison yard.

“Yeah, I’ve got someone who actually loves me. What about it?”

She’ll act like she doesn’t care, but she reads those notes before bed every single night.

Johnny Joestar

Johnny has a lot of pain in his heart, and when you show him so much softness, he doesn’t know how to receive it at first.

He asks, confused: “Why… do you care so much about everything?”

When you gently explain that the world has enough cruelty, and you want to be something kinder in it, he stares at you in awe.

One day you’re sobbing because you accidentally kicked over an anthill and you’re whispering, “I’ve destroyed their kingdom… the queen is probably weeping,”

And Johnny just strokes your hair and goes, “Damn… I love you.”

You pack him the cutest lunches full of squishy fruit gummies, sandwiches shaped like horses, and smiley cheese cubes.

He reads your notes with trembling fingers and starts believing- really believing- that he deserves love after all.

Josuke Higashikata (Gappy)

Josuke is extremely confused at first. You’re the first person to be so affectionate and pure.

The first time you cry because you stepped on a snail, he thinks he did something wrong. But you just whisper, “Snail heaven better be nice…” and he realizes you’re just like this.

He gets really protective of you. He doesn’t want the world to crush your spirit.

When you give him a lunch with strawberries cut like hearts and a note that says, “No matter what happens, I’m proud of you ♡”-he hides behind a tree to cry.

He keeps the notes in a shoebox under his bed and reads them when he’s anxious. They mean more to him than you’ll ever know.

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 5

Masterpost

"It's a pun." Tim murmurs, staring at the notes he's supposed to be sharing with Bernard. "I can't believe I didn't notice that sooner."

"Wait what?"

"The off-key notes are the key to the Caeser ciphers."

"Oh my god." Bernard stares at Tim's notebook. Just like Tim said, each off note is exactly the same amount of steps away from correct as the corresponding number of steps to move down the Caesar cipher. "Okay that's, like, kind of insane? Do we need to be looking for puns now?"

"Potentially? Double meanings are the basis of riddles, which are basically just word-based logic puzzles, so you know... Depending on someone's motivations they might find them equally valuable."

"Huh." Bernard tilts his head considering the new information. "Wait, does that mean that like, the Riddler uses puns? Is that a thing?"

"All the time, actually."

"Dude, why do you just know that?" Tim freezes, remembering too late that most people don't have access to dossiers on every rogue. "No, nevermind I know you're like, weirdly knowledgeable about the bats and the rogues; I shouldn't be surprised."

"Well, maybe everyone should pay a little more attention to their MOs," Tim says pointedly. "They are generally considered to be the most serious safety threat in Gotham, after all.

"I mean, I know generally what their deals are, I just don't go all Genius-Mode about it." Bernard laughs, then gets a thoughtful look on his face. Oh no, Tim thinks. "Hey, maybe the bats should, like, commission your help to deal with the Riddler. I'd bet you'd work through his weird puzzles in like, ten minutes!"

"I feel like they're doing fine as is."

"Yeah, I guess, but like. What if they could do it even faster, right?"

"Maybe." Tim fiddles with his pen. "Do you want to know what else I found?"

"Wait, you found more?"

"Not much; it came to a dead-end pretty quickly, but the implications are- concerning."

"Oh?"

"I noticed that the length of time for each photo seemed randomized, which I thought might also be a choice based on the music, since they always shift in time with a note, but there wasn't any logical pattern I could find there."

"I mean, that doesn't seem like a dead-end, that just sounds like we're missing something."

"Exactly. So I made a list of the durations between each incorrect note, and I ran that through a code checker, and it turned out to be encoded in base 26." Tim points to the corresponding list of numbers, and then below it, to where he's written out the translation.

"Dude." Bernard stares at the notebook, looking back at Tim with wide eyes.

"Someone is begging for our help."

"This is so cool!" Bernard exclaims grabbing at Tim's shoulders and shaking him lightly. "How have I not dragged you into solving ARGs before this you're so good at it! Just wait till I tell everyone on the forum!"

