#AP spits out words

[angstphilosophy]

can they at least keep drake’s tits in the reboot

[atyourmerci]

Gold wing, angel

meanloser!ellie X classpresident!r

CW: smut, MDNI, dom!ellie, sub!reader, v angsty, slight bondage, cunt slapping, fingering, cunnilingus, edging, orgasm denial, ruined orgasms, lite angel symbolism, no y/n, no pdor

A/N: actually surprised I finished a req (you all applaud me) this is inspired by “GOLDWING” by billie.

Ellie was a sick drug. Something not to be desired. She was the epitome of the allure of indulging in something you shouldn’t have, shouldn’t know, try at very least.

How did she get this way- who made her like this? Anger taken out through bodies of admission in an act of revenge. Taking back what was taken from her. Her pride regained by your submission.

You could have never fathomed the aggression the loser from AP American literature could obtain. You thought she’d beg on her knees for you. Worship your every move, starstruck by even getting the chance to touch you.

But she didn’t. She reveled in taking you off your high horse, got off on watching the student body president, proper and witty, utterly depraved by getting her cunt abused by a fucking moron.

-

98- A fucking 98, you did not deserve a 98 on the midterm paper. Your work was frankly sloppy, lacked comprehension. It made you ill knowing you were turning in something so lackluster with your name slapped across the front so proudly. The only thing that made you sicker was the thought of receiving special treatment- you had an image to uphold. You got to your position in this society from your own intellect, blood, sweat, tears and all. Kissing ass for a fucking 98 wasn’t in the cards.

The class began filing out as usual, like wild animals in a pack, shiny white teeth like daggers. Meshing together in their navy steam-pressed blazers, hair like defining fur, the only indication of individuality.

Except for her, sticking out like a sore thumb, the great big elephant in the room. Breaking many rulebook codes with her black nail polish, unkept hair to the standard policy, her white polo unbuttoned at the top two buttons that revealed her freckled chest. Despite her all around degenerate persona, she was irritatingly smart. Maybe if she had an ounce of charm she’d take your place.

With the rest of the class out of sight she stares at you. Not cutting off eye contact you both rise from your chairs you practically run to Mr. Stevens desk. The slap of two papers hit his desk, a 98 and a 90 shining in red sharpie ink on the white papers.

“I don’t deserve this,” comes out in unison, the sincerity in your voice cut open by the harshness in Ellies.

“Please one at a time, ladies.”

Before the words can even escape your lips Ellie rages, “I worked my ass off on this. I deserve better than a 90,” she spits out. “I know you can do better than this Ms.Williams, I expect more from you.” Ellie scoffs back at him, “this is bullshit,” she muffles but continues standing at his desk.

Mr.Stevens nods his head in your direction for your speech, you glance at Ellie with her arms now crossed, awaiting your protest. You brush off her insistence on staying and begin, “Mr.Stevens, I appreciate your grading and understanding my agenda for the midterm, but objectively this is sub-pare work. I think you may have given me someone else’s grade… maybe you mixed up my grade with Ms.Williams.”

He doesn’t skip a beat, “I don’t mix up grades, you earned it. Now if you two will excuse me,” Mr.Stevens directs you both to the now empty hallway.

Ellie storms out with rage, cheeks flushed and lips pressed closely, you follow behind. “‘ms Williams’? the fuck was that?” Ellie presses in a scowl, words echoed in a bare hallway.

“Look I read your paper, I think you deserved better,” you retort in an attempt to soothe her. You cant seem to keep your eyes off her cupids bow, the contrast of soft pink lips against her tired skin.

“Oh thats fucking rich coming from ‘ms I don’t deserve my grade’ you’re pathetic,” she points, eyes thinning.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a bitch more people would like you,” you attempt, heat rising in your own cheeks, heart thumping roughly in your chest.

Ellies cruel disposition contorts into a grin, inching closer to your body, “you’re fucking him aren’t you? Ms. perfect sucking off the teach so she can stay on top?”

A power so foreign comes before you, using force to push your wrist into her chest, though she doesn’t budge, “shut up.”

She returns your aggression, pushing your bodies flesh up against the brick wall behind you, ripping the breath from your lungs. Your hands instinctively grip into her shirt. Her eyes are wild, as if she was surprised she’d taken it this far, or rather puzzled by the fact you haven’t broken your grasp.

You both pant from the intrusion, glaring, waiting- waiting for someone to cave.

Like a dog on a leash you dragged her in, pulling her by her fabric until her lips met your own. A depraved act, met with open mouths and wandering tongues. Hatred in its finest form, digging into her as if you’d ever thought of it. A subconscious desire pulled from the depths of your cravings.

Before true indulgence she pushes you off, taking a moment to look at your hazy disposition, drunk on delinquency, “don’t ever do that again,” she pants out. Taking her thumb she wipes the saliva from your bottom lip and takes off without your response.

-

Time after time you went back. You told yourself you’d stop, never talk to her again. Yet there the keys were in the ignition, a path that you knew like the back of your hand. Leading, controlling your own fate of defacement.

“Can you please just open the door,” you plead on her doorsteps, mind and body corrupted- to only be pleased by the mental games, the destruction in forms of submitting to her.

Strung up like an old doll long forgotten in the attic, bound wrist behind your back and ankles tied to the head of her bed, vulnerable and needy.

“What now? Use your fucking words,” Ellie remarks before spitting on your neglected cunt. Your body winces at the sensation of the hot liquid dripping down the pulsing flesh, “please I promise I’ll do whatever you ask.”

She hovers over your squirming body, carful to not give you the satisfaction. Gripping your jaw in her hand, “do you ever pay attention to what I tell you? You don’t deserve to come,” cocking her free hand back to lay a purposeful slap to your slick folds causing you to scream out from the blissful pain.

She lays another one into the already beat red skin, a cruel grin growing on her lips as she hears you enjoying it. “You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” she asks glaring at your tucked in lip, eyes glossy. You nod back at her, signaling your approval for using your body as her personal vessel.

Somehow it was good enough for her, dropping down to your perked nipples and sucking it into her teeth as she uses her hand to cover your eyes. You’d learn very early on that you weren’t allowed to watch her use her mouth on you. In the odd occasion she’d let you have your cunt in her mouth shed have your face shoved in the sheets while she took you from behind. She never told you why- and you didn’t dare ask.

Your wrist wriggle behind your back as your chest arches into her mouth, hot and wet. You obsess over what it would feel like on your mouth again, most nights were spent only thinking of her mouth- foreign, an impenetrable fortress. You began to chase the chance of the feeling her again.

You feel as her mouth comes off of the swollen bud as she removes the hand on your eyes, “don’t look,” she says with no threat in her tone, but you don’t risk crossing her.

You shut your exhausted eyes, dropping your head back as you feel her wrap her arms around the meat of your thighs. She drags an antagonizing strip up your slit, jolting your body into the mouth.

She goes as slow as possible, providing as little pressure she can muster up to the swell of your clit, but from her slaps it wouldn’t take much. Your body akin to a fish gasping for air out of water, squirming under her touch. She digs her fingers deep into the flesh as a warning.

“If you ever want to come again Id advise you behave.”

“P-please,” you plead to her, legs shaking as you whimper her name over and over like a prayer.

“I said no, i swear to god I’ll ruin every fucking orgasm,” sliding her two fingers into your clenching hole she drives slow pumps as she returns her mouth to your clit.

