#capitol skyline

[thorsenmark]

Austin and a Goodbye Wave for a Week by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A plane window view looking to the west while on a flight to Salt Lake City. Since of the timing for most of my trips heading west or north, I often tend to fly in the early morning hours before the sun rises or late in the afternoon. Because of flight issues and a delay in taking off, I happened to have a late morning view of the city and its skyline just after takeoff. In composing the image, I decided to angle my Nikon SLR camera slightly downward and create a more sweeping view across the cityscape leading to the tall downtown buildings.

[maevesheart]

only angel (2)

FINNICK ODAIR X FEM!READER

note: wasn’t originally planning on making a part two to this but it just seemed so unfinished??!?! and i love ruthless reader idk she’s a queen

summary: through your alliance with katniss, you and finnick rekindle some buried feelings.

wc: 5.2k

tw: violence, death, brutal!!reader, blood, allusions to forced prostitution

only angel (1)

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER, THE 68TH HUNGER GAMES

Brutus and Enobaria sat in front of you and Mace, your district mate.

They reminded you of strategies that you had been taught your whole life, ensuring that as long as you two played into the Capitol’s hands, you’d get plenty of sponsors and come out alive.

Mace and you had never been close back home, but you saw him in the shopping centers, had some mutual friends. It was someone familiar, and even though your two mentors spent more time perfecting your wielding of knives and crocodile tears, you hoped Mace could somehow make it far in the games. Like you knew you would.

Enobaria and Brutus had introduced you to the various other Career Tributes, taking their time to butter up the other mentors, ensuring a ticket for your survival.

You were small compared to the other tributes, even the girl from Twelve was bigger than you.

But you trained, and you trained hard, showing off the various knife and sword tricks that had been engraved in your brain since you were a child.

Enobaria helped with your endurance, shocked by how fast you were. She had instructed you to not show that off to the other tributes, don’t give too much away.

After the private sessions with your mentors, you were stronger, faster, and more agile than Mace could even dream. You almost felt bad, the way Enobaria and Brutus were setting him up for death.

But, at the end of the day, only one can make it out alive.

Enobaria was strategic, determined for you to win. She instructed you to not show too many strengths in the private session with the Gamemakers, just enough to get a respectable score for someone from a Career District.

You followed her instructions to a tee, refusing to be one of the 23 fallen.

For the interviews, Ceasar laughed at your innocent comments and jokes, complimenting the head piece you wore, noting how it looked like a halo.

“Beautiful, like an Angel,” he smiled, the crowed cheering in agreement.

You giggled, smoothing down the uncomfortable golden dress they had sewn you into.

The crowd roared with your unwavering confidence, the arrogance paired with your baby-face and innocent smile was enough to send them into a fit of convivial.

It was just too easy.

The night before the games you had snuck out of the floor for Two, going up to the rooftop in hopes of having a moment to yourself.

You perched on the ledge, a small nightgown barely covering your shivering body.

You closed your eyes to relish in what could possibly be your last moments of peace, before being snapped from your trance by footsteps echoing.

You whipped around, teeth barring and senses on high alert. You were already acting like the wild animal Enobaria had been training you to be.

“Not in the arena just yet,” a smooth voice sounds out, a boy a few years older than you coming into view.

You recognized him as Finnick Odair. He had won a few years back, and was now returning as a mentor.

You ignored him, turning back to the outline of the Capitol.

He approached you slowly, leaning his body against the glass railing you were propped against.

You looked up to him, tired-eyes meeting his, somehow seemingly sparkling.

“Unfortunately,” you spoke, your mouth in a straight line. Enobaria had introduced you to him during the parade, but his tributes were not ally-material.

He laughed at your response. You stared at him, unamused.

“Feisty,” he smirked, watching you look away from him and back to the skyline.

“Not really in the mood to talk about my fate,” you said, his eyes still burning two holes into the side of your face.

His smile dropped slightly, having once been in your position himself.

He reminded himself you were only 15. A year older than he was when he won.

He had only won 3 years ago, and stood on this same rooftop. Looking out on the same city skyline.

Your peripheral vision caught him lean both his forearms onto the glass, shifting closer to you.

“Is it just as scary as it seems?” You ask. You were a child. A child that had been trained to hunt and kill. But deep down, you were just a scared kid. How would you kill all those people?

Finnick hums, acknowledging the same question that wracked his mind the nights before his games.

“It is,” he recognized your fear, but refused to give you false hope that it wouldn’t be as brutal as it truly is.

The words Enobaria had spoken to you earlier bounced around your brain, it’s just killing. Self-defense. All of it. Don’t be scared to kill someone who isn’t scared to kill you.

You let out a long breath, closing your eyes.

“I don’t want to die,”

It was quiet, but Finnick heard it, head perking up and turning to stare at you.

The role as a tribute was meant to bring great honor to someone from your district, but you were terrified. You were young, passionate. You had so much to give and so little time to give it all.

“Enobaria told me to hide my strengths, and I did. I’ll be able to kill them, once it comes down to it. But how will I live with myself?”

Finnick asked himself the same question everyday. How did he kill all those people? Sure, it was survival. Him or them. But how do you continue your life, pretending like you hadn’t murdered people on live national television?

“I—“ Finnick fell short, eyes still watching the side of your face.

“How do you cope with it all?” You finally turned to him, salty tears on your cheeks.

He knew you were preparing yourself for the inevitable. He had heard Enobaria boast about you, and had seen you in training. Other tributes would be frightened to get close to you.

He didn’t answer, swallowing thickly. You would soon understand, you would be in his position.

You choked out a sob, hands wrapping around your body.

He watched with wild eyes, before pulling you into his warm chest, head burrowing in his body.

You made no move to remove yourself from his body, and his arms were snug against your back.

“Kill as many as you can, as soon as you can. Then lay low, hunt. Don’t fall for any of that ally-bullshit.”

His voice was rushed, eyes filled with emotion. He felt for you, a scared child. He remembered his fear all too well.

You sniffled in his chest, hands balling at the thin fabric of his top.

And you listened to him.

In those next few hours, during the bloodbath, you killed two, both with knives to the chest. The Capitol citizens cheered as your face reflected the highest kill-count. You knew it was nothing to be proud of.

That next evening, while the rest of the Career pack slept, you stole the boy from One’s — Yves — backpack, shoving their weapons into it as quietly as possible.

Your small size came handy, being able to stealthily move around them, you were lucky the arena was a desert, sand not making a noise.

The girl from One — Aithon — began to lightly stir, and you knew it was now or never. Finnick’s words from the night before mixed with Enobaria’s, and that was all you needed to take a sword in each hand and take down the two tributes from One.

Their deaths were quick, the canons sounding out and Mace waking up, his laying figure looking up at you. Small but powerful.

You stood over his body, one foot on each of his arms, keeping him from reaching up to you.

His face twisted in confusion, looking over to the blood pouring from Yves and Aithon, each who had just been sleeping soundly next to him.

Your knife neared his face in milliseconds, and you had to force your arms down as he began to scream.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could whisper, guilt beginning to cloud your senses.

But you pushed past it, knowing you had to come out alive. No other option.

“Y/N! Please!”

And then there was silence.

He wasn’t anything special, but he was from home.

You held in tears as the canon sounded, running from the three as quickly as you could.

Whilst you hid behind one of the large cacti around the arena, Enobaria grinned as Capitol citizens celebrated her and you, her star tribute.

Finnick watched, heart tugging, knowing that he had encouraged the killings, he had told you to trust no one. And you had listened.

And from then on, you became the Capitol’s angel, their winged symbol of purity, despite the blood and deaths of many on your hands.

When Snow placed the crown on your head, you smiled, naively, and thanked the crowd. Thanked them for their donations, and their belief in you from the beginning.

But that’s all you were to them: a spectacle. A little girl who killed five in one day, a little girl who’s life had been dedicated to these games, to win. A little girl who would never get her purity back, never get to sleep without seeing Mace’s terrified face before she killed him.

He didn’t deserve it, none of them did. But it was life or death. And there was no way you were going to die.

PRESENT DAY, THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL

Your group continued up to the Cornucopia, you and Finnick taking the tail.

Peeta and Finnick drew a map in the dark sand, you leaned against the side of the metal Cornucopia, Johanna plopping down next to you, and Katniss on your other side.

It all happened in a blur. One second, Wiress was singing her song about a mouse and the clock, and the next, Gloss was on top of her, knife straight into the heart.

Katniss’s arrow struck him, you grabbing your swords to get Cashmere who was standing behind him.

Finnick rushed after you. He knew you could take Cashmere, but what happened if Brutus appeared? Brutus had never been kind to you, and it was doubtful he would start now.

Your sword stuck Cashmere in the leg, and she screamed, falling onto the little amount of ground that the middle sector offered.

She turned over, knife in her left hand, grazing your ankle slightly. Luckily your stylist had dressed you in thicker socks; she had been an absolute idiot about most things, but at least she had your back in the arena.

Your thigh was still slightly burning with pain, but you pushed through it, sticking both your swords into Cashmere’s chest, a strangled gasp leaving her lips and her head falling back against the ground.

The canon sounded out, but you continued to pull your swords out and drive them back into her chest, more blood pouring out.

You were grunting now, mind hyper-aware of your actions, but refusing to stop.

You kept driving the sharp tools into her chest, her body slightly moving up when you retracted the metal, and then caving in as you pushed them back.

You weren’t going to die; you refused to.

Hands were on your shoulders, pulling you backwards, and you turned, swinging.

Finnick let go and backed away, hands held up. He knew you’d never hurt him, but once you’re in the killing mindset, it’s very hard to break it.

You dropped the weapons to your side, a long breath leaving your lips that you hadn’t realized you’d be holding in.

Finnick pulled you along with him, hand on your side as he brought you over to everyone else.

All of them were staring with wide eyes — besides Johanna of course.

Katniss knew you were brutal, but she didn’t realize how quickly you did turn into the angel of death. One second you were smiling, laughing at something Johanna had said.

Then your eyes were lit with a fire, teeth out, and running, faster than Katniss had ever seen someone move.

She had watched you kill Cashmere in seconds, continuing to drive the weapons into her, sounds of exasperation leaving your lips but you were unrelenting.

You felt like you were fifteen again, scared and angry, brutal to anyone who crossed your path. Your swordsmanship was uncanny, and Katniss dreaded the moment that she had to try and kill you.

And then the Cornucopia began to spin, extremely fast. You grabbed onto Finnick, a sword sucking down into the water, your other tight in the palm of your opposite hand.

You and Finnick fell to the ground, grabbing at the hard rocks to keep from flying to the water.

And then you heard Peeta scream Katniss’s name, and the two of you both yelled a loud, “shit!”

You pushed off the hard ground, crawling to the side of the island, hand reaching down to grab Johanna’s axe and try to hoist the two of them up.

You grunted, holding onto a small portion of the metal that wasn’t sharp. Your feet dug into the ground, sword shoved into the rock to keep you grounded.

You watched as Katniss went flying down, and then Johanna was on top of you, the two of you gasping for oxygen when the spinning stopped.

You and Johanna were back on your feet, rushing to help Katniss out of the water.

You all made your way back onto the sand, where it was relatively safe.

You discussed strategy, your fingers tracing different shapes into Finnick’s thigh.

“Who’s left then?” Katniss asked, eyes flickering between you and Johanna, the two of you having a conversation with your eyes.

“Brutus and Chaff, I think that’s all,” Peeta announced, all eyes shifting to you at the mention of your district-mate.

“I get Brutus,” you spoke clearly, eyes hard.

“Y/N…” Finnick spoke, hand smoothing down your arm.

“Just… I know him. I can handle it, I swear,”

He had helped train you, of course you would know his methods like the back of your hand. You had been seeking revenge for years, waiting for the day you could get him back.

What had the games done to you? Fantasizing about killing someone?

And then you were back there, back to the moment your life really ended.

You were dressed in clothes Snow had picked out, a hairstyle Snow had picked out, makeup Snow had picked out. You were his newest doll, malleable to his every demand.

It was your victory tour, and Enobaria and Brutus were accompanying you, helping you with speeches and coming to terms with your new life as a Capitol pet.

You were finishing up in the Capitol, the final destination. Snow had laid out his conditions for you: your pride and body now belonged to the Capitol, and with it, they could do what they pleased. Your company came with a high price.

He had threatened your family back in Two, describing in detail what would become of them if you didn’t comply with his wishes.

You had gone back to the train and told Enobaria and Brutus, eyes spilling hot tears when Enobaria pulled you into her arms, hands stroking your hair. At least she was kind.

Brutus, however, was not.

His boisterous laugh rang off the walls of the train, your eyes peeking out from Enobaria’s embrace to glare at him.

“Let me know when you start, sweetheart,” he smirked, a scowl overtaking your features.

You had been waiting to get him back, to show him that weren’t a little slave for his disposal. Finnick understood your rage, more than any other person could.

He wanted to kill Brutus just as badly as you did.

No one else asked any questions, and for that you were grateful.

And then the screaming started, and you jumped to your feet, eyes frantic and scanning the area.

Whoever it was, they were screaming for Katniss, and rather brutally as well.

And off she took. You were the fastest, so you caught her first, arms around her shoulders to steady her, but she kept moving, screaming back to the voice.

She stopped abruptly, and shot an arrow into a large black bird that was flying over your heads.

The screaming stopped immediately. And then it began again, this time, it was the voice of Mace. And you felt the blood drain from your entire body, legs suddenly shaking and threatening to go out.

The words he had screamed to you before you had slit his throat were wrapping around your body, swallowing you whole.

“Y/N! Please! Y/N!” You were running then, the screaming getting louder and louder, tears streaming down your face as you tried to escape it; the horror that would haunt you forever.

“It’s not real, they’re jabberjays!” Katniss assured you, running behind you, trying to catch up.

You saw Finnick and Johanna’s faces ahead through your blurry vision, and you sped up, Finnick’s arms wide for you to run into.

But it was a force field, and you collided right into it, falling to the ground in a heap of tears and painful memories.

You covered your ears, head digging into the ground to stop the noise, but it wouldn’t stop. You wailed, and Finnick was hitting the force field, which he was standing on the direct other side, but there was no avail.

He was screaming for you, to look at him, listen to his voice. But the field was soundproof, and he had to watch with a heavy heart as you sobbed, the sounds of the person you betrayed all those years ago the only thing you could focus on.

Finnick’s hands were all over you, smoothing down your hair, checking your face, helping you stand.

Peeta was doing the same with Katniss, the both of you having tear-stains down your cheeks and dirt smudged into your cheeks.

You were frozen solid, eyes big and wide, legs slightly shaking. You had never felt worse about something than what you did to Mace that dreadful night. His screams haunted your dreams, and to have the Gamemakers play into that weakness reminded you just who the real enemy is.

“Y/N, look at me,” Finnick’s hands were on the sides of your face, pulling you closer to his protective figure.

“It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him,” he shook his head lightly, your lips still quivering from fear.

You could only muster the strength to simply nod, telling him that you knew, but the Gamemakers were cruel, so cruel, and they had hit you right where it hurt.

Just as you were beginning to regain your usual automatic-kill mindset, a small box flew down, straight into your hands.

Everyone gathered around you, curious as to what could’ve been sent.

You knew Enobaria would have your back, and considering the sponsors this year were based upon what you had left over from your games, you were lucky. You had a large pot of donations under your name, not needing much assistance when you were in your first games.

You screwed off the top, being met with a small vile of Crave Cure, the very concoction that she had sent you during your games. It came with a note reading: remember who the real enemy is. I’m always rooting for you. - Baria

That assured you of Enobaria’s stance, likely scheming with Haymitch and Plutarch behind the scenes, ensuring your protection by Thirteen.

Finnick smiled next to you, Johanna calling out with happiness.

“Finally!” Johanna cheered, axe thrust into the air.

You even broke a smile, suddenly distracted from the traumatic experience you had just endured.

You looked up, seeing the confused looks on Katniss and Peeta’s faces.

They would’ve never heard of Crave Cure, it was the most expensive thing a mentor could send their tribute, and required many sponsors. It was usually only sent to the Careers, both you and Finnick had received it during your games.

“Crave Cure,” you spoke, Katniss’s eyes meeting yours.

“One drop on your tongue and it cures hunger for 12 hours,” you smiled to them, picking up the vile.

“Enobaria is a saint,” Johanna spoke, watching as you dropped a tiny bit of the brown liquid onto your tongue, a content sigh escaping your lips.

Beetee went next, then Finnick and Johanna.

Katniss and Peeta stood awkwardly to the side, not knowing to approach or not.

“Oh, enough of that! We’re allied, aren’t we? Take a drop,” you urged, placing the vile into her hands.

Peeta nodded, and that seemed to be all the convincing Katniss needed before mimicking your action and gagging when she tasted the fluid.

You laughed at her expression, a light-hearted tease. “Not the best, but it does do its job,”

You figured you had really won her trust, considering how she walked next to you during the hike to the big tree.

The two of you talked about your families back home. You complimented her dedication, to protect her little sister.

She had killed your Cato and Clove; the two you had spent hours coaching, assuring they’d be okay in the end. Words you had needed so badly during your games.

Through talking with Katniss, you realized no one deserved to win as much as she did. She was selfless, willing to sacrifice herself for both her sister and Peeta, placing herself as a protector, not a victim.

And then the peace you had all been building crashed down, Katniss suddenly retreating from the trust you all had built after Beetee offered she go with you and Johanna.

“Why can’t Johanna and Y/N go? I’ll protect you with Peeta,” she spoke, and you met Finnick’s gaze. You read the fear in his eyes, knowing this the was now or never moment.

“Katniss,” you spoke, hands resting on her shoulders.

“You know who the true enemy is,” you whispered, holding her intense eye-contact.

Her eyes softened at your words, everything seemingly clicking into place. With a nod, you grabbed her hand, and pulled her with you and Johanna.

A look over your shoulder to Finnick, and a nod. Your eyes said it all: I love you. I’ll see you soon, once we are safe and out of the Capitol’s hands.

You and Johanna halted your movements, stopping Katniss as you did.

“Stay down,” Johanna instructed Katniss, grabbing her arm.

“What-“ Katniss was about to scream, and you could not let that happen.

You grabbed her face with your hands, eyes frantic for her faith.

“You can trust us,” you whispered, barely loud enough for the cameras to pick up on.

But the raw emotion in your eyes calmed Katniss, giving Johanna the opportunity to cut the tracker out, Katniss’s arm beginning to bleed heavily.

“It’s alright,” you soothed her, your arm out to Johanna, waiting for the inevitable sear of pain.

And then it came, and you placed your body over Katniss’s not allowing her to get up and try to attack.

But then you spotted Brutus over the rock, his hard eyes staring straight into yours.

“Y/N,” Johanna warned, watching the familiar fire begin to brew.

You were up in seconds, sword in one hand, knife in the other, running up the rocky hill. The pain in your arm was masked by the rush of adrenaline you ran high off, killing spree — if you will.

Johanna grunted in anger, but she knew not to expect anything different from you.

“Do not move,” she instructed Katniss, picking up her axe to follow you.

You had reached Brutus quickly, pouncing onto his back and driving your sword straight through his abdomen.

He cried out in pain, blood soon coating your legs that wrapped around his waist.

You pulled the sword out, taking the knife to his neck. He was dead in seconds, the familiar canon sounding throughout the arena.

After registering what you had done, images of Katniss flooded your mind and you internally cursed yourself, rushing back to the spot you had left her and Johanna.

Johanna was back to your side, but Katniss was no where to be seen.

“Fuck!” You cursed, sprinting back towards the tree where Beetee, Finnick, and Peeta were.

She had likely gone back to protect Peeta and kill Finnick, and you were not about to let that happen.

Johanna tried to keep up with you; but even with a gushing arm and slit leg, you were fast. Much faster than anyone else.

“Finnick!” You screamed, feet pounding against the hard ground, propelling you towards the tree, where you watched Katniss aim her arrow straight at Finnick’s head.

Beetee was on the ground, and you crouched, feeling for his pulse. His heart was still beating and you hovered over him protectively, in case Katniss decided to turn around and fire at you too. Which seemed very likely.

You watched as Finnick said something to Katniss, obviously resonating with her, the bow slightly lowering.

“Johanna! Give me your arm!” You swung around, panic-struck and searching for the familiar face.

And you saw her a few feet below, trying to climb the vines you had mounted with ease.

You looked between Finnick and her, torn as to which to try and protect. You knew Finnick would hold his own, so you turned back around and began to move for Johanna, quick feet avoiding possible injuries.

But just as you were in grabbing-distance of her, Finnick’s voice rang out, screaming, “Get away from that tree!”

A crack of something echoed around you, and you turned wildly, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Then you understand what Finnick had meant, a loud crack of lightening rained down and sent you flying, reaching for Johanna as you flew past her, her terrified eyes meeting yours.

The last thing you remembered was being pulled up into the air by a large claw, head and limbs limp as you were hoisted up; sword still secure in your palm, a protection habit you had picked up since your games. You always needed to be armed, after all, life was the arena.

