#high blood pressure and rain

[higgsbison]

tried to do a Vimes timeline, but I just ended up adding more and more lines to him

[utterlyotterlyx]

Wicked Game

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.

Eris x CassianSister!Reader

Summary - Eris did everything, everything he could to protect you. He'd never thought that he'd ever have a mate, that he wasn't worthy enough, until he met you, Cassian's sister and everything fell into place.

Warnings - death, blood, mentions of torture, heartbreak, kidnapping, shattered bonds, angst.

I'm so sorry.

Eris would find any reason he could to not leave you. No reason was good enough to pull him from your arms, to disrupt the bubble of serenity he had made with you.

He had been dumbfounded, the shock evident on his face, when he had met you, spied you across the ballroom wedged between Cassian and Azriel, both of whom growled at any lingering eye. It was obvious that you felt uncomfortable as you trailed behind the inner circle, with your shoulders slightly hunched and eyes glued to the floor. You were too beautiful to feel so out of place, forest green fabric clung to your figure with shimmering gold embellishments hanging from your shoulders, and a high slit up your right thigh, exposing golden skin and tight muscle.

It had snapped for him then, the moment your scent soared through the room, fresh rain and rosemary with a hint of oak that he inhaled, gulped in and held onto, allowing it to drown his lungs.

That night was the first night he had spoken to you, the bond hadn't snapped for you yet, and he was rather content in listening to you, learning about you without the pressure of the mating bond in your words. He watched your full lips move as you told him who you were, Y/N, a sister of the inner circle, Cassian's little sister, Rhys' and Azriel's by proxy.

No wonder they were snarling at any male who tried to get close to you.

Eris couldn't keep his eyes off of you, ones that reminded you of aged whisky, swirling pools of amber and speckled gold. You told him about your love of helping others, evident in the school you had opened for orphaned Illyrian children where you taught them how to bake and paint, to sing and dance, you helped them heal from the trauma inflicted upon them in the Illyrian camps.

After that night, Eris had found any reason he could to venture to the Night Court, citing political cooperation as the reason for his visits which wasn't exactly a lie. Mor wasn't happy about it at first, but Rhys had told her they were working on a way to usurp Beron, to change the course of the Autumn Court for the better, that Eris wasn't as bad as he seemed.

Eris had visited you at your school that Rhys funded without question, your wings were cruelly taken from you as a child, no one could stop it, and the crescent moon scars peaked out from the back of any dress you wore. You had assured him it was fine, that they rarely ever caused you pain whilst you rubbed small circles into the skin of the small child wrapped up in your arms, soothing his anguish away with your touch.

He had noticed your gift on his first visit to the school, how the small girls whimpering in pain found immediate peace after your touch, you were able to take the pain away, able to bring peace upon the most tormented of souls. It made him adore you even more, as if those spheres of brown and sage green didn't have him in a chokehold already.

"You're her mate?" Cassian's hazel eyes ignited with rage, his fingers dug into the arms of his seat, threatening to rip the leather apart if he'd apply just a whisp more pressure.

Eris had told Rhys on his fifth visit, he had told the High Lord that the bond had snapped for him at the Autumn Ball six months ago, how he hadn't told you and was happy to wait until it snapped for you too. Then the cavalry had been called in, and he found himself sat in front of the entirety of the inner circle, all of them present but you.

"Yes," Eris couldn't show his nerves, telling your family of the bond was something he foresaw you doing together, as a couple, but you were still none the wiser to his affections. "She doesn't know, and I have no intention of telling her. I would have already."

Azriel thought about it, how much happier you were when Eris was around, which had become often for the heir. The wide smile that showed your gleaming teeth, the twinkle in your eye as you answered his genuine questions, the more often than not moments where you dazed into the sky with that lovestruck vacancy whilst holding one of his letters in your fingers.

No one was particularly thrilled about it, not after what had happened to Mor, but amongst all of the bickering Azriel was the voice of truth, "She loves you, Eris," it pained him to say it, to say that he saw it even if the bond hadn't snapped for you yet. Azriel turned to Nesta, the closest thing you had to a sister, "You know it."

Nesta nodded sadly, you were everything to her, her best friend, a sister by extension, you understood her pain and torment, you had helped her to heal, to put herself back together piece by piece, "Yes," she looked to Cassian, "She does. She told me."

Hope jolted in Eris' chest, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute, the need to reach you almost overwhelming him. Eris didn't see the eldest Archeron sister stand to soothe her mate, he didn't hear her tell him that this was what you wanted, what made you happy, that it was what you longed for.

Cassian looked to the Autumn heir, a softer expression falling over his features, "Y/N deserves the best, she deserves everything good and pure. Can you give that to her? Can you give my sister the life she deserves?"

"I can," Eris showed no doubt, and suffered under the gaze of the inner circle, he'd suffer for however long he needed to if it meant you, gloriously perfect you, were waiting on the other side.

"Not right now you can't," Mor stood at the back of the room, arms folded against her chest as she looked down on Eris with a mixture of disgust and fear, "Not when Beron is still ruling over Autumn, she wouldn't be safe with you, not when Beron suddenly decides he wants to hurt us."

"I can protect her-"

"You couldn't protect me."

Eris had always carried guilt with him for how things had played out with Mor, but this was different, you were his mate, his fated companion.

"I couldn't stop what happened to you, and I'm sorry that I was the cause of so much pain for you, for all of you. I wish I could go back and say no, that I would be brave enough to spit in his face and defy him," Mor knew he was telling the truth, that deep down he did regret everything that had happened, and her gaze softened, "Y/N is my mate, I have spent months getting to know her. Y/N is bold and beautiful, the most caring soul I've ever encountered, parts of all of you live within her. The best parts of you. She has Cassian's humour and Mor's wit, she loves painting and reading and nature, she welcomes the shadows like old friends, and she's consumed by her love for you all. She loves you all so much."

"He's right. I do," gravity fell from beneath Eris as he turned to see you standing in the doorway, no one had noticed you creep in, no one had heard the door open and shut, no one had heard the padding of your feet sound across the floor.

The sun surrounded you, almost illuminating your figure as you leaned against the doorframe, your long pale green dress brushing against the stone floor and eyes flittering across the room before finding Eris. Your mate.

"You stupid male," you told him with a smirk, a curled strand of hair fell over your shoulder, your arms rested at your sides and your eyes held a playfulness to them.

It clicked, that golden thread tying you to him that was once quiet, searching for the other side, now hummed, no, it sang. "You knew?"

"Since your first visit to the school when you scooped Pippa up into your arms and sang that Autumn lullaby to her, she's never let anyone hold her like that. I knew you were meant to be mine from that moment," you tugged on the bond and his hand shot to his chest at the sensation.

"Yours," the word fell from his lips and the room pulsated with that uniquely vibrant power that radiated from the fulfilled mating bond, it was stifling, nothing anyone could move against.

Eris had moved to you then, you pushed yourself from the doorframe as he approached, allowing him to take your face in his hands and run them through your hair whilst you became lost in his whisky amber eyes. He pressed his forehead to yours, the tips of your noses touching and his breath fanning across your face, "We can wait, I don't want you to feel pressured into accepting this."

"Just kiss me, Eris," your voice was barely a hush above a whisper, you peered up at him with pleading eyes, telling him that you were ready, that you wanted this. Him.

The gap between you closed and his lips met yours in an embrace that could only be described as reality shifting. It was like your soul had ignited, like it was now entwined with a twin flame and they danced together in perfect sync. Eris' lips were soft, and his kiss was so tender and gentle as his tongue swept against your bottom lip, it savoured every piece of you that you offered to him, and he drank you in without doubt, with no care at who was watching.

You were his forever, and he was your eternity.

Eris couldn't breathe as he hurtled through the halls of the Forest House.

You were meant to be in Velaris, you had told him you'd be there waiting for him.

It wasn't safe to leave you in Autumn without him, it had been decided that you'd reside with your family whilst he was away dealing with treaty issues with Spring and Day by order of Beron, which had become easier now that Tamlin and Helion knew of your mating bond.

Eris had entered the House of Wind with only one thing on his mind, you.

The bond between you was muted, he hadn't felt you for a couple of weeks, which was normal. You had decided to mute the bond, turn it off, whilst he was away, he didn't need to be scared and pulled away from another meeting when pain passed down the bond toward him. The pain you took from others seemed to travel to him and he had always thought something had happened to you. So, it was easier to turn it off, to send the odd tidal wave of adoration down it every now and again so he'd know you were waiting for him.

His world tumbled when he entered the house to bewildered expressions once he asked where his mate was, only to be told that you had returned to Autumn two weeks ago, that you had received a letter from him and disappeared with a love sick grin of barely contained excitement on your face.

"I never sent that letter," he told Cassian whose eyes widened with horror and fear, he screamed for Rhys and Azriel, for Mor and Nesta, telling them what had happened and that Eris hadn't felt her in two weeks.

Eris disregarded Rhys' words, to find her together, as a family, he couldn't wait. Eris winnowed right into the main foyer of the Forest House, sniffing like a bloodhound for a speckle of your scent.

It lingered in the air, rosemary and oak, the freshness of last nights rainfall mixed in with something else he couldn't quite decipher, and he sped toward it. Eris ignored all of the guards and servants who looked at him with pity and sadness, he ignored the solemn tinge to the atmosphere, he just needed you. His mate. The love of his life. His everything.

"I love you," the words fell from your lips, you couldn't stop them. The fire roared beside you from the place on the floor, your body entangled with your mates as he traced faint circles around the crescent moon scars on your back and peppered kisses into your hair. "I love you more than the wildflowers crave the autumn breeze. I love you more than the ocean loves her creatures."

Eris rolled you over as tears pooled in the corners of your eyes, he caressed your cheek and ran his thumb over your wobbling bottom lip, "I love you more than you could ever love me, my sweet, perfect mate," he pressed a kiss to your lips, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket, "I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you, I never thought I deserved a mate, or anyone for that matter. Then you came, you came and made my life make sense, you gave it a purpose."

You listened intently, you felt his touch rolling down you arms and across your stomach, already so familiar with every scar and perfect imperfection of your body as you told him, "If I ever one day leave this world, I will look ahead to the next adventure and hold its hand, and I will look back with my other entwined in yours. Wherever my soul may wander, I know it will always find you. Our love isn't made to last just one lifetime, it's made to extend across universes and worlds. Even when I am stardust, floating around in nothingness, when the last part of my soul begins to fade away, I will love you."

Eris followed your scent, that melody of beauty, all the way down the deepest parts of the Forest House, his stomach twisting in agony as he realised where you were beckoning him.

Turning a corner, all the air in his lungs was ripped from him, he called your name, pleading you to sit up from the stone table where you lay. The room was covered in blood and discarded weapons, iron clung to it. To you.

Eris took a step forward, the only light in the room was on you, the light had always found you. It came from a skylight that displayed the stars above, it illuminated you in their glow, and your head was tilted to it, as if you were idly staring at the sky and dreaming like you usually did.

A sob caught in his throat, "No," his face twisted and he reached for you, taking your cold hand in his own as he forced himself to look at you.

Your eyes were open and staring at the world beyond the skylight, your lips were bloody and chapped, there was no light in you, no golden hue to your skin, no joy in your eyes. There was nothing. Eris wasn't breathing as he looked at your body, as he looked at the fourteen long tally marks that had been carved into your stomach and the purple bruises coating you hips and legs, as he found your still tear stained cheeks and the emerald ring he had proposed to you with still on your finger with a depleted shine.

Eris cried, he roared as he felt that fire consume his body, "I love you. Please, I'll do anything. Please," he begged as he pressed his forehead to yours, stroking your matted hair with his hand, tucking it behind your pointed ears of which the tips of had drooped slightly.

He pressed his lips to yours, that burning fire that caused your own to dance now waltzed alone.

Then he felt it, he felt the bond completely shatter, he felt that tendril of golden thread pang back to him like broken elastic. A once burning love that consumed everything he was, now a broken tether dancing in a storm cloud with nothing to attach to, with no light on the other side.

Eris was broken.

He didn't feel the bodies enter the room behind him, he didn't hear their sobs, he didn't hear Cassian's cries as he collapsed into Nesta. Eris looked at you, he looked at the side of your face and remembered you lying next to him, hands raised to the ceiling as they played with his own, he remembered how your chest vibrated when you laughed, he remembered the love you gave him in your eyes and all of the promises of ruling together and creating your own herd of beautiful red haired children. Promises of changing the world.

With a strangled voice, Eris whispered to you, tears streaming down his face and pattering against the stone where your lifeless body lay, "Even when I am stardust, floating around in nothingness, when the last part of my soul begins to fade away, I will love you. It was always you, my sweet, perfect mate."

Authors Note

Ngl, I actually cried writing this. I think I got a bit carried away.

I apologise to myself and to you all profusely.

[realmofimagines]

Don’t Make A Habit of Dying (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

follow @cowboybxtch (my other account) for more ghost content, as i will not be posting on this blog anymore <3

Wordcount: 3241 Content: swearing, near death, graphic depictions of gore, blood, injury, ghost is in love with u, soap is oblivious, heroic ghost, pre existing relationsip, tension  Request: no Note: *just wanna preface this by saying it is not proof read lol* i am absolutely unashamed to be jumping on the ghost bandwagon. i finished the campaign yesterday and honestly i sort of rushed through it bc it was a lot of fun so this is sort of based on one of the missions but it’s all from memory so if anything is wrong or out of place just ignore it and lets call it canon divergence AO3 version here

“Fox, how copy?”

You grunted, clawing at the rain-soaked concrete and grit beneath your fingers as you stretched to reach your communications device. Your head was still spinning from the impact, and your eyes blurred as if you were lying underneath a moving river staring at the wrinkled water surface above. A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, and you are intensely aware of the urge to vomit.

With a sharp breath, you are able to level yourself onto your knees. Your hand closed around the slippery radio, and you pulled it toward your mouth whilst collapsing your back against a slick brick wall. Your free hand pressed against the sharp, pulsating pain in your abdomen.

“(Y/N), I repeat, how copy?” Ghost’s voice crackled.

You swallowed the dryness in your throat, before pressing the voice activation button on the radio. The strong rush of adrenaline burned in your chest, but it didn’t match the wash of relief upon hearing and recognising Simon’s voice. You closed your eyes and relished in the sensation for a moment.

“I read you.”

He audibly sighed. “Thought I lost you there.”

“Nearly did.”

“You injured?”

You stared down and shakily inspected the palm pressed against your wound. Your fingers came away glistening with rain and blood, and your undershirt was soaked a deep red around the site of the injury. You replace your hand on the wound, applying as much pressure as you can muster with a heavily clenched jaw. As much as you wanted to be honest, you knew that due to the personal obligations Ghost felt toward you because of your secret relationship, letting him know just how hurt you truly were could compromise his position. He would, without a doubt, make his way straight toward you.

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not what I asked, Sergeant.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Good. Are you in sight of the church?”

You blinked hard to clear your vision and glanced around your surroundings. Through a rusted, paint-chipped iron gate, you could see the distant glow of the religious building and gathered that it was about half a mile away. You weren’t sure how much steam you had left in the tank, but you sure as shit were going to use every last drop to get your ass to that church.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“We’ll RV there. Johnny’s on his way now.”

“Copy that.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

You fumbled with your gear, cursing to yourself when you found nothing but empty holsters. All that remained on your person was a singular, small combat knife hidden within your boot, and you silently thanked yourself for taking such precaution.

“A knife.”

“That’s all you need. Stay safe, Fox.”

“Sure, Ghost.”

You released the radio trigger and clipped it back onto the front of your tactical vest. With a deep breath, you managed to pull yourself to your feet with the solid support of the brick wall. Your bloodied hand mixed with the rain, dripping down your chilled fingers and spreading the blood down your arms. You looked like a damn mess. You felt like a damn mess.

You first attempted to push through the iron gate but found it chained and padlocked from the other side.

Never the easy way, you murmured to yourself.

Turning back on yourself, you stumbled through a fruit market. Bruised and trampled limes and apples rolled across the puddled floor, seemingly abandoned in a hurry rather than packed away in their crates. Upon leaning on a stall for aid, you noticed that the civilians, presumably the shopkeepers, had been shot dead in their stalls. It was bloody and gruesome and told the tale of just how relentless the military-for-hire group were.

Your wobbly vision was clouded, and your lashes were thick with rain droplets concentrated with the blood dripping from your head. Your lips and fingers were icy cold, and each breath felt like the air was taking shots at your lungs like they were punching bags. You pressed onwards, however, knowing that if you wanted a chance at living that you needed to make it out of the Shadow’s web, and you could only do so by pushing yourself forwards.

The detour through the fruit market leads you to a couple of Shadow mercs, who chatted idly amongst themselves as if they weren’t standing upon the consequences of their war crimes. Families, including children, cried and screamed in the distance. Gunshots followed, and you tried not to flinch against the sound.

The mercenaries were armed, and they were blocking the only route you had. There was no easy way around this, but you had to improvise given your lack of weaponry and physical power. Your body was betraying you, and try as you might, you’d never be able to take these men in your current situation.

You tossed a beer bottle down the alleyway, hoping to distract them enough to get the upper hand. The left merc stubbed out his cigarette with a sizzle under his boot, before trailing down in the direction of the smashed glass in pursuit of the sound. Noticing your chance, you steadily crouch-walked your way over to the lone hostile and plunged your knife into his side and then into his neck.

“Just an empty bottle. It’s nothing,” the other merc stated, then turning on his heel with a final glance at the broken glass before he whipped his head around with a double take to notice his friend in a gargling heap on the floor, and you standing above him. “What the fuck?!”

He raised his gun toward you, leaving you no choice but to slam straight into him to throw off his aim. His gun flew upwards as he pulled the trigger, spraying an arc of loud, bright bullets into the air whilst you attempted to disarm him. He retaliated with a hard shove, though not before you were able to get your hands on the pistol in his hip holster. You flew to the ground with a thud and splash, but before he had the chance to regain composure and take aim at you again, you’d blasted two rounds into his chest, and then his throat. He collapsed on top of you in a heavy heap.

Another soldier rounded the corner, but you didn’t quite have the energy to recognise the threat before it was a second too late.

You were just lucky that Soap barged through the cafe door on your left and took him down with a clean shot straight through the temple. He turned his gaze from the man on the floor after confirming his death and reached over to you on the ground. He heaved the dead mercenary off of your chest and offered you a strong hand. You grabbed onto him and groaned as he yanked you upright, a firm hand on your shoulder to steady you as you fell towards him. With a concerned eye, he straightened you with a gentle nudge.

“Christ, Fox,” Soap murmured, eyeing the wound on your side. You immediately clutched at it defensively. “You’re not lookin’ so hot.”

You wheezed a breath and mustered a smile. “I’m running on fumes, but I’ll be fine. Let’s just get to that church.”

“Aye, Sergeant. I’ll take front.”

“Be my guest.”

You trailed sloppily behind Soap, cursing yourself for your inability to be as sharp as you usually were. You hated being a burden, but you hated letting the team down more. Your carelessness in the fight that broke out with Graves had cost you a life-threatening injury in a team that refused to leave anybody behind, even if it got them killed. You only worried that if you weren’t going to make it, you wouldn’t be able to see Simon before you went and that you wouldn’t be able to tell him you were sorry.

Your heart ached at the thought.

You and Ghost had been dating, briefly. It happened slowly. First, there were inside jokes, and then there were gentle teasing pet names, and then more than friendly touches… until one night the tension seemed to break, and you slept together, which was just a week ago now before everything went to shit. You almost regretted doing so, for fear that now you’d never get to see him again, to touch him again.

You stumbled to your knees and caught yourself barely by planting your hand solidly on the gravelled floor. Soap spun around and cursed under his breath before reaching for his radio.

“Ghost, we have a situation here.”

He leaned forward and grabbed at your biceps, throwing your arm over his soldier for support.

“What situation?”

“Fox was WIA,” he grunted with a low voice, pulling your body towards cover as a squadron of Shadows passed by in pursuit of the gunshots from only a few moments prior. Any second now, they would find the bodies and be alerted of your presence.

“Don’t piss around the bush, Johnny. How bad?”

Soap studied you with an uneasy glance.  “We’re gonna need backup if we’re gonna get the lass outta here.”

“What’s your location?”

“Uh—” Soap paused and checked for any noticeable landmarks. “We’re at the coffee shop just a ways from the fruit market—”

“Hang tight. I’m on my way.”

“What about the RV?”

“Stay put, Serg.”

“Yes, sir.”

The distance from the church to the market was about ten minutes, but Ghost cleared the distance in about four. His eyes were cold and steely behind his mask but became soft and expressive upon noticing your strained face and bloodied abdomen. He was gentle when he leaned for you.

“Jesus Christ, Fox,” he murmured, his tone an edge softer than usual. He leaned toward you to help stabilise you on your feet and apologised under his breath when you yelped in pain. “Who did this to you?”

You grunted and leaned against one of his large arms for support. You blinked the rainwater away from your eyes and maintained eye contact with him. Even now, at a time like this, you felt your stomach flip. You were so in love with him and that somehow made everything scarier.

“One of Graves’ boys. Not sure who. Didn’t get a good look before I killed him.” You answered.

“Atta girl,” Ghost praised. Your heart clenched.

Soap stared on with a worried look, his back tense with stress.

“Hold up,” Soap said, raising a fist before lifting his gun to level his eyes with the sights. mercenaries stormed past the windows, and there was a sudden series of heavy bangs on the cafe door that Soap had barricaded with bar stools. “We’ve got company, Ghost.”

Ghost nodded, and then turned to you with an urgent look in his eyes. “Can you walk?”

You cringed at the stabs of pain and clenched your jaw. “Simon, I’m a liability. Leave me here and I can hold them off—”

“I am not leaving you here!”

You blinked in shock at the intensity of his tone. His eyes beyond the mask seemed desperate, and he clutched your face in a gloved hand as if uttering his silent pleas through his palm. You truly believed him and his words, for there was no reason for a man like himself to lie to you at a time like this.

“I said, can you walk?”

You nodded stiffly.

“Then let’s fucking walk,” Ghost answered, tossing your arm over his shoulder to carry the most of your body weight as he essentially dragged you toward the exit point of the cafe. His other hand gripped his pistol so hard that his knuckles began to numb beneath his glove. “Cover us, Johnny!”

Soap tailed your backs with a raised gun, and Ghost was just able to tug you out of the door before the hostiles blasted through and started swarming the place with bullets. Ghost seemed to lug you along with desperation, as you were practically limping at this point.

“You stupid girl, getting me all worried like this,” he cursed, turning briefly to shoot one of the incoming adversaries before continuing onwards. “Do you know how lucky you are that I’m here?”

He was acting characteristically sharp and dry, but you knew that it was just to glaze over his worry. Ghost didn’t often lose his cool, but you were certainly shaking his faith. You couldn’t judge him for his words and simply offered a weak smile in response.

You heaved a laugh. “Let’s just say I owe you one.”

He seemed to soften. “Let me take you to dinner when this is all over. Call it even.”

“It’s a date,” you wheezed, your words accompanied by laboured breaths. The pain was intense and radiated in waves of white-hot pulses and aches that made you limp and shudder in the agony. Your feet and hands were starting to feel numb, and your head felt like it was full of TV static. You just needed a short break, and then you would be able to continue.

You began tripping over your feet, and albeit he tried to keep you upright, Ghost’s strength wasn’t enough to counter the sudden push of gravity as you slumped to the floor.

“(Y/N)!”

Your face was white, and your eyes rolled back. He was immediately at your side, grabbing your face in his hand to inspect your breathing, and then the pulse on your neck with fingers that he’d torn a glove from. He was momentarily relieved when he felt the feedback of your heart, regardless of how faint it was. It was enough to keep going, to revive the easily extinguishable flicker of hope.

Soap rounded the corner, seeming urgent as he fired shots down the alleyway.

“Ghost, they’re gaining on us!”

“Shit!” He cursed.

Without a second thought, he unsheathed his pistol and handed it over to Soap who took it without question. Simon scooped his arms under your legs and back and held you securely to his chest before nodding at his comrade.

“You keep us safe. That’s an order, Serg.”

“Sure, LT, but we need to get a move on— now.”

“Let’s go!”

You jostled in and out of consciousness. It was soft and gentle, like a slow beat of butterfly wings. You would open your eyes momentarily, but there wasn’t enough adrenaline supply in the world to keep you awake, and things would quickly return to darkness. Your grasp on reality started to slip when the blood loss became critical, and the only thing you were aware of was the bruising grip Ghost had on your flesh and the overwhelming fear that you were about to die.

You vaguely notice the sensation of cold marble on your body, and then the tightness of gauze and tape being wrapped around you.

Ghost was manic as he watched your pale, lifeless body show little to no reaction to his movements. He’d torn your battle vest off and inspected the damage beneath your vest. He’d swallowed his anxiety and wrapped you up as best he could with what little supplies himself and Soap had scrounged from the village and proceeded to perform CPR on you when he noticed your breathing had come to an abrupt stop.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You couldn’t move.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Crack.

A blooming pain in your ribs.

A warm press of lips on your own, and the uncomfortable sensation of being filled with air.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The thrum of helicopter blades. Distant shouting. Ghost’s voice.

Ghost’s voice.

“Simon…?”

——

When you next woke, it was a slow and unpleasant sensation. White, fluorescent lights pierced through your eyelids, which felt heavy to open. The sharp sensation of the gunshot in your side felt dull, and you could tell by the swimming sensation in your head that you were drugged. You vaguely recognised the sound of a beeping monitor, and you flinched. The smell of bleach filled your nose.

“Good mornin’, sunshine.”

Your eyes fluttered open, wincing against the harsh ceiling lights. You turned your gaze to the figure hunched over in a small brown chair— a heavily-built man, adorning a balaclava with a skull painted on it. Ghost.

“Simon.”

“(Y/N).”

You attempted to lift yourself into an upright position, and immediately felt a flare of agony that had you coughing out a broken sob.

“Hey, hey, take it easy there, Fox,” Ghost murmured, immediately reaching forwards to settle you back down. You grit your teeth together and blinked away the sudden onslaught of tears that were born from the shock of the pain. He tried to sit back down, but you caught his gloved hand before he could leave and he didn’t have the heart to pull away. His stature immediately softened, and his thumb smoothed over your fingers and knuckles in an attempt to comfort you.

“They outta put more drugs in you. They sure did a number on you. Surprised you’re still with us.”

“I thought I was going to die.”

Simon huffed through his nose and tugged the chair closer so that he could sit beside you and hold your cold hands in his. “I thought you were, too, sweetheart.”

“How the Hell did you get me out of there?”

You couldn’t see it, but by the wrinkle of his eyes, you knew he was smirking. “This old dog still got his ways.”

A concern suddenly popped into your head as bits and pieces of memories began to slot together. “And Soap?”

“He’s fine, unfortunately.”

You smiled gently, feeling yourself relax a little. You turned to him and held his gaze, suddenly feeling intimidated by his sharp eyes. The heart monitor next to your bed began to beep at an increased pace, and your cheeks flushed.

Ghost seemed bemused. “Am I makin’ you nervous, darlin’?”

You buried your face in your hands and only dared to peek through your fingers when you heard him start to laugh.

“Don’t hide from me just yet. You still owe me a date.”

You threw your hands down to your sides and smiled. “Look who’s gone all soft. I wonder what the boys would think of you right now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”

“Don’t kid yourself, LT, you loved playing hero,” you retorted, a glimmer of mischief sparkling through your grin. You suddenly felt the atmosphere become slightly tense and heavy with the weight and reality of the situation. You could’ve and likely should’ve died back there. You weren’t aware enough of your surroundings to remember just what Ghost and Soap went through to get you out, but you could only imagine.

“Thank you, Simon.” You said, more serious this time.

He glanced away as if embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”

You reached closer and grabbed his masked face. In private, he would remove his balaclava just for you. You felt the selfish desire that he would do so just now so that you could kiss him but swallowed your urges for you knew he couldn’t compromise himself in the med-bay. Too many prying eyes.

He grabbed your hand from his face and kissed it, the warmth and pressure of his lips still present even through the fabric on his face. You were butter in his touch, practically melting through his fingers.

“Just don’t make a habit of nearly dying, you hear me? Nearly gave me a bastard heart attack.”

You smiled, staring at him dazedly. “Yes, sir.”

[skeletondeerart]

You’re One of Us Now.

Sully Family x GN!Reader (platonic) | Word Count: 1816 Words

Tw: Minor mention of Self Harm.

Written before the release of Avatar: The Way of Water, some facts may be inaccurate. 

Synopsis: Having grown up in the confines of the RDA, you plan to fake your death on a data collection expedition to become one with the Pandoran jungle, yet you stumble across an unlikely family of Na’vi who take you in as one of their own.

The reader is seventeen.

Pandora was all I had ever known, having grown up in the RDA’s base I understood the dangers of the world outside. Yet despite this I yearned for the embrace of the forest, yearned to live as one of the people, to leave humanity behind and forge a new life among the Omaticaya.

But I was a soldier, a weapon of war against my will… and I wanted out.

Yet for now I have to pose as a perfect cog in the machine. I conform to Quaritch’s rules to earn the privilege to be selected for intel expedition. Whist being a soldier, I was exceptional in navigation and botany. I hoped that my skills would put me as a candidate for the upcoming expedition in three days.

Standing at attention on the training grounds Quaritch marched back and forth eyeing us all off. He was more imposing than ever, the towering Navi body he embodied was enough to strike fear into even the toughest of men.

“All right ladies and gentlemen, in light of last expeditions failure in attempting to gather subsequent data of neurotoxins used by the Omaticaya, it has resulted in the loss of five of your fellow soldiers.”

My breath was caught in my throat as Quaritch listed off the names of the next team, that was until the final candidate was called, it was my own. I held in my smile as I knew it was my only chance of getting out of the program.

After being sent back to my room, I lay down on my cot and watch the raindrops dribble down the windowpane, I watch the wind sway the trees and animals call out into the night as the as I finalise my plan to escape under the noses of my squad.

Before I knew it, I was wearing the oxygen mask and prepped with my botany data collection devices. Stepping out of the pressure lock we march single file out of the gates and into the wilderness. My squad and I marched for what felt like hours before we reached a zone reading high levels of toxicity, as the five of us spread around the location collecting data on the flora I call out.

“I’m heading North-west as I see a specimen not yet recorded on the data bank.” My squad not even rearing their heads from their specimens made noises of understanding, one even calling out to “Watch out for the locals”.

Treading carefully, I come to a stop once I was sure I was out of sight before preparing my diversion. Taking my pocket knife out I slashed at the tress nearby mimicking the claw marks of a Thanator and spraying Thanator scents around the area. I then nicked my hands and smeared my blood around the scene, kicking the dirt around to mimic a struggle and my data devices leaving them strewn across the ground.

With a last bitter smile, I took the blade to my uniform and sawing off the crest of the RDA and leaving it as the scene. I then ran off into the unknown leaving my old life behind, blissful tears accumulating in my mask as I free myself from the shackles of humanity and let my mind and soul become one with the forests of Pandora.

I ran until my legs gave in as I collapse into a field of plush grass and I gaze up at my surrounds, trees loom over me shielding me from the light rains that wash over the lands. That’s when I heard a gasp and scampering nearby. My head darts to my left as I watch carefully for movement. That’s when I see her, a young Omaticayian girl crouched and almost invisible against the bioluminescence of the forest she dwells in.

“Hi, I won’t hurt you, I’m not with them.” I call as I see her eyes dilate and ears twitch with recognition of my words.

“Your human.” The Na’vi states yet remains hidden.

“Indeed I am.” I smile gently but I make no indication of moving as not to frighten the girl away.

After a moment of reflection, the Na’vi stands and walks towards me apprehensively, she towers over my sitting form as I gaze upwards. She points to herself.

“I’m Kiri, and you?”

“I’m (Y/n)”

“-(Y/n), what a strange name” Kiri mutters to herself but I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at her words. Her eyes dart back to mine from my sudden noise. Kiri’s wide eyes trail down my figure, as if she was analysing me for any threat.

“KIRI, WHERE DID YOU GO?!” A man’s voice calls in Na’vi tongue from deeper in the forest.

“COMING FATHER!” Kiri calls back as she races towards the forest line, that was until her Father beat her there alongside two young boys trailing close behind, his eyes scan her form for injury as his eyes observe his surroundings… until his gaze lands on me. I sit there petrified of the look in his eyes.

Weariness and protective.

My breath catches in my throat, even if I wanted to run I couldn’t, it was like I was paralysed. He pulled Kiri behind him as the younger boys peeked out from behind their Father.

“Who are you and what are you doing this far in the Omaticaya’s lands” He spoke in fluent English.

“My name is (Y/n) (L/n), I was a soldier and botanist, I’ve abandoned the RDA to dedicate my heart to the forest and everything living within it.” I spoke with complete resolution despite my heart thumping in fear of what he would do to me.

He approached me as I remained sitting in fear that he would strike me down if I moved an inch. I gazed upon his imposing figure as his dreadlocks framed his stern eyes that flickered over my body.

His face contorted in a scowl once he spotted my pocket knife nestled in my boot. My gaze follows it, my gaze widened as I came to this realisation.

“Here.” I spoke curtly as I pulled the knife out and handing it to him keeping it closed. He took it and caught sight my wound on the palm of my hand.

“Your injured.” He spoke his tone softening as he gathered that I wasn’t a threat to his kin.

“Self-inflicted.”

His eyebrows furrowed in what appeared to be a hint of concern. I elaborated.

“I had to fake my death to escape… I used my blood to mimic a Thanator attack.”

“I see.” He said. He mulled over his thoughts for a moment before continuing.

“I’m Jake Sully. These are my some of kids, Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak.” He introduced gesturing behind him.

Kiri smiled back at me as she stuck up a little thumbs up in approval.

“So why did you leave the RDA (Y/n).”

I let out a sigh as my mind flashed back to my childhood within the RDA as I spoke carefully.

“I- I was born in the base, confined to its walls for years before being forged into a soldier. Yet despite this I always had a passion for botany – plants – I had yearned to be able to freely explore the forest and grew an appreciation for the Na’vi through the data files… I never thought I fit in… I felt like an outcast.” I took another breath to calm myself, “I understand if you want to kill me due to my affiliation, and I won’t hold any resentment to you or your people if you so decide.”

“Come.” Jake stated and offered me a hand. I accepted it without a second thought, my hand only wrapping around two of his fingers. Jake pulled me to my feet and proceeded to lead me deeper into to forest. Neteyam – I came to learn who was the oldest of the boys – spoke to me in curt English.

“Hello, I am Neteyam. You are short.” He stated, he seemed quite proud of himself for speaking to me. I smiled gently at his attempt of communicating with me.

“Hello Neteyam, I’m (Y/n). Nice to meet you. You are correct I am short.” I replied.

“I’m Lo’ak!” The shorter boy piped up. “I’m great at speaking Sky People language.”

“English Lo’ak. These Human’s speak English.” Jake corrected from his position from the front. Neteyam laughed and gave his younger brother a punch to the arm, which resulted in a yelp from Lo’ak. Jake spun around at the noise and glared at Neteyam as he deducted what happened.

“Apologise Neteyam.” Jake spoke in Na’vi.

“What!” Neteyam exclaimed.

“Now –” Jake growled baring his teeth. With a stutter Neteyam apologised picking at his fingers.

“S-sorryyy Lo’akkkk –” Neteyam apologised as he continued walking.

We soon reached a point where Jake motioned Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak to begin their accent up into the trees, they fly up the trunk with ease. Jake looked at me as I gape as how far the climb is. He then bent down and motioned me to climb onto his back. I gently pull myself onto his back careful not to bump his queue. We quickly reach the top and I see an intricately woven home nestled into the trees canopy. Standing on the edge of the home is Kiri, Neteyam, Lo’ak, an older Omaticayian woman I figured was their Mother with a small child in her arms… and a human boy.

“Neytiri, Spider, Tuktiery, I’m home” Jake called as he carefully slid me off his back. I nervously hide behind Jake at the look Neytiri was giving us.

“Jake why is there a human on your back.” She hissed in Na’vi.

“I can explain ‘Tiri.”

“Explain what? that you brought another human into our home.” My eyes widened as I try and quell the tremors of her wrath. The toddler – I assumed was Tuktiery – began to whine in her Mother’s arms as the commotion.

“They are not one of them, I can sense they are good, please trust me!” Jake begged his lover.

Neytiri glared down at me and let out a sigh.

“One chance Jake, one.” Neytiri caved.

“Thank you, my love.” Jake turned to me with a smile.

“You’re one of us now” He smiled his gaze falling down to my wound again. “Let’s get you cleaned up now.” Jake offered as he grabbed some medicinal berries, I had never seen in the data files before. My eyes shone and he crushed them into a paste and applied it before wrapping it in cloth. As he finished tying the knot Jake looked down to me and smiled softly.

“Your safe here, I understand what’s it’s like to not fit in.” He whispered for only me to hear.

“You were from the Avatar program weren’t you.” I stated in a whisper.

Jake could only smile knowingly at my statement.

“Welcome to the family.”

[atlasofthestaars]

[MK X READER] New Era - Chapter .013

first part | previous part | next part

NOTE: Sorry these chapters are taking a while, I hope the longer length makes up for it all! <3 Experimenting with a more descriptive style of writing, so sorry if it is a lot!

Would you guys want a repolling of Rain? I’ve been considering it after seeing all the love for Rain recently in the comments, let me know!

Also I went back and added chapter names for everything ! ty for avianlily for the help!

I know it’s Mortal Kombat, but warning for descriptive gore!

FROM THE EYES OF ONE WHO SEES SOMETHING LIFE CHANGING

That night your memories returned to you, for the first time, in a dream.

You found yourself standing in the middle of a grand coliseum. At least, that’s what you remember it as. The walls rose high around the arena to accommodate for the massive amount of seats needed for all the people that filled them. It almost felt like a cage with how high up the walls were. The sun beat down harshly upon you, bestowing you with a thin of sweat upon your skin. The scent of dust and blood mingled in the air and your nose scrunched up at it.

You craned your head up to look into the crowd. The stares of the people were unnerving. It was as if you simply breathed wrong they would be ready to jeer at you. You felt more like a zoo animal rather than a person. You took in a deep breath, straightening your back. You would not let their stares make you cower and back down.

Despite all that, you were not the person of interest among the many who were in the coliseum. The crowd was much more focused on the fight happening in the center of the arena. A bandaged man with glowing eyes was beating Johnny Cage to a pulp as if he were a mere training dummy. Every blow the man dealt seemed to echo throughout the arena with how strong it was. Johnny probably had a few broken ribs at this point. 

The crowd’s approval roared in your ears, but you could only grimace as you crossed your arms. How could anyone find enjoyment in such a sight? You’ve never understood why anyone would enjoy bloody fighting as entertainment. What drove people to enjoy such bloodlust flew completely over your head. You understood enjoying sparring and friendly fights…nothing like this.

Johnny, worn down and bruised, threw a sloppy kick in the man’s direction. Predictably, it was caught. Your eyes widened as you saw the bandaged man reel his arm back. You already knew what was going to happen. You averted your eyes, gritting your teeth as you heard the sickening crack of bone. That man had broken Johnny’s leg like it was a simple twig. You heard a thud, then a groan, and then you knew it was over. 

“Ermac wins!” A voice announced among the crowd’s cheers.

“I’ll help him.” You said to the thunder god at your side. Raiden’s eyes looked at you, an unreadable look on his face, then he nodded. You strode over, looking at the tarkatan who had tried to drag Johnny away. There was a grumble, a reluctant growl, before he let you retrieve your ally. Despite the resistance, you nodded respectfully to him. No reason not to be disrespectful. “Brace yourself, Cage.” You muttered, hoisting Johnny up. You slung his arm over his shoulder, doing your best to keep the pressure of his leg now that he was lame.

“Thanks.” Johnny muttered, a groan leaving his lips. You knew he probably was aching all over. You could also tell he was swimming in and out of consciousness with the weak way his head rested against your shoulder. You looked over to his face, or at least the parts of it you could see, noting how the bruises painted his skin like grotesque watercolor. You sighed, wishing all of a sudden that you had healing powers instead of your shifting ones so you could whisk away his pain.

“Thank me later, try to keep awake.” You chided, your firm tone dissonant with the way your heart was hammering in fear for your ally. He was lucky they showed him mercy, you knew he could have easily been wiped out like nothing. With a grunt of effort, you led him to the back of the crowd, making sure he was situated away from the fighting and beasts Shao Khan let roam in his coliseum. He had enough for today, you figured. Looking up, you noted Kung Lao and Liu Kang walking in.