Tim blinks, Bernard's sudden excitement in direct opposition to the words had written down. When he'd cracked it, all he had felt was a spike of adrenaline, the anticipation of knowing there's somebody that needs help. But there isn't, is there? This whole thing is just a game. And the people that wrote this, that made these videos, that encoded these messages - the real people, are just having fun.

Tim takes a deep breath and does his best to match Bernard's excitement. But the words on the page keep staring back at him.

Help us please help us

[chikaoofka]

new Caesar ref..... and redesign and stuff whatever. i wanted to make him look "deader" cos he's effectively a zombie being piloted by slightly intelligent black mould...

[the-monkeies-girl]

Idk just thinkin about our ape men and you being on the back of their horses with them would be like

Caesar would be so secure and assuring to you in his body language. He can sense you’re not the most comfortable riding, and he does what he can to assure. Grasping your thigh occasionally, Caesar lets you know it’s okay by looking at you from his peripheral vision.

Noa would be a bundle of nerves feeling your heart beat against his back. His shoulders would be absolutely riddled with tensions as you draw your head into the crook of his neck so you could see in front of you. The small talk you give drives Noa up the wall, your words in his ear.

Blue Eyes would be incredibly oblivious until he feels the tightening of your arms around his waist and he goes straight into soft panic mode realizing no one had actually been this affectionately close to him ( because that’s totally how it feels. ) He looks back at you but you have your face in his fur, taking in his smell.

Koba ( realistically ) would kick you off and make you walk but Caesar said that was not allowed so he’s walking, leading the horse and you’re riding. He’s grumbling to himself but can’t stop looking back when the sun hits you just right. The way it plays against your skin and the soft smiles you give the passing flower bushes? Vile.

Anaya is very much like Blue Eyes given he is pretty oblivious at times, until he feels you using his shoulder as a pillow, smooshing your face tenderly into his shoulder blade. A small gasp leaves his lips and Anaya feels confident enough to touch your hands around his waist and let you know you could hold tighter if you wanted.

Ash would be spitting jokes the entire ride, enjoying how your grasps tightens on him and you throw your head back in a laugh. The softer moments between you two are noted from Blue Eyes riding separately beside you, noting how Ash kept looking back at you to make sure you were okay and comfortable.

[trainerofdragons]

One of my favorite things about the HTTYD books is that, at different points/ in different contexts, all three main kids would have definitely stabbed Caesar.

Camicazi just would, period.

Later on in the series Hiccup probably would consider but who knows for sure, he’s just done at this point.

Fishlegs would do it in Berserk mode or standing up for his friends.

[ssupod]

Episode 5: Breakdown - Jane Doe, Caesar

[lelelego]

is there a canon ending you have in mind for Eli and Boone?

god yeah. i'm gonna put this under a cut because it turned into a long one. this is not just the ending but the stuff leading up to it. word vomit galore

just want to reiterate this is all in my insaneo mode head and simply fnv eli's timeline as far as i'm concerned

in a nutshell eli decides an independent vegas is ultimately the best for the residents. he has a hard time deciding between an ncr rule (a somewhat more organized freeside and new vegas, and potentially more resources aside from energy), but seeing firsthand the idiocy operating under the monolith, incompetence, and corruption, does he decide to help the followers of the apocalypse establish control over the area with the help of the king, since julie farkas and the king are both actual people of authority who the people of freeside respect.

when eli tells boone he's not going to help the ncr, boone's conflicted. he's been following eli around because (1) eli makes good on his promise re:fighting the legion, (2) eli is a legion magnet because caesar + lanius hate his guts and keep sending hit squads after his ass, and (3) he genuinely thinks eli will die without him. (none of this is related to the fact that boone enjoys his company, obviously. not even a little bit. obviously.) he's torn between the ncr, the only system he knows, and the person who stands as the trigger of the largest political change in the region. is he responsible for changing this person's mind? does he want to change eli's mind? he doesn't know shit about the ramifications of the ncr leaving, nor the ncr staying. is he just following orders again? despite what happens at bitter springs (hopeful ending) he can't really let the idea of the nation he grew up with go.