You awoke to the sound of a heart monitor, steady beeping lightly calming your high-alert nerves.

You winced sitting up, large bandages wrapped around your forearm and thigh.

You inspected your surroundings, two empty mats in front of you, and Katniss sleeping to your left.

You stood, hushed voices on the other side of the door that reached the ceiling of the craft you were on.

You looked for a weapon of sorts, not willing to go in unarmed. On the other side of the empty room was your sword, glimmering and coated in blood.

You walked over to it, legs sore and aching, the familiar metal calming against your palm.

The door immediately opened as you approached it, Haymitch and Plutarch’s widening as they spotted your weapon of choice clutched in your ruthless hands.

But it dropped to the floor with a loud clatter when your tired eyes met Finnick’s, a relieved smile coming over your features.

You rushed to him, throwing yourself into his arms. His lips met yours halfway, melting into his strong hold around your body.

The two of you fit together perfectly, like you had been made in the same mold.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him tighter to your already close bodies.

You poured all your pent up feelings into the kiss, all the feelings you had suppressed since the fight that had ended your relationship.

It was the most relaxed you had been in the whole week, since your name was plucked from the bowl of living victors.

His lips moved against yours as he squeezed your hips, hands feeling everything they could, to ensure that it was in fact you, and you were alive and safe in front of him.

You pulled a part, a grin across your small face.

He smiled back, but your bliss was interrupted from the clearing of a throat behind you. You spun around, eyes meeting the expectant ones of Haymitch, Plutarch, and Beetee.

The look on your face said it all. And Haymitch nodded, validating all the thoughts that had been running through your head.

You were safe, headed for the secret hideout of Thirteen. All was okay.

You almost began to laugh thinking about how the Capitol would react, their Angel and Darling being two of the biggest conspirators in a rebellion. How ironic.

And Katniss was on the ship, you had successfully carried out your tasks.

“Where’s Johanna?” You asked, a smile still dotting your face.

Finnick’s composure broke, and your heart dropped, realizing the obvious.

“No, no, no, no,” you began to back away, spine hitting the hard metal of the table.

“I went after Brutus, I didn’t cut the tracker… fuck! Oh my god, Finnick, oh god,” you began to dry-heave, accepting her capture as your fault.

Finnick’s hands were on your biceps, steadying you and pulling you back into his chest.

“Johanna and Peeta are in the Capitol,” Plutarch spoke, your worst fears being confirmed.

“It’s all my fault,” you groaned, head in your hands. You had killed, hunted, and tortured. But the idea of a friend’s death being on your hands hurt more than any of those ever did.

Haymitch spoke reassuring words behind you, but Finnick’s hold and the idea of betraying Johanna was all you could focus on.

How would she forgive you? Was she alive? How would you ever cope if she wasn’t, and it was all your fault? Of course, you let the murderer take over, and went after Brutus.

Finnick’s arms soothed down your back, keeping your grounded as you were flooded with grief, with the heavy weight of betrayal.

Johanna and you were close friends, you were supposed to protect each other in the games. She had protected you, always by your side, and you neglected to do the same.

“We’re going to try and rescue them as soon as we can,” Haymitch said, even though you all knew that might be an impossible task.

And then Finnick slipped his hand into yours, fingers curling around yours and softly rubbing your knuckles.

You composed yourself, closing your eyes as you took in a deep breath, regaining focus on just your interlocked hands. Finnick always knew how to relax you.

All you had wanted initially was to get out of this quarter quell alive, to return home to your big mansion and family. To hug them again, to prove to the Capitol that they could take everything from you, but they couldn’t kill you.

But now, you realized that all had been in vain. Where you really belonged was here, holding hands with Finnick, discussing how you were going to break your friends from the Capitol’s mean grip.

You’d die for him, for them. You’d flap your wings once more to ensure they’d all live.

When Katniss first volunteered for Primrose, you hadn’t understood how she would sacrifice her life for another.

But now you knew, and you knew you’d do it too.

You finally had something to live for, someone you loved, who understood all that you had gone through better than anyone else.

Life was the arena, and if it came down to it, you knew the angel would sacrifice herself for the darling.

**

[littledovesnow]

a growing family | part 4

a/n: the finale!!!! i had so much fun with this mini series, i hope you love it!

warnings: childbirth (but traumatic), idk... hospitals? inaccurate medical stuff (i worked in a hospital but i don't know shit about medicine!!!!)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

-----

Following a few Peacekeepers back to the train, you and Coriolanus talked softly about the conclusion of the tour.

“How did you like to see my old stomping grounds?” He asked, referring to the quick stop you two had made in the Hob so you could use the restroom.

“It certainly looks like the place that could draw a crowd.” You smiled, thanking the Peacekeeper as he helped you into the train.

Coriolanus walked dutifully as you more-so waddled down the aisle to the private car. “Are you feeling okay?”

He had noticed you taking more breaks while walking, discomfort on your face.

Nodding, you toed off your shoes and lounged with your feet on the opposite bench, letting your husband rub them once more. “Just ready to get these babies out of me. I feel like a beached whale.”

Coriolanus laughed, looking out the window as the train began the two-day journey back to the Capitol. “I’m sure they’re excited to be out in the world, have more space to move.”

You snorted, letting your head roll back and lean against the plush booth. “How long do you think we have until they come?”

“A couple more weeks, I hope. It’s still a little early.” Coriolanus chuckled as you let out a moan when he got a particularly rough knot out of your foot. “What are you thinking for dinner tonight, my love?”

You two continued the conversation while you both watched the trees go by, content in your last days alone.

-----

The following morning, you woke before your husband, smile coming to your face when you saw the Capitol’s skyline in the distance.

Slowly rising from the bed, you paused for a moment when the world went off-kilter.

You stood and walked over to the exit of the private car, moving into the dining one for something to drink, never understanding why your mouth was so dry when traveling on the train.

 “Goodmorning, ma’am. How are you feeling?” A Peacekeeper asked, soft smile on his face as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Tired. How about yourself?” You replied, eying the mug of coffee with envy.

You two kept a quiet conversation until the door opened once more, Coriolanus entering the car.

“You could’ve woken me; I would’ve gotten you something to drink.” He chastised, pressing a soft kiss to your head.

Rolling your eyes, you smiled as the Peacekeeper left to give you and Coriolanus some privacy. “Coryo, I’m going to be holed up in a bed for weeks in a few days, let me get movement while I still can.”

Coriolanus tsked as he looked over what would be served for breakfast shortly, smile coming to his face when you pulled his free hand into your own, fiddling with his wedding band. “How are the babies doing?”

Shrugging, you looked out the window as the snow-capped mountains drew nearer. “They’re getting anxious, certainly hope they’re both in the correct position now.”

Coriolanus chewed on his lip as he hummed in agreement, not wanting you to experience surgery if it could be avoided. “We shall see, you’re meeting with the doctor the day after tomorrow, correct?”

Nodding, you sipped the tea that was placed in front of you. “Unless I go into labor beforehand.”

The elephant in the room was finally mentioned, and Coriolanus’ frown returned.

“Coryo, you know as well as I do that there’s a high possibility we’ll become parents before the end of the week. I want as much as you do to wait until it’s safer, closer to the due date, but twins come early a lot.”

Nodding, the blonde took a long sip of his coffee. “As long as you’re all okay, that’s all that matters.”

-----

You woke to a loud screech, groaning into Coriolanus’ chest as the train stopped moving, stationed back at the Capitol.

“Good morning, welcome home.” Coriolanus whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Good morning, Coryo.”

Both of you getting up, albeit you at a slower pace than Coriolanus, there was a small crowd cheering when you two disembarked the train, publicity-trained smiles on both of your faces.

Several reporters for the Capitol News had come to the station, vying for questions about the tour and wondering it’s success.

You sucked in a breath while Coriolanus spoke with Lucky Flickerman, keeping your face neutral as you interrupted the conversation. “Excuse me, Lucky, but Coriolanus and I have prior engagements we need to get to.”

Coriolanus sent you a look as you dragged him away from the cameras. He leaned down to ask you a question, voice soft to keep it off of the microphones. “What are you talking about?”

Looking up at him, you sent him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been in labor since four this morning. We’re going to the hospital.”

-----

You groaned in pain as your OB/GYN walked into the room, smile on her face. “Didn’t think we’d be seeing each other so soon, my dear.”

“Well, we like to keep you on your toes.” You grumbled, letting out a sigh as the pain dissipated.

“Where’s Coriolanus? I expected him to be stationed next to you the entire time.”

Laughing, you watched as the doctor put some bands over the bump to monitor the twins. “He stepped out to call Tigris and my mother. He should be back shortly.”

Moving to examine you, you looked on the monitor to watch the babies’ heartbeats.

Coriolanus re-entered the room soon after the examination ended, smiling at the doctor when he noticed her, though when he saw the tears brimming on your lash line his smile dropped. “What happened?”

“Baby B is still in a breech position, we’re going to have to do a C-section.”

At the doctor’s repeated explanation, Coriolanus was next to you in an instant, clasping your hand in his own. “It’s going to be okay, dove. You’ve got wonderfully trained doctors, the best in all of Panem, you’ll be fine.”

It felt like a whirlwind while you were being prepped for surgery, contractions getting worse as time went on.

Coriolanus stood next to you, wanting nothing more than to help take the pain away, willing the pain away.

“Mr. Snow, we’ll be going to operating room shortly. We don’t normally allow this, but you are able to sit in the surgery with us. Meet your children.”

You frantically looked up at Coriolanus, nodding rapidly. “Please, please Coryo. I need you, I can’t- I don’t want to do this alone.”

Coriolanus nodded, allowing himself to be layered in the sterile gown and booties, nerves skyrocketing as if he was the one on the table. “You’ll be okay, my love. It’s going to be okay.”

There was an oxygen cannula pressed against your face, IV into your arm, short curtain set up on top of you, inhibiting your view of the doctors at your other end.

Coriolanus pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, salty with the sweat still beading along your skin.

You felt the pinprick of a local anesthetic, the sounds of medical instruments being picked up and jostled, and the low voices of the surgeons and doctors birthing your children.

“You doing good up there, Mrs. Snow?” One of the surgeons asked, glancing up at your stats.

You nodded, too afraid to speak.

“Alright, let’s meet Baby Number One.” Your OB/GYN smiled, and a piercing cry erupted into the room. “Welcome to the world, Little Girl Snow.”

“A girl, we have a girl, Coryo.” You looked over at Coriolanus, ignoring the pressure in your head.

“We have a girl, love.” Coriolanus smiled, tears threatening to spill over.

You heard one of the machines behind you beeping more incessantly, the voices of the doctors growing muffled and distant.

“Coryo, some-something’s wrong. I feel- something is wrong.” You mumbled, words slurring.

Coriolanus felt his heart drop onto the floor at your admission, head snapping to the doctors who had started to rapidly soaking blood up, and he could pick out a few phrases from their rapid chatter, the words “obstetric hemorrhage” sending chills down his body.

“What’s wrong, what’s going on with my wife?” Coriolanus yelled, terror on his face.

“Mr. Snow, you’re going to have to head to the waiting room.” A nurse spoke, ushering him out of the operating room.

He saw one of the doctors pressing his fingers onto the second baby’s chest, while a handful of other surgeons and doctors focused on you, and Coriolanus had never felt fear quite like this.

-----

Four hours had passed since you were ripped from Coriolanus’ sight, four hours since he last saw his children. “A boy and a girl, Mr. Snow. Congratulations.” The nurse had said, smile on her face.

How she could smile in the face of a man whose wife could be dead, he’ll never know.

Coriolanus’ knee was bouncing a mile a minute as he awaited any news on your state, on the babies, on anything.

“Mr. Snow?”

His head shot up when he heard a soft voice call his name, and he saw a nurse approaching, hesitant smile on his face.

“Is my wife okay?” He asked, eyes frantic.

Nodding, the nurse lead him to a private room, away from any prying eyes. “Mrs. Snow is stable. She experienced a large quantity of blood loss during the birth, but with some transfusions, she is stable and should wake up shortly.”

Nodding, Coriolanus let out a sigh. “The babies? Are they- can I see them?”

The nurse paused, and Coriolanus saw a tick in her jaw.

“What’s wrong with my children?”

“The boy, I’m not sure if you’ve decided on names yet, but the boy will need to be monitored for a few weeks here. His lungs weren’t as developed as his sister’s, but with some supplemental oxygen and time, he should be a fighter.”

“My daughter, is she okay?”

“Would you like to meet your daughter, Mr. Snow?”

The nurse lead him to the nursery, motioning for him to sit in one of the rocking chairs. “Newborns do best with skin-to-skin, if you unbutton your shirt, I can place her on your chest.”

Coriolanus quickly undid the buttons, ignoring the nurse’s gasp at the few bruises on his chest from back on the train, and gently placed the newborn in his arms.

The baby was smaller than he expected, having never held a newborn before, but he felt enamored by her, by his daughter. Already, he was wrapped around her little finger, wanting nothing more than to give her the world.

“She has her mother’s eyes.” Coriolanus whispered, soft smile on his face as he rocked slowly in the chair.

Looking up at the nurse, Coriolanus asked about you, when you would be awake and ready to meet the twins.

“It’s hard to say, some mothers wake up shortly after birthing. Others, ones who had complications not unlike your wife, it can be a few hours to days before they wake. Rest assured, your wife is being monitored closely, and you will be able to bring your daughter to meet her mother.”

Coriolanus nodded, blinking back the few tears that threatened to leak.

He was thankful you two had decided to have the hospital facility to sign NDA contracts, not wanting his soft side to be released to the public.

“I’ll let you two bond, just press that green button when you need anything.”

Coriolanus thanked her, looking down at the small baby in arms.

“Welcome to the world, little one. You and your brother aren’t going to have to worry about a thing, I’ll make sure of it.”

-----

Coriolanus looked at himself in the mirror of your hospital room’s bathroom. The man staring back at him did not look like the Coriolanus Snow who was on the presidential election posters that were recently debuted to the public.

No, the man staring back at Coriolanus had greasy, unkempt hair, stubble popping up along his face, and bags under his eyes. Tigris had stopped in with a change of clothing and something to eat, knowing her cousin wouldn’t eat if it meant leaving your side.

The twins were recovering well, the boy’s lungs growing stronger with each passing day.

You were now Coriolanus’ top priority, you still haven’t woken from the emergency surgery and complications from days prior.

The doctors were unsure of why you hadn’t woken yet, speculating your body needed more rest than you let on, the tour taking a toll on your body.

Coriolanus walked back to the chair on the side of your bed, cracking his neck as he sat down and took your hand in his.

“The babies are doing well, doctor’s speculate we’ll be able to take them home in a few days. We have to name them first, and I know we decided on what to call them, but it feels wrong to sign the certificates without you there.”

The blonde man had taken to talking about his day, explaining things the twins were doing, hoping you would wake up and respond to his ramblings.

The only response he got was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the only thing keeping Coriolanus sane.

A knock on the door drew Coriolanus out of his stupor, tight smile coming to his lips when he saw Tigris.

“How is she?” The older Snow asked, dropping a small box of baked goods on the table next to your bed.

“The same.” Coriolanus croaked, voice raw from the nights he spent crying, hoping you didn’t suffer the same end that his mother did.

It was as if Tigris could hear his inner monologue, as she hugged her cousin tightly. “She won’t be like your mom, she’s going to wake up, and she’s going to raise those babies down the hall, and she’s going to be your First Lady.”

Coriolanus nodded, dam breaking as tears escaped his eyes, racing down his chin to meet each other.

-----

Two weeks after you had become parents, Coriolanus had to make an appearance in public to show the Capitol he was still strong, and he would be Panem’s next president.

He was sitting next to Lucky Flickerman, answering lukewarm questions and entertaining the premise that he was running on a full night’s sleep, not the coffees he had been all-but bathing in.

While the show was at a break, one of the Capitol News associates came over to the two men, serious look on his face. “Excuse me, Mr. Snow.”

Coriolanus looked over to him, Lucky frowning that his story had been interrupted.

“Mr. Snow, I’ve just gotten a call from a Tigris Snow? She said that you’re needed at the Capitol Medical Center urgently.”

Coriolanus felt the blood rush to his ears as he left the station without a single look back, commanding his driver to what had become his second home at this point.

-----

Footfalls echoing off the walls, Coriolanus’ eyes were wide as he turned the corner and entered the room that had become familiar over the last weeks, the room seemingly brighter when he saw your smiling face back at him.

“Love.” Coriolanus sighed, rushing to your side, kissing you as if he was starved.

You kissed back just as eagerly, only breaking the kiss when you felt your stitches pull. “Hi, Coryo.”

“Hi, dove.”  

-----

a/n: the end <3 maybe you'll see this beautiful family in some future fics!

[sits-bound]

Bound: The Man Who Lived by sebastianL

Well, this was a labor of love!

I have so much to say about this bind.

I had the idea to incorporate two themes visually in this bind - watercolor flowers (for Draco's tattoos) and New York (where he lives). I bought a set of graphics off etsy (much like I did for Grounds for Divorce and lemons) and went to town with them.

There are 42 chapters in this fic, and each chapter page has one more flower, so by the last chapter, well, there are a lot of flowers.

I wanted these pages to be more vibrant, but when I printed them, the color was bleeding through to the other side, so I had to lower the opacity on them. If this had been a shorter fic, I would have just used 26lb paper instead of 20lb, but at 685 pages, that was not an option. 😅

As it was, it baaaaarely fit under the blade of my guillotine. I definitely won't be able to trim text blocks longer than this.

The skyline was also used a lot, even though it's the Manhattan skyline and technically Draco lives in Brooklyn but let's just call it artistic license.

The end papers are a collage of the flowers, which I then printed the skyline over with my laser printer, then foiled that.

(And let me say that my insistence on printing color pages on my inkjet and b/w pages on my laser printer meant this took forever to print and resulted in many messed up pages. I should just print the whole dang thing in inkjet. But it would take 10,000 years.)

I had a really hard time coming up with a concept for the cover. Or, rather, figuring out how to execute the concept I had in mind. Finally I remembered I had some iron on printable paper, so I printed the flower design, then cut the skyline out of it. But the paper wasn't wide enough to cover the whole front and back of the book, so on the back I had it transition into just the flowers.

Overall, I'm very very happy with how this bind came out. I love it.

Body Font: Garamond Premier Inside title page: Fino Cover: Capitol Capitals

P.S. Draco and I have similar tattoos (watercolor flowers) so that might be why I went in this direction. Who can say?

P.S.S. Honestly, as much as I love this bind, the best way to experience this fic is via the incredible podfic (25 hours!) by @thirdeye1234.

[mrs5sn0w]

Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> III : A Symphony of Heartbreak -> IV : Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance-> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

warnings: Arranged marriage, MILD ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame: Before, during and after tbosbas

Synopsis : In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

The Academy bore witness a friendship that would echo through the corridors of time. In the their youth, Coriolanus Snow and her forged bonds that transcended the boundaries of academic pursuits.

Their journey through the Academy was a dance of shared laughter, intellectual banter, and the unspoken friendship that defined their connection. She was a vibrant force of creativity, and Coriolanus Snow was no different.

"Coryo, have you ever wondered what lies beyond these walls? The world beyond our textbooks and exams?"

Snow, his eyes focused on the distant horizon, considered the question.

"The future is a realm of uncertainties, Flare. I prefer to focus on the present."

She persisted, her enthusiasm undiminished. "But what if we could shape our own destinies? Break free from the expectations of the Capitol?"

He regarded her, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "Our paths are preordained but the Capitol is our life."

Their classes became a sanctuary of shared aspirations and mutual understanding.

As the sun dipped below the Capitol skyline, casting a warm glow across the Academy courtyard, she broached the unspoken realm of their connection.

"do you ever think about us? beyond the expectations placed upon us?"

Snow, caught off guard, allowed a rare smile to grace his stoic features.

"What do you mean ?"

"Forget what I said, the reaping day is coming, do you think they'll announce who's gonna get the Plinth Prize ?"

She knew it must be him who gets the prize. She knew he needed it more than she does.

In those fleeting moments, beneath the shadows of the Academy's pillars, a subtle dance of emotions unfolded.

His face sparked a smile, hoping that it would be himself who got the prize,after all, he wouldn't want his hard work to go into waste.

"I hope so..." he let out a long breath while looking at the smiling girl in her red uniform

Unbeknownst to him, she harbored a sentiment deeper than friendship, a quiet flame that flickered in the recesses of her heart.

Reaping day approached with a sense of urgency, the anticipation hung in the air, threading through the classrooms like an unspoken undercurrent.

One evening, in the dim glow of the Academy library, she dared to tread the delicate ground of vulnerability.

"I would really fail any exam just so you can get the prize, Coryo."

He met her gaze,

"Why would you do that ?"

She gently grabbed his hands

"you're the one who has every reason in this world to get it more than anyone, you're Coriolanus Snow, look at how far we've come, you're gonna be someone amazing in Panem."

His heart stopped beating, confused at how she was reacting. No one believes in him like she did. No one had faith in him like she did.

