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marvelsswansong · 5 months

Text

show and tell

summary: a white rose at the train station. his hand in yours at the zoo. his mother's golden mirror. does he love you or is he simply trying to gain the public's favour and secure the Plith prize? you're unsure. and so is he, until he very much isn't.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, slow burn (ish), fluff, angst, technically a happy ending but quite dark, purely based off the movie but I take some creative detours, CW for violence, mentions of starvation, toxic/manipulative behaviors and a semi-dark!snow (please read at your own discretion, take care of yourself above all else :))

☆ word count: 5.6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Coriolanus hates waiting.

The stillness, the eerie silence of an early morning at the Capitol train station. It eats away at his core.

His mouth tastes like copper, his throat's starting to itch from the dryness and there's a brief moment of fear as he ponders if he's making a huge mistake. A sharp whistle ringing through the station signals the train's arrival, and as his eyes adjust to the billowing grey smoke and a sea of white (the peace keepers), the flower in his left hand suddenly feels heavy. As if the weight of the situation is starting to bear on his shoulders.

He wasn't supposed to be here. If all had gone to plan, he would've already been the recipient of the Plinth Prize and taken the first car back home to buy his grandma'am some chocolates and Tigris a new dress. No more worrying. No more surviving on dwindled fortunes. No more pretending to fit in with high society.

Then, of course, the rules had to change. Viewership was down and it was of both Dean Highbottom's and Dr Gaul's opinion that what was missing was spectacle. Now, whoever the best mentor was in transforming their tribute into prime entertainment would win the prize.

"Your role is to turn these tributes into spectacles. Not survivors."

The silence that hung after this announcement in the Academy was heavy, but Coriolanus knew better than to show his true emotions on his face. After all, if there was one thing that he knew how to do as the star student of the Academy: it was to plan. And when he saw your... unruly introduction to the public, sneaking a snake down a woman's dress before cussing out the audience, it dawned on him that it would be a tall order to endear you to the public.

But not impossible.

The sounds of the tributes being roughly unloaded off the platform snaps him back into reality, his eyes easily landing on your figure as you jump off the train, your upper arms supported by the tribute (Jessup, Coriolanus recalls his name being) standing next to you. Pushing through the soldiers, the blonde nearly breaks into a small sprint to catch up to you as you turn your head upon hearing the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Welcome to the Capitol." the strange man in front of you says, before holding out a pristine white rose. It's a peculiar looking flower, you think, a kind of flower you've never seen before (at least, certainly not back in your home district). It looks almost artificial, you think, with how perfectly white and untouched its petals are.

The blonde assesses your cautious glance - the sunlight hitting the under color of your irises perfectly in a glistening twilight - and a fleeting thought passes by, that the tv camera didn't do your natural beauty justice. He has to suppress a smirk when you finally respond, narrowing your eyes at him with your arms crossing above your chest.

"You seem like you shouldn't be here."

He chuckles at that.

"I'm not supposed to be. And yet here I am." A pause. "But I'm your mentor. Coriolanus Snow."

That's a first, you think. Mentors for tributes.

"And what does my mentor do except bring me roses?" you question, flicking the buds with your fingers. Coriolanus just smiles.

"I do my best to take care of you."

Your supposed mentor says it so sincerely, you think, and he's obviously charming with his devilishly handsome looks and low whisper. But there's something that stops you from holding out your hand and taking the rose from his fingers. You suppose he isn't lying - after all, what would be the point of it - but there's something in his eyes that you can't quite explain.

Something that makes your stomach flutter in both excitement and dread.

"Move." the soldier behind you then barks, shoving you and Jessup forward. You decide to give your mentor one last grin and a quiet "see you later", thinking that's going to be the last you see of him for a while.

The last thing you expect is for him to jump into the back of the vehicle alongside the other tributes, drawing the eyre of a few who pin him against the moving vehicle and start taunting him with violence.

"You look rather out of place." the tall boy pinning Coriolanus drawls.

"I'm not, I can assure you. I'm here for (Y/n). I'm her mentor."

That puts the unwanted attention on you, as the other tributes begin to circle around you with sinister expressions twisting on their lips.

"Mentor, huh? How come little miss music gets one but not the rest of us?" a brunette girl drawls, eyeing you up and down.

The boy pinning Coriolanus down applies stronger pressure to his neck, and you rise in an attempt to intervene, but he meets your gaze discreetly and motions for you to remain seated.

"You all have a mentor, they're just... not here." he croaks.

"Right, and we're all supposed to believe you?" another girl, this one from district 4 you believe, taunts. "What's to say we shouldn't just kill you now?"

The blonde shoots you a nervous look and that's when you feel pity. Just like you, he's in a foreign environment and pretending to be brave. You suppose also that he's your only ticket out, your only chance of potential success at surviving in the games.

So you intervene.

"You could kill him. But then the moment this truck stops you'll all be gathered round and killed by the peace keepers. He's clearly Capitol. And if they're willing to hang District people simply for stealing, can't imagine what killing a member of the Capitol would mean for punishment."

That scares them off and Coriolanus sits down next to you, breathing heavily in an effort to catch his breath, before quietly thanking you.

"You really wanna thank me?" you quirk, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "Start by thinking about how I can actually win."

The truck then suddenly comes to a halt, and the next thing you know the truck is being tipped over and the doors fly open. Coriolanus grasps your arm in lightning speed, pulling you close towards him so that he'd hit the harsh ground first, absorbing most of the impact.

When you shakily stand up on your feet, you realize you're enclosed in a large metal cage akin to that of an animal enclosure. There's even an over enthusiastic TV presenter in the background, who now seems to have noticed your mentor and begins to call out to him.

"Where are we?" you breathe out, already shivering from the autumn cold.

The blonde barely shifts, only dusting off his suit in a calm manner.

"(Y/n) (L/n) from District 12, welcome to the Capitol Zoo. Would you like to meet my neighbors?" he jokes, eyes slyly shifting to the right to refer to the small audience that has now gathered around the TV presenter.

You hesitate, but then he takes your right hand in his before leaning over to whisper in your ear.

"You want to win, right? Good. I'd like to win as well. And the first thing you'll need to do? Perform for the cameras." Coriolanus accentuates the end of his sentence by sliding the rose behind your ear, a gesture which draws an excited reaction from the crowd.

Is your mentor doing it for the cameras or for something else? You're unsure. But given your desperation to win, and the fact that he clearly knows more about the games than you do, you decide to play along.

Warm hands twisting in the cold, Coriolanus drags your enjoined hands towards the TV camera as he does what he does best. Lie, smile, and charm the audience. Even when the attention turns to you, as Lucky Flickerman (that's his name, you learn) directs questions towards you, the blonde never lets go of your hand in his.

Before he leaves, as news of his rule-breaking spreads amongst the members of the public, you grab him out of desperation one last time.

"Please get us some food, we've been starving since the Reaping."

The blonde nods, but you can't help but feel anxious: not knowing if his previous gestures of kindness were just for show.

-------------------------------

"Who's that for?"

Coriolanus had meant to sneak the sandwiches and cookies into his spare napkin discreetly, but of course Clemensia had to be two steps behind him, interrogating his every move.

"Just not very hungry, that's all." he nearly grits through his teeth, forcing a fake smile.

The dark haired girl chuckles at that, shaking her head sideways.

"You don't have to lie to me, Snow. Especially me."

"... It's for (Y/n)." he quietly admits. She hums at that, picking at her own food from across the table.

"That's awfully nice of you. What, already going soft for some girl you met yesterday?" she teases, and it immediately elicits an angry refusal out of him.

"It's not like that." Coriolanus snaps, his sudden harshness making his classmate flinch in surprise. "I just... can't have her dying before the games even begin because she's not as well fed as the others."

Clemensia scoffs, flicking the rest of her orange peel into the trash.

"Honestly, Snow, I don't know why you bother. She's clearly not going to survive. I mean, have you seen the tributes from districts 1 and 3?"

Ignoring her comments, he wordlessly slips away from the table and hails a ride down to the zoo. News of his intentions travels fast and whilst he doesn't mind Sejanus' company, it takes intense effort to force himself to look away from Arachne when she tags along and decides to taunt a caged tribute with a glass bottle.

"You came back." you mutter, staring at the neatly wrapped napkin in disbelief. Coriolanus dislikes how surprised you sound, then hates himself more for caring about what you think.

Why do you care what she thinks? he scolds himself. She's just a tribute you're mentoring.

"Of course I did. Can't have my tribute dying before the games even begin, now can I?" he teases, feigning nonchalant.

The presence of academy mentors seems to have attracted a crowd, with a few photographers even pointing their lenses towards you and Coriolanus as his hand slips through the metal gates to meet yours to hand off the food. When your fingers touch his, a part of you wonders if he would've ever came back if there was no PR involved.