so at the end of second battle of hoover dam, the ncr gets chased out (mostly). eli still doesn't really know where boone stands regarding the ncr, because for all his talk and bluster he doesn't want boone to dislike him for prying (which has happened already before). forgive him, he's got a big fat crush that won't go away on the guy. he's tired. he's hungry. he's thirsty. but all he can do is think, "boone's going to follow them back." which is when the picture above happens. he snaps back to his senses obviously, because what right does he have to ask something like that?

but boone stays. eli goes to talk to julie and he's there. eli sits at the tops in benny's workshop for days, programming and reprogramming systems for the securitrons and tinkering with finer motor controls and he's there. eli negotiates with the crimson caravan and he's there. eli is confused but yknow. what is he going to do talk to the brick wall of a man about his feelings??

boone sees what eli does for the people of freeside. even helps, sometimes, even though the only thing he thinks he's good at is killing. he thinks, is this what being better is? is this what amends are? but like a reoccuring rash he gets the Itch. thinks about the ncr. about manny. they could enlist back into first recon, easy. he goes back to novac to look over things he'd left there, things he used when he'd freshly left first recon, spends the night in his old room.

only he can't sleep. he can't sleep because he can't hear the sound of eli playing some shitty video game on his pipboy. he can't hear eli and veronica arguing over which snack is the best for the road, or eli tuning ED-E to different frequencies to see what he can pick up. he can't see eli going to the bathroom what feels like every 5 minutes because of his wacked out digestive system. he can't hear eli cursing as he tries to take off his leg brace only for something to get stuck, and then him rustling around for his tools, not being able to find the right one, and then jamming whatever he can find in the joint to get it unstuck.

so he goes back to new vegas, and when he sees eli's smile when eli sees him, dirty and sweaty from working, he knows it's an easy choice to make.

(yes they eventually do h*ld h*nds. when is that? i don't know. when IS that. someone tell me please)

after that eli and boone stay in vegas for a bit to get everything as stable as possible, even though it's an uphill, impossible challenge, and then i think eventually eli's curiosity would get the better of them when he's a little older and he'd leave to find different things to prod and look at with boone at his side :^)

[thus-wrote-mrs-zeppeli]

You wanna write for the joefoes???

I'm here to help!!

Joefoes with a reader who's best friends with the JoJo's. Whichever joefoes you wanna do! Like, how do they handle it, how they react, are they mad about it, etc.

Have a great day and thank you very much in advance :)

Oooh, what an interesting idea~

(And thank you for the kind words~)

Had trouble incorporating best friend status so it’s more like reader just likes their respective Jojo and wants to help them

Jofoes x reader in: reader is an ally to the Joestar family

Content: For Pucci’s and FV’s reader is married to him, others can be interpreted as dating/married, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, manipulation, canon compliant mean and evil if that makes sense

Kars: He’s so sick of humans! Apparently you’ve learned nothing from his frequent lectures on how pathetic and weak they are, and completely unreliable too. He warned you that Joseph and Caesar would have little interest in remaining friendly with you if they found out about your vampiric nature…and they surely would, given how observant Joseph Joestar is. No matter how you hid your mouth with a scarf, or insisted you could only go out with them at night because your schedule is so busy during the daytime, he’d eventually see through your act.

You had made your choice and sacrificed your humanity to be as close as you could to Kars and the other Pillar Men. You’d never reach the peak physical perfection Kars sought to achieve, but given your willingness to don a stone mask and turn to vampirism, he would allow you to see him reach that excellence.

You think it’s silly he can’t possibly imagine why you’d miss being a human sometimes. And despite how he pretends not to be interested in you most of the time, he doesn’t love the idea of you playing buddy buddy with the only humans who are actively fighting against him.

Kars is resourceful though. Go on. Play around with those irritating humans, but if you want to be apart of his vision of the future you’d better bring back the red stone of Aja that’s being guarded by their mentor.