Relief washed over you as you saw them. They were safe.

Liu Kang had made a beeline for the princess. You sighed, watching him walk past. You had been caught up in the whole tournament and unable to help assist her. Well, at least Raiden had insisted you were more needed on standby than to help the princess. As you watched your long time friend go to assist her, a pit of guilt formed in your stomach.

You should have helped her.

You knew you were justified in staying back, after all you had to be on standby just in case you needed to fight. After all, the number of champions fighting for Earthrealm were much, much less than those for Outworld. But still the guilt grew. 

“Not now!” Raiden pleaded, chasing after the man. “Smoke and Johnny Cage have been defeated, and I no longer sense Jackson Briggs’ and Sonya Blade’s presence in Outworld.” The thunder god cried out, trying to make Liu Kang understand the gravity of the situation. You walked by them now, deciding you better listen in on the conversation. You walked to the right of Liu Kang. “Despite my doubts as to whether you are Earthrealm’s savior, you must fight!”

Liu Kang looked at Raiden, a look akin to a betrayed pet. The pyromancer’s gaze drifted towards you, his gaze seeming to search for something as he looked at you. Your eyebrows furrowed at the expression. Was he looking for your approval? What good would your approval do, compared to a god’s? Still, despite your self doubt, you thought about it. You took in a deep breath, then you looked away, down to the dusty ground. Then, after a moment of contemplation, you nodded your head towards Kitana.

“I have other things to do.” Liu Kang, with the voice of a man scorned, told Raiden. His determination seemed to have been bolstered by your encouragement. The man looked at you once more, his gaze much softer. Instead of the smoldering embers of hate, there were merely cinders. He walked forward, not caring for the threatened stances the tarkatans gave him. Shao Khan’s gaze followed, his cold orange eyes assessing the man. He let him pass, not caring for what he did with Kitana.

Vile man.

“Raiden!” Shao Khan’s voice boomed out, his voice sticking out loud and proud among the cacophony of sounds. He looked all too smug on his stone throne situated in the middle of the arena. He lounged too casually, as if he knew his victory was assured. It riled you up, making you grit your teeth and glare at him. “Put forward a worthy champion…if you can.” 

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Kung Lao moving forward. A mixture of emotions swelled inside you at the sight. The first emotion you identified was pride for your friend at his confidence in his skill. The second was fear, especially after the brutal beatings you had seen Smoke and Johnny Cage take. You feared he would suffer the same fate, if not worse. He had not fully stepped forward, looking towards the thunder god before stepping back into place.

Kung Lao’s desire to prove himself and to fight for Earthrealm was obvious. You tried to keep your mixed emotions on the matter less obvious. You knew your friend had issues with feeling equal to Liu Kang, your look of mixed emotions would only drive him to doubt himself. That among many other things was not what you wanted.

Raiden looked at you first, a contemplative look on his face. For a moment, you considered whether he was planning on throwing you out there. You took a deep breath in, preparing yourself for that very possibility. You were strong enough, you believed, but your faith in your abilities wavered after the brutalities you witnessed today.

Raiden then turned his eyes towards Kung Lao, noting his more eager attitude. It was like night and day. It was as if he were trying to volunteer to pick up the mail, not to fight in a bloody tournament. You knew he was eager to prove himself, but did he not realize the gravity of it all? You felt your nails create marks on your palm from how hard you clenched your fists upon the realization of what was to come. 

It was obvious who he would choose.

“Perhaps you are meant to be the victor.” Raiden said. His words felt like the final nail in the coffin. Your stomach churned with fear as you watched the all too pleased look on Kung Lao’s face. You felt guilty at the conflicted emotions within you. You shouldn’t be doubting your friend’s ability, and in truth, you didn’t. But you just didn’t want to see him get hurt like Johnny Cage and Smoke already did.

“One second.” You said, stepping forward in front of Kung Lao. For a moment, you sucked in a breath, trying to seek the courage to tell him to not do it because of the way your gut twisted and turned. And yet, upon seeing the look on his face, your resolve crumbled. Your gaze dropped, and you raised a hand to rest on his bicep. “Just…stay safe, Kung Lao.” Your fingers pinched at his skin. 

“You worry too much.” Kung Lao told you, your name spilled from his lips with a comforting tone. He placed a hand on your own bicep and pinched it back. A light laughter left his lips, and your lips pressed together. “I’ll make sure to beat these Outworlders and come back victorious, for all of us.” He paused, squeezing your arm. “I promise.”

You could only hope that he kept that promise/

“May the elder gods bless him.” You whispered to yourself as you stepped to the side and watched Kung Lao walk up to take the challenge. You were unable to keep out the hint of fear in your prayer. Thankfully, the sound of the crowd washed out your voice so your friend would not hear it. The air was filled with sounds of disapproval towards him, but Kung Lao preserved. You only hoped that your prayer still made it out to the gods despite all the noise. 

You felt Raiden’s eyes turn to you. His glowing eyes felt like lasers burning into your head with how intense it was. He surely must have heard your plea. You avoided eye contact, keeping your eyes trained on your razor hatted friend. You didn’t want to know what the thunder god’s reaction was to your prayer, though you had a bit of an idea already.

You heard a pained grunt come from behind you, tearing your attention away from the announcement of the fight. You spun around to look at the person who made the noise. Your eyes scanned the crowd, scrutinizing all the faces. With a sigh, you noticed that it had come from Johnny Cage who had moved from his spot. His leg was now displaced from an attempt to move. With a disapproving shake of your head, you strode over to deal with the actor. 

Kung Lao would be fine, surely. You had to have faith in your friends.

“What did I say about moving?” You chided, straightening out Johnny’s leg so it was no longer bent at an awkward angle. You were used to gore and gruesome sights, but you couldn’t help the little hint of distaste you felt upon seeing the injury. At least no bone was sticking through his pants. You couldn’t tell the full scope of how bad it was from his pants, though. “I should help you now that I’m not needed.” You muttered, kneeling down as you took out the medical bag you kept with you.

“Sorry.” Johnny muttered, and you could hear guilt dripping from his voice. “I saw that Kung Lao was going to fight…wanted to see.” He explained to you in a labored tone, his voice lacking his usual cocky tone. He was still slightly out of it, and it was hard to look at his bruised face. You huffed as you pushed the man down so he didn’t strain himself any further than he already did. 

“Don’t talk, don’t move. You’re going to hurt yourself doing that.” You told him, sending him a small glare. It was a half hearted attempt as your gaze softened as you saw how tired he looked. “I appreciate the apology though.” You sighed as you observed the cuts and injuries he had sustained. You reached into your bag, taking a rag to clean the open wounds. “This will sting, feel free to squeeze.” You warned him, offering your hand out as you swiped the rag over the wounds. 

His hand hesitantly took yours. You heard a hiss come from the actor as you began to disinfect his wounds, and you knew from how hard his hand was gripping yours now it must hurt like the deepest part of the netherrealm. You made sure to bandage his wounds properly, watching with slight concern as bits of the bandages turned slightly red. 

“You’re doing good.” You reassured him, running your thumb over the back of his hand which had lessened its grip. “You’re brave for going out there, Cage.” You said, deciding to distract him from the pain by playing up to his ego. You felt his hand weakly squeeze yours. You smiled at him, it was at least reassuring to know he could at least do that.

You nearly jumped as you heard the creaking of metal. Turning your head, you heard the crowd roar in approval as a metal gate opened on the side of the coliseum. A tirgar shokan emerged, and you recalled that he must be the one named Kintaro that your father had told you about. He roared as he exited, the sound echoing throughout the area. The crowd seemed to be bolstered at the display.

With heavy steps, he approached Kung Lao who seemed to be faring well after his last match. He wasn’t badly hurt like Smoke or Johnny was, at least. Relief filled you at the sight. He was okay, and that’s what you really needed to see. You huffed at the threat that Kintaro gave Kung Lao, telling him that he would eat his heart. How brutish.

The match captivated you. You knew Kung Lao was skilled, you helped train him after all, but it was something else to watch him in motion in a real fight. His technique was top tier, and the way he moved with his hat made it feel like it was merely a part of him.

His punches felt impactful with every blow he landed, and you swore you heard the crack of a rib from all the way back here. His hat sliced through flesh and muscle with ease. Kintaro’s blood splattered upon Kung Lao, decorating him with his signs of victory. Long gone was the proud tirgar shokan, he seemed like a pitiful kitten with the beating he was suffering. Anyone who watched could tell Kung Lao had been training his life for this.  

How could you have doubted him?

It didn’t take very long for him to defeat the shokan. With a weak yowl, he tumbled into the dirt. Dust clouds rose up from the heavy impact. For a moment, the arena went silent. Then, the crowd around began to boo and jeer the man. You frowned at the noise. The hate sent his way left a bitter taste in your mouth. Yet, Kung Lao didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he basked in all the attention, spinning and bowing, You sighed and turned away. While he didn’t mind it all, you were uncomfortable with it all. You didn’t want to watch it.

You continued to bandage Johnny up, having paused the task to observe the fight. You furrowed your eyebrows as Johnny began to move. Or rather, struggle to move. You pushed him back, sending him a disapproving look. You already scolded him, he surely didn’t need more lectures? The actor was arrogant and headstrong, but he wasn’t this stupid, was he? It wasn’t until he pointed behind you that you realized he was trying to warn you of something.

“Shao…Khan.” Johnny rasped, continuing to intently point behind you.

“What?” You said, furrowing your eyebrows at the words he said. You turned to look where Johnny was pointing. As your eyes landed on the man creeping behind your friend, it felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. You stood, dropping your medical supplies all upon the ground. You didn’t care though. You dashed forward towards the crowd, limbs trying to transform into whatever would get you there faster. Your hand was outstretched to the man. “Kung Lao!” You called out, heart hammering with fear.

“Earthrealm is free-”

You were too late.

Time slowed as you collided with Raiden, but the impact did nothing to tear your eyes from the horrific sight of Kung Lao’s neck being snapped. You barely registered the shriek that echoed through the coliseum as yours, you were far too focused on the sound of his neck being snapped. It was a loud crack paired with the sickening sound of muscle and flesh twisting in a way that the human body was not meant to go.

It was ugly and wrong.

Your limbs felt like they were suddenly made of lead as his body, all too limp and still for a man who had just been breathing a moment ago, slumped to the ground. As it finally hit the ground and dust clouds rose, you felt like you could finally move properly.

You threw yourself to the ground, ignoring the sneer the tyrant sent your way as you dragged Kung Lao’s body into your lap. Terrified prayers to the elder gods hoping that somehow Kung Lao was okay left your lips. You stared down at his head which was grotesquely twisted in an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide open, yet they had no life behind them. Although all the signs were there that he could not possibly be alive, you shakily raised a hand to check his pulse, desperate for anything at all.

Nothing. Just a body that was quickly losing its warmth.

He was, without a doubt, dead.

A scream left your lips as you tumbled out of bed. 

You hissed as you felt the impact of the floor. Thankfully it was not a long fall for you, so at most it would only be a minor bruise. Your side ached dully as you laid there, processing what you just witnessed. Through all the noise in your head, all you could hear was your shaky uneven breaths. You turned to face the ceiling, staring at what you could see with the assistance of the crystal lamp.

What was that?

Your vision was blurry, as if you were looking through a foggy window. You reached up to your face, rubbing at it harder than you needed just to make sure you were even awake. You winced at the rough texture of your hands. Your limb, despite you not willing it to transform, was a reptile claw. Still, it did not deter you from wiping at your eyes. 

Tears were wiped away, and you saw your other limbs were in a sort of disarray. You were mostly not human right now. You stared at your limbs, flexing them and trying to return them back. Your vision blurred again, but this time with tears of frustration. No matter how much you tried to will it away, you could not transform back. 

You were no stranger to gruesome and awful sights in your memories. It seemed whatever life you once lived was filled with grief and pain, it was something you’ve come to learn with the memories you’ve recovered. You’ve seen bloody scenes and lifeless bodies, moments of grief and solitude. And yet what you had just seen had shaken you to the core. 

You’ve never seen someone you cared about, or used to care about, die in front of you.

Your mind raced with the details you witnessed, trying to catalog every moment you had seen. Part of you wanted to squeeze your eyes shut and try to force out the memory. To try and forget whatever you had seen and how it would inevitably scar your memories. Before you could let your irrational thoughts get the better of you, you forced your eyes wide open with a single thought.

You had to be calm to dwell on whatever horrifying sight you had witnessed, you couldn’t let yourself forget. Maybe, just maybe, a calm mind would help your body come back to normalcy as well.

You rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your palm using the other hand which had turned into a bear paw. You counted carefully the amount of time you took to breathe in, trying to regulate yourself. Then, for the same amount of time, you forced yourself to breathe out. The panicked frenzy of blood rushing through your ears settled down, turning into a quiet stream.

Your limbs slowly transformed back into your regular form, and you worried a little less now.

You laid on the ground, sprawled out as you let your body and mind recover from the memory. As your rational thoughts overtook the frenzied ones, you finally let your eyes close. You flinched at the flashes of memory the darkness brought. A broken leg, an angry glance…a snapped neck. You groaned at the vision, trying not to remember that particular part.

Taking another deep breath, you focused on what you remembered. That place indicated a tournament, why else would you all throw yourselves into such bloodshed otherwise? You couldn’t tell if it was the same tournament that you remembered yesterday or not, but it was definitely in Outworld. Kitana was captive, but why? She had been a princess of Outworld, there was no reason she should need saving, especially from Earthrealm.

Why were you all even fighting? Somewhere in the back of your head you knew it was for an important reason. You knew that the thunder god wouldn’t send you into meaningless conflict. You stared up at the ceiling for a few moments more, trying to piece together the pieces you barely had. Why was Liu Kang so upset with the thunder god? Was it because Raiden had doubted he was Earthrealm’s savior?

It couldn’t possibly be, the Liu Kang you knew now was far too humble. But then again, was he always? You weren’t sure, in all honesty, your memories with Liu Kang felt blurred. You let out a resigned sigh as you draped an arm over your eyes. This was far too much to think about for just waking up. You rubbed your eyes once more. 

Maybe right now wasn’t the time to think about all that tragedy. With another sigh, you forced yourself to get up. As you stood, you grimaced at the mess you made of the bed. It was like staring at a massacred corpse. Deep gashes exposing the mattress were left, and the pillows were torn. The blanket you had tangled with as you fell was even shredded.

You reached up and fiddled with the dragon necklace you wore, a habit you developed. You had no idea how to explain the mess you had made. At least, not without either seeming suspicious or having people worry about you. You’ve never lost control before, how could you explain that a dream…no. How could you explain that a nightmare had made you go berserk? Not to mention you could only confide the contents of your dream to Liu Kang, and after the conversation with him yesterday, you were reluctant to. 

You rubbed your face, agitated. You’d deal with this all later, you decided. You were far too stressed out for this right now. You felt a tad bit guilty about just abandoning it, but you decided it was for the best. With how unstable you were earlier, it might act up again if you looked at it too long or stressed over it. Still, even with your rationale, the pit of guilt didn’t go away.

To move past it, you sluggishly moved towards the mirror. You saw your appearance, you looked like you had just been in a scuffle. Grabbing a new set of clothes, you quickly changed into it. You chose not to look at your back. Then, after feeling a bit better about donning a new outfit, you took the time to make yourself seem more composed.

By the time you were done, you looked normal. The only indication of your earlier frenzy was the slight redness of your eyes. That was only when someone got close and really took the time to look at them. You rubbed at your eyes once more, wishing it’d go away faster. Alas, it didn’t work. Shaking your head, you tested out a smile, seeing if you could fool yourself.

Good enough.

Smoothing out your outfit one last time, you stepped out of the room. You took in a deep breath as you stepped into the light. At least the beauty of the palace was somewhat comforting. It wasn’t quite the same as waking up for the sunrise, but it was still a wonderful sight.

Footsteps echoed from the hall. You looked away from the wonder around you to the otherside of the hallway, half expecting to see princess Kitana. After all, who else came down this way around this time of day other than her? Or anytime in general. it felt like. And yet, the person you saw walking from down the hall was perhaps the last person that you wanted to see right now.

Kung Lao. 

“Ah, Kung Lao.” You greeted, hoping the smile upon your lips didn’t seem too forced. You scanned his face. It seemed he was far too tired to notice any strange behavior. The drowsiness that clung to him seemed to go away slightly as you walked closer. A smile appeared on his face. You held back a grimace upon noticing how it looked all too similar to the one he had before he died. “How are you?”

“Tired.” Kung Lao admitted, a yawn escaping his lips. His eyes traveled downwards, and his expression seemed to brighten at what he saw. “I’m glad you like the necklace.” He commented, with amusement twinkling in his eyes. You blinked owlishly at his seemingly random comment before drawing your own gaze to where he was staring.

The dragon necklace. The very same you were fiddling in your hand. Your gaze softened as you looked down at the design, then looked back up at the Kung Lao in front of you. Your eyes traveled to the dragon insignia upon the left side of his chest. Perhaps it was not exactly the same size or design, but the similarities between the two designs of the two versions was enough to made you grip the necklace just a bit tighter. For a moment, you allowed yourself to wonder why there were so many similarities between the two worlds.

Then you stopped, feeling that damned headache remerge at just the thought of overthinking again. 

“Yeah.” You said, nodding as you continued to stare at the design on his chest. Bringing yourself to look up at Kung Lao in the eyes felt like a herculean task at this moment. Your smile melted into one that was a touch softer, a bit smaller. “I really like it, actually.” You looked back at the dragon which you rubbed between your forefinger and thumb. 

“I knew you would.” Kung Lao remarked, a nearly smug grin on his lips. A satisfied expression settled on his lips as he observed you for a moment more. Then, in the next he stepped over so he was by your side. “Let’s go to the Great Hall, I’m starving.” You nodded a small chuckle leaving your lips. You followed him to the Great Hall. Your eyes kept wandering around like a duckling without its mother. They seemed to land anywhere but the man beside you.

Even if you were composed right now, you didn’t quite trust yourself if you were to look at Kung Lao too long. They were just so…similar that it made your chest hurt. You weren’t sure what was quite causing it: the idea that the man beside you could succumb to a gruesome fate like the one you had seen before, or the fact that the man beside you was close enough to the one who had died. It was like seeing an imperfect recreation of the man before.

All too similar to give you a sense of nostalgia and to nearly trick you into thinking he was the same. And yet different enough that you were bitterly reminded that the man you had known as a friend was gone for good. Part of you was comforted by the sameness, but another part of you wished that he was just different so you weren’t reminded of a man whose death was seared into your memory.

The walk there was shrouded in a veil of awkwardness, but thankfully your walking partner didn’t notice. You were too conflicted internally to initiate much conversation, battling yourself with the newfound feelings of sorrow and grief for a man who has passed long ago. You did, however, talk back whenever Kung Lao attempted to throw in conversation.

Would Kung Lao ever believe you that you once knew him, in another life?

You were never more relieved to see the Great Hall than now. Trying not to make your excitement to not be alone with Kung lao too obvious, you slowed your pace just a little to allow the razor hatted man to reach the fire god and his friend first. 

Both Liu Kang and Raiden greeted the two of you cheerily. You smiled upon noticing the more upbeat attitude the champion held today. The nerves that once clung to him the past few days seemed to be gone. Or at least, gone for the most part. The only indication of his nervousness was in the smile that was a little too wide as he handed you and Kung Lao some breakfast foods. Your heart seemed to flutter at the simple gesture.

Well, that was breakfast sorted out.

You gratefully took your portion, and noted the excited way Kung Lao snatched the second serving that Raiden had also gotten him. You felt a little relieved to be falling back into some sort of normalcy after that horrible dream. Eating the bit of food also helped calm you down and not make you feel like you were walking on a tightrope around others.

“So who are you fighting today?” Kung Lao asked, peering over to Raiden. He wiped away the remnants of the food he devoured. By the time you had finished your portion, he had finished both of his. How he managed to scarf down food that fast alluded you to this day. “Not that it matters since you’ll easily beat them.” The former farmer sent his friend a confident grin, to which Raiden returned, albeit not as confident.

“Raiden will be facing the Osh-Tekk known as Ko’atal, or Kotal.” Liu Kang answered. His eyes seemed to squint just a touch in warning towards Kung Lao. The man sent a grin that was only partially apologetic. You felt the familiar buzz of nostalgia in your head at the name. You wondered if there was ever a time you’d stop experiencing this sensation. “He’s one of their best.”

You supposed you wouldn’t. Not until you unraveled all of your memories, at least.

How many more bits and pieces did you have left to find? That question lingered in your head as idle chatter was passed between the group. You didn’t realize how long you spaced out until you were surprised to feel an arm slung over your shoulders. You jolted in surprise at the contact, looking over to see the culprit.

It only made sense that it was Johnny Cage.

“How you doing, Teach?” The actor asked, a wide grin on his face. He leaned his head towards you, his eyes seeming to search your face. He seemed more chipper this morning. Everyone in general seemed in a better mood. Well, everyone but you. You felt a bit guilty that you didn’t share their energy. Still, you put on your best smile. Fake it until you make it, isn’t that what actors say?

“I’m fine, Cage.” You responded. Your eyes dragged over his arm which draped over your shoulders. For a moment, you considered shrugging it off, but there was something about the contact that felt…comforting. “You seem to be in a better mood.” You pointed out, looking back to Johnny. His smile seemed to grow a bit wider.

“I was conversing with one of the princesses yesterday, she was totally giving me the look.” He said, all too proud of himself. You found your somewhat fake smile turn a little real as you wondered what the look on the actor’s face would be if you told him you’ve been conversing with both of the princesses for a bit now. Granted, one was more willing than the other, but he didn’t need to know that. “She’s totally into me.”

“Are you certain she wasn’t just amused by you and your attempts to woo her?” You joked, sending Johnny a look with raised eyebrows. You heard what you thought was a little muffled snort covered up by a fake cough. Looking over, you saw Kenshi covering his mouth with his fist. You could barely detect the amused crinkle in his eyes. 

“Ah, you’re just jealous of how close I’m getting to them.” Johnny teased, you let out a short bark of laughter as you rolled your eyes. His hand rocked you back and forth in a playful manner. In what way did he want you to interpret that? You getting jealous of the princesses, or getting jealous of him? “Don’t worry, Teach, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, unfortunately.” You replied in jest. There was a shout of protest from the American at your comment. In the midst of your light hearted banter, you temporarily forgot your woes. How Johnny manages to keep on cheering you up seemed to be a secret talent of his. You wondered if he knew what he was doing, or even was aware of it.

The same fanfare from yesterday played out once more. The entrance of the Empress and princesses was followed by the parting of the crowd. It felt almost comforting to fall into a routine again. You watched as once more, Sindel rose again from her seat on the throne to address the crowd. 

“Yet another day of this wonderful tournament.” Sindel announced, a smile on her face. Her arms were spread wide as she looked among the crowd before directing her gaze at Raiden. There wasn’t quite hostility in her eyes, but you sensed there was a sense that she was becoming just a touch less warm towards the champion.

You assumed, or at least hoped it was only due to how he was progressing further than she had expected.

“You have proven yourself well against Reiko yesterday.” Sindel commended, though that lingering sense of little contempt was underneath her welcoming tone. “Let us see if you can continue to prove your fighting prowess within this next match.” She sat down once more, leg crossed over the other. Her head turned to look at General Shao. “General Shao, whom did you choose to fight next?”

“Your Majesty.” General Shao stepped forward once more. You looked away from the man, deciding that after the dream you had today you really didn’t want to look at him. “I have chosen one of my respected officers, Ko’atal.” 

A figure you have not seen before, at least in this lifetime, emerged from the end of the hallway. He strode forward, his figure muscular, broad, and tall. His eyes seemed to have a hint of glow to them, though they did not shine like Liu Kang’s. Glowing paint was streaked in jagged patterns down his chest and limbs. He strode in with a humble confidence, much different than Reiko before him. Ko’atal’s face was set in fierce determination as he marched forth. 

Just as you predicted, your head seemed to buzz at the sight of him, but you could not glean much else from his appearance.

“Kotal is the pride of the Osh-Tekks, and one of their fiercest warriors.” As the General spoke, Kotal seemed to flex his muscles as if to show off the paint upon his skin. His armor, though had traits of the other uniforms that Shao and Reiko wore, had unique gold embellishments to them. “He is ruthless and loyal, and knows how to take down an enemy easily with the strength he has earned.” You rose an eyebrow at the toned down speech compared to Reiko. Seems like someone has favorites.

“So you are the one who took down Reiko?” Kotal asked Raiden, stopping a few feet away from his opponent. His voice was deep, and boomed naturally. His eyes searched Raiden, sizing him up with a natural caution. It seemed like he respected the man in front of him, or at least as much as he respected any other opponent. Raiden nodded after taking in a nice long breath. “Then let us see how you did it.”

And without much else bravado, the fight began. 

Ko’atal fought in a very brute force style. He knew he towered over Raiden, and used it to his advantage. His strikes were much slower than Raiden, but they were filled with such power that every time he did manage to land a hit they seemed to knock the wind out of the champion. His paint, or were they tattoos? glowed as he fought. They changed color depending on what he did. He even summoned totems within the battle. 

The warrior even seemed to naturally bask in the sunlight that filtered in through the open architecture. It was like he was charged by the light, and used its power against the electricity user in battle.

How strange, how different.

And yet even with the different fighting style, Raiden adapted. He used the bulkiness to his advantage, going in for quicker strikes to counter his opponent. He used his weight against him, having him fumble and falter when he did miss. It only made sense that Earthrealm’s champion remained victorious during the fight.

“It was an honor fighting you.” Raiden said, his breath coming out labored as he recovered from the intense fight. Kotal, sluggish from the exertion, nodded at his words. He got up, seeming worse for wear. Both men seemed to nod once more in respect for the other, before Kotal walked away, taking his loss respectfully.

“Another well fought match.” Sindel complimented, though her smile felt just a tad bit more strained at the sight of Earthrealm’s victor. She cleared her throat as she stood to address the mass of people. “Once more we shall adjourn at first light.” The Empress declared. Then, after another moment, the crowd began to disperse, even more people seemed to send glances at Raiden’s way this time.

“Another well earned victory.” You commended the former farmer. He seemed to brighten up at your words, eyes wide with joy at the praise. He nodded quickly. “Keep it up, and at this rate victory will be assured for Earthrealm.”

“Thank you.” Raiden said, his voice a bit breathy from the battle. You returned the smile he sent your way. Then, the rest of the champions seemed to join in, throwing their compliments towards their friend. “I have never seen someone fight like him before.” He admitted, adjusting his hat. “It was a very interesting fight.”

“The Osh-Tekks have an innate connection with the sun.” Liu Kang explained, his hand gesturing to the sun which shone in the sky. “Ko’atal in particular had a stronger and closer connection with it, which allowed him to fight so valiantly.” He regarded his champion with a smile. “It is exceptional that you took him down.”

“Do you think he would be open to acting?” Johnny asked, looking towards where Kotal had left. Upon seeing all the looks sent his way, he held his hands up. “Hey! I’m just saying this movie I was working on would kill to have someone like him! I personally think I would be doing him a favor.” He huffed, crossing his arms.

“You could start by doing us favors, Cage.” Kenshi piped in, his own arms crossing as he sent a glare towards the actor. “For example, by giving me Sento.” This now prompted a little bickering between the two men. While amusing, you couldn’t help but to let out a small sigh at the antics. Your eyes drifted away from the duo, before they landed on a figure heading your way. You perked up at the sight.

“Ready for your tour?” Rain inquired, a small smile on his lips as he stopped near you. You nodded enthusiastically, the whole tour plan having slipped your mind due to the dream earlier. At least you had something exciting to get your mind off of that. 

“Tour?” Kung Lao piped up. You turned your head to look at the man. He looked between you and Rain, eyebrows raised. It looked like he was trying to scrutinize what was going on, his face changing slightly as he processed it all.

“Oh, Rain’s the High Mage.” You introduced him, your hand gesturing to the man you were talking about. Rain bowed his head. “He offered me to go see the Imperial Academy yesterday due to my interest in magic.” You explained, recalling just how you got into this situation. “I’m quite honored, by the way.” You said, turning your attention back to the mage.

“Can I come?” Kung Lao inquired, his eyes seeming to light up at the prospect of going to a place that had such a high reputation. Your eyes drifted over and noticed how Liu Kang had even taken notice of the conversation.

“Sorry, but you can’t.” Rain said, his voice polite but firm. He offered your friend an apologetic smile. “I already arranged for just one visitor. The Academy is quite strict with who is permitted to visit, but seeing how your friend has such potent magic I was able to pull some strings to arrange a visit.” You looked over, surprise upon your features as you heard about the lengths he went through. 

“Sorry, Kung Lao.” You said, shrugging at the news. You sent him a reassuring smile at the pout he displayed. You put a hand on his bicep, rubbing it gently. You swallowed your nerves upon seeing his eyes, fighting the memories of what he used to look like. “I’ll be back for dinner, don’t worry, okay? I’ll tell you all about it when I return.” You pinched his arm lightly before letting go, only realizing what you had done until after it was done.

“I’ll be holding you to that.” Kung Lao said, your name cheerily falling from his lips. For a moment, you stared at him, hoping that he would return the gesture, but he didn’t. You nodded, looking back to Rain who looked at you expectantly. You nodded at him, watching as he gestured towards the hallway leading to the outside.

“Well, shall we go?” He inquired. You nodded, stepping to be by his side.

“See you guys later.” You said, waving to the group. A chorus of goodbyes arouse, sending you off. You, however, didn’t notice the lingering stare that was sent your way as you left. You both walked in relative silence before you noted how you were alone now. “I’m honored you invited me to see the academy, but I’m a stranger to you, why go through the effort?” You inquired, peering over to the man. 

“You have a very powerful magic, like I mentioned.” Rain answered simply. “And our ideals of growing stronger, pushing past our limits…it’s very rare to meet someone else who understands that drive. I could tell the look in your eye when you said that was genuine.” There was a pause. “I simply wished to extend this invitation as a sign of friendship.” 

“I see.” You said, scanning the man for any sign of ill will. When you saw none, a smile pulled at your lips. “I accept your invitation of friendship then. I hope we shall have a pleasant one until I must go back to Earthrealm.” 

“Indeed.”

The Imperial Academy towered high over you, a place of majesty and wonder. It was almost nearly as tall as the palace itself. It even resembled the palace, being made of the same white stone. To set it apart, black stone of the same quality made up the rooftops of the academy and accented certain arches and overhangs. This provided great contrast to the golden embellishments which were set into the building. Symbols were carved into the architecture, giving the building texture rather than letting it be simply smooth.

Lush foliage draped along the railings of the academy akin to banners. Deep red and purple flowers peppered the vines. The way the flora intertwined with the building imbued it with life, as if the nature here and the building were made to coexist rather one conform to another. It was harmonious. 

It was located a little further on the outskirts of Sun Do, but it was still close enough that one could travel to and fro from the city. It was nearly intimidating to see it. You could practically feel all the power and magic held just from standing outside of it. It was potent enough that you could almost describe the scent of what raw magic was. 

“Wow.” You said, your jaw dropping at the sight of it. It felt almost wrong to be here, especially since you had heard of just how difficult it was to get into this place. “Are you certain I’m allowed here?” You asked, looking over to your companion with raised eyebrows. 

“I was just as amazed when I got here.” Rain admitted, looking at you. A slight amused look was on his face, but he did not appear to be judgemental of your awe. If anything, he seemed to take pride in what he deemed was an acceptable reaction. He looked back at the building, a gleam of nostalgia in his eyes. “But when I finally stepped foot in here, it felt like I finally understood my destiny.” He looked at you once more. “I wish I could say perhaps the same will happen for you, but you are from Earthrealm.”

“A pity.” You said, not knowing how to feel about that last sentence. Your gut twisted with unease. You drew in a deep breath, driving out your nerves. “Let’s hope I don’t get too attached then.” You told him. You could only hope to yourself that your own words would become true. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you found a piece of yourself here, in a place that didn’t think you belonged.

“For your sake, I hope so too.” Rain replied. nodding. His words were tinged with pity, a sentiment that made you feel a bit worse. You didn’t blame your companion for your feelings but…pity was one of the worst feelings in the world. You followed him, stepping carefully over the bridge that led over a stream that was in front of the academy. It bubbled softly beneath you like a little lullaby from nature.

Your fingers trailed along the handhold of the bridge, the bumpy surface becoming engraved in your mind. As you two approached the entrance, the doors loomed even taller, dwarfing both of you. You couldn’t even recall if the palace had doors this extravagant. The High Mage cast a look your way once more, his eyes searching yours. It was like he was searching for validation within your reaction. You offered him a smile, one that he returned.

With a wave of his hand, the doors parted. They glided open effortlessly, revealing the building’s contents with ease. They didn’t even make so much as a creak. The both of you ascended the steps to get a closer look of the interior. 

To say the inside was immaculate would be an understatement.

The grand hall opened wide and tall to accommodate for a grand statue of a woman you couldn’t quite name. Even without knowing her, you could easily tell she was revered and beloved. At the base of the statue was an altar that was littered with gifts and more of the breathtaking nature. The vines and flowers wound and rose around the woman’s carved dress up around her waist and into her arms which were presented forward with hands cupped. Her eyes were alight with life despite being made entirely of stone. Despite all the foliage that grew around the woman, the statue itself was well maintained.

Even with the stunning statue in the center of the hall, the rest of the building was not any less disappointing. The marble stone below, checkered white and black in a hypnotizing fashion was polished to perfection. You leaned forward, and you were met with a smiling reflection that was almost substitute enough for a mirror.

The walls around you opened wide for many rows of hallways that seemed nearly endless. Stairs that were perfectly symmetrical in fashion twisted up and around to lead to a secondary floor that stood a little higher than the waist of the woman before you. These too lead to more hallways of the academy. Just how many rooms did this place contain?

“What do you think?” Rain asked, his voice snapping you out of your admiration of the area. You sucked in a breath, your eyes traveling over the area once more. It was only now that you noted the hustle and bustle of the area. Students rushed around, brushing past each other perfectly as if they were performing a choreographed dance. The footsteps, which would have sounded chaotic and overbearing anywhere else, sounded almost rhythmic. Magic danced in the air, whether it be in the form of sparks, light, or a creature soaring through the air. Some attendants knelt at the base of the statue, mumbling softly.

“It’s amazing.” You admitted, eyes darting around. A few glances of curiosity were sent in your direction, but ultimately no one approached you. It was like stepping out of their little routines would ruin the delicate ecosystem set in this place. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s like everyone and everything here are in perfect harmony.”

“That is why the best of the best are permitted here.” The mage reminded you with a small tilt of his head. He caught the glance of a student who peered at him. A smile was sent the student’s way, and it sent them into a grinning mess before they scurried off. For a moment, you felt special. After all, you were allowed to be among what must be the most elite magic users to glance into a peek of their lives. Not only that, but you were also accompanied by the High Mage of the royal court. “Come, let’s pick up what I came here for before I give you a tour.”

“You needed to pick up something?” You inquired, peering at the man. Your footsteps tried to match his as he led you down a hallway. Perfectly spaced doors lined the walls. Each was labeled with a neat golden plaque which was also engraved with an equally neat font. “I thought you no longer studied here?” You asked, hoping your tone did not sound too blasphemous.

“I don’t.” Rain confirmed, a small nod showing that he did not think your question was overstepping. “But my studies sometimes require equipment and items that can only be found at this institution, as of late I have been conducting research to help a fellow court member.” You both took a few turns before you arrived at a door which had Rain’s name labeled on it in bold lettering. “This is the laboratory I use at times.” 

Opening the door revealed a neat and orderly space. A tall bookshelf was on the left side wall. It was filled with hefty books and some scrolls. On the back wall was a shelf that was lined with various equipment. Some of them you could guess the usage, but some were far too odd to even think of what their usage could possibly be. 

Then, on the right was a simple desk right next to a table. The desk didn’t have much of note, but you did spot a simple picture frame. In it was Rain with an older woman. His mother maybe? The table next to his desk was the only place that had an indication of disorder. Some paper with notes written upon them were scattered. Vials and tubes bubbling with unknown substances sat upon a higher section of the table.

“Excuse the mess.” The mage said, stepping into the room. With more caution, you followed. He wandered over to the table, picking up a vial that had been bubbling while sitting atop a gentle blue flame. He swirled it, the soft blue being reminiscent of ocean water. “Feel free to look around.” He told you, his eyes concentrated on the liquid he inspected.

“Alright.” You said, your gaze falling on the shelf lined with equipment. You stopped a foot away, squinting at the items. In your head, you tried to guess the use of them from their looks alone to pass the time. One item in particular caught your attention. 

A small cube colored gold sat away from the other items in its own little section. It was rather unsuspecting. You couldn’t quite put a finger on why it drew you in, but you were enraptured by the small thing. Your fingers twitched, wanting to reach out to grab it, but you restrained yourself. A gentle footstep behind you snapped you out of your daze.

“Something caught your attention?” Rain inquired, stepping beside you. He looked towards the shelf, peering at where you had been moments before. He reached out to pluck the cube and looked at you, before holding it out to you. You held your hand out, and the cube, which was heavier than you were expecting, was dropped into your hand. “That’s a magic sensor of sorts. We use it to sense the potency in magic in things, whether it be solutions, in the air, or even in a person. Give it a try.” 

“Okay.” You said, looking down at the cube. You stared at it, perplexed before glancing back up at your companion. You saw his hand squeeze at the air, indicating what you should do. Gently at first, you closed your hand around the cube, before putting all your strength into it. When your hand released, the cube began to glow.

Letters in a language you didn’t quite recognize appeared on the cube. A soft white glow appeared behind them. Your gaze flicked from the cube to the man. A delighted look appeared on his face, like he expected exactly that. Then, cube began to glow stronger before bursting into a flurry of colors. Bright pinks, greens, yellows, colors of any kind began to erupt out. You nearly took a step back, and you returned your gaze to Rain.

His reaction was a mixture of surprise and awe, far different from the reaction he had previously.

After the color show died down, you stared at it for a moment, eyebrows raised. You were dumbfounded, not knowing what any of that had meant. There was a brief silence that hung in the air. You sucked in a breath, putting a smile on your lips.

“Did I pass?” You joked, trying to diffuse the tension. You looked back and forth between the mage and the cube. The awestruck look on his face faded into something that seemed to indicate respect. He nodded as he grabbed the cube. He held it up, looking over the fading glow of the letters before placing it back onto the shelf. There was an undeniable gleam of interest in his eyes.

“With flying colors.”

“I’m back.” You announced, walking up to the table where all the Earthrealmers had been. The tour had gone all afternoon and leaked into the night. You both had been amazed by the fact that time had flown so fast past the two of you. The sky had just begun to turn dark when you had exited. “Did I miss much?” You inquired, looking at the group. You spotted an open spot, right between Kung Lao and Kenshi, and walked over to claim it.

Your mouth watered at the smell of the foods laid out to feast on. Your eyes alone feasted on everything in sight, and in that moment you understood what Kung Lao must feel like. After that realization, you snapped out of it.

“We all did our own thing, for the most part.” Kung Lao responded after swallowing the large mouthful he had been eating. You reached over and grabbed some food that had been out on the table, adding it to your plate. His eyes twinkled with excitement, the same excitement that made you tense up at how familiar it was. He leaned towards you with a happy grin. His elbow nudged your side. “So, how was the academy?”

“It was beyond anything I could have dreamed.” You admitted, cutting into your food. You popped a bite into your mouth, chewing it carefully as you considered the right words to say. It tasted even better than it looked “I was honestly amazed at how much magic could be contained within one place. Magic seemed to spill from even the walls.”  Your eyes lit up as you recalled the grand statue in the academy. “They even had a grand statue to the goddess Delia. She's the goddess of magic.”

“They worship someone else than my main man, Liu Kang?” Johnny asked, eyebrows raised as he looked at you in surprise. He shrugged, and muttered something under his breath along the lines of go figure.

“What else do you expect?” Kenshi asked, sending a sharp look towards Johnny. There was a hint of exasperation in his face and his voice. “Do you really think Outworlders would worship an Earthrealm god?” He paused and sent an apologetic look to Liu Kang. “No offense, Lord Liu Kang.” He quickly added before returning to his meal.

“I take no offense, Kenshi.” Liu Kang replied, a pleasant look on his face. He turned his attention back to you. With a fork he gestured for you to go on. “Please, go on. I would like to hear about your little adventures within the academy.”