Your face contorts in concentration, attempting to hold yourself back but you could only be held off for so long.

“Ellie- Ellie!” bursting at the seams, your body detesting her rules, letting the hot white cum coat her fingers. She only fucks you harder, faster through your orgasm. This is a game you weren’t to win, rather to allow herself to revel in your pain. She got off on destroying your mind, making it to where you can only be pleased by her punishment.

Ellie kept her word, working you up on the edge of finishing and stopping completely, laughing at your pathetic state, crying and begging to come.

Clipping your wings, she hung them on her walls as a trophy. Pleas echoing her room, come splattering her sheets, your lips chapped and neglected.

[tinydefector]

Human's effects

More a silly little thing that I had to write out.

Warnings: talks about sex, xenophilia, kinks

Word count: 3k

Masterlist

Next

Human Effects 2 - characters

Request are open

____

There were a lot of things that fascinated the cybertronians over humans. Their size, body types, skin tones and those soft they are. 

So many of them become so fascinated over the fact that such small and fragile creatures don't have plating to protect themselves but only wear soft fabrics. 

And it slowly leads a lot of Cybertronians to realising they were Xenophiles. 

A list of kinks and fetishes cybertronians discovered from it. 

-size kink 

-skin fetish 

- hair pulling 

- silk and ribbon play

- cum inflation 

-breeding

-pet play

- vore

-fluid play and consumption 

- spiking warming

- Heart and spark syncing 

- new spike and Valve modifications to test on their human lover

There's originally a lot of unknowns about humans, and cybertronians are rather intrigued, for one the first times the a lot of the crew of lost light had encountered them was on black market and high priced pets, and companions. 

There were exceptions such as Perceptor, Ratchet and Megatron who had been around humans before but for a lot of the bots this was their first time seeing them. that is until they are assigned a human communications, relations Ambassador/ liaison. 

But after the black market incident it had led a lot of bots into research over humans. And it just spirals more with them discovering some rather dark history with cybertronians keeping humans as playthings. And finding out their ‘interface equipment’ isn't that different from their own, just more organic and smaller.  

A late night of drinking at swerve slowly devolved into conversation over their local human. Brainstorm sits nursing his drink of engex while he and others of the ship chat away. "So does it fascinate anyone else over the fact that humans don't have natural plating or any kind of protection for their squishy form?" He brings up, he himself had fallen down the rabbit hole of human porn but didn't quite know how to breach the subject with anyone else. 

"Oh Primus, look who decided to join us, thought you were holding up with your Conjunx Chrome!" Swerve said with a chuckle, placing more drinks down. He hopped up onto one of the bar stools and leaned in eagerly, His attention flicks to Brainstorm. "You bring up a good point, Brainstorm," Swerve replied.

 "Those squishy humans are really something else, ain't they? No armour, no defences - I'd be scared outta my circuits if I was just soft protoform all the time!, like i’m so surprised squishy hasn't been stepped on yet" 

Rodimus nodded in agreement. "Yet they've managed to survive just fine so far. There's obviously more to them than meets the eye. Like i've seen some of the things our ambassador can do like the strange stretching"

"I dunno," Skids chimed in. "Seems pretty fraggin' reckless if you ask me. One good shot and it lights out!" 

Rewind shuddered. "Ugh, don't remind me. Just thinking about all those organics and tubes and who knows what else squishing around in there makes my fuel tank turn." He made a dramatic churning sound effect.

Riptide laughed. "I saw a nature documentary once about these hairless ape creatures the humans evolved from. Now THOSE guys were squishy."

“What in Primus have you been watching?!” 

“some old earth docs that Percy’s has, bots got a lot of info on Terra and the planet's history” The bots shared a collective laugh at the image. Swerve took a swig of his energon. "Frag, maybe there's something to be said about living on the edge like that! Sure keeps things interesting, its still strange that they are somehow one of the top predators of their planet yet are smaller than half the things they eat"

Brainstorm goes quiet for a moment. "Have you seen how flexible they are?"

Swerve nearly spit out his energon. "Whoa hey, I don't need those kinds of vivid imagery floatin' around my processor thank you very much!, keep the squishy interface vids to yourself" he said, waving his hands animatedly. 

"You have to admit, the way those fleshbags can contort themselves is pretty impressive," Skids added. "Must come in handy for.. maintenance." He waggled his optical ridges suggestively.

Brainstorm nodded pensively. "Indeed. Their non-metal structure allows for feats we could never replicate by ourselves." He took a sip of his energon. "Always makes me curious what other evolutionary adaptations they've developed to compensate for such vulnerability. The potential for scientific discovery is endlessly fascinating with their species and ancestors."

Riptide shrugged. "As long as they don't expect ME to try any of their bone-breaking yoga moves," he laughed. "This chassis is meant for tough stuff, not Twister!"

"You think they would be soft, you know if you interface with one?" Brainstorm asked while downing his drink, the engex was slowly going to his processor loosening his lips. 

"Oh don't give me that look I know for a fact you all have thought about doing with a human at least once! Rodimus I know for a fact you eye them up everytime our little liaison walks past you" He calls out Rodimus. 

Rodimus nearly choked on his energon in an attempt to look innocent. "Wh-what? That's not - I never -" he sputtered in protest, flustered optics darting around at the other bots.

Brainstorm smirked as Rodimus squirmed uncomfortably on the stool. "Oh please, don't try to deny it, Captain. You're about as subtle as a combiner in a supply closet." 

"Roddy's got the hots for squishy, who knew!" Swerve giggled uncontrollably. 

Skids nudged Riptide playfully. "Hey, maybe we got a xenophiliac on the ship!" 

"Alright alright, knock it off you glitches," Rodimus growled, though the blue flush across his face said otherwise. "I was just... curious, that's all. They ARE a strange species."

Swerve tried to contain his laughter. "Ohhh I bet you are more than curious, if you catch my drift!, wanna get up close and personal" More raucous peals of laughter from the group.

Brainstorm stroked his chin in thought. "They do feel intriguingly delicate. I wonder if their flexible frames would be more pleasurable to interface with than our own rigid forms..."

"Have you seen videos of them, they stretch a lot, like a lot, like I know human skin is resilient but i didn't think they were that resilient " Brainstorm states remembering some of the videos he had seen online. Other bots peak up intrigued. 

Swerve choked again as his fuel tank nearly turned inside out. "Brainstorm! That's... more than I needed to visualise, thank you very much." 

Skids seemed a bit less phased. "Fleshbags gettin' their twist on, huh? Can't say I'm not curious now." 

Even Rodimus seemed intrigued despite his earlier protests. "Resilient is an   understatement. I've seen some of the contortions that humans can do - it's astounding that their protoforms don't tear apart." 

Brainstorm nodded enthusiastically. "Precisely! With the right lubrication and technique, I hypothesise an interface with a limber human form would provide entirely novel sensory data."

Riptide shifted uncomfortably. "Not sure I'm ready to dive into the fleshy deep end just yet.”  

Swerve shot him a sly grin. "Aw c'mon Rip, live a little! Where's your sense of adventure?" 

Rodimus tried to steer the subject elsewhere. "Let's maybe change topics before someone needs a wipe down. Or Primus forbid, Magnus overhears you lot"

"I hope I did not hear what my processor just heard" Ultra Magnus states while staring down at the group of drinking mechs. A Lot of bots in the bar snicker at the group getting in trouble. 

"Come on Sir, get that wrench out of you aft, join us!" Skids called out.