Too grateful and too hungry to care, you just say thank you, before breaking off a piece for Jessup and offering half a sandwich to your mentor.

"Oh no, I'm not hungry." he says out of instinct, surprised by your offering. You raise your eyebrows in response, pursing your lips.

"You sure about that? Because I could hear your stomach growl from a mile away." you retort.

"Right. Uh, thank you."

Biting into the soft bread, you chew, savoring every bite. A silence settles between the two of you as you both eat, right before you ask him a quiet question.

"... Did you get into a lot of trouble for what you did for me yesterday?" your eyes shine with worry, you nervously looking up at him for an answer. He finds himself again surprised by how much you seem to care.

Yes, he wants to say. I nearly got myself disqualified as a mentor and it would've been the end of my family's future in the Capitol. But he swallows his thoughts down, alongside the dry taste of the tuna sandwich.

"Not much. Actually, I was able to convince the gamemaster, Dr Gaul, to implement a few changes to the games."

"Really, like what?"

"To let the public send you donations. That way, I could send you supplies you needed into the arena - food, water, medicine. It'd mean having to do the extra job of playing to the public and getting them to root for your survival, but with a voice like yours, the songbird of Panem -"

Your smile drops at that, your gaze turning stern at his suggestion.

"I only sing when I please for an audience I choose." your eyebrows furrow, your usually sweet expression melting into something more sour. It's oddly cute, he thinks.

"I know, but I'm really going to need you to try. It's for your own survival. Our survival." he emphasizes, staring right into your eyes. You can't suppress your sad smile at that, crumbling the empty napkin in your hands.

"Are you sure it's not just for your survival?"

Your question haunts Coriolanus that night, alongside the sounds of broken glass and pained gasps as Arachne lies bleeding on the ground, having been stabbed in the neck by one of the tributes. When he quickly runs to his classmate, he doesn't get to see your expression, as you're ripped away by Jessup pulling you into safety in an instant and peace keepers swarm the scene in an effort to remain calm.

When he's back home and the crimson blood coating his hands have dried from where he was holding his dying classmate's wounds, he wonders if there's any truth to your answer.

-------------------------------

Everything changes at the arena tour.

You've not had much sleep. You're confused, you're angry, but most of all you've been haunted by your conflicting feelings towards your mentor and the name he'd called you - songbird. A silly little songbird, you think spitefully.

To sing and charm the very same public who had doomed her to a violent game of death.

It was absurd, really, that he'd even ask that. It made your stomach churn and your head ache at the thought of cheapening your craft for something so juvenile.

And yet, when you spot the familiar red suit and white blonde hair in the mass of other mentors at the arena, you can't help but feel warmth in your chest and stomach. A part of you even feels lucky, given that the other mentors seem to waste their time insulting their tributes or being too afraid to talk to them. Whilst Coriolanus, on the other hand, seems to be full of ideas to ensure your survival.

"The game master liked my suggestions. So the donations system is going to be implemented, with a broadcast beforehand for the tributes to get a chance to endear themselves to the public for donations." He's speaking so fast that you almost think he enjoys explaining the games to you. "Now what this means is that assuming you get enough donations, when the bell goes off, you don't go for the weapons. You don't fight. You just run as fast as you can, hide and stay alive for as long as you can."

"How can you even be sure I'll get enough donations for you to be able to send supplies?" you mutter, looking around at the other tributes. "A lot of these folks are a lot taller and stronger than I am. They've got a much better chance at surviving than I do."

Coriolanus surprises you by taking both of your hands in his, squeezing your palms tight in his cold palms.

"I know, but we have something none of the others have."

You scrunch your face in confusion.

"What's that?"

"A story. A strong connection between you and me, a Capitol mentor and a District 12 tribute. Not to mention, your incredible singing and songwriting. Match that with my knack for public relations and we'll have enough donations to send you any supplies necessary for your victory in the games."

You realize then that Coriolanus is unlike anyone else you've ever met. So confident, so sure, so perceptive of other people and their secret desires and pitfalls. His unwavering commitment to his beliefs is admirable, if not almost foolish, but you keep that part to yourself.

"How're you so sure I'll even survive the first few minutes?" you push back, still unconvinced, though you don't pull away from his hold. "And, again, I don't just sing for anyone."

The blonde opens his mouth to respond, but he's interrupted when a sudden cascade of dust and fire crumbles down from the ceiling of the arena. The sound of a bomb exploding reverberates as you're both thrown off of your feet by the impact. Your head is still ringing from the chaos when Jessup pulls at your sleeves, commanding you to walk away from the wreckage.

Rising onto shaky legs, you even spot another tribute running from the guards towards a blown out hole on the side of the building. And when your eyes meet with Coriolanus' frantic ones, his lower half trapped underneath rubble, you both recognize that you now have an unbridled chance to escape -

But you don't.

To the blonde's complete shock, you instead shove your friend off, screaming as you lift the heavy cement column with all your strength in an effort to pry the debris off of his body. With the help of a few peace keepers, it works, but Coriolanus falls into unconsciousness quickly as he succumbs to the excruciating pain of crushed ribs and bruised limbs.

The last thing he sees before he fades into darkness is your teary eyes, a sight he so badly wants to fix by wiping away your tears with his fingers...

When he eventually wakes, it's in a dark hospital next to his grandma'am and sister. There's a roar on the television screen as you're brought onto the broadcast, shy smile and a glittering guitar in hand. It hits him that you're actually going to sing.

"I didn't have a chance to... uh... write a new song. But I'd like to dedicate this performance to someone very special who's recently been hurt." you say into the mike, your eyes clearly brimming with nerves and doubt.

As you sing, there's a tight sensation in Coriolanus' chest once the lyrics settle into his mind - a small voice whispers in his mind that it's jealousy, for you singing about a boy back in your home town who broke your heart - but it's overwhelmed by the feelings of gratitude and awe that you'd ended up doing what he asked you to do. All that, after selflessly saving his life.

"A...are you okay, Coryo?" is all Tigris asks, brushing his hair back and gently guiding him back down onto bed upon seeing his expression twist into one of discomfort.

"She could've run."

"What?"

"At the arena. The blast blew open a large opening on the side of the stadium. I saw one of the tributes actually make it out that way." he lets out a shaky breath, hating you for what you've done to him to make him feel this way. "Damn it, Tigris. She could've run. She could've-"

A single tear drops from his left eye and onto his injured palm, his weak voice giving away his true emotions.

"She could've saved herself from even having to participate in the games. But she stayed. She fucking stayed behind to lift the debris off of me."

"She saved your life." his sister finishes for him, the atmosphere turning somber as she wraps her arms around his shoulder. "I'm just so glad that you're both safe."

As you retreat from the screen, the donation numbers only piling up higher as Lucky Flickerman closes out the broadcast, a hot fire lights up in Coriolanus' stomach.

He has to save you.

No matter what it takes.

--------------------------------------

"You know he's just using you, right?"

After the broadcast, once it's revealed that you were given the largest amount of donations out of all the other tributes, Coral from District 4 corners you backstage.

"Pardon?" you fake ignorance, a small smile playing on your lips, which only seems to aggravate the girl further.

"Your pretty boy mentor. He's only been faking all sweet for you to get the public to send you donations. In fact, I bet he didn't even bother to try and pull himself out of the wreckage so that he could get more public sympathy.

You snap at that, all fake modesty melting away in an instant.

"You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Coral. Coriolanus isn't like that." you spit, but all she does is look down at you with a nasty smirk on her lips.

"Oh really? And how would you know, little songbird? Think he'd care about someone from district 12? And why do you think he wants you to win so badly? Because he's a good person?" she mocks, her face now a mere inches away from yours. "No. I reckon it's more for the prize money."

You can't sleep that night at the zoo, tossing and turning in the dark. Your mind can't seem to rest, torn between the adrenaline and dread for the games tomorrow, alongside the constant worry over Coriolanus' wellbeing and doubts over his genuinity and trustworthiness.

Coral's just trying to get in my head. you repeat to yourself, over and over again. You're on the edge of sleep, exhausted and upset by your conflicting emotions, when you hear a familiar voice coming from the darkness.

It sounds like Coriolanus.

You sit up straight, and it's true: he's here, and he's whispering your name repeatedly, beckoning you towards the front of the cage and away from your sleeping competitors. Suddenly, the overwhelming exhaustion and fatigue disappears, and you find yourself gravitating towards the only person you've been thinking about for the past 24 hours.

"Coryo, you're... you're alright." you sigh out, almost overwhelmed with relief. You don't even realize you're crying until his hands reach up and brush away your tears, his warm hand a stark contrast to the freezing cold of the night.