You nodded, a wide grin splitting your face. You went on and on, retelling all the wonders you had seen within the walls of the academy. From your lips was the praises of magic and how beautiful it could really be in the hands of those who wielded it. You talked on and on to the point where your food had gone slightly cold. As your speech ended, you noticed the way the others looked at you. Your cheeks flushed.

“Sounds like you fell in love with the place.” Kenshi observed. His eyes peered at you with careful observation. There was no judgement in his voice, something you were thankful for. You spotted a gleam in his eye, even.

“Yeah, the last time I’ve seen you this excited was when I told you that there was another Ninja Mime in the series.” Johnny pointed out, his fork pointing at you. He let out a small laugh. “I didn’t take you as the type to like magic that much, wildstyle. I thought you were all in on the whole teaching people how to fight thing.” 

“A person can have multiple interests, Cage.” You said, rolling your eyes. “But I guess you’re not wrong, Kenshi.” You said, thoughtfully staring down into your plate. Even the marks left by the food you ate seemed to remind you of the swirls of magic you had seen earlier that day. “I ended up liking that place more than I was expecting. I forgot how much I loved to learn about things.”

“Do you think you would take an opportunity to study here if you could?” Raiden inquired, curious brown eyes looking at you. You paused, moving your fork around to push your food. Your lips pursed, and you looked up to see the gaze of Liu Kang staring at you. You remembered, for a brief moment, how this question felt all too familiar.

You tore your gaze away.

“Maybe.” You admitted, shrugging. You felt the burning gaze be lifted from your form as your answer left your lips. “I doubt I would be given a chance anyways, I’m an Earthrealmer.” You said, your gaze now falling down to your plate. “Plus, I think I’d miss you guys too much.” You added on, offering a small smile. 

“We’d miss you too.” Kung Lao said, a wide smile pulling at his lips. His shoulder bumped yours. Your heart warmed at the sentiment. Your little smile grew a little wider as you picked up a piece of food and put it into your mouth. Mentally you replied to him. The mere thought of telling them this sent your heart aflutter and your cheeks went a little warm.

I know. 

Sitting under the moonlight, you gazed up into the stars. You were sitting on the same bench, this time being the one waiting for the princess. You tried to see the constellations, the ones you had learned about earlier today, within the myriad of dots within the skies. This realm apparently had different stars, it was all so…interesting.

“Waiting for me today I see.” Mileena’s voice rang out, capturing your attention. You glanced over, seeing an amused smirk on her lips. You nodded, glancing back up to the starry night sky for a moment more before turning your full attention to the princess. She caught your gaze before looking up to the sky herself. “What is so enticing about the sky tonight?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.” You said, also returning your gaze to the sky above. “It’s just…different from Earthrealm.” Your hand gestured to the stars above. “For example, I learned that you have different constellations than we do back in Earthrealm. I suppose I just appreciate the differences between our homes.��

“Really?” She said, her gaze lingering on the sky for a moment. She squinted, as if trying to see what you did within the sky. “I never thought someone would be captivated by something as simple as a mere night sky.” The princess admits. Though her words felt almost demeaning, there was no bite behind them. It was just mere honesty. She stepped over to the bench and finally took a seat at the other end. 

“I guess it is because our skies are a lot different.” You said, giving the princess a soft smile. “Our skies are a deeper blue, and our stars are not as numerous.” You say, indicating with your hand to the sky. “Some places can’t even see the stars even with a clear sky.” You paused, thinking back to the night sky back home. “But it feels like our stars do glow brighter where I’m from.”

“I see.” She said, her voice carrying a hint of intrigue. She stared at you, scanning your nearly awestruck look. “Not even our astronomers seem to hold the same reverence for the sky as you do.” She pointed out, a teasing tone to her voice. 

“Maybe it’s because they haven’t seen the stars in other realms.” You offer up as an explanation. “Sometimes, to appreciate what you have you must see other perspectives and things that you are not used to.”

“Perhaps.” Mileena replied, a tone you couldn’t quite place down in her voice.

“I must be boring you.” You said, realizing you had rambled on about the stars for a bit too long. You forced your eyes away from the sky, back onto the ground. You cleared your throat and straightened up, collecting your thoughts. “What type of story would you like to hear about today?” You asked, already trying to narrow down which movie to recollect to her.

“I think tonight I would like to simply hear you tell me about the differences between Earthrealm and Outworld.” Mileena said, her eyes seeming to hold a hint of encouragement. “I’ve never heard someone speak so kindly about both realms…it’s refreshing.” Her hand gestured to you, and you couldn’t help the wide smile. “It almost makes me want to seek out these differences when the next tournament comes.”

“If that’s what you wish, then let me fulfill your request, princess.”

And so on this night, the story you told was of two realms, and just how their differences made you appreciate them both a bit more. 

part fourteen

tagged - @bonezisded @lollipopin @simpxinnie @zhivaxo @koisuko

[luveline]

could you write something with kisses before dinner where avery feels like she’s not your your steve’s favourite and she gets upset?

for you my love! dad!steve x pregnant!mom!you. 3.7k

Steve gives Bethie's hand a tug. "Come on, this way." 

Bethie follows without complaint, her rain boots smacking the sidewalk with each step. Steve keeps checking to make sure the umbrella's covering her, though there's little need for his worrying when she's wearing her rain mac, a scarf, and a super thick sweater under her coat.  

It's a very short walk to the door for Avery's classroom. She and the other first graders get called out one by one from a huge door that exits a cubby room. Steve stands where he always does, out of the way from most but close enough that Avery doesn't have to look far. 

Steve hadn't always wanted kids. When he was sixteen, he thought that having children might be the worst thing in the world, not because he'd ever been around any kids that weren't worth loving, but because they acted like a sort of glue, sticking you to another person. But he got older, and he realised he wanted to be stuck, and then he realised there isn't any glue to children, they can't serve as an adhesive that binds you to someone. You either love your partner or you don't (of course, it's a little more complicated than that) and children are usually separate. 

Steve met you. He loved you more than he ever loved another person. And then you had Avery, and Bethie, and Dove, and he somehow loved you more for it. It's immeasurable. 

Steve loves you, and he loves his kids most of all. You wouldn't be offended, you feel the same —kids are a different kind of love. 

It's why being out in the rain doesn't matter. Bethie's hand is warm where he covers it in his, and when she gives a little shiver he crouches down to rub her shoulders, knowing it doesn't help but wishing it did.

He's so excited to see Avery he can't describe it right, and it doesn't make any sense because he saw her seven hours ago at drop off when she kissed him goodbye and ran away to go play races with her friends. Since then, he's taken Bethie to her doctor’s check up, chased Dove around the house for a bath, put on a load of washing, made dinner preparations, done the dishes, all while acting as a willing serf for a moderately pregnant you on bed rest after a bout of high blood pressure. All of those anxieties and chores and exhaustions —he wouldn't have it any other way— and still he's geared up to see his oldest. 

Avery usually runs out of the door like she's on springs, but today she's only walking. Steve groans as he stands up properly, beckoning for Avery to come and stand under the umbrella as he calls, "Hey, Avey-bear, where's your water bottle?" 

She only has her lunch box. 

"I think it's lost forever," she says, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

He can't hug her with his hands full, but he gives her the best 'dad loves you' look that he can muster, his most adoring smile. "You think so? Don't worry, we'll fix it."

"It's not broken," she says. 

"I just mean that we'll find it or I'll buy you another one." Avery holds her hand up. "Take your sisters, baby.”

"I wanna be under the umbrella," she whines. 

Steve doesn't blame her. The rain is coming down heavier by the minute, and she doesn't have a nice sweater on like Beth. The weather wasn't as unpleasant this morning. 

"You can hold it if you don't stab me in the eye," he says. 

"Yes! Please please please," she says, accepting the umbrella he passes with a charmingly pleased smile. 

They walk through the playground, the winding path to the parking lot and between cars. Steve picks Bethie up and carries her from the parking lot onward, worried she'll pull away. Avery tells him about her day without prompting, the umbrella jabbing him in the hips and stomach occasionally. 

"We're making cards tomorrow for them, do you think the old people like cards?" she asks as they approach the car. 

"I think they'll love your card."

Steve unlocks the doors and pulls Avery's open first. He takes the umbrella from her and she climbs into her car seat with a load of thunking and huffing. Steve didn't think it through, there's the umbrella to shake dry, car seat straps to click, and his arms are still full of Beth, who's been her usual quiet self the entire time. 

"You okay, Beth?" he asks her. 

"I'm cold," she murmurs. 

Steve can't have that. He pushes the umbrella into the footwell by Avery's feet and water flecks the poor girl's jeans, but at least he has a hand free to click together her car seat strap. She lifts her head for a kiss and he doesn't recognise it until the door's shutting between them. 

He winces and rushes to Bethie's side. "Sorry, babe," he says when he opens the door, putting Beth in her seat with ease. Avery pouts at him. "I'll give you a kiss when we get home, I'm sorry, my head's not screwed on tight enough right now. I'm just rushing to get back to mom." 

Avery blows hair out of her face, annoyed. 

The drive home is nice and slow. Steve's cargo is too important to rush and risk hydroplaning. Bethie's asleep by the time they get home as he hoped she would be, and Avery is itching for the bathroom. He lets her out first and she sprints away before he can get a kiss. 

Steve scoops Bethie up and whacks his head on the car roof. He does it every single time he tries to get her out, and he stands there with the rain pounding his back, sucking air in through his teeth. "Sugar," he whispers.

He pulls Bethie securely to his chest, locks the car and climbs the short step into the house, head pounding. He's unsurprised and horrified to see you up in the kitchen making Avery a cup of juice, Dove propped on your baby bump like a perfectly sized seat. 

"Not okay," he says, hands covering Bethie's ears as he closes the front door behind him. "Go sit down now. I'm not kidding. Right now." 

"Steve–" 

"Y/N," he says, real annoyance in his voice. He doesn't like bossing you around, doesn't like being a jerk, but you can't mess with bed rest, not so far along. It's not even the baby he's thinking about, it's you. "Go lay down, please." 

You smile guiltily. "I'm feeling better." 

Avery looks like she's the one who's had the telling off when you leave. She sips from her juice cup and won't meet his eyes, her sleeves dark with water. She has a bad habit of not rolling them up when she washes her hands, and Steve always sighs when he sees it. 

Your home is oddly shaped. When you first walk in, you can see up the stairs to the right, and you can see straight down the hall to the kitchen, and you can also see into the living room to the left. The living room leads into the kitchen, too, which means there's double the baby gates. 

Steve puts Bethie down on the big bean bag by the windows and finds you laying down on the L-shaped couch, Dove content where she sits by your hip. Your hands play with the thin blonde wisps of hair at her neck. The longer it grows the darker it becomes. 

"Sorry for worrying you," you say, not looking at him. "I really do feel better." 

"I'm glad you do, but you know it's not one of those things that works on feelings," Steve says. He rubs his forehead, and then he drops his hand against his thigh in defeat. "Sorry for being snappy. You freaked me out." 

"I have to get up sometimes. To pee and stuff," you say. "Will you get Ave her juice? She wants Mapap." 

"What? For what?" he asks. 

Dove turns in her seat to look at Steve like she's surprised he's here. Then, in a startling turn of events, she babbles happily. "Daddy," she says, holding up her hands. "Home." 

"I'm home," he agrees sweetly. 

"Daddy," she says again. 

Dove loves Steve, but she's always had a preference for her mom. When you're working, Dove is more than happy to spend her days in Steve's arms, in his lap, some days she's stuck to him like a leech, but you walk through the door and she's immediately team Mom. It makes sense, she must miss you while you're away. For the first time in a while, Dove's had to miss Steve instead. 

He picks her up with a huge beaming smile and kisses her cheek, still chubby with baby fat. "You're happy to see me?" he asks against her skin. 

"I think she has a tummy ache." 

"Dove?" Steve asks, folding a curl behind Dove's ear. 

"Avery." You grimace. "Are you sure I can't stand up? I feel fine." 

"Don't get up." Steve gives Dove another kiss and says to her, "I love you, I'll be right back. Please still love me." 

Dove curls into your chest when Steve puts her down in a way that says she certainly won't still love him when he returns, but she enjoyed the hug. 

Steve almost trips in the doorway to the kitchen over a teddy bear. Avery eyes him reproachfully, her glass of juice a quarter filled. 

"Mommy says you have a tummy ache. Let's get you some medicine, yeah?" Steve asks.

"It's okay." 

"It stopped hurting?" 

"No," Avery says, frowning. She looks to be on the sudden verge of tears as kids tend to be.

Steve attempts to rescue her. "Okay, baby. Come here," he says, holding out his arms. Avery puts her glass on the counter and walks into his arms, a sad sound squeezed from her as he carries her to the kitchen table. He sits her on a table mat, ducking to be the same height as her eyes, his hands finding a gentle home on her small shoulders. "What's the situation, honey? What kind of pain is it?" 

"It feels weird," she says quietly. 

"Throw up weird?" he asks, the most important port of call. 

"No."

"You sure?" he asks.

Avery shakes her head. Steve doesn't think she'll throw up, but she looks so unhappy that he frowns at her, rubbing the nape of her neck. "What's the pain feel like?"

"Just hurts."

"Okay. I'll get you some Mapap, honey. What would make you feel better? A cuddle?" He leans forward to whisper, "Are you feeling gassy? Maybe you need a burp." 

"No, dad," she says. She must be feeling awful, she doesn't laugh. Burps are always funny.

Steve grabs the Mapap from the fringe and tips it onto a spoon. "Here," he murmurs, passing her the last of her juice so she's ready to chase the odd taste of her medicine away. 

Avery hesitates to open her mouth. 

She has the same eyes as Steve, and right now they're filled with a look hasn't seen in his own for years. He's not sure what to make of it. She doesn't look sick, she looks sad, really sad, driving Steve to a new kind of panic. 

"I'll take some with you," he says. 

"Really?" she asks. 

It's kids Mapap —he could drink the bottle and still have a backache afterward. "Yeah, really really. You want me to go first or second?" 

She deliberates. "First." 

Steve lifts the spoon of medicine to his nose. He knows he should pretend it's delicious, no big deal, but he sniffs it suspiciously, touching the tip of his tongue to it and wincing dramatically at the taste. 

"I get a hug after this, right?" he asks. 

Avery laughs. "Yeah, dad." 

He raises his brows, as if to say, Well, in that case, and takes the medicine. It's a fake strawberry flavour and disgusting but he pretends it's only sort of bad. 

Avery offers him her cup of juice as soon as he takes the spoon out. She's lovely. 

Steve makes another cup of juice and another spoon of medicine. Avery takes it without any hesitation, going as far as to say, "It's not that bad." 

Steve's thankful for the reprieve. He really hadn't been liking the way Avery looked like she was feeling. He scoops her up as though she weighs nothing (she grows like a bamboo shoot every summer, but Steve is strong) and carries her to the living room, where you're half asleep now and Dove's definitely not, her short fingers petting your neck. 

"She's sleeping," Dove tells Steve factually as he sits. 

Avery leans against Steve's chest. 

"I'm not sleeping," you mumble, "just my Dove is being so nice to me." 

"Well, not to make anyone jealous or anything, but Avery promised me a prime time kiss. Like, a huge one." 

"No I didn't," Avery says, confused.

"Yes you did, don't be a meanie. I meant to give you one in the car, 'member?" 

"Oh," Avery says, "right." 

Steve gets his kisses and a great big cuddle, hugging his eldest baby as close as he can. The TV plays one of Dove's favourite movies and you fall asleep, snoring and drooling at once, dribbling from the corner of your mouth. It seeps into the cushion you've underneath you. Dove laughs and points it out to Steve and Avery. Avery's a sweetheart, so she wipes your drool away and pushes a fingertip into your lips until you close your mouth. 

Dove climbs off of you and wanders over to Bethie. "Leave her alone, Dove," Steve warns. 

Dove gives him a, Who, me? look and climbs onto the bean bag, to Steve's annoyance. Luckily, Dove's feeling nice, and she doesn't wake her sister. She lays down beside her and loosely holds her hand, and after half an hour, everyone's asleep besides Steve and Avery. 

He can't help looking at you constantly, worried you're gonna get sick and he won't notice. He's worrying the same thing about Ave.

He's too obvious. 

"Is mom okay?" Avery asks. 

"Mom's okay. Are you worrying?" he asks. 

"You're worrying," Avery says. 

"I know mom's gonna be okay, I can promise you she's fine," he says. "But it's like you. You're not feeling very well and it makes me worry, but I know you'll be okay." 

Avery doesn't say anything, rubbing her nose against his collar. 

"Do you believe me?" he asks. 

"About what?"

"About everything, I guess." 

"Yeah," she says. Steve gives her shoulder a little pat.

"Okay, good. Mom is fine, and baby's fine, and we'll all be okay as long as she rests up. And your tummy stops hurting, duh." 

Avery isn't cheered up by his doting, sweet tones. She stays flat as a pancake on his chest and doesn't move an inch for a while. Steve waits. He knows Avery like the back of his hand. She has something she wants to say, or tell him, or ask. 

"Dad?" she whispers. 

"Yeah?" 

"Is it okay to be nobody's favourite?" 

"What?" 

Avery hides her face. 

Steve encourages her back out again, gently carding through her hair. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Her bottom lip trembles. "Dove is mommy's favourite, and your favourite is Beth, so who's favourite am I?" she asks. 

"You're my favourite," he says on automatic.

"But you can only have one," she says, glaring at him. 

"That's not how this works, you're my girls. You're my daughters. You're all my favourites." 

"You love Bethie most." 

Steve wants to say, Of course I don't, how could you think that? He wants to say, Avery, don't be silly. He wants to say, That's not true, because it genuinely isn't.

"I'm so sorry," he says instead. 

Avery sniffs. "Why?" 

"Ave, I'm so sorry. That's not what you're supposed to think, I– honey, why do you think I love Bethie most?" he asks. "It's not true, I adore your sister, but I love you the same. I love you so much it made my heart actually get bigger," Steve says, rushing to explain it, wanting there to be no doubt. "When you were born, it was the best day of my life. The best day of my life." 

"You and Beth are always snuggling," Avery says. Steve has to strain to hear her.

"Your sister loves hugs, and I love giving them to her," he agrees. "Do you wish we hugged more often?" 

She nods. He nods back. 

"Then we will. I promise." 

"I want to be your favourite," she says. 

"Avery," he sighs. "You are. It's hard to explain it, but I love you and Bethie and Dove and even the baby all the same." 

Avery starts crying. Steve had known it was going to happen, and it still feels like a whack to the chest, flat-palmed. 

"Is this why your tummy hurts?" he asks quietly. 

"I want to be your favourite," she says again, cheeks shining with tears. "I want to be mom's favourite, it's not fair."

"You're my favourite singer," he says. 

Avery frowns.

"You're my favourite singer. You're my favourite at putting her socks on. You're my favourite pancake maker, my favourite–" 

"It's not the same," Avery says.

Steve takes her hands in his. "Yes it is! You're my favourite girl just like your sisters, but if that's not good enough, you're my favourite at so much other stuff, Ave. You have my favourite smile, and do my favourite dances. I'm really sorry you think you're no one's favourite," he says, aching. "I promise you, me and your mom love you so much it's weird." 

"You promise?" she checks. 

"I promise. Cross my heart." 

Avery sniffles. Steve wipes her warm cheeks with the side of his hand, tucking her hair behind her ears. She's his mirror. If there's one thing Steve wanted, it was that she would never feel how he felt growing up. 

"I can make it up to you, sweetheart, you tell me what it is that makes you upset and I can fix it. Will you tell me, please?" 

Avery tells him in little fits and starts. It's nothing done maliciously, ever, but he can heartbreakingly see why Avery might have stacked all of these things together and started wondering what's wrong. Bethie gets super tired in the early evenings, and when she's tired she clings, hoarding Steve's affection for herself; Dove's young enough to be a handful, hoarding yours. There's the missed kiss in the car after school, and a hug that didn't include her at breakfast. A few days ago, you said to Dove, "Mom needs a kiss from her favourite girl." You had no idea Avery was awake, and you didn't mean it with even a drop of cruelty, but it doesn't matter. Avery took it to heart, and she's been upsetting herself with it ever since. 

"Do you want to talk to mom?" he asks her, stroking her cheek with his knuckle. 

"I don't know…" 

"I can talk to her for you, if you want to. Or we can talk to her together. She'll be really sorry, honey, I promise. You know mommy doesn't have a mean bone in her body." 

You wake up not too long after that, dragging yourself into a sluggish sleeping position, hand on your bump. "Woah, she's kicking me." 

You look up to them with a huge smile, evidently excited to show them, hand already in the hem of your shirt and pulling up, but you notice their matching frowns and say, "What's wrong?" 

Steve explains. Avery looks at your bump rather than your face as he does, barely reacting to his hand stroking her hair back. 

"Oh," you say, pouting gently, eyebrows pinching together, "Avery, I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean she's my only favourite, that's not–" You hold your hand out for her. "Sorry, baby. I've really upset you, haven't I?"

Avery squeezes her eyes closed and nods. 

"I bet that was really sad, thinking you weren't our favourite girl," you murmur, voice imbued with apology, sympathy, and an overflowing measure of love. 

"It's okay," Avery says.

"It wasn't just your fault," Steve says to you. "It was me too." 

"Can I come and lie on you?" Avery asks.

Your eyes light with relief. "Yes, yeah. Don't kick my tummy, okay?" You pull Avery onto your front. She's cautious not to dig a knee into your bump but otherwise collapses boneless into your arms. 

Parents make literally hundreds and thousands of mistakes just like kids do. Steve knows he hadn't meant to hurt Avery, but he did, and he feels overwhelmingly depressed about it. Being a dad is the only thing he's ever been good at. This is his biggest screw up to date.

You have your eyes closed, your face against Avery's pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. Blindly, you squeeze Steve's arm.

"I love you so much, Avery," you say. "Thanks for telling us how you're feeling. You're always brave."

"I'm not," Avery says. All the love and affection is finally getting to her. She sounds bashfully pleased rather than sad now, hugging your neck extra tight. 

"You are!" You pull Steve toward you. "Dad knows. Isn't she just the best in the world?" 

Steve covers her back with his arm. The youngest both snore unawares on the big bean bag, the TV flickering with the static at the end of the movie. He should've started dinner an hour ago, but he doesn't feel hungry.

"You're the nicest, strongest, kindest girl I've ever met," Steve says. He's laying it on thick, and every word is true. 

"What about me?" you joke. 

"You're fine."

"Dad!" Avery laughs, turning her head to smile at him reproachfully. "You can't say that, tell the truth!" 

"You're joint first best," he corrects. He covers his mouth with his hand, whispering to Avery, "But you're the very very best, Ave." 

Her eyes go soft, straight lashes kissing in the outer corners as she smiles. "Thanks, dad."

[moondirti]

charcoal

pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)

“Sit still.”

A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.  

Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you. 

He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush. 

Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.

Huh– W-What’re you doing? 

Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it. 

Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.

You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you. 

He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers. 

It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene. 

Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips. 

“Nng-! Christ,” 

“What'd I tell ya?” 

“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.” 

“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.” 

“That’s gross.” 

“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.” 

But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck. 

You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have. 

You just found he doesn’t prefer it.

A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car. 

It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.

Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper. 

Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.

He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes. 

God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries. 

Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.

But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree. 

You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth. 

The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs. 

It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain. 

Him. Him.

He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid. 

But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–

Oh.

Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat. 

Fuck.

A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful. 

Enticing. 

You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs. 

You speak before you begin to process it all. 

“We’ll be here for a while.” 

Stupid, silly girl. 

He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess. 

In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week. 

“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.

Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning. 

“Gotta save some for next time.” 

“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”

“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift. 

“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–”  A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?” 

You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants. 

Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word. 

Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip. 

And it all goes to hell from there. 

Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him. 

It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants. 

“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…” 

“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.” 

“Please.” 

And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea  (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips. 

You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon. 

Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say– 

Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him. 

Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.

“Fuck.”

“Feart, now?” 

His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up. 

He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.” 

Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose. 

His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again: 

“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”

A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary. 

“Done?” 

You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch. 

“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.” 

“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away. 

“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.” 

“The glow?” 

“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”

“You’re mad.” 

The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.

“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”

Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt. 

This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons. 

He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again. 

The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever. 

“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”

He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations. 

“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.” 

The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close. 

You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean. 

You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night. 

You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone. 

Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I? 

You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.

Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny. 

“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.” 

A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”

taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis

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[reesespeanutbutterfuck]

imperfectionist (vinny hong x jo!reader)

jay jo's imperfectionist sister meets the flawful vinny hong.

part 1

part 2

pairing: vinny hong x jo!fem!reader

warnings: fem!reader, gifted!reader, cursing, mentions of blood & violence, mentions/flashbacks to vinny's shitty childhood. jo!reader (jay is reader's 1 year older brother, but they're in the same class), physical descriptions (resemblance to jay, jay's mother, heavily implied asian features) intelligent!reader, female rage, implications of academic pressure, middle child problems, second person's pov (you, you're, your), ANGSTY, lowkey self-indulgent, SPOILERS everywhere, includes momma bear vinny but then reader is also kind of a momma bear, reader is NOT yumi, but yumi still exists here. lmk if i forgot anyth

note: i can't stop tossing and turning while reading s4 lol. our vinny pls come back now im bawling my eyes rn

———

None of the recontres you had with Vinny Hong in the entirety of your life was normal.

The first time you encountered him was when you accidentally bumped into him in a vulnerable state while walking home under a light rain shower after a tiring day volunteering at the hospital your parents were working in. The light pouring rain hit your umbrella with soft thuds as you were finding your way through the alley you accidentally passed by after taking an alternative route, but getting a little lost in the process.

You shuddered when you heard a groan. You immediately looked around and kept your guard up in case it was a kidnapper. But no, it sounded like one of pain. Stopping your tracks and pulling over your feet, you looked around the alley. Your eyes expectantly scanned until your eyes found the source of the grumbling noise. There he was, slumped against the wall.

I knew it. you thought.

It was a man. How cliché. His head was bowed down so he couldn't see you. Let me guess, a high school boy was mobbed and injured somewhere and now is left to die in a dark alley to be found lifeless once the sun rises?

You scoffed. If only you had all the time in the world to be a delinquent, that will most likely be where you're meant for. These high school boys are wasting their lives when they unknowingly have the time to choose to be a better person. You discreetly envied how these kinds of people can still choose how they'll live their lives—regardless of presence of sense for separating actions between good and bad.

And so you walked past the alley.

Your steps slowed down as the man groaned again, this time followed by a rustle. A slight pang of guilt forming in the pit of your stomach. Damn it, this wasn't…

You reluctantly looked back to where the man sat. You've always sworn your life you wouldn't meddle in anything that wasn't your business. But for some reason, the guilt of having the ability to help but refusing to, drowned your fixed principle.

Just as you were having an inner banter with yourself, your feet made the decision for you instead and took you to him. You pushed the button on your umbrella to automatically close it, pointing the sharp end to the stranger. You weren't even sure if he's still alive because he suddenly quieted down after that last groan. Only the light from the nearest post gave you an unclear sight of the man and the fluff of his fiery red hair.

One of his hands fell limp on the floor while the other was covering his wound. It seemed like he's been in the same spot for minutes yet the distinct bright colour of fresh blood told you the injury happened not very a while ago. You weren't sure of how to approach him properly, so you lightly kicked his leg once, but he didn't respond. So you kicked him for the second time, this time, harder. Finally, he responded by quietly groaning in pain once again.

“Who… the hell… are you…?” He weakly questioned as looked up to squint and take in your face, but your figure was against the light from the lamp post, so your silhouette was the only thing he's capable of registering. Even when in pain, his voice still sounded atrocious. Like he's someone used to speaking to people harshly. Luckily, you weren't intimidated for a single bit. It'll take a lot more than harsh tones to drive you away. You've been there.

You fumbled inside your tote bag to search for your phone, “Who are you to ask?” When you got ahold of your phone, you turned the flashlight on and you got a clearer view of the blood oozing out of this stranger's side, staining his hand in the process. It looked like a stab wound, judging from the volume of the blood oozing out from the wound.

“As expected.” You raised your hand to point the sharp end of your umbrella to him once again. “I will help you. But if you attempt to do anything funny, I'll stab you on your other side, too.”

Your first option as was to call immediate professional help. As you tried to dial the hospital hotline to call an ambulance, your phone kept indicating there was no service. The signal's jammed. You almost threw your phone to the nearest wall out of frustration as you hit the side of it with your palm. You side-eyed the man behind you.

Shit. Now what? This kind of stab wound is fatal, especially because he already lost plenty of blood beforehand. It wouldn't bleed that much if the penetration wasn't deep. It might have even hit a vital spot. Calling for help now will be difficult because of this deserted alley and the continuous pour of the rain didn't help either, plus, your phone has no service.

“..I don't need… your help...!” he glared at your silhouette and cursed himself as he shut his eyes tightly while attempting to sit upright, enduring the excruciating pain on his side.

“You're quite obnoxious for a dying man.” You looked around to search for more resources. This is a closed alley. If you leave him here for another minute to find help, he might completely lose his consciousness, he was already limp in the first place. You were left with no choice. Your hand hesitantly reached to fumble around your bag once again until you got an OS, gauze pads and sterilized medical stitching needles.

Your mother would be furious if ever she finds out you stitched a stranger's wounds. You can only imagine her yelling, “Patients are not your playthings and the Medical field is not your playground! Who are you to perform Medical procedures? You're not even a Doctor yet!” Yeah, for sure Dra. Jo wouldn't be so pleased to find out her daughter's attempt to fix someone up. You kneeled and looked at the stranger. You needed to gain his trust as professionally as possible.

“I won't ask your name since you're clearly hard to talk to. I'm [Y/N]. I'm no Guardian angel of yours. I do light voluntary work in hospitals and I have current trainings on how to attend to emergency patients. But I'm still a high school student so I'm not yet licensed. Anyway, going to a hospital will always be the safest option, but I have knowledge about stitching wounds, at least. I'm going to temporarily stitch you up so you don't lose more blood, then we'll get you to a hospital once I find phone service.”

You surveyed his overall state, he looked very pale, although it's easy to tell that he's naturally pale, by losing a lot of blood, he's getting even paler each passing second. You were running out of time.

“Do you consent to this?” You asked him calmly through your glasses.

He breathed out heavily. You knew he was wary and reluctant. Which is understandable. But if it's not you, who else will do it? You heaved a sympathetic sigh. As you unemotionally tell him about the circumstances of his skepticality, that you well acknowledge.

“Hey, you might have a family member waiting for you at home. They would be devastated to just hear from the news that you were found dispatched and lifeless out here in the morning.” you looked around, left and right. “I won't force your consent out. I haven't touched you anywhere yet and I wouldn't if you don't want me to, so I can just leave you here, without me being a potential suspect of your murder. But you should probably think about the ones that didn't know their last sight of you alive was the last they'll get, ever.”

He looks at you for a few seconds while he grits his teeth, before he slowly, lightly nods. Shutting his eyes and removing his hand from covering the wound, implying that he had put his trust in you.

You checked his carotid pulse first. Just as you thought. Erratic and weakened. And then looked over to watch the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders. Shallow breathing. He definitely lost a high volume of blood already. You hastily started disinfecting everything—your hands, the tools, even the gloves. You checked his expression. You gave him a heads-up before lifting the side of his shirt to attend to the wound properly. You began working up and stitching the wound on his right side. You looked at his face once again that's being covered by the shade of the unfinished constructions caging the alley, while going through your first stitch.

“I'm sorry, this is the only option, for now. I'll find more professional help after this.”

He had no more energy left to open his mouth and reply. He grunts in pain while you were busy ushing the needle through-and-through. You asked him to bite down on a cloth while enduring the pain, since you didn't have anesthesia and he can feel every poke of the needle on his skin. You stitched him with precision with your skilled hands. Your hands were painted crimson red during the process.

This wasn't your first time stitching. You've done this a couple of times—but only to a simulator. You pulled yourself together as you kept in mind that a person's life is in your hands this time.

While you were focusing on the stitches, all the stranger can muster are croaky groans, as the pain of the wound and the stitches stung, so you tried to do it faster. When you were done, while wiping your blood-stained hands, you noticed how his chest was rising and falling rapidly as he was wincing in pain. He tried to look up at you again, but his sight of you was blurry.

“Don't worry, that'll be removed at once when you're taken to the hospital. What I did is only first aid, and you already lost a lot of blood so we still need to get you to the hospital as soon as possible.”

You pushed your knees to stand up and find phone signal, but before you can, his hand rose and reached for yours.

“No.” He clutched your hand to stop you. His hand was rough—and also large. You have large hands for a female, but his hand almost completely enveloped yours.

The side of your lips shifted downward while looking down at him. “You must really want to die.”

He gripped your hand tightly from the severe pain he's enduring. You know how much pain he's going through right now and he didn't mean to do so, so you let him squeeze your hand.

“I would rather die… than pay a hospital bill.” he weakly held on to you, falling completely unconscious. His head fell on your lap. You furrowed your brows and put his head into a more comfortable position.

Oh, so he was serious on dying?

You coming to his rescue definitely doesn't just end with a few stitches.

***

please bear with me, you guys. i wrote this way past my bedtime before a 7am class so it's yet still unedited lol ! always remember to put seeking professional help as top priority if you ever encounter this kinda scenario irl

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 14

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 32.5k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau A/N: 32.5k....uh, i...this is fucking crazy, years in the making basically. and tumblr let me post all of It!!!!

Present (XIII)

THE ARENA; THE BEACH (4:10 am—4:23 am)

The female morphling gasps raspily in Peeta’s embrace as he soothes her and Finnick feels fuzzy, blurry around the edges. He turns his back to the display, his gaze sweeping the treeline. He can’t look—won’t look—as she takes her last breath. He doesn’t know her, but he can’t shake that feeling of helplessness. There’s nothing more he can do but watch as she dies. 

Would you have thrown yourself between Peeta and certain death just as readily as she did? Like Mags did? He grips his trident and tries to keep a grip on his sanity as well, but that’s a lot harder to hold on to than the metal in his hands.

The monkeys have all but disappeared back into the jungle. They wouldn’t come onto the beach, toppling over themselves as they snarled and spit at him. Finnick knows he’s threatening, a formidable enemy with his trident wielded as an extension of himself. Still, even he knows that shouldn’t have been enough to intimidate a rabid pack of apes with a preference for the blood of victors.

It was almost like they couldn’t come onto the beach. From what Katniss told him, the fog behaved similarly after they fell down the hill. Billowing upwards along an invisible barrier. 

She was so close to making it. Just a few more feet and Mags…

He feels his throat tighten, tears gathering behind his eyes. His nose will start running any second now, which means it’s a perfect time to collect Katniss’s arrows. He stays on guard, but there’s nothing—not one chitter or screech. He pulls blood-stained arrows out of monkey carcasses with the sound of cannon fire dogging his steps.

SECTION 6  (5:47 am—6:38 am)

You have no idea how long you’ve been roaming, but the sunlight sprinkling through the treetops tells you it’s finally morning. The sun isn't very high, yellow rays don't envelop you. Instead, you stumble under the lethargic blue hue between night and day.

You can see again, fully. That's an obvious plus. But, on the downside, the heat will only get hotter. Not that you’d be able to tell with how hot your injury has already made you. 

It’s gotten worse— you’ve gotten worse. It’s made you hazy, you’ve lost track of time. 

You escaped the blood rain, got separated, fought killer beetles, and skulked around like a fox with a lame paw, hiding in the shadows from any predators looking for an easy kill.

You left behind one of your sickles somewhere in the last mile. Having two weapons seemed like such a novel idea when you had other people with you. But after being attacked, wielding them both has only been a nuisance. You could have placed it in one of the belt loops meant for weapons if it didn't pull at and weigh down your tourniquet.

You now hobble along on numb legs as you apply pressure to the wound by pressing your free hand against the blood-soaked cloth you have tied around your waist. 

Between now and the bugs, you had received a sponsor gift. Some sort of thinly sliced dried meat and a seeded roll from Eleven. You hid yourself in the thick underbrush and scarfed it all down; there was no time to savor it while you were so vulnerable.

You’re still vulnerable. As if being alone in an arena deadset on killing you isn’t bad enough, your injury, and whatever is in it, has you moving at half your normal speed. But, for better or for worse, you haven’t come across anyone else. You know not to expect anyone from your original group, but you haven't seen anyone. Your only company is the pounding in your head, the burning in your side, and the odd little creatures that scamper in the trees. 

You thought, perhaps, you’d come across Chaff and whatever’s left of his group. You know from last night that he didn’t die in the bloodbath. The same can’t be said for the male morphling. You sigh, long and heavy. 

So much for trying to learn his name.

You remember how it felt to see Cecelia’s face in the sky. Cecelia and old man Woof, his mind hardly there but still hellbent on keeping her safe. Your throat reflexively tightens. You hadn’t thought she would make it far, but you had hoped—you shake your head. You don’t know what you hoped for, but you can’t help but think of her three children clinging to her as she was reaped and your own mother’s scream when you volunteered. 

You’re all dropping like flies.

You stop for yet another break. Eyes squeezed tight as you gasp in the muggy air—you’re winded. Again. You wipe your forearm across your forehead, sweat wetting the dry blood. It runs down your hairline, dripping a salty mixture into your eyes and mouth.

You can’t keep going on like this. At this rate, you’ll succumb to your injuries before anything else kills you, and, had it not been for the revolution, you’d be fine with that. Dying in the arena was your plan as soon as you raised your hand to volunteer. But things are different now; your plans have changed, and you refuse to break your promise to Finnick. The only way out is through. And your only way out is by getting sponsored. 

You can’t mistake survival for self-sacrifice, which is what this is. Survival. You’ll lose no part of yourself in return for their help.

They’re not taking something you haven't already given—that they haven't already taken before. 

You lower your head, feigning exhaustion as you catch your breath, though you don’t have to act much. Subtly, you adjust your hand, ensuring any movement escapes detection. At most, it might look like your fingers are involuntarily twitching, disguising the deliberate pressure you're applying to the wound. The pain makes tears spring to your eyes, but that isn’t enough. They need to feel your anguish like it's their own. With a grimace, you dig deeper. Your body flinches away from the feeling, but you don’t let yourself get far. Your nails, trimmed and well-kept, still manage to cut into the fabric, aggravating and stretching one of the already gaping wounds. 

It's an odd feeling—the strike of pain in a place you never imagined you could feel it, fingers worming around like a flimsy stick wrapped in barbed wire. An even odder feeling to scratch at something that was never meant to be felt.

You sob, abandoning any attempt at stifling your groans and ragged breaths. Tremors wrack your body, muscles spasming weakly under your merciless touch. There's a harsh rasp in your lungs, labored breathing, a tang of something metallic. The relentless pressure sears through you, yet you persist. You continue to wiggle your fingers around until you feel the warm trail of tears tracing your cheeks.

You look to the sky and swallow your pride. You’ve done it your entire life; what’s one more time?

You can imagine how you look now. Your face streaked with tears and blood, a mix of desperation and agony etched upon your features. The rivulets of red fluid mingling with teardrops, tracing sorrowful paths down your cheeks. The pain and exertion must be painting your expression, your eyes wide and brimming with torment, the viscous liquid obscuring the once familiar contours of your face. And you top it off with a pitiful pout.

“Seeder, please— please ! I need…I need…somethin’. Any— anythin’ .” You hiccup, gesturing toward your likely festering wound. “I need help. I don’t wanna die.” You allow your face to screw up in anguish, really playing it up. After all, it’s not actually Seeder you’re performing for. 

" Please ." Your plea, a soft sniffle, is barely audible, and it's almost comical how quickly the package arrives. They were waiting, just like you thought. Waiting for that moment of surrender.

That familiar three-note tune pings from above you. The sponsor gift floats down languidly as if it has all the time in the world and you aren't being slowly poisoned. 

You move closer, but it's stopped before it can reach its destination. Instead of falling before you like it should have, the package hangs precariously among the branches. You scan the mess of white, brown, and green. The parachute has gotten tangled in the lower canopies.  

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” You bemoan. 

You stare despairingly up at the package. It tweets that little tune, taunting you from its high perch, and it won’t shut up until you get it. It’ll only draw attention the longer you stall.

From down here, the climb seems daunting, but you’ve climbed higher than this in Eleven when you were younger, starved, and overworked.   

You touch the trunk and the bark is different than what you're used to, but it’s still firm enough that you have faith it’ll hold your weight without breaking. The bark back home is rough and sap-sticky with little to no give. These trees are somewhat slippery and damp from the excess humidity, no doubt. 