Swerve let out an audible squeak at Ultra Magnus's stern tone, almost dropping his engex in panic. "U-Um, Magnus sir! Fancy seeing you here. We were just, uh, discussing..." 

He shot desperate optics at the others for help, but they all seemed to shrink down in their seats under Magnus's disapproving glare. 

Rodimus flashed an uneasy grin. "Just having a friendly debate about alien species, you know how it is. Brainstorm was bringing up some, er, interesting biological points..." 

Ultra Magnus sighed wearily. "I'd rather not know the details, thank you. Some topics are best left undiscussed in public."

The whole bar erupted into laughter at the group's misfortune. "Ah lay off em Magnus!" one patron called out. "They're just havin' fun!"

Another bot piped up. "Yeah, loosen up that rusty chassis and join us! One drink won't hurt." 

Magnus scowled, unamused. But as the encouragement grew louder, he glanced around hesitantly...

Swerve spotted an opening. "C'mon Magnus, live a little! I'll even give you a two-for-one special." He flashed a hopeful grin.

The enforcer grumbled but his resolve was cracking. Against his better judgement, he pulled up a stool. "One drink." Swerve whooped and poured him a double.

They cheer as Magnus sits down to drink with them. Skids speak up. "So brainstorm you saying you'd hook up with a fleshy, get nice and personal with a human" he calls out with a laugh.

Brainstorm leaned forward eagerly. "Why of course! The pursuit of scientific knowledge knows no boundaries. Though upon further review, direct interfacing with an organic might require certain, ah, safety protocols." 

Skids peered at him suspiciously. "Exactly what kind of 'research' are you plannin' on doing Brainy?"

Swerve nudged Riptide with a smirk. "I'll bet ya 20 shanix Brainstorm's just trying to find an excuse to get jiggy with the humies!"

Riptide snorted. "No way, I ain't takin' THAT bet!" 

Rodimus dropped his face in his palms with a groan. "can we PLEASE stop picturing Brainstorm fragging humans?" 

Ultra Magnus coughed on his engex, catching the comment he'd really rather not have heard. 

But Brainstorm paid them no mind, lost in scientific contemplation. "The human capacity for sensory input and feedback would provide a rich study on cross-species interface protocol adaptability..."

"INTERFACE PROTOCOLS?!" Swerve shrieked. The table erupted into howls of laughter at Magnus's deeply uncomfortable expression. It was going to be a LONG night indeed.

“Primus Brainstorm you kinky fragger” 

"Fine then everyone servo up if your not at least somewhat curious or thought about it at least once" Brainstorm calls out to all of Swerve's bars patrons

"Oooh, Brainstorm's putting us all on the spot!" Swerve giggled with gleeful mischief. He raised his servo without hesitation. 

Skids was quick to follow suit, slamming his half-empty glass down. "Frag it, I'll admit it! Those soft squishy bodies got me wonderin' what else they're good for." 

To everyone's surprise, Rodimus sheepishly lifted a servo as well, avoiding optic contact with Ultra Magnus. Riptide shrugged and joined in the show of servos, if only to blend in. 

The majority of bots in the bar started raising their hands amid roars of laughter and drunken encouragement. Only a select few hesitated, shooting nervous glances at Magnus. 

The enforcement officer's expression cycled through outrage, resignation and back to outrage as his gaze swept over the forest of raised servos. "I cannot condone such deviant interest in alien biologies," he protested, voice stiff. 

But as more servos stayed stubbornly aloft, Magnus sagged with a weary sigh. After a long moment, he slowly, begrudgingly raised one massive hand as well. 

The bar erupted into ear-splitting cheers. Swerve howled with glee, banging his fists on the counter. "Look's like we've all got a bit of xenophile in us after all! Even you, Magnus my mech!" 

Magnus buried his faceplate in his servos as Brainstorm cackled maniacally. Once the bar settles back down its Swerve who speaks up with a smirk on his faceplate. "So... which one of you charming mechs are gonna be the first to try and get our lovely Liaison?" He teases. 

Rodimus sputtered into his drink at Swerve's question, flushing brighter. "W-what? I never said anything about actually doing anything!, it's all just fantasies Swerve!" he protested in a hissed tone. 

Skids rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, well they do have a cute lil' figure. Bet they'd be a wild ride..." 

Swerve grinned slyly at Rodimus. "Aw c'mon Captain, don't tell me you ain't thought about it at least once! I bet they'd be real fun to break in, get all soft and pliable..." 

Rodimus smacked Swerve upside the helm. "Knock it off!" He shot a pleading glance at Ultra Magnus as if begging for rescue.

But unexpectedly, Brainstorm was the one who spoke up. "While the organic's flexibility is intriguing, directly interfacing could introduce unknown health risks or cultural taboos. Outside the fact our people have kept humans as pets and companions in the past. A more ethical approach would be gaining consent for strictly observational research."  

Riptide frowned. "Not sure the liaison would go for that either Storm" 

Swerve sighed dreamily. "Just imagine wrapping those soft squishy bits all around you though... bet they'd feel amazing..."  

"SWERVE." Magnus's warning tone silenced the cheeky bartender immediately. He turned back to Rodimus with a sigh. "Despite certain... Curiosities, directly engaging an organics  such a manner would be unwise, dangerous even, not to mention our form are much larger and could harm a human."

Rewind nodded gratefully at Magnus, relieved the subject was shifting. But the mischievous glint in Swerve's optic suggested his teasing wasn't over yet. It was going to be a long night indeed.

"Relax Mags I'm just riling these drunk mech up. Unless you're interested in our sweet little ambassador" he teases, making other bots choke on their drinks. 

Ultra Magnus's icy glare could have frozen Swerve's energon. "Need I remind you this conversation is highly inappropriate and unprofessional," he said sternly. 

But to everyone's surprise, Rodimus let out an undignified snort of laughter. "As if Magnus would ever break protocol like that! He'd probably recite the entire Autobot code of conduct while fragging."

The whole bar erupted in howls of mirth at the mental image. 

Swerve was nearly rolling on the floor. "Can you imagine?! 'Paragraph 3, subsection B clearly states interfacing with sentient aliens requires prior diplomatic clearance forms in triplicate!'" he cried in a mockingly stiff voice. 

Skids were wiping away fuel tears. "Primus if MR. RULES AND REGS ever broke the rules, it'd be one for the history archives!" 

Riptide jabbed Skids in the side. "Ten shanix says he'd have them memorising regulations the whole time!" 

"Twenty shanix says they'd run screaming first!" Swerve shot back. 

The bets and ribbing escalated as more mechs joined in. Across the table, Rodimus shoved Magnus playfully. "C'mon Magnus, live on the wild side for once!" 

Magnus's rumbling huff was the only response. Watching his rigid commander finally loosening up filled Swerve with delight. Somehow, some way, he'd find a way to get Magnus to break protocol yet! It was shaping up to be the best night ever.

"Ohhh let's make this fun. I list some bots and you say if you think they would hook up with a human" Riptide states. "Rung, Drift and Ratchet" he calls out the names.

Swerve let out a dramatic gasp. "Ooh spicy!"

"Rung is definitely curious but way too professional. Might let loose over a couple cubes of engex though!" 

Skids broke into hysterics at Riptide's suggestions. "Rung and a HUMAN?! Rung doesn't even touch his OWN interface panel!" 