"I am. All thanks to you, songbird." he breathes out, his fingers tracing the ripples of your cheeks. His head feels dizzy and his hands tremble as he searches his pockets for his mother's golden compact mirror.

"Don't call me that." you weakly laugh, as he does too. "What's this?" you ask, staring at the object he’s folded gently into your hands.

"It's for you to use in the arena. Now listen to what I say very carefully. Don't breathe this in, don't spill it on yourself, and only use it when you really need to." he slowly explains, as if he's terrified that you're going to harm yourself by merely carrying it in your pockets.

"Is... is this allowed? For you to sneak in and give me this?" you whisper, looking around your surroundings, but it's pitch black.

The blonde purses his lips, using every muscle in his body to keep his expression neutral.

No, it's certainly not allowed. I am risking my life, as well as my family's future, by doing this.

"That's not important. What is important is that the blast from the arena has created a hole leading out to a bunch of service tunnels. I tested it out myself, it leads towards the outside, far away from the peace keepers."

"Wait, I don't understa-"

Desperation grabs a hold of him, and it's a foreign feeling - the crushing despair of wanting to protect someone that he can't, the burning urge to want to put someone else ahead of him for once.

"What I need you to do tomorrow, (Y/n), is to run. The moment the alarm rings, don't even think of running towards the weapons or fighting the others. Don't even hide anymore. Just… just run towards the tunnels, by yourself, and get out."

"But what about Jessup-" you hiccup. Your head's spinning, confused and horrified by your mentor's change of plans and the prospect of leaving behind your friend to die in the arena.

"Forget about him." Coriolanus snaps. Suddenly, his eyes are cold and his voice is firm, commanding you as if you have no choice in the matter. "In there, he's as dangerous as the other tributes. You can't trust anyone, not even your supposed friends, okay? The games, they-" he chokes on his own words, and there's something again in Coriolanus' eyes that you can't quite decipher. "They bring out the worst in people. Promise me you'll run."

It makes your stomach twist in anxiety.

"I-"

"Please."

As he begs, his face crumbles, his voice so desperate and feeble that you can't find it in yourself to say no.

"I... I'll try." you relent, and he lets out a sigh of relief at your agreement.

"Good. Perfect." He takes your head in his hands and softly kisses your temple. "I won't let you die in there, okay? Just like you took care of me after the explosion. I'm going to take care of you."

"I'm your mentor. I do my best to take care of you."

Coriolanus' words from the train station echo in your head as you nod, pocketing the mirror deep inside your dress to hide it away from plain sight.

"Will I... will I be able to see you, after the games?"

You immediately feel stupid for even asking that. Everyone knows winning the games merely allows your return to your home district. And on all logical accounts, it wouldn't make any sense for the man to give up his life in the Capitol to follow you back to 12.

But he smiles at your innocent question, only nodding whilst squeezing your hands in the dark. To your feeble heart and mind, it feels like a genuine promise.

"Of course, my songbird. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." you whisper.

"I never do."

And for the first time, you think you actually believe him wholeheartedly.

----------------------------------

You can't believe it.

You've won.

You were so sure you were going to die once the snakes had been released, eyes closing shut once the venomous snakes began to crawl up your skin, but as you continued to sing... The reptiles simply slithered by your side, remaining docile and non-threatening. And based on the snakes' sudden change of behavior and Highbottom's scowl when he announced you as the victor of the 10th Hunger Games - "consider yourself lucky, little girl, as it seems your mentor was willing to break more than a few rules for you" - your stomach churns at the realization that Coriolanus kept his promise.

He did whatever it took to get you out.

Even cheating.

You've only heard whispers of the punishments for cheating at the Capitol. But based on the frequent hangings of rebels in your home district, you can't imagine that the punishment would be very kind.

Weeks have passed since your victory, since the last time you've even seen Coriolanus, but it does nothing to erase him from your mind. You still see his faint silhouette in the mornings, when your eyes have barely adjusted to the morning light and there's a pile of clothes sitting on the chair beside your bed. You think you hear his voice amongst the sea of strangers’ conversations, calling out for his 'songbird'. And you swear you see his face in every crowd at the bar.

Unbeknownst to you, Coriolanus is having the same struggles on the opposite end of the country. Luckily, bearing the last name Snow meant his punishment for cheating was to be lighter than the usual hanging: mandatory military service. District 8. But he's sure to bring his last few bills to bribe the immigration officer for a transfer to 12.

All to come find you.

He suffers through the first week of training - grueling hours, hanging ceremonies, endless ramblings from Sejanus about making a change for the better. He pretends not to notice Sejanus establishing connections within the rebel community, until he can’t ignore it anymore. After all, Coriolanus simply can't afford his friend’s idealism and recklessness to get him killed too, and potentially you, when you're thought to be linked to the movement by mere virtue of association.

Especially not you, Coriolanus thinks.

After the games, of having to watch you bleed, sob and fight for hours on end as he stood helplessly, only able to watch: even the passing thought of your death elicits a violent reaction in him. He'll do anything for you.

Even if that means turning in his only friend to prove his loyalty to the Capitol.

It's an unremarkable Wednesday night for you when you're singing a song at the bar, black guitar in hand and the smell of booze thick in the air, when your eyes come across a familiar face.

It takes you a few seconds, of course. You almost think it’s a hallucination, if it wasn’t for the sea of other soldiers surrounding him, validating his presence. His fluffy white locks are gone, replaced with a clean buzz cut. He's lost a bit of weight, his shoulders more broad and rough from military training, and the lack of expensive bright fabrics draped around his figure is jarring at first. But it suits him, you think.

The song can't finish any faster before you're slinging your guitar to the back and rushing up to Coriolanus, immediately throwing your arms around him. He stiffens in your embrace before relaxing, his arms finding your waist and squeezing you tightly. And you can't help but savor every essence of his being: he smells of sweat and coal (unlike his Capitol uniform which always smelled of florals and clean linen) and you can feel the cool metal of his dog tags press against your collarbone at this angle.

"You came back for me." you breathe out, still not believing that he's in front of you. Your ex mentor just smiles, tapping your cheeks with his hands.

"Said I'd never break a promise, now didn't I?"

As the next performer goes up on stage, recapturing the attention of the audience, you pull him away towards the back room, far away from the bustling crowds and twinkling lights.

"I've thought of you every day, my songbird." Coriolanus whispers against your skin once you two are away from the crowds, his head falling forwards into the nape of your neck.

Your cheeks warm at his comment, your fingers coming up to play with the dog tags around his neck, before a light chuckle escapes your lips.

"What's so funny? Did you not miss me?" the blonde teases, and you shake your head sideways in denial.

"Of course I missed you. I missed you more than you could imagine."

"Then what's the chuckle for?"

You let out a short sigh, not knowing if it’d be wise to bring it up. But all he does is encouraging you, looking deep into your eyes and nodding, urging you to say what’s on your mind. You relent, shoulders sagging.

"It's just... when I won the games, Highbottom congratulated me. But not for winning the games. But for surviving you." you awkwardly chuckle in hopes of diffusing the seriousness of your question. "Is it true, Coryo?"

"What are you getting at?" is his response, coy and low. You can't tell if he's amused, annoyed or disturbed.

Or all three at once.

"There's rumors, you know. I heard that you... you had to kill a tribute." you whisper, as if what you’re saying is the biggest secret in the world. "Is it true?"

Coriolanus pauses at that, the smirk on his face dropping for a fraction of a second before he's cupping your face and lifting your gaze to meet his eyes. His stare is so strong, so unwavering, almost to the point of unnerving you. But it's matched with such warmth and softness in his touch as he strokes your hair.

"You have to understand, darling… It was just like the snakes. If I hadn't rigged the game by getting the snakes used to your smell so they wouldn't attack you, you would've died. And if I hadn't killed the tribute charging at me when I had to sneak into the arena to rescue Sejanus-" he sighs, slow and long. He looks as if he’s thinking hard. "I had to, my songbird. I had to do it to protect you. To take care of you." he emphasizes.

You're not sure what kind of an answer you wanted, but you're unable to respond immediately, as it slowly dawns on you that this man both cheated and killed another person for you.

His response to your silence is a swift kiss, calloused hands dropping to your waist to pull you in close, the gesture desperate and messy. Breathing heavily when he parts from you, he kisses you once more, this time a short peck which is more rough and demanding.

"I would do anything for you, (Y/n) (L/n). Anything for you."

Coriolanus chooses to keep quiet about the fact that technically, he could've just injured the tribute charging towards him instead. Or that it felt freeing to have ended the tribute’s life. Or that just a few hours ago, he tipped off the Capitol about Sejanus' rebellion. All in an effort to secure your unbridled safety. So that he doesn’t ever have to let go of you again.

"Now, where are your manners, my songbird? Aren't you going to thank me?" he whispers against your lips, smoothing out your hair.