You swallow hard against the rising nausea, your fingers gingerly probing the covered wound as you attempt to ground yourself. Your arms tremble as you place your weapon among the gnarled roots. Your side sears with raw hurt that pulsates with each breath, made worse and reopened by your little stunt. With that at the forefront of your mind, the urgency of retrieving the parcel tethered between the two trees outweighs the agony.

With gritted teeth, you reach out for nearby branches, using them as anchors. The mud-slicked roots serve as precarious footholds, threatening to betray you with each move. Each upward pull sends fiery jolts through your injured side, but you ignore the throbbing ache, fingers finding purchase in the deep grooves. You wince, fighting against the dizzying waves threatening to overwhelm you. You realize, perhaps a bit late, that you've been overestimating the adrenaline's ability to numb the pain. You claw your way up, inch by agonizing inch. 

It’s within sight and then within reach. It hangs above you. You position yourself a little higher until both feet rest on one branch. You shimmy, your chest pressed against the trunk as you hug the tree with one arm. Your other arm stretches up, fingers barely brushing the bottom of the silver canister. You pant open-mouthed as the stretch brings your attention back to your injury, destroying the brief blissful second you forgot about it as you came upon your gift. 

You relieve the pressure along your side by pushing to your tiptoes, batting at it like a cat, before you’re finally able to get it in your grasp. It’s a dodgy hold at best. Only your thumb, middle finger, and ring finger have any real grip on it as you attempt to shake it from the branches. It’s not enough. The tendon in your forearm flexes as you rock back onto your heels, using your full weight to dislodge it, and it feels like the entirety of your abdomen twinges with the reintroduced stretch.

But the suffering was worth it. You got it, bringing it to your chest, relishing in the feeling of cold metal in your hand. Each breath is a pained gasp as tears blur your vision. Whether they’re from pain or relief is anyone’s guess. You can't help but smile, laughing with each pant. It's a small accomplishment, barely an accomplishment at all, but—"You did it. You fuckin' did it ." 

You steady yourself before opening it and reading the attached note.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

A rose by any other name is watered just the same.

You flip it around and it reads:

For the venom. Drink up.

- S

The price of medicine in the Games is nothing to scoff at. And who knows how much the prices may have inflated for a Quarter Quell. You'd like to pretend that one of your higher-end patrons sponsored this. That Seeder pulled this together through numerous donations. 

But you know better. 

Snow is supposed to be impartial regarding who survives in the arena. The president sponsoring someone is unheard of, but you know the man better than most. You know what echoes through that dark abyss he calls a soul. There’s always a way around, a way to cheat if you have enough power. It wouldn’t surprise you if he bent the rules in whatever way benefited him. In fact, you know he did. And it seems your survival benefits him. You’re no use to him dead.

Volunteering wasn’t enough to escape him. You’re alive, because he allows it—in the arena more than ever. Your life isn’t even yours to take. It’s his.

You'd throw up if you could afford to lose the food in your stomach.

You pick up the bottle from the canister. It's clear and about the size of your palm. There’s no label, no indication of what may be in it. You pop the cap and sniff it. It smells herbal, almost minty. When you bring it to your lips and tip it back, it goes down fast, leaving an oily film on your tongue. It has no taste.

You wait. You aren't expecting it to instantly fix you, but wouldn’t it be lovely if it got rid of the nagging ache in your wound and the sheen over your vision? Or maybe just your migraine? 

With a sigh, you close your eyes as you thump your forehead rhythmically against the tree, not helping your headache in the slightest. 

Something is bothering you—something you can’t understand. This antidote. Why would this even be a sponsor gift? Sure, at face value, it’s just medicine—there’s tons of medicine a mentor could send in—but it isn’t, not really. There are salves and sleeping aids—those sorts of things. Things that’ll assist a sick or injured tribute, but they won’t cure them. 

This? This is quite literally a cure. What fun would be in that? Where’s the entertainment value? Wouldn’t betting on the stakes lose its appeal if there was something a mentor could buy to instantly get rid of them? 

Did he…? No. No, he couldn’t have. But nothing else makes sense. He must have had it made after you were attacked. For the venom , he knew exactly what was causing your rapid decline—something that can’t be picked up through the camera. The only reason you know those beetles left a toxin in you is because you feel it. You doubt something like this is even available to buy in the shop. If someone else gets poisoned by those bugs, they’ll no doubt die. But not you. Because of Snow, you’ll survive something that should be a death sentence.

He’s cheating. For you.

You look to the ground and contemplate, only briefly, if a fall from this height, in your current state, would be enough to end it all. If you aim for your head or neck, would it kill you instantly or paralyze you? 

It’s because of these morbid musings that you’re able to catch it—the man barreling through the jungle through vines and low branches—but you surely would have heard him with how loud he is. You freeze like a deer, hardly breathing as he stumbles over his own feet. 

The man from Ten. 

He's not a part of the alliance. And it’s just your luck that he falls below you, crashing face-first onto the ground hard enough for you to wince. He crawls up, panting loudly as he spins in frantic circles before focusing back on the direction he came from. It's almost like he’s being chased—

Whoever is chasing him enters your line of sight like they read your mind. Not who, you correct yourself, because the thing stalking forth is certainly not a person. You see its vague, hulking shape in the low light.

You don’t know if it’s something native to the jungle, a mutation of an existing animal, or a completely original mutt. It’s bipedal, bigger than any human you’ve ever seen. Bigger than any bear you’ve ever seen. 

He’s gonna make a run for it, you can see it in his tense stance. It’s a horrible decision, but the only one he can make. The urge to warn him not to turn his back on that thing, because it will give chase is strong enough that you have to bite your tongue, iron bursting in your mouth as your canines dig in.

He tries to run again, but, as you predicted, it easily catches up to him with its much longer strides. He dives down to grab something off the ground. A fallen branch—nothing you could have picked up as weak as you are right now. He aims it at his pursuer. 

“No! No ! Stay–stay back! Back,” he swings the stick threateningly, unbalanced by its heavy weight, and you remember being in a very similar position in your first Games. Your heart seizes at the reminder. The glassy-eyed desperation in the other tribute as he ran towards your scythe, the sound he made as he held his intestines, the resistance and then the sudden give of his neck under the knife—you barely register dropping the metal canister, distracted as you are. It tumbles down a branch before getting stuck in its leaves. 

The thing freezes and perks up at the sound, listening intently, before seemingly letting it go. Go for the kill you do have over the one you could.

The man warns it back again, and to the astonishment of both him and you, it listens. A momentary pause follows, during which the beast regards him with an uncanny semblance of animal intelligence, only to abruptly lunge forward. The beast is unnervingly silent as it moves, despite its enormous size. He tries to flee again, but this isn’t the terrain for a fair fight. From this height, it’s hard to tell if his legs get caught on vines or ensnared by a dead log, but he tumbles again. In an eerily swift motion, the creature seizes his waist, effortlessly hoisting him into the air, holding him aloft like he’s a doll.

You watch on in horror as it grabs his shoulder, nails digging into where his upper arm meets the joint of his shoulder blade and pulls, wrenching his left arm out of the socket. His scream is blood-curdling, echoing back through the trees so clearly that it sounds like jabberjays flying around you. Despite that, it doesn’t drown out the sound of his severed arm hitting the ground.

You’ve heard a mountain lion and their vixen screech before, their mating calls that sound like a woman shrieking in pain. They could be heard from miles and miles away and you would know not to wander too far into the woods for a while. His screams put them to shame.

Its claws are like a hot knife cutting through butter as it tears through his flesh with ease. It shreds muscle and tendons with a sickening squelch. You slap your free hand against your mouth, digging your fingers into your cheek. You want to climb further up to escape having to witness the carnage, but what if it hears you?

You glance down to where you left your weapon on the ground. Why the hell didn’t you bring it with you? If you had , maybe you could’ve helped him. Could’ve thrown it at the beast’s head or dropped it for the man to use. As it is, it’s too far away to be of any use to him. You’re no use to him. You’re helpless. You can do nothing more than watch and you feel sick with this strange, unplaceable guilt. He isn’t your ally, you shouldn’t care, but you do. You care a great deal.

You make the mistake of making eye contact with the man and you wish it were still nighttime. You wish you couldn't see and you were only left with the sounds and your imagination. You wish you hadn't seen the palpable desperation in his eyes. You wish you hadn't looked down and saw a human staring back. 

“Help me! Please!” He lifts his remaining arm towards you as if you can do anything of significance. As if all you need to do to save him is reach down. “ Please !” The Beast doesn’t seem to understand English since the man’s pleading doesn’t draw its attention up to you. Or maybe it’s just too busy relishing in its kill. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper an apology, shaking so hard that you're scared you’ll fall out of the tree. You turn your head away as the Beast starts pulling at the man’s legs, forcing him into a position he shouldn't be in if the series of pops are anything to go by. 

His screams become piercing. You close your eyes, pressing your forehead into the rubbery bark. You’ve never been an awfully curious person or particularly morbid by nature. You’ve never wondered what it sounds like for limbs to be ripped off the body, but now you know. 

Stop. Stop fighting. Just die. Just die, please, just—

There’s a sound of what can only be entrails hitting the ground. 

You whimper, slapping your other hand against your mouth to stifle a sob. Sniffing and chest hiccuping loud enough that it might draw its attention. Luckily, the man’s agonized screams of pain distract the beast.

You start counting, shaky mumbling muffled by your hands. You keep getting interrupted by the wailing from below. 

It takes under two minutes in total for him to stop screaming. Screaming for help, screaming for mercy, screaming for God. It’s replaced by the groans of a dying animal, a death rattle mixed with what you can only assume is the beast playing in the mess it’s making. 

It takes another forty-three seconds for the cannon to fire. 

The nearly silent, but not quite, sound of the hovercraft is the only thing that convinces you to open your eyes. You chance a glance down and it is horrific . It’s what you imagine the aftermath of the blood rain looked like. Your brain can’t make sense of it. It’s almost like you’re staring at a complex math problem you never learned to solve. You can only see the numbers and the symbols, but not the equation they’re making up. You can’t see how this barbarity used to be a human being with thoughts, and feelings, and hopes, and dreams, and people who cared about him.

The claw drops down to pick up his remains. The light shines down, and it’s in this faint light that you're able to get a better look at the beast. Its dark blond fur works terribly to hide the blood stains, which it’s covered in. It’s congregated on its hands, arms, stomach, chest, and legs, but not on its face. That has to count for something, right? That it didn’t…didn’t eat him. It has to count for something.

You push yourself flat against the trunk of the tree, but it doesn't even look in your direction. Still, you try to make yourself as small as possible as the giant thing lumbers off. Just in case.

The hovercraft claw drops down five times to collect the man—a leg, another leg, an arm, a torso, a head —

The ground isn’t safe. That much is clear. 

You told Rue she’d be safe in the trees. Maybe you should take your own advice. It takes you a while to finally move. To convince yourself that, while you’re not safe by any stretch of the word, the beast isn’t coming back for you. Your muscles are sore from being tensed up for so long, joints stiff and aching as you move out of your position.

As you push further up the tree, something makes you pause. You strain your hearing, listening closer to your surroundings. It’s completely quiet now. Even when the beast came thundering through, the animals were still around like nothing was amiss. Yet, now, no bugs are chittering, no birds chirp above you, and no small critters scurry in the foliage. The jungle is completely silent. 

It’s strange because it sounded like someone was calling your name, but that can't be right because that voice—You whip your head to the right. You heard it again. 

You squint, your eyes moving rapidly to spot anything through the underbrush. It's still quite dark—dark enough that it feels like you're peering through a pitch-black pool. But you swear you can see a shape, a black mass stalking through the trees.

And whatever it is, it's calling your name.

You grab an especially thick branch, your stomach turning as you clamber up. It’s a desperate climb as you propel yourself up the tree, ignoring your body’s protests. 

You put your foot in a crevice of the tree trunk, but your wound throbs with the stretch, and your foot slips. You wheeze like you've been punched in the gut, footing faltering on the slippery bark and sending another tremor of agony through your injured side. You react in enough time to tighten your grip so you won't go plummeting to the ground.

You breathe deep and try again, leaning forward to account for the pain in your side.

You grow light-headed as whatever that thing is stalks forward, but by the time it comes close enough for you to see it, you're already perched high on a thick branch—straddling it so you can observe it.

You look down at the animal and big, brown eyes stare up at you. Big, brown human eyes. The light peeking through the trees illuminates its black fur and when it finally stops moving, you're able to get a good look at its face—a familiar face . You don't know how, why, or from fucking where, but you know it. You know that face.

It stands up on its hind legs, clawed front paws leaning on the tree. Not like an animal, it stands almost like it's human and like the beast and—what the fuck is it ?

Its collar turns—its collar ?

“What the fuck?” You whisper, staring with your mouth agape. Why the fuck is it wearing a collar?

Its collar turns with its movement, revealing the number ‘11’ and the insignia for the district.

It opens its mouth and calls out to you. You see its too human tongue and too human lips fold around the syllables and your ears ring with recognition.

It sounds like, like Rue?

That's exactly who it sounds like and now that you've given a name to the voice, the resemblance jumps out at you.

That's her face, her little face, meshed with the monstrosity of the Capitol. And those are her eyes so big and trusting—so uncanny and so human—that you're almost certain those really are her eyes.

It's horrific and cruel; it's inhumane and revolting—it's the Capitol and its hatred staring up at you.

She couldn't even find peace in death.

You grind your teeth together as it scratches at the tree, its voice growing more desperate the longer you watch it. It—it isn't being aggressive like mutts normally are. Not like the beast from before. It's whining like a dog, like a child , like it's hurt.

"Please, don't leave me down here!"

Your resolve falters. Maybe, maybe they found a way to bring tributes back. Maybe Rue really is in there, trapped. And if she is—

This is what they want . They want to bait you, bring down your defenses, and make you vulnerable. If you go down there, it'll tear you apart instantly. Leave you in pieces.

And if that doesn't work, they'll torture you with her voice. Torment you with what they made her into.

You pull your legs up on the little space the tree provides and close your eyes, ignoring the sting of dried blood cracking apart and retearing your wound open. She doesn't like that; her little voice grows monstrous. You don't bother looking down.

You wish you could cover your ears, but you need to be able to hear if something approaches—something else . 

This is hell.

THE BEACH (10:04 am—9:07 pm)

Johanna has no idea how much time she spent searching for you before she decided to just cut their losses and head towards the beach. And, of course— of course —Beetee became too faint to walk on his own two feet, forcing Johanna to drag him through the vines, underbrush, and whatever the hell else was on the jungle floor. 

Her feet finally sink into the sand and she almost cries. The breeze carries the salty smell of the water and each breath of air is already thinner and cooler than any she’s taken since walking into the jungle. The dramatic shift from solid ground to soft mounds is disorienting but not enough to stop her. She keeps walking forward when she realizes she’s the only one carrying Beetee’s weight anymore. She drops him once they’re a few feet away from the tree line. There’s no telling what else could be in there and he makes for an easy target. She looks down at his blood-caked form, scrutinizing him. His eyes close behind skewed glasses, his face slackens, and—he’s passed out. 

He is completely unconscious. 

“Great. This is just— ugh !” She stomps her foot, kicking up sand. You’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth, Blight is dead, and Beetee is well on his way to being next. “This is shitty. This is so shitty.” She snarls down at Beetee’s unresponsive body—soon to be his unresponsive corpse, she’s sure.

And Wiress—Johanna sighs.

Honestly, she’s surprised Wiress didn’t wander off at some point. Instead, she almost walked herself in circles around Johanna. You’d probably say she reminded you of a bird or something, but if anyone asked her, she’d say it was more gnat-like. Just consistently buzzing nonsense into Johanna’s ear—tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock— God !

Wiress circles near her— gnat, gnat, gnat —and Johanna is fed up with just about everything, but especially this. She shoves the older woman down onto the warm sand and she lands next to her district mate, acting for all the world like she wasn’t just pushed with a considerable amount of Johanna’s strength.

She knows that isn’t what you would do; this isn't how you’d handle the situation if the roles were reversed and you were the one stuck with the invalids. You would probably find a way to treat Beetee's injury so he doesn’t fucking die. Then, you’d tend to Wiress with kid gloves and figure out some way to fix her in the process. But you aren’t here and that’s sort of the entire problem, isn’t it? 

She searched for hours and there’s no sign of you. She’s worried; of course, she’s worried. The number of people Johanna actually gives a shit about can be counted on one hand and she’d still have fingers to spare. You happen to be one of them.

When she first won her Games, Johanna hadn't been looking to make friends. Prickly and irritable, she didn't hold back from making this known. She was condescending and scathing and vindictive—she still is—but you just kept coming back.

And then something changed.

Johanna had made the mistake of underestimating just how much Snow hated when things didn’t go his way—just how much he hated to lose. But Coriolanus Snow always got his pound of flesh, whether it was given willingly or not. 

She refused his offer and her family paid the price. Her mother, her father, and her big sister were all taken from her and killed on the president’s orders—framed as a freak accident with them as the only casualties. At sixteen, she was a victor with nothing but three graves to show for it and a fury burning in her chest like a forest fire, never to be extinguished.

So she lashed out, striking at anyone who got too close to her with cutting words that were meant to hurt as much as she did. She kept her distance and she tried to convince herself that it was much better that way. That being alone was her choice. And yet, you were there. You were there despite how much she claimed to want otherwise and you brought Finnick along with you.

Finnick, who just so happens to be another one of those counted fingers. What is she supposed to tell him? 

Oh, hi, Finnick. Why isn’t the love of your life with us? Yeah, we kinda lost her hours ago. Absolutely no clue where she might be or if she’s even alive. Oops.

Yeah, fat chance that doesn’t end with him walking into the ocean, never to be seen again.

She knows you’re not dead. She just needs to find you. She refuses to put another finger down.

Johanna stares down at her allies—her dead weight, more like—as Wiress climbs to her feet, heading straight for the water. If the revolution didn’t need these two so badly, she swears she would’ve drowned them herself to get it over with. If it weren’t for them, she could’ve covered more ground in her search for you like she wanted without having to keep a leash on Nuts and carry Volts. That’s the only thing keeping her here on the beach instead of in the jungle looking for you like she wants to. 

“ Johann a !”

Her head whips up, looking over her shoulder at the quickly approaching figure. “Finnick!”

The relief is almost blinding. Or at least, it would be if it weren’t for the guilt. He descends the slight hill and she sees him looking for you, eyes searching and finding nothing.

She starts prattling off before he can say anything. She doesn’t know why, maybe to buy herself some time before she’s asked the question she doesn’t want to hear and forced to give him the answer she doesn’t want to give.

“We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood.” Just describing it makes her remember it all in disgusting detail, makes her sick. Wiress fluttering around certainly doesn’t help.

“Johanna—”

“You couldn't see, you couldn't speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it. That's when Blight hit the force field.” She gestures roughly to the jungle, but Finnick is already looking, eyes combing the treeline as if you’ll come hobbling out any second now and she feels a bloody bead of sweat drip down her neck.

“Johanna—”

“He wasn't much, but he was from home.” 

“ Johanna! ” He shouts, scaring Nuts into a brief, but blissful silence. Honestly, she’s more surprised he lasted as long as he had without fully cutting her off.

“I’m sorry about Blight, Johanna.” He says, all at once calm again. “Where’s Star?”

Let it be known, Johanna Mason has never found a bush she was willing to beat around, even one as prickly as this. "We lost her in that blood shower." People have called Johanna many things since she became a victor, namely a vindictive bitch—which was more true than not—but no one can ever claim that she’s cruel. She doesn’t enjoy watching the color drain from Finnick’s face, and with it, whatever tentative hope he managed to hold onto. She’s quick to add, “She didn’t hit the forcefield, I know that for sure. It was nearly impossible to see anything, but the hovercraft only picked up Blight.”

Peeta and Katniss come up to them, but no Mags. No response from Finnick either.

“Finnick?” She prods, but he doesn’t reply.

She prepared herself for any reaction he may have. Crying, running off to find you himself, letting himself get carried away by a current, a combination of all three. She doesn’t know what to do with no reaction at all.

He’s silent as he stands alarmingly still, face clear of any discernible emotions. She regards him warily despite her concern winning out over the caution. She’d seen enough animals freeze up just like this before striking. Not that he had ever acted like that before and he’s not the kind of guy to take his anger out on others, but…grief isn’t logical.

Finnick stares off somewhere over her head sightlessly. She might as well be having a conversation with the crashing waves and the salty breeze. He doesn’t answer when she calls his name again. He doesn’t say a thing. And then, all of a sudden, he drops all at once like whatever’s been holding him up has been cut at the root, strings snipped abruptly. 

She and Katniss move forward on instinct to try and catch him, but he crashes down into the sand on his ass faster than either of them can move, his trident landing beside him. She blinks, then blinks again as he collapses in on himself. His back takes on a miserable curve as his elbows lie propped up on his bent knees. He looks completely gutted and Johanna can tell the drastic shift in his behavior has left Katniss confused, but not Peeta. Peeta stares down at Finnick with more pity than she’ll allow herself to show.

" Jesus , Finnick, I'm not saying she's dead. She's just by herself.” Which is almost as good as dead in here. Johanna squats down beside him. She grabs the back of his neck when he won't look up, getting in his face until he has no choice but to meet her eyes. They’re watery and it’s the closest to crying she’s ever seen him. "But she can survive, you know that. She’ll find a way, she always does."

She throws in a scoff like it’s ridiculous that they’re having this conversation in the first place, leaving out the panic she felt when she realized they had lost you. 

“...Right.” He croaks. He doesn’t nod. But he isn’t crying either, so she’ll take it. He sniffs and she worries he’s about to prove her wrong. “Yeah. Yeah, um. You’re right.”

“Let’s just try to stay in one place. Let her find her way to us.” She gives him a pointed look. Meaning no running off.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to stare down at the sand. She'll cut him some slack. After all, she's never loved anyone the way Finnick loves you. She doubts she ever will.

She stands up, getting an armful of Nuts for her troubles, still wet from her dive into the water. Johanna pushes her in another direction that isn’t her personal space. She nudges Beetee with her foot when she notices him slowly gaining consciousness. 

“I got left alone with these two.” She nudges Beetee, who's barely conscious, with her shoe. “I don’t even know if we can consider him alive. And her—”

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

“Yeah, we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock,” Johanna says. This seems to draw Wiress right back in her direction and she careens into Johanna, gripping her and refusing to be steered away again. “Listen, just— stop it .” Johanna manages to get out of her hold, shoving her to the beach. “Just stay down, will you?”

Katniss rushes in and pushes Johanna away, finally opening her big mouth to say, “Hey! Lay off her!” As if Johanna is the one accosting Wiress.

Johanna narrows her eyes in hatred. “Lay off her?” She hisses. Before anyone can react, Johanna rears her hand back and slaps Katniss hard enough that her palm stings with it. She could have done it a lot harder and she probably should have for extra measure.

Finnick finally reacts to that, standing up to pull them apart. “Hey, hey, hey !”

He lifts Johanna over his shoulder, but she doesn’t make it easy for him. Twisting and writhing in his hold like a rabid badger as he carries her to the water. And Johanna is so very tempted to chuck her axe at Katniss’s confused face.

“I got them out for you!”

-

The mood amongst the group is rather somber. Wiress was killed right under their nose. Preventative, if they had only been paying attention. Their canary is dead, as Katniss said. But they noticed too late. It’ll cost them somehow, Finnick is sure.

After making sure a waterlogged Beetee is breathing more air than water, Finnick can’t look at him for long. For no reason other than the fact that he can’t stand it. What is there to see other than a man mourning his district mate, his friend? Someone who’s been in his life longer than they haven’t. It sparks a resigned anger in Finnick, an anger that simmers and smolders. An anger that burns but doesn’t have the room to spread. An anger that’ll consume him and only him. He burns for Beetee and himself, for Wiress and Mags. It’s an anger that prays Chaff will survive, or else it’ll consume you too.

Beetee rolls his thin, golden wire between his fingers and Finnick knows he’s thinking of Wiress. He looks away, down at the low-hanging branch he’s leaning against. What is there to do? He won’t apologize to Beetee for his loss, because that means he’ll be acknowledging that he’s lost something too. 

Katniss is the first to speak after a long stretch of silence. "So, besides Brutus and Enobaria, who’s left?”

“Maybe Chaff?”

“Star.” Finnick reminds them, loathed to leave you out of the count. 

Peeta nods. “Just those four.”

“They know they’re outnumbered. I doubt they’ll attack again. We’re safe here on the beach.” Or, at least, safer than they’d be if they made camp in the jungle. 

“So what do we do? We hunt ‘em down?” Johanna asks, still somehow able to make the only viable option sound like the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. An admirable skill. Finnick isn’t that eager to go marching back in there either. He’d much rather stay in one spot to make it easier for you to find them, but there are only two careers left and he’s confident that the four of them could make quick work of Brutus and Enobaria—

“Katniss!” A girl yells Katniss’s name somewhere behind them, somewhere deep in the jungle. He doesn’t recognize it at first, doesn’t understand what’s happening until—

“Prim!” Katniss is up in mere seconds, darting off faster than he’s ever seen her move. He lunges for his trident, rushing after her. This has trap written all over it, using her little sister to lure Katniss away from the group. And here he is running right after her. 

Shit.

Finnick is the fastest out of the five of them, no doubt. It’s no chore at all to catch up to her. Though it would have been impossible to lose her with how loud she screams, “ Prim !”

By the time he gets there, the screaming is cut off abruptly. 

“Katniss!” He crashes into the small clearing that she’s stopped in, panting. “You okay?”

Before she even opens her mouth to answer, they’re interrupted. The shrill screech that rings throughout the jungle isn’t Prim’s. It’s—

“Annie?” He asks, but he knows those screams and they are without a doubt Annie’s. She screams again as if to answer him and his heart drops. He doesn’t think, doesn’t have time to before he’s running. “ Anni e !”

He chases the sound of her voice deeper into the jungle, but it feels like he’s simultaneously getting closer and further away. “Annie! Annie !”

“Finnick! It’s not her! It’s just a jabberjay. It’s not her.” She says as she catches up to him, but that does nothing to soothe him.

“Well, where do you think they got that sound? Jabberjays copy .”

“You don’t think…?”

He doesn’t bother answering, chest heaving, because he does think. He knew the Quarter Quell would be a death sentence for more than just him and Mags. He knew that despite her many triumphs and growth since her Games, Annie wouldn’t make it alone—not yet. But this ? This is a worse fate than he could have ever imagined for her. 

“Katniss ! ” This voice is different from the other two, more masculine. Finnick doesn’t recognize it, but Katniss must if the fear in her eyes is anything to go off of.

“Gale.” She whispers, and that’s when the birds stop hiding.

His eye twitches at the next scream, his shoulders hunching closer to his ears. “Finnick! Finnick, please!”

“Star?” Your name falls off his lips as a faint whisper, but it feels like a razorblade as he forces it out of his throat. Because putting your name to that tortured voice is torture in and of itself.

But that doesn’t…how could they have—if, if you’re here, then how would—But he doesn’t know that for sure, does he? He doesn’t know where you are, does he? None of them do. He wouldn’t put it past Snow. 

He could see it now: Snow plucking you out of the arena during the bloody chaos, dragging you kicking and screaming somewhere deep in the walls of the Capitol, and letting animals in lab coats draw these horrible sounds from you. There really is no limit to his sadism, is there? There’s no line he won’t destroy as he crosses it.

The birds start diving low to pinch at their skin, pull their hair, and strike at them with their wings. He tries to swat them away when dodging doesn’t work before realizing the only way out of this will be by getting out of the four o’clock wedge, like with the fog and the monkeys.

“Come on, come on, come on!” He shouts, pushing Katniss to run back the way they came from and he can barely hear himself despite the way his vocal cords protest at how loud he yells. They run— sprint away from the birds, unsuccessfully. They draw blood but the wounds the jabberjays leave are more than skin deep. When they finally spot the others, Finnick almost feels the relief viscerally. 

It’s this that makes him blind to the fact that the other three don’t approach them, that they hold their hands up to tell them to stop. He only sees it when he runs face-first into the barrier with a crunch of something important. He groans, barely catching himself from falling on his ass. His eyes water as something warm and metallic dips into his mouth and he doesn’t need to touch his face to know his nose is bleeding.

They try to get Finnick and Katniss out from the other side with their weapons as Beetee stares on with palpable sadness. It’s a good effort, Johanna with her axe and Peeta with his machete, but they don’t even make a dent. He’s stuck here for the next hour. When that sinks in, Finnick can’t stop his ears from listening to the screams around him.

“Help me, Finnick! Please!”

“Finnick!”

Finnick stumbles backward over his own feet as he stares up at the hundreds— thousands of jabberjays circling above them. The sheer number of them, they almost paint the sky black. Some fly just out of reach, tauntingly, while others settle into tree branches. But they all open their mouths to sing a cacophony of horror. He looks over at Katniss and he knows she’s screaming. He can’t hear it, but he can see it in the way her entire body quakes as she bangs on the barrier. 

The wails of pain are deafening and he gives up before Katniss does, dropping to the floor. Finnick hunches over, making himself smaller as he clenches his hands over his ears and digs his nails into his scalp, hoping the pain will distract him. It doesn’t. He presses the heels of his palms into his skull and the throbbing ache does nothing to take him out of the moment. 

He’s trapped.

Even though there must be at least five voices surrounding him, including Katniss’s, Finnick can only focus on two. He only hears you and Annie, your begs and screams swimming together to grate against the confines of his skull. He apologizes but it’s more of a vibration in his chest than any sound said aloud. He tries to think, but he can’t, he can’t—can’t think of anything else. What could they have done to make you scream and plead and cry like this, reaching out for him when he can never reach back? Helpless, yet again, as you and Annie are tortured. 

He’s helpless and he’s hopeless and Finnick sobs, his forehead thudding against the ground over and over. He imagines your hand rubbing his back soothingly as you run fingers through his hair and it only makes him cry harder, chest rocking with painful hiccups.  

-

Coming to the beach feels like admitting defeat, but your chances of survival in that jungle decrease substantially the longer you stay there. You don’t know how long you cowered in that tree, but you know you stayed long after the Rue mutt went silent. 

You limp along in the sand. Your only hope is that you’ll spot Finnick when he comes to the water to fish. That’s when you hear it. A masculine voice yelling, screaming something. You poise yourself to start running in the opposite direction. You don’t know who’s left, but it would be difficult to take on Gloss or Brutus even if you weren’t injured. Something makes you stop though, something tells you to listen. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but you can make out who’s saying it. 

Peeta !

Your feet carry you back into the jungle, tripping over your boots and vines and anything else in your path, but you don’t fall. You don’t allow yourself to. You speed up the louder Peeta’s voice becomes, closer and closer and closer until you see them. 

You don’t quite understand what it is you’re looking at. Beetee looks to the sky underneath his glasses, scanning for something. Johanna is slamming her axe against a clear barrier, clear like what you saw the beetles bumping into. And you were right, Peeta is the one screaming. 

Johanna spins around as you approach and her eyes light up at the sight of you.

“You found us.” She pants, axe falling to her side. “Oh, thank God.” She moves and it’s only then that you see him.

Finnick is curled up on the ground with his hands covering his ears.

“Finnick!” You rush forward, falling to your knees without a second thought, reaching for him and meeting nothing. “Finnick, it’s me!” You bang your fist against the barrier but it’s like he can’t even hear you.

“Jabberyjays.” Johanna says from behind you, and, suddenly, you understand.

You don’t take your eyes off of him, to do so feels like you’re leaving him in there alone. It becomes even clearer why Peeta is yelling, because curled beside Finnick sits Katniss. Peeta’s yelling, because he’s trying to be louder than whatever voices are being used to torment her. 

This isn’t how you wanted to reunite with Finnick, but, you sigh shakily, blinking back the water in your eyes, you’re so damn glad to see him. 

“It’s no use.” Johanna huffs, you feel her pacing behind you. “He can’t hear any thing, not even you.” That may be true, but seeing him in such a state is making you desperate in your panic. 

“But he can read my lips.” You realize, you just need to get his attention. He needs to know you’re here, that’s it. You don’t know how long you kneel on the ground yelling, screaming yourself hoarse alongside Peeta, focused only on Finnick. But, by some miracle, something makes him look up. Maybe he can feel you, sense that you’re there—regardless, he looks up and you smile, laughing in relief. 

He’s crying, tears making tracks in the dirt along his face and it breaks your heart. There are a few scratches along the right side of his face and there’s crusted blood under his nose. The birds got him good and you don’t just mean physically. 

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you’re really there. Like he can trust what his eyes see as much as what his ears hear. 

“Finnick! Finnick, baby, it’s not real.” You enunciate, shaking your head rapidly. “ It’s not real.”

Star? He mouths and you nod eagerly, pressing your forehead to the transparent wall. He clambers up, shuffling forward to copy you. He presses his big hands to your smaller ones, forehead to forehead. His eyes slip closed, lips quivering and you can see the same relief you feel shake through him. His shoulders quake with his sobs, but his eyes don’t stay off of you for long. He’s scared to look away from you, you can tell. 

You take in a deep breath, and then another, each one less unsteady than the last. Telling yourself not to cry proves to be fruitless. You can only imagine what it is he’s hearing.

“Remember when I ate fish for the first time? I think you had just turned eighteen—no, nineteen and, I don’t even know how it came up, but I told you I never had fish before and you were appalled .” A small crease develops between his brows as he watches your lips, but eventually, he nods, beautiful eyes flickering up to yours. They almost look gray whenever he cries, a glossy film muting the color. But they’re still breathtaking. A thousand and one poems, you think. “You made me try more fish than I even knew existed and I ended up throwing up over the balcony. And, and you felt so bad, and you kept apologizing, but I couldn’t stop laughing at the idea of some Capitol elite wearing my puke as a hat. Do you remember that, Finn?” He blinks a few times before his mouth tilts into a small smile, one you don’t even realize you copy. 

Yeah, sweetheart. I remember. 

Your heart flutters at the pet name even after all this time. 

You go on like that, saying whatever comes to mind with Finnick watching your lips carefully, reverently like your words are the only thing keeping him upright for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, maybe even forty. 

“The hour’s up,” Peeta says, relieved, though you aren’t sure what he’s talking about. But then the jabberjays start falling to the ground dead, wings flapping pitifully before they still, and you know it’s coming to an end. It’s an unnerving sight. Not that Finnick notices with how closely he watches you. “The hour’s up.”

Something shifts. The air goes still and then, suddenly, you feel warm callused skin under your hands and a damp forehead against your own. Finnick falls into you, his big frame feeling incredibly small in your embrace as he trembles. 

“Star.” He breathes almost mournfully. 

“Hey, baby.” You grin, taking his face into your hands. You rub blood-smeared thumbs along his cheeks. His eyes are puffy and you want to kiss them. Something rushes over you, because you can do that. There’s no reason not to now. You’re not acting for the cameras anymore, not hiding anything to make your patrons feel special. You’re together now, they can’t use you against each other as punishment. You lean forward and he closes his eyes like he already knows what you’re going to do.

Or maybe it’s a case of your desires syncing up so intrinsically that you’ll know what the other will do without being told. 

Just like it used to be.

You press your lips against each of his eyelids, savoring the feeling. You pull back—he freezes momentarily, probably at the thought of you letting him go—but only enough to see his face clearly. “Are you alright? You okay?” He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know the answer is no.

You wind your arms around his shoulders and he buries his face into your neck. You whisper reassurances into his ear, running your fingers through the hair curling along the back of his nape. One of his hands reaches up to grip your bicep while he folds his other arm around your waist.

“It’s over. It’s okay. They’re gone. The hour’s gone. The hour’s up. It’s alright.” You look over to see Peeta comforting Katniss, coaxing her out of the protective ball she’s curled herself into. She jumps, gasping once he touches her. 

“Prim! Find Prim!” She yells, to your slight confusion. 

“No, no. Prim’s okay.” He reassures her and, though seemingly impossible, Finnick’s grasp on you tightens.

“They used your voice.” He says into your neck. Your voice? Why would they do that when it’s something so easily disproven? And why your voice specifically? Another protocol broken by Snow? You wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve got more questions than answers and the only person that can answer them is the last man you’d want to speak to again. “Yours and Annie’s. I-I thought, I thought you were gone. I,” he inhales, “I thought they took you.” He croaks despairingly and you just might start crying again.

“I’m right here, Finn. No one’s gonna take me.” You whisper, a promise meant for his ears only as you curl around him protectively.  

“Okay? They won’t touch Prim. Alright?” Peeta talks her down and you wish you could help.

“It was fake.” You say, loud enough for the others to hear. Their gazes swing to you. “Apparently, it’s not hard to take a regular recording of someone’s voice and—”

“Modify it,” Beetee picks up, nodding in agreement. He was the one who told you about it a few years back. It has always stuck with you. It made your skin itch then and it makes your skin sting now. “Change the context, in a way. Our children learn a similar technique in school. Fairly young, at that.”

“Your fiance’s right. The whole country loves your sister. If they tortured her or did anything to her, forget the districts, there would be… riots in the damn Capitol.” Johanna attempts to help in her own blunt way, but there’s an undercurrent of jealousy. Something every victor must feel. You know you do. What makes Katniss’s family more lovable than your own? Doesn’t your mom deserve the protection that comes with that kind of public acclaim? That safety net? A part of you hates how envious you are of Prim, this little girl, but it can’t be helped.

“Hey, how does that sound, Snow? What if we, what if we set your backyard on fire?! You know you can’t put everybody in here!” She shouts to the sky. You all stare at her, silent. Even Finnick who still clings to you watches her. “What? They can’t hurt me. There’s no one left that I love.” You know that to be tragically true. 

When it happened, it spread amongst the pool of victors like a plague. A factory fire in Seven? The same district whose entire industry is lumber just so happened to be negligent enough that a fire started in one of their sawmills? Only killing three people, no less?

Snow has never been subtle, not when it falls and not when it sticks. Not when it builds and certainly not when it traps. He’s much like his namesake in that way. But he has no need for subtlety. Not when he’s exacting his own special brand of justice. Not when he’s teaching someone a lesson. Because a lesson for one of you is a lesson for you all.

He attempted to trap her just like you feared he would and Johanna told him no, perhaps very loudly and colorfully. She told you she doesn’t regret it, she only regrets that Snow took it out on her family. And that she didn’t curse him out more before she was escorted out. Johanna Mason has always been the bravest girl you know.

She huffs like a bull. “I’ll get you some water. You too.” She points her axe to you before she storms off. You almost forgot how thirsty you are. 

-

Finnick can’t sit in this jungle anymore surrounded by these fucking birds, even if they are dead. 

He needs to go back to the beach, back to the water. He doesn’t say any of that, and yet you stand, pulling him up with you. He grabs both his trident and your sickle in one hand while you intertwine your fingers with his. He doesn’t ask where you’re leading him, because he’d follow you anywhere. Beetee follows with Katniss and Peeta not far behind. 

His nerves feel raw and exposed, but seeing you, holding you loosens a knot between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t know how he would have fared after the jabberjays if you weren’t there. If he couldn’t get some kind of confirmation that you were okay. If you weren’t there to hold him together. 

They clear the jungle, stepping onto the beach and he sweeps for enemies. When he sees none, he buries the hilt of his trident into the sand and lays your weapon next to it. He notices something as you pull him to the water. 

He looks down at the hand he had wrapped around your sickle to see…blood. You held his face earlier. He uses the back of his hand to rub at one of his cheeks. He pulls back and sees—blood. He thought it was just sweat but both of your hands are covered in fresh blood.

The blood rain your group got caught in happened hours ago, it should be dried and tacky by now. So unless you’ve had the severe misfortune of being caught in it twice—

He stands still, pulling you to a stop.

"How much of this blood is yours?" He asks, dreading the answer. Already, he looks you over, but it’s hard to find anything amiss when you’re drenched like this. You stare up at him confused, brows furrowed before they raise in realization. 

“Oh!” 

Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean? ‘Oh’ isn’t what he wants to hear. ‘Oh’ sounds nothing like ‘none at all, Finn’. ‘Oh’ suggests something substantial that you remembered, ‘oh’ means bad .

"More than you would like." You shrug indifferently like your words aren't kickstarting Finnick's heartbeat double-time. He looks you over again and finds that you’re favoring your right side.

"Let me see."

You sigh, reaching down to your waist. You’ve tied your sleeves together in a tourniquet. You grit your teeth as you untie it and he winces as the cut on his thigh twinges in sympathy. He squats down to get a better look, carefully pulling back the sticky fabric of your shirt and cursing. 

God.  