A gentle smile was plastered across his face,

"you're gonna be an amazing woman as well. Panem is going to look at you one day and be grateful that you are born into this world."

Their final days were a montage of shared dreams and sidelong glances, the unspoken understanding between them growing into something deeper.

Yet, in the delicate dance of emotions, Corio remained oblivious to the blossoming romance that she harbored.

The Reaping Day arrived, casting a pall over the top 24 students of the Academy. She wore a stunning nude colored corset dress, that embraced her curves, featuring sleeves that gracefully hug her arms. The dress emphasized her collarbones, adding an elegant touch. Her hairstyle complements the look with soft waves cascading down her shoulders, framing her face and enhancing the overall sophistication of the ensemble.

Coryo and her sat side by side, hearing the announcement from Dean Highbottom of the obligatory mentorship to the tributes. They sat as names intertwined in the cruel lottery of tributes.

A silent understanding passed between them, a shared acknowledgment of the dangerous journey that awaited. They did not know what they were getting into.

"District 8, boy, y/n Flare"

Her eyes looked over the screen of a boy named Bobbins, hope glimmered across her eyes, only wishing the best for her tribute.

"District 12, girl goes to Coriolanus Snow"

As Lucy Gray Baird is called forth as a tribute during the reaping day, her demeanor contrasts the somber atmosphere. She wore a dress that catches the light, its colors reminiscent of the wild.

Despite the gravity of the moment, the district 12 female tribute's gaze holds a spark of defiance, and her posture exudes a quiet strength. The curls of her hair cascade down, a vivid contrast against the muted tones of the crowd. In that pivotal moment, Flare knew that Lucy Gray stands as a symbol of resilience and individuality.

Snow and Flare locked eyes,

they were saying good luck internally to each other.

Snow and her were determined to make a winner out of their tributes.

She was impressed with how Bobbin managed to captivate the audience by explaining five different ways to kill someone with a sewing needle.

Then, when she was asleep during the night of Day one, unbeknownst to her, Snow had left the academy to the arena on a mission to get his friend Sejanus out.

Coriolanus Snow experiences a tumult of conflicting emotions when he killed Bobbin, Flare's tribute.

The act weighs heavily on him, and a sense of remorse and unease lingers.

Coryo grapples with the harsh reality of the Games and the choices it forces upon him, questioning the morality of his actions. The incident leaves an ineradicable mark on his conscience, he decides never to let this be known.

Especially her.

Her eyes widened, a sudden jolt coursing through her body as fact that her tribute died sank in. Her breath caught, a sharp inhale betraying the shock that gripped her. The world felt suspended, and disbelief etched itself across her face, a mask of astonishment and heart-wrenching realization.

There was no recording of her tribute dying, which is impossible. Bobbin could have not died suddenly.

Someone must've killed him.

Her brows furrowed, caught in the turbulent mixture of emotion. Confusion knit lines across her forehead as she struggled to make sense of the unfolding situation.

Then anger simmered beneath the surface, her eyes flashing with an intensity fueled by frustration and disbelief. It was a storm of conflicting feelings, each wave crashing into the next, leaving her torn between the chaos of confusion and the fiery surge of anger.

The air around her crackled with unresolved emotions, a volatile blend that painted her expression with a mix of perplexity and a smoldering indignation.

She eyed the boy who she had feelings for,

"It's not fair, there's no record of anyone killing him, the broadcast must've been frozen or someone must've sabotaged him" she insisted

With a remorseful gaze, he uttered, "I'm sorry, Flare," his apologetic words weaving through the air, a confession concealed as she remained oblivious to the intricacies of his furtive actions.

Her heavy steps lead her outside the room, a storm of anger in her eyes and a resolute determination fueling every step, driven by a resolute need to unravel the mysteries of what actually happened.

___

"I need to know the truth" She whispered in a hushed tones, slipping a bundle of cash to the shadowy figure.

As she gazed over the surveillance camera, a tidal wave of emotions crashed through her, leaving devastation in its wake.

Sejanus and Coryo running for their lives as Bobbin chased after them. She then witnessed the gruesome murder of her tribute and mentee. The betrayal cut deep, an unseen dagger thrust into the core of her trust. Shock mingled with disbelief, and a profound ache settled in her chest.

The echoes of their shared moments, the laughter, and camaraderie, now tainted by the stain of his actions, echoed through her mind.

Anguish painted her features, and the realization of his betrayal felt like the shattering of something precious. In that moment, innocence crumbled, replaced by a raw, searing pain that marked the end of the girl who once believed in him.

She whispered, "Coriolanus Snow, how could you?"

The elusive figure responded, "Truth has its own price, my dear."

Faced with an intricate choice, even in betrayal, she sought salvation for Coriolanus,

'Protect him, even if it means sacrificing Sejanus.' she said to herself.

The web of deceit tightened, capturing Coryo in the damning revelation despite her desperate gambit to shift the blame to Sejanus.

The clacking sounds of her heels sounded through the hallway as she made her way to Dean Casca Highbottom.

"I have something to report, Mr Highbottom."

As she began unraveling the narrative, detailing Sejanus's involvement, a chilling revelation interrupted her desperate plea.

"You do know that your dear Coriolanus has been involved in cheating." Shock seized her as the revelation unfolded – Coriolanus Snow, the very person she sought to protect, exposed for his deceit.

The weight of betrayal and the magnitude of his cunning unfolded before her eyes. In that moment, she stood frozen, grappling with the stark truth that shattered the illusions she held.

What more did he do ? Who is he becoming ? This isn't the Coryo she knew.

Dean disclosed Snow's cheating endeavors, providing Lucy Gray with a compact powder with rat poison and a handkerchief bearing his father's emblem.

Her efforts to shield Coriolanus crumbled in the face of Snow's deceit.

"You did this because you knew he killed your dear tribute ? Poor little girl, how stupid"

"How did you-"

"Oh I know dear, I know..."

Dean's stern words echoed the futility of her attempts to protect someone who had betrayed not only her trust but the very essence of the Games' integrity.

Then came the turning point, a twist of fate that would cast a long shadow over their friendship.

Dean's voice cut through the tense air like a blade.

___

"What about Lucy Gray ?" Snow worriedly asked

"I would be worried about your own future if I were you" Dean spoke

"Miss Flare, your dear friend, has been quite forthcoming about your involvement."

Snow, unaware of the orchestrated trap, felt the ground beneath him tremble.

"Flare?" he questioned, the word heavy with disbelief.

Dean nodded, his expression a mask of stern authority. His accusatory gaze bore into Snow as he spoke with calculated precision.

"Miss Flare has disclosed your attempt to cheat in the Hunger Games. She provided detailed accounts of your covert actions, betraying not only the trust of your fellow tributes but also the integrity of the Games."

Snow's eyes widened in disbelief, a storm of emotions churning within him. "Flare? She told you about this?"

Dean nodded, maintaining an air of authority. "Yes, Snow. She confessed, hoping to shield you, but the truth has an uncanny way of surfacing."

"Also, she was feeling rather....furious that you killed her tribute"

The revelation left Snow grappling with a profound sense of betrayal, as Flare's desperate gambit to protect him morphed into an unexpected accusation that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed world.

The revelation hung in the air, a sinister turn of events that spun a narrative of betrayal. The trap tightened, ensnaring Snow in a web of deceit orchestrated by the very person he trusted.

Accusations of betrayal surfaced, linking her to covert strategies that backfired in the arena. The Capitol, always hungry for drama, reveled in the narrative of treachery.

Betrayal, however, was a phantom that haunted the shadows of truth. Snow, consumed by the bitterness of perceived betrayal, severed ties with her.

The friendship that weathered the storms of academia crumbled, leaving behind the echoes of what could have been.

Emotions surged through Snow like a tumultuous tide, his initial disbelief morphing into an overwhelming sense of anger.

The disclosure of Flare's admission, initially perceived as a protective act, now felt like an unexpected betrayal.

Dean's words, delivered with meticulous precision, only added fuel to Snow's rising fury. The burden of betrayal pressed heavily on him, as the realization dawned that Flare, in her attempt to shield him, had unintentionally entangled him in her admission.

Snow's eyes glowed with resentment, and an intense anger gripped him, a blazing fire stoked by the unforeseen turn of events, jeopardizing not only his standing but the very core of everything.

---Present Day----

Stuck in the present, their eyes mirroring the weight of untold histories. The grandeur of their wedding day was now tainted by the lingering shadows of a friendship lost.

In the quiet of their shared existence, as the Capitol reveled in the celebration of their union, the dance through time echoed with the poignant melodies of what once was. Snow, bound by duty, and she, she trapped in a loveless union, were left to navigate the intricate steps of a dance that transcended the boundaries of past and present. The grand wedding, a tableau of splendor, concealed the intricate dance of hearts left in the shadows.

taglist : @randomgurl2326

[lovekendri]

dazzling skylines | peeta mellark

peeta mellark x fem!reader

summary: happily ever after the rebellion, you and peeta have a picnic on a hill outside victor's village at sunset, full of love, kisses, homemade bread, and strawberries.

cw: cavity inducing fluff, peeta being an absolute hunk, implied mention of sexual activities

wc: 1k

type: ❀

A small basket of picked ripe strawberries and raspberries, two loaves of still-warm fresh bread, and a glass bottle of apple juice.

All of your favorites, packed into one basket.

Peeta was already far ahead of you, laying out the rough, aged quilt from his grandmother on the ground, the rustling of the slightly dried grass fought back at it, snagging on loose threats and small imperfections.

The sun was burning bright, a light yellow surrounded by shades of dandelion swirls. The sky above was a deep orange, getting darker the higher it rose, accents of a banana yellow dancing between purple and gray clouds sprinkled in stunning patches. Dark outlines of far away trees spread throughout the almost empty field, the occasional rabbit pouncing between longer patches of grass. It was a beautiful late summer evening, the heat just right with the light blow of a sweet breeze.

Peeta wore his white tee proudly as you watched him finally lay the blanket flat, admiring him from afar.

He was a work of art himself with his perfectly ironed shirts and brown khakis, toned muscles, and blonde hair glimmering in the orange light.

He turned to you as you approached the quilt on the ground, picnic basket in hand. His face grew soft, the handsome, genuine smile you had barely seen since he was hijacked grew on his lips.

"You look...beautiful," he murmured, taking in the soft pink sundress dotted with white daisies that you wore for the first time since you bought it.

He reached for your hand, taking it into his. You sat the basket down in front of you as he guided you to take a seat, following along with you.

You once again took the moment to admire the sky and him, and how lucky you were to finally have peace in the place you call home.

Peeta began to unravel the bread and berries and place them on the napkins you brought with, sneaking two raspberries into his mouth when he thought you weren't looking.

"Save some for me!" you laughed, swatting playfully at his hand as he grinned cheekily, a drop of raspberry juice dribbling onto his lip.

"It was only two!" he says, taking a raspberry and handing it to you.

You popped it into your mouth happily, enjoying the explosion of sweetness and slight bitterness it carried.

He took a piece of bread off the loaf, not caring to cut it.

"Gosh, I wonder who made this bread, it's so amazing! So fluffy and still warm!" He gloated, exaggerating the enjoyment on his face.

"Oh, please," you gave him an even more exaggerated look of annoyance, because you both knew very well that he made the bread, and it was damn good no matter what.

He gave you a knowing smirk, giving you a light peck on the cheek.

"You still have bread in your mouth! Don't get chewed up bread on my cheek!" You shrieked, yet another tease for him.

"You've had a lot worse on your face," he deadpanned, struggling to hide his smirk.

"Not the time," you giggled, a rosy tint rising on your cheeks.

You watched as the clouds moved ever so slightly in the sky with the light breeze, sometimes watching the color shift from dusky purple to gray, or gray to purple.

Peeta took note of your interest in the sky, taking the time to look up and watch the birds flitting by in small groups.

"Beautiful skyline, is it not?" he broke the silence, taking a plump strawberry into his mouth and ripping off the stem.

"It's not a skyline, Peeta. It's just a sky," you replied, a hint of teasing in your tone, knowing he would bite back playfully with another joke.

"Listen, same thing. There's a skyline somewhere out there, just very minimal where we are."

"Yeah right, maybe in the Capitol," you snorted, tearing off a piece of loaf and taking a bite, savoring the softness of it.

"You make it really hard to be nice sometimes," he joked, turning his head to look at you.

You admired his beautiful blue eyes when he looked at you. The way they had so much love and desire behind them, the questions they raised in the depth. You admired his blonde hair, the way it fell perfectly around his face. Most of all, you admired him.

Everything about Peeta was perfect in your eyes, his slightly lopsided smile, the way his cheeks reddened when you would say you loved him. His stocky build, his broad shoulders that he threw you over multiple times. His arms, his nose, his lips, his jaw, his everything.

"I appreciate that," you bit back playfully, the smile on your face was bigger than ever.

You looked down to the fruit basket, only one strawberry and four raspberries were left.

Peeta ate the rest.

"You can't even save two strawberries for me?" you complained, taking the last strawberry into your mouth and ripping off the stem the same way you learned from Peeta.

"You were too busy indulging in my lovely bread," he said.

You two sat in silence for a while, watching the sky and listening to the chirping of birds.

It was nice to sit with him in silence sometimes, appreciating the time you've spent together and the trials you went through with him. Through the tough and the breaking points, you two came out alive.

You had finished your bread, and scooted over on the quilt to sit closer to him.

Without saying a word, his arm wrapped around your torso, pulling you to his side, and you allowed your head to drop to his shoulder, snuggling close to his body.

You sat like this for a while, listening to the world around you move while you sat in eternal happiness, where nothing could hurt you in Peeta's arms.

You were home, both physically, and mentally.

Peeta was your home, your rock, your everything. Life wouldn't go on without him.

You felt his head turn down to yours, resting his chin on top of your head. He kissed the top of your head lightly, his arm tightening around you.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," you replied, grabbing hold of him to watch the sky go by.

main masterlist | my profile | thg masterlist | request | proof read: ✓

[thesweetnessofspring]

So I'm probably in the minority of Everlark fans on this, but I'm sooooo glad they didn't put that deleted rooftop scene they filmed in the movie.

Book rooftop scene: playing games, making flower crowns, Peeta sketching Katniss, Katniss's head in Peeta's lap while he plays with her hair and teases her, Katniss allowing time to be frozen forever to be with Peeta because she's so warm and happy. 🥰🥰🥰

Movie deleted rooftop scene: standing a foot apart, grimly talking about the Capitol and their rebellious acts in front of the Gamemakers, looking at the Capitol skyline with no expression on their faces. 😐😐😐

Would I have wanted the book scene in the movie? Yes! But what they filmed? Keep it going, thanks.

[snowangie]

snow on the beach.

a finnick odair x fem!oc series

summary : in the heart of the capitol's glittering deception, Giselle Snow, granddaughter of president coriolanus snow, conceals her true emotions while working to undermine the hunger games. sent to district 4 after the 74th Games, she grapples with forbidden love for district 4's Finnick Odair. Snow on the beach is weird but fucking beautiful – Giselle is the snow, Finnick is the beach, an unexpected yet perfect harmony in the delicate ballet of their existence. As the quarter quell unfolds, panem becomes a battleground for love and rebellion, and Giselle faces a choice that will alter destinies and unravel the threads of her past.

warnings: swearing, smut, violence, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex trafficking, weapons, trauma, mental illnesses

genre: angst, romance, forbidden love, violence, hurt/comfort

chapters: 1-flecks of lights , 2-life is emotionally abusive , 3-time cant stop me quite like u did

author’s note: i alrdy have six other chapters abt to be published real soon. the timeline will start from post thg and pre catching fire to the catching fire and the mockingjay pt 1 & 2 ! the story will get more interesting in the coming chapters i promise and i hope u enjoy reading :)

chapter 1 : flecks of lights.

The grandiose chamber of President Snow's office in the heart of the Capitol was adorned with opulence that mirrored the power he held over Panem. Giselle Snow, granddaughter to the president, entered the room with a careful blend of poise and trepidation. The air was laden with an unspoken tension as she approached the imposing figure behind the intricately carved desk.

President Snow, seated in a high-backed chair, regarded her with a scrutinizing gaze. “My lovely... Giselle,” he said with an air of authority. “Sit.” His tone allowed no room for objection.

Giselle took a seat across from her grandfather, her posture straight and composed. “You summoned me, Grandfather,” she said, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of deference and curiosity.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “The districts are proving to be more troublesome than anticipated, especially after that girl, Katniss Everdeen, became a symbol of rebellion. We need to ensure our control, and I have a task for you.”

Giselle inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of her readiness to fulfill any duty bestowed upon her.

“You're to leave the Capitol,” President Snow continued, his gaze piercing. "Head to District 4. Keep an eye on the situation there. We need loyalty, not rebellion."

Understanding the gravity of the assignment, Giselle nodded. “Of course, Grandfather. I will ensure District 4 remains in line.”

His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained cold. “You'll do more than that, Giselle. You'll show them who holds the power. Be a presence they can't ignore.”

Giselle's brow furrowed slightly. “I understand the need for authority, Grandfather, but isn't there a risk of inciting further unrest if I'm too forceful?”

President Snow's expression hardened. “You underestimate the importance of control, my dear. A firm hand is required to maintain order. You'll leave tomorrow. Ensure District 4 understands the price of disobedience.”

As Giselle left the president's office, the weight of her new assignment settled on her shoulders. Little did she know, this journey to District 4 would alter the course of her life in ways she never could have anticipated. The Capitol's gleaming façade hid secrets, and Giselle, bound by duty, embarked on a path that would challenge her allegiance and reshape her understanding of the world she was born into.

The nightfall brought a quiet stillness to the Capitol, but within the luxurious walls of the Snow's residence, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil. Giselle stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the neon-lit skyline, a stark contrast to the darkened Districts she was about to enter. A single thought echoed in her mind - her departure for District 4.

She turned around from the window to a big mirror across her bedroom. In the mirror's gaze, Giselle Snow emerges, a vision painted in the hues of winter’s embrace—like the quiet elegance of snow, her every movement a subtle cascade of crystalline grace. Her porcelain skin, as pale as freshly fallen snow, conceals a myriad of emotions beneath a facade of composure. Blue eyes, reminiscent of the frigid depths, mirror the legacy she inherits from President Snow. Raven tendrils cascade like delicate snowflakes, framing a countenance that masks both strength and vulnerability. Giselle, standing at a gentle petite height, embodies the quiet power of a snow-covered landscape, where the surface serenity belies the tumultuous currents beneath.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of rose and gold, Giselle prepared for her journey. The Capitol, a city of excess and indulgence, presented a facade of perpetual celebration. Yet, beneath it, Giselle felt a sense of isolation. The grand parties, the extravagant fashion, the Capitol's obsession with appearances – all seemed distant, detached from the reality she was about to confront.

Descending the grand staircase of the Presidential office, Giselle observed Capitol citizens engaged in their daily routines. Perfectly coiffed and adorned in extravagant attire, they moved with an air of detached elegance. She exchanged polite nods and practiced smiles, concealing the underlying tension that accompanied her impending departure.

In the bustling streets, hovercrafts glided overhead, carrying with them the distant echoes of Capitol chatter. “Love really is a wonderful thing, isn’t it ? Look at the District 12 victors.” Giselle caught fragments of conversations discussing the recent Hunger Games, a macabre spectacle ingrained in Capitol culture. Her gaze lingered on the lavish advertisements depicting this year’s victors and their glory.

As she made her way to the Capitol's central hub, Giselle couldn't escape the feeling of being a pawn in a grand, calculated game. The Capitol, with its towering architecture and ostentatious displays of wealth, seemed like a gilded cage, and Giselle, despite her privileged status, yearned for something more.

Amid the swirl of Capitol life, Giselle pondered the stark contrast between her existence and the struggles faced by those in the Districts. The Capitol's obliviousness to the suffering of its subjects weighed heavily on her conscience. She questioned the morality of her grandfather's orders, grappling with the realization that her actions would directly impact lives beyond the opulence of the Capitol.

As her hovercraft lifted off, carrying her towards District 4, Giselle cast a final gaze upon the Capitol skyline. The dichotomy between the sparkling facade and the dark reality beneath became a poignant metaphor for the life she was leaving behind. Little did she know that her journey into the heart of Panem would unravel secrets, challenge loyalties, and ignite a spark of compassion that could alter the course of the Hunger Games.

On a crisp morning, Giselle found herself in the heart of District 4, standing outside a weathered building that served as a makeshift shelter for the elderly. Inside, a sense of community prevailed, but the challenges of age and limited resources weighed heavily on the occupants. Giselle, armed with a basket of provisions, stepped forward to lend a helping hand.

“Good morning, Alice,” she greeted, her tone warm and genuine.

The elderly woman, initially wary of the Capitol emissary, now greeted Giselle with a genuine smile. “Good morning, dear. You've been a blessing to us.”

As Giselle distributed essentials and engaged in conversations with the elderly residents, she felt a profound connection forming. The Capitol's representative had become a familiar face, not as a symbol of oppression but as someone who genuinely cared.