"T-thank you, Coryo." you manage to stutter.

He smiles at that, kissing the top of your head as he sways you from side to side.

"Of course, love. Don't worry. We’re going to be just fine. In fact, everything will be fine from now on."

As you peak out from under his embrace, you're not so sure if you can believe him anymore.

a/n: leave it to a new hunger games movie and Tom Blyth playing young!Snow to make me return from my 1.5 year long writing hiatus.

I'm quite nervous about this one as it's my first time writing for a semi-dark character and also because it's been so long since I posted my writing on here... But I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment, like, reblog, etc if you liked it. If this one is received well I might go ahead and post the other Snow fics currently sitting in my drafts!!!

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus x you #hunger games x reader #tom blyth x reader #tom blyth x you #coriolanus snow oneshot #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #1k

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panlight · 5 months

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Keeping Up with the Cullens - BD Episode 3, pt 4.

#twilightsagaedit #twilight reality show #edward cullen #rosalie hale #esme cullen #alice cullen #emmett cullen #jasper hale #carlisle cullen #breaking dawn

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fans4wga · 9 months

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'Why creatives are seeking residuals' - thread by Stefanie Williams

[Tweet thread by Stefanie Williams @/StefWilliams25

TRANSCRIPT:

Why creatives are seeking residuals vs. "do you pay the mattress maker every time you sleep on a mattress?" A thread. I keep hearing over and over again that writers/actors/creatives don't deserve residuals for the work they create. "If I build a bathroom in a house, I don't get paid every time someone uses the toilet."

TRUE! However, your bathroom build has a set market value. Art does not. No one knows what makes one TV show an overnight success, and another a flop. No one knows what makes one song a hit, and the other a dud. If they did, trust me when I say record companies would be churning out Taylor Swifts over and over again. Studios would be making nothing but Stranger Things.

But that isn't the case. No one could predict Stranger Things would be a massive, billion dollar hit. No one could predict Taylor Swift was going to be a world wide phenomenon who literally could record herself reading Aesop's Fables and make millions of dollars. Which is why residuals are important. The pay structure protects both the creators and the publishers/distributors.

The easiest way to explain it is by referencing an author writing a book. Sure, an author might get a very modest up front fee, but the author is banking on royalties to really make money on the book — for every book sold, the author gets a piece of the pie. This protects both the author and the publisher—because if the book is a flop, the publisher doesn't go broke on a financial promise they made to the author that didn't pan out, and if the book is a mega-hit, the author didn't give away a massive, million-dollar book for 20k.

It's a sliding scale that is required for a product that has no set market value. What makes an actor's work on a hit show more valuable than an actor's work on a show that gets canned after five episodes? The market value for art almost always comes after the fact, so residuals account for that reality. They make sure the creator get compensated at a fair market rate. A person who builds a bathroom knows, upfront, what the market rate for a bathroom is. That bathroom won't suddenly be worth 1000 times more than you built it for in six months. It doesn't have the potential to be built for 20k and generate 20 million.

Residuals are a pay structure that simply account for an unsure market value. Trust me, we all wish we could quantify art in terms of dollars. But art is unpredictable. So studios and streamers -- which literally REQUIRE content to stay viable -- have to account for that unpredictability. And for studios (or record labels, or book publishers) it's always trial and error. The only way to get a hit, is to go through a few flops.

For every Whitney Houston, there was a singer you never heard of. For every Sopranos, there was a show that got scrapped mid season. For every Titanic, there was a movie that bombed. For every Twilight, there was a book about vampires that went nowhere. Residuals are kind of a reverse market valuation. They pay a fair wage for a product than can only have a set value once it's been created and effectively consumed.

And even then, shit changes. Anyone think Kate Bush would spend weeks on the top of the charts in 2022? Residuals account for unpredictable markets. And in order to have accurate residuals, streamers and studios need to be transparent and open about their data, which is one of the MANY things the WGA and SAG are both fighting for.

#sag-aftra strike #sag strike #actors strike #union solidarity #support unions #fans4wga #described #wga strike #writers strike

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sidekick-hero · 3 months

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Carry you

When Eddie opens his eyes, he has no idea where he is.

That should probably scare him, but the only thing he can think in that moment between blissful nothingness and cold, hard reality is "the bathroom at the party looked different." Because he is in a bathroom, that much he can say. There are white tiles everywhere and a roll of toilet paper in front of him and... is that a plastic handrail?

Lifting his head is a Herculean effort, but somehow he manages to do it, even though it makes his stomach turn.

In front of him is a freestanding shower and a bathtub with stairs to get into. The bathroom is huge and sterile, smelling of disinfectant.

As more and more of his senses come back online, Eddie notices several things at once:

#1 He's wearing what can barely be called a gown, cold air hitting his exposed skin everywhere. His back, his legs, hell, even his junk gets more of a breeze than he likes.

#2 He's nauseous, his stomach rolls uncomfortably, and his head is killing him, a sharp pain that's increasing in intensity by the second.

#3 He knows that something is definitely very, very wrong and he can feel the anxiety rising like bile in his throat.

It's that last realization that triggers his fight or flight response and in seconds he's off the toilet he's sitting on, the sudden movement sending him stumbling, his legs wobbling and his head spinning. Everything hurts and he feels so weak. He catches himself on the railing next to the toilet and figures that's what it's there for. Although he has no idea what kind of person would have such a strange bathroom. The last one he was in, at Tim's or Tom's or Terry's party, something with a T, for sure, the tiles had been black and there had been a lot of bamboo furniture and gold accents. It had smelled nice too, vanilla and cinnamon.

He staggers to a door that hopefully leads out of this fucking nightmare. Maybe Gareth or Freak are behind this, to teach Eddie a lesson for ditching them again to go partying when they had to pack up their shit after the show. But not Jeff, he's too nice to do something like that. The next morning, when Eddie arrives with a hangover the size of his ego, to quote Gareth, Jeff will only look at him with disappointment.

Or maybe they just don't care enough about him anymore to pull a prank on him. Eddie can't remember the last time they even talked to him, beyond discussing the bare minimum for their shows.

Leaving the bathroom, he carefully walks down a long hallway with the ugliest yellow linoleum Eddie has ever seen. It hurts his eyes and his stomach gives another unpleasant churning. On his right, he sees a glass door with "Intermediate Care Unit" written in big white letters.

What the fuck?

He turns right and continues down the hall, hoping to find someone who can tell him where he is and why his body feels like it's been hit with a sledgehammer. Repeatedly.

"Mr. Munson, you shouldn't be out of bed," a stern voice calls from behind him, and when he turns around he sees a middle-aged woman in white scrubs looking at him with a stern expression on her face.

Feeling more and more like he has landed in an episode of The Twilight Zone, Eddie looks at her with an incredulous look on his face. "Who are you? And where is everyone?"

She scoffs at his answer, clearly not pleased.

"I am the nurse responsible for getting you well enough to leave this ward as soon as possible, and you would make my job a lot easier if you would go back to your bed." Before he can process the meaning of her words, she continues. "As for everyone else, well, no one else overdosed, so I would assume they're all home by now."

Eddie can only stare at her open-mouthed, disbelief and horror probably written all over his face, because her own face is softening slightly.

"Now come on, let's get you back to bed, you really shouldn't be wandering around."

She gently takes his elbow and leads him to a door with the number 719 on it. As she opens it for him, Eddie sees three beds inside. To the left and right, he sees two old men, both looking directly at him. The one on the right says, "We tried to stop him, Nurse Elli, we really did," in a high, nasal voice that is already getting on Eddie's nerves. "The kid wouldn't listen to us, would he, Harry?"

"Exactly," Harry answered, at least in a deeper, more bearable tone.

Ignoring the geriatric Ernie and Bert, Nurse Elli leads him to the bed in the middle and helps him to lie down again. Only then does Eddie remember that all he's wearing is a thin hospital gown with an open back. Well, he thinks, Nurse Elli has seen worse in her profession than his pale, scrawny ass. Besides, it's not like much of his modesty has survived the last two years of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll that have been his life.

By the time he's back under the covers, his nurse has turned around and is walking back over to the door. A bone-deep exhaustion has begun to seep into his body, slowly dragging him back under, but seeing her walk out of the room gives him a burst of energy.

"Wait! Someone needs to tell me what happened. What am I doing here?"

Embarrassment burns hot under his skin as he hears the tears in his voice, but the sound of it breaking at his question makes Nurse Elli stop. She turns back to him and her eyes are much kinder than before.

"The doctor will be with you shortly. He'll explain everything to you, Mr. Munson. I'll let him know you're awake now."

And then she leaves, and Eddie sinks back into his bed in the hope that the next time he opens his eyes, it will all have been just a bad dream.