He’s making you pick a side. And as unsurprised as you are, you’re still conflicted…

You’re not human anymore. Maybe he’s right when he says he’s the only one who can truly understand you and your situation…and he has a point when he reminds you the longer you go without telling them the truth, the worse it will be when they inevitably figure you out.

Ugh. Kars’s mind games are the worst. He’s supposed to be on your side. Your elegant partner who supports you and protects you. But really he just loves Telling you that’s what he’s doing while trying to get what he wants from you.

You’re really being pulled in two completely different directions, but Kars frequently reminds you of who’s been by your side longer, and who will be with you in the future, and how meaningless it is to make friends with humans you’ll outlive by a long, LONG time.

You wish he’d stop talking so much. And making so much sense. In your mind it’s not so foolish to be friends with them, but then Kars opens his mouth and makes you doubt and…eventually just quietly disappearing from Joseph and Caesar’s life sounds like the best choice.

And if you bring the red stone of Aja back with you, the grudge he had been secretly harboring against you for choosing to spend time with mere mortals instead of him will fade a tiny bit. It will take a LONG time for him to actually fully get over your audacity, but the two of you will have an eternity to get over petty grievances with each other.

Diavolo: He really doesn’t like that you go out at all, let alone that you play nice with Bucciarati’s squad.

And when Giorno and Trish get added to the equation? Forget it. He’s putting you in lockdown mode. Giorno is a threat because he has very limited information on him as a new member of Passione, and all you have to say is that he’s: “a kind guy.” And after meeting Trish you’ve decided to try and convince him to actually follow through on his lie to protect her.

He thinks it’s completely ridiculous, and that your mind has been poisoned by sentimentality. Against his better judgement he had let you socialize just a bit. And look at what happened. He didn’t anticipate you were so incredibly soft. Add that to the list of things in this mess he had to fix.

He made it very clear to you he had no intention of taking in Trish as his daughter, or going easy on Giorno if a confrontation occurred. And since he told you all of that, you’re not going anywhere until he’s done with everything he intends to do.

You think it’s overkill on his part to actually lock you away in the middle of nowhere while he “takes care” of things. But in his efforts to keep you under his control he leaves you in an undisclosed location with supplies to last you a week. Ridiculously paranoid and possessive of him, and since you’ve known each other for so long he doesn’t bother to hide that it’s because he hates when you’re out of his control.

Fortunately for you, you’ve learned a few things due to your observance of how he runs his mafia. He’ll be REAL irritated if he finds out you sent a call to Bucciarati’s gang…good thing you know how to use voice changers and make your calls untraceable. You just wanted to send a warning, nothing more. Though you had resigned yourself to the life of an anonymous and ruthless gangster, you didn’t have the heart to let him kill the Bucciarati gang that you’ve grown so fond of. Diavolo wouldn’t understand. He always thought you were much too soft-hearted to be his partner, and yet he kept you around anyways, because you had proven time and time again to be reliable despite your tendency towards mercy.

You have a good feeling that if he actually found out you had taken steps to protect them from him, he will consider it insubordination and put a stop to you immediately in the way he’d punish anyone who steps out of line and defies him.

You know Diavolo, and his obsessive determination to see his goals reached. Trying to dissuade him by warning Giorno and the others would only irritate and slow him down more than anything…but that was better than nothing. You have the hopelessly optimistic belief you might be able to convince him to leave them be, but even if you can only delay the inevitable, you intend to do all you can.

Enrico Pucci: He actively encourages you to not to visit the Green Dolphin Street Prison, even if you’re only trying to visit him at work.

Doesn’t matter that you were once a good friend of the Joestar family. Jolyne was a prisoner now. You should really stay away from her. And her father.

He believes that as your husband it’s his job to take care of you, even if that means suppressing certain memories of yours with a DISC. There will be trouble if he lets you roam around the Prison, so taking away any motivation to is his only option.

He doesn’t enjoy manipulating you. But if it feels necessary, then he will be convinced that he must do so.