Amidst the camaraderie, a flashback flickered in Giselle's mind – a scene from her arrival in District 4. The initial reception had been marked by hesitancy and fear. The residents had seen her as an extension of President Snow's authority, an unwelcome reminder of Capitol oppression. Their guarded glances and whispered conversations had painted her arrival with skepticism.

Now, as she moved among them with empathy and compassion, Giselle recalled the gradual shift in perception. The people of District 4 had witnessed her dedication to easing their burdens, and the once-fearful gazes had transformed into looks of gratitude.

In the flashback, a moment stood out – a conversation with an elderly fisherman named Mr. O'Brien. “We don't trust your kind,” he had grumbled at the outset.

Giselle had responded with a soft-spoken determination. “Give me a chance to prove that I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty.”

Back in the present, Mr. O'Brien, now seated in the shelter, smiled at Giselle as she handed him a blanket. The warmth in his eyes spoke of acceptance earned through actions, not mere words.

The contrast between Giselle's arrival and the present scene was palpable – a transformation of fear into trust, of skepticism into gratitude. As she continued her efforts to assist the elderly in District 4, Giselle found purpose in bridging the gap between the Capitol and its districts, one compassionate act at a time.

Upon her arrival in District 4 a month ago, Giselle was ushered into a modest gathering hall where the victors of the district had assembled. Their eyes, seasoned by hardship and the harsh realities of the Hunger Games, bore a mix of curiosity and wariness as she entered. Among them, Finnick Odair stood out, an enigmatic figure with an air of both charm and caution.

Finnick, a living embodiment of allure and strength, possesses a sculpted physique that seems chiseled by the ocean's waves. His sea-green eyes mirrors the depth of the waters he hails from, and his sun-kissed hair carries whispers of the sandy shores. The 65th Hunger Games victor reminded Giselle of the beach, its warmth and unpredictability. The sand yields beneath his every step, mirroring the enigmatic allure that draws others in. His presence drawing the tide of emotions in an unpredictable rhythm with his exuding charisma.

Giselle felt the weight of their collective gaze as she approached, her every step echoing in the hushed room. The victors, each carrying the visible and invisible scars of their past tribulations, eyed her with a mixture of skepticism and guarded interest.

Finnick, his sea-green eyes piercing, regarded her with a cool detachment. She sensed an unspoken challenge in his gaze, a silent invitation to prove herself beyond her Capitol lineage.

One of the older victors, Mags, stepped forward, her weathered face etched with both resilience and kindness. “Welcome to District 4,” she said, her voice, thick with an accent that can hardly be understood, but a comforting contrast to the tension in the room. “We've been through a lot, and we hope you understand our apprehension.”

Giselle nodded, acknowledging the validity of their wariness. “I'm here to understand, to learn, and to help in any way I can.”

Finnick, leaning against a pillar with an air of nonchalance, finally spoke, his words laced with skepticism. “You're here to help yeah? That's a first.”

Giselle met his gaze with a steady determination. “I didn't choose the circumstances of my birth, but I can choose how I navigate them. Let me prove that not everyone from the Capitol is your enemy.”

The other victors exchanged glances, the room filled with an uneasy silence. It was Annie Cresta, another victor with a haunted expression, who broke the tension. “We've heard promises before. Actions speak louder than words.”

Over the following days, Giselle worked tirelessly to fulfill those promises. She attended to the needs of the district, engaged in conversations with the victors, and gradually earned their trust through her genuine efforts to understand their struggles.

The low hum of conversation and the rhythmic clinking of utensils created a subdued ambiance during the communal dinner in District 4. Giselle, a newcomer to this close-knit community of victors, moved through the room with a measured grace, keenly aware of the mixed reactions to her presence. Finnick, surrounded by fellow victors, couldn't help but watch her, his initial hostility giving way to a guarded curiosity.

Giselle, though aware of the scrutiny, maintained her composed facade. Her poise unfaltering. Finnick's eyes followed her every move, the dim lighting casting shadows on his usually sharp features. There was a weariness about him that matched the weight of their shared experiences. Mags, ever perceptive, nudged Finnick with a subtle smile, as if to say, “Give her a chance.”

As Giselle took a seat at the table, the tension lingered. The conversations around them continued, a mixture of stories from past victories and the haunting memories of the arena. Finnick's initial hostility began to wane, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Giselle, sensing the shift, decided to break the ice.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of confidence and vulnerability. “I know I'm not what you expected, but I'm here to navigate this journey with you. Let's make the most of it, shall we?”

As the dinner continued, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Finnick’s hostility waned, replaced by a flicker of curiosity that mirrored Giselle’s guarded demeanor. The room, filled with the stories of past victories and lingering traumas, bore witness to a quiet turning point.

Their eyes met across the room, an electric charge passing between them, almost like some flecks of lights. It was as if the air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent understanding passing between them. In that fleeting connection, Finnick glimpsed something beyond the Capitol walls Giselle wore—a vulnerability, perhaps, or a shared acknowledgment of the fact that they were bound together by the challenges of the Games. The road to trust might be uncertain, but that initial exchange marked the beginning of a connection that held the promise of unexpected alliances in the days to come.

The coastal air in District 4 carried a sense of tranquility, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension within the district. Giselle, engrossed in helping a group of children repair a makeshift shelter, looked up as the oppressive presence of a Peacemaker leader, Captain Rawlins, loomed over her.

Rawlins, his uniform adorned with Capitol insignias, exuded hostility as he approached. “Giselle Snow,” he sneered, emphasizing her last name with disdain. “I've been hearing reports about your... tenderness toward these people. You forget your purpose here.”

Giselle, undeterred, straightened but maintained her composure. “My purpose is to ensure order and cooperation, not to crush the spirit of those who have already endured so much.”

Rawlins, a symbol of Capitol authority, leaned in with a menacing glare. “Your grandfather didn't send you here to coddle them. They need to fear the Capitol, not embrace it.”

As the confrontation unfolded, Finnick, who had been observing from a distance, couldn't ignore the palpable tension. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Giselle, his expression unreadable.

Giselle met Rawlins' hostility with measured defiance. “I believe in understanding before control. Fear only begets rebellion.”

Rawlins, unrelenting, hissed, “You'll do well to remember your place, Snow. This is not the Capitol. This is District 4, and they are not your equals. Next time you might not just be getting a verbal reminder.”

The Peacemaker leader retreated with a parting glare, leaving Giselle surrounded by a heavy silence. The onlookers, District 4 residents and victors alike, exchanged uneasy glances, aware of the delicate balance between the Capitol's emissary and the authority they represented.

Finnick, having witnessed the confrontation, approached Giselle with a softened expression. His sea-green eyes, once filled with skepticism, now held a glimmer of understanding. “ I guess, even the President’s granddaughter isn’t free.”

Giselle, her resolve unbroken, met his gaze. “No, Finnick. I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty. I’m not just Snow’s granddaughter. What Snow is and what I am is two different things. I want to make a difference. A good one.”

In that moment, the unspoken connection between them deepened. Finnick, seeing beyond the Capitol's facade, recognized Giselle's genuine intentions. The hostility of Rawlins had not only exposed the oppressive nature of the Capitol but had also illuminated the stark contrast between Giselle's compassion and the brutality she represented. As the whispers of dissent lingered in the air, Giselle and Finnick share a subtle nod of mutual understanding.

The day was overcast in District 4, the sky reflecting the somber mood that often lingered in the coastal district. Giselle, having spent the morning assisting in a community project, found herself near the docks where Finnick was overseeing a fishing expedition. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the boats provided a backdrop to their conversation.

Finnick, usually stoic, allowed a rare vulnerability to surface. “Victors are supposed to be living in luxury, but I feel like a prisoner. Funny how I thought I would be free from everything when I won the games.”

Giselle, leaning against a dock post, looked at him with understanding. “Luxury can be its own form of confinement. Expectations, demands... it's a different kind of Hunger Games.”

He sighed, the weight of his past victories evident in his eyes. “They think they own us because we won. They parade us like trophies.”

Giselle nodded, recognizing the shared burden of being a pawn in the Capitol's game. “I never asked for this life either. Born into a system that expects me to follow its rules.”

As the conversation continued, they found solace in each other's shared experiences. Finnick spoke of the exploitation he endured, the Capitol's twisted expectations, and the toll it took on his sense of self. Giselle, in turn, shared her struggles with the oppressive nature of her lineage and the conflict she felt between duty and compassion.

Amidst the backdrop of creaking boats and the distant calls of seagulls, Giselle placed a reassuring hand on Finnick's arm. “You're not alone, Finnick. We're both prisoners of a system that values power over humanity.”

He looked at her, a mixture of surprise and gratitude in his eyes.

She smiled at him, the connection between them deepening. “Maybe it's time we redefine what's expected. We can be more than the roles they assigned us.”

As the day unfolded, Giselle and Finnick found comfort in each other's presence. Their budding friendship serving as a source of emotional support in a world that sought to define them by their pasts. They became each other’s flecks of lights in their own darkness. In this shared vulnerability, they discover a connection that transcends the Capitol's expectations, laying the foundation for a bond that will evolve into something deeper.

The evening was draped in hues of orange and purple as Giselle stood by the edge of the district, gazing out at the sea. Finnick joined her, and in the quiet solitude, the weight of their shared experiences hung in the air.

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a moment of vulnerability. "I've never talked about this with anyone. The Hunger Games, the Capitol's demands... it changes you."

Giselle nodded, understanding the depth of his pain. "They exploit your victories, but they don't see the scars they leave behind. Victors are expected to be symbols, not people."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the water, Giselle found herself sharing her own struggles. "I grew up in the Capitol, surrounded by extravagance. But the more I saw, the more I realized how empty it all is."

Finnick looked at her, his sea-green eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and shared pain. "I thought you were just another Capitol puppet, but you're different. I can't figure you out."

Giselle chuckled, a bittersweet expression on her face. "Maybe that's because I'm trying to figure myself out too. I don't want to be a pawn in their game. I want to change things, even if it's just a little."

In the quiet admission of their vulnerabilities, a subtle shift occurred. Their friendship evolved into a connection forged in shared pain and a mutual desire for change.

As the waves rhythmically caressed the shore, Giselle sought solace in the quiet companionship of Finnick. With a gentle touch, she rested her head on his strong shoulders, finding comfort in the shared silence that echoed the unspoken complexities of their lives. "Beyond these roles, Finnick, we are survivors. And perhaps, in that truth, we will find something that transcends it all."

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a hint of gratitude to soften his features. "Maybe you're right, Giselle. Maybe we can be more than the Capitol's expectations."

In that moment, against the backdrop of the fading sunlight and the persistent sound of the sea, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the shared understanding that they were not defined solely by the Capitol's cruel narrative. The breakdown of walls, the admission of vulnerabilities, became the foundation for a connection that held the promise of mutual growth and perhaps, even love.

Days turned into weeks, and the connection between Giselle and Finnick deepened, unspoken emotions weaving through their shared moments. One evening, they found themselves on the same stretch of beach where they had first shared their vulnerabilities.

As they walked along the shoreline, the air thick with unspoken sentiments, Giselle broke the silence. "There's something about this place that feels different when you're here."

Finnick smiled, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Maybe it's the freedom from the Capitol's expectations, even if just for a moment."

Giselle nodded, a subtle understanding passing between them. They had become each other's refuge in a world that demanded so much and gave so little.

Amidst the soft sounds of the waves, they sat on a weathered piece of driftwood, and Finnick's fingers traced absent patterns in the sand. “You know,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I never expected to find... comfort in someone like you.”

Giselle looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and warmth in her eyes. “Comfort?”

Finnick hesitated, his sea-green eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. I mean, you get it. The struggle, the weight of it all. It's... comforting.”

She giggled, the sound carrying a tinge of vulnerability. “I never thought I'd find someone who understands this side of me. It's a relief, really.”

As the conversation flowed, the air seemed charged with an energy neither of them could fully comprehend. It was a dance of words, subtle glances, and shared silences, all painting a picture of something more profound than mere friendship.

In the days that followed, their connection grew more pronounced. Each shared glance and lingering touch weaving a tapestry of connection between Finnick Odair and Giselle Snow. In the quiet embrace of District 4's soft evening glow, their growing bond took center stage.

Under the subtle luminescence of district lights, Finnick's thoughtful eyes met Giselle's, and he spoke words that hung in the air like an unspoken promise. "You're changing me, Giselle Snow. And I'm not sure if I want it to stop."

Giselle, bathed in the gentle radiance of the night, met his gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. Her lips curved into a soft smile, a response that carried the weight of unspoken understanding.

"Maybe change is what we both need," she whispered, her words a delicate echo in the quiet night. The soft sounds of their shared laughter lingered, a melody that spoke of the intricacies of their evolving connection. In that moment, beneath the district lights, Finnick and Giselle found solace in the uncharted territories of change and the magnetic pull drawing them closer. The lines between friendship and something more blurred, evolving into a connection that surpassed the constraints of their predetermined roles.

One evening, Giselle and Finnick found themselves on the outskirts of District 4, away from the prying eyes of the Capitol and the curious gazes of the district's residents. The moon cast a gentle glow upon the landscape as they stood on a secluded stretch of beach.

The air was filled with a tangible tension, an unspoken understanding that their connection was evolving into something more profound. Giselle, looking out at the vast expanse of the sea, couldn't shake the feeling that they were standing at the edge of a precipice.

Finnick, usually composed, seemed to be wrestling with his own thoughts. As he looked at Giselle, a shared silence unfolded between them. In that unexpected moment of intimacy, their eyes met, and a connection deeper than words was forged.

Without a word, Finnick reached out, his fingers gently brushing against Giselle's hand. It was a subtle touch, a gesture laden with unspoken sentiments. In that brief contact, the weight of their shared experiences, struggles, and unexplored emotions seemed to converge.

Giselle, her heart echoing the rhythm of the waves, looked at him with a mixture of vulnerability and understanding. The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that was growing between them.

As they continued their quiet stroll along the shoreline, a shared secret hung in the air. Finnick, breaking the silence, spoke softly. "There's something about the sea at night. It makes everything feel... honest."

Giselle nodded, the moonlight casting a glow on her features. "Maybe that's why we find ourselves here, away from the facades and expectations."

In the midst of the tumultuous waters of Panem, Giselle and Finnick discovered that unexpected moments of intimacy held a transformative power. Whether it was a shared glance, a fleeting touch, or the exchange of unspoken truths, these moments deepened their connection, creating a bridge between two souls navigating the complexities of their world.

As they continued to walk along the beach, the sea whispering its secrets to the night, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the unexpected intimacies that wove their connection into a tapestry of shared moments and unexplored emotions. Neither both of them fully realized the depth of their emotions, but the unspoken understanding between them spoke volumes, paving the way for a love that was quietly blooming amidst the complexities of their world.

[slaymitchabernathy]

Written in the Stars

"Coryo we shouldn't be here," she giggles, letting him tug her along in the darkened hallway. He wants her to see the Academy rooftop, how you can see the Capitol skyline from up there, how you can feel like the only two people in the world up there.

Coriolanus flashes her that famous Snow smile and pulls her into his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder, "But don't you want to see where I'm taking you?" He asks, his voice feigning innocence which makes her laugh, "For all I know you could be taking me to some dark room from which I will never return," she replies rather dramatically.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes, "Please, I've had you alone in a dark room one too many times for you to think of me that way." He knows she's blushing even though he can't see her face. Finally, she caves, "Alright," she mumbles, allowing him to lead her to a rickety-looking ladder. "Is that thing safe?"

Coriolanus grabs a hold of one of the rungs, "Perfectly safe," he assures her, even though he's not so sure himself. He's only come up here a handful of times since discovering this secret spot. He begins to climb and looks over his shoulder to see Soarynn following him, her red ribbon shining in her blonde hair. He smiles because he likes the ribbon, likes her hair, likes how she manages to look good in the Academy uniform, with a simple string of pearls around her neck showing off her class and wealth.

He also likes how she's a powerful politician's daughter.

Much better than some runt girl from District Twelve he decides while pushing open the rooftop hatch. It groans as he opens it and he's hit with the cool evening air. Coriolanus pulls himself onto the rooftop and turns to help Soarynn climb out. He ends up grabbing under her arms and simply pulling her right out, earning him a squeal, "Oh, you're so strong," she gasps, placing a hand on his arm. Coriolanus shrugs, not one to boast even though she's right. His Peacekeeping side quest led him to develop muscles he'd never seen before.

Besides, Soarynn's on the smaller side, he could throw her off the roof if he wanted to. But he won't. Because he likes her.

Soarynn looks up into the sky and her eyes widen, "Oh look at all the stars Coryo." He looks up too, remembering how many more stars you can see in District Twelve since there's less light pollution. But that place is downright filthy in other ways. His eyes scan the skyline of the city, looking at all those tiny apartment lights that represent the lives of Capitol citizens. "I can see the President's Mansion," he nods in its direction. He'll live there one day, President Coriolanus Snow.

Soarynn barely gives it a glance. It's not important to her, not a lifeline like it is to him. When he was stuck in Twelve he'd often lay in his bunk picturing himself in the Mansion, servants at his beck and call, expensive clothes, extravagant parties. President Coriolanus Snow. And Soarynn would be by his side, his first lady. She didn't know that of course, they were just starting out in the grand scheme of things but he'd done exceptionally well these past three months in securing a permanent spot in her life.

For starters, he took her virginity. Such an easy thing to secure. She'd been so willing yet so nervous and hesitant. But Coriolanus was endlessly patient with her and whispered reassurances throughout the entire thing. He wouldn't always be this way, kind and caring. Once they were married he could be rougher, meaner, himself.

He spoiled her with gifts and praises. He proudly paraded her through the streets with her on his arm, her rightful place.

He hadn't uttered those three words yet. He couldn't. Not after Lucy Gray, the wretched, deadly girl. What had she sung that night to him right before it all came tumbling down?

"It's why I love you You're as pure as the driven snow"

Then she nearly killed him with that snake, left him in that sad-looking shack in those godforsaken woods with his own devices. One of them just so happened to be a gun. And for what? To dig up some Katniss? Or was it swamp potato? It didn't matter, he'd left that all behind along with her dead body at the bottom of the lake.

"Coryo?"

Soarynn's question pulls him from his unsettling thoughts and he feigns a smile, "Yes darling?" Soarynn nervously shifts on her feet, her shiny black heels giving her a small boost of height. She's still much shorter than him, and he likes that too, how small she is compared to him. He loves it the most when he's inside her but now isn't the time for nasty thoughts. "I um...I was wondering if I scared you off the other night once we finished..." she mumbles, looking down at the pavement they're standing on.

Coriolanus remembers the other night far too well. They'd had sex, wonderful, passionate sex that ended in several orgasms. She lay on his chest while he dragged his fingertips up and down her back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He thought she'd drifted off to sleep but Soarynn had propped her chin up on his chest, her gray-blue eyes looking into his piercing blue ones. "Coryo?" She'd asked, sleepiness in her tone. Coriolanus had tilted his head, admiring her freckles, "Hmm?" Soarynn had bit her lip for a moment, debating on what she'd say next. That's another thing he liked about her, she thought before she spoke. Sejanus or Lucy Gray certainly couldn't say the same.

"I know we haven't been together for long, but you've taken such good care of me and I just wanted to say...I love you."

Coriolanus had mastered the face of indifference but he wasn't able to hide the look of surprise from washing over his face when hearing those words. He often wondered if he was even capable of love and here Soarynn was, giving it to him so freely. He hadn't known how to respond, not when he didn't feel that way towards her yet. He'd cleared his throat and given her a tight-lipped smile, "Thank you for telling me that Soarynn."

And right now on the Academy rooftop, he could see how much it had been eating away at her. It probably didn't help that he'd made a rather brisk exit once she told him those three words. And he knew Soarynn well enough to know that she wanted so badly to be in love, to be loved. She was a typical Capitol girl who was predestined to be married off to some rich man and give him children.

To her, love was the only thing to live for.

He gently takes her small hands in his, squeezing them gently, "You didn't scare me off Soarynn, I...I was just surprised is all. But I want you to know how deeply I care for you, how much I think of you. My darling I'm sure we're meant for each other."

He could see how much those words meant to Soarynn, how they calmed her and her doubts, how she clung to them like a lifeline. He almost pitied her. He'd been like her once, clinging onto old phrases whispered before going to face one's death. He remembered thinking of Lucy Gray, watching the arena for her, wondering if she was thinking of him too. He couldn't afford that again, to fall in love.

Coriolanus takes it a step further and pulls her into his arms and presses a passionate kiss onto her lips, one which she eagerly returns. She lets out a satisfied hum once he pulls away and wraps her arms around his broad torso, resting her head on his chest while they both look up at the stars.

"You're mine and I'm yours," she whispers with a smile.

Coriolanus shivers and it wasn't from the cold air. Months ago another girl had said those exact words to him and he was determined for this to have a different ending. He presses a kiss to her forehead before whispering back words he remembered so clearly that they would be ingrained into his being until the day he died.