It was not all just a bad dream.

The next time Eddie comes to, he's alone in his room, except for a middle-aged man who seems to be the doctor Nurse Elli told him would be stopping by.

Doctor Owens explains that he overdosed on alcohol and coke at a party at some music producer's house and had been in a coma for two full days. They quickly stabilized him, pumped his stomach and gave him fluids through an IV. Eddie is lucky he's still young and his system recovered from the shock quite well. When he showed signs of waking up, they brought him down here from the ICU to free up his bed for someone who needed it more.

"If Mr. Harrington hadn't called 911 and told them to come get you, you'd be dead right now, Mr. Munson. I'm sorry to say this, but from what I've heard, no one at the party even cared, just insisted that you brought your own drugs and they had nothing to do with it. Mr. Harrington has also been your only visitor so far."

His words should make him angry or sad, something, but he can't process them. Not when his brain is still struggling to make sense of the first part of his statement, Eddie’s heart racing in his chest.

"Mr. Harrington? As in..."

"Steve Harrington, he says he's a close friend. He's the one who called the ambulance, gave the operator your cell phone number so they could track your phone and get you to the hospital. He's been visiting you every day since. He also called your uncle, because we are not allowed to give out any medical information to anyone outside of the family. Your uncle should be here soon, I called him yesterday to give him an update on your condition."

His mind is reeling, too many thoughts fighting for dominance and one word screaming louder than any of them in his head.

Steve, Steve, Steve.

How... it couldn't be. Not after their last fight. Not after the things he said to Steve. To his horror, he feels tears burning hot in his eyes at the memory. A memory he had pushed as far back in his mind as he could because every time he thought about that night he wanted to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

"You are a lucky man, Mr. Munson. This man seems to care a lot about you, as does your uncle. You should let them help you. And if you will allow me to be very clear with you: You need all the help you can get. You're young, so your body can take a lot. But it's not in good shape. You have an old man's liver, and your spleen and kidneys are showing signs of the abuse you put them through. The echo also showed some irregularities in your heartbeat. If you continue down the path you're on, your organs will fail and you will die, Mr. Munson. Painfully. So my advice to you is to get clean as soon as possible. We have some facilities we work with, a nurse will bring you some brochures."

Eddie could only nod numbly, tears now falling freely from his eyes, his throat tight and his head aching. Everything hurt. Especially his heart.

"Okay, we'll keep you here for two more days until we're sure you're stable enough to be on your own." Doctor Owens tells him, turning to leave and get on with his day, as if he hadn't just dropped a damn bomb on his head. He pauses at the door and turns back to him.

"And a word of advice from someone twice your age who's seen a lot in his time here: stick with people who really care about you, like Mr. Harrington, instead of spending your time with people who leave you lying in a bathroom in your own vomit."

With that, he steps out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts.

Eddie doesn't know how long it's been since Dr. Owens left. It could have been hours, days, weeks, for all he knows, too deep inside his own head to spare any thought for the passing of time. Lying in a hospital bed, the nausea and pain raging through his battered body, Eddie finally breaks down and lets the thoughts come.

He's lost in his memories, thinking about everything that led him here, alone and in pain in a hospital bed, after nearly killing himself with things he swore he'd never use. Weed was fine, though he didn't indulge much anyway, preferring to sell it and make some much-needed money than to smoke it himself. But coke? Nah, he knew how epically stupid it would be to even try that shit.

And yet he did.

A party to celebrate the release of their first single. One lapse in judgment while flying so fucking high that nothing could touch him. One bad decision was all it took for him to succumb to the effects of the white powder.

The high he felt after snorting his first line had been magical and he's been chasing that feeling ever since, blind to all he's sacrificed in the process.

It changed him, he knows. Every euphoric high that made him talk a mile a minute, overly affectionate, loud and brash and in love with the whole world would inevitably end in a crash. He became irritable and hostile toward the people he loved, thinking they were out to get him. Whenever his friends or Wayne or Steve so much as looked at him the wrong way about his new habit, he would lash out at them.

He became increasingly angry and accused them of trying to control him, of envying him his success and happiness.

That's when he started drinking, too. He drank himself stupid so that he wouldn't have to think about the way Steve was starting to look at him as if he didn't even know him anymore. To forget the sad look in Wayne's eyes or the way his friends had started to avoid him. When he was drunk out of his mind, he could forget the way the Coffin boys had started talking about him behind his back, could ignore the murderous looks Robin kept sending his way.

Thinking back, Eddie felt like everything had spun out of his control so fast.

It's like one day he comes home to Steve, ecstatic about signing their first record deal and celebrating the start of a new chapter with the love of his life by dancing around their living room barefoot, laughing and kissing each other, promising happiness and forever.

Only to throw that love right back in Steve's face the next day by calling him needy, clingy, and full of bullshit.

He claimed that Steve was holding him back and that Steve didn't love him, that he just didn't want to be alone. He also said that Steve still thought he was better than Eddie, better than the town freak, the fuck-up, the trailer trash.

You don't want me to succeed and finally step out of your perfect shadow, because then what would stop me from leaving you, right?

Eddie regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. Secretly, he had always feared that his success would cause a rift in his relationship with Steve. Eddie had no desire to leave Steve, because Steve was still the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him, but he couldn't help but feel that he was losing him anyway. Even more so when he had seen Steve's face crumble, when he had seen the exact moment when his heart had broken into a million pieces.

He had wanted to take Steve in his arms and apologize for saying cruel things he didn't even believe. It had been his own insecurities that had caused him to lash out, and he had hurt Steve before he had a chance to be hurt himself.

Instead, in true Munson fashion, he had run away and hasn't seen or heard from Steve in six long months that have felt like years.

Steve looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Eddie saw him.

That's not a good thing, though. Because Steve had been driving himself crazy with worry about Eddie for months before Eddie had taken Steve's heart and torn it apart right in front of him.

Back then he had the same dark circles under his eyes that he has now. The usually golden skin is still too pale and Steve's trademark hair looks even more disheveled from how often he's run his hands through it. His well-fitting jeans, which once hugged his ass just right, now sit baggy on his too-slim frame and Eddie hates it.

He hates that Eddie could still hurt Steve even after he left. That even from a distance he managed to ruin the only person who ever really loved him besides Wayne. There should be some kind of warning sign on him: Beware, do not get attached, will hurt you.

"You're awake," are the first words out of Steve's mouth, and despite everything, Eddie can't stop his heart from responding to the sound of his sweet voice. Steve sounds tired, weary, but to Eddie's ears his voice is better than any Metallica song could ever be.

He tries to smile at him, but he feels as tired as Steve sounds, so it lacks the usual spark.

"Sure am. From what I heard, I have you to thank for that," Eddie adds, unable to help himself. He still doesn't know why and especially how Steve knew he needed help. If this were a Nicholas Sparks novel, their love would have created an invisible bond that made Steve feel when Eddie needed help.

But this is real life, and no matter how much he loves Steve, there is no invisible bond holding them together. Just an unbridgeable chasm.

Steve is still hovering at the door and Eddie thinks he is fighting the urge to wring his hands. Eddie knows his tells by now and he figures Steve isn't sure he's welcome here. Which is ridiculous, because even at his worst, Eddie will always want Steve around, no matter what crap Eddie tells him.

It takes a lot of effort, but Eddie manages to sit up and lean out of bed to pat the chair next to his bed, his eyes never leaving Steve.

Eddie sees Steve's shoulders slump, some of the tension visibly draining from his body at the gesture, and Steve walks over to him and sits down tentatively.

"So..." Eddie begins, dragging out the 'o'. "What happened?"

Steve looks up from his hands in his lap, obviously surprised by the question. "You don't remember?"

"No. The last thing I remember is sitting on a leather couch with a bunch of people I don't know and don't care about, fooling myself into thinking I was having fun." Eddie has had plenty of time to think about his life and where he went wrong, so he decides to stick with honesty. Steve deserves as much and more. "Someone handed me a bottle of whiskey and I opened it and started drinking straight from the bottle. That's the last thing I remember. The next thing I know, I wake up in an ugly bathroom that smells like disinfectant, my whole body hurts like I've been hit by a train, and I have no idea where I am."

Before he can bring himself to say the next part, it's Eddie who has to look away, his eyes focused on his hands playing with the edge of the blanket.

"They told me it was you who called 911 and helped them find me. They said without you I would have died lying in my own vomit." He swallows audibly, tears burning in his eyes, wondering how he could have cried more in the last ten hours than in the last ten years. "They also said you were the only one who came to see me."

Eddie forces himself to look up and into Steve's eyes as he says, "Thank you, Steve. You didn't... I don't deserve you doing this. Not after..." The words die in his throat and he feels like he's choking on them.