Rodimus snorted. "Can you imagine? 'My dear, it seems you're experiencing some psychological interfacing blockers. Please, tell me how that makes you feel.'" 

"Drift guy's definitely intrigued by other species, if you know what I mean. Plus he's artsy so he'd probably appreciate the 'aesthetic'." Swerve responds

"Drift might go for it, he's open to new experiences," Rodimus mused with a grin. 

Brainstorm nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, his spiritual philosophies suggest an openness to cultural exchange that others may lack. I think if he and ratchet weren't together its something he might try" 

"Ratchet. bah! As if that grumpy old rust-bucket would try anything so illogical. Unless she's a doctor too and starts quoting his favourite protocols... then all bets are off!" Skids laughed. 

"Ratchet? Nah, too much of a hard aft. He'd just bitch about human biohazards the whole time," Swerve giggled. 

"Well if Drift was interested I'm pretty sure that mecn could get ratchet to do anything with the bat of his optics" Rodimus remarks.

The table erupted in raucous laughter. Swerve took a playful bow. "Alright bring on the next victims!" 

Riptide rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, how about...Tailgate, Cyclonus, and Whirl?" 

Swerve cackled wickedly. "Tailgate would be way too nervous but he'd try for his Conjunx Cyclonus. Cyclonus would 100% use his broody vibes to charm her pants off but only for Tailgate. And Whirl? He doesn't interface, he destroys! So that liaison better watch her interfacing ports around that lunatic!" 

Chromedome interjects stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Tailgate would be way too nervous and shy, I think. He'd probably short-circuit just from holding hands!" 

Riptide nodded. "Cyclonus has always struck me as the kinky type. Wonder if he's into those squishy bits like Brainstorm thinks..."

"Whirl would frag anything that moves," Rodimus interjected with a grimace. "But I don't think an organic would survive the experience!"

Brainstorm stroked his chin. "Indeed, Whirl's interfacing protocol subroutines seem rather...enthusiastic. Consent might be a fleeting concept. Better to observe from a safe distance." 

Swerve shuddered. "Ugh, don't make me picture that psycho getting 'friendly' with a human! I'm tryna keep my fuel down y'know." 

The names continue being dropped. 

 " First Aid! I don't know if the medic-bot's got it in him to break the rules. But I betcha if he did, he'd be real gentle and caring-like. He'd have them feelin' better than new in no time!" 

Skids grinned devilishly. "Yeah but would they feel better? Aid's so straight and narrow I bet he'd put em in stasis lock from boredom!" 

"Now Perceptor on the other hand..." Swerve tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Bookish type, but you know there's a passionate scientist in there waiting to experiment. Think he'd go slow and methodical, really take his time 'exploring the specimen'." 

"his thirst for organic sciences might overpower his good sense," Rewind remarks. 

“optimus prime, Prowl and bumblebee ” Chromedome interjects with his own inquiries. 

Swerve pretended to wipe away exhaust fumes. "Primus help me, this is gonna be good... Optimus Prime is obviously Mister Morality himself, but you know he's got a secret wild side under all that virtue signalling. Just imagine how freaky he could get with some alien nookie!" 

The bar erupted in incredulous, drunken laughter and cheers. Swerve grinned impishly. 

"As for Prowl, I'm telling you that stick up his tailpipe is begging to come out and play. One roll in the berth with a naughty fleshy and he'd loosen up reeeal nice!" 

"And Bee? He's a sweet kid, but you know what they say, it's always the quiet ones! Between his cute lil' face and that tight chassis, he'd have the human lining up to frag that glitch right into stasis!" 

The bar absolutely lost it, bots falling over each other in drunken hysterics. Even Mirage was struggling not to fall off his chair. Swerve took an exaggerated bow as his audience howled. 

"Thank you, thank you! I'll be here all cycle! Now who's ready for the next round?" More shouts and clanking glasses answered his call. It was shaping up to be the wildest night at Swerve's yet!

 Magnus dropping Megatron's name that really sent them over the edge.

"Megatron?! With the liaison?!" Rodimus howled with laughter, nearly spitting out his drink. "That's the funniest thing I've heard all cycle!" 

But Swerve wasn't done. "Megatron? Now THAT'S an image! 'You pathetic fleshbag, you DARE try to mount the great Megatron?! Grovel before my interface array!'" 

Magnus adds more information which makes everyone surprised " He and the ambassador are rather close" He states

Rewind speaks up from Chromedome’s side. "Y'know... they do have a certain chemistry. I'll bet under all that scowling and chipped armour there's a softie just waitin' for the right tender touch to melt his spark. And they have got sass to spare  bet they could handle Megatron's brooding and snarl!" 

"Twenty shanix says he'd have them trembling and beggin' for mercy in no time flat!" Skids bet eagerly. 

"You're on!" crowed Riptide. "But I still think Perceptor's the real dark horse..."

[pricegouge]

Thinking about them cumming in readers underwear and having her wear it around

I feel like Price would love the claiming aspect of it but I think Ghost or Gaz would just be annoyed the underwear is in the way of easy access

I feel like Johnny would enjoy huffing and licking them😌

-🫀

Never enough that they're gross, is it? They just gotta make doll a mess, too.

Cw: dubcon. Squirting. Gaz calls it piss so take that as you will. No ageplay here but the panties are cutesy and reader doesn't like it. Cum play/implied eating. Extremely light spit kink. Degradation. Praise, but not for reader. Cuckolding? Free use. Please lmk if I forgot anything this is way too long and way too nasty.

It's rare that Kyle initiates so you should've known he was up to something when he pulled you in close for a kiss. He's so good at it though that you forgot to be suspicious, just reveled in his soft lips and warm hands until he got your bottoms off, slid a finger under the scalloped edging of your panties. "These are cute," he said with a sly grin and you might've rolled your eyes, if you didn't know what it would earn you.

Cute was one word for them, you supposed. Borderline childish would be another. They're not egregious. Pale blue cotton briefs with white clouds dotting them. The trim is minimal, doesn't even scratch at your skin, thankfully, but it's the only thing about them that could possibly be construed as a concession to maturity. Still, you thank him for the compliment instead of telling him how they make you feel completely sexless. You move to take them off for him but his hand catches your wrist, uses his grip to turn you over onto all fours.

"Let's leave 'em on, luv," he hums and you bite back a sigh. At least in this position you don't really have to see them, you think, but he makes it hard to ignore their presence when he starts rubbing his leaky cock into the fabric of your gusset. "Fuck, that's hot," he groans, but doesn't take his time to enjoy it, slotting his cock under the hem so he can rub himself between your cheeks instead. 

It's the noises he makes that get you wet more than anything, the soft huffs when his sensitive head catches on the edging and the tiny, shaky moans he lets loose every time you feel the warmth of his precum bloom across your skin. He can see it, no doubt - the pale fabric clinging to his cock as it begins to soak. He knows instinctively when you start to leak, long fingers wrapping around your hip to rub your pussy through the thin layer. The cotton feels different when it's coated with your juices - almost softer when he works it against your clit. He teases you about it, about how he doesn't even need to touch your pussy properly to get you soaked. You can't really argue with him so you don't, shame licking up your spine when he slots his cock into you unexpectedly - bottoming out in one slow thrust as he keeps working your clit with that rough scrape of fabric and you can't help it, your release soaking you both as it drips down your legs.��

"Shit," Gaz growls, his cock pushed out of your cunt by how hard you try to squeeze him. He slots himself between your cheeks again, free hand laying flat over your ass to give himself something to thrust between. When he cums, he pulls back enough that you can feel it drip onto the rim of your hole, hot and slick where he works his tip against it. It catches once and you squirm away, prompting Kyle to crack you on the ass. It stings, the wet material of your panties doing nothing to help. You yelp, but remain obediently still for him as he winds himself down until he sighs, borderline affectionate.