"It's written in the stars."

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

[catocomet]

effie and haymitch meet at a capitol party about a month after the games. depending on the timeline, haymitch's family is already dead. effie's been watching him from afar, obviously. it's such a surprise when they meet--they meet in the hallway, and, in the sea of capitol extravagance, effie is the only thing that feels real.

she is also the only one that doesn't ask about maysilee. she is careful not to, actually; she understands quite easily when a subject makes him uncomfortable, and quickly changes it. she likes him as he is, it seems, and not for what he's done.

effie chooses her words quite carefully with him, it's true, but she never minces them. there is a slight assumption that she's smarter than him and, bookwise, she may very well be. she laughs at his jokes and he smiles at hers, and effie quickly finds herself with a 'friend' over a thousand miles away.

they spend the rest of the night alone on the roof, looking out onto the capitol. haymitch is a bit tipsy, but he really doesn't think he's seen anything prettier than effie against the capitol skyline, her light makeup giving way to soft, pale skin, and eyes like the lake just beyond twelve.

(secretly, effie doesn't think she's seen anything as striking as haymitch, in all his haughtiness, shrinking into himself and sitting quietly at her side.)

[iowa-mentioned]

[thorsenmark]

Congress Ave in Austin, Texas by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While walking around Austin and then crossing Congress Ave around 6th Street with a view looking north to the capitol building off in the distance. My thinking in composing this image was to more or less be centered in the street and using the street as a leading line into the image. Buildings on both sides would be that focus for the viewer to look ahead. I later worked with control points in DxO PhotoLab 4 and then made some adjustments to bring out the contrast, saturation and brightness I wanted for the final image.

[respectthepetty]

So are we gonna talk about the colors in MLC or...? They've been exchanging colors left and right and I need a big brained person with smart words to make a post about it

Anon, the reason I haven't written about the color exchange of Jim's/Li Ming's sun red and Wen's/Heart's moon blue is because Moonlight Chicken hurts my feelings. Yeah, you read that right. This show hurts me, very deeply. Why, you ask? Well...

Jim is wary of blue boy Wen for a very good reason:

Jim's ex was the moon to his sun, and he easily exchanged colors with him. That dirty bastard!

Not only was Jim's ex a blue moon, but someone else is trying to take that spot:

Gaipa is trying to be the next moon in Jim's eyes, but only one blue moon is willing to actually compromise and take on Jim's sun red.

And that blue moon is Wen.

To start at the beginning-ish for those who are confused - Wen is blue which represents the moon; Jim is red which represents the sun.

They must compromise and meet in the middle at dawn. Other blue moons (like his ex and Gaipa) don't seem to be too interested in the meeting in the middle part.

Heart and Li Ming are also a blue moon and a red sun. Li Ming is such a red sun that his watch, his bike, and his phone are all red while Heart's entire life is lived in the blue.

And Wen understands that he is dealing with red suns.

Which is why even though he wore blue the first day on the job,

He quickly got with the program and tried a little red-adjacent orange to match Jim's obvious blue. *gotta ease Jim into it like a baby bird, can't be too aggressive or he'll get scared*

Because he knows to get close to this shy red sun, he can't flat out wear the red, he takes a tip from Jim.

Keep wearing the orange, so Jim knows that Wen is interested, and Jim will keep getting closer to Wen's blue.

Because eventually, Jim's not going to notice once Wen has already settled into his heart and started wearing his red while Jim starts fully wearing Wen's blue.

However, it gets complicated in episode four, and Alan, a true blue, shows up. Wen is in Jim's red BUT his shirt underneath with its blue and red stripes shows that Wen is not only literally caught between Jim and Alan, but he is also stuck color-wise between them.

But on the bright side, our mini blue moon and red sun are doing great!

Li Ming wore his blue Sesame Street "Everything I learned was from the street" shirt, and Heart had his blue and red striped shirt because they are in love, your honor:

Li Ming is surrounded by Heart's love.

And Li Ming gives Heart so much warmth and love in Heart's cold dark room.

Heart notices Li Ming is sad in Heart's deep blue because Heart understands that kind of sadness when nobody listens to him.

So he tries to give Li Ming back a little red, but he only has pink. *note the sign language posters on Heart's closet door*

They go on their date with a tiny bit of their love showing through the exchange of color on their bags.

And even though Heart is sad knowing Li Ming wants to go to America, the reds still stand out in his room a bit more because Li Ming's love is still present there (the two red hats and the red chair are lit by light).

Sidenote: Li Ming is obsessed with America.

The posters in his room are all American themed: American Flag in front of the Capitol, the Statue of Liberty, New York skyline.

His bed is red and blue striped which could be a mixing of colors, symbolic for Thailand (red, white, and blue flag as well), or...America. He wears Tommy Hilfiger (while sitting at the stairs with Heart), which isn't too strange, but he also wears the Tommy Hilfiger with the company's signature red, white, and blue on it *peep the collar*

And next week, while out joy riding, he wears the American flag sweatshirt with Heart in his signature blue.

Is Li Ming going to be like his namesake's character in his uncle's favorite movie and move to America where Heart will have to meet him years later?

Well, first we have to get through the bike accident next week.

So, yeah, like I wrote - This show hurts my feeling. Every. Damn. Episode.

*goes off to eat a pint of cotton candy candy ice cream only to cry some more when the colors remind me of this show!*

[eb0ny-raven]

“You look pretty good for a corpse.” The villain's voice broke through the silence behind the hero. They tensed for a moment. The hero glanced behind them from their cross-legged sitting position on the ledge, but blinked and turned back to the crowd below.

“So do you.”

“Are you okay-y’know, with this?” The villain rested a hand on the hero’s shoulder and felt it rise with their breath.

The hero’s exposed skin flushed with goosebumps when a lazy gust of wind blew over the roof. The chilly air stung even the villain, who wore a thick black coat and gloves.

“I will be.” They answered, releasing the air, still focused on the mass of people. They’d gathered to mourn their hero, bundled in dark clothing and packed together in the streets. Some sang in solidarity, voices echoing through alleyways and open windows.

Small lights—either flame or flash—dotted among them, flickering in the cool breeze, especially as the sun drowned below the skyline. “I will be.”

The villain took a few steps to the edge, then settled next to the hero and dangled xer legs in free air. Xe didn’t know wether to reach out to the hero with warm assurances and a kind smile, or something closer to the witty banter the two shared over the years, but xe knew they weren’t as experienced with this kind of loneliness, and anything would be better than letting their feelings fester. “So, do you—“

“Was this the right thing to do?” The hero asked, head abruptly turned to face the villain, their hair and stocking cap slightly obscured their face.

“The right thing?”

“Yeah.”

The confusion in the hero’s voice quickly shut down any quirky retort building on xer lips.

On any other day, the villain might have poked fun at their indecision.“If you’re asking me, you must be really grasping at straws.” They instead responded with the truth.

“I think it was the only thing.”

The hero’s eyes fell back to the street, where the citizens had now gathered in front of the capitol building, where a small woman, the Mayor, stood proudly, probably shivering, but still preaching from a modest podium.

In the news, they’d seen the plans for a new memorial. Create a bronze statue in their central park, then name said central park in honor of their fallen hero.

“But what if I miss it?” They whispered, like even the utterance of such a thought filled them with shame.

It nearly broke the villain’s heart.

Xe took off one of their gloves, and grabbed one of the hero’s hands in xer own. The feeling burned the hero’s skin, such a sudden warmth into their palm.

“You might, but you’ll move on. And so will they.”

The hero let out a shaky breath, releasing a cloud of frozen vapor into the air, and nodded. The two settled into a comfortable silence, listening to the crowd below. The villain caught glimpses of a smile whenever the cityfolk cheered, and as a few minutes past, xe noticed the hero’s posture relax (as much as it could in the cold).

“Oh!” The villain suddenly broke the silence with a hand slap to xer forehead.

“What?” The hero rolled their eyes and playfully bumped the villain’s shoulder.

“I completely lost track of why I came out here.” xe quickly got up and walked to where they had interrupted the hero’s presence in the beginning.

The hero turned around and laughed as the villain picked up a bundle of dark fabric. “I was out here,” xe started, gathering the cloth and making xer way back to the ledge, “because I thought you might’ve wanted this.” The hero took the woolen bundle from the villain and shook it out.

“A coat?” They scoffed, “and here I thought you came out to hassle me about being dead.”

“Takes one to know one,” the villain smiled back, flashing xer teeth, “sides’, don’t want you actually dying out here.” The hero shook their head but shrugged on the coat. The villain settled back beside them.

“Is this one of yours?” They asked, eyeing the sleeves, an eyebrow raised.

“…no.” The villain swallowed a smile and tried to stop heat from flushing xer face.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was, y’know.”

“Well—it’s not. Sorry.” The villain covered in short, awkward bursts. The hero dropped their eyebrow in exchange for the thin-lipped smile. They sighed and leaned against the villain, head resting on their shoulder.

“Bummer.”

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IV: To the Stars Who Listen

The blood in her arm was pulsating in agony.

Brannagh’s grip on her had been too tight, and Feyre was certain that long, purple-black bruises would paint her skin within hours. She tried not to hiss in pain as she raised her hand to press the penthouse button on the elevator wall. For a brief moment, she allowed her head to rest against the cool metal, closing her eyes and welcoming the dark’s sweet embrace.

There you are.

I’ve been looking for you.

Who was he? Why was he there tonight? Somehow, Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling the violet-eyed man had sought her out. Having almost been killed by her hand seemed not to bother him in the slightest—strange, given the Capitol’s dramatic tendencies Feyre had grown accustomed to.

You’re not from the Capitol.

That feline smile. Finally.

The elevator dinged quietly, and Feyre opened her eyes.

Most of the entrance hall was veiled in darkness, though she could make out the large, ornate mirror on the side, glinting gently in the distant light of the skyline seen from the lounge. It appeared everyone had gone to sleep—still, Feyre hardly wanted to test her luck after the last time she’d been caught. Alis would never let her out of her sight again. Silently, just like in the forest back home, Feyre took a few steps forward, the lounge hidden just around the corner.

That’s when she heard it.

She’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“I knew you were a brilliant young man, my dear,” Amarantha drawled, the words like syrup dripping from her tongue. “I’m surprised I haven’t thought of it myself.”

“You really think so?” her companion asked, and Feyre’s brows knotted.

What was Tamlin doing with her at this hour?

Amarantha clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin?

In the shelter of the corridor’s walls, Feyre held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“No,” Tamlin finally said. “But I do wish there was another solution.”

A theatric sigh. Feyre imagined Amarantha patting his hand as she spoke, “We all do, my dear. We all do.” With that, she stood, the sound of her heels on the polished stone announcing her departure.

Feyre made herself count to sixty—a full minute before she dared to step out, enough, she hoped, not to raise any suspicions.

Tamlin’s head whipped in her direction as she came into view. “Feyre?” he asked from the same windowsill she’d found him on last time. “I thought you were asleep.”

Feyre took a few steps forward. “I could say the same thing about you,” she said, then made a show of looking around the space. “Is anybody else awake?”

He held her gaze for a few seconds before shaking his head. “Just me.”

Feyre nodded, taking a seat beside him. Every nerve inside her body screamed as she propped herself up on her sore arm, though she forced her features into a cool stillness that rivalled the stone beneath her.

“Where were you?” Tamlin asked.

Feyre looked out to the city below. “Training hall.”

She could almost hear his eyes widen. “Feyre, if Alis knew…”

“Well, she doesn’t,” Feyre interrupted, meeting his stare again. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Tamlin opened his mouth, then closed it, seemingly deciding tonight was not the best time for an argument. Instead, he nodded, and this time, they both looked to the Capitol’s bright lights, content to do nothing but watch their midnight dance.

Feyre wondered if she’d ever see the city again—not that she wanted to, and yet…with death looming over her, closer and closer with each passing day, everything seemed to be slipping from her grasp a little too fast. Even the Capitol.

She would never see her District again, either. Her house, small and cramped as it was, the black market, the forest. Feyre wished she knew the hunt on the morning of the Reaping would be her last. She would have tried harder then.

Something stung in her chest at the thought, and Feyre tore her gaze away from the view, words escaping her mouth before she could stop them.

“I needed to train.” she told him. “Today’s session was not enough.”

Tamlin frowned, those emerald eyes piercing. “Why?”

Feyre shrugged absently. “I promised my sisters I would win. And even though…even though I know I have no chance, I want them to see that I at least tried.”

He looked to his feet at that, taking in her words with a sad smile.

Feyre angled her head. “You’re thinking about your sister,” she said, and Tamlin’s gaze shot up, surprise—surprise and pain—like a shadow over his handsome features. 

It felt like a punch in the gut.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Tamlin was already shaking his head. “No—no, I…” he hesitated. “I’m thankful you’re bringing her up. I don’t…I don’t talk about her as often as I should.”

Feyre said nothing, opting to let him open up on his own despite the questions buzzing inside of her head.

“It’s been years, actually,” Tamlin told her. “That one night you found me in here…that was the first time I brought her up in…forever.” He swallowed hard. “I was never planning to tell anyone about her…but there you were, so painfully honest about what you’d done for your own…” Tamlin sighed, meeting her eyes again at last. “She deserved to live outside of only my memory again. So thank you, Feyre.”

Silence fell, accompanied by nothing but the echo of his words.

“How did she die?” Feyre whispered.

With a shaky breath, Tamlin ran a hand through his hair. “Our uncle—my mother’s brother—used to work at the mines. Dalia—that was her name, she…” he stumbled over his words, another trembling breath leaving his throat.

“Take your time,” Feyre told him gently.

Tamlin closed his eyes, forcing himself steady before he continued, “The miners would be working all day, sometimes all the way through the night, and Dalia liked to leave them food by the entrance—something to keep them going, to give them strength throughout their shift. Her and my mother would make sandwiches—nothing special, just ham, sometimes even cheese…Dalia would leave them in a small basket with a rose, or some other flower, over the lid. She liked to think it would let the miners know they came from her.” He huffed a small laugh at the fond memory, and Feyre smiled. “One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest. It was nighttime—one of those longer shifts, I guess—and I…I don’t know exactly what happened, but she must have been picking flowers, and…” Tamlin’s voice strained at that, but he pushed through nonetheless. “And she picked up some nightlock berries.”

Feyre’s smile faded entirely.

“She didn’t know,” Tamlin whispered. “She didn’t know they would kill her. We…I didn’t even know they grew in our forests.”

She knew. Feyre knew. She could have stopped it—

“She was only nine,” Tamlin continued quietly. “She was only nine, and I couldn’t protect her.”

Tears burned in Feyre’s eyes. “I’m so sorry—”

Tamlin looked at her again, silver lining his own as he spoke. “You protect your sisters, Feyre,” he told her. “And I couldn’t protect mine, but…but I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Feyre’s heart stopped beating.

“I promise,” Tamlin said, and left her alone in the night.

***

As predicted, Feyre’s arm was killing her the next day.

On their last day of training, Alis put them through hell. She’d reserved a space underground beside the training hall, just as well equipped as the main area, though Alis had opted for only the exercises she had deemed they needed to revise the most.

Feyre did not dare to look at Tamlin when their mentor talked them through poisons.

He seemed not to acknowledge it though, taking in every word with an unnervingly stoic look on his face. By the time they were finished with hand-to-hand combat, everything seemed to get back to normal 

Now, they sat on the bench by the back wall, sweating under Alis’s surveying stare.

“I know you think training is over,” the older woman said, “but the worst is yet to come. Don’t look at me like that, girl,” she told Feyre, seemingly noticing her distress, “tomorrow, you will be interviewed in front of the entire Capitol, and believe me, their judgement is far worse than mine.”

Feyre felt her stomach turn.

“The interviews will be televised all over Panem,” Alis continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen hundreds of those in your life, but don’t let that put you at ease. Like each Tribute, every interview is different, and the sponsors do not enjoy a spectacle they’ve already seen before.”

Considering the fact that Feyre had only been watching the Games for the past two years, this was good news.

Propped up on her crane, Alis leaned in closer. “They’ll be watching your every move, listening to every word. So before you say or do anything, think. The goal is to show them you’re worth their money. Show them you have what it takes to win.”

Bile rose in her throat, the burning sensation so sudden Feyre’s eyes began to water. She’d gotten so used to this phase, the non-stop training over the past two weeks that she didn’t realise how quickly the time has passed. She would die in two days, three, four if she was lucky. And although she promised her sisters she would try her hardest to survive…she knew others would, too.

Show them you have what it takes to win. Feyre was fairly certain a bow and arrow would never be enough.

“How do we do that?” Tamlin’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

Alis’s eyes narrowed. “Make them like you,” she drawled. “Your skills will mean nothing if the sponsors hate your guts.”

“Excellent,” Feyre murmured. How could she possibly do that after trying to kill one of them?

Even if she hadn’t done that, Feyre seriously doubted she could win over the sponsors as easily as Alis was making it out to be. Back home, after all, she had no one—no one but Isaac—and not because she was intimidating like Nesta, opting for solitude and the peace it offered. Most people in Twelve seemed to simply…stay away. Perhaps it was the illegal hunts she’d go on almost every morning, or her frequent attendance at the black market. Perhaps they still remembered the one time she was caught on her escapades—could somehow see the five long scars on her back through the flimsy fabric of her shirts, a constant reminder that Feyre Archeron wasn’t a person anyone should associate themselves with.

She wished she was more like Elain. Even when they had nothing, her sister was never alone. There was something about her that people loved—that they could not look away from. As if her mere presence was enough to forget about their daily misery. As if…as if Elain was sunlight, and without her, everyone would wither away. Feyre definitely would.

“Feyre,” Alis demanded, interrupting her train of thought. Was this the first time Alis called her by name?

Feyre sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Save the bullshit for the sponsors, girl.”

That was more like it.

Feyre leaned back in her seat, ignoring the sharp pull on her bicep. “I can’t do it,” she said. “The sponsors hate me.”

Alis opened her mouth, but was immediately cut off by a louder, sugary voice, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of high heels on the stone floor. “Nonsense,” Amarantha said, making her way inside the room. She stopped a few inches away from them, offering a sweet, encouraging smile. “My lovely Feyre. The Capitol absolutely adores you—just be yourself, and you’ll have their favour in no time.”

Feyre frowned. “The Capitol barely knows me.”

Amarantha shrugged. “That hardly matters. They know enough to offer you their support, in fact—well, I’m not exactly supposed to say this, but—oh, well, here it goes. I’ve just returned from  a lovely gathering with some of the other aides, and rumour has it you’re the most anticipated appearance for tomorrow night.” She angled her head in a motherly gesture, and reached to swipe two fingers across her cheek. Feyre flinched, though Amarantha did not seem to notice. “The only thing you must do is look spectacular, as you always do, and you’re going to win this thing.”

Feyre stilled, daring a side glance at Tamlin. His expression, practically carved in stone, betrayed nothing.

Amarantha dropped her hand with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway. I came to tell you that dinner will be served in a few minutes, so come on up when you’re ready to—”

Without a word, Tamlin strode right past them, leaving the room before she even got to finish.

Amarantha’s face twisted in worry. “I should—I’ll see you upstairs,” she said, and quickly followed Tamlin out.

Alis snickered and shook her head. “One thing about the Capitol, girl—it never really gets boring.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed. “What was that all about?”

Offering nothing but a one-shouldered shrug, Alis turned towards the exit. “It’s normal at this stage,” she told her, her wooden crane tapping lightly against the floor. “It appears that Tamlin no longer believes he can compete with the Star of the Capitol.” A chuckle. “Now, let’s go and enjoy dinner, girl. With that attitude of yours, it’s likely one of the last meals you’ll ever have.”

***

“You look beautiful,” Nuala said, and Feyre released a shaky breath. “I mean it.”

Feyre did believe her. She’d never felt more beautiful in her life.

The Capitol food agreed with her, filling in her curves and bringing a soft glow into her usually hollow features. Her designer did something to Feyre’s cheekbones, too—a strange, shimmery product that highlighted their sharpness in a bold yet graceful manner. She stained her lips with a soft burgundy lipstick—a new name for a colour she’d never even known existed. It suited her, though, bringing out the fullness of her mouth and complimenting the sparkly eyeshadow Nuala had chosen for this occasion. It suited the dress best, she argued.

She was, of course, right.

Feyre had never even touched a fabric like this before—so soft and elegant, flowing like a shadow with her every move. It reminded her of the dress Nuala had worn the first time they met, though this gown was much more grand and formal, its black silks hugging her body in ways Feyre had no idea were possible. The low, yet appropriate for the Capitol standards cut revealed her collarbone, adorned with the same shimmery product that covered her cheeks, which Nuala had said would reflect beautifully under the studio light. She’d opted for no jewellery, explaining that the dress would do a sufficient enough job to make her appearance memorable. Instead, Nuala curled Feyre’s hair into soft, cascading waves, combing in a small amount of silver glitter to complete the look.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Nuala,” Feyre told her as she examined the stranger in the mirror.