What could do this? He raises his other hand to your back to steady you. The wounds are, he doesn’t want to say bad , but they’re far from good. There’s no discoloration to suggest infection, he thinks. There’s harsh bruising, but that’s normal, right? It’s to be expected for any injury. There’s nothing to suggest that it’ll kill you. 

He looks up at you and you seem fine, all things considered. You know more about medicine than he does and you would tell him if this was fatal.

The two crooked circles make him queasy to look at, but at least you aren’t bleeding any more. Your entire side is covered in your blood, so that doesn’t promote much confidence. There’s loose skin and jagged cuts and, and…

He tries not to outwardly show how freaked out he is, he doesn’t want to scare you, but, of course, you can tell anyway.

“I’m alright.” You place a bloody hand on his head, lacing bloody fingers in his hair.

He looks between you and the wound in disbelief. This does not look alright. 

He shakes his head, stunned. And more than a little amazed. “How could you forget about this? Even for a second?”

“I saw you.” You say and smile and he knows you’d shrug if it didn’t hurt so much. “And, I, uh, I guess it…it didn’t seem that important. At the time.”

“Star,” he scolds, despite the way his chest feels tight and his eyes feel scratchy with the need to cry again because this is very important. 

But . 

He felt the exact same way when he saw you. He doesn’t know what told him to look up at that moment, doesn’t know what made him lift his forehead from where he pressed it into the dirt, but he did. And there you were. And he could suddenly hear again. Not the screams of pain and anguish around him, but you. He read your lips as you talked and it was like you were beside him, he could almost hear you. The real you. The you that the jabberjays couldn’t mimic. He could feel again and it wasn’t the feathered wings hitting him or the tears trailing down his face. It was you. You were there and that meant nothing else mattered because you were there .

Even now as he stares up at you, at the way you glow under the sunlight, he can barely feel the sting on his cheek from a jabberjay’s talons that got too close for comfort.  

He looks back down at the wound before your beauty can further distract him and frowns.

“What happened to you, sweetheart? Another victor?” He asks, but he can’t even think of what kind of weapon could do this kind of damage.

You sigh wearily. 

“No. No, nothing that simple. I’ll explain later, I promise. C’mon.” You pull at his wrist and he stands. “Come help me wash all of this shit off.” He’s conflicted. You do need to clean up, but he doesn’t know if you should be so blasé about this. He looks over his shoulder at where the others sit a few feet away.

“Okay. But we need to get that taken care of, Star.”

“Of course, Finn.”

“Katniss helped Beetee. With, like, moss. And…Water and stuff. He was in much worse shape, so she can definitely help you.” You let him ramble.

“Okay, Finn.”

-

Katniss sits in the sand, warm despite the permanent chill the jabberjays have left behind. She jumps at the sound of metal on metal, an arrow being added to her quiver. She looks up and behind her at Johanna’s smug face, probably getting a particular kick out of scaring her. 

She hands Katniss an opened coconut full of water and she takes it hesitantly, still more than a little confused about where the two of them stand. “Thank you.”

Johanna says nothing back, not that she expected her to. Instead, she picks up a stray stick and sits to the left of her. 

"What's the deal with those two?" She asks, running the risk of sounding like one of the older women back in Twelve—as rare as they are—who loved to gossip. Not that there was ever anything to gossip about in the Seam. Katniss thinks they just liked the distraction.

Johanna glances up at her before looking to where you and Finnick sit in the water a foot or two away from the shore. Or, more accurately, Finnick sits in the water as you lay across his lap. He washes the blood off of you with the kind of gentleness Katniss thought he only had reserved for Mags. He takes your face between his hands, seemingly taking a moment just to look at you, and the exact nature of your relationship only further complicates in Katniss' mind.

"What isn't the deal with them," the older girl throws the stick a couple of feet, giving up on whatever she was trying to draw. "They won their Games so young, fourteen and fifteen. They practically grew up in the Capitol together. You don't go through half the shit they've been through without growing a little attached."

Ah. She can believe that. You won your Games before her father died, so she remembers some of the fanfare—the interviews you and Finnick used to do together, all of which were projected in the town square, had always confused her. From what she learned in school, Four and Eleven couldn’t be any more different. What was the point of pairing you two together? 

She isn’t a strategist like Peeta, she can admit it’s not her strong suit. But if she thinks less like the districts and more like a victor, it makes sense.

Two victors who are close in age, both attractive and charismatic. Who wouldn’t want to see them together? Usually, victors from the same district get paired together for their television appearances, but neither Four or Eleven had another victor appropriate for public consumption, either too old or too crazy. 

“Hmm.”

When she was younger, she imagined victors like you and Finnick—pretty, charming, well-loved—were living the dream. 

But if two of the most beloved and revered victors are miserable, what chance did she and Peeta stand? No, she knows the answer to that. She doesn’t have a chance. She can’t handle it, the Capitol. She’s barely been subjected to it for a year, and even then, that’s only the tip of the knife.  

You were right, she realizes. In comparison to you and Finnick who’ve been on this ride for nearly a decade, she’s incredibly lucky. She’s already slipped up once, and it cost a man his life.

The weight of Snow’s threat looms over her and without the Quell, it would have only been a matter of time before she did something else to displease him. But Peeta knows how to play the game, he knows how to sway the audience. He came up with the romance, with the baby. It took her some time to understand the significance of those two plays, but she gets it now. She couldn’t have done that, couldn’t have possibly thought to.

Nobody worries about Peeta and whether or not he's selling the romance. She's the risk factor here.

Yet another reason why he should be the one making it out of here and not her.

"Then what happened?" They didn't act this close during training . In fact, while she was unsure of Finnick's intentions, Katniss was almost certain you hated him. That was, perhaps, partially the reason she found it so hard to trust him. 

"The same thing that always happens when Snow sniffs out that someone has an ounce of happiness. He cut it at the root.” Katniss attempts to understand the implications of that statement. How much is she not saying? Suddenly, Katniss glances to the sky, remembering all at once where they are and that this conversation is far from private. How much can she say? She looks back to where you and Finnick have huddled even closer together, noses nearly brushing. She’s too far away to hear the conversation, but she can tell from here that whatever is being said is done in a whisper. As soft as freshly hung sheets drying in the sun. Maybe softer. 

You two are a mystery she hadn’t even been aware of. And maybe it isn’t her place to try and solve it, but she knows one thing for certain. It’s becoming increasingly clear that the only real victor is Snow.

Suddenly Johanna sighs, long and weary like the old bloodhound Katniss used to stop and pet when she sold her catches in the merchant area. “Love is weird.”

-

“So it’s a big clock?”

“Yep.” The water has become a murky red, just diluted enough to not be opaque. “Wiress figured it out—in her own special way.” He didn’t think twice about her weird little chanting. There was too much going on in his own head to wonder about hers.

He can’t dip you into the water like he did Johanna. It would be far from productive and certainly less fun. You need a gentle hand which he’s more than happy to provide.

He’s heard of saltwater washes being used for wounds, but that might be a little different from the water in the arena. There’s sea life swimming around, which means bacteria. Not to mention the blood of victors unlucky enough to be slaughtered during the bloodbath. All of which will open you up to an infection. 

So instead, he thought it best to lay you horizontally across his lap, propping your torso up to keep your wound dry. 

“That makes so much sense. It feels so damn obvious now.” You scoff, shaking your head. 

He smiles and says, “I’m sure you could’ve figured it out too.” 

You huff. “Mhm. Sure.”

The blood comes off of you in thick clots before disintegrating in the water. The real problem presents itself when he attempts to wash it out of your hair. The blood sits heavy and congealed in your curls, oily enough that rinsing it out proves nigh impossible. The salt in the water helps, but only barely. 

Finnick’s fingers are gentle as he works, diligent yet soothing. You inhale, relaxing into him. He finds himself hunching over you protectively, curling his body over yours like a shield. 

“and…Wiress?” You ask, not so much about her absence. It isn’t hard to guess what the absence of a woman like that means in a place like this. It’s what caused said absence that you’re after. Finnick sighs.

“The careers came. Snuck up on us while we were busy mapping out the arena. And then Gloss ran a knife through her neck.” He says. He knows you wouldn’t want him to spare you from the details. You asked him because you want to know.

“Oh.” You say, the subtle waves withdrawing and climbing around your shoulders and your head. It might get in your ears. Should he scoot back? Maybe further up the beach? “How’s Beetee taking it?”

“He’s…taking it. The man’s a robot.” He grumbles with less snide than it should have come out. The people expect him to be catty, but Finnick’s been declawed for a long time now. Your eyes stay closed but there’s disapproval written in your brow. Because you know him. You know where to look when he’s hiding.

“Finnick…” You sigh, and he sniffs.

“I don’t know. I guess…he didn’t really think she’d make it.”

“I’m sure he hoped though—that it wouldn’t be so violent, I mean.” You peek an eye open as you catch yourself before relaxing again. He chuckles. And then he remembers where he is.

There was an agreement, something all the victors wanted if they were going to do something as risky as openly rebelling. Immunity for their loved ones. Plutarch agreed to make it a priority ‘if possible’. He knows you asked for your mom, the same way he asked for Annie. But Beetee came into the arena with the only person he cared about. He doesn’t think Beetee has any family other than Wiress. And now, other than you and Annie, Finnick doesn’t either. 

“Yeah. Well. See how well that hope worked out for him.” Instead of replying, not that there’s really anything to say to that, you grasp his hand tenderly, pressing a kiss to it. You open your eyes to look up at him, lips pressed to his knuckles and he can feel the apples of his cheeks along with the shell of his ears go warm, flushing with something other than the heat. It’s not that he isn’t used to physical affection from you, he’s getting reacquainted with it. All while being on national TV. Caesar’s gonna have a field day with this. He wonders how he and his odd little cohost are narrating this, but his mind doesn’t stay on them for long. You let your lips linger, idly drifting to the tips of his fingers, and the muscle in his hand flexes with an impulse he can’t quite explain. Though he is particularly distracted by the drag of your lips against his skin as you talk.  

“I’m sorry about Mags, Finn.” His lips twitch downward. 

“Me too.” You didn’t get nearly enough time with Mags. It adds insult to injury. 

It’s quiet. But it’s not heavy like he’s gotten used to it being since they’ve entered the arena. It’s light, there’s nothing expected of either him or you. He can breathe. The salty smell of seawater calms him almost as much as your humming does. He recognizes it as one of the songs you composed.

“This is technically an ocean, isn’t it?” He pauses, looks around, considers it. 

“I guess you could call it that. Albeit, a rather small one.”

“And, that would make this a beach then? Right?” Your mouth twitches, you’re trying not to smile. He rubs his thumb along your cheek because he wants you to.

You sit up with a little difficulty that you try to hide. He sees it, because he always sees you, and helps you sit beside him. He’s been done for quite some time now. He just wanted to keep touching you. Making sure you’re real, and you’re here with him. In your time apart, he forgot that he didn’t need to find his own assurance. All he had to do was ask. He holds out his left hand and you take it.

“It’s the first I’ve ever seen in person. I haven’t had the chance to take it all in considering, well, y’know.” You laugh and Finnick assumes the birds can only listen in jealousy. Not even they can sing a song as sweet as that. “I could do without the circumstances that led up to it, but, hey.” You nudge your shoulder into his and stay there, sides pressed together, and he leans into you. “We’re here, aren’t we? We’re side by side in the sand.”

His head tilts in confusion before his eyes widen. Side by side in the sand, just like he wanted all those years ago. A childish wish that never stood a chance of coming true, but a wish he sent to you in a letter all the same. Looking back, that sort of hope should have been drained from him—it had been drained from him. But not with you. No, hope is your currency and Finnick had been in massive debt before he met you. 

He wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life, it seems. It’s been a long two years and, before that, a long couple of months. He needs to kiss you and, he realizes with a buzz of excitement that he can.

“Star?” He coos, tracing circles on your palm. You hum in reply, turning away from the view to look at him. He leans forward, closing the distance between you, and finds you more than eager. His lips meet yours in a tender, slow kiss, a culmination of two years' worth of longing. One hand goes to the back of your head to pull you closer, the other goes to your jaw. It’s always been easy for the two of you to get carried away, to get lost and found in each other.

The softness of your lips against his ignites a flame that had been dormant for too long. Time seems to stand still as the world fades away, leaving only the sensation of your touch and the caress of the sea breeze. He’s a symphony of emotions—passion, longing, and the sweet relief of finally coming home. The taste of salt from the sea mingles with the sweetness of something familiar, creating a flavor that is uniquely yours. It’s a rediscovery of something he feared might be lost. 

As he pulls away, the echo of the kiss lingers in the air. He’s slow to open his eyes, but when he does, they lock onto yours. Your lips are wet with spit and slightly open as you stare at him with open awe, like he’s something to be admired. The entirety of Panem has witnessed your reunion. And he’s still holding you close. Pride probably isn’t the right emotion to feel right now.

His smirk says otherwise.

He and his silver tongue grasp and flounder for something to say. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look, how beautiful you always look, even when covered in scrapes and the Capitol’s vitriol. But that’s obvious in the way he’s gazing at you. Hasn’t been able to look away from you.

He wants to tell you how thankful he is that you’re finally here with him, but that’s obvious in the way he’s kept a hand on you—always touching somehow since that barrier came down. He wants to say all that and more, ardently and profusely, but you already know how the sky is blue. Instead, he says something you don’t know.

“I saw a monkey.”

 You grin in excitement, still so close that he can feel it against his own smile. “Really?” 

-

The two of you fall back into step with each other, synchronous like no time or space has passed between you at all.

What they know so far is enough to keep them alive. The arena is a clock and each section houses a special horror that rears its head twice a day. Twelve to One, Lightening. One to Two, Blood Rain. Three to Four, fog. Four to Five, monkeys. Five to Six, jabberjays. With you here, they’re able to map out two other sections. 

You explain to them the other active wedges you’ve been through. In the wedge between the blood and fog, Two to Three, you draw a crude circle with spikes. 

Finnick tilts his head. And then tilts it in the other direction. "Pineapples?" He guesses. 

"No," you say with an offended pout. "Beetles."

"Right." He nods like that was his second guess.

“Venomous.” You add.

“ Venomous?”

He regards your wound with a new kind of fear. It’s not just infection that you’re fighting, but now there’s venom working through your bloodstream? Finnick’s ears ring for a second, out of tempo with his elevated heartbeat. He looks you over. It isn’t like he didn’t notice how drawn and fatigued you look, but now he can attribute it to something deeper than just the arena draining you. 

A surge of panic seizes his chest. The image of you in pain, alone and vulnerable, haunts him. His grip on his composure fluctuates as he struggles to comprehend the new threat for what it is. For what it’ll do to you. But before his anxiety can fully manifest into something he can’t predict, your eyes meet his over your shoulder. Silent reassurance is given while a wordless plea for his composure is asked for in return. 

The warmth of your presence soothes and settles him. 

You turn back to the group, addressing them calmly about something that should normally cause, well, the exact opposite of calm. 

“The beetle’s venom is poisonous, but I was… fortunate. A Sponsor sent in an antidote.” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow. A mixture of relief and bewilderment clouds his features. He meets Johanna and Beetee’s eyes and finds that same relieved confusion reflected back at him. A sponsor gift like that shouldn’t be possible. Your touch grazes his arm gently, and the value of that kind of gift is only lost on Katniss and Peeta. As well as the realization of who could pull off such a thing. Who has enough money, enough power, enough sway to have such a gift at the ready and sent into the arena? Who else but their president? Who else but Coriolanus Snow ?

Finnick feels sick at the realization, a queasy anger that's unfortunately laced with gratitude. Because Finnick Odair refuses to be thankful to Snow for anything . His brain knows that—swears by it. But you place a hand over the one he has resting on your shoulder, a reminder that you’re here when it so easily could have ended differently. He can be grateful for your resilience, your strength. And that has nothing to do with Snow.

The group says nothing for a while. Peeta and Katniss look around in bemusement, look at each other, and then look around again.

Briefly, you look to the sky, the back of your head pressing into his stomach, and Finnick copies you. He looks up and sees nothing but an artificial blue sky with formulated clouds drifting by, but he knows you see something different. 

A bird squawks in the distance and Finnick stiffens. But it's not a jabberjay. Only a seagull. 

“The sun had just started to rise, so…here.” You say, finally coming back down to Earth. You point at the Six and Seven o’clock wedge in Peeta’s rough sketch of the arena. “There are multiple mutts here. All of them monstrous.” You say as if it’s something you were taught, not something you know for certain. Detachment. 

“Well?” Johanna prompts. “You can’t just say something like that and not elaborate.” She pokes and he glares at her. He has half a mind to scold her for pushing you, for poking at a crack in a glass just to see what’ll spill out. 

“What?” She asks, incredulous at the lack of support for her probing. “What’s the point of mapping any of this shit out if we don’t even know what we’re looking for?” She huffs.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” You cut Peeta off. Exhaling sharply, you start, pause, and then start again. “There’s a beast. It’s twice the size of a normal man and covered with fur. It walked on two legs and it was strong . Like, like a human-bear hybrid. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but it tore the man from Ten apart. In the most literal sense. The claw had to dip down four more times to collect all of him.”

“God.” Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles along your nape. He can’t imagine it, doesn’t want to imagine it. Because if he does, it would be all too easy to imagine you in the man’s place as Finnick is forced to watch. He takes a deep breath and squeezes your shoulder momentarily. 

“...Alright then.” Peeta is the first to speak after a short silence. “Beast, six to seven o’clock—” 

“ Beasts .” You correct, not rudely. “There’s, um, there’s more than one thing in there. There was another mutt—a, uh, a dog. It was Rue. It had her eyes an–and it spoke. I was already hurt, lost a lot of blood. Too weak to run, to do much of anything. So I stayed hidden in a tree and she... it begged me to come down until the hour was up. Then it was gone."

"...That's—" Finnick starts, pressing the line of his leg to your back from where he stands close behind you, but he doesn’t know how to finish it.

"Fucked." Johanna says, looking around at their stunned faces like they're weird for not saying it first. But, she's right. Finnick can't think of another word to adequately describe it other than ‘fucked’. "That's fucked. "

“I can’t imagine.” Katniss pipes up to the surprise of, most likely, everyone. She hasn’t said a word to you until now. Is she picturing herself in your position? High in a tree, hiding from the remnants of a little girl you both cared about. “What that must’ve been like. I can’t imagine.” 

Finnick can’t see your face from this angle, but he knows it’s deceptively blank.

“I’m just glad my dad passed before my Games. Don’t know what I would’ve done if they used him too.” You laugh, dry and humorless. He didn’t even consider that.  

Katniss stares at you a little longer, contemplating something, before looking away.

-

It’s a little while later that a parachute arrives. 

District Three has sent loaves of bread if the bite-sized cubes can even be called loaves. Finnick counts them, methodically thumbing them over before placing them in neat, even rows. By the time Beetee asks for the amount, he’s already counted four times.

“Twenty-four.” He says. Four pieces for six people. 

“An even two dozen, then?” Says Beetee.

They’re coming on the third day, tomorrow, but the time doesn’t make much sense. Unless they’re using the twenty-four-hour clock, that is. In this instance, he assumes they’d have to. He’s familiar with it, more than just familiar. He’s lived by it for most of his life. Four primarily uses the system since so much of their time is spent out at sea. After his Games, it was a shock having to get used to the twelve-hour clock used throughout most of Panem with the exception of Two, Three, Five, Six, Twelve, and, of course, Four.

So then, that’s when they’ll come. On the third day, at twenty-four hundred. Midnight. For whatever reason, the plan has changed. Not just the time, but they’ve bumped the day up too.

Beetee will understand it, even if you and Johanna don’t. That’s his role in the plan, after all.

And Finnick reiterates, “Twenty-four on the nose. I’ve already divided them.” 

He passes out each pile to the group. Four for each person with an extra fifth to you from his pile, bringing him down to three.

“I can’t, it’s yours.” You attempt to deny the extra loaf, but it’s perfunctory at best because you and he both know he won’t take it back. 

“It’ll go to waste.” He says. Because no matter how frivolous those in the Capitol may be, that particular trait never rubbed off on you. He also knows after living your entire life in Eleven, you’d never let food go to waste if you can help it. Luckily, no one in the group is enough of an ass to try and claim the loaf of bread for themselves. It’s more than apparent to everyone that you need the extra sustenance. “If you don’t eat it, no one else will.”

So you do so while leaning heavily into Finnick’s side.

-

In the time it takes for everyone to settle in and finish eating, Beetee calls their attention to him.

“I have a plan.” He nods to himself, still rolling his wire between his fingers. “I have a plan.” It makes Peeta a bit apprehensive. Not because of the man himself or anything. Moreso the possible complexity of whatever it is he’s about to say.

Despite how much he wishes he could act otherwise, that brush with the force field has taken more than a physical toll on him. His ability to…to think is hindered, if only slightly. A bit slower to connect the dots sometimes, but that’s all it takes for things to go wrong. He had trouble understanding Beetee before the shock that stopped his heart. But now? Peeta fears that his brain may end up being his own worst enemy here. 

He can’t afford to mess up and force Katniss to save him. He certainly doesn’t want a repeat of what happened to the morphling, to sweet Mags, happening to any of his allies—to Katniss. 

Peeta can only hope that nothing else happens, some other enemy catching Peeta off guard and someone, taking pity on him and putting more value on his life than it’s worth, takes the knife or the claws or the razor-sharp teeth for him. No , he decides. He can’t keep being the deadweight someone else has to carry. He means that literally, in Finnick’s case. It might have worked in his favor during his first Games, but it won’t fly here, especially if he plans on getting Katniss out alive.

He leans forward on the knee he’s kneeling on, digging his machete into the sand to use as a crutch, eyes trained on the older man so he can’t possibly miss anything important.

“Where do the Careers feel safest? The jungle?”

Johanna shoots that down. “The jungle’s a nightmare.”

“Probably here on the beach.” Peeta theorizes. It’s where he’d want to be if he was by himself in the arena with no allies. But it’s more likely he’d be forced to hide in the jungle, blending in enough that anything bloodthirsty—both human and man-made—wouldn’t find him.

“Then why are they not here?” Beetee counters. And Peeta isn’t able to answer him right away, his mind taking a little longer to formulate a response.

“Because we are. We claimed it.” Right. That’s the response he was making his way towards. Only, he’s walking to it rather than sprinting like Johanna seems to be. Hell. Even then, he’s more hobbling than walking.

“And if we left, they would come,” Beetee says, a statement this time instead of a question.

“Or stay hidden in the tree line.”

“To spy on us or find food. They’d be able to see an attack from the jungle or the beach, escape ahead of time.” You finish Finnick’s thought from where he stopped it. Peeta’s thankful for the explanation that nobody else probably needed. “It’s the position with the best advantage.” 

Unlike Johanna and Finnick, you’re sitting down with your back against Finnick’s shins, probably largely due to those holes in your side. Peeta winces thinking about them. He only got a glimpse of them over Katniss’s shoulder as she tried her best to patch you up before he looked away, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever leave his mind. Plus, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget the look on Finnick’s face as you told them everything you had been through.

When you were recounting your journey before you stumbled across them, all he could think about was how strong you are. Certainly stronger than he is. If not physically, then in, perhaps, every other way possible. 

“Which, in just over four hours, will be soaked in water from the ten o’clock wave. And what happens at midnight?” Beetee turns to Katniss, prompting her to answer just with his stare alone. It all reminds him of some of the school teachers back in Twelve. The ones that actually cared about the kids learning anything, at least.

“Lightning strikes that tree.”

Instead of confirming whether she’s correct or not, he continues on. “Here’s what I propose. We leave the beach at dusk. We head to the lightning tree.” Beetee points towards the twelve o’clock wedge where the tree towers in the distance. “That should draw them back to the beach. Prior to midnight, we run this wire from the tree to the water. Anyone in the water or on the damp sand will be electrocuted.”

Peeta picks up a handful of the damp sand underneath them, rubbing the grains between his fingers. It seems like a sound plan, but what would Peeta know? He hardly knows anything about open bodies of water or the conductivity of sand, let alone electricity. Twelve’s curriculum didn’t really have room to fit anything in that wasn’t about coal.

“How do we know the wire won’t burn up?”

“Because I invented it.” Is that why he wanted the wire enough to get stabbed in the back over it? Peeta assumed it was because it would’ve been Beetee’s only chance of survival. Maybe it’s both. “I assure you, it won’t burn up.”

Beetee pauses, looking around. Waiting for the rest of them to shoot the plan down, but nobody else has a better suggestion. Peeta goes to say just that but notices Beetee isn’t looking at him. That by itself is normal, he’s used to it. What he isn't used to is the fact that he isn’t looking at Katniss either. Beetee is looking at the three older victors behind them. 

Peeta first looks to you. You tilt your head, picking at the skin around your nails as you contemplate something. You turn to look up at Finnick who’s already watching you. Something is said without words between the two of you, Finnick places a hand on the back of your neck before you both turn to Johanna. Johanna answers with a slight tilt of her head and a minute twitch of her eyebrow. You’ve all agreed to do it together then, he can tell that much.

He and Katniss look at each other.

“It’s the best we’ve got.” You say, and Peeta agrees.

“Well, it’s better than hunting them down.” Johanna concedes.

“Yeah, why not? If it fails, no harm done, right?” Katniss says.

Peeta purses his lips into a slight frown, followed by a nod. “Alright, I say we try it.” 

Finnick asks, “So what can we do to help?” 

“Keep me alive for the next six hours. That would be extremely helpful.”

-

Peeta suggests they take turns getting some rest in. First go Peeta and Beetee, curling up in the sand under some shade where they made their temporary camp.

“You should rest,” Finnick says to you. You’ve been through hell and you couldn’t have grabbed more than a scant few hours before being pelted with bloody rain. 

“Yeah, I should.” You agree, too tired to put up much of a fight. He can see just how exhausted you are in your eyes. Instead of leaving to lie down, you grab his hand, staring up at him with beseeching eyes.

“Sleep with me?” He wants to, really, he does, but then he looks over to where Katniss sits cleaning the fish he caught. 

By now, he can trust her not to kill him in his sleep, but can he trust her not to bolt? She won’t leave without Peeta, but what’s to stop her from sneakily waking him up and ditching them? As if hearing his thoughts, you nod towards where Johanna paces the shoreline. 

She watches the stretches of open land around them before glancing over to Katniss. She does this again, over and over, all while idly swinging her axe beside her. Deceptive in the way she isn’t on guard. She could handle Katniss long enough for the rest of them to wake up if she tried something. And the siren song of sleeping beside you is too beautiful to resist. 

“C’mon, Finn.” You pull him along and he goes. Of course, he goes.

-

When Peeta comes to, it’s to the sound of unfamiliar birds and the movement of water. He must have fallen asleep outside the bakery, but…he can’t remember there being any water in Twelve. 

There shouldn’t be. He sniffs. Especially not salt water.

He turns over expecting grass and finds something grainy instead. 

He shoots up, eyes opening. 

Sand. He’s sleeping on sand. He’s not outside of his family’s bakery. He’s not in Twelve at all. Had he been, sleeping during the workday would have ensured him a beating from his mother.

He’s on a beach. In the arena. 

He finds a head of chestnut brown. It’s mostly dried by now, made wavey from being in her signature braid for so long. Katniss. He’s on a beach, in the arena. And he’s with Katniss.

He relaxes. Beside him, on his right, sleeps Beetee. If you asked Peeta how well someone could sleep on sand, he’d say fruitlessly. But Beetee sleeps like the dead, clutching his spool of wire to his chest. If he tried taking that spool, Peeta’s sure he’d find that Beetee is gripping it like the dead too. 

To his left, curled into each other like the roots of a tree, lies you and Finnick.

Face to face, legs entangled, Finnick’s arm that isn’t cocooned between your bodies is draped over your waist, somehow mindful of your wound even in his sleep.

He probably doesn’t have the right authority to call two seasoned killers cute, but, and maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in him, but right now, you two don’t look much like killers.

You do, however, look quite young. And, if his minimal prior knowledge is trustworthy, quite in love.

He was more than a little shocked by how intimate of a reunion the two of you had, but, honestly, he was glad to see it. He doesn’t know Finnick well and, in retrospect, he doesn’t know you all that well either, but he thinks he’s an apt judge of character in a way that Katniss isn’t. And he thinks…he thinks you guys deserve each other. He can say that much, right?

You and Finnick deserve whatever moments together you’re able to grab. Peeta doesn’t know how it’ll end for you, doesn’t know how it’ll end for Finnick. Who knows how much time will be left before one or both of you meet cannon fire? Peeta doesn’t seem to know a lot of things, but he knows he doesn’t want to be here to find out.

He doesn’t know what happened before the Games, what led to the strain in your relationship. Honestly, with the way you stared at Finnick—similar, much too similar to how he knows he looks at Katniss—he was a little too scared to ask. But whatever it was apparently can’t touch you two in here.

From what he saw, you two hadn’t even interacted much before that spectacle the night of the interviews and he was tempted to ask you what was talked about after you got off the elevator together. Regardless, words didn’t need to be exchanged for anyone to see how much you two cared about each other. Not for Peeta, at least. And what you told him that day in the Training Center struck a chord.

"You shouldn't have to go into the arena with someone you love. It's cruel."

It is cruel. Crueler still to be the one waiting for someone who doesn’t want you back. You deserve to have that kind of love returned tenfold, and he’s happy you found that in Finnick, that whatever those hurdles were could be cleared, even in here.

He stands and goes to sit with Katniss. For a while, they don’t say anything, just sitting in comfortable silence together, back to back. 

Finnick is the next to wake up, and once Finnick is up, it doesn’t take long for Johanna to go down. Beetee wakes up slowly, and Peeta’s able to convince Katniss to take a short cat nap. Through it all, Peeta notes that Finnick doesn’t leave your side. You’re the last to wake up.

They all meander around, idly talking, until the sun has almost completely set and everyone is awake, coiled, and ready to enact the plan.

-

Johanna is more relaxed, Beetee notes, now that you’re back. He may have been somewhat incapacitated for the majority of your absence, but from what he can recall, she had been snarling and pacing like an anxiety-ridden dog. Even after they finally came across Finnick and the others, she had been tense, maybe even more so. Only after your return did she regain her composure. She’s still rather volatile, but, in comparison to before, she’s almost docile now.

“Do you think it’ll work?” She asks after a moment of silence between them and he knows she’s not just referring to his plan to get rid of the remaining Careers. He knows she’s talking about their escape. “Like, really, honestly work.”

He removes his shoe, turning it upside down to empty it of the sand it’s accumulated. Shaking it, patting the outsole, and slipping it back on before repeating the process with his left shoe.

“It’ll depend on more factors than just us. There are a number of variables we can’t control. Outcomes we can’t account for until they happen. I can’t say for certain, but,” he puts his left shoe back on and adjusts himself on his spool of wire that he’s using as a seat, “yes, I believe it’ll work. One way or the other.”

“Great pep talk.” She mumbles, but he knows she’s being sarcastic. 

A few feet before them are you, sitting, and Finnick wading in the water. They watch Finnick twirl his trident for your enjoyment. He does a complex maneuver, of which you applaud him for.

“Bravo! Bravo!” You laugh and Finnick bends at the waist in a bow.

From the corner of his eye, Beetee sees the divots in the sand Johanna is making with the blade of her axe. “I think it’ll work too.” 

“Mmh. Good.” He nods.

-

The sun beats down on you as you lean back. It’s disorienting to feel the ground shift beneath your hands. And under your nails. Sand is far coarser than you thought it would be. You always imagined something softer when you saw it in textbooks, like powder. Instead, it’s gritty, like salt. Getting in almost every crevice, something Finnick did not warn you about.

Finnick crouches before you, both hands on his trident as he digs its end into the sand and uses it as a crutch, filling you in on even more things you missed. You hadn’t thought too critically about what your other half would be doing while you worked your way back to him, but, even if you had, you certainly wouldn’t have guessed any of what happened.

“You should have seen her after I got his heart beating again. I mean, she was beside herself. Crying, laughing, snotting. The whole nine yards.” Almost absently, Finnick gathers a handful of sand to pour over your shin, adding to the growing pile he’s already gathered at your ankles.

“‘s that right?” You ask, though it’s not really a question, peeking an eye open to regard the couple and closing it again when they go in for a kiss. For the cameras? “She’s so…stoic. It’s a little hard to believe.” You, much like everyone else with two brain cells to rub together, hadn’t put much stock into the romance as a whole. Unlike everyone else, however, you knew it was very much real for one of them—Peeta. The way Peeta talked about her, described her, you’d think she was some sort of angel, but, personally, you think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“Only because you didn’t see it with your own eyes. I was honestly a little worried I was witnessing a nervous breakdown.” Finnick shivered dramatically. “Shush.” You push at his shoulder when he laughs even though you’re hardly any better, barely holding back your own amusement. “And I don’t think I’m all that torn up over missin’ that.”

The last nervous breakdown you can recall happening in the arena with any real clarity is Annie’s. You’re not hurting over not seeing anything like that again or seeing Peeta laid out, dead to the world.

You imagine yourself in Katniss’s position, a snot-nosed blubbering mess curled over Finnick’s body, listening to his renewed heartbeat. You bite your lip. What does it mean that you can understand her?

Finnick rubs a thumb over the furrow between your brows you hadn’t realized was there, before moving down to free your bottom lip from its sharp prison. “What’re you thinking about, beautiful?”

“I haven’t really had the chance to talk to Katniss.” In fact, she’s talked to everyone but you. It was hardly noticeable during training. But it certainly sticks out now. She’s giving you, one of her few allies, a wide berth. Why?

He hums, no judgment in his voice, only curiosity. “You’ve got something to say to her?”

Do you? “Maybe.” You look at her again. “Won’t know ‘till I say it.” 

No time like the present. No point pushing it off for later when you might not survive the next hour. You shift like you’re about to stand and you think you do a pretty good job of pretending your side isn’t spasming with such little movement, like these wounds aren’t slowly killing you.

“Where’re you going?” He asks, offering a hand for you to grab and push your weight against to help you stand before straightening back to his full height.

“Off to get some one-on-one with our bride-to-never-be.” You joke, smile dropping into a scoff when he wrinkles his nose at you. “Oh, come on. That was funny!”

“Mm-mmm. No. Bad joke. Bad wordplay.” He shakes his head, treating your shoulders as an armrest and ignoring the elbow you dig into his ribs—and you just know he’d lean his full body weight on you, making your knees buckle if you weren’t injured. You can literally feel him holding back. ”I’d say have fun, but I doubt that’s possible.” The arm around your shoulder curls inward, his bicep flexing against the back of your neck so his fingers can play with the ends of your hair. You lean into his heat despite the arena supplying you with a surplus of it. “Want me to go with you?”

“No.” You say, before grinning up at him. “Why don’t you keep the others company? I think it’s your turn to babysit anyway.”

His scowl tells you what he thinks of that idea. Now, that’s funny.

-

Katniss’s lips are still tingling with the distinct pressure of Peeta’s mouth against hers when she notices you approaching them.

She’s expecting to see the rest of the group behind you, or even just Finnick, but it’s just you. 

Peeta says your name, “It seems you’re moving around fine enough. I’m glad you’re alright—relatively speaking.”

“You and me both.” You nod.

You say a joke, she thinks, because Peeta laughs, but she didn’t catch it over the beating of her heart in her ears.

“I’m gonna head over.” Peeta nods over to the rest of their allies as he stands. She bites her tongue to stop herself from begging him to stay.

She isn’t afraid of you, necessarily, but she isn’t exactly fond of what you remind her of. Guilt.

Once she learned you were Rue’s mentor, she’s tried her hardest to avoid you. She didn’t want to give herself the chance to ask you questions she knows will only hurt to hear the answers to. Or give herself the opportunity to apologize for things that you won’t forgive. Rue. Thresh. Whatever it is she sparked in Eleven. 

Katniss supposes it’s not your fault that being around you fills her with an overwhelming sense of remorse. She can’t explain any of this to Peeta, who already seems to have taken a liking to you. Instead, she just nods with a grimace of a smile.

She can’t blame anyone but herself for believing that there wouldn’t be a confrontation eventually.

“How’s your side treating you?” She asks.

Her eyes flick to your stomach. She had never felt such profound shock from the severity of a wound before, except perhaps when they had to attend to Gale's back. Genuinely, it’s a wonder you're moving around the way you are with your side so mangled. She was able to clean it with some fresh water Johanna got from tapping a tree, before pressing some of that absorbent moss against it with the tourniquet you made from your sleeves. 

You were an easy patient, with some slight difficulty considering Finnick glared at her like he caught her kicking a puppy whenever you flinched. You sat still, even giving her advice despite the pain you had to be in. She’s seen men twice your size weeping from sprains—though they were usually from the merchant side of Twelve. 

“Better, thanks to you.” You lower yourself to sit beside her in the spot Peeta previously occupied. Now that it's just the two of you, she notices that you speak with a distinguishable drawl that she doesn't think was there the last time you talked to her. It's familiar, almost. Similar to how her father’s folks sounded, from the little she remembers of them. “Is that common in Twelve? Being a healer?”

“No. I’m a special case,” is all she says, but you, surprisingly, don’t ask her to elaborate. “And you? Is that something everybody learns in Eleven?” Rue knew so much about natural medicine and she hadn’t even been in her teens yet. Who knows how much more she would have known had she been older? There’s so much she’ll never have the chance to learn because of Katniss.

“If we want our kids to live into adulthood? Then, yeah, it has to be.” You, surprisingly, elaborate with a wry laugh and she wishes you hadn’t. Hadn’t been so truthful. It’s a privilege in Twelve to have this kind of knowledge, something to use to their advantage. For Eleven, it’s a necessity. The closest thing she can equate to it is hunting. Without it, neither her or Gale's families would have made it long after the mine accident. Many families hadn't.

She waits for you to say something, ask her something—do something to explain why you’re here. But you don't. Instead, you pick up a handful of sand and let it spill out of your hand, somehow impervious to Katniss’s expectant stare.

Do you think she wants to ask you something? Did Finnick send you over? She glances over at his exceptionally bored expression as he idly spins his trident and decides that can't be it. She knows that if she had been separated from Peeta with no way of knowing he's safe only for him to show up injured, she'd want to keep him as close as possible.

Are you trying to wait her out then? If so, for what?

Well, not for nothing. There is one question on the tip of her tongue. 

She hadn't asked before because it didn't seem important to know. She was also wary about mentioning Eleven at all after what happened the last time she was there. Whatever answer she'd get wouldn't help her in the arena, so she never asked.

But now, now that she's aware of what the Gamemakers put you through with that mutt, aware of just how badly she would have handled that, aware of the fact that you cared for Rue—she didn't know how much, but she knows that you did care—and it suddenly feels very important to know. 

“...Was it you?” You look at her with a raised brow. She looks away to watch the sun begin its descent. Fake or not, a sunset will always be beautiful. “When Rue…I was sent bread. I know it was from Eleven. It was meant for Rue. Was it you?”

You pull your left leg up, forearm resting over your knee as your hand flexes open and closed.

“If I said yes?”

“I’d ask why.”

“Why do you think?” 

Weirdly enough, she wants to get the answer right. Almost like she doesn’t want to disappoint you or something equally as stupid. Does she care what you think of her? If she does, it has to be because of your connection to Rue. And, apparently, Haymitch and Peeta.

She knows why she would have sent the bread in your position. “A repayment. For what I did for Rue. And I, I guess so it wouldn’t go to waste.”

You look at her for a moment, long enough that it makes her, no stranger to staring, shift a little. 

The way you stare at her, always slightly amused. Like she’s a long-winded joke you already know the punchline too, but want to hear again. It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t feel malicious or like you’re making fun of her. But it’s confusing and more than a little intense. Another thing she noticed about you, especially in your interviews. Haymitch had explained once, how it’s a part of why you have so much influence in the Capitol. Sure, you’re beautiful. But more than that, you’re captivating, persuasive. Your stare is a snare that prey willingly walk into. Even Katniss feels it, which is saying something.

It’s vastly different from how Finnick looks at her like she’s a puzzle he keeps finding pieces to, with no clue where to put them. Or how Johanna looks at her like—well, like she hates her. Of the three, she can’t tell which she prefers.  

“I have no siblings. Shockin’, right?” The only shocking part is you bringing that up seemingly out of nowhere. The shift in topics makes her blink. “I’m sure you learned that each family in Eleven has, like, ninety kids with full smiles and even fuller stomachs.”

Truthfully, Katniss is too embarrassed to say what she learned about Eleven, which is close to nothing. When they were being taught things about the other districts, as rare as it was, it was typically kept to their purpose and how they utilize the coal Twelve provides, if at all. Other than the little the teachers went over about how food is produced and the assumptions from other children that were treated like facts, Katniss can’t say she actually learned anything about your district. And she learned that from Rue. “Something like that.”