You roll over when he climbs off you, eager to clean yourself up after the mess he's made but Kyle grabs your hands yet again and tuts at you. "Told you they're cute. Leave 'em on."

He takes some pity when you wrinkle your nose, kneeling before you to soak up most of the mess from your legs and tummy with the soiled blanket. You thank him prettily, hoping if you appease him he'll leave sooner and you can change out of your panties, but Gaz doesn't even seem to listen, pulling a big sharpie out of his pocket instead of acknowledging you. 

"What're you -?"

The felt tip is surprisingly cool when it meets your skin. Gaz's handwriting is neat, making it easy for you to read as he scrawls the word 'cumdump' across your belly. You gape down at him, and the bastard has the audacity to wink as he etches a singular tally mark into your thigh. 

"Gaz!" you shriek, testing your limits, but he just laughs, throwing your pants at you.

"You keep those on. And you keep this," he wags the marker at you, "in your pocket, yeah? Make sure everyone adds to your little collection." 

You're shaking your head before you can even think it through and Gaz pinches the fat on the back of your thigh aggressively. 

"You will, because I'm going to be checking throughout the day to make sure, and if you're not wearing them, or if they're not getting messier, I'm gonna make you lick them clean," he promises. "Dried, tacky cum, piss stains and all."

"That's not fair," you gripe, already pulling your pants on. "I can't control whether or not the others wanna fuck me."

"Well then I guess you better be sweet on 'em, hm?"

***

The panties are absurdly uncomfortable. With your pants on, the thick spend doesn't dry out as easily as you'd hoped it would and worse, the possibility that anyone could potentially smell your wet cunt makes your face heat - makes you drip like a faucet, honestly, but in the end, it's not the smell that does you in. 

You hadn't considered the jeans Gaz had thrown at you for longer than it took to ascertain you (blessedly) wouldn't be wearing a skirt today. When you'd pulled them on, you'd felt nothing but relief for how well-covered you were, not wanting to wander the warehouse in something they could easily push aside because they often did, and if you weren't allowed to clean yourself up after, it would've been a complete nightmare. But in your short-lived elation, you'd failed to notice how pale the wash of the jeans was, how easily wet marks would show.

Simon notices before you do, stalking silently behind you as you move about the small kitchen making sandwiches. No warning, he grabs you by the seat of your pants, big hand worming its way between your thighs to rub thick fingers along the seam of your crotch. His voice is a low pur when he rumbles in your ear, "Need help with that, pet?"

It should shock you - would've even just a few months ago. You've grown used to them now, no longer surprised when they accost you like this. It's one of the few reasons you're allowed to handle butter knives now - because you don't spin around, brandishing it at him wildly.

"No thanks, almost done here," you tell him, calmly assembling the last sandwich. John's, to be eaten later when he was off the phone. 

Simon just chuckles, a little mean. "Not what I meant."

This time, when he pushes his fingers against your seam, you can feel how wet it is against your own skin. You squawk, your first instinct to apologize for some reason. Simon shushes your stuttering with a kiss, his tongue hot and wet even through the material of his mask. 

Simon doesn't usually like a show. Normally, he'll sequester you in a back room, or seek you out in your own when the others have all gone to bed. He changes his tune when his hands get a little too busy, tug your hem up just enough that he catches a glimpse of the ink that stains your skin. He frowns, backing up enough he can read Gaz's mark properly while you sit there and squirm. 

You don't make it to a back room.

"Fuckin' slag," Simon hisses, shoving your jeans down your hips. His fingers find the band of your briefs, pull as if he intends to tear them.

"Wait!" you plead, fingers wrapping around his wrist as if you have any chance of stopping him. It does give him pause, though, more curious as to what could possibly be so important it made you forget your place. "Gaz said I had to leave those on."

The band snaps against your skin when Simon releases it, but he cocks his head at you, undecided. "And why the fuck do I care what Gaz wants?"

"Please, he said he'd make me lick them clean if I took them off."

Expression still thoughtful, Simon pulls at the band again until he can inspect the gusset, eyes glinting when he looks back up at you. "Not seeing a downside for me."

Shit. "I'll let you add to my tally." 'Let' is a strong word and you both know it, though Simon likely doesn't know Gaz expected you to have it added anyway.

"Not much of a cumdump," Simon points out, thumb brushing the single mark on your thigh. 

You bat your eyes at him, overselling but desperate to appeal to his good side. You really don't want to clean these off. "Help me out then?" 

He fucks your thighs. Stood up in the kitchen and squeezing him as best you can, you end up having to hold onto his burly biceps for dear life as he rocks you against his heavy cock, spilling into your panties without so much as a pinch to your clit. 

***

You're back in your room when Gaz finds you. He pulls your pants off and inspects your underwear much like Simon had, grinning up at you when he says he's just checking. He spits in them before he lets you pull them back into place.

***

"Johnny, don't, Gaz said to keep them on." The worst thing about Soap was how little he listened. The best thing was that you were generally allowed to slap his hands away from you, so long as John or Simon didn't see. Johnny himself never seemed to mind too much, always bouncing back. Overeager.

"But she's so wet, bonnie. Can smell her. Need a taste."

You were, was the worst of it. Leaking like a sieve ever since Simon had left you wanting. It was why you'd retired to your gross little room, too embarrassed to be seen with such an obvious, growing wet spot on your crotch. Suddenly, it's hard to remember why letting Johnny lick you clean is a bad idea. "Well, maybe if you slide them to the side?"

You barely have time to register his movements, he's on you so fast. 

The first pass of his tongue is so slick you almost don't feel it beyond the intense heat. Johnny moans, smacks his lips like a child enjoying a cookie, and then dives back in so enthusiastically you can't help but grip his hair, holding him in place as he immediately starts in on the messiest technique he can manage, pulling your slick from you with a cupped tongue just so he can rub his raw stubble against your sticky skin. He moans when you do, breath humid and hot against your skin. You hold your panties off to the side for him, the wetness there dragging against the crease of your hip. It's all so messy, but you can't help rocking your hips up to meet Johnny's tongue, groaning in frustration when he pulls away and -

"Nobody ever teach you how a cumdump works, boy?"

John. He's holding Soap up by the back of his shirt, as if the massive man was nothing more than a spitting kitten, his eyes heavy on the mess between your legs. 

"Sir -."

"Supposed to add to it, Soap, not clean it up." A heavy palm guides Johnny to the floor, patting him affectionately when he settles on his knees, eyes darting nervously between you and the captain. "All that spit, just watering down Gaz's collection."

"Wasnae -."

"Quiet. You watch now, yeah? Show you how to treat a fucking whore."

You know better than to gripe about his words, so you don't. And you know better than to fight him when he snaps your panties back into place, so you let him. Johnny, however, doesn't know better than to whine when John's fingers find your clit, start rubbing the soaked fabric against your neglected nub much like Gaz had earlier. You bite your tongue, but Johnny doesn't - a sharp huff drawing John's attention away for just a moment.

"Don't wanna hear it, Soap."

"Sir, can ah -?"

"No."