The woman winked. “Remember to save the best for last.”

Feyre nodded, then took another nervous breath.

“Relax,” Nuala said. “Act like no one’s watching. You can pretend it’s your sisters you’re talking to, not Helion Spellcleaver.”

“I don’t think that would help,” Feyre said. “Nesta would cry tears of laughter if she saw me like this.”

“Well,” Nuala said. “At the very least, remember you’ll have at least one friendly face in the audience tonight.”

“You’ll be watching?” Feyre asked.

Nuala took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Feyre smiled. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you out there,” her friend said. “They’re waiting for you backstage,” she added, and with a final check on Feyre’s hair, she exited the room.

Backstage, Tamlin, Alis and Amarantha were already sitting on the couch, anxiously awaiting District Twelve’s turn.

For this occasion, the Capitol had delegated one small room adjoining the stage for each District. A small screen had been set up on the wall for the live holo to display the main stage, which meant they would be able to watch all of the interviews before their turn came—as well as the audience’s reactions.

Feyre forced another breath into her tight chest and stepped into the room.

Right away, she was greeted by a high-pitched squeak of delight, Amarantha shooting up from her red-velvet seat to take her all in.

“Feyre, you look magnificent. Look at this fabric!” she exclaimed, grabbing a handful of the sheer, black tulle draped over her arms. “Truly, this is just lovely. I’ve seen the other Tributes, and frankly, you’re going to be the best-dressed one of them.”

Feyre’s brows knotted in confusion. “When did you see them?”

Amarantha winked secretively. “I’ve had a look at the early designs.”

Behind her, Alis scoffed.

Feyre’s frown deepened. “But how?”

She wasn’t offered an answer, though, as the screen suddenly lit up, casting a bright, pinkish hue over the room to the sounds of applause.

The camera focused on the stage, where a shadowed silhouette sat in a pristine white chair, his back turned to the crowd. The cheers grew louder when the chair began to move, rotating slowly until the figure came into full view, all the lights focusing on revealing the wide grin of Helion Spellcleaver.

Dressed in a dark green suit, his shoulders were adorned with what seemed like actual, long feathers of a peacock, their vibrant blue eyes adding splendour to the ensemble that made the audience roar in ecstasy. The host stood up to greet them, heavy golden rings on each finger of his hand as he waved, that smile not leaving his face for a second.

“Welcome!” Helion announced, opening his arms to the crowd. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the final night before the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games officially begin!”

The audience cheered again, and Feyre paled at the sound.

“So many of them,” Tamlin whispered beside her, his thoughts seemingly mimicking her own.

Helion asked, “Are we excited to meet this year’s brave and noble Tributes?” The Capitol answered with a shout of delight, and Helion laughed, the sound rich and deep. Feyre suddenly wondered how old he was—as far as she was told, he’d been hosting the Games for a little over ten years. “Good answer! So, while I would love to chat with you for the next few hours—” he teased playfully, causing a few giggles amongst the crowd, “—let’s not waste any more time and dive straight into the interviews. Please join me in welcoming the stunning Briallyn from District One!”

The girl entered the stage, the long, golden train of her gown slithering behind her like a snake. The applause grew louder, and the camera cut to the audience to show a standing ovation in some of the sectors. Clearly, this girl already had her fair share of admirers.

Helion extended a hand, and Briallyn took the seat beside him, a knowing smile playing on the corners of her lips.

“I must say, Briallyn, you look absolutely phenomenal,” the host said, then turned to the audience. “Doesn’t she look phenomenal, folks?”

The Capitol erupted with another roar, and Helion smiled at the Tribute. “Did you know gold is my absolute favourite colour?” he asked.

Briallyn shrugged innocently. “Perhaps I did,” she said, then leaned in closer towards Helion, her breasts veiled in golden glitter that sparkled as she moved. “Perhaps that’s exactly why I wore it today.”

Seriously?

But the audience laughed, and so did Helion, a look of elated surprise blooming on his face.

“She’s good,” Alis commented from her seat beside Tamlin.

Feyre scoffed. “You can’t be serious. She’s flirting with the host in front of the entire country!”

Alis pointed to the screen. “They’re laughing, aren’t they?”

“I will never understand the Capitol,” Tamlin muttered, and Feyre was inclined to agree. Could a few smiles in the right direction truly determine whether she would live or die?

Alis shook her head. “The girl has a strategy, and she’s executing it to near perfection. This is how you become memorable—she’s doing the unexpected, and the Capitol thrives on it.” With a sigh, she tore her eyes off the screen. “This is what you have to do. Get a feel for the audience, see how they react to you. To them, you are nothing more but entertainment. So entertain.” 

“I’m not going to flirt with Helion Spellcleaver,” Feyre protested.

Alis rolled her eyes. “No one’s making you flirt, girl. What you do have to do is surprise them—in whatever way you can. And I’m not talking about your dress, your hair, or whatever glitter it is they’d put all over you—everyone here has been groomed to perfection. Ultimately, they will only remember you by your words.”

Feyre swallowed hard.

Alis continued, “Whenever you see an opportunity, take it. Play to your strengths. And remember, the Capitol isn’t the only one watching. The same people that are going to try and kill you will soak up your every word—and tomorrow, they will use them to their advantage,” she warned, her gaze meeting Feyre’s directly. “So remember—be entertaining to the audience, but intimidating to the other Tributes. Show them you’re not an easy kill. Sit up straight, but be relaxed. Smile, but not too widely. You want to appear confident and at ease.”

Feyre leaned back in her seat, her head spinning at the sheer amount of information. The familiar, twisting sensation in her gut returned, threatened by the tight fit of the gown on her stomach, and she felt her vision blur out and her heart rate speed up. This was impossible—impossible.

Before she realised how much her panic consumed her, Brannagh and Devlon, the male Tribute from District One, had already finished their interviews. It was only the sound of a chilling, voice that Feyre knew all too well that pushed her out of her state, her vision returning to focus on Brannagh’s vicious smile on the holo.

“So determined,” Helion praised. “How commendable.”

Brannagh’s smile widened. “My brother and I cannot wait to make the Capitol proud.” She looked straight into the camera, and Feyre shifted in her seat. “And no one is going to stand in our way.”

Feyre’s blood chilled while the audience erupted with another round of applause.

Brannagh stood, waving to the camera again, and Feyre couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that her final words were a message—a message meant for none other than her.

The girl left the stage, and Feyre whispered, “She’s going to kill me."

Tamlin’s head whipped to her, forcing her eyes on his. “She won’t.”

Such resolve, such hard abandon in his voice—and Feyre began to feel lightheaded again. What, exactly, was Tamlin’s attitude towards her? For the entirety of their first week at the Capitol—besides that one night she’d found him after her nightmare—he’d barely uttered a word in her direction. In fact, Feyre was convinced he was determined to avoid her so that it would be easier for him to kill her when the time came. And yet, at times…at times Feyre couldn’t tell what went on in his head. Why did he promise to protect her?

Tell me what you’re thinking, her eyes tried to tell him. I can’t figure you out.

No answer came back.

Soon, Districts Two and Three were finished, and Helion announced the next Tribute.

The boy from Four had beautiful eyes, a blue-green shade Feyre hadn’t even known existed before she came to the Capitol. His hair was a striking white, braided back and glistening under the bright stage lights. It reminded Feyre of seafoam—the same kind she’d once seen on the holo news about the District’s fishing shipment struggles over the winter. The livestock shipments from Ten had already been restricted, and Feyre vividly remembered her mother’s face when the news came on. Her blue-grey eyes, the same ones Feyre and Nesta had, dimmed as she sat down. She hadn’t said a word until the following day.

His smile was kind and gentle, though his gaze betrayed wariness as he patiently waited for the audience to settle. Beside him, Helion Spellcleaver took his seat, his feathers glittering so bright Feyre had to squint despite watching through the backstage screen.

“I must say, Tarquin, you look absolutely spectacular tonight,” the host told him.

Tarquin’s head cocked to the side. “Not nearly as spectacular as you, Helion,” he drawled.

Helion’s grin widened. “Well, I’ve lived here longer.”

The audience erupted in laughter, and Feyre finally understood—understood just how important his role was in this whole game. Helion was entertaining, to be sure, and the Capitol seemed to be eating right out of the palm of his hand, but there was a purpose to his shining persona and arsenal of wit. He was there to help them—to give each Tribute a chance at gaining the interest  of those that could keep them alive.

Feyre sighed. All the wit in the world wouldn’t make the sponsors like her, no matter how much of it Helion had at his disposal. Once she opened her mouth, all they would see was the Star of the Capitol extinguished.

“So tell me, Tarquin,” Helion said, crossing an ankle over his knee. “What’s your strategy for the big game tomorrow?”

For the first time, Tarquin smirked, tapping the golden trident engraved on the front of his vibrant suit. “You’d be surprised how far fishing can get you in life,” he told the host.

The audience laughed, some of them even going as far as to shout Tarquin’s name. Helion angled his head, pointing to the crowd. “Sounds like a few of us agree,” he suggested, and the spectators cheered their agreement.

“Clever,” Alis noted, impressed. “He’ll be another one to look out for.”

Feyre’s mouth formed a tight line. She remembered Tarquin from training—he was one of the very few Tributes she actually liked. He’d shown her how to tie different variations of knots, even how to attach them to her own body, and asked for nothing in return. Tarquin was so different from the Careers—talented and kind, with no bloodthirsty quality about him that made Feyre want to stay far away from the others.

Looks, it seemed, could often be misleading. Perhaps this boy would try and kill her, too—tie a knot around her neck while she slept in the middle of the night.

Her bruised arm began pulsating again, and Feyre slouched in her seat, exhausted despite not having even begun.

“Sit up, my dear,” Amarantha told her. “You’re going to ruin your dress.”

Feyre wanted to scream.

She ultimately decided it was in her best interest to only pretend to be watching the rest of the interviews if she wanted to make it to the stage with her makeup still intact. Watching the young boy from Seven, twelve-year old Balthazar, had nearly brought her to tears. Young—he was so young, his innocence soon to be brutally taken away. Would the deadly twins kill him? Would Feyre?

And so, her eyes remained fixed absently on the screen until the camera zoomed in on a familiar face.

“Do you think you can win, Ressina?” Helion asked as her interview neared its end.

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely. I’m determined to show the Capitol that the outer Districts have as much skill as One or Two.”

She stepped off the stage, and Alis clicked her tongue.

“What?” Feyre asked. “What is it?”

“The Capitol will make sure to prove this girl wrong,” Alis said.

Feyre’s eyes widened. “Why do you say that?”

Alis’s stare was hard and unwavering. “She just challenged their treatment of the outer Districts. They’re going to kill her the first chance they get.”

“Come now, Alis, I don’t think…” Amarantha began.

“I can say whatever I want to say,” Alis interjected. “They’ve put me through enough.”

Amarantha said nothing.

Alis continued, “The girl’s efforts are worthless. Do not stay close to her once the Games begin,” she advised.

Feyre’s heart dropped.

“I see the look on your face, girl,” Alis now addressed her directly. “I can’t stop you once you’re out in the arena, but remember this: there can only be one winner in the Hunger Games. The only thing you can really do, the only thing you should do, is whatever it takes to protect your sisters. Which, at the moment, means doing as you’re told.”

I promised my sisters I would try to survive, she told Tamlin. But at what cost?

How many people would she be forced to slaughter? Feyre’s been a killer ever since she’d gone into the forest—but animals were her only prey. She’d never felt any remorse—her family was starving, and hunting was a means to an end. But this…this was different.

She would be killing for nothing but the entertainment of Panem’s elite—to satisfy their insatiable thirst for the blood of the country’s youth. Here, in this city of never-ending supplies of fresh food, clean water, and anything their heart desired, Feyre and the other Tributes were prey, meant to hunt each other for the Capitol’s enjoyment.

What a waste.

“You know her as the Star of the Capitol,” Helion’s voice suddenly reached her through the screen. “But to us, she is the brave volunteer from District Twelve. Please welcome Feyre Archeron!”

Feyre went deathly still. She’d allowed her thoughts to take over for too long, and her turn had somehow already come. Her heart pounded in her chest, the chill creeping down her spine freezing her entire body in place. 

Someone must have taken her hand and led her to the stage, because she did not remember getting up from the couch, walking to the door and up the stairs until a bright light blocked her vision from anything but Helion Spellcleaver, waiting for her a few meters ahead.

Feyre stepped into the light, the sounds of applause slamming into her so loudly her ears began to ring. The high pitch almost swept the floor from her feet had it not been for the host’s encouraging hand she took absently.

She felt herself fall to a seat, soft and plush like anything in the Capitol, and Feyre looked at the blurry splashes of colour in front of her until they sharpened into people—an audience waiting.

Waiting…for what?

Feyre looked to Helion, inches away from her, and she realised this was the first time she’d seen him up-close. He was handsome—too handsome, perhaps, with the kind of face she knew would crush her heart if she’d let him.

His dark brows rose expectantly, and horror washed over her, hot and boiling her cheeks red as she realised he must have asked her a question.

“What?” she asked helplessly.

The audience howled in laughter, and Helion joined them, his own laugh earnest as he patted Feyre’s hand. “I think someone’s a little nervous,” he teased. “I said I am so happy that I finally get to ask you about your entrance at the Tributes’ Parade. Spectacular, wasn’t it folks?” he asked, turning to the rainbow of tulle and synthetic watching from their seats out front.

They cheered loudly, and even Helion offered a small applause of his own. His gaze fixed on Feyre again, and he nodded with a reassuring smile. “Come on—tell us all about it,” he said.

Forcing herself to focus on the host, Feyre looked away from the crowd and into his amber eyes, surprised to find a spark in there—and a message.

He was giving her an opportunity.

She thought of Nuala’s advice from before. What would you say if it was Elain in front of you?

Feyre smiled nervously. “Honestly, it was hard to see anything in the dark,” she told him, and those eyes sparked again in approval. The audience laughed, and Feyre continued. “I was just hoping the horses would take me to the right place.”

Laughter, loud and bright, rolled over the crowd, and Feyre took advantage of the moment to release a quiet breath. It continued until Helion raised a hand with a smile, turning to Feyre again.

“Well, then I feel compelled to inform you that you looked absolutely magnificent. I have to say, my heart stopped,” he said, placing a hand on his broad chest, “when your costume lit up with what looked like actual stars. Did any of you experience this?” Helion asked, looking to the crowd.

Feyre followed his gaze to where hundreds of people cheered their agreement. She looked to the front row again, where a pink-haired woman nodded sagely, her own hand mimicking Helion’s movement. Another spectator beside her wiped off a tear.

“My heart stopped,” Helion repeated, shaking his head, as if the memory still kept him mesmerised.

Feyre offered another smile. “So did mine,” she admitted, and Helion laughed brightly.

“Are you afraid of the dark, my darling Feyre?” he asked, and Feyre’s smile faded.

My darling Feyre, have you not considered that perhaps you are just that talented?

She shook the memory off, carefully crafting the smile to curve up her mouth again. “I’m merely saying there is always light in the darkness, Helion,” she said.

Helion hummed appreciatively. “A light in the darkness,” he pondered. “I think you were exactly that.” His own smile returned as he added, “Tell me, when are we going to see you shine again?”

The question was met with applause, with the Capitol seemingly desperate for an answer as well. Feyre’s eyes scanned the crowd, until they settled on the second row—and a familiar face.

Nuala gave her a small nod, and Feyre blew out a breath. This was the time.

With a teasing smile, she turned to Helion. “I could show you now—if you’d like to see?”

Helion’s brows rose as the audience shouted, begging for a demonstration.

Helion held up a hand. “Hold on,” he halted. “If it’s another explosion of darkness, you have to swear that it’s not going to ruin my favourite suit,” he warned, and Feyre laughed.

“No explosions this time,” she promised.

“Alright, what do you think then, folks?” the host asked, and the Capitol cheered, whistles of encouragement rising over the crowd.

Feyre stood, and took a few steps forward, away from the strong light shining over their seats. The black silks of her gown flowed with her, so dark she doubted anyone could make out their shape from where they were sat over the main stage.

Releasing a final, trembling breath, Feyre opened her arms and twirled.

Just as Nuala said it would, thousands of silver speckles appeared throughout the fabric, twinkling under each layer of the gown with a soft light. The entire Capitol gasped in unison at the sight, more stars appearing with each twirl, from the very top beneath her collarbone where the dress began down to the material pooling at her feet. In a manner of seconds, Feyre was the night sky personified, casting a light of her own over the audience.

Someone shouted her name, and soon, the entire hall was chanting it like a prayer, accompanied by a never-ending applause. Feyre spun and spun and spun until shapes blurred into one, and the floor became soft and unstable beneath her feet.

Helion’s light grip on her elbow steadied her, his handsome face betraying nothing but pure, unrestrained awe. The Capitol roared in delight as Feyre returned to her seat, some of them rising from their seats to show their appreciation for the show they’d just been given.

Feyre smiled, and Helion returned the gesture. “That was really something,” he said, his grin growing wider as he added, “The Star of the Capitol indeed.

“Feyre,” he continued, “I have one more question for you.” Helion took her hand again, his expression fading into seriousness. “It’s about your sister.”

Feyre stilled, shifting only slightly in her seat. “Okay,” she said hesitantly.

Helion looked to her hand, once again patting it gently—this time, a gesture of support. Feyre wondered if the man was simply easy to read, or if he’d made himself this transparent on purpose. “We were all very moved, I think,” he began, “when you volunteered for her at the Reaping.” He swallowed, as if the topic was somehow hard for him to discuss. “Tell me…did she come to say goodbye to you?”

Feyre. My beautiful Feyre.

Everything will be okay.

You shouldn’t have done that, Feyre.

Promise you will make it out.

“Yes,” Feyre finally said, her throat tight. “She did."

“And what did you say to her before you left?” Helion asked quietly.

“I told her…” Feyre hesitated, looking around the studio again. Just beneath the stage, only slightly below the first row of spectators, stood a camera.

Feyre looked straight into it.

“I told her I would try to win. That I would try to win for her.”

The audience fell completely silent, as if mourning that final goodbye with her, and Feyre turned back to Helion, who nodded knowingly.

“I know you will,” he said, placing a light kiss atop her hand, his lips warm and soft. Then, Helion stood, Feyre following closely behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Feyre Archeron from District Twelve!” he exclaimed, raising her hand up in triumph to the sounds of a rapturous Capitol.

Backstage, she was pulled straight into Amarantha’s arms.

“Brilliant!” she told her. “Absolutely brilliant! Feyre, you did an incredible job, truly, I think you made quite the impression, the sponsors especially—”

“Quiet,” Alis interrupted her rambling. “Tamlin is on.”

Feyre’s head whipped back to the screen.

Tamlin lounged in the chair, seemingly relaxed as Helion smiled encouragingly.

“I hear you work at a flower shop back home,” the host teased. “You must smell like roses all the time.”

Tamlin cocked his head contemplatively. “I’m not sure,” he hummed, then gestured for Helion to lean in. “Do I smell like roses to you?”

The host leaned forward, making a show of smelling Tamlin’s arm to the utter surprise and delight of the audience. “You do smell amazing,” Helion told him, his brows furrowing. “I think I might want to change professions now.”

Tamlin waved a playful hand. “Every job comes with its benefits,” he said, and the audience laughed.

“Speaking of benefits,” Helion continued, a sly smile playing in the corner of his mouth. “Does selling flowers come with the advantage of some extra female attention?” he asked with a wink. The camera cut to the audience again, a few women’s eyes wide as they awaited Tamlin’s answer.

Tamlin laughed. “No…not really.”

“Come now,” Helion’s amber eyes narrowed. “A handsome lad like you? There must be a girl waiting for you back home.”

At that, Tamlin’s smile slowly faded. “I, uh…well.”

“Ah, there it is!” Helion exclaimed happily. “I knew it. Go on, tell us more.”

Tamlin looked to the camera, his gaze betraying nervousness for only a split of a second, then back at the host. “There was a girl back home,” he finally said. “But I don’t think she really knew who I was until the day of the Reaping.”

A sad groan emerged from the audience, and Helion nodded. “I see. Well, how about this—you win the Hunger Games, go back home a victor, and then she’ll simply have to go out with you.”

Tamlin shook his head. “No, I…I don’t think winning is going to help me at all, Helion.”

Helion angled his head in confusion. “And why not?”

“Because…” Tamlin’s chest heaved with a shaky breath. “Because she came here with me.”

The audience gasped, and so did Feyre backstage.

What?

Feyre’s a hunter, Tamlin’s voice echoed in her head. I see her in the woods sometimes when I’m out getting flowers.

My sister was a lot like you. I was never planning to tell anyone about her…but there you were.

I’ll do my best to protect you. I promise.

“What?” Feyre asked again, this time out loud, as the holo showed a tearful man in the audience, covering his mouth as he shook his head in disbelief.

The camera cut to Helion again. “Ah. That…could make things difficult.”

Tamlin’s lips were a tight line as he nodded. “Yeah.”