“If you get rid of the full stomachs, then it’s not too far off, honestly. More kids mean more workers. I’m sure it would have happened eventually, might’ve ended up with twenty brothers and sisters.” You joke. Or, at least she thinks you’re joking. She doesn’t know, but she’s too embarrassed to ask. She does know, however, that they’ve definitely cut the cameras away from the conversation by now. 

“Why didn’t it? Happen, I mean.”

“I’d imagine you’d need two parents for that.” Despite the blankness of your face that gives nothing away, you somehow manage to slip some humor into the statement, so you can’t be too upset at her for inadvertently making you mention your dad again.

She wonders how it happened. An accident like her father? Or…?

The punishments for minor crimes are distributed harshly in your district, Rue told her this much. And she’s seen it with her own eyes. Just how brutally the citizens of Eleven are treated by Peacekeepers. A feeble old man executed swiftly and without a word like he was no better than a dog with rabies. If that’s what they’re willing to do publicly, she can’t imagine what it’s like when there are no eyes on them. 

Is that something she can ask you? Does she even want to know? You choose for her.

“He and a few other men were hung in the square on grounds of treason and conspiracy.” Rebels . You don’t say whether the claims were founded or not, but Katniss can tell by the way you say it that, rebel or not, your father was an innocent man. Your eyes cast around aimlessly. She’s relieved they aren’t focused on her anymore. “I was eight. So, yeah. No big family.” 

Eight. Even younger than she had been.

“But I always wanted one growing up. Wanted kids of my own. Someone to love them with.”

With a level of fondness Katniss hadn’t expected to see, maybe, ever, let alone in the arena, you look over at Finnick who—despite Peeta’s best efforts to engross him in a conversation—keeps glancing over here. And, she squints, he’s slowly edging closer. Poor Peeta seems none the wiser about how unengaged his audience is. It would be a funny sight. How desperately Finnick seems to want to be around you. The most eligible bachelor in Panem so very obviously in love. He’s nothing like he was before they entered the arena, or even a few hours ago when Johanna had to pull him off the brink of what seemed to be a panic attack. Funny if they weren’t in the arena. And funny if it wasn’t so very sad.

“You lived in the Seam, right?” She turns to you, surprised that you knew that, before nodding. The ignorance about other districts isn’t as universal as she thought it was. She isn’t sure if that says more about Twelve or her. “I grew up in a Shacktown, somethin’ similar. So you know bringin’ a child into that is practically a death sentence and, and…” You sigh. Suddenly, Katniss feels incredibly guilty for this fake pregnancy. “Forget I said any of that. None of it’s important. Just, just got a bit sidetracked.”

“It’s alright.” But it’s not alright, is it?

“So, no kids. But I had my tributes. And I cared. About every single one of them.” You say with a bit of steel in your voice as if she might claim you’re lying. 

She just nods, recalling you telling her she’s lucky to never have to worry about being a mentor. Thinks of how Haymitch treated them before their first Games. She thinks of you and him both having to train and send off kids from your districts that you knew had no chance of winning, having to do it year after year. 

“Rue—she was a good kid, real good. But she never would’ve survived after the Games anyhow. Young girl like her? They would’ve eaten her alive. And then thrown her right back up to make room for more.” You purse your lips together, slightly twisting them to one side. “Just tradin’ one arena for another, really.”

She doesn’t wanna think about how true that is. Do you see her too? In the song birds and the meadows? Do you see Rue in the small animals that scurry high in the trees, too trusting to not fall victim to the snares and traps? You must. With how much you care, you must see her too.

Katniss has a moment of clarity. 

It’s possible she completely misunderstood what you told her at the chariots. She was under the impression that you hated her a little bit, different from Johanna’s general ire. She thought that your hatred, valid and pointed, came from the fact that she survived only because your tributes saved her. That’s what she thought you meant before Finnick interrupted the conversation and you left like you were allergic to his presence. 

But you never said that. You made no indication that you blamed her for anything, for either of their deaths. That was all Katniss projecting, wasn’t it? 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing at all.

“I held her. The night before. We couldn’t sleep, we talked and…gossiped. And then I held her. And, for that small moment that wouldn’t really matter to anybody but me and her, I guess…I guess I could imagine what it would feel like to be a mother.” Katniss frowns and has to look away from your wistful face. It’s horrible, the things you’re saying. A lesser woman would be crying. But you say them with a smile. It’s also horrible, she realizes absently, that had the circumstances been different, had you met at a nauseating Capitol party or grieving over your respective tributes, she could see you and her being friends.

“Seems you’ll be livin’ that out for the both of us, huh?”

“What?” You look down at her stomach. “Oh.” Right. The baby. That is supposed to be inside of her. This is the third time she’s had to be reminded. How did she forget that fast? She’d be better off writing ‘remember to be pregnant’ on her arm.

“ Oh .” You mimic, an amused smirk growing. “It’s alright. Your belly’s still flat, must be pretty early in. I almost forgot myself.” You wink and, stupidly, Katniss feels herself blush. Now, if it’s from embarrassment at her misstep or being the focus of all of your… you is anybody’s guess. 

She doesn’t understand how Finnick can stand to be at the center of it. Not only that but actively seeking it out, if how visibly impatient he seems to be to head this way means anything, shifting his weight from foot to foot. You snort. He locks eyes with you, pulling a face that turns your snort into a laugh that you hide behind your hand. He seems to be begging you for something and Katniss never realized how much could be said with just eye contact and some funny faces.

Nothing’s happening, per say, but it still feels like she’s intruding on a private moment despite neither of you saying a word to each other and being a good thirteen feet apart. Still. The air around you two feels so constantly charged that she can’t help but notice it.

And that kiss earlier…

Katniss wills her ears to cool down, but it appears her body is just as good at listening as she is. Caesar must be beside himself about the whole thing. It’s not hard to imagine him fainting live over it. She wishes she could see it.

“So I did send the bread because it’d be wasteful not to and because it’s what Rue would’ve wanted. But, also, as a thank you. For protectin’ her when I couldn’t, even for a little while.” You sniffle, rubbing at your nose. “Sorry. For, um. Makin’ that so long-winded.” If she knew you better, she’d be confident in saying you sound embarrassed. There’s no reason to be. It didn’t even feel like the two of you talked for long, but the sun is barely peeking over the horizon now.

“I should be the one apologizing. For Rue. And Thresh…For the old man…”

“Briar.” You say. Your district is massive. So much vast land that barely houses its population. Unlike Twelve, Eleven is far too big for you to know everyone. It should surprise her that you know his name. But it doesn't.

“For Briar.”

“Katniss…Nobody blames you for a damn thing that happened except for you.” Obviously, you haven’t had a chat with the president recently. As far as Snow’s concerned, anything bad that’s happened in Panem since her win is entirely her fault. And almost as if you know what she’s thinking, you say, “Nobody of any real importance, at least.”

She scoffs but doesn’t argue. There’s no point. Something tells her you're the kind of person who can convince anybody of anything. And no matter how desperately she wants to believe it, she doesn’t need you to convince her that she’s faultless. 

She remembers Peeta vouching for you. At the time it didn’t make much sense, and a small part of her had wondered if it was because he liked you. Stupid . 

You taught him, he had told her, about plants. From their toxicity to their edibility. A subject Peeta was particularly lacking in. Valuable information given away freely when you didn't have to. In fact, it would have served you not to help your competition. She doesn’t understand it and she has a feeling Finnick wouldn't either. But you do, and so does Peeta. And she knows that means it was strictly kindness that drove you. Between you and Finnick, she’ll never be able to get rid of this debt. How could I possibly kill them now?

“It seems I have a lot to be thanking you for.”

You regard her for a moment.

“You don’t owe me anythin’, Katniss. That’s what you’re thinkin’, right?” It seems even her thoughts, like her secrets, are public knowledge known to everyone before they’re known to her. “Well, here and now, I absolve you of any debts.” You wipe your hands together like you’re clearing them of dust. “How’s that sound?” It sounds like you’re only making her predicament worse.

“That sounds very generous.” And too good to be true. In fact, she hopes it’s too good to be true. It would make this whole thing easier. She unsticks her tongue from where it feels frozen to the roof of her mouth and asks, “How was it? The mutt, I mean.” Katniss doesn’t even know why she asks. Maybe because she knows it’ll hurt.

The mutt hybrids of Foxface and Thresh tearing Cato apart are still seared into her mind just as much as the flinch that went through Marvel’s body as her arrow struck him dead. Who knows how she would’ve handled it if they had turned Rue into one so soon after she lost her?

Instead of describing it in vivid, painful detail, your eyes get flinty as your fingers tap your thighs in no specific rhythm and you say something much worse. “When I was fifteen, after I won my Games, I thought I’d eventually become—jaded to all of it. That the blows would be dulled. And, after eight, almost ten years, you think you’ve seen all they had to throw at you. That they can’t possibly hurt you worse than they already have. But that? That was… mean. That’ll haunt me more than havin’ to watch her die.”

“...Oh.” She wants to apologize again, and she would if she thought you would accept it. Most of this conversation will be cut from the final product, and that’s if the Gamemakers are even risking keeping the cameras on them. 

Finnick is the only one still standing among the other group, his hands on his hips as Peeta recounts some sort of story. It looks like Beetee is the only one actually listening, following along. Johanna watches on in amusement, seemingly cutting Finnick off every time he tries to interject. He does nothing more than sigh in response, but his growing frustration is evident as he crosses his arms.

“Ah. That’s my queue.” You chuckle as you clamber to your feet, slow and cautious. She’d almost forgotten you were even injured. You wear your pain so well. “I better head over there before he pulls somethin’.” 

You smile at her so easily that it makes her smile in turn. Small and without teeth, but it’s not as tense as she thought it’d be. “Right.”

You turn away, getting a few steps before abruptly turning back around. What stopped you?

“You know, Cattails mean peace and prosperity. At least in Eleven. Many a feud and petty squabble has been patched up just,” you snap your fingers, “like that once people start exchangin’ Cattails.” 

“I…didn’t know.”

“And Katniss, the Arrowhead, brings to mind protection, courage, strength. And they can be surprisingly sweet.”

“...What do they have in common?” She can’t help but ask.

“They both have ‘ cat’ in them.” You say it so matter-of-factly, completely straight-faced, that it catches Katniss off guard enough to make her laugh. “They’re both resilient, adaptable. Bred for survival. You’d look them over at first glance, but they can save your life. But I’m sure you already knew that part though, huh?”

“Some of it.” Mostly learned from her father. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I think you have a lot in common with both—”

“Not just the stuff about the flowers. All of it.”

“Why not? Just seems like things you should know.” You shrug and, despite herself, she believes that you really believe that. “There doesn’t have to be some convoluted reason behind everyone’s actions. I wanted to tell you, so I did. You’re allowed to do things just because you want to.”

“...Right.” The last time she did that, a man had been killed.

 “Don’t brood over here for too long, Cattail. It’s bad for the baby.” Cattail? So close to Gale’s nickname for her. She doesn’t hate it, but she won’t encourage it. Things are hard enough as is. “I’ll go save my boy from yours.” She’s taken aback at Peeta being referred to as her boy, that you feel like her and Peeta’s relationship is worthy of being held up next to yours and Finnick’s. Maybe she’s a better actor than everyone gives her credit for.

You wave over your shoulder at her and she realizes with a dawning sense of horror that you’re more like Peeta than she wanted to be true. Seemingly kind without reason. Genuine. A good person.

If she hadn’t been convinced before, then she certainly is now. She and Peeta need to leave. Because if she has to shoot first, she’s not sure her hand won’t shake as she notches her bow. She looks over to the group. To where Finnick’s face lights up with a grin at your approach and Johanna, Beetee, and Peeta sit in a semicircle and talk like friends. Only one person gets to leave here alive, and she needs it to be Peeta. That hasn’t changed. But it’s the first time she’s felt something like guilt because of it.

SECTION 12  (9:20 pm—?)

When he and Katniss guesstimate it to be somewhere around nine, they all start heading to the twelve o’clock sector. Not before he had Katniss check your wounds despite your insistence of, I’m fine, Finn. It hardly even hurts anymore. But he knows you’re lying because you hardly argue when he prompts you to get on his back so he can carry you.  

Finnick leads the charge, precariously stepping from rock to rock. He uses one hand to shift away obstructant vines and the other to hold his trident. Your arms are looped around his shoulders, your right calf resting in the crook of his elbow—the same hand gripping the shaft of his weapon.

As he slows down a bit so Beetee and the others can catch up, he’s glad they decided to head to the tree earlier than they previously planned. It’s not that they aren’t making good time, rather, he doesn’t want there to be any reason they’ll need to rush. No reason for any possible slip-ups, no potential to become sloppy.

They hike forward, led by nothing but artificial moonlight. Finnick keeps a good pace even while carrying you, leveraging himself uphill, gripping tree trunks to support the both of you. When he gets to a high point, the others a little ways behind, the Capitol anthem trumpets throughout the arena. 

You huff, warm breath hitting his ear, when Cashmere’s face flashes in the sky. He hadn’t been friends with her, just two Careers out of dozens floating around in the same circles, and as far as he knows, you hadn’t either. But he knows you don’t need to be friends with someone to care about them, that’s just who you are. He squeezes your calf. Effortlessly compassionate, one of the reasons he loves you, but it must’ve been exhausting. 

Gloss follows behind her, replaced by his victim, Wiress. He glances over to Beetee who’s looking under his glasses at her portrait mournfully. Finnick looks away, right into Mags’s kind eyes. His nostrils flare, something in his chest pinches, but he doesn’t cry. Not again. You tighten your arms around his chest, keeping the blade of your weapon away from his face. You kiss his temple before laying your head on his. Some of the tension leaks from his shoulders as you move to press your cheek to his. You don’t say sorry about Mags again, which he’s thankful for. He squeezes your calf once, twice. A comfort. You’re a soothing weight on his back.

Other than Blight and the female morphling, no other people of interest appear. No Chaff, which is relieving. 

The music cuts out and they move forward in silence, the sound of bugs chirping following them further into the jungle. Thankfully, no birds.

When they get to the ginormous tree, he pauses, gawking a bit at the sheer size of it. Its branches cut a cruel figure above them. It looms all the more in the night, with shadows and a lack of good lighting making it look even bigger. 

So this is what gets them out? It certainly looks the part. 

He helps you off his back, ushering you in front of him as the others step closer to the tree. He looks over his shoulder, scanning for enemies hiding in the dark as hard as Beetee is inspecting the tree. Finnick grabs your wrist— “ Stay close to me .” He whispers, looking away from you to the sky beyond the branches. Soon enough, it’ll split open and they’ll be free. It hasn’t fully sunk in yet.

“Minimal charring.” Beetee notes. They all look back at the tree trunk to try and see what he sees. “It’s an impressive conductor.” Nobody agrees or disagrees. How could they? “Let’s get started.”

Anticipation bubbles in Finnick’s stomach, making his hair stand on end as everyone follows Beetee closer. You raise your eyebrows at him, lips pursed briefly. You feel it too. They’re steadily approaching the climax.  

“Typically a lightning strike contains five billion joules of energy. We don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity when it hits.” Finnick keeps his back to the tree as Beetee works his wire around a part of it, keeping his gaze glued to the tree line. But, for a split second, he glances behind him in enough time to catch Beetee looking you over from under his glasses, a quick clinical sweep before he says over his shoulder to Katniss and Johanna as he unspools more wire, “You two girls, go together now. Take this. Unspool it carefully.”

Beetee pushes the handle into Katniss’s hands, speaking so surely that you don’t even object to being excluded—which Finnick is very grateful for. You’re the fastest of the girls, have the easiest time moving swiftly between the trees and rough terrain. On a normal day, when you didn’t have an injury sinking you. “Make sure the entire coil is in the water. You understand? Then head to the tree in the two o'clock sector. We’ll meet you there.”

Beetee nods at them, heading back to the tree, and Finnick thinks that’s the end of it.

“I’m gonna go with them as a guard.” Finnick freezes momentarily, before turning back around to face Peeta. That won’t work. He can’t emphasize enough just how much that won’t work. Not only are the two of them active flight risks, no matter how well they think they’re hiding it, but they also need to handle the trackers as soon as possible. Johanna is strong, but not strong enough to take both of them.

“No, no, no. You’re staying here to protect me. And the tree.”

Finnick alternates between watching the trees, watching the increasingly tense conversation, and watching you. Working to not treat this interaction like it’s as high stakes as it actually is. They can’t make it seem like they’re eager to separate the two of them—which they are. It’s actually a large part of the plan. Some might say the crux.

“No, I need to go with her.” Peeta stubbornly digs his heels in. 

“There are two careers out there. I need two guards.”

“You have two guards.” Peeta gestures to you and Finnick.

“Allow me to correct myself. Two able-bodied guards.”

“Hurt or not, I’m sure she’d be much better at fending off the careers.” You shift enough behind Finnick to grab his attention. You purse your lips into a frown, one that he returns. He hadn’t anticipated Peeta being a problem, especially this close to their escape. Katniss makes sense, he was almost banking on her making this difficult, but Peeta is a surprise. You raise a brow, tilting your head minutely. But not a surprise to you. "Besides, Finnick can protect you just fine on his own.”

“Yeah, why can’t Finnick and Johanna stay with you and Peeta and I’ll take the coil?”

Finnick fully turns around at that, slowly creeping up to stand slightly in front of you. He doesn’t want it to escalate, but if push comes to shove, he and Johanna will just have to move in quickly to incapacitate them. And it really looks like Peeta’s ready to push and shove. Finnick subtly has his weapon at the ready, not enough to draw attention, but just in case. He can see Johanna do the same, moving her axe to her dominant hand.

“You all agreed to keep me alive till midnight, correct?”

“It’s his plan. We all agreed to it.” Johanna bites out, making the two of them seem all the more unreasonable to be arguing over who’s paired with who when they’re all trying to do their parts.

“Is there a problem?” Finnick asks, working to keep any aggression out of his voice, trying to make it seem like he’s just supportive of Beetee’s plan and won’t let anything obstruct it. However, he must not work hard enough because you grab his elbow. An anchor. 

“ Excellent question.”

Katniss’s eyes flick from Beetee to you and then back.

“No. There’s no problem.” Whatever trust she has in you and Beetee to not hurt Peeta apparently outweighs the distrust she might still harbor in him and Johanna. Peeta, however, doesn’t seem as convinced. 

“I’ll go with ‘em, Peeta.” You pipe up and step forward past the protective wall of Finnick’s body. “Six hands spreadin’ the wire will get us done three times as fast.” Finnick tenses at the idea, teeth grinding together. That’s not the plan. You going where he can’t protect you, again, has never been part of the plan. Maybe if you weren’t so grievously wounded—no, not even then. 

His hand lands on your shoulder, sliding limply down your arm to latch onto your wrist. “ Star .” He rasps, dismayed. He understands a situation as delicate as this might require improvising and flexibility, but this isn’t something he’s willing to bend to. He’s not letting you leave his sight if he can help it.

You lock eyes over your shoulder, and that split-second look holds a thousand and one words. All of which tell him that you have no intention of leaving him, but Katniss and Peeta don’t know that. The fact that you even offered to go in your current state just to appease Peeta’s worry should be a grand enough gesture of goodwill to extinguish some of that lingering apprehension. 

If Finnick is willing to send you on your merry way to lay the wire without his protection, then why can’t Peeta do the same with Katniss? His thumb brushes the shell of your bracelet before letting you go.

He leans away, listing leisurely against his trident—he’s all lax lines as he regards Katniss and Peeta almost apathetically. “Well?” He raises a brow at them. Your move.

If he was Peeta, he’d pull the baby card, the only good argument he’d have for wanting to stay with her. But Finnick isn’t bringing that to his attention if he’s clearly forgotten.

“Like Katniss said, there’s no problem.” You eye Peeta uncertainly, much like how he looked at you in the elevator. Maybe that’s what makes him concede in the end. “And it’s probably best if you stay up here.” Finally , something Finnick can agree with.

Beetee nods, an infallible thing that conveys no further arguments. “That settles it, then.”

Of course, it isn’t that easy.

The two of you have stalked further away, out towards the outreaches of the tree’s massive roots, speaking in low tones. The distance is intentional and not just to keep him from overhearing anything. Peeta will feel more compelled to stay close to Beetee and watch his back, less likely to sneak off or outright run if he’s the nearest one to him. 

He leans down to hear you better, as you take turns subtly watching Peeta and less subtly watching the trees. 

“It’s almost over.” You mumble. “Not much longer, I’m sure—” Something cuts you off. A soft metallic sound, not so much loud as it is sharp. The sound a spring makes when abruptly bouncing back to its original position. Or, more accurately, the sound of a very taunt, very thin wire. 

In sync, you both turn and watch the suddenly lax wire coiling at Beetee’s feet. You turn to each other. He reads fear in your eyes that he knows is reflected in his own. The wire’s been cut and cut very suddenly. He hears voices so faint he thinks he’s imagining them, before a scream that can only be Katniss rings out. 

You don’t even hesitate to run towards it, which makes sense, he shouldn’t be surprised by it. Katniss is a key factor in their escape if not the rebellion as a whole. Every rebel vowed to put their lives on the line for Katniss and Peeta. Knowing that doesn’t stop his stomach from dropping at the sight of you running head-first into danger. 

“ Star !” He yells after you, but you’re already too far ahead to think about stopping. He tells Peeta, “Stay here and guard Beetee,” before chasing you. 

“Finnick, wait! ” He ignores Peeta calling his name well enough, focusing on not losing you.

Despite your head start, he catches up to you. Quickening his stride, he overtakes you, jumping over a log to skid in front of you. You crash into his chest, but he’s able to steady you. You pant, sagging against him. As tough as you are, the wounds are doing nothing but crippling you.

Making noise isn’t a privilege either of you have right now. There’s no telling where Brutus and Enobaria are skulking around, no telling if Katniss still considered anyone an ally other than Peeta. You’re too hurt for this, and you’re only getting worse. He needs to get you out of the open. Head whipping around frantically to find— “C’mon!” He whispers, steering you away from the moonlit path.

"I need you to hide here, okay?" His voice shakes, heartbeat in his ears as he crowds you behind a tree where large leaves hang low and the grass grows tall. No one will see you here.

"What? No, we need all hands on deck.” You say, a Four phrase you surely learned from him, trying to stand up straight despite the way your shoulders shake. You’re starting to look pale, sweaty from more than the humidity.  “We need to keep Katniss saf—”

"No. No, me and Johanna can handle that. You're hurt—"

"I can still help, Finnick." You beg, moving away from the cover that the tree provides and Finnick can feel the clock breathing down his neck.

" This isn't up for discussion, " He whispers harshly, softening when you flinch back. "I can't watch you and help Johanna at the same time—I know I don't have to, but I will anyway. You know that."

He hears feet hitting the forest floor in the distance and curses.

"Once we handle the other victors and get Katniss and Peeta to the tree, I'll come back for you, okay? Just," you turn towards the sound of someone yelling and he grabs your face, "focus on me. Do you trust me?"

Your eyes are glossy as they look between his, face resolute despite the pain he knows you're in and the absolute hell breaking loose around you both. But for a split, vulnerable second, Finnick sees the mask slip. Your lips quiver as you nod.

"Then, please . Stay here. I'll come back for you, I promise." You grab his wrist, your grip tight. You're scared. He is too. Not just for himself, but for the rebellion. What it'll mean for the cause if this all goes to shit.

He's scared for you.

"I promise ." He repeats, presenting his pinkie for you to take with your own. You hesitate. You hesitate long enough for Finnick to become hyper-aware of the sweat dripping down his neck.

You hook your own around his tentatively, and then certainly. Putting an insurmountable level of trust in him.

He leans forward, lips meeting yours, and he savors the feeling. He’d drink poison from your mouth if it meant he got to kiss you. You're soft against him, but he knows how tough you really are. He knows it must kill you to sit back and let someone else handle the situation, and you're right about them needing all the help they can get. But you're letting him be selfish and he loves you so much. 

"I'll come back." He swears into the air between you and him and you keep your eyes closed. "My Star." He whispers into your hair and hopes you can hear the declaration of love hidden in it. You squeeze his wrist one more time before stepping back.

He waits for you to hide before he runs off to look for Johanna and Katniss.

“Katniss! Johanna!” He sprints through the jungle, down the slope, looking for any sign of either girl and giving up any attempt of discretion. “Where are you?!”  

He leaps through the underbrush, pushing past vines and leaves, coming to a stop when something glints out of the corner of his eye. He reaches his hand out, grounding himself against the bark. On his left, down in a deep ditch, he sees some of Beetee’s wire, but not the spool and neither of the girls that should have been with it. He squats down, squinting at what looks like blood next to the wire. “Johanna!”

No reply. No shout, no groan, nothing. He rushes further down the slope and realizes it’ll only be a matter of time before he stumbles onto the beach, which reminds him he’s working on borrowed time. He turns around, looking up at the slope he just sprinted down.

“ Shit .”

He doubles back, passing that same ditch in time to hear a cannon. It’s not you, he knows it’s not you. You wouldn’t have left your spot after promising him, and no one would even think to look for you there. It’s not a spot someone can just stumble upon. Which means it’s someone else, a complete gamble. The chance of it being a good thing is tragically low. He pushes himself forward, suddenly very worried about how vulnerable Beetee is. There’s no way Peeta actually listened to him, especially not after that cannon.

There’s shouting, and it sounds like Peeta, but he’s very faint and very far away. Almost as soon as Peeta starts yelling, Katniss yells back and she sounds much closer. “Peeta!”   

His relief is quickly followed by fear, fear that he won’t be the first person to get to her. There’s no telling if she’s hurt or not, but she can speak at least, which is a good enough sign for him. 

Another cannon fires right before he rounds back to the tree. He has chills despite how scorching hot he feels. Nothing. He sees nothing . Not a damn thing. His heart sinks.

“Katniss, where are you?!” He yells, chest heaving. He takes a second to scan his surroundings, hoping to see a head of long brown hair or maybe the light glinting off Beetee’s face from wherever he’s hiding. Hopefully hiding. There’s a very real chance one of those cannons was him. Just as he’s about to turn and look in another section, he sees her. Or, more accurately, he sees an arrowhead pointed right at him.

Silence. Neither of them speaks, both panting and wired. He raises his free hand slowly, trying not to give her a reason to let her arrow fly. 

“Katniss.” He had hoped it wouldn’t have come to this, had hoped for a lot, it seems. Hoped that he wouldn’t need Haymitch’s plan B. But it’s the last chance the revolution has and it depends on the next words out of his mouth. “Remember who the real enemy is.”

He holds his breath at the same moment it looks like Katniss holds her. That reaction could mean a lot of things. Could mean Finnick will leave this arena in one piece or it could mean he’ll leave with an arrow between his eyes. 

Please. He prays. Please don’t shoot.

She lowers her bow, slowly and then all at once. They regard each other for a moment. The sound of thunder cracks the silence, making him flinch.

Finnick eyes the gathering clouds warily. Glaring into the swirling storm. Suddenly, he remembers that Beetee said they shouldn’t be anywhere near that tree at midnight. “Katniss, get away from that tree!”

She doesn’t listen. Of course, she doesn’t listen. She must have some kind of death wish, she must not understand just how unlikely it is she’ll survive. She wraps Beetee’s wire around the arrow she had pointed at him and Finnick doesn’t think he can comprehend just how poorly this will end.

She aims at the sky, and Finnick rushes forward on instinct. 

“Katniss, get away from that tree!”

There’s a flash of blinding light as the tree is struck and Finnick goes flying back.

He feels warm. Too warm. The warmest he’s ever been. This heat. It vibrates through him, so deep that his bones must be shaking with it. 

No. 

His muscles. They’re vibrating, they’re tensing, they’re cramping and straining. It leaves him breathless, like a kick to the diaphragm. The pain is almost as blinding as the light was. 

In the second it takes for Finnick’s body to go numb, to become paralyzed, to become deafened by the bombardment of sound, his heartbeat speeds up so rapidly that he can feel it contract and relax. 

Every time he blinks, he loses time. 

He blinks and the hovercraft lifts Katniss’s limp body into the air. Katniss is taken away and he needs to find the others, needs to—Star, Johanna, Peeta, Star, Star, Star —he blinks and he’s fighting to stay awake as they airlift Beetee. 

He doesn’t know when his eyes close, but when he opens them, it’s to the expanded claws of the hovercraft. Fear seizes his chest as the claw descends to him because he knows . He knows if they lift him up, if they take him out of the arena, they’ll never find you. He knows you won’t move. Knows you won’t come towards the sound. Towards the pickup point. Because you promised him. And he promised you.

I promised, I promised, I promised.

He tries to move, to shift, to scream . To give you some kind of sign, some kind of signal. But he can’t. He can’t fucking move.

But even if you do move, you’re too injured, too far.

The metal talons slip underneath him. His eyes blur and he can feel the tears slipping down either side of his face. As he’s lifted, his eyes slip shut and don’t open again for a long time.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN; HOVERCRAFT 

The first time Haymitch talked to you, you called him a jackass. 

Not that it wasn’t well deserved. He was being a jackass. No more than what was usual at the time, but enough to put anybody new off. That wasn’t what happened though. You weren’t put off despite it being your victory tour and having met hundreds of people who were no doubt far nicer to you than he had been.

But that didn’t deter you. You called him a jackass, yes, but not to be mean. It was an observation of a grown man who was purposefully acting like a drunkard. Haymitch was even more of an acquired taste back then than he is now. Instead of scoffing and turning your nose up at him, you left and came back with a flute of what he thought to be champagne, but was actually water. 

Even though you were forced to entertain dozens of people cloying for your attention, you kept an eye on him for most of the night. He would have thought Chaff and Seeder put you up to it, but, even if they had, the fact that you were taking the time to actually look after a stranger was insane to him.

The last time Haymitch talked to you, he reassured you that they would get you out—that he would get you out. You were skeptical, as you always are, but you trusted him. He saw it in your eyes, you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that it was possible. You believed in Haymitch. 

He looks at your picture now, the one Finnick gave him for safekeeping. It’s aged with love. A little worn around the edges, but loved. 

Stop shaking , he tells his hands, stop fucking shaking. He wills his body to listen to him just this once so he can actually look at you. Just let him look at you smiling, so it can replace the last time he saw you. Replace seeing your body getting airlifted by the Capitol with you happy and smiling. Safe and whole. When he hadn’t broken his promise to you and Finnick. When he hadn’t failed you.

-

When Finnick wakes up, it's with the biggest headache known to man and the intuitive feeling that something is very, very wrong. It takes a moment for his brain to tell his body he's awake. And when it does, he’s sore in places he didn’t even know could feel sore. 

He’s on a padded bed. There’s a pain in both of his arms, though he can barely feel them—as heavy and limp as they are at his sides. A twinge in the crease of his left elbow. He tries to bend it and it’s a laborious effort, but when he does, it’s to the unfamiliar sounds of beeping. 

His hearing is back, followed by the smell of antiseptics and burnt hair—the stale taste that comes from sleeping for a while. He’s in a medical ward of some kind. There must be an IV in his arm then, pumping him full of fluids. And in his right arm, there’s a deeper throb. His forearm itches, wrapped in a scratchy gauze—his tracker. Gone now, surgically removed. He tries to open his eyes, but it’s like there are hundreds of anvils tied to his eyelashes.

Star.

He floats in and out of sleep, he thinks. It’s hard to tell. 

The final time he wakes up, it’s to the silver-gray ceiling of a hovercraft. He panics for a second, not entirely sure whose hands he’s wound up in. He paws at the oxygen mask on his face, heartbeat picking up sluggishly. It’s new; it wasn’t here the last dozen times he gained consciousness. When he gets free, he waits for the beeping. But there is none. The IV hangs from the machine on his left. Weakness clings to him like a heavy blanket, tucked into all his joints. 

He pushes himself up, arms straining under his weight. Even that winds him and he sits, dazed. 

Something’s wrong.

He can’t remember, but something, something, something…

Something terrible has happened. 

It’s like his memory is filled to the brim with piles of rope tied in an impossible knot. He pulls and pulls, but there’s no end in sight. A chill goes through him as he swings his legs out from the blanket and over the side of the bed, feet bare. He’s still in his arena getup, though they removed his shirt and there are more than a few sizable holes in his pants. He’s bruised all over. Ugly splotches of purple, blue, and yellow paint the majority of the skin he can see. Various cuts and scratches are twining in between, like vines or the lines of a constellation—

“ Star!” And just like that, the knot unravels. He remembers the feeling of being paralyzed, stuck on the jungle floor as the sun streamed in and Katniss and Beetee were lifted out. He remembers the guttural fear, not at the prospect of death, but because he knew, in your current state, getting there on your own before the hovercraft left was incredibly unrealistic. He remembers how you gripped him as he kissed your forehead. 

But that’s just what he remembers. He’s been asleep for who knows how long, so they must have gone back for you. And Johanna. And Peeta. He does a sweep of the room. To his immediate right, Katniss lies in the same state he did. Only, she’s chained to her bed. To her right is Beetee, hooked up to more wires than he and Katniss had combined. But the reason behind that is the least of his concerns. 

There are more gurneys, all with medical equipment on standby. But they’re empty. All perfectly made, not a sheet out of place. 

He lurches to his feet. His stomach sways almost as much as his vision and saliva fills his mouth as acid burns his chest. There's a reason why you aren’t here with him. An explanation for why he didn’t wake up next to you. Your injuries were more extensive than theirs were. Needed closer monitoring, maybe even surgery. So he just, just needs to find a different medical wing. That’s all.

Each step is a conscious effort. Even now, his body doesn’t feel like his own. Every muscle protests his movement, even his brain. You’re here, on the hovercraft somewhere. He’ll walk every square inch until he finds you, because you are here. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to get to the automatic door. He just knows that there’s a pounding in his head like a grandfather clock. It feels nearby. If he could just press his fingers into his eyes, he could rub away the pain like an aching muscle. 

Instead, he presses his hands against the walls, using them as crutches as he shuffles and limps to—well, he doesn’t know where. He has no idea where he’s going. The lights in the hall nearly blind him, any brighter and his nose will start bleeding again, and whatever brain injury he has won’t allow him to focus on any signs. He needs, needs to…He needs to find Haymitch. 

Haymitch!  

He needs to find Haymitch. He’ll tell him what happened, explain it all away. He’ll bring him to you. He drags his battered body toward the sound of voices. He finally gets to the room where two men are arguing. Haymitch and it takes a moment for Finnick to recognize the calmer voice as Plutarch Heavensbee. Whatever he’s saying, Haymitch doesn’t like it.

“That’s it? Really? You’re a smart man, Plutarch. You and I both know that shit’ll fly over as well as a lame bird. You can’t expect them to just… deal with it.”

“That’s exactly what they’ll do, Haymitch. There was no guarantee they’d all get out of the arena. It’s a shame, but casualties happen in revolutions.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see you look those kids in the eye and say that to their faces. We’ll be lucky if they don’t end up planning a coordinated attack to crash your fancy hovercraft.”

The words he’s hearing don’t make sense, but he attributes it to whatever the hell is wrong with his brain.

The door opening cuts their conversation short. Finnick pants as he leans heavily along the frame. He can’t help but look for you, but the two men are the only ones in the room. Medbay it is, then.

“...Kid.” Something painful flashes in Haymitch’s expression, but Finnick dismisses it. He’s sure he looks pretty beat up, that’s all. “We, uh, didn’t think you’d be up moving around so early.” He approaches Finnick slowly and stares at him expectantly. He’s waiting for something, bracing himself for an approaching wave. 

“Haymitch.” He nearly jumps at hearing his own voice. It’s hoarse and raspy, and he’s acutely aware of how dry his throat is. “How long have I been out?" The older man grabs his shoulder, places a guiding hand on his back, and directs him over to the table they’re speaking over. Something he’s thankful for because he isn’t sure how much longer his legs would have held up. When he leans most of his weight on the cool metal, he realizes it’s more than just that. It depicts moving treetops and mountain ranges in light blue projections, presumably what they’re flying over. 

“Nearly ten hours,” Plutarch answers. Good. More than enough time for you to be out of surgery. 

“Where’s Star?” Haymitch goes still beside him, looking at Plutarch, and then back at him. Your injury must have been worse than any of them anticipated if you’re still in surgery. “Is she still in surgery? Or, or if she’s recovering in a different med bay, I wanna go sit with her—”

“Kid.”

“—I won’t be in the way, I swear. I just, I’ll feel better if I’m with her and I don’t want her to wake up alone—”

“ Finnick .”

He opens his eyes, though he doesn’t remember closing them. His fists are clenched as he leans on them, nails working their way into his palm.

With the kind of blow he received, it’s expected that Finnick will be a bit absent. The medics told Haymitch to prepare himself to talk slower and repeat questions when necessary. But Haymitch didn’t prepare for this. He should have, but he wasn’t expecting the earnest hope in Finnick’s eyes as he determinedly clung to his senses. This has nothing to do with being electrocuted. He genuinely thinks you’re here. As the seconds tick on, Haymitch’s need for something alcoholic claws at him. 

“Here, drink some water. It sounds like you’ve been gargling razor blades.” Haymitch forces him to take it into his weak hands. It goes down uneasily. Though, luckily, it doesn’t come back up. 

The thick silence sits heavily upon them. Before he can ask where you are again, Haymitch sighs. 

“She’s not here.”

“...I know. Tha–that’s why I asked—”

“She’s not here.” Haymitch interrupts him. Finnick can feel his brain working desperately to make the connection, to fill in the blanks—of which there are many. Haymitch pauses, looking to the side and then down. He licks his lips. “We…we didn’t get her out.”

“What? What does—? Wha—” He laughs in disbelief, shock coloring his otherwise pale features. “What the hell do you mean?"  

Finnick sways, his determined gaze faltering to give way to terror. Haymitch prepares to catch him, but he doesn’t fall. He visibly steels himself, but the walls he builds aren’t nearly as high or impenetrable as they usually are. As the truth sinks in, those walls start to crumble, and Haymitch can’t feel sorry enough.

Plutarch takes over, though Haymitch isn’t sure how good of an idea that is. “We were only able to retrieve Katniss, Beetee, and you.”

Finnick doesn’t know what’s worse, that they’ve given up on you so resolutely or the fact that Haymitch doesn’t bother hiding how remorseful he is.

"You said that if we did this, we’d be free. You said you’d get her back to me." He hisses. Despite how his circumstances shaped him, despite how his father tried to raise him, Finnick isn’t a violent person. It’s something he’s capable of, but it doesn’t come easy to him. He wasn’t born with it in him, rather it was tattooed into his skin. You, however, wear violence like a heavy coat you’ve borrowed. It was never meant for you. With that in mind, Finnick lashes out with an anguished scream that rips his throat to shreds.

He lunges forward, his feet still clumsy and his mind disoriented, but Haymitch still struggles to hold him back. Finnick doesn’t know what he’s trying to accomplish, not sure whether he’s attempting to hurt anyone other than himself, but his fist strikes Haymitch’s jaw. 

“Whoa— stop !”

“You were supposed to get her out! What was the point!” Haymitch tries to restrain his wrists. “ What was the point! ”

People rush in. Medical personnel with syringes, ready to put him to sleep. I’ll let them. Before they can get close, Plutarch raises a hand and they freeze. 

"Finnick, we couldn't find her. Or Peeta and Johanna for that matter." He’s calm and rational, distantly sympathetic like Finnick is just overreacting. Like hearing this should be enough for him to see apparent reason. But it only makes it worse because—

"I know where she is! Just turn around and we can get her! Please ." He pleads to Plutarch, to Haymitch, to anyone who’ll listen. 

“Believe me, Kid, I want to go back.” Haymitch grunts. Finnick’s weakened, but he’s not weak. At this rate, Haymitch will be as bruised as he is.

“Then go back .” 

"We're too far away with too little time. We go back, this’ll all be for nothing." Plutarch says. Like there’s nothing else to be done. Like it’s the end of the conversation. And for everyone but Finnick, it is. If you got left behind, then it was all for nothing. He struggles against Haymitch before his body betrays him. The anger that powered his attack evaporates and in its place now stands despair. His legs give out. He’s heaving and practically limp in Haymitch's arms.

Haymitch allows him to sink to the floor, and Finnick allows himself to cry.

Tremors wrack his body as he stares ahead sightlessly, lips quivering as he weeps. Cool air brushes his back like a feather, but he doesn’t even feel it. He can’t feel anything, only your absence. He feels it more than he did over those torturous two years he spent apart from you. 