This time Johnny's whine coincides with John's thumb dropping lower, dipping the fabric of your panties into your pussy experimentally. Your breath stutters, loud enough that John's eyes snap to your face. Cold, hard. Unsympathetic. He speaks to Johnny but he never looks away from you.

"Behave and I'll let you lick them clean after."

You perk up, the possibility of your punishment being taken from you by the captain - who Gaz could not reproach - making you just as eager to please as Soap himself was. Though you were a little better about hiding it than the man who thanked John repeatedly from his place on the floor.

"Thank ye, cap. Thank ye -."

"That's enough."

"Aye, sir."

Finally, John's focus returns to his actions, watching almost reverently as you soak the material even more. Quietly, as if he doesn't want Soap to hear, he rumbles at you about getting them good and wet and you nod, eager to let Johnny take your punishment.

And then he slaps your mound lightly, breaking the nearly intimate spell between you. "But we have to show the boy how to treat a slut like you, don't we? Which means you're gonna cum on my cock, or not at all."

You groan in frustration, laying back limply as John clutches the gusset of your panties and pulls them aside (hypocrite). He doesn't bother working you open, knows exactly what state you've been left in by the slick that squelches between his fingers where he fists your briefs. Still, John's big, and the stretch leaves you breathless enough you feel punched out, hollow when he gives you no time to adjust before drawing out again, slamming back into you even more brutally.

True to his word, John does not work to bring you pleasure. The way he fucks you is efficient at best, downright punishing at worst. Regardless, worked up as you are, you find your release when his knuckles graze your clit accidentally, and John laughs at you cruelly as you fall apart beneath him. 

"Knew you were a fucking slag," he grunts, pulling out and fisting his cock until he paints your pussy, rocking against it a few times just to make you both twitch in overstimulation. 

It takes you both a moment to realize the slick sounds don't stop when he does, and a quick glance at Johnny tells you why when you find him fucking his own fist, face twisted in pleasure as he eyes your soaked pussy.

"You waste that on the floor and I'll make you lick that up too," John growls, and suddenly you're being manhandled to the ground, spread open in front of Soap while John holds your legs open.

The chords of Soap's neck jump when he cums, pumping himself directly onto the front of your panties. 

"Good boy, Soap. Just like that," John rumbles. Your gut twists, unexpectedly jealous. "See how much better it is when you don't worry about her pleasure?"

"Aye, sir," Johnny pants, looking dazed enough to agree with anything. 

"That's right, cause she's just our little cumdump, isn't she?" He makes you jump when he slaps you pussy for emphasis before hooking his fingers under the band of your panties, sliding them down.

"Ready for your reward?"

[the-monkeies-girl]

Chimp Mosh Pit. ( Noa x Human! Reader. ) Part 10.

*Bad Ape voice* ohhhhh noooooo.

Title: Chimp Mosh Pit. Fandom: ( Kingdom of the ) Planet of the Apes. Rating: T. ( Violence, weapons used, Ape Aggression, mentions of blood, intense moments of being on deaths door step. Good luck. ) Pairing: Noa x Human!Reader. Words: 7.1K+ Summary: Remember when you said Death brought new beginnings? READ THE SERIES HERE.

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There was one thing that was clearer than the river Noa and you enjoyed time and time again as a peaceful offering between Echo and Ape. Something that ran through the land like splitting opinions, slicing its torrent edges against an already weak sediment, taking advantage of the submission of dirt and claiming it as their own with a flush of moisture; a fighter in its own way that was never known to either of you as you thought it to be tame, soothing and gentle like the Clan itself. The Eagle Clan were not combative. Surely, there was the juxtaposition that they inherently were from being Apes, more powerful in countless other aspects than just strength to their Echo counterparts. 

But Noa knew --- at least he tried to convince his racing mind, the tenderizing of his flesh from another fist ghosting over his rib cage for a moment as if the male Ape were lost in the time that floated between then and now, scattering memories of your gazes, your hands near his own, the red seeping from his nose, the snarling of teeth flushed with his gargling saliva and iron-tasting blood…  Noa needed to remember how it felt to be pulverized in order to learn, in order to garner attention from you, sending a spiral of fear to radiate down his entire spine, down to his legs where he told himself he needed to keep standing and to not run away. 

What… If he never did? What if he never got you to look at him with those eyes that said more than anything that was ever said before? 

Your scent was still powerful, rising and falling into his nose like you were basking in front of him on a hot day, your chest wildly adorned with sweat as he watched a few droplets fall beneath the bridge of your breast, obscured by fabric as you flashed him a smile that was undetectable, your eyes knowing that he had been watching the delectation of moisture build up against your skin, feeling so envious that it got to caress you in the ways that he wanted to, how Noa yearned to leave a trail of his own spit morbidly against any crevice you would let him sink into.

The Clan seemed such a tack-note to him, shame rising at the idea that he’d let them burn it down now if it meant he could run towards you, to find where Soona had taken you, just to bargain against your unconscious, emotionless face… Wake up for me, please… I let you go once, I will never do it again… 

All you need to do…

Was.

Wake.

Up.

For me.

From his travels with Raka and the other Echo he had experienced, having to defending himself against the likes of a Bonobo who had many more years of experience, having to stand up for his Clan who considered him not worthy of the title Master of the Birds, it was clear in the way they looked at him compared to his Father, Noa needed to remember. How often he wondered if he’d ever set a standard like that with his own hands, with his own mind but it seemed impenetrable until he came out victorious once and he was suddenly engorged with power he didn't know how to yield, and having fought a Tyrant King only to burden a crown twice as heavy.

But, he thought back to it and looked at Anaya next to him, sharing an all knowing glance of self-preservation, knowing they were both on the same wavelength, a sure fire way to know that they were born within a blazing sunset, they shared their feelings without having to verbalize, they emoted their consciousness by sharing a stare, nothing more, green digging into more green that in itself, held the answer to everything, held the fire that was needed to come out victorious. In unison, they both looked back towards the threat. 

This was a fight intended for two Apes and a group of six Echo, their weapons unknown but surely tucked away, disguised and waiting, bloodthirsty for the moment where they got to taste flesh and bone. Anything - Noa’s eyes flickered against the horse, anything there, tied to the rear of the animal in the bags it carried heavily against it side sadistically, the dangling of a dagger against the female Echo in the forefront for his vision, it was placed on her chest, wrapped around her neck like a piece of ceremonious jewelry, flashing Noa to think of the necklaces his Father wore, so mild in their design, but so powerful and spoke words that did not need to be spoke. His stomach turned.

Anything could be used against them, Noa knew but was his mind able to comprehend such details in the midst of a fight? Would his instincts finally rest themselves against his diaphragm so he could fight to defend what was his?

Noa felt a subversive and uncomfortable notion resting inside of him, something that consecutively played against his greatest weakness and years of self-deprecating comparisons to his Father - He felt confident. Something that made the bile rise in the back of his throat, and no amount of swallowing was going to get it to go away so he opted to growl towards the male in a display of power, in a way that told him that he was going to adversely rip the very emotions off his face and hold them in his hand as a victory, blood spearing against Noa and marking him a capable Leader of the finest order, a monster in all regards, tongue sweeping over sharpened canines as he’d beam at the crunch the Echo body would make upon impact on the ground. 