He can't do this. He's a fucking coward, not worth saving. Not even worth looking at someone as good and beautiful as Steve.

There's a crease between Steve's eyebrows that Eddie used to smooth with his thumb and lips every time he saw it, and his fingers itch to do it again.

"You called me," Steve tells him, his own hands playing with the edge of Eddie's blanket. "At the party. You called me from the bathroom. I thought it was a butt call or maybe drunk dialing, I hadn't heard from you in months, Eddie."

Eddie winces at his words, but Steve chooses to ignore it.

"But then you sounded so small on the phone. You called me 'Stevie' and 'sweetheart' and then you started to cry." Steve looks like he's about to cry, too. His eyes are glassy and Eddie gets lost in the way the light breaks in them, gold and brown and green all mixed together.

"You told me you weren't feeling so good, that your stomach hurt and the room was spinning so you had to lie down. Your voice -" And here Steve's own voice breaks, after it had already started to shake badly, and without thinking Eddie grabs Steve's hand and holds it tight.

"I'm here, Stevie. You saved me. I'm okay."

"But you almost weren't!" Steve insists, his voice rising, and Eddie finally understands the depth of Steve's feelings. After all these months, after everything Eddie had said and done, Steve still cared deeply for him.

"You talked like you were dying, Eddie. You weren't drunk dialing, you were calling to say goodbye, asshole. You were telling me all these things that I needed to hear you say for months. But I wanted to hear them with you in the room so I could punch you in the face and then kiss it better. Not like this. Not as your last words over a fucking phone call."

That's when Steve breaks down, the tears finally overflowing and he buries his face on the bed at Eddie's hip, their joined hands pressed against his wet cheek.

"Baby," Eddie whispers, shocked, his own heart aching worse than ever as he begins to run his fingers through Steve's messy hair. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm so, so sorry, Stevie. I never meant to hurt you, but it seems like that's all I did."

Taking a deep breath, Eddie continues. "I don't know what I told you on the phone, but since I woke up I've had time to think about it all. I don't know if I can ever make it up to you. Or to Wayne and the kids, Gareth and Jeff and Grant. If I will ever deserve your forgiveness, but I want to try. I want to deserve it one day. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but... I will go to rehab. I will quit drugs and alcohol, I will clean up my act. And then, if you let me, I will try to make it up to you every single day for the rest of our lives."

Steve slowly lifts his head from the bed and looks at him, searching Eddie's eyes for something.

"Why?" Steve asks, his hand gripping Eddie's even tighter.

There are so many reasons, so many things Eddie wants to say, but in the end there is only one simple answer.

"Because I love you."

The smile on Steve's face tells him it's the right answer, even more so when Steve presses a kiss into his palm. But then he turns serious once more.

"I haven't forgiven you yet, Eddie. You hurt me too much and I need time. But I need you to stop trying to run away from me. I don't want you to go to rehab and clean yourself up before you come back to me. I want to be with you every step of the way. Do it together. Because if you love me, you have to let me take care of you. You have to let me in, Eddie. Let me carry you for once, like Sam carried Frodo when he couldn't go on. Trust me not to let you fall. Please."

"Did you really just make a reference to Lord of the Rings?" Eddie demands and Steve rolls his eyes.

"Is that what you get from everything I just said?"

Eddie sobers up immediately. "No, it just made me fall a little bit more in love with you, and I didn't think that was possible."

"So what do you say?" Steve asks, chewing his lip between his teeth, and Eddie suspects he's not even breathing.

"It's going to suck, Stevie," Eddie says in a quiet voice, stroking Steve's knuckles with his thumb."Are you sure?"

"Yes." No hesitation, no wavering in his voice. It's the same tone, the same determined look on his face as when he told Eddie "Fuck'em," when Eddie told him people in their small-minded town would talk if Steve held his hand in public.

"There's a bunch of brochures of places to check out. Wanna help me pick the least horrible one?" Eddie says, pointing to the table in the corner of the room.

Without another word, Steve gets up to grab them, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie allows himself to hope.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fic #rockstar eddie munson #cw drugs #steddielovemonth #day 1 #love is letting someone take care of you #my writing

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yumeka-sxf · 9 months

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An analysis on Anya (an Anya-lysis!)

As promised in my Twiyor season 1 wrap up post, it's time for me to give Anya time in the analysis spotlight – an "Anya-lysis" if you will! (yes, I've been waiting to make that pun!)

*I apologize in advance for the length of this post. I felt that splitting it into two would have hindered the flow of the analysis, so I kept it as one long post. But I promise it's not as long as it seems...the high number of images make it seem longer!*

Before I get into my analysis, I wanted to preface this post with a fantastic quote from @incomingalbatross, who perfectly describes the unique role Anya has in the series.

"Realizing that Spy X Family really is The Anya Show to me, and not just because "oh look, cute baby child" but because Anya is the center of the story. She has so many secrets resting on those tiny shoulders. She is juggling so many agendas. She's the one who knows everything and her choices drive the plot—she chose Twilight, she chose Yor, she chose Bond—and even when you look at the other characters and their relationships she IS the star they orbit around! Twilight and Yor's relationship is built on their shared care for Anya! And more than that, at the core of it all, Anya's goals are the ones we're invested in.

The center of this story isn't the superspy trying to do his job, or the assassin trying to do hers. It's the little girl who said "FAMILY" and pulled the building-blocks of one close around her with all her tiny strength, and everyone else in this story keeps being moved and changed and redirected by the force of Anya's attachments to her family.

And at the same time she is SO SMALL"

While Twilight may be the protagonist, and Yor the deuteragonist, Anya is definitely the main character in Spy x Family. Not only would there be no "family" without her bringing Twilight and Yor together, but her status as the main character is quite unique among shonen series, or even media in general.

Typically in stories where a little kid (like, below the age of 10) is the main character, either the majority of other major characters are also little kids, or the kid's main purpose is to be a cute comic-relief foil for the adults. But while there are kids Anya's age in SxF, the other important characters in the plot, namely Twilight and Yor, are not. So rather than the typical scenario of the main kid character constantly being surrounded by and working off their fellow kid characters, Anya is more often interacting with her adult parents. And it's not just for cutesy moments and comic relief – the true heart of SxF is about a fake family that could any minute be destroyed, with only little Anya being aware of this grim reality and doing everything she can to keep things together...all without the ability to be truthful with anyone, not with the adults or her fellow kids. While her parents are each secretly fighting for their own vision of world peace, Anya is too…the "world peace" of the family she doesn't want to lose. It really is a one-of-a-kind scenario for a little kid character.

But having such a special main character role doesn't necessitate a well-written character. But in Anya's case, she definitely is. In fact, I think she's the most well-written little kid character I've ever seen.

Too often in media little kids are portrayed as being overly cutesy, overly bratty/whiny, and/or act much older than they should. A key factor in making a little kid character believable is that you can't just make them cute and/or emotionally immature...they have to also be weird. Anyone who's spent time with little kids knows all the weird stuff they say and do because of their less restricted child brains and ignorance about the world. A good example of this is Lilo from Lilo and Stitch (another well-portrayed kid character). The movie does a good job showing all the weird habits Lilo has, like the bizarre origins of her favorite doll, the freaky voodoo stuff she does to the local bullies, and how she totally buys the fact that Stitch is a dog. Likewise, Anya has tons of little endearing weirdnesses, starting with her wanting a spy dad and assassin mom simply because she thinks it's "cool," to the funny lingo she develops like "ooting" (odekeke) and "ohayou-masu" ("happy morning," a.k.a, an adorably incorrect way of saying "good morning"), to thinking it's acceptable to give George a leaf as a parting gift (then wanting it back later), to her comical remarks whenever she thinks Loid and Yor are being "flirty."

Another realistic aspect of Anya's character is the fact that she's not super-smiley and overly cheerful/bubbly like many other main character kids. Not that she doesn't smile and can't be cheerful, but her default expression is a look of uncertainty or wide-eyed cluelessness, which makes sense considering her upbringing (I'm talking about her default expression in canon, not in merch or other marketing as characters tend to always smile in these even if that's not their usual expression – just look at Yuri's merch!) Most of the time when other characters are talking, she looks perplexed, like she isn't sure what's going on but she's really trying to learn/understand.

These expressions make more sense to me than a child who smiles all the time, because she's at an age where she still doesn't understand the right emotions to feel at the right time. A fantastic example of this is when she punches Damian – her face is totally blank! No anger, no fear, no embarrassment...because she still hasn't learned the proper emotions to feel in a situation like this.

All she knew was what Yor told her and that she was bothered by Damian's attitude. In fact, the iconic smug smile that she shows in that scene is the result of her not knowing how to properly react when faced with bullying (cry, get angry, etc).