His shirt had been so badly singed, they had to cut it off of him, is what Plutarch says, but Finnick is done talking to him. The man is saying something else, Finnick can see his lips still moving out of the corner of his eye, but he’s done listening to him too. 

Haymitch puts his cardigan over Finnick’s shoulders and slides a paper into his hands. Instinctively, his thumb rubs over it, over the subtle grooves and creases and he recognizes it even without looking. He presses a kiss to it, dry and cracked lips caressing your picture as he asks you, "What was the point?”

"I just got word from my men.” Finnick looks up, hope clear even through his tears. He should know better than to have hope, but he just can’t seem to help himself when it comes to you. “The remaining four victors in the arena...have been taken by the Capitol. They never took their trackers out."

That breaks him, Haymitch can see it. The kid just, he just deflates . Curls in on himself, forehead touching the ground— sobs .

 “You, you should have left me in there. Why didn’t you leave me in there? I wasn’t,” he gasps, hardly breathing at all. “I wasn’t supposed to get out. Not without her.” 

“I’m sorry, Finnick.”

Finnick says nothing, because what good does that do? Haymitch’s guilt, what good is it? Who does it help? It means nothing to Finnick, nothing to you.

“I’ve given special orders for Annie Cresta’s retrieval, if possible.” Plutarch reminds him. “With Snow’s attention split between the arena and Eleven seizing control of transportation, it should be fairly easy to slip into Four unnoticed. If that’s any consolation.” It’s not.

Eventually, the weeping tapers off. Not the crying, no. When Finnick eventually sits up, the tears are still streaming down his face. Haymitch is used to seeing him trailing behind you with a cocky grin, shoulders back, and carrying arrogance like a shield if his sharp tongue wasn’t enough. The man that Haymitch has grown close to over the years isn’t here, neither is the boy he once was. And neither are you.

“Do you see that?” Haymitch nods over to the shell of Finnick Odair. “You see that reaction? That’s what I tried to warn you about. Now, how do you think Katniss is gonna react? You think she’s gonna be any better?”

“He’s in shock. She will be too. But they’ll have no choice but to see reason.” Plutarch says and Haymitch’s face twists in disbelief. For how strongly he feels for the rebellion, Heavensbee is still Capitol raised. That ignorance shows like a flashing sign now. People aren’t ruled by logic, they don’t make decisions based on what they know to be true, not really. Especially not in this case. Emotions will be high. And considering it’s Finnick and Katniss they’re talking about, the one less adapted for it, they’d be lucky if they don’t go catatonic.

He nods. “Sure, sure. Once they stop seeing ghosts. And as long as their ghosts are leashed by Snow, you’re gonna be short two rebel leaders.” He says. His jaw aches from Finnick’s right hook, and his chest aches for, well, many reasons. And he is shockingly far too sober for the rest of this ride.

“They’re both intelligent people.” Plutarch counters. “They’ll understand that the revolution is more important than any singular person.”

“Of course they’re smart. There’s no doubt about it. But they’re also strong-willed. They’re stubborn . They’re kids. Pair that with them also being… stupidly in love.” Haymitch can see that none of this is particularly clicking with the other man and sighs, throwing his arms up in frustration. “You know what? Nevermind. You’ll find out just how much we need them more than they need us.”  

“Hm.” The ex-Head Gamemaker hums, not entirely convinced. But he will be. God , will he be. He’ll learn the hard way what happens when you live for someone else, and Haymitch will run as much damage control as he can. He’ll keep these two alive even if they hate him for it. He owes you and Peeta that much.

Finnick sits in silence as Plutarch and Haymitch speak in low tones. He thinks Plutarch attempts to talk to him a few times, tries to rope him into the conversation. Maybe to ask for his input or some type of council. But what good is Finnick to the rebellion now? How could he possibly think of the future of Panem when his future is trapped in the Capitol? 

Eventually, Plutarch stops trying, probably dissuaded by Haymitch. Finnick’s standing now, leaning heavily on his hands like he’s drunk. Haymitch must have helped him up.

“Maybe,” he wonders aloud, an open stream of consciousness that he doesn’t bother to censor. He doesn’t need to look at the other men’s faces to know he sounds as desolate as he feels. “Maybe if I’m dead, they’ll let her go.” They could broadcast it live. A hanging or execution by gunfire. Or lethal injection, so he can drift away with thoughts of you. 

Plutarch raises his eyebrows. It’s the first thing the kid has said in the last hour and a half.

Haymitch’s reaction is as upset as Finnick thought it would be.

“No. No, are you crazy? Your dying won’t help anything. Hell, it’ll probably make whatever treatment she gets worse. And you and I both know Snow didn’t take her just to fuck with you.” If Finnick was more present, he would have noticed Haymitch softening. But he’s not and he doesn’t.

Haymitch is right. Of course, he’s right. But it’s increasingly hard to see that past the tears in his eyes.

Later, when Katniss barges in and lashes out, as angry and despondent as he was, and has to be sedated, Finnick sits beside her in the same bed he woke up in. What a cruel twist of fate to be sitting at her bedside, wishing she was someone else while knowing Katniss was doing the same with him.

But there’s nothing to be done for that because he isn’t Peeta, and she isn’t you. And they’re both here when they shouldn’t be.

He stays out of the way as medics bustle around the room. They check her IV drip, measure out more medicine, and contemplate aloud if they should tie her down again. Ultimately they decide against it and leave the room one by one until it’s only them. Three patients in a room that should have held six.

“Katniss. Katniss, I’m sorry.” He apologizes, but even then it doesn’t feel like it’s really her he’s apologizing to. He wants to picture you in her place, lying here beside him, but Finnick’s imagination has never worked that way. 

He stares at your picture.

She mumbles something incoherent, which is more than he thought he’d get from her. Her voice must be shot. She’d been wailing. For so long. Even after they drugged her. He hadn’t minded. It gave him something to focus on other than his thoughts. A ringing in his ears that wasn’t from head trauma or grief. It was the kind of animal-like keening he’d only heard once before—from his father when his mother died.

And then she went deathly quiet. But even before that, she refused to talk to anyone. Like she was a wounded creature surrounded by predators and the only way she could communicate was by screaming and sobbing. He gets it, they wanted to put him on IV fluids as a precaution. You can cry yourself into dehydration and, apparently, he’s already at risk. Luckily, Haymitch talked them out of it.

Not that he would have noticed. Or put up much of a fight. 

“I wanted... to go back for Peeta and Johanna. For Star...” He trails off, blinks his puffy and watery eyes, and tries again. “I wanted…to go back for them, but I, uh, um..." He sniffles, “I couldn’t move ,” he says. Not as an excuse, or an admission of guilt. He doesn't need her to validate or coddle him. He tells her because she has to know, somebody other than him has to know that he tried . 

And that he failed. 

She says nothing, but that deliberate silence speaks volumes.

“They, um, they took her, too. Th–they took…they took Star.” That gets a blink out of her. Or he thinks it does, his eyes feel swollen from crying. They offered him something for it, but he refused. He continues, feeling the need to fill the silence.

“It's better for him than her and Johanna. They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you.” He shrugs even though she can’t see it. “Knowing Snow, he won’t kill Star either.”

“They’re bait…aren’t they, Finnick?” Her speech is delayed as she talks at the ceiling, the sedative doing its job. “But you get rid of bait…when it gets no bites.”  

They should have given her some kind of tranquilizer or anesthetic, those would have put her to sleep. He wishes she was asleep, that her vocal cords were so strained that she couldn’t speak at all. He wishes she hadn’t said that, hadn’t brought logic into his delusion.

He tries to imagine what they’ll do to you, but his mind whites out to the sound of static. No. Not static. Your screams in the arena, once fabricated, but now made real. 

No. 

It’s both. 

Static and screams and static and screams and he covers his ears, weeping. 

“I wish she was dead. I wish they were all dead and we were too.”

-

Epilogue

-

THE CAPITOL

There are snipers at all possible vantage points. 

All hovercrafts have been grounded. 

Should anything be picked up by the sonars, he has given express orders for it to be shot down immediately. He had peacekeepers previously stationed in Two brought to the Capitol overnight, almost tripling their numbers. This close to an attack like that, he can’t afford to be lax in his security. 

Despite the extra muscle milling around, or perhaps because of it, the citizens cheer as he steps out onto the balcony.

Even after all these years, the sight of his faithful, if not at times inane, people falling over themselves at the mere sight of him is invigorating. It’s what he is owed, of course, what he’s due. It’s invigorating all the same.

Coriolanus allows himself to relish the feeling. He’s worked tirelessly to get where he is today, to get his country where it is today. Day after day, making the difficult decisions needed to keep the scales balanced so those unsuited for the task didn’t have to. Moments such as these, it wouldn’t do to squander them.

He raises a hand and a hush falls over the crowd, quelling the unrest. He surveys the audience, taking in their fears and hopes. He has no need to contemplate the approach he should be taking. He knows what his people need to hear. 

“Esteemed citizens. Today, we stand in the shadow of a grievous attack. An assault upon the very heart of our beloved nation. Yesterday's events in the arena were not merely an affront to our sovereignty, but a blatant act of terrorism perpetrated by those who seek to undermine the tranquility and stability we have fought so very hard to maintain since the Dark Days."

He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the assembly. There are very few people who witnessed the Dark Days firsthand and lived to tell the tale. Even less so now than when the war initially ended, their names almost all lost through death or forgotten by time. Despite that, he made sure the generations that came after were taught about it, and the words ‘Dark Days’ became synonymous with ‘horrors beyond comprehension’. Bringing it up has the desired effect. He watches as they shift uncomfortably. 

“I know many of you are concerned by what you witnessed last night. Frightened by the events that have left us all shaken. Your safety is my top priority. I will not deceive you, my dear citizens, I will not shield you from the harsh realities of our world.” A lie. A necessary one. But a lie, nonetheless. “Hear me when I say you have every right to be afraid. Rebels have infiltrated our sanctum, defiled our most cherished institution. They have stolen into our home, wreaking havoc and sowing chaos.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a tide of uncertainty underscored by a palpable sense of unease. Fear, apprehension. The perfect state for susceptibility. 

“But, they could not have done it alone. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that some of our own, once celebrated as champions—as victors , have now fallen into the clutches of treachery, their allegiance swayed by the insidious whispers of our enemies.” He grips the sides of his podium, leaning forward. “As of today, they shall be branded as terrorists. Enemies of the nation.” He declares and so it is true.

There are gasps and cries of dismay, of outrage. Aghast and stricken, the people begin to speak over each other. Murmurs turn into shouts. He allows it as he already predicted this very reaction. Accounted for it, even. He lets them stew in their despair for a moment longer before raising his hand again. Silence.

“It is a grave tragedy,” he says, voice heavy with somberness he doesn’t feel, “that the people we have allowed into our hearts, have put upon our very shoulders in an effort to uplift them— raise them from their stations, would throw our generosity into the mud and our benevolence into our face. A tragedy,” he nods along to his words. “But not a surprise. While we mourn the loss of innocence, we must also acknowledge a glimmer of hope. We have reason to believe that some of our victors, unwitting pawns in this treacherous game, remain untouched by the poison of rebellion. Swift action was taken to rescue the innocent and the unaware, to shield them from the grasp of those who would seek to corrupt and manipulate them. They were spared from the rebels’ clutches only by our decisiveness to intervene despite great risk. And we will continue to safeguard them from the horrors that would have awaited them at the hands of the rebels.”

There is a discernible note of relief in the air, a whiplash of emotions as they look to him for guidance. He had always been focused on the marketability of a victor, even when he was a boy. How to best sell them to the audience, what skillset should they develop, what makes them charming. As he gained power, climbed the ladder, those questions became someone else’s to answer. But it’s possible he has set the foundation for the job too well. Though it was his intention, the citizens have become far too attached. And the victors, far too comfortable.

“But let me assure you, we shall not cower in the face of fear or despair. Our resolve remains unyielding, our commitment unwavering. We shall stand tall as we unite to root out this insidious threat. Let it be known that those who stand against us are not only enemies of the state but enemies of peace and progress. Enemies of every man, woman, and child in Panem that cherishes the stability and prosperity of our nation.” 

“Even the children?”

“What animals!”

“Where do they draw the line?”

The irony of their outrage isn’t lost on him. It’s why he said it, after all.

"Our path forward is clear. We shall embark upon a thorough investigation of every remaining victor and sift through the ashes of betrayal to discern friend from foe. We shall leave no stone unturned, no shadow unexplored. And mark my words, justice will be swift, and it will be absolute."

A sense of righteous fury and determination sweeps through the crowd as if they’re getting ready to fight the war themselves. He would scoff under his breath if didn’t irritate the sores. Realistically, many of them would think about this for a week, a week and a half at the most, before moving on. Shopping frivolously, partying excessively, hoarding their wealth gratuitously. Living naively in the bubble he formed for them. Over half a century later and Coriolanous is still bitter that they’ve never had to understand the disparity. But that is how it must remain, this is what he strived to keep. The Capitol citizens relishing their opulent lives as a right and not as the privilege it actually is.

"Together, we shall weather this storm. Together, we will emerge stronger, more united than ever before. For in the end, it is not the darkness that defines us, but the strength of our collective will to overcome it.” He stands resolute as the cameras zoom in, just as he instructed them to. Fervent applause echoes around him so loudly, it wouldn’t surprise him if it could be heard across the Capitol. He raises a hand in farewell, his mind already turning towards the trials that lay ahead. He finishes with, “Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

-

“Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

“And that was our brilliant president, making sure to reassure us all in these uncertain times.” Caesar Flickerman opens after Coriolanus’s speech. Showmanship has certainly become more wooden since the days of Lucky Flickerman, but it was a change needed to fit the times. He’s paid to be a distraction and he does it well.

“Wonderful speech.” His cohost, whose name he doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know, tacks on. He has no idea how the man has kept his job for as long as he has while being utterly forgettable. Though, it’s most likely they’ve just forgotten to fire him.

“Wasn’t it? Doesn’t it just make you wanna get out there and kick some rebel butt?” Caesar throws one of his legs out in the semblance of a high kick before breaking into his clenched jaw laughter.

“Now, although no names have been officially said, I do have my fingers crossed about which victors were saved.”

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that, Caesar. I know I’ll be in the minority in this, but, out of all the victors left in the arena, I hope Enobaria was saved.”

“ Really?”

At the mention of her, he recalls the image of four victors strapped down to gurneys and unconscious.

He could have done without the woman from two, Enobaria. The rebels know better than to allow a potential mole in on their plot. As such, she’s completely useless to him, most likely to just be sent home. Johanna Mason, always so willful, so self-assured—well, no longer. He’ll see to that. 

Capturing Peeta was almost better than capturing Katniss herself. He told her to convince him of their romance and convince him, she did. It was nothing short of pure stupidity to leave him behind, but Snow isn’t wasteful. He’ll have a use for him undoubtedly, and he’ll have it soon.

And you. It wouldn’t be hard to find out if you had any part in the rebellion, and he knows you must have. For all your supposed obedience, you’re still defiant at heart. You can bat those pretty eyes of yours however much you want, it doesn’t hide the hate in your gaze. He chuckles. Always so resentful. But you’re far more clever about it than Ms. Mason and far more convincing than Ms. Everdeen at hiding it. They’ll squeeze every last drop, every morsel of information out of you—-he’ll see to that personally. 

A clash was inevitable, it had been too long since the rebels had last made their move. Katniss and the heat her win garnered had all but handed them their opportunity on a silver platter. All of it was an annoyance, one he’d been preparing for. And, truly, it seems Coriolanus has gained much more than he’s lost.

There’s a knock at the door that breaks him from his musings, followed by a Peacekeeper pushing it open. Behind them stood a timid girl, one of the assistants.

“President Snow?”

“Yes.”

“Your granddaughter is waiting.”

Coriolanus hums and says nothing else, the sound of leather rubbing against leather as he squeezes his hands into fists making her squirm.

He decided long ago to lead by example when teaching his children etiquette and virtues, and his grandchildren after them. Punctuality is one of them. With that in mind and without looking away from the recap, he says, “Very well. Bring her in.” No point in keeping her waiting. The girl rushes to do just that, almost tripping over herself when he uses two gloved fingers to motion her in. 

She sets up the communication device, connecting the call, and his granddaughter’s grinning face is projected before him.

“Grandpa!”

“Hello, darling.” He smiles briefly, irritating the sores in his mouth. “Was there something you wanted to share?” He wonders momentarily if she was saddened by his announcement, knowing how much she idolized the victors.

“I learned a new song today! Would you like to hear it?”

“Did you?” He asks though he knows saying she ‘learned’ anything is being very generous. “By all means.”

Calliope places the violin between her shoulder and her chin, getting into the correct position. She knows that much at least. Discreetly, he lowers the volume right before she drags the bow across the strings. He winces once she starts playing, another word used loosely, lowering the volume even more. She’s abysmal, to put it simply. So bad, in fact, that he can’t notice the improvement she and her instructor swear is there—he never does. 

But she only started her lessons very recently, she’s a novice. Unlike you, the entire reason she even wanted to take lessons. Your skill with the violin is truly something to marvel at. After your moving performance, she’d been taken with the idea of playing herself. He’s happy that was her main takeaway from that night. And you’re a far better person to emulate than Katniss Everdeen. 

Coriolanus, for a long time now, has been of the mindset that music is only good for causing trouble. And he’s been proven right time and time again. Despite that, he’s always been partial to your playing. The way the notes soar and dance through the air, each one carrying its own emotion and story. You become one with your instrument, movements sure and fluid like you’re channeling something other .

You’re not a singer, it’s part of why he prefers you. You played so often, not because you enjoyed it, but because he willed it. Perhaps that’s where he went wrong in the past. He didn't need a performer. A bird couldn't truly be tamed without breaking its wings, after all. They were meant to entertain you with their primitive songs from afar, heard not seen. Birds weren’t meant to be cared for or doted on. 

You, however, invoke memories of the wayward lap dogs that once roamed the desolate streets during the Dark Days—lost, yet in need of guidance and a firm hand. You responded with surprising grace to both rewards and punishments. The sort of unwavering loyalty that could be harnessed. Akin to those loyal canines who, once taken in, never strayed far from their master's side. Indeed, there was no need to break you; you were already tamed, domesticated by circumstance and necessity.

His mind wanders to a time long past, to his grandmother's cherished garden. He remembers the times she would force him up to the roof to help her, tending to the whims of the temperamental woman and her equally temperamental plants, diligently pruning away the encroaching weeds. He could never claim to have a green thumb, but there was one plant he remembers being fond of: lavender. A hardy plant that survived longer than many of his neighbors had and was always so rewarding to see grow. Splashes of purple and green on the ever-present backdrop of gray had made those days a little less dreary. The memory brings a faint smile to his lips that leaves just as fast as it arrived. 

The woman is long since dead and so is her garden.

Coriolanus absently adjusts a vase of pristine white roses on his desk, contemplating the parallels between you and that resilient lavender plant.

So, yes. Perhaps you aren't an animal at all. Instead, a flower that endures. Beautiful and useful. And a Snow only surrounds themselves with the best. 

You’ll need tending to, of course, some nurturing. Just as well. You have quite a few weeds he'll need to prune, but he’s certain the end result would be just as rewarding as those sprouting lavender buds in his grandmother's garden. He’ll need that splash of color in the foreground of this eternal war.

And who knows? Perhaps he’ll have gotten you under control in enough time to have you perform at Calliope’s birthday celebration. You might even be able to train her yourself. A mentor yet again.

While Calliope continues to play, his eyes drift back to the recap. 

“Now, let's lighten the mood a bit, shall we? Did you catch that electrifying moment between two victors? I mean, talk about sparks flying!”

“Pun intended, I hope?”

“You know it, Claudius. Ha ! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or you were unlucky enough to miss it, two of our very own victors shared a fiery moment on the beach.” They pull up a short video of your and Finnick’s pitiful display on the beach. “ Oh, the passion! It was so unexpected, so intense, that yours truly couldn't contain his excitement, and well, I might have had a little tumble. But fear not, because we've got the clip ready for your viewing pleasure. Let's roll it!" 

“What’s this?” Finnick pulls you forward into a deep kiss with crashing waves and the setting sun in the background. “I—excuse me.” Caesar holds up a finger before passing out. 

"Ah, classic Caesar, always getting carried away by the drama!” He speaks in the third person, laughing at himself as the clip of him is played again in slow motion. “But seriously, folks, wasn't that kiss something else? Oh, what a moment! I think I need a fan myself after that!" 

"I was on the edge of my seat, practically squatting the whole night!" 

"Words right out of my mouth. Is it possible this fiery little dalliance flew under our radar all these years?"    

"You know, I wouldn't be surprised. Those two had always been prett y close. So cute." 

"Too true, my friend. Too true. And you can bet your Capitol couture that we'll be talking about those two in-depth later.  For now, let's dive into more highlights from the Games. Who impressed you the most? Which victors left you speechless with their skills? Which death rocked you the hardest? Share your thoughts with us about our all-star season, because the excitement never ends here at Capitol TV!"

-

END OF PART 1

A/N: I know this was a doozy, like WOOO. right? But that's the end of part 1, next part is mockinjay. might take a hiatus in between just to breathe and like, give me some air and time to plan. Come yell at me over on tumblr!!!!

[love-bugsy]

the worst thing about love is… | jason todd (chapter 1)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: stitches, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, very inaccurate medical terminology and procedure lol

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

There’s a dead man on your fire escape.

Well. He’s not actually dead, but his pulse is weak when you drag him into your living room, out of the relentless Gotham rain. Pulling your hand away from under his mask, you crouch down, peeling off the worn leather jacket around his shoulders and unbuckling his pauldrons. You feel around his back, brows furrowed. You can’t feel anything through the padding in his rain soaked shirt.

Hands wandering down to where his front is flat on the floor, you press down on his side, eyes widening when your fingers come back slick with blood. You go into autopilot, flipping him onto his back and yanking up his compression shirt. You might’ve gasped at the knife wound if you weren’t working on instinct. It’s bad. 

Shoving away the doubt clawing at the base of your skull, you steady your trembling hands. You’ve been trained for this. 

Don’t feel, just do.

The cut is long and serrated, and deep as all hell. It slices through the middle of a jagged, Y-shaped scar that chains over his shoulders like a noose. Jesus. 

It’s like he was stabbed and then dragged across the floor, cutting diagonally across his torso. How is he even still alive? Your hands move faster than you can think, completing an internal checklist as you go.

Breathing? Fast and shallow through his modulator, no obstructions. Bleeding? Applied tourniquet to epigastric region - transfusion isn’t even an option… Your brain works overtime, sifting through diagnostics lectures - penetrating abdominal trauma, debrided of devitalised tissue, no visible debris… You trace the edges of the wound looking for inflammation or fluid buildup; signs of peritonitis, but the weapon seems to have missed any internal organs. Lucky. Even luckier that he landed on a surgical resident’s fire escape.

Reaching over to the lamp by your couch, you shift it so that it shines directly over his abdomen. A last check of his wound confirms that there are no external indications that you should conduct a laparotomy. You just have to sew him up and hope to god the knife didn’t puncture anything internal.

You keep a hand planted firmly over his tourniquet, applying constant pressure, reaching for your backpack. Dragging it over, you use your teeth to open your suture kit and your free hand to sterilise his cut with Betadine and alcohol, wiping gentle circles outward from the wound. You dip your needle like Achilles in the Styx, hand and all, into the sterilising liquid, tugging a glove on with your teeth. 

You grip the needle driver in your dominant hand, pickups clutched in the other and take a steadying breath. There’s a stillness to the room, quiet save for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The wound is large - high tension - so… mattress sutures… horizontal so the tension is spread over the edge of the wound. 

You take your first bite, adrenaline driving your needle into a clean stitch. You reverse it, passing through his cut again, before tying it off with the practised motions of a thousand surgical knots tied on yarn and thread and fraying jeans. You settle back on your knees after the first suture, readying yourself for the stitching to come, and start the next one.

~

Hours later, you haul him onto your couch, sitting him up on the arm rest to take pressure off of his dressed stitches. Frowning deeply at how uncomfortable he looks - even unconscious, you tuck a throw pillow under his scuffed metal mask. 

Leaning close to check his breathing, you hear crackling slow and deep through the helmet’s voice modulator. Bone-deep relief floods your system, a little sigh leaving your mouth involuntarily. Sitting heavily against your coffee table, you press the heels of your hands into your weary eyes. 

He’s stable. For now at least. 

Head bumping against the edge of your couch, you breathe in deeply, fighting the anxiety twisting in your ribcage. The couch smells like rubbing alcohol, stinging your nose so badly your eyes water. It’s followed by something familiar - underneath the heady scent of petrol and metal - like… if you mixed Gotham up into a single smell; rain and smoke and wet pavement. He… he smells like-

“Jay!” 

The faulty fluorescent lights - courtesy of your parent's small family diner - seem to flicker in tandem with your strident yell.

Your best friend looks up at you through a mop of dark hair, collarbones poking out of his thin t-shirt, second-hand leather jacket chucked haphazardly on the other side of the booth. He’s stolen your copy of Jane Eyre, flattened with one hand next to a plate of old fries you’d scrounged for him.

You tug your book from his grasp, tucking your pen into the pocket on your apron. He looks up at you with a mouth full of fries, infuriating confusion written across his face.

“What? You promised I could read it.” You sigh in exasperation.

“When I’m finished! And-” A dramatic gasp rips from your mouth when you examine the book. “Are these- grease stains?” You take the book in both hands, swatting Jason with it.

“What so it’s okay to hit me with a book but not get grease- fuck, jesus, okay, okay!” You raise the book over your shoulder with both hands.

“Do you yield?” His mock-angry expression almost makes you laugh, a hand held up near his face to shield from your attack. There’s a soft twist to his frown, like he’s trying to stop his mouth from pulling into a grin. He raises his hands in surrender, and you relax your hold on the book.

Rookie mistake.

Jason darts forward, faster than you can blink, grasping your waist with both hands and dragging you towards him. He yanks the book from your hands and lets you go, grinning childishly at you with the book in his hands. The cat with the canary.

You throw your hands up in exasperation before planting them on your hips like a disappointed mother. The admonishment on the tip of your tongue turns into a weary sigh when you hear your parents calling for you from the diner kitchen. “Fine. But you actually have to try to not spoil it this time.”

Jason crosses his fingers over his chest, “Scout’s honour, birdie.” 

You try not to flush at the nickname, just like you do every time he says it. Still, you fold like a stack of cards.

(He spoils it the next day.)

~

When you wake two hours later for rounds (at the ass-crack of dawn), he’s already gone. You pad quietly around your kitchen making coffee from day-old grounds, cautious not to disturb the sanctity of the early morning (or the ghost of his presence).

The only evidence of him is alight in the dim light that spills over your kitchen counter and into your living room - the deep indents in your couch and the bloodstains on your carpet… The rain on your wood floors, from the fire escape window you’re sure you didn’t leave open.

hi, hello, uhh this is the first fic I've ever posted so bear with me. if anyone actually sees this, i do apologise for the inaccuracies and lengthy prose. also, this will be a series so stick around if you like slow updates, slowburn and second chances. thanks for reading my rambles.

with love, bugsy

[maisonaime]

The Star Who Listened [Azriel x Reader]

My little contribution to @starfallweek 2024 ✨

Prompt: Character A is a fallen star, Character B finds them

Note: Angst with a happy ending. This prompt immediately reminded me of this quote from a very beautiful but heart wrenching spoken word poem about the power of friendship and of friends who dream together. Happy Starfall Week!

“You kept a rock on a satin pillow on your bookshelf and told me ‘It’s a star.’ You said you found in a junkyard. And it had been broken down for quite some time because too many people wished on it, and that’s a lot of pressure for one little star.” Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long, For Instance

There was no telling how long he had lain there. Long enough that the ground had given way to valleys and mountains, snow and grass, fire and rain. Long enough that the wind and the moon cooled his skin, warped from the burnout. Long enough that the bones that cracked on impact hardened in the same position they had come to rest. Long enough that he learned all of the parallels of nature.

First he learned the way the ground vibrates during an earthquake is almost indiscernible from the thundering of hooves and feet as armored men trample over him. His tears flow into the rivulets of blood from fallen warriors, which flow into the river that rages through the carrion. He wants to wash away with it.

Then he learned how the earth would split and crack and flow bright and hot, creeping across the ground like candlewax. It looks like his beautiful, ruined hands. He remembers the skin dripping off of bone when he could no longer hold the burning dreams they piled into his arms. So bright, and so beautiful, but so heavy.

Then he learned how the air would hang heavy before the sky cracks open. It reminds him of the weight that hung around his shoulders in the moments before he tumbled from the sky. Feels the despair, the failure in being unable to remain afloat. He waits for Hera’s wrath for his forsaking of Astraea.

Azriel could’ve recounted all the lessons he learned in all the hundreds of years he’d lain there. Could’ve stopped someone to tell his story, to beg pity or forgiveness, or simply for a listening ear. But how could he have proven his tale?

Who would believe that a small, rough-edged, unassuming rock was actually a fallen star?

How could he even begin to explain the thousands of dreams he had forsaken when he fell? He had seen some of those dreams dashed personally. Had seen the men whose safety had been prayed for fall screaming on their swords. Had seen a woman who wanted nothing more than a child bury seven silent born at the riverbed. Had seen the children who dreamed of their prince or princess and were instead sold into marriage beds with monsters and carted away from their homes.

So he could not move, he could not speak. He could only relive his failure and all the lessons he’d learned from it. Lessons he would never get to use. Lessons that meant nothing to anyone, because lessons don’t mean as much as dreams do.

Rocks don’t mean as much as stars.

But to you they do.

You, who look to the stars to guide you. But who also looks to the ground to see how far you have come. You who use rocks to mark the trail the stars take you along. You who collect the ones you find most beautiful, the ones that remind you of the stars.

You too have a gift for seeing the parallels in nature.

And yes, dreams are beautiful. But so are the lessons we learn when they do and don’t come true.

And so, this is how he finds himself in your pocket, after so many years in the dust. After so many years on the cold ground. The wool of your skirt is warm and soft, and it cushions Azriel’s hardened heart.

The next thing he knows he is resting on a satin pillow, high on a shelf in your room where he can watch over this strange savior. He watches day and night. Watches as you work and write and wander by day. Watches as you dream by night.

He wishes you had left him on the ground. He is stricken and terrified to be so close to another’s dreams, even as his very essence cries out to caress them. It is worse agony than he ever faced. At least before didn’t have to be so close to the humans who once depended on him.

He feels perverted because you haven’t even entrusted him with your dreams and here he is fantasizing about them. Prostrate before you trying to hold himself back, because he cannot warp your dreams with his horrible hands. Cannot bear the responsibility of ruining even one more dream. No matter how large or small.

He doesn’t even know why he is there. Why you plucked him out of his quiet obscurity and forced him to endure this proximity to such a vociferous dreamer. He loves and hates it in equal measure. Loves and hates you in equal measure.

And then the strangest thing happens one day. You are showing a friend around your room. And your friend points to him and laughs “Why do you have that rock on that pillow?” and Azriel would blush if he wasn’t a rock. But you smile knowingly and say “That’s not a rock, it’s a star I found. It fell from the sky when too many people piled their wishes onto it. Too much pressure for anything, don’t you think?” and the friend nods understandingly.

And Azriel glows. And Azriel cracks. Because he is awash with the forgiveness of a dreamer. And he remembers the child with eyes like yours but different, the first who looked up to him and wished. The one who made him want to take as many wishes as he could carry, and then take more after that.

And when the friend is gone, you reach up onto the shelf and bring down the satin pillow. You set it on your desk, and observe the crack that that splits your star down the middle. You gingerly separate the two halves, and behold the bright blue gemstone in the center.

You smile. “Do you think the weight of one person’s dreams is bearable? I promise to leave plenty of room for your own.”

Azriel glows as brightly as he once did in the sky.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Brass Balls. - OC Backstory.

pairing: F!OC: Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price words: 1.7K~ cw: yelling, threats, roasting (not even that aggressive really)

At the meager age of 23, Kathleen Mary Moore had succeeded in doing something that no one before or after her could get ever away with: becoming an unofficial charge nurse at the military hospital in Tidworth Camp. 

And all thanks to one skill of hers: Conflict Resolution.

Well… more like… Resolution through Conflict.

Didn’t matter if the person that needed their arse reamed out was a patient, a family member or a commanding officer. She had enough sass to last her a lifetime and metaphorical balls big enough to look a superior in the eye and call them a gobshite.

In her case, being a charge nurse means little else than being a glorified enforcer. She’d be called in by anyone, in any department of the hospital, whenever there was a Difficult™️ situation to be solved. And solve them she did.

Maybe it was the Leo in her, maybe it was the Older Daughter blood in her veins. Who knows.

Nonetheless, it earned her an unfortunate nickname: Brass. 

Not just because, according to the other medical staff and even some low rank enlisted, she had “brass balls”... but also because she had the brass (the high-ranked officers) by the balls.

And that’s, unfortunately, the way she met John Price.

On March 28th, 2013, the Tidworth Hospital received an influx of 20 SAS soldiers that, although housed in the nearby Stirling Lines Garrison, didn’t have a proper hospital at the base, and so, were placed in Tidworth for emergency treatment.

By April 7th, 2013, only one soldier of the group of 20 stayed behind, a Sergeant Craig Wallcroft, the rest having returned to Credenhill. Wallcroft wasn’t under Kathleen’s care, being in a completely different department, but, eventually, she was forced to pick up his case.

Called to her nurse’s admin office by her Lieutenant-Colonel, Lieutenant Moore watched a small pile of paper being placed in front of her, 14 or so pages long.

“Sergeant Wallcroft’s superior, a ‘Captain Price’ has been very insistent in the release of his Sergeant…” Lieutenant-Colonel Margot Ward, a no-nonsense greying-brown-haired woman explained as she stood face-to-face with Kathleen.

“Insistent, you say?” Kathleen asked, dipping her head slightly at an angle, an eyebrow raising in a display of displeasure. “What’s he done?”

“Very.” Margot explained with a sigh. “He took to filing request after request for the release and clearance for combat… Then to filing transfer requests to the medical ward in Credenhill… To downright harrassing us with phone calls on the matter.” She revealed.

Kathleen’s eyebrows raised and her head pulled back at the chin in a look of utter surprise. To have someone abuse the online request system or maybe the email inbox of the department was one thing… But to downright shout down the phone line over this? 

Oh, Kathleen was not happy, her hands already trembling with the anticipation of putting this man in his place.

“And, now, he’s sent one of his Lieutenants to… pressure us into releasing his teammate. The man’s shouted at Lieutenant Byers in the nurse’s station already.” Margot added.

That did it. Hearing that someone raised their voice at one of her closest friends? She didn’t even want to imagine the state her friend Felicity was left in… the poor girl, always prone to tears.

“Leave it to me.” Kathleen said as she walked out of the room, marching away quickly.

-

The trip to Credenhill was quick. It took no convincing at all for the helicopter pilot, who was meant to transpo Wallcroft back to Credenhill, to turn the chopper around to deliver her, and this Lieutenant he sent for him, Lieutenant Cameron, back to Credenhill.

Cameron then lead her across the garrison in the lightly pouring rain, to the training gym where ‘Captain Price’ was bound to be.

Her brown eyes flittered over the room very quickly, surveying it, to try and locate Captain Price. Most of the men there were on the young end, handsome-ish, muscular and strong, wearing tight clothing while they grappled and tossed each other around.

Before Cameron could lead her further into the room, she took two fingers to her mouth and let out a sharp, deafening whistle, that stopped all the sparring (and observing) soldiers, in their tracks.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU GOBSHITES IS CAPTAIN PRICE?!” She barked at the top of her lungs, the silence in the room so loud that her voice bounced off the walls.

One of the men straightened up from where he was sparring with another of the soldiers and he stood tall and imposing, even from across the room. “That’d be me.” John said. “Who are you?”

“I’m someone that’s sick and tired of your bullshit, Captain.” She told him directly. “Now, come over here, please.” She demanded as she beckoned him close with two fingers.

John approached with a certain swagger, confident steps and swaying hips, strong muscles wrapped by an army green t-shirt covered in sweat, beefy, burly and hairy forearms on display.

“Nurse Corps.” He acknowledged her uniform’s patches as he came to a stop before her, standing a bit below her, a few steps worth of a height difference, as she stood on a catwalk, and him on the gym floor. “You finally transferred my Sergeant?”

He was handsome. Bloody hell, he was handsome, stern blue eyes staring at her from below, stubble on his jaw that she knew would soon grow to be a thick shrub…

“No.” She replied as she set her hands on her hips. “Your Sergeant is still bed-bounded back in Tidworth, where he’ll stay for the foreseeable future because as you’ve been told many times by now, he’s not. fit. for. service.”

John looked at her blankly. “Is that what you came all this way for, little nurse?” He asked her with a cocked brow, his tone almost condescending. “This could’ve been a phone call.” He added and turned away. “Get back to work!” He shouted at his team.

Oh, how she hated being underestimated… And talked down to.

She lunged forward and grabbed John by the collar of his t-shirt like one would to a naughty child and tugged him back with an aggressive pull. “Get back here, you wanker.” She demanded.

John turned to look at her, eye-to-eye, faces mere inches apart, as she finally let go of him. “You’re gonna listen and listen good because I’m not bloody playing around and I have NO PROBLEM embarrassing you in front of your troops.” She gestured to the other soldiers in the room who had not heeded Price’s command to go back to work.

“You have no qualifications to decide what your soldiers need or do not need when it comes to their health. Hell, I wouldn’t trust you to tell your arse from your elbow considering the state of the First Aid that half of your soldiers came to Tidworth with.” She told him point blank, her hands now coming to rest on the railing of the catwalk that separated them.

Her voice grew louder with each word she spoke, venom slipping from her tongue as she continued her tirade. Her face had morphed into a wide-eyed, almost frantic look, her brows set low over her eyelids, and her jaw clenched tight.

“And even if you had qualifications, that gives you no right to talk down to me or my bloody staff. I’ve seen plenty of men like you in the last couple years and you all have one thing in common: hubris. You think that suddenly, what, cause you made Captain you can suddenly treat everyone as if they’re below you?” She confronted him as she leaned forward, getting right in his face.

“Just because your ego suddenly soared sky high thanks to your spiffy new title and shiny medals, it doesn’t mean that you can suddenly proceed as you fucking please. Your inability to fathom that your power over others is only in the scope of your immediate subordinates in the chain of command is not the Nurse and Medical Corps’ concern. We have better things to do than deal with little men with fragile little egos.” She shouted at him, pointing a finger right in his face, her teeth catching her lips as she spat pure vitriol at him.

“So you better hear me well and good-” She added and suddenly grabbed him by the front of the collar, tugging him close to her. “because I am not saying this again. If I hear so much as a PEEP about you, that you put in another request for Wallcroft’s clearance, or, God help you, that you called the nurse’s station and talked down on one of my sisters, again-” She warned him.

“I’ll print out the stack of over 30 requests you’ve already put in, come back here,” She pointed at the floor to mean Credenhill. “...roll ‘em up nice and tight and shove ‘em SO FAR UP YOUR ARSE that when I pull ‘em out your mouth, your teeth will work as a paper shredder. AM. I. CLEAR?!” Kathleen pointed her finger right in his face, almost poking him between the eyes with it.

John was dumbfounded. He had never been spoken to like this. Not since he became an adult. Even his mother wasn’t this intense as she reamed him out when he was younger, and there had been plenty of times where he had deserved it!

So, Price simply stared at her and blinked slowly, his breathing having hitched and his heart beating like a war drum in his chest. He swore he could hear his blood flowing inside his ears. His arms hung limply on either side of his body as he kept staring into the fiery woman’s brown eyes.

“AM. I. CLEAR?!” She repeated herself, eyes still wide, pupils blown, as she glared right into John’s blue eyes, his own pupils blown.

“Yes, ma’am.” John ended up saying and nodded imperceptibly.

Kathleen let go of his collar and leaned back. “That’s what I fucking thought.” She goaded in a vicious tone through her teeth.

Then, she turned around, facing Lieutenant Cameron and nodding at him before she marched off, forcing the lieutenant to rush after her to escort her back to the chopper, and leaving behind a stunned group of SAS soldiers… and her future husband.

[mxcnliight]

baby, can you meet me tonight in detention? (cyj)

Choi Yeonjun your longtime bully has finally had enough of your and puts your in your place, but the teacher catches you guys. so you get to sent to detention with him. when you’re all alone with him, what will happen? ♫ I can feel your blood pressure rise, fuck this tension ♫

Paring: Bully!Yeonjun x Fem!Reader

Theme: One shot; SMUT, PWP, fluff (?)