Such gruesome thoughts flashing before him that he couldn’t get out of the forefront of his vision--- Your eyes swollen shut, mouth ajar with bloodied saliva falling from it, the fragile bob of your head, Noa wanting nothing more than to take it into his hands, flashing him back in time to the moments when you complained about your neck being sore after sleeping weird --

Such thoughts tangling with the aggression in his beating skull were all he needed. He knew Anaya could do this, there was no lack of confidence in his friend being more agile and a bit of a showoff at times and he was aware that it was a brilliant tactic to use in a fight against already intelligent Echo’s who probably had their own aberrant plan of what they were going do. 

Noa was an intellectual fighter, using things available to him instead of brute strength, something that rested uneasily in the taut muscles of his body, not fully used to the potential he wanted but that was more due to strength never needing to be used extensively in hand-to-hand combat.

He had--- His leafy gaze caught eyes with the female and he felt his mouth drop at the pure malice that dripped from her darkened irises as she stared right back at him, like a black queen on her throne she pierced down at him from the saddle of her horse. Noa had played his nature as an Ape once before, something that should make him a good fighter along the tree of life, and it cost his Fathers life and half the village, the countless that were lost then and then more that were lost in the aquatics when Mae blew up the dam holding back water.

Chimps… Could not swim, his hands grazing against bodies in the water as he tried to fight for the rest of them, knowing he had caused deaths in himself and in others. He’d lost Raka to the same force of nature, he had lost many of his Clan, and he was bargaining now inside of his mind how many could be lost by another element as he caught wind of the smoke blowing from the torches the Echo’s held, getting a mouth full of a disgusting tweed from the hut that had already been set on fire. 

Once again, he thought to himself and drew a hard breath in through his nose, the Eagle Clan were peaceful Apes - They never had a reason to fight other Apes, let alone an Echo pack. He was smart - that was the only confidence that was seeping from his pores, the rest of the notions were all superficial and ungrazed, unused and made Noa want to hunch in on himself near his Fathers grave and apologize once more for not being able to stop the infliction of destruction.

Dilated green eyes, eclipsed like the moon that beckoned in on a scheduled basis in the sky, sank into the male and tracing any lines of intellect that he was able to detect. There was nothing for him to analyze there, his mind racing at the prospect that were were some Echo’s whose eyes were unreadable - Unlike.. Noa’s hand balled into a fist before relaxing again at his side, waiting to sign to Anaya that it was time. 

Unlike your eyes. 

Noa’s hackles rose upon his shoulders at the scope of them captivating his own in a wild dance that he didn't know the steps to, breathing more rapid fire than before as he prepared his body, the muscles rippling from the aspect that he was more than likely going to get hit, leaving an undertone of uncomfort to lift in his mind along with the fur of his body. Noa’s fingers flexed at his side. 

‘Go.’

Anaya was the first to lunge forward, all four appendages ripping at the ground below and tearing Earth a few inches into the air before it collapsed back down, sad against its comrades as it had been destroyed. Tearing through the resistance of the air without a reserve, teeth bared and a large growl. Noa - Stagnant for a moment watched, entranced, envious that Anaya was… Not scared. 

So many times he was even scared at a ladybug that once crawled onto his forehead and fluttered its tiny wings against his leathery skin. Absolutely carnage, he managed to take down the female Echo’s horse with such ease kicking the legs out from under its weight with a skid against the dirt, Anaya’s fur delicately traced with sediment now on one side from the audacity of the action itself. The animal itself pained and Noa felt a shred of empathy for them as they hit the ground, straggling along with the Echo that went down with it. Without reserve, the provisions on the back of her horse, strapped so tightly, were scattered, a testament to just how hard his friend had hit. 

The animalistic abomination Anaya had in her hair has his long fingers tangled in, giving way into leverage as he began dragging her through the dirt, her hands reaching up to struggle against it as her feet splayed outwards in some desperate way to get him to stop, skirting the heels of her worn boots into the dirt that was imprinting her scraped body, bloody screams taking hold into the air as Noa sensed Soona’s return as she began the proper evacuations of the Eagle Clan with assistance from his Mother as the flames of the one hut tore itself against the flush field around the Colony and had its set gaze on the large embankment of huts that surrounded the Eagle Enclosure and the towering nests of the families.

Noa tired to focus on the situation at hand, knowing that the two female Apes would do what they could to get everyone out in time with the help of the Elders. He couldn’t find it in himself to worry about that in the middle of a fight. Noa turned his focus to Anaya once more and felt salivation hit his tongue at the primal intent that the Ape was displaying. It was like there was utmost satisfaction paid towards Anaya’s curiosity to the extreme of what it felt like to hold such power. Hard to bring down other Apes, easy to take down Echo’s and all their fragility. 

Noa snapped out of his self-doubt at that moment when he touched base on… That’s how it must have been for you, struggling to fight against a beast whose strength was going to tear you apart, the twigs that ended up in your hair, smearing blood and dirt into the finer details of your face and hair, your screams… Wondering when it was going to end, when the blunted weapon that knocked you unconscious would take your last breath.

Noa… Hated himself that you ended up like that, gargling on your own blood, your eyes unable to see what was happening to you as you scraped your hands in front of you in a last ditch effort to save yourself from being killed. 

He’d kill them just for looking at you, that thought radiating and taking hold of all of his senses, the tips of his fingers tickling himself in excitement, his breathing hard and fast through his nose as Noa yearned to do nothing more than to bare his teeth. The Ape would wait for that - Until this man was under his foot, pressing him down into the depths of the Earth itself, to burn under Noa’s weight as he crushed his rib cage first, hoping the bones would fall inwards and puncture his lungs. Only then… Would he smile at them. Give them the satisfaction of knowing that they had played a game against an Ape who wanted an eye for life. Not an eye for an eye, otherwise Noa would just beat them to a bloody pulp and let them leave.

 He was going to kill the Echo just to seek some revenge, knowing that the guilt of letting you leave in the first place was more of the reason he was fighting. For every cry you gave, he imagined some towards Noa himself, some towards the heavens as you begged for it to end, to be over so you could fall asleep and never recollect the terror you had been through. No one, Noa growled, his chest broadening in strict possession and acute aggravation. No one would lay a hand on you again, no one would make you cry out of anything other than exhalation or pleasure, those only reserved for Noa. He twisted his neck, the muscles primed for him and he peered at the prospect in front of him.

The large Chimp, primed to look bigger than usual by the swagger of his shoulders in conjecture with the muscles of his biceps, took a step forward, toes digging hard into the ground as he began to drive himself forward with intense and scrutinizing leverage, staring straight at the male in front of him, knowing now that he was not going to take the same route as Anaya by taking down the fragile horse first. Noa was going to go straight for the source of the problem itself.

Yes, this female Echo, thrown against the side of another hut out of the corner of Noa’s vision as Anaya brought his fist down directly onto her sternum, had to have been what happened, he was sure of it, falling onto all fours, the Echo male touching the holster on the right side of his body in anticipation. He may think he was fast, but was he faster than Noa? The question tickled the back of his mind and he wanted nothing more than to get that answer to soothe that intent of knowledge. 

The lunge he took forward was disgusting in all descriptions of the word, Noa felt like his teeth were going to shatter themselves into tiny shards inside of his mouth and he’d be forced to swallow them all in a nice grit. The shout - It was something that Noa himself found terrifying, not recognizable to his own ears as it tore through the entire Clan, captivating a few other Apes in their escape, including Anaya who looked over at him for just a split second, blood now falling from his mouth as he had torn into the female Echo he was working on, directly into her throat and tore it clean out of her body, the muscles being spit out and discarded wildly to now be coated with dirt as it rolled onto the ground.