It’s to keep you out of his way, but he tells himself it’s also to protect you. Jojos are bad news. And the last thing he needs is you playing buddy buddy with Dio’s literal mortal enemies.

The solution is to just pretend everything is normal. With your memories of that cursed bloodline suppressed, and him behaving like everything has been going as it usually did, you’re none the wiser, perfectly content to go on with your life like nothing bizarre is going on.

You greet him at the door when he returns home in the evening, happy to see him, behaving like you normally would, but with the slightest look in your eye that suggests something is bothering you.

“Something disturbing you?” he asks.

“Well…”

His hand on your shoulder was always so reassuring. You could tell him anything.

“I don’t feel…bad…but…my head has been feeling a bit weird lately,” you frown, slowly bringing a hand to your forehead. He brings his own hand to your head, resting his palm against it.

He tells you it’s just a slight fever. You’ll be okay after some rest. And of course you believe him. It made perfect sense, and Enrico always had your best interest in mind.

You agree that all you needed was some sleep, but he hears how you mutter to yourself on your way to the bedroom that you have the strangest feeling you’re forgetting something important.

Doesn’t matter. He can convince you that you’ve just been working too hard and it’s causing some fatigue, nothing to worry about.

You don’t suspect a thing, and if you can’t remember it, it probably wasn’t that important in the first place. At least, it was somewhat comforting to tell yourself that.

Funny Valentine: He never shared your intense fascination with horse racing, but if it made you happy and kept you out of his hair on occasion then he was happy to let you go out and watch the derbies.

He remembers very vaguely you mentioning a famous jockey getting shot in the streets and then disappearing into obscurity, but he didn’t recall a name, because he had hardly listened to you given how often you would ramble about equestrian related news. And he was busy trying to get elected as President at the time.

He had expected your excitement over the Steel Ball Run race, so you eagerly speaking to him about the various contestants didn’t seem like something worth paying much attention to. But it’s not like he could remember every name you said even if he was all ears. He’s not sure how you could possibly retain all that information, but if it made you happy…whatever.

He allows you to do pretty much whatever you want, within reason, so hearing you’ve been making a few more phone calls than usual didnt strike him as strange. After all, you were probably just excited about the race, and wanted to update your friends on it. So he dismisses it as nothing to be concerned over, and given how preoccupied he is with reaching his goals, he doesn’t have the time to worry about you or what you were getting up to. It’s not like you’ve ever caused him trouble before. So imagine how irritated and betrayed he is to hear you’ve been assisting the intruder and warning a certain Mr. Joestar about the President’s hired assassins and any information you may have gathered about their stands.

Not only have you betrayed him personally, if he wanted to he could consider your actions treason!

He’s QUITE offended. He put So Much trust in you, and in his eyes his goals are noble and just…so WHY are you fighting against him all of a sudden? Weren’t you on his side? Why are you betraying him?

Maybe if he listened to you once in a while he would understand what you were thinking.

He’s never been so mad at you, but he manages to maintain his composure and not do something drastic. He can’t stand to look at you while he’s so upset though, so he has one of his hired assassins keep an eye on you. Any calls you make are monitored, and you’re no longer allowed to leave on your own.

If it wouldn’t cause a huge scandal, he’d probably consider cutting ties with you and kicking you out of his life.

But unfortunately for both of you, he values his reputation among the general public. You’re together til death parts you. Unfortunately he did promise you that. And that was one of his rare promises he actually intended to keep, solely because he considered it necessary.

Though you’re definitely not going back to the way you once were anytime soon. He’s no longer patient with you, or interested in speaking to you at all. And he avoids spending any time with you.

He will encourage you to keep up with your interest in the equestrian world though, because he thinks the irony that will come from taking Diego and Johnny’s lives will send a suitable message to you.

Some nerve, defying him like that. He might not ever get over it.

-

Derby is such a strange word. I’ve never written the plural of Derby til now, and I keep staring at it like SURELY that’s not how you spell it…..but it is. It just looks like a made up word to me lol.