The host’s expression was pained. “Well,” he sighed, extending a hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Tamlin.”

They shook hands, and soon Tamlin appeared in the room.

His eyes swept over Amarantha, then Alis, until they finally settled and locked on Feyre’s.

She couldn’t breathe. Feyre opened her mouth, and—

Tamlin’s gaze slid off her, and in a few quick strides, he hurried out of the room without a single word.

Alis cleared her throat, looking—for the first time since they’d met her, perhaps—entirely uncomfortable. “I better go check on him,” she said, then made her own way out.

Feyre’s eyes remained fixed on the door, her whole body completely and utterly still until she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched, turning on her feet to face Amarantha’s concerned face.

“Is there anything you need, my dear?” she asked sweetly, and when Feyre shook her head, she sighed. “Poor Tamlin. Young love can be so heartbreaking. Take your time, lovely.”

With that, Amarantha left the room.

What the hell just happened?

***

Feyre simmered in that question for what seemed like hours.

Alone in the small room backstage, she replayed the interview in her head over and over, until words ceased to make any sense whatsoever.

Tamlin couldn’t like her. He couldn’t, because…because in a manner of days, one of them would be dead.

Was that why he’d avoided her so often? During the first week of their training, he had barely spoken to her, opting to leave her side the second the morning briefing would end. If it hadn’t been for her accidentally stumbling upon him in the middle of the night—twice—she doubted the two of them would even have a proper conversation.

Winning isn’t going to help me at all, he’d said. Perhaps all this time, Tamlin hadn’t really hated her. Perhaps he simply protected himself, knowing he might eventually have to kill “the girl from back home”—or she might kill him.

Feyre was certain it was nearing midnight—she couldn’t allow Tamlin to occupy her thoughts now, not with the Games due to start in less than twenty-four hours. What Feyre truly needed was to sleep. In a bed, for the very last time.

With a deep sigh, she rose from the couch and made her way to the exit. She stepped out to the corridor, the door shutting with a small click behind her.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” a voice purred.

“Shit!” she jumped, startled, turning towards the sound.

Leaning against the wall to her right, tall and with a glass of champagne in his hand, was him.

The violet-eyed man smirked. “My apologies,” he offered, though his tone suggested he wasn’t sorry at all.

Taking a few steps in his direction, Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “Are you stalking me now?

He looked pointedly to the door, clearly marked ‘12.’ “You weren’t exactly hard to find.” Feyre scoffed, and his smile widened. “I only wanted to congratulate you on your interview. And your dress, of course,” he drawled. “You must have a spectacular designer.”

“I finished my interview over two hours ago,” she told him. “Were you waiting outside this whole time.”

He shrugged. “I figured you wanted some privacy. It was an…eventful night for you.”

Feyre frowned. “You’re a strange man.”

For some reason, he looked delighted to hear that. “You have no idea,” he said before taking a sip from his glass and bouncing off the wall to face her fully at last. That mesmerising, violet gaze took her in, scanning the dimming stars on the sleeve over her arm. “The Star of the Capitol,” he murmured, hypnotised by the sight before him. “Interesting.”

Heat rose through her body under the intensity of his stare. “What’s interesting?” she asked breathlessly.

But the man’s eyes fixed on something beneath the sheer tulle, something not even the stars could cover. Understanding shone in them as he realised those were bruises, and he stepped in closer to inspect them.

Feyre held her breath as he surveyed every inch of the battered skin, splatters of dark purple long and shaped like human fingers…the same ones he’d freed her from two nights ago.

Darkness filled his eyes, that vibrant shade of violet long forgotten, his irises bleeding anger and pure, unrestrained violence.

“I would kill them,” he began, practically grinding out the words, his fist tightening around the glass. “I would kill them, Feyre, if I wasn’t sure you’re going to get to them first.”

A cold sweat broke out over her as she felt the weight of that declaration, and Feyre took a step back.

Noticing this, the man tore his eyes off the bruise to meet hers. “I would never hurt you, Feyre,” he swore with such hard abandon that Feyre’s eyes widened.

“Funny,” she whispered. “That’s the second time someone’s made me such a promise in the past two days.”

He looked at her again, and there was a wait there—a hint of hesitation before he slowly said, “Be careful who you trust, Feyre.”

“And who is it that I should trust?” she asked. “You?”

The man stared at her, an insufferable silence filling the space between them as he considered. He tipped his head up slightly, looking to the ceiling quizzically before he finally asked, “Do you ever look up to the stars and wish?”

Puzzled, Feyre’s brows knotted. “The stars cannot save my life. They never have, not here, and they certainly can’t help me out in the arena.”

Something twinkled in those pools of violet as they settled on her again. “Maybe they can,” he said, raising the glass to her before he added, “To the stars who listen, Feyre.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but the man had already turned to leave. “Remember that.”

Before he managed to disappear in the shadows, a silhouette emerged from around the corner, accompanied by a light tap of a wooden crane, and the man stopped in his tracks. “Alis,” he greeted her smoothly.

An incredulous look appeared on her mentor’s wrinkled face. Her voice was stiff as she answered, “Rhysand.”

The man nodded and left.

Rhysand.

That was his name. 

Rhysand, Feyre’s mind repeated, as if the name had been an answer to a question she’d never thought to ask.

“Why are you still out here?” Alis asked, taking a few steps towards her.

Feyre ignored her completely. “How do you know his name?”

Alis raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Feyre pointed to the shadows behind her. “Rhysand. How do you know him?”

“How do you not?”

Feyre sighed in frustration. “I know he’s the sponsor I almost shot, but I always thought he was no one significant.”

Alis shook her head, her usual grimace now replaced by a look of outright bewilderment. “Rhysand isn’t a sponsor. He’s a victor—a victor from District Twelve.”

Feyre’s mouth hung open.

“He won the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, exactly ten years ago,” Alis continued, her eyes searching Feyre’s. “I trained him. How can you not remember?”

“I wasn’t allowed,” Feyre whispered.

“What?”

Feyre cleared her throat. “I…my father never allowed us. To watch the Games.”

Alis’s eyes narrowed. “Was he aware that it’s illegal?”

Feyre looked down to her feet. “Yes.”

“Well,” Alis sighed. “That explains a lot.”

Feyre said nothing.

“He was a lot like you,” her mentor said, and Feyre was grateful she didn’t question her any further on the matter. “A clever boy, witty. Talented, too. He slaughtered his way through the competition at only fifteen,” she hummed. “It’s no surprise the Capitol adored him. So much, in fact, that he never returned home. He used his charm to feed off the Capitol’s rich—and he’s doing it to this day.” She added wryly, “It’s why he’s never had to mentor anyone in the past decade, including the two of you. They’ll let him do whatever he wants as long as he remains…entertaining.”

Feyre soaked up every word and let it fuel the anger that had slowly began to boil in the pit of her stomach. This whole time, Rhysand was from Twelve—from her home, and he said nothing?

Alis leaned in closer. “A word of advice to you, girl,” she offered. “Stay away from those who hold the power in the Capitol. Tomorrow, the Hunger Games will begin, and you must trust yourself and yourself only. People in the Capitol can be…deceiving.”

Feyre frowned. “Even Amarantha?” She couldn’t imagine the aide hurting as much as a fly.

Alis warned, “Hybern’s granddaughter is capable of much more than you can imagine.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. The President’s granddaughter?

“Be smart with your choices, Feyre Archeron,” Alis told her. “There are enough people trying to kill you already.”

***

Feyre navigated the bright corridors of the hangar, her heart thumping in her chest.

They’d tied a blindfold around her eyes on the jet—no doubt to preventing any last-minute escape plans—and now, she could feel tears burning inside them as she tried to adjust to the white, artificial light.

She did not see Tamlin in the morning—only Amarantha, who offered her a small kiss on the cheek, once again expressing her confidence in Feyre’s chances. There’s a reason you’re the Capitol’s Star, lovely Feyre, she told her. Don’t prove them wrong.

Now that she knew who Amarantha truly was, Feyre could see past the good wishes and see them for what they were—a message.

Luckily, the Capitol would forget about their Star soon. She was likely to be dead within hours.

They’d placed a tracker in her arm—the healthy one, thankfully—its soft, blue hue almost invisible under her skin. Feyre wondered if it latched onto her vein, and if so, how difficult it would be to rip out. Likely impossible, a small voice in her head answered. You belong to them now.

The two Peacekeepers escorting her finally stopped in front of a heavy, metallic door. It opened with a loud creak, and Feyre almost cried in relief as she saw Nuala waiting inside.

She launched herself into her arms, and the door shut behind her.

The room was small, with only a long pipe that served as a coat hanger attached to the wall, and a large, glass tube waiting in the corner. Nuala picked up a bodysuit, a stretchy, grey fabric that covered her arms in their entirety. “Thermal protection,” she explained, helping Feyre slide it over her head. “This could mean anything.”

She passed her the trousers next, long and somewhat heavy, their shade a washed-out green. Feyre checked out all of their pockets—empty. She didn’t know what she expected.

Finally Nuala handed her the jacket, a simple, black piece of clothing made from a strange material that the designer explained was waterproof. Feyre put it on, her hands shaking slightly on the zipper, and Nuala reached to help her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly. “I have faith in you.”

Suddenly, an artificial, female voice filled the room from the speaker hung somewhere by the ceiling. Thirty seconds, it announced.

Feyre’s heart picked up, raging wildly in her tightening chest.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she choked out.

Nuala grabbed her hands. “You can. You will.” Her fingers brushed over her cheek. “For your sisters.”

Twenty seconds.

“For my sisters,” Feyre repeated, and walked towards the tube on shaky legs.

“Feyre,” Nuala called when she stepped inside, and Feyre turned to face her friend one last time. “To the stars who listen,” she said.

Ten seconds.

The glass door slid and closed, trapping Feyre in.

Nuala smiled. “Remember that.”

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The platform rose and lifted Feyre into the light.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @cascadingmoon @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur

[gothcsz]

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter I.

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: Javier gets acquainted with his new job and new life in small town, Texas.

WORD COUNT: 6.7k

RATING:   18+ Mature topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: Mutual pining, talks of homicide, they really wanna fuck each other, beginning of a beautiful slow burn, lots of smoking, southern gothic vibes are strong with this one, if you love worldbuilding then this is the fic for you, mentions of a religious cult, subtle slutshaming.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS:   The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized, including the usage of the song(s) that Paloma will perform throughout the story.

A/N: it’s official, i am now licensed! lol jk jk but hooray to a first chapter! i’ve been working on this thing non stop trying to get the characterization and dynamic and overall voice of the story down pat. i had so much fun writing this tbh and i hope the person reading this enjoyed… well… reading it! i’m still trying to get the hang of writing/posting a whole ass fic while also learning how AO3/Tumblr works so pls be GENTLE with me *cries* i'm not sure what the upload schedule will be yet but just know ya girl is devoting all her free time to this currently.... anyways feel free to drop any type of feedback in my ask. < 3

♰  read on ao3. ♰

♰  playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

Javier Peña doesn’t know if he should see this reassignment as a good thing. He had gotten himself in a pretty hairy situation down in Colombia. His involvement with a death squad and the cartel had him pulled from the biggest case of his career right as they were on the verge of catching Escobar… and only he was to blame for that. He crossed a boundary with himself, gotten innocent people killed and what exactly does he have to show for it?

A reassignment to a small, shitty town in the middle of Texas. 

At least in South America he had a great view to cope with the shitty happenings. The lush mountains of Medellín that stretched for miles and miles, the bustling of the the country’s capitol, Bogotá, or the portrait perfect skyline of Cali. 

Here, it’s just dirt roads with barbed wired fences lining the vast amounts of grassy lands. Occasional livestock litter the area; Seminary’s only lifeline is farming since most of the families that reside here own ranches or crop fields. The town is able to sustain itself with what it produces, therefore not needing many additional businesses. Just a few blocks of shops and civil buildings. No hospital but a doctor’s office with one singular clinician, a grindhouse, some boutiques, a bakery, a very small post office that shares its space with the local newspaper. Typical spaces you’d find in a settlement like this.

He can see some resemblances to that of his hometown, Laredo, but that’d be a disservice to where he's from.

Regardless, he can’t change his past and all his wrongdoings. Instead, Javier can try and see the fucking silver lining of the situation; that he finally has time to catch his breath… to slow down, for once. The concept is foreign to him. He’s been fleeing from it since he was an adolescent.

A fact that his father, Chucho, had brought up when Javier told the older man of his new job.

–––––––––––––––––––

“ Seminary? Donde putas es eso? (Where the fuck is that?) ”

“ Couple hours southwest of El Paso. A smidge on the map. ”

“ A smidge on the map sounds like exactly what you need, hombre (man). ” His pops tells him, taking a swig from his beer as the two lean against the wooden fence that keeps the herd of horses from running amuck.

Javi doesn’t say anything, instead gazing out into the vastness of the family ranch.

“ All that craziness down there in Colombia te pudre le mente. El cuerpo. (It rots your mind. Your body.)  And I’ll be damned if a heart attack takes you out before me. ” The men chuckle briefly, sounding just alike.

“ Comes with its own shit. A damn cult. ” Javi scoffs, taking a smooth drag from the cigarette between his lips. “ Least that’s what the locals think. Could just be a damn serial killer. ” No different from what he’s experienced with the cartel.

“ Shit is goin’ to be anywhere you go, hijo (son), pero se me hace a mi (it seems to me) that the shit they got goin’ on in Seminary is much more manageable than la mierda con Escobar (the shit with Escobar). ” Just hearing his name has Javier clenching his jaw subconsciously and Chucho takes notice.

“ Just an old man’s opinion. Take this time to look within. Figure out the type of man you want to be after being chewed up and spat out of Colombia. ” Another swig of beer, “ Pero eres tan bruto, nunca me haces caso (but you’re so stubborn, you never listen to me). ”

“ In a shocking turn of events, this might be the one time I do. ” Javier snuffs out the finished cigarette against the wooden pole, tossing it aside carelessly and crossing his arms against his chest. “ But don’t get your hopes up. ”

“ As long as you don’t drink the damn kool aid, vaz a estar bien (you’re going to be fine). ” The father and son share another laugh, this time much more lighthearted.

–––––––––––––––––––

Javi blinks slowly behind the aviators that sit on the bridge of his nose, the bright and grueling Texas sun beaming down on him harshly. Finishing his cigarette, he pushes himself off the hood of his restored Ford pickup truck. He’s been sitting outside of Seminary’s Sheriff’s Department for about ten minutes now, the small building located right in the middle of town very easy to find.

Then again, it wasn’t very hard to get lost in a place this small.

It is unimpressive and has the makings of any other small town government building. An American flag flown proudly above Texas’s, the lettering that labeled the building faded due to being unkept and time. 

Javier knows that the dread he feels comes from not being able to sit still. That’s why he found some kind of pleasure working down in Colombia. Things were always moving at a fast pace, albeit he had done a lot of pencil pushing and running down the clock, the city itself was bustling with life and culture that kept him on go even when he was idle. 

Here, however, the stillness is suffocating and he wonders how the people of Seminary can breathe. 

Is this sentiment what has sparked the murders? Had someone finally had enough of the mundane and decided to spruce things up?

His eyes narrow, if he continues to stand out here any longer, the sheriff will begin to wonder if the new guy had bailed before even coming in.

Javier jogs up the steps that lead up to the main building, taking them two at a time then pushing open the worn, glass door of the entrance; removing his sunglasses and neatly folding them then letting them hang from the collar of the cream colored button up shirt he’s wearing. 

He takes in his surroundings and somehow he feels like he and Murphy had more space back at the embassy than what they have here. 

There’s a front desk to the immediate right being tended to by an older woman with fiery red hair that’s got reading glasses on, too engrossed in her novel to notice that he’s stepped foot in.

Other than that, everything else looks pretty much like anyone would expect a sheriff’s department to look like. Desks pushed together here and there, singular ceiling fan lazily spinning in the center of the room, a break room tucked to the back, the hallway that led to detaining rooms and other necessary spaces, variety of office supplies and filing cabinets. It almost looks too normal.

“ Need somethin’, dear? ” He is returned to himself as the older woman finally takes notice of him with a friendly smile, her eyes not so subtly giving him a once over. “ We don’t usually get hunks ‘round here. You must be lost, sugar. ”

Peña smirks, even without trying he’s got women smitten.

“ Fortunately for you, ma’am, seems like I’m in the right place. Javier Peña, new Deputy Sheriff. ” He strolls over to her desk, leaning against it as he reaches his hand out for her to shake. 

She lets out a warm laugh and suddenly he’s not so on edge about being here. They shake hands and Javi notices a soft pink tint of blush on the apples of her cheeks. “ Fortunately for me indeed. I’m Lorraine, darling, I pretty much run everything ‘round here but don’t you go tellin’ Romeo that. ” She winks at him.

“ Don’t go tellin’ Romeo what now, Lorraine? That you’re gunnin’ for my job? ” A boisterous voice interrupts them and Javier immediately recognizes it to be the sheriff. 

“ Oh, I thought that was somethin’ we all already knew? ” The banter continues and Javi immediately takes note of the playful friendship at play here.

“ Hate to say it but she’s right. Works circles around me that one. Romeo Leighton. Great to have you here, Javier. ” The sheriff now speaks to Javier directly, and he takes this as a sign to straighten his posture and formally introduce himself as well.

The man has a good ten years on Javi, standing a few inches taller with a much more worn look to him. He’s a bit skinny yet built, except for the typical beer belly most southern men tend to have. A scruffy and short beard with unruly hair that’s a mix of grays and dark browns.

“ Thanks for having me. ” The two share a brief handshake, “ M’sure you two could handle the town all on your own, so I appreciate you making room for a plus one. ” Javi decides to turn on the good ‘ol southern charm and it seems to land as intended as the atmosphere in the room remains friendly and the sheriff chuckles.

“ Look at him catchin’ on so quick. We just might not let you go, amigo . ” Lorraine playfully rolls her eyes and reaches over to pass the older man a stack of files. “ These just came in from Rankin County. ”

“ You came just in time. We got some new developments on the murders. ” And just like that, the lively talk is over and they get right into the job. 

“ Heard there were mentions of a group of some sorts? ” Javier brings it up, wanting to get a gauge on the sheriff’s reaction instead of just reading about it through reports.

“ Just rumors. Nothing concrete to back it up. ”

The two men now find themselves in Romeo’s office, each smoking a cigarette with multiple files sprawled across the wooden desk.

Here’s what they know: three woman murdered along the highway that these towns share all within a year. They sustained multiple stab wounds, yet the fatal insertion was that of a sharp blade going straight through the heart. The men don’t know if that was intentional or accidental due to the amount of times their chests had been punctured.

It is gruesome, to say the least, but nothing that Javier hasn’t seen before, unfortunately. The way the cartel got creative with their murders just to send a message to their rivals had the man exposed to many atrocities; he was completely desensitized to most forms of violence. Yet, the passion behind these crimes and unclear motive has piqued Javi’s interest the more the two men discussed it. 

“ Then again… it could be nothin’. Just a giant, fucked up coincidence. ” The sheriff grumbles, clearly frustrated by the lack of information.

“ No, I don’t think so. Too similar of a killing method. Any clue what weapon was used? ” Javier leans forward in the uncomfortable, leather chair to ash his cigarette and rummage through some of the papers, trying to find the coroner’s reports for all three victims.

“ Some kind of dagger or knife. Thought it might have been a huntin’ knife but all the wounds were clean cut. No serrated edges on the weapon. ”

Javi hums, going over the details in his head for the millionth time trying to see the picture that was so clearly painted in front of him.

There was just simply not enough evidence to make anything out of it. Atop of that, the assailant hasn’t struck again in months. A good thing for the general public but not for them if they have any intention of bringing justice to the families of the victims and catching whoever was behind these heinous crimes.

Javier also realizes that while these murders were tame to him, they were most certainly not tame to the people around here. Atrocities as these simply didn’t happen in places like Seminary and surrounding areas. Now that they were dealing with the aggressive reality of humanity, it was shaking them to their core.

So much so that the God fearing people began spreading rumors that the devil had its eye on Seminary and already infiltrated the progressive minds of the local youth.

“ There’s always some truth to rumors, you know. ” Javi begins, gray smoke flooding out from his mouth and nostrils as he puffs out from the nicotine stick, “ Someone must’ve seen or heard somethin’ to implicate the younger folks. ”

The sheriff leans back in his chair, using his thumb to rub out the concentrated frown that had etched itself between his brows, “ People ‘round here are pretty stuck in their ways, me included at times, they don’t like the way this new generation is comin’ up. Barely goin’ to church, spendin’ more time at the bar than at work. How sexual music’s gotten, in their eyes. Small shit like that gets people talkin’. It’s annoyin’ but it’s just talk. ” 

Javier is going to have to polish his interpersonal skills. Something larger could be at play here so he makes a mental note to go out and talk to these people himself to get a better feeling for what the general sentiment is.