Similarly, she has a very bored expression when all the kids are upset about George's plight, as if she doesn't really get what all the to-do is about. This also creates good contrast to how the other Eden kids from their rich families were probably forced to grow up fast, and thus act more like 8-10-year olds than the 6-year olds they're supposed to be. Meanwhile Anya, who's supposedly younger than them, stands out with her more childlike mannerisms.

This all makes sense not just because she's still a little kid, but because her view of emotions has been skewed by the fact that she can read people's minds. So she has to not only learn the socially proper way to react to people's actions and words, but also when she should, or should not, react to what's on their mind. I believe this is why she has such a wide variety of expressions compared to the other characters – her mind reading has forced her to experience way more emotions at such an impressionable age, though not always with enough context and guidance to identify when they're socially acceptable to express.

There are way too many examples of Anya's incredible range of expressions, so I'll just have to pick a few!

Put all this together – her childlike reactions to situations, but with a twist because she can read minds, plus her endless array of comical faces, and you have one of the funniest characters I've ever seen.

Because Anya has such a wide variety of expressions, and her default expression is that of uncertainty, there's a lot more meaning when she does smile. The shining smile she has when Loid praises her for getting a stella, when she plays with Bond for the first time, and when she meets up with Becky after their shopping trip, have a lot more significance because that's not an emotion she expresses all the time. Since happy/cheerful isn't her default mood, the emotional impact of scenes where she does smile is all the more stronger.

Likewise, considering her age, Anya isn't much of a crier either. Having a kid character burst into tears and throw temper tantrums is common, but the amount of notable times Anya has exhibited this behavior is relatively few. She did have a tantrum early on when Loid stopped her from going into his room and when she demanded that Bond be her dog…but those are the only notable cases in my opinion. She has shed tears here and there, but again, not a significant number of times. Similar to the scenes where she smiles, when she does cry (in a non-comical way), like when she's reminded about her mother at the Eden interview or when she's finally reunited with Yor after the bus hijacking, it has a lot more meaning.

Another common trait for little kid characters is that they're usually a representation of total purity and innocence. While Anya doesn't have the same dark ulterior motives and immoral occupations that the adults have, she's not shown to be a complete angel either. Even though good intentions are what drive her, she can be a manipulator, mischievous, and even cocky at times, like when she insists on being called' "Starlight Anya" after getting her first stella, when she was being overly competitive with Damian after the bus hijacking, when she was joking around on the bus after finding out the bombs were fake, and when she almost attacked Bond after he chewed up Penguinman. But all of these examples only serve to make her a more fleshed out character as opposed to just being the cutesy, happy series mascot all time.

Obviously because of her mind reading powers, she manipulates the adults around her all the time, but again, there's never any malice involved…it's clearly the result of a little kid doing everything in her power to keep the happy family she's created. And due to her mind reading ability, she's learned to be much more proactive than reactive – she knows what people are going to do before they do it, and what their intentions are without them saying it. This has allowed her to become resourceful way beyond her years, which has led to her saving the lives of both Twilight and Yor on more than one occasion.

One emotion Anya does have an abundance of is empathy. Typically children don't start to develop empathy – the ability to understand and relate to the intentions and feelings of others – until a bit past Anya's age. But because of Anya's ability to read minds, it makes sense that this part of her development would take priority over something like proper speech and school smarts. Her empathy extends to all the adults around her, her fellow kids, and even animals. While a lot of her empathetic actions stem from her need to help keep Twilight's and Yor's identities secret and thus maintain the peace of the Forger family, there are many examples where this isn't the case and she's simply acting out of nothing but concern for others: comforting the Eden cow because she understood it was scared, worrying about the well being of the Project Apple dogs, leaping into action when she heard someone drowning, and comforting Damian when she knew he was scared during the bus hijacking.

Even when identity reveals aren't at stake, she still comforts Twilight and Yor when they need it, like when she thought Twilight had a nightmare after his backstory reveal, and when she knew Yor was concerned about Loid's relationship with Fiona.

The bus hijacking was a prime example of Anya being empathetic, but not to an unrealistic degree. She empathized with Billy enough to diffuse the situation, but not on a deeper level because, again, she's a little kid. She understood he was upset, but she didn't have outpouring sympathy or deep, introspective thoughts about his situation – that's something an adult would do, not a little kid who's still learning what emotions to feel at what times. What she eventually does is something that makes perfect sense both for her personality and age. With some great resourcefulness on her part, she was able to figure out what she had to say to manipulate Billy the right way, but at the same time she was playing it by ear and basically clueless as to the depth of the matter, yet mustered up all the courage she could…typical Anya.

There are a lot more examples like this of Anya's sense of empathy, too many to list. But the bottom line is, although Anya does use her powers to manipulate people to benefit her own situation and those she cares about (who can blame her?) it's clear that even at such a young age, she's a genuinely good girl who wants to help others and do good in the world, even if she's too young to realize it yet. Not unlike her parents, really. I think we'll be searching a long time before we find another 1st-grade aged character as awesome as Anya.

#spy x family #spy family #sxf #spyxfamily #anya forger #sxf analysis #sxf spoilers #sxf manga spoilers

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chaoticsimp · 10 months

Text

What Could Have Been - Part 2

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Relationship: Twilight x Reader

Content Warnings: SFW, Fluff, Angst, Angst, Angst, Female Reader, Y/N, Reader has a son, Mention of pregnancy and birth, reader has a gun but doesn't use it, Anxiety mention. So much longing.

Summary: It was like looking in a mirror. A chance encounter that Twilight could have never seen coming. He could just move on, ignore the realities of what the child could mean but he was never one to sit still.

A/N: The very requested part 2 of What Could Have Been! There might be a part 3, but haven't decided. I hope you enjoy the additional angst.

Word Count: 2600

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After dinner, homework, bath, and the next chapter of his bedtime story your son was fast asleep. You laid out a fresh uniform for the morning and got to work tidying the kitchen. Your unfinished lesson plan sat on the coffee table in the den, along with assignments waiting to be graded. When you glanced at the clock you knew you’d be up later than you liked and started on a pot of coffee to compensate.

“Damn him,” You muttered to yourself. Damn Twilight and his distractions. He had done as he promised, he stopped following you and you hadn’t noticed any other eyes on you since that fateful evening. Yet you remained paranoid and worried your son was beginning to take notice of your unusual behaviour.

“Damn it all.” You wiped your hands before retreating to your couch. You lifted your pen and eyed your lesson plan as your mind wandered. Would they come after you or him? Should you run just to be safe? It was easier when you were pregnant, and even when your son was an infant, but you had built a life in Ostania. Your son’s friends, and his school. Your Saturday adventures, weekly rituals, and routines that were all important to a developing mind.

“No,” You sighed to yourself. You couldn’t just leave; it would break your son's heart.

A soft knock pulled you from your thoughts, one you recognized as the beat repeated. You rose from the couch, listening for your son as you cautiously approached the door. You reached into the hidden compartment beneath your entrance table and drew the gun to your side before finally unlocking the door.

“Astra.” A name you hadn’t heard in years. One that only a handful of people knew, Twilight being one of the few. You stared up at him, both surprised and unsurprised that he’d show up on your doorstep so late. He caught the door when you tried to close it but didn’t put any more force than necessary to hold it open.

“There is no one here by that name,” You reminded sharply.

“My apologies, Y/N,” He replied slowly, gauging your response to the use of your name before continuing.

“Can we talk, please?” He asked quietly. Your eyes studied him – as beautiful and intelligent as he remembered only, they had lost some of the warmth. No…no he realized; the warmth was still there they had just lost the warmth they once held for him.

“Come in,” You relented and stepped aside. Twilight stepped in, allowing you to close and lock the door behind him. He pulled off his hat, setting it on the coat rack but kept his coat on.

“Coffee?”

“Isn’t it a little late?”

“Yes or no,” You replied.

“Yes.”

“Take a seat.” Twilight eyed the gun in your hand as you set it on the kitchen counter, exchanging it for a tray which you added a second cup to before bringing it to the living room. You placed it on the coffee table, pouring his cup before yours and took a seat on the single chair while he sat on the couch.

“I was surprised you used your real name.”

“Just my first,” You countered, taking a sip from your mug. “What better way to hide than in plain sight?”

“Fair point.” He lifted his own mug, his eyes wandering around your living space. Photos covered the walls; all were of the boy from infancy to now. In some you were present, in a few he spotted Master Henderson and in others faces he didn’t recognize.

“Why are you here?” You finally asked.

“I’m sure you know,” He replied, setting down his mug.

“When you actually backed off, I was surprised,” You admitted. “Surprised by you, and that the Handler hasn’t sent anyone else to snoop around.”

“You left peacefully, retired. I don’t see why they would.”

“What does my peace matter when my skills could benefit peace for all?”

“Words you used to live by.”