Word Count: 2.8K

Warings: sexual tension; dirty talk; degradation; swearing; breath play(?); oral sex (f receiving); p in v penetration; unprotected sex + creampie (use a CONDOM)

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You yawn as boredom hits you, waiting for your math class to start. You have never been good at math nor were you ever interested in it, so you always just hope the teacher won’t call on you. 

You look out the window and see the sun shining, it’s a nice day today. No rain or clouds! You know you have to do something after school, maybe go to the ice cream shop with your friends or get a tan by the pool. 

Whatever it is, you know, you just can’t waste a day like this. Suddenly, you hear a jingle, right on time. You look over, and see your bully, Choi Yeonjun, walk into the classroom. 

He wore his signature black leather jacket with a white undershirt paired with black pants and black boots. His crimson red hair catches attention, so everybody can tell it's Choi Yeonjun. 

His eyes meet yours as you hold eye contact until he sits down at his desk. Looking away, you roll your eyes and wonder what torture you’ll be experiencing today. 

From the time you were a freshman, Yeonjun was your designated bully. He would slam your locker in your face, throw paper airplanes at you with nasty words in them, make you trip, etc. 

You didn’t know why he was bullying you, but you found out one day and it was the stupidest thing ever. You became best friends with a girl named Yuna and the reason why Yeonjun was bullying you was because he had a crush on her and you were "taking her away from him".

It was so dumb that you wanted to punch him for his stupidity, but you never got the chance (or strength). When Yeonjun first started bullying you, you were frail and fragile. 

You didn’t know how to handle him, but now as a senior year in high school, you have gotten used to his antics. You know how to handle him and protect yourself from him. 

You thought he would have stopped years ago, but he told you, “I’m not stopping until either I get caught or you go and be a little bitch and tattle tale on me, got it?” You still remember the cold glare he gave you that day. 

You would have told the school counselor, but you just felt too guilty to. Speaking of feeling guilty. Another thing Yeonjun did to you was manipulate you, but you wonder after you both graduate what he’s going to do? 

He’s not going to have another doll to play around with, unless he still keeps in contact with you, and you hope to god he doesn’t. Just then you feel something hit your head as you look down at a paper airplane now in your lap. 

You give Yeonjun a disappointed look as he gestures for you to open it. Rolling your eyes, you open it and it reads ‘You look like a witch with that makeup on you, did you even try this morning?’ You look back up at Yeonjun and he's stupidly smirking now. 

You roll your eyes and scoff before crumpling the paper airplane into a ball and throwing it in the trash can. Not cool Choi. You cross your arms and look up at the board. 

“Wanna piece of gum?” You look over and see Yuna holding out a piece to you. You nod and take it into your mouth before chewing. “Thanks.” She hums as you both look back at the board. “Alright class… let’s get started, shall we?”

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Forty minutes later and class is finally done, thank god. You barely understood any of the material, so you know you’ll need Yuna to explain to you later when you get home. 

You look to your left and see Yuna putting her folder in her bag. “Hey, could you explain the notes to me tonight?” You ask her. “I would love to, but I have a cheer meeting after school” she frowns. 

“I can teach it to you during study hall before class tomorrow?” “Yeah that’s fine, thanks.” She nods and smiles at you as you smile back at her. You begin to gather your things when you jump in your seat from hands slamming down on your desk. 

You look up and see Yeonjun towering over you and you frown. “What do you want, Choi?” “Did you do my English homework?” You smirk and scoff at him before laughing. 

“What’s so funny bitch?” He asks as you deadpan him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Yeonjun, does it look like I’m your little servant? No.'' You begin to sling your bag over your shoulder when Yeonjun suddenly chokes you as you widen your eyes. 

Your hands go over his neck trying to pry them off of your neck. “What’d you say to me, you little bitch?” He says in a dark tone, staring dead into your soul. “I-i’m not your little servant… bitch.” You say, stuttering as he becomes enraged. 

As he was about to do something, he was interrupted. “Choi Yeonjun and Y/N L/N!” You both look over at your teacher who is fuming with anger. “I will not be having this type of ruckus in my classroom! Detention for both of you!” Yeonjun’s hand leaves your neck as you both look at each other and sigh. 

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It felt like forever to walk to the principal's office because Yeonjun was staring at you the whole time. You’re now sitting outside the principal's office waiting for him to get done with Yeonjun. If he hadn’t started this, you wouldn’t be here right now. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms; this was not the time to do something Choi. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see a lady walking towards you. “Here’s an ice pack, sweetie.” Your eyes widen at her kind gesture as you take the ice pack.

You thanked her as she left. You then put the ice pack around your neck. Just then you hear the door open as you look to your left and Yeonjun comes out with the secretary. 

Yeonjun sits beside you as the secretary lady squats down to your level before taking off her glasses and rubbing her forehead.“Alright so we have come to the conclusion that Yeonjun was the person that was responsible for this ruckus, but you were still involved, Y/N, so I will need both of you to report to Mrs. Hans’ room after school, is that understood?” 

You both nod as she puts her glasses back on and gets up. “I will write both of you passes for your next class.” She goes back into her office while you turn your head to match Yeonjun’s deathly stare.

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Once the end of the day hits, you go straight to Mrs. Hans’ room, not wanting to be late. Once you arrive in her room, you see Yeonjun isn’t here yet, which isn’t a shocker. 

You make your way over to a desk and sit down. You then put your bag in your lap, waiting for the period to start. A minute before the bell rings, Yeonjun arrives, looking angry as ever. 

You see him take a seat only 2 desks away from yours. You look back at the board before getting your lip gloss from your bag and applying some to your lips. 

You then smack them before putting the lip gloss back into your bag. The bell rings as Mrs. Hans sighs. “Alright, since both of you are here now, we can start. Welcome to detention, Yeonjun is a regular here, so I’m not surprised, but for you Mrs. L/N, I’m rather disappointed.” She gives you a side eye as you look away. 

“Anyways, you all know the drill. Phones in the basket,” she says, holding out a small basket. You look over at Yeonjun, who is getting out his phone, and so do you. 

You both get up and put your phones in Mrs. Hans’ basket. Once you sit back down, you put your bag on the floor next to you. “Now, silence for the next forty-five minutes.” You see her open her book as you roll your eyes; this can’t get any better, can it. 

Minutes pass as you are extremely bored; you get so bored that you count the tiles on the ceiling. You occasionally sneak glances at Yeonjun, but he is just as bored as you are. He is just staring at his hand; you wondered what was on there. 

Just then you hear a teacher come by Mrs. Hans’ room. Mrs. Hans then looks over at the teacher, then back at us. She sighs before grabbing her keys. “I’ll be right back,” she says before leaving. 

That's easy, huh? Now it is just you and Yeonjun both sitting in silence. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?” You look over at Yeonjun, oh, he’s starting this now? “Oh, so I’m the bitch? Says the guy that has bullied me for four years straight,” you say, before rolling your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t for you,” he replies. “Oh no Yeonjun. I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t for your selfish, greedy, egotistical self! I have done nothing wrong, it’s all your fault, Yeonjun!” You raise your voice as you stare at him. 

He clenches his jaw and balls his hand into a fist. “No, it’s all you, Y/N. You’re the selfish egotistical bitch, you always have been!” “For what?! For taking your girlfriend?! If you really wanted her, you should have just asked her out!” He goes silent as you sigh until you suddenly get slammed into the desk next to you. 

You look up in confusion as Yeonjun wraps his hand tightly around your neck. “Who told you I liked that little bitch?” You look at him confused. “You do like her, don't you?” He then does something unexpected: he kisses you. 

Your eyes widen as he roughly makes out with you. You whimper, trying to pry Yeonjun’s hand from your neck because you can hardly breathe. He breaks the kiss and stares at you intensely. “I like you, you little brat” Your eyes widened; he did not just say that. 

“W-what?” You say as he flips you around and your hands meet the cold service of the desk. “Yeonjun, let’s talk about this-'' Just then he rips your patines off from underneath your dress and throws them away. 

He then wraps one of his hands around your mouth. “Be a good girl and keep quiet, okay?” He then removes his hand and goes down between your legs, holding them open. Your face heats up as you can feel his breath on your pussy. 

You whimper, “Y-yeonjun… what are you doing?” He then chuckles as his hands meet the sides of your thighs, “I want your slutty fucking pussy in my mouth.” You moan at his words. “But Yeonjun, we can’t… not here.” “Yes we can and you are going to give it to me.” 

You feel his tongue on your clit as you whimper; you put your hand around your mouth trying not to moan. He licks back and forth up your slit as you're trying so hard not to moan. 

He flattens his tongue on your clit and begins to kiss at it. You whimper a bit, but not too loud. You could get caught at any moment, but it feels so good. Along with him making out with your pussy. You’re still trying to process that Yeonjun apparently likes you. 

His tongue moves to your hole, slowly teasing it. “I want your fucking pussy cream on my tongue,” he demands as you moan at his words. He then slaps your thigh with his free hand and you let out a yelp. “What did I say about keeping quiet?” He growls as he begins to flick his tongue along your hole. You close your eyes in pleasure. 

“You like that?” He asks as you hum, still trying so hard not to moan. “This pussy’s fucking mine. I own it.” He growls as he starts to sloppily kiss your hole. You whimper at his words as he growls on your pussy. 

“Don’t you fucking cum yet,” he demands as he increases his tongue movements as you try not to moan. His fingers then move up to your clit, slowly circling around it, sending you more pleasure. 

“Yeonjun, please,” you cry out as you can feel him smirk. He moves two fingers to your hole and slowly pumps them inside as you moan. He continues to lick your pussy while his fingers are fucking in and out of your wet hole. 

“Shit… you feel that? My fingers in your pussy and tongue on your clit?” You whimper at his words as you nod. “I just want you to give in to me. Give it to me, yeah? Push your pussy in my fucking face.” You push your hips down a bit at him as you feel him growl at your pussy sending vibrations up your back. 

“Fuck baby, I need you inside of me.” He then gets up and puts his hand on your chin, forcing you to look at him before he kisses you. His hands sneak up your body to meet your clothed breasts, slowly massaging them. 

He then breaks the kiss and takes his pants off along with his boxers. You look back in anticipation for his cock to be inside you. “Fuck baby, are you ready?” You nod as he lifts your dress up with one hand and uses the other to slowly push his thick cock in.

You both moan at the feeling of him stretching you out. “So tight, only for me right?” “Mhm, all for you,” you say as he completely bottoms you out. You whimper at the feeling as his hands meet your hips. 

One of his hands reaches up and wraps around your mouth; again, he gets close to your ear and whispers. “Be quiet” Before he starts thrusting into you, you throw your head back in pleasure.

It feels so good, you have never felt anything like this before. “You’re mine, alright? Mine. Nobody’s else’s. You belong to Choi Yeonjun.” You moan into his hand as you feel tears in your eyes.

He then grunts out, “Oh fuck baby pussy’s so fucking good, who knew it would only take a dicking down for you to shut up?” You whimper at his words as his thrusts increase, pounding into you. 

It feels so good, yet you feel a wave of embarrassment hit you with Yeonjun fucking you in detention. “Mhm, fuck baby,” he lets out a low chuckle. “You’re going to be my dumb little bitch, hm? Gonna take all of my cum in your tight little pussy mhm?” He mumbles in your ear as your eyes close, you are so close to your orgasm. 

“Oh baby, you close? I can feel you fucking clench around me. You wanna cum hm?” he says as you nod vigorously, wanting to release the tension building up in your body. 

You feel Yeonjun smirk as he kisses your cheek. “Nobody's  stopping you Y/N. Cum for me.” His thrusts increase as you almost yell into his hand around your mouth as if it is so much pleasure. 

You then feel Yeonjun’s free hand move down to your clit, rubbing to the pace of his thrusts. “Come on baby. You don’t want to get caught, do you? So then fucking cum for me,” he growls into your ear. 

His words give you the final push, and your orgasm shoots through your body as your eyes roll into the back of your head. “Fuck yeah baby! Just like that, mhm, you’re going to make me cum too,” he says as he releases his hand from your mouth as you crash onto the desk while Yeonjun’s still trying to chase his orgasm. “Oh shit-“ He says as his cum shoots into your pussy, filling you right up.

You both try to catch your breath as you’re still lying lifeless on the desk. You feel Yeonjun slip out as he breathes heavily. “Who knew a brat like you had a good pussy?” You roll your eyes at his comments and turn around to kiss him. 

His thumb rubs on your jaw as you kiss. You break it and huff out at him, “I hate you.” He chuckles, “Says the one who just came on me.” You roll your eyes when you hear something as you both scramble to get your clothes on. 

You then return to your seats like normal as Mrs. Hans comes back in. “You two didn’t do anything while I was gone?” She asks as you look back at Yeonjun, then look back at her to nod. Once detention is done, you both finally get your phones back as you are about to walk out the door. Yeonjun stops you as you look back up at him in confusion. “Could I have your number, baby?”.

[alicerosejensen]

Warning: mention of blood, mention of ptsd in the reader, mention of miscarriage, the reader has encountered a bioweapon in the past, scars, irritated Leon.

synopsis: Despite the fact that three years have passed, the past does not leave you alone. Your nightmares and scars are always a reminder of what you were able to survive.

Note: I tried to play this scenario with Leon but I never managed to bring him to the emotions that I wanted from him. Therefore, there will be one very tense moment with the reader and Leon.

It was not worth starting a relationship with a person if you yourself still can not deal with your demons.

All the horrors experienced have remained officially documented by the BSAA and are marked "classified". For three years now, a thick folder has been gathering dust in the archive with all the photographs from the scene of the incident and, probably, more than a hundred sheets of a written report with dry statements of facts. But the paper will never convey the emotions that you experienced. It even looked like a mockery from the guys from the Alliance, although you actually owe Chris Redfield a lifetime for the fact that he was able to save you, but you didn’t feel a ny gratitude to him after all these interrogations.

Some part of you was even angry at him for some reason, although you didn't understand what exactly you were angry at him for, but you were under a special protection program because the bastard who gave you a personal hell was still alive.

You have so many scars… not only on the soul, there are a lot of them on the body. The largest was left to you by a creature that dug its claws deep into your shoulder and part of your back. It's a miracle that you survived after meeting him. However, your friend and fellow student Lucas was able to sew up the wound without anesthesia, which is why you now have a terrible scar with uneven edges. Sometimes, in particularly rainy weather, it even seems to hurt.

You once joked that if you got into a house with monsters, you would be the very character who would have died at the beginning of the movie. It's just the will of fate, on the contrary, you were the only one who survived in that hell, while others died a cruel death.

On nights like these, you wake up in a cold sweat. You shivered from the cold as you jumped up and down in bed from another nightmare. The TV was illuminating the dark room, showing some kind of comedy show. Outside, thunder rumbled with might and main, and heavy rain poured down so that the neighboring high-rise building across the road was hard to see. Cool air circulated through the room through the open window, forcing you to put your arms around your shoulders and get out of bed to lower the glass. In one sweat-soaked T-shirt and shorts, you were uncomfortable, especially since your heart was beating wildly, trying to cope with fear. Leon wasn't around and you had no idea if he was in his apartment or still on a mission he never talked about.

But it was even better. You don't have to see his sour face, because you don't understand the reason for these nightmares, because you never told him about it, even though he was a government agent, and you couldn't help but think that Leon had long ago requested all the information about you, right down to dental records. He just respects your boundaries, so he doesn't talk about it, however, no matter how much pressure he has exerted trying to find out the truth over the past few months, now he is telling you that he doesn't own this information. Not yet. Apparently, he respected you very much and that you did not want to talk about what happened to you. He sees such horrors almost every day, and you still cannot forget that sick bastard who dipped your pregnant friend in a solution of piranhas. Her screams and the picture frozen in front of your eyes still make you curl up into a ball, trying to survive another trigger, after which you cannot recover for several hours from the fact that your stomach is turning inside out, and blood is pounding in your ears along with other cries.

Right now you are sitting on the bed, rubbing your face with the palm of your hand, startled by a sharp knock on the door. Nausea kicks in again as you get to your feet and look at the clock on your nightstand at 1:23 a.m. You did not expect guests, but someone very persistently knocks on the flimsy door, and when you finally open it, you see Leon, who is soaking wet through, who also sees that you are not in the best condition.

Nothing new.

You let Leon inside your very small apartment in which you have been living for three years, and he immediately took off his leather jacket, hung it on a hook, and put the gun on the cabinet next to where the vase with the keys lay.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing your shoulders, silently looking at him as he took off his shoes and placed them next to yours.

"Are you okey?" he asked in an unruffled voice. Almost annoyed, looking straight into your pale face. You were still shaking and your bedding was completely disheveled.

"Yeah" Your voice gave out a completely different intonation. you haven't been fine for a long time "I'm fine".

"I see," he almost quipped, but you ignored the sarcasm. "Do you even sleep without me, my little china?"

"When you came back?" quietly asked you ignored his question.

"A couple of hours ago. Got caught in the rain"

He stood up to his full height hugging you. His hands were ice cold, but Leon himself remained warm, like a heating pad at the perfect temperature. His scent entangled your nose and strong arms inspired a sense of security. He put his hand on the back of your head, feeling that even your hair was sweating.

Officially, you have not parted, and his presence testified that he still cherishes you. Leon's lips touched your right temple, while his hands pressed you closer to it.

"I could run the bathtub for you. You're all wet and shivering"

At one time, you thought you could drown in the feeling of love. As if the awe at the sight of this man could help to displace all this horror and help you start life from scratch. But it was only a short-term effect. Leon Kennedy is like a good painkiller that temporarily dulls your post-traumatic syndrome so that you can sleep peacefully for at least one night without twitching, screaming or jumping out of bed. But like any other medicine, it has the property of stopping the miraculous effect. Leon had angelic patience, he did not rush you, hope that in time you will tell him everything yourself, but it was no longer enough. To be more precise, his patience was almost over two months ago, and then he was called on a mission and you did not discuss this incident in such a way.

Maybe it was his belated "forgive me?" You thought about it when you heard him draw water in the bathroom, it's even a little funny. Because about four hours ago you were lying on the tile trying to cope with another attack after which there was a huge mess. You could literally feel this oppressive atmosphere on your skin when he opened the door and saw the scattered shampoos and shower gels along with various lotions and other things. Leon even put a little order there, although sometimes it already seemed that it was easier to burn down this apartment and repair it again.

And yet he didn't say anything. A couple of minutes later he found you sitting still in the semi-darkness on the bed. It would have been worth turning off the TV, but you couldn't fall asleep in complete darkness, so Leon did it instead of you, holding out his hand to you to get into the bath with you and warm up a little. A chill ran over your skin causing a herd of goosebumps when he helped you take off your wet T-shirt and throw it into a full laundry basket along with the rest of the things that should have been washed long ago.

His head was resting on your shoulder while his hands, warmed in hot water, were hugging your belly. Leon didn't ask any questions, but you could feel all his fatigue. Not only from the mission that ended, for the most part, you and your distrust were the cause of fatigue.

There were no words at all, even when, after bathing, he wrapped you in a terry towel, finding clean things in a half-empty closet. Leon straightened the bedclothes while you were sitting on a chair in only your panties and his old red shirt, which was too big for you. In fact, you were literally drowning in it, but at the moment it was the only clean thing in your wardrobe.

"Will you sleep with me?" - an awkward question that stumped him for a second when he looked at the battered you, but Leon came to his senses pretty quickly with a quick nod of his head. "I promise I won't kick painfully in my sleep"

You tried to smile but he didn't seem to appreciate your attempt.

"You're mad at me right?" You knew without his confirmation that yes. But he was most likely not angry, but offended by your distrust, however, if you started telling him, in the end you would only drown even more in those bloody memories that haunt you.

And you knew why. Leon's face was completely haggard, but at the same time his gaze became completely empty. He didn't even look at you. He threw a pillow at the head of the bed and was silent because he knew that now, touching on this topic, in any case, everything would end in a quarrel. Because Leon is tired of losing.

On the other hand…he still loved you and it's not so easy to do something with his feelings. You didn't get an answer from him, but you felt the man's fingers gently tracing along the line of your scar on your back, smoothly passing to your shoulder. He saw similar ones, knew that he could leave a similar trace, but he only assumed that you saw some kind of bioterrorist attack. Maybe you've been to Terragrigia? hunters left similar scars.

Leon continued to look at your back, running his finger over other small marks, so you tried not to flinch from his touch, although they evoked unpleasant memories from three years ago. It would be better if he shouted at you, but kept silent! This silence was more frightening than quiet rage. Leon put his hand on your stomach, and you felt him pressing you to him, nuzzling your neck. Of course, it doesn't take a lot of intelligence to understand that you didn't sleep, just like him, but he still needed time to digest your miscarriage in his head, while you had already let go of this situation.

You remember the delay and the two strips on the pregnancy tests that Leon found later. In fact, you didn't even have time to get used to the idea of motherhood because there was such a mess in your head that there was simply no place for a child there. Well, Leon's work practically excluded the presence of a family, but this did not mean that somewhere in his contract a similar clause was written. He wanted his family, even if at least one child, but your pregnancy was definitely not planned.

It just happened that way.

You thought that he would be angry, that he would shout at you and destroy you completely, but the second he knelt down in front of you, his hands closed on your lower back and his head pressed against your belly. He was scared, but Leon was glad. He is not the kind of person in whom happiness spills over the edge, his work has made him quite detached and stingy with emotions in a sense, but you saw in these blue eyes a dream and hope. Leon wanted to give his child something that he himself did not have, and at the same time hoped that this circumstance would help you let go of what you never told him.

Peace flowed through his veins, allowing him to build bright dreams in his head about a small family to which he could return and seek healing after meeting BOW. However you needed healing too!

Constant fear, lack of appetite against the background of strong emotions from these rolling triggers, incessant stress… Leon fell in love with this child when he could not be called such yet and he took care of you trying to hold you tighter at night so that nightmares would not touch you.

Leon understood what happened when you curled up in a ball again and screamed in your sleep. The lower abdomen was pierced by pain, but in a dream you were torn to pieces by one of the monsters, whereas in reality the whole bed was covered with blood from what you lost baby. He didn't need any words from doctors to understand that he wouldn't become a father. The doctors said that it was possible, that it was not worth dwelling on what had happened and that in the future you could still have children, but Leon turned away and barely held back tears.

Because it wasn't an accident. Not the rejection of your body from a new life because of some incompatibility with him. No, it was because you were still living in a horror that you hadn't told him about until now.

Then Leon got really drunk.

"I'm sorry," you squeaked, watching as she poured the amber liquid into a glass, grinning crookedly. Your miscarriage was just the last straw. You were discharged from the hospital, but you still felt terrible and not so much physically as emotionally.

And Leon was angry. Something inside him snapped…you could tell by the heavy look in his eyes and the way he was clutching the glass in his hand. It wasn't a miscarriage. It was your secret that you didn't want to tell him so much and that you didn't want to plunge into again.

No one had the words. There was only one anger inside Leon that he needed to vent somewhere. You heard his mocking laugh as he turned away from you, pouring himself another shot of whiskey.

"Are you sorry?" he asked again and everything inside you turned cold from his intonation "Are you fucking sorry? Are you serious?! How long is this shit going to go on? What the fuck happened there that you lost my baby because of it?! We've almost become a family!"

It was the end.

You froze when he threw the glass into the wall and it broke into small pieces, making you flinch from the noise. His blue eyes darkened with anger and his lips tightened into one thin line because Leon wanted this child even if you never discussed starting a family. Kennedy wasn't just angry, he was furious. At you.

"Speak!" he ordered, and the tone of his voice made your legs shake, but you still took a few steps back. "I'm tired of this shit. So you either tell me everything yourself or I'll find out for myself."

An opaque hint that he would take advantage of his position as an agent without a second thought and Chris Redfield would lay out that thick folder in front of him. It wasn't a crime. It wasn't your fault when you thought you had pulled out a lucky ticket to the desired trip, but in fact this ticket turned out to be hell. It's unlikely that Leon will get angry at you through what you've been through, he still loves you, he just really hoped that this baby would be healing for you and him.

You just want to forget it.

"Where did you get these scars? What are you so afraid of?"

He asked the same questions over and over again, but now he was doing it so bitterly that in the end your back rested against the wall and there was nowhere else to pay off.

"I can't.." you whispered with your lips almost without making a sound, after which you shuddered when Leon's fist hit the wall and his knuckles broke to blood.

The pictures of what happened rise up again before your eyes, as well as that animal fear of death with which it is impossible to part. Leon doesn't understand that it's hard and scary, but he himself has never really talked about Raccoon City, so you hoped that he could understand why you can't get along with him. Tears are streaming down your cheeks, but he ignores them as well as his own pain in a bloody hand. You both walk on thin ice that is about to crack, dipping your bodies into the icy water of rejection to each other.

Leon is tired of secrets and your "I can't" only spurs his anger.

"Tell me now!" His grin is frightening.

Loen feels the same surge of energy when he saw Patrizio come running to ask him for help after the betrayal. Of course he has no desire to beat you or hurt you in any other way, but he NEEDS to know the truth why it happened. Why your injury prevents you from living.

"Because of this, you lost my baby and I want to know the reason. I could have become a father, we could have become a fucking family if not for your eternal silence! I respected your decision when we met, I was waiting for you to open up to me, but it can't go on forever! I don't have endless fucking patience!"

Then you felt the adrenaline mixed with rage injected into your blood, giving you such strength that you easily pushed Leon away from you, from which he recoiled in surprise, albeit only for a few seconds. He blamed you for what happened, even if he didn't say it out loud, and you tried to overcome the bloody memories that rolled over you in heavy waves. All these terrible deaths…. which your classmates and teacher didn't deserve such a cruel death, their screams that wake you up almost every night, you literally survived all the hell rides before Redfield pulled your ass out of there, but mentally you're still there.

He was partly right when he suggested that you start seeing a therapist to deal with this. But you couldn't go because you were trying to escape from your own fear.

"This is my personal!" With the same rudeness in her voice, you shouted in his face. "This is something that only concerns me! You also never talk about what happens on your missions!"

You tried to hit him with words in response, but Leon easily parried you.

"Don't confuse my work with my personal life! I don't even have the right to tell anyone about it, but we are together. I wanted to help you! You know, that's what people do when they love each other - they help each other, provide support! But you always push me away, but now I have the right to know what happened to you. I respected you and your desire because I understood that you needed time, but this time was more than enough. MY BABY DIED BEFORE IT WAS BORN!

He blamed you for it. Not directly, of course not, but it was even worse. You recoiled from him, felt this pang of guilt that he was trying to instill in you, and you yourself stopped understanding whether it was your fault or it was just an unfortunate coincidence. You were able to say so much shit to each other without insults in a short time, but then when you needed his support the most, Leon cracked.

"I want to hear it from you and not from Redfield," he said, but hot tears of resentment were already flowing down your cheeks, "I tried not to mix work and my personal life, so I never climbed further than I could, preferring to wait for you to trust me with your pain, to share it with me, but what happened…" His the voice became calm, but there were still notes of irritation in it. "I need to know. It's not just your personal anymore, it hurt both of us."

At that moment, it seems that time has stopped. You heard the slow sound of the hour hand on the clock and even his heavy breathing, feeling at the same time a piercing look to the depths of your soul at yourself, the onslaught of which you could not withstand, lowering your eyes like a guilty child.

It was too much for you to handle. Swallowing saliva, you sat down on the couch, hearing him exhale noisily while closing his eyes.

If only you could turn back time… but it's not even that Leon finds out what happened there, but that he doesn't understand how much it hurts you.

"I need to know." he repeated again.

The minutes of silence seemed like an eternity. You continued to cry, biting your lips until they bled, just not to sob. For a brief moment, you really tried to force yourself to tell him everything, but your brain put some kind of blockage, which made the words stuck in your throat and thoughts began to get confused turning into porridge. You just couldn't do it, and in the end, without hearing the answer, Leon just slammed the door.

You knew that when he came back, the truth would come in soon. On the one hand there was a feeling of betrayal and on the other of lightness.

But in the end, all the tears and sobs finally burst out, forcing to drown in this abyss of suffering again.

Leon had his own experiences and demons that he encountered at work, but that year destroyed you forever and no love with support is able to glue the broken parts of the soul.

He was a government agent.

You are a student who fell into the clutches of a mad psycho who turns people into monsters. These rivers of blood in which you had to swim to escape did not make you an invincible armada. They've made you a shadow of your old self.

Leon Scott Kennedy was not on your side and you were slowly burning in this flame alone.

And then he sent a short text message in the morning that he was urgently called and he would not be home for a while. You noticed this message only after two days of mutual silence. Then you went back to your apartment.

This folder is on his desk. Closed, although he tried to open it and find out the reason. It only took a couple of calls and a little bit of annihilation for Hannigan to get all the information on you. Leon did not expect that besides this yellow folder you had some dark spots in your biography. They weren't there, but the way Redfield gave him the papers made him realize that the case was rubbish.

He didn't open it. He was given a copy that is lying and gathering dust at his house. Three months of no connection and Leon just hugs you to him like before and you fall asleep while he tucks his wet hair behind his ear. Of course you won't tell him anything, but for the first time in many months, your dream turns out to be dreamless, which is why in the morning, despite the cold walking around the apartment and the same disgusting weather outside, you wake up refreshed, enveloped in the warmth of Leon's body.

Part of him still thought he had a right to be mad at you, but the other part hated himself for that night. Leon hated to see your tears and preferred to do everything possible to make a smile appear on your face, but after that the split in your relationship was too strong.

And yet you somehow strangely influenced each other instilling hope for the best. Inside, the long-awaited peace immediately spread, forcing all experiences to retreat.

The dampness outside the window, the quarrel, the loss of the child that Leon wanted so much that he even started looking for a house where the three of you could live - it's all left somewhere behind. It was just him and you right now. His lips gently touched the scar line on your back, kissing it. Maybe you just need more time, some people sometimes take several years to finally reveal their secrets. However, it would really be easier to pretend that Leon miraculously found out everything himself. You thought that was why he behaved like that.

However, he could never look into this part of your life without permission. Instead of questioning, you felt his kisses on your cheeks and temple, and the way his hands gripped you tightly as you lay wrapped in a blanket.

"I thought about breakfast but we overslept it" he smiled.

Indeed, the clock on the bedside table showed almost noon. You would actually sleep a little more like this in his arms and luckily for you, Leon allowed your brain to enjoy the long-awaited rest.

A few more tender kisses and a change of position in bed made you doze off listening to the falling raindrops outside. Leon also seems to have closed his eyes from accumulated fatigue.

now his palm is stroking your back under the covers gently soothing you. Even breathing and trembling eyelids in a dream testifies to the sensitivity of your sleep, but Leon knows how to be quiet. His thumb draws circles on your back as his lips caress your forehead. He really regretted his words but not his actions. He needed to talk about what was going on. This may not be right, but his patience is by no means unlimited, so he was going to open that folder with your information soon.

Leon believed that this now applies to him, too. His lips smoothly touch the small scar on your forehead peeking out from under your hair. You startled but didn't wake up.

after about a couple of hours, Leon still made you get out of bed and eat despite the lack of appetite. A couple of sandwiches and coffee to cheer up, in fact, there was little in the refrigerator for cooking something more complex. Therefore, you ate what was. Then you asked him a question.

"Have you...been with Chris?" asked awkwardly as Leon tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

again that heavy look of his. Sometimes you thought he didn't need any weapons. It is enough just to look at the enemy and he himself surrender to him.

"I still want to hear the truth from you and not from a dry text"

He didn't lie. You looked at him thinking that it would be better if he did not come at all. Leon never shared his experiences and you didn't want to load him with yours.

He didn't say a word about Raccoon City, so why should you share what you've been through with him?

"Chris gave me all the papers but I didn't have time to go through them." he answered honestly.

He thinks that you will hate him if he crosses this line. It is worth opening that folder once and everything that you have built together will finally collapse.

"So maybe you shouldn't stick your nose in my business?" The way you snapped at him made him smirk.

"Your business or yours with Chris?" counter attack. Redfield has kept you on top of his head ever since in case they want to take you again. "Let's settle this issue once and for all"

You startled. Unpleasant vibrations ran through his body from the intonation in his voice.

"It was a bioweapon. Hunters?" Leon assumed it was because of the scar. He was right when he suggested that it was a bioweapon, only you had no idea what this fanged creature with razor-sharp claws was called.

"I have no idea," you still rudely replied. You weren't even lying though.

The only major unpredictable monster was the man behind it all and not these creatures.

"Haven't I even earned a drop of your trust? We've been together for quite some time. We ate, we slept in the same bed, we had sex... we have a relationship with you and this relationship implies trust between partners!" Leon raised his voice, gripping the tabletop with his knuckle-whitened hand. You narrowed your eyes at him while he did not understand this stubbornness.

"This is what I want to forget and not remember!" you raised your voice in response, thinking that he was going too far. "Stop it! Just because Redfield knows everything doesn't make him special, he got me out of this shit, that's the whole story!"

"I want to know what the hell was that! Where the hell did you get in that you jump up every night and lie like a beaten animal?!" He believed he had a right to know. He waited too long, he calmed you, put you in order, but any patience comes to an end.

Leon spent a night in Raccoon City that changed his life forever. You spent almost a year in the wilderness watching friends and innocents die.

One has only to think about these nightmares, as they cover with the head. At some point, obsessive thoughts of suicidal content even began to creep into you, and there was a moment when Leon even took the knife from your hands, fearing your gaze. The same knife that Redfield allowed to keep.

"I can't..." Your heart rate increased so much that it seemed to jump out of your chest. Maybe you just need more time. "You can't even imagine what it was like for me there. What I experienced ... it's not that it's so easy to tell, even if years pass, I won't be able to"

Leon took a deep breath. On the one hand, everything was clear to him and he didn’t want to extort the truth from you, knowing that it causes you tangible discomfort, but how to help you if you are silent all the time? It is necessary to treat the disease and not get rid of the symptoms.

"If you can't live without this information, then you can use your government agent connections. I wonder why you didn't do it sooner."

"I want to hear it from you, I want you to trust me." Leon grabbed your hand, lightly squeezing your palm "I hoped that this child would help us, but if we want to move on we must do it together. You and me, not separately"

He was partly right, and that pissed you off. You just wanted to climb somewhere and sit quietly until he left. You've been fighting for so long that now there's no strength left and all you just want is to forget… Leon wants to go through this stage together, but It Can't Last. You can't go forward because you're stuck there. Leon gives you a helping hand, but does not give you the keys to the cage in which your mind is locked.

Mirthless days in which all hopes have passed. You wonder what Leon really wants from you - he's seeking some truth while you continue to grieve for that innocent part of yourself that died. As a result, you meet eyes and Leon offers you only two options for the development of events

"Either we go together or separately"

No third option.

Leon is ready to take nine steps forward to you if you take one step towards him, but he can't drag you on endlessly, no matter how much he loves you. It's right to fight together against common nightmares, Leon is sure that he can help you, only you need to open up to him and trust him. Let that damn folder lie in his desk with all the details, the main thing he needs to learn from you.

You have a choice and you look at him with eyes full of tears standing at a crossroads like then. The butterfly effect where your decision will easily affect the further outcome of events. You rub your shoulders feeling a slight chill and in fact the tea that Leon made for you has been cold for a long time, you had no idea how long you had been sitting at this table.

To remember everyone who died there, and how at some point you were left all alone with your main fear - loneliness. While Leon is patiently waiting for your answer, you want things to be completely different. He wants it too, but you can't change the past. You can't resurrect the dead, and your hands still remember how to reload weapons, although you had to learn it right away in practice.

It makes no sense to measure your injuries, Leon faces this almost every day, but he never considered your injury to be nonsense. He's realized what it's like to live with a nightmare inside of him, and the last thing in the world he wants is for it to ever ruin you, but when he reaches out to you, he hopes that you will grab him tightly so that he can pull you out of this sucking swamp.

In the end, you look back at him after making a decision. Gathering your thoughts, swallowing a bitter lump that prevents you from speaking, you get up from your chair and go to the bookshelf from where you take out a worn polaroid photo of your group from the book. A photo taken three years ago shortly before all the traumatic events. Five smiling successful students and a respected group leader. He was almost sixty, but he looked very good… true, you do not remember his gray, well-groomed beard, but his body dismembered in two.

Then you didn't know that you would be the only one alive in this photo.

You hand it to Leon, sitting back down, wiping the tears from your cheeks. Thoughts are confused, as are words. Leon seems to look at the extended photo without emotion, recognizing only you on it, but understands that you will go through this together.

"It's hard, but I'll try. Maybe not right away, but I will"

Leon puts the photo on the table and nods at you, taking your hand in his, after which you feel only warmth and peace helping to start a long, hard story.

[800-dick-pics]

BLACK DISABLED ELDER NEEDS MEDS ASAP!!!

My mom just told me shes been out of some of her heart and blood pressure medicine for days! Shes on a cocktail of meds to keep her heart from spurting out blood clots which has caused her to have mini strokes.

I need like $95 to get a her meds and $20 to get to the pharmacy (its raining) , this is urgent! Without those meds shes at a VERY HIGH RISK of having another stroke, which would send her to the ER

Even if I have to walk to the pharmacy i need $95 ASAP! These medications have been the only thing keeping my mother from further declining in health!

CA: $sleepyhen

VN: @/wildwotko

$0/$95!

[necros-writing-stuff]

"I can take care of myself," the hunter huffs, pushing your hands away from his rain-wettened hair. Droplets fall from the dark locks onto his cheeks, his soaked sleeve doing little to dry the skin there.

You hum, your nose scrunching as your head tilts to the side. Arms go slack, falling from his face and resting to your sides - already accepting that Eden's stubbornness would win. For now.

Evidently, though, you'd 'said' the wrong thing.

"What's that mean? 'Hmm'? You think I can't take care of myself when it's all I've been doing my entire life?" Those dark brows furrow, his lip lifting into a snear. The scars on his face warp with his expression, only furthering the fearsome glare.

Obviously a nerve had been hit. Eden's walls were built high and foundationed deep; most people didn't have a chance of getting over them, under them, or through them. He isn't sure quite when you'd gotten the seige weapons to cleave your path through each layer.

With a small smile, you turn to grab the mop, drying off the trail of footprints your husband had dragged inside. "No, I don't think you took good care of yourself. Not emotionally, anyway."

He doesn't move from his spot, but his face drops. His mouth is agape and his expression undeniably incredulous. "I'm fucking sorry? You want to repeat that?"

The rules of dealing with beasts in the wild varies by species. Some you look in the eye, make yourself bigger. Others will kill you the second your pupils lock, or fly into a rage at any posturing. Your husband's anger is best appeased by an apology (especially if it comes accompanied by a physical reparation).

"I don't think you take good care of yourself, Eden." You choose to stand your ground, throwing a look over your shoulder; your face expressionless while his grew redder from the building blood pressure.

"You never tell me how you're feeling. You never tell my why you're sad when I see it in your eyes. You just bottle everything up so tightly I don't think you recognise why you feel things half of the time until it builds and builds and yet you stay quiet and grow more distant when I'm right here to listen to it all."

His foot shifts, shoulders twitching as his eyes, for the briefest moment, flicker over to the door where the miserable rain waits for him to return. He doesn't have to go back to that cold embrace. He could stay. He could hear what you have to say, just this once.

"I-I'm fine." Yet its plain to see the struggle it takes for him to even say that, brows shooting up, head angling down, eyes widening as he chokes on the words.

"You don't have to be. I won't think any less of you for it. I think it's a very brave thing to admit when you're hurt."

Eden seems entranced by the knots in the wooden floorboards, those water droplets falling now onto his leather boots. "... I don't know how to be anything else."

There's more to say. There will always be more to dig up from Eden's iron-clad past. Instead you put the mop aside and fetch a towel, draping it over your husband's shoulders and guiding him to his favourite chair by the crackling fire as you take off his old boots.

"Just come to me and be honest when things go wrong, or something bad happens in your head. You don't need to tell me details, not if you don't want to. But I still want to hold your hand and kiss your cheek to make you smile." Your fingers thread with his own cool digits, thumbs rubbing over them to encourage warmth to return.

Eden isn't there, though. Not mentally. That far-away look in his glazed-over eyes is accompanied by a slight gathering of tears threatening to pool over his lash-line at any due moment.

Wetness be damned, you join him in his chair, arms encircling the haunted man and pulling his head against your chest. You only breath properly again when you feel his rough hands tightly grip onto you, holding on as though you're the last lifeline at the edge of a cliff.

Perhaps for him you are.