Hell, he might even start going back to church. He can’t remember the last time he step foot in one. With what all had transpired in Bogotá and Medellín; he’d lost his faith entirely. There was so much evil and greed in the world, the man felt helpless at the realization that even religion became aversive to him. 

“ M’sure somethin’ll come up eventually. ” Javier decides to be optimistic, struggling to do so but also wanting to turn over a new leaf, “ In the meantime we’ll just have to make do with what we got. It’s been a while since the fucker struck so maybe they're done. Got a taste for it and decided they didn’t like it. ” He finishes off his cigarette, stubbing it out and leaning back against the chair across from Romeo’s desk.

“ A fresh set of eyes will really help with that. Appreciate you comin’ here, Peña. Don’t know much about your time down in Colombia but I can imagine it was rough. This is a massive change for you. Goin’ from damn drug traffickers to a coupla girls gettin’ stabbed on the side of a highway.” The older man continues to puff on his cigarette, his statement falling flat and almost in bad taste but Javier doesn’t say anything, instead shrugging. 

“ I got a job–– M’not complaining’. ” That was almost not the case, and a nasty feeling at the pit of his gut stirs at the remembrance of his meeting with the board in D.C. in a few weeks to get his official reprimanding for his ties with Colombian death squad Los Pepes. 

Javi is surprised that the Sheriff doesn’t bring up Judy Moncada's quotes from the Miami Herald about his participation in the killing of many of the sicarios of the cartel, and some innocents along the way. Either he wasn’t informed or he simply did not care.

“ That’s the spirit. What do you have goin’ on tonight? ” Romeo begins, changing the subject entirely, and Javier can sense an invitation incoming. “ ‘Cause I’d love to have ya over for dinner. Give you a proper introduction to Seminary. You can meet my daughter Paloma, too. ” The sheriff then picks up one of the framed photos on his desk, turning it over for Javier to see.

A portrait of a stunning young woman sporting a cowboy hat, smiling brightly at the camera.

“ Ain’t she a beaut? ” He pulls the picture back, asking rhetorically and Javier clears his throat. 

For a moment he contemplates the dinner invitation, part of him wanting to be alone in the comfort of his new space but the other part of him wanting to just throw himself into this to keep his mind occupied and away from the grueling memories of the lengthy time he’d spent in Colombia.

“ Sure, I’d love to come by. ” He decides. If he thought about it for a second longer, he’d talk himself out of going.

A large, friendly grin spreads on Romeo’s face and he nods, finally finishing off his cigarette. “ Alright now, you can stop by ‘round 7. ” He moves some of the files aside revealing a notepad and he digs in his shirt pocket to pull out a pen. Scribbling down his address messily onto the blank piece of paper, he tears it off and leans over to hand it to Javier.

“ Just outside of town. Not that hard to get to. ” Javier nods curtly and takes the paper, folding it and stuffing it into his back pocket.

–––––––––––––––––––

It’s later in the day, the sun cascading into the distance; its hues of deep oranges and reds softening as the night sky begins to take over.

Paloma sits on the rocking chair that matches her father’s out on the porch. A guitar nestled in her lap and personal booklet resting on the arm of the chair as she strums lightly, building the chorus of her new song out loud. She takes the pencil from behind her ear and jots down something quickly and messily, returning to strumming and humming simultaneously.

“ Paloma! ” She hears the loud voice of her father practically making the walls tremble as he calls out for her from his bedroom that was on the other side of the house. They often opened all the doors and windows of the home, allowing for the soft breeze to flow throughout their space. 

She groans, stopping her actions as the melody she was on the brink of figuring out leaves her entirely.

“ What, daddy?! ” She yells back, waiting for his reply which never comes.

He does this all the time.

Cursing beneath her breath, Paloma stands from her comfortable spot, gently leaning her guitar against the wall then walking in to their country home.

She finds Romeo exiting his bedroom and walking towards her, bottle of his good scotch in hand with a relieved look on his face. “ Couldn’t find the goddamn liquor. Thought you had nabbed it from me. ” He pinches her nose as he walks by her, in which she scrunches her face at the action. It's something he’s done since she was a little girl. It can be endearing most of the time but others; it was just annoying.

“ That’s the good stuff, daddy. I would never. ”  She follows behind him as they enter the kitchen, “ Man must’ve left quite an impression for ya to be bustin’ out the crown jewel. ” She watches as he begins to set out the dinnerware for tonight, and that’s when she realizes how late it has gotten.

Easy for Paloma to lose herself in her music. She has been able to since she was a child. Her mother had nursed the hobby the moment she saw how truly talented her daughter was. In return, Paloma became skillful in being able to play damn near any instrument put in front of her. And she could sing, too.

Beautifully.

“ Javier’s got a sharp mind that I can use ‘round here. Thinkin’ I can finally start makin’ some damn progress. That deserves a special drink, don’t ya think? Come help me set the table. ” She obliges, thinking her father’s words over.

The murders have been weighing heavily on his shoulders for a better part of a year now. All the time and effort he’s put in to make the puzzle pieces fit only to come up empty handed. Paloma doesn’t know the specifics of it, just what her father rants to her here and there. He doesn’t like to bring his work home.

Romeo has been away a lot since putting his entire focus on the case. Many nights spent at the office but he at least tries to share one meal with his daughter throughout the week. Paloma understands this, and like always she gives him his space and doesn’t complain about it. 

The only reason she’s stuck around Seminary for so long is for him. He wouldn’t know what to do without her.

“ Well I’m glad things are lookin’ up, finally. Can’t wait to meet this sharp thinkin’ Javier. ” They finish setting up and Paloma excuses herself to go get changed into something a little more dressy seeing as her father was looking more put together than usual.

He really must be trying to make an impression.

Her room is on the second floor, alongside her childhood playroom and the empty room that contained some miscellaneous items.

Like her mother’s things.

Paloma always has a habit of letting her gaze linger at the closed, white wooden door of the room every time she passes it. In a strange way, she feels like her mother is standing behind that door; just waiting for her to open it and greet her like her daughter wishes she could.

But she hardly ever does, the sorrow feeling in her chest too heavy for her to bear being in there for longer than a few minutes.

She passes it with a quick glance, now entering her bedroom and throwing open her closet doors. It’s a mess, like it usually is, but it’s an organized chaos that only Paloma Leighton could decipher. 

After eyeing her wardrobe, she decides on a cream toned, linen romper with shorts. It has a deep V cut in the front that tastefully exposed some of the tanned skin between her breasts. However, she puts on a matching lace bralette underneath to soften the risque of the outfit. She finishes the look with a pair of two tone, brown and cream colored kitten heels.

Her hair is the brown of aged mahogany, rich and deep. Long and thick, it falls almost to her waist and she does nothing but brush it out. It naturally falls the way she likes. A beautifully sculpted cross necklace hangs from her neck; it was her mother’s and she’d given it to Paloma shortly before passing. She pairs it with some pearl earrings, a silver bangle on her left wrist. Paloma finishes getting ready by spritzing some of her perfume and applying lip gloss before sauntering down the steps.

She hears the soft sound of her father’s record playing some old school country tune, the song sounding throughout the home and she smiles gently.

What a beautiful night and it has only just started.

She crosses the threshold and is out on the porch to gather her things from earlier when she catches the headlights of a vehicle coming down the elongated driveway of the property.

That must be him.

“ Daddy, your friend’s here! ”

–––––––––––––––––––

Javier gets a chance to get to get acquainted with the town before his dinner with the sheriff. Wandering around the shops and establishments that littered the main street of Seminary, driving the backroads, up and down the highway a few times to get a feel for how he would approach his new job. 

The conclusion he’s come to is that the town, for the most part, is harmless. But he’s only been here one afternoon so what the hell does he know?

After his exploration, he finally made it to the place he would be calling home until further notice. A dingy yet quaint trailer home located on about two acres of land. It has everything he requires. Furnished neatly and stocked with all the cooking utensils he could ever need but ultimately never use. Javier found himself more comfortable after unpacking the very little things he’d brought along with him.

Maybe his father was right. Maybe he can finally slip into some normalcy.

But he’s only been here one afternoon so what the hell does he know?

After a stop at the local bakery, an ‘if you blink you’ll miss it’ type of establishment, and the purchase of some homemade banana pudding; the man is driving up a dirt path to Romeo’s home.

The sheriff lives on an impressive mount of land, his home looking like something plucked straight out of an old southern painting. A large, two story house with a wraparound porch. A typical white picket fence surrounds the immediate area. The landscaping is beautiful, it looks very well tended to and he can hear Chucho’s voice ringing in the back of his head.

“ Vez? Que te dije (see? what did I tell you)––– peaceful.” 

He cuts the engine of his Ford, checking his appearance in the rearview mirror before grabbing the tinfoil container from the passenger’s seat and getting out.

The first thing he sees as he approaches the front door are long, tan legs that lead up to some full and soft looking thighs that instantly have him licking his lips.

And who is this?

“ Good evening, ma’am. ” Deep voice cuts through the sound of the summer evening, his Texan accent thick. The sounds of toads croaking in the distance and different insects chirping about set a pleasant ambiance for this southern night.

The woman stands alert at the sound of his voice and turns to face him, which causes Javi to damn near lose his breath at the sight of the beauty in front of him.

It is the same girl that Romeo had shown him earlier, except the picture didn’t do her natural beauty any justice. She’s got the most gorgeous features he’s ever seen on a woman, and he’s been around a lot of beautiful women. 

Her lips are pouty and pink, the gloss she’s wearing accentuates their plushness so well. Honey colored brown eyes that even from where he stands can see twinkle in curiosity beneath the soft, porch lights. Freckles sprinkle across her nose and the tops of her cheeks complimented by her natural blush. 

Damn.

“ You must be Javier. I’m Paloma, Romeo’s daughter. ” She smiles at him in which he can’t help but mirror as she sets down the guitar in her possession and he slowly walks up the porch steps

–––––––––––––––––––

Well, this certainly is a pleasant surprise. When Paloma’s father had told her about the new guy that was joining the department, she just pictured some run of the mill, old looking man. One that looked like every other one of his colleagues. 

She most definitely wasn’t expecting such a handsome man like the one that’s in front of her.

“ Paloma . ” The way her name falls from his lips with a Spanish accent has her stomach erupting in butterflies.

She’s never heard anyone say her name like that.

“ Beautiful name. Very fitting. ” The flirtatious compliment is one she’s heard too many times to count, but hearing it come from him makes it feel like the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. Their close proximity has her catching a whiff of his cologne mixed with.. cigarettes?

Her thighs clench involuntarily.

Javier takes her hand in his as she extends it to greet him. Instead of going in for a handshake, he delicately brings it up to his lips and places a soft kiss on the skin there. It has her tingling all over; electricity sprouting from the spot where the kiss is planted and coursing throughout her body. She can’t help the way her blush deepens at the action, and she almost wants to slap herself for reacting so easily.

Dating isn't a priority in Paloma’s life. Any man worth having in this town is already taken and the rest are nothing but a waste of time. Just some fun for her to have, hooking up with a handful of them whenever her fingers couldn’t get the job done. 

It is rare when there's an eligible newcomer and even then she is too preoccupied with keeping the family home in shape and her music to even think about dating. She is aware of the way the gossips in town talk about her, disliking that she is a single and childless twenty-six year old woman.

She should be married by now. At her age I already had three kids.

It’s so sad, really.

I’ve heard she’s given it up to about half the boys in town.

They gasp and glance over at her over her shoulders. Paloma pretends she doesn’t see them do this.

Her real love, the only date she wishes to have is that of traveling. She wants nothing more than to leave Seminary all together and head west, see what the rest of the world has to offer. Take a chance on her music... make a name for herself.

Unfortunately for her, she’s got some heavy family ties here in Texas (her father) and after the death of her mother–– she wouldn’t dare leave him. The guilt would eat her alive.

Was it fair for her to give up her aspirations just to keep one person happy? No… but things aren’t always fair and she has a decent life here in Seminary. She doesn't have to worry about paying any bills or surviving on her own; though she knows she’s more than capable of doing so if she really had to. She only has that job at the library to help pass the time whenever she’s not buried in a book or playing her day away on the piano. Any money she receives is stashed away in an old jewelry box in the back of her closet in case one day she finally decides to leave.

All that to say that romantically, men aren't something she focuses on. However, this man in particular, she could spare some of her attention to see if he was as good of a fuck as he appears to be. Something about his swagger was attractive. He shifts his weight onto one foot and pokes his hip out slightly; giving her a good view of his built figure.

“ Clever and charming. Guess daddy was right about you. ” Paloma cocks her head to the side slightly, taking in his appearance better now that he was closer and damn, was he sexy. The type of sexy that you only see on TV. 

He’s clad in a long sleeve, forest colored shirt with a few buttons undone at the top; a gold chain teasing her against his brown skin. He’s rolled the sleeves up on the shirt up to his elbows and she notices how rugged he looks, veins on his forearms flexing ever so slightly. Tight cowboy jeans paired with some expensive looking brown leather boots and a nice belt buckle to tie it all in together.

Her eyes travel up from his body to his countenance, noticing how truly handsome and mature he is. Like he’s experienced things she’d never come close to imagining. She wants to know it all. The full 70s looking pornstache above his lip somehow very appealing to Paloma, whose ‘type’ up until this moment has been clean cut, military boys.

He was anything but clean cut, and she likes that. 

His lips full, nose very distinguished with a devilish curve and… stable looking. A perfect seat for her to perch herself on. She can practically feel it nudging against her pussy before he completely devoured her.

A lazy yet cocky lopsided smile tugs at his lips, as if he can see the filthy thoughts she’s currently fantasizing about in her head. “ Already talking me up, I see. ” he greets Romeo, whom Paloma hadn’t realized had stepped outside since she was too preoccupied eye fucking the stranger in front of her. 

“ Didn’t tell her nothin’ that wasn’t true. What’s that you got there? ” The older man gestures to the container.

“ I could spot Betty’s homemade banana puddin’ with my eyes closed. ” Paloma speaks up, trying to recover from the slight embarrassment she feels for thinking so sinfully over a man much older than her. 

Javier’s onyx colored eyes meet hers again and she looks away almost bashfully, occupying herself by finally gathering her things.

“ I couldn’t show up empty handed. Ma woulda slapped me right upside the head. Where are your manners, niño (boy) ? ” He does what she would assume is an impression of his mother and this gets a giggle out of Paloma.

She was utterly interested in getting to know him better.

“ On behalf of us, you can thank your mother for instilling manners into ya. Come on in, we cleaned for once. ” He jokes, ushering his company in and Paloma just rolls her eyes playfully at her father’s antics.

–––––––––––––––––––

The night turns out to be very enjoyable for Javi. He is in good company and the dinner provided, cooked by Paloma since she didn’t let her father take credit for any of it, definitely helped soothe over some of the sore spots left by Colombia. 

They laugh and swap stories, Javier shares some of his more lighthearted moments in the country down south while Paloma and Romeo try to out-embarrass each other with different family tales.

It helps to have some eye candy, though, as he finds it difficult to keep his eyes away from her longer than a few seconds. Even while the sheriff is in direct conversation with him, Javier can see her from his peripheral and how she also can’t seem to peel her gaze from him.

Murphy always gave him a ‘hard time’ about his affect on women and how Javier used it to his advantage. It’s the only way he got shit rollin’ down in Colombia. The only people that approached him willingly were the working girls that resided in the city.

And who was he to turn down a good, even great time?

Quickly enough, word had spread around amongst the girls and next thing he knew; he had a list of ‘informants’ so long that even he began to lose track.

It was simple, getting information from them then taking them back to his place… his car…or the bar restroom. Whatever was most convenient.

Most of the time they would come to him with bullshit leads just to see him again, and most of the time he would just give them what they wanted, which was just another blissful night with Agent Peña.

Something about Paloma, however, gives him the impression that he wouldn’t fuck her how he did those girls down south. Not unless she asked… begged him to, at least.

He’d make sure to kiss every inch of her golden skin, make her feel good and satisfied before burying himself deep inside her. What’d he do to see those pretty lips parted with his name falling from them like a prayer.

“ You should sing him somethin’. ”

Romeo’s suggestion has Javier raising his brows and snapping out of his thoughts.

They’ve moved out onto the porch, taking in the peacefulness of the night and the clear view of all stars the littered the unobscured sky. The banana pudding long gone.

“ I am not some show pony you can just make do tricks whenever you like, old man. ” Paloma retorts playfully from her spot on the top of the porch steps, meddling with the rings on her fingers.

From this angle, Javier is able to get a better look at those thighs he’s been fantasizing all night. Is it a terrible move to go after your quote un quote ‘bosses’ daughter after just meeting her? Probably, but Javi’s done worse and he’s picked up that she seems to be very keen to his subtle advances. Or not subtle, depending on how well he is able to hide any type of direct flirtation with his natural charisma.

“ You shy to? ” Javi asks her, lighting the cigarette that rests between his lips. He is a pro at chain smoking, this making it the fourth one he’s smoked in the last hour that they’ve been out here. 

She snorts, shaking her head and looking over at him. When their gazes meet, he can’t help the shadow of a smirk hover his lips and she slightly narrows her eyes at him.

“ That one? Shy? The last damn word I’d use to describe her. ” Romeo takes a swig from the scotch he’s poured, pointing at his daughter.  “ Sometimes I can’t get her to shut up. ”

“ Wow, and father of the year goes to… ” Paloma says sarcastically, standing which allows Javier to let his eyes linger over her body, taking a long drag from the cigarette to keep his perverted thoughts at bay.

Like how he wanted to feel her thighs wrapped around his waist. Or better, his head.

“ I’m just teasin’. She’s got such an angelic voice, I never get tired of hearin’ her sing. ” The earnesty in Romeo’s tone pulls Javier out of his ogling, attention now over to the older man. 

“ You should come see her at The Whiskey Fox weekend nights. Puts on one hell of a show. ” Paloma leans back against the railing, crossing one foot over the other. This causes the shorts of her romper to rise up slightly, exposing more of her skin.

Like a moth to a flame, he’s eyeing her once more but doesn’t make it as obvious. He wouldn't want to be chased out of here by a shotgun wielding, overprotective father.

“ Is The Whiskey Fox the spot to go to in town? ” Javier asks to no one in particular, ashing his cigarette on the small plate that sat atop the small table between him and the other man.

“ More like the only spot in town. It’s a bar with a stage, n’they have the best loaded fries. Swear. ” She informs him, once again commanding his undivided attention.

No matter how many times he looks at her, he’s still taken aback by how breathtakingly beautiful she is.

“ Well if you swear then I guess I’ll have to stop by some time. ” He nods his head towards her and she smiles softly, pushing herself off the railing.

“ Just give me a heads up when you decide to make your first appearance. ” He hears a hint of flirtatiousness in her statement, as if she’s rolling the ball in his court to make the first move. 

As badly as he wants to take her up on that, thinking on a whim like he always has; Javier stops from doing so. This was a chance for him to start anew, amend for all the mistakes he made in Colombia.

But she’s making it very difficult for him to.

Had he really had any intention in changing at all if all it takes to throw caution in the wind is one pretty girl?

“ As much as I’d love to stay in the pleasure of y’alls company…. ” She runs her hands down the front of her outfit and begins to head inside, “ I have to be up early to open the library. You still takin’ me, daddy? ” She asks the sheriff softly, stopping by the front door and Javier looks away, instead glancing out into the distance. He feels like he’s intruding on their family business.  

The older man grumbles out, “ Yeah . We gotta get that car of yours up and runnin’ though. Don’t know how many free rides I got left in me. ” The statement piques Javier’s interest and he can’t help but to rejoin the conversation.

“ Got car problems? ” He looks between them two, gaze lingering over her as she speaks up. 

“ Yeah, my Darla quit on me ‘bout a month ago. Mechanic in town can’t seem to fix the problem. ” Paloma seems annoyed by that fact and that has him offering to help before his own brain can stop him from doing so.

“ I restored my truck. Had some help from my pops but I pretty much got her up and runnin’ all by myself. ” Javier takes another puff of his cigarette, keeping a small smirk at bay as he catches Paloma’s attention drift over to his vehicle in interest. “ I wouldn’t mind takin’ a look at yours. If that’s okay. ”

Her father also lets out a sign of content, “ That’d be fuckin’ great, Javi. Godsend this guy, poppin’ into town and helpin’ me solve all my goddamn problems. What’s it been–– not even a day? Shiiit . ” Romeo lets out a laugh, finishing off the contents in his short glass.

Javier would usually find this amount of praise annoying–– ass kissing to keep him content in the shitty position he’s been put it in. However, in this instance, he doesn’t really mind it. It would also give him an opportunity to get to know Paloma better without it crossing over into more nefarious territory.

“ Yeah, very sweet of you. I’d really appreciate that. ” Yet another glimpse of her enchanting smile. He’s already dreading her departure. She bends down to place a kiss on her father’s cheek and then waves at him. “ Good night y’all. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Peña . ” Even though Javi had already told her to call him by his first name earlier, he can’t help but enjoy the way his surname pushes past her lips. That sweet voice of hers sounding like pure honey.

“ Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Leighton . ”