“I found better things than the job,” You replied.

“And yet you carry a weapon to answer the door.”

“I left the job, but I’m not ignorant of my past,” You sighed, and you followed his gaze as it wandered back to the photos on the mantle.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Twilight.” The use of his codename brought his eyes to yours. To the untrained eye, you looked relaxed, leaned back in your seat and hands occupied by your coffee. It looked as if you were catching up with an old friend. However, he knew you were poised to strike the moment you felt threatened and from his count had at least five things within range you could kill him with.

“Please, call me Loid.”

“Have I still lost the privilege of your real name?” Twilight noticed a playful glint briefly shine in your eyes. If it had been under different circumstances, he may have been tempted to play along but he reminded himself of his mission and the reason he came in the dead of night.

“I’m here to talk about the boy, your son,” He replied, and he noticed you tense.

“My son,” You repeated, and that icy demeanour cracked. A soft smile graced your lips as you glanced at the photo closest to you.

“He’s incredible,” You continued. “A brilliant and kind child. Curious, so much so that he gets into trouble more often than he should, but he craves knowledge.”

“He’s six?” He asked and you nodded, confirming the timeline he had laid out in his head.

“Most days I fear I’m not enough for him, but I suppose that’s how all mothers feel.” Twilight shifted in his seat, moving a little closer and nearly brushing your knee with his.

“Y/N,” He paused, trying to calm his racing heart as he clasped his hands together. “He looks just like me.”

“Just ask,” You breathed, and he noticed an uncharacteristic tremble in your voice as you held his gaze.

“Is he…my son?” He finally asked and you hesitated – those feelings from so long ago rushing back as you stared into the stunning blue eyes your son shared.

“Yes.” A whispered response that faded to silence as you stared at each other. Twilight had come here expecting this answer. After doing the math repeatedly he had concluded that there was no other possibility and yet part of him dared to hope. Wish? That for once, he was wrong.

“Is this why you retired?” He asked and you nodded. Your voice caught in your throat as you watched him stand, and you feared that he’d just leave now that he had the answer he came for.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Twilight had started pacing, his voice of reason he relied on disappeared as his mind swirled with questions.

“Or ask the Handler or Frankie to reach out to me? You could have found me yourself, you’re more than capable.” He felt the sweat gathering on his brow, and his stomach churned as he tried to sort through his conflicting emotions.

“Well?” His tone was sharper than he intended. Why was he getting so upset? Why couldn’t he see reason? He felt like a madman until he turned back to you. In all the time he had known you, you had never looked so small. He took a few slow breaths, trying to steady his racing mind and remind himself of his training as he waited for you to gather your thoughts.

“Because you left,” You finally spoke. Your voice betrayed you as it broke, and Twilight watched as the tears you were trying so hard to hold back slipped down your cheeks.

“Did you know back then, that last night? Is-Is that why you said you loved me?”

“No, of course not. I-I didn’t-”

“But you still hid him from me,” He accused.

“Stop interrupt-”

“I can’t believe-”

“I can’t love you!” Twilight paused at the raise in your voice, at the anger in your eyes as you stood to face him.

“I’m sorry, but the world needs Twilight more than I need you.” You recited, throwing his words back at him. “I told you I loved you, and that is what you said.”

Silence hung heavy in the air as you debated whether to kick him out or not, but Twilight’s thoughts were elsewhere. They were back on that night. A night he had locked away in the depths of his mind. To a normal couple it would have been a third-year anniversary, three years since you had stumbled upon the other. It was never official, but neither of you had seen anyone else in a romantic setting outside of missions. You met whenever your paths crossed, you wrote to the other in coded letters to check in, and yet neither of you would commit to a relationship. Yet he was the one who thought to pick up an expensive bottle of wine, and a small gift on that night that coincided with your third year of not being together. He opened that door first, and then slammed it in your face when you stepped through.

“I was heartbroken, alone, and scared with no reason to think you would care. You abandoned me, and I wasn’t going to let you abandon my son.” He knew you were right. After that night, after your confession and his less-than-kind response, you asked him to leave, and he promised not to contact you again. So, he tucked you away with the other thoughts he hid and didn’t reach out when you retired a few months later. Now he wished he had.

“That’s not fair,” He argued. “You’re not allowed to make that choice for me.”

“So, you’d have stayed?” Twilight hesitated, and that was answer enough for you.

“I couldn’t face you again and have you leave us, and maybe that was selfish of me, but I-I-” You tensed as he reached into his pocket, taking a defensive step back. Twilight didn’t take offence to your caution as he lifted his handkerchief, and you briefly closed your eyes as he dabbed the tears from your cheeks.

“You are anything but selfish,” He said gently. It had been so long it was easy to forget the pain he caused, and how deeply he hurt you. He never thought he would be faced with you again, and he scolded himself for not being more prepared for this interaction.

“I’m sorry, I let the surprise cloud my better judgment. I came here knowing the answer, and still, your confirmation sent me spinning,” He admitted.

“I’m not even sure I wanted the confirmation. It only leads to more-”

“Ma?” A sleepy voice whispered, and both your eyes went to the hall.

“Are you okay?” You quickly wiped your face, pressing on a smile as you stepped around Twilight.

“I’m alright, did we wake you?” You asked gently, lifting him into your arms as he rubbed his eyes.

“I was thirsty,” He whispered.

“I’ve got it,” Twilight offered, retreating to the kitchen.

“Is he bad Ma?” He heard the child whisper and noticed his own hand tremble as he filled a glass with water.

“No, he’s an old friend.” When Twilight turned back, he realized the child’s eyes were on the gun on the counter. It was a sight he seemed to be used to, and unsettlingly comfortable with. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, then set him down and Twilight offered him the glass.

“Thank you,” He whispered.

“No problem,” Twilight replied, suddenly unsure how to act as he stared into the eyes of his son.

“Back to bed, I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in.” The boy kept his eyes on Twilight, and he felt like he was being analyzed. He patted his mother’s leg before wandering back down the hall.

“We can set up another time to talk. If you have more questions.”

“Yes, but just one more before I go,” He requested.

“Go on.”

“Why did you name him after me if you never intended to tell me?” You smiled slightly.

“A moment of weakness,” You confessed. He watched as you went to the living room and took a small photo off the mantle. You carefully pulled it from the frame, smoothing out the edges between your fingers as you returned to him.

“Birth was difficult, and I’d sooner face interrogation by the SSS before doing it again but when I met him all I saw was you.” You offered him the photo, and he stared down at it.

“Like looking in a mirror,” He mumbled, as he took it.

“Does he ask about me?”

“Sometimes.” Twilight glanced up from the photo.

“What do you tell him?”

“That is father is a brilliant, wonderful, and kind man who has spent his entire life protecting others with little thanks. That even though he couldn’t be with us, it doesn’t make him any less of a hero.”

“Oh…” It was all he could say, as he had expected the worst.

“You may have hurt me, but you are still a good man. Besides that, I needed you to be someone he wasn’t afraid of. So, my intentions weren’t entirely honourable.”

“But you never wanted us to meet?”

“No, but as I’ve said I’m not ignorant of my past. I had contingencies in place if something were to happen to me – he had to know of you, the real you.”

“So, he knows that he is named after me?” He asked and you nodded.

“If he needed to get in touch with WISE and more specifically you, that would have been better than any old code.” He knew you were right, and once again expected nothing less.

“What-”

“I believe you said one question Mr. Forger,” You reminded, and he noticed the tired look in your eyes and remembered that your son – his son – was waiting for you to put him back to bed.

“Yes, you’ve indulged me quite enough for tonight,” He agreed, offering back the photo, but you gently pushed back his hand. He didn’t argue as he slipped the photo into a hidden pocket within his coat.

“I’ll set up something with your office, so we don’t raise any suspicion,” You offered. He nodded, drawing a business card from his pocket, and set it on your entrance table.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Although he hoped you wouldn’t wait too long. He went to take his hat from your coat rack but noticed you already had it in your hands. He leaned forward a little, letting his Mr. Forger façade slip as you set the hat gently on his head. Your fingers drifted down the side of his face, and he closed his eyes briefly to lean his cheek into your hand. He lifted one of his hands to set over yours, recalling the comfort you always brought him. The gentleness you used to have for him, the peace you used to blanket him in after a mission. It was all still there in your palm, and he felt selfish for lingering in it now. Twilight opened his eyes, a soft smile on his face as he met your gaze and when he went to lean in your other hand came up to stop him.

“Have a goodnight, Mr. Forger.” Twilight chuckled and kept a hold of your hand as he stood straight. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hand before turning to open the door.

“You as well Ms. L/N.”

#spy x family #twilight x y/n #twilight x reader #loid x y/n #loid forger #loid forger x reader #loid x reader #loid forger x you

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