Licking at it, he looked down at her with vicious intent, praised at himself and sought his next target, the other female, who having seen what happened to her fellow Echo, only peered in fear as Anaya drew closer, the color leaving her body as she went to grab a blunted iron staff from the hold it had against her back.

Noa’s body slammed against the male Echo without reserve, taking him down to the ground below and kissed the palm of his hand in a smear as Noa’s hand forced him down eat dirt, trying to control the struggle the horse found as they were knocked off balance, legs flailing and Noa wanted to break them all in a way to get the unabashed movement to stop under him. He relented that control, feeling the sick twist of Echo skin under his calloused touch as the male he had his fingernails dug into grunted, but did not fight back.

Noa shouted at them, right into their ear in a bid to get them to do something against him. Where was the satisfaction in killing an Echo when they did not fight back? Flurried eye contact was made with the other male a few meters away, Noa crushing the skull of one and peering right in front of him at the other, canines showing themselves only once now in a warning to him. He’d kill him if he came any closer.

He’d rip that beating jugular right out in the name of the Eagle Clan itself. No one hurt him, no one hurt his Echo, no one hurt his Clan, his people and sanctuary. Coming down harder, his entire weight pressed down on the male he had under him and Noa skirted him enough away from the horse, the male's feet mimicking the actions of the horse almost down to the tee to completely render the flailing useless as they managed to get onto their feet and run off. 

Thunder hit the male Apes ears, Anaya frenzied from his tussle with the female looking up at the sound he had only heard once before in his life. Noa’s eyes glancing up at the completely clear sky, save from the dancing twinkles of the stars as they joined the moon on their nightly ventures. No clouds… Noa grunted, collapsing first onto his knees as he tried to salvage his balance but found himself unable as if gravity itself were failing the very concepts that held items to Mother Earth. He fell forward, hard as a bellow of dirt encapsulated him, drifting downwards onto his fur. With his face pressing into the ground, Noa ripped a growl straight from the depths of his throat, mimicking that same noise he had heard only moments ago in a display of fevered intensity, swallowed whole by agony pilling itself in the forefront of his mind. 

His eyes almost admired the way that his blood, slick in nature by the saliva that was coating the redness itself, dribbled off his chin and onto the ground below, creating a mixture of concrete from the only hit that Echo managed to get onto his face on the way down from the toppling horse, not even noticeable in the moment to the Ape as adrenaline tore away at his pain receptors. Where Noa landed was hard and cold as the night that encased the trees of the landscape and instinctually, he was quick to get himself up before but faltered and collapsed again. Dirt ran into his mouth and stuck grossly to his tongue, trying to swallow it down was pained in itself. 

There was something lodged in his shoulder blade, near the tendon itself that felt like it was ricocheting to the left and right at a quickened pace, breathing with the air that he was taking into his lungs and Noa convinced himself to slow that down before the very muscles of his shoulder came into the open air as it felt that they were going to snap themselves apart and counteract upwards. Specifically the right shoulder as inflicted, rendering it mildly useless in the scape of things. What was an Ape without their most valuable weapons, fists? 

Noa hadn’t seen what hit him, and when he looked towards the spot on his shoulder inflicted with panic setting into his chest, causing his breathing to pick up as he shouted out, there was nothing there other than the seeping of his blood, mixing into the already darkened nature of his fur, trickling down through the finer parts closer to his skin, down his bicep and soon to encase his outer forearm. His arm shattered as he attempted to put in weight on it, yelping in defenselessness as he crashed onto the ground once again.

The Echo… in front of him. Noa bared his teeth against the ground. He had a weapon. Something Echo. Something… His green eyes forced themselves to drag upwards, only catching the gleam of something metallic and black in the Echo’s hand before it was put back into the side pouch against his skinny hip. 

There was no way that he’d miss an arrow or even a spear. Too big, the momentum would have been torn to shreds by the vision that was granted to him in the sake of defense. Noa cried out, yelling at himself to get up as more of his blood seeped onto the ground below his usually broad body, torn into itself in this moment as a thrust of agony ran through his entire right side, all the way down to the elongated nature of his spaced out toes.

The disgusting smell of his own blood hit his senses, cascading around the back of his mind in a relentless call to pick himself up and to continue fighting. He--- Noa cried, pressing his forehead into the dirt and giving himself a ceremonious kiss to the Earth in a bid for her to help him stand. He couldn’t…

Teeth gritted together, the sound dulling out the screams of the Eagle Clan as another flame tore through their trenches. He closed his eyes for only a moment before reopening them to find Anaya. Anaya… Noa wanted to whimper and get himself up enough to crawl over to his friend, unconscious having taken a blunt hit to the side of his head from the female as she was now rising to her feet, wiping her mouth of blood and looked at Noa directly, admiring the wound on his shoulder that glimmered wetness.

Noa wanted to grasp him, to pull him closer and to tell him that he was sorry, that this was all of his fault… The demise of their clan, years of generations, years of culture and traditions, were now soaring free in the sky as their Eagles took off from the Enclosure in search of sanctuary elsewhere. Some followed their owners, others cried in desperation as their owners were unable to be detected in the absolute frenzy. Green irises finally rested against fire as it brought its flames upon the perch of the Eagle Enclosure. The wood, sap and rudimentary but sophisticated building was engulfed without remorse, a strangled cry raked his entire body. No… No… Noa tried to move forward, slumping his body in an unnatural contort as his feet pushed his upper half against the dirt, now mixing with the soot and ash of devastation. Not again. NOT AGAIN! His forehead pressed against the ground as he began shaking, his muscles falling in on themselves and without warning, Noa’s back was crushed downwards, stopping all his movements by the male he had begun this fight with. 

All breath left Noa’s chest as he felt the back of his ribcage explode with misery as it was pressed beyond its abilities. There was a sharp snap as he took another breath in, the entire weight of the Echo being placed, a boot imprint leaving itself on the back of his fur as the male finally relented and sought to crouch down next to Noa. 

“Can’t even fight like a damn Ape,” He spat, reaching around Noa’s forearm, upwards to his bicep and tore the band that laid there right off, hopeful that maybe there’d be some fur that was with it as a trophy. Another one destroyed, another step in the right direction. Noa wheezed, unable to breath but managed himself to look towards the man who began playfully sipping Noa’s arm band on his pointer finger while the other raised up and wiped under his nose, taking in the adornment of red against his flesh.

“You got a few good hits, gotta give it to you.” Rations of liquid seeped into Noa’s lung the moment he was kicked onto his side, the pressure of the movement rounding his entire being into a state of pure shock. “Watch your little town, Ape. Watch it burn to the ground and know that we’re gonna take back this godforsaken planet by any means necessary. And your little pet? She’s still alive somewhere in the woods. I think I’ll find ‘er.” Noa’s eyes widened as tears began physically falling from his eyes. Rare for a Chimp, but not impossible. You--- No…

He grunted to say something but nothing but a gurgle took hold in his throat as he spat out a bit of blood. 

“Make sure she knows I destroyed everything she fought to hide from me, her poor little cries. Wouldn’t tell me where you were, she’s quite a fighter.” A smirk. 

Eyes twitched in a desperate plea to fight more but Noa was unable to tangle himself into any sort of stance other than the sweeping of his gaze against the village, Soona looking at him from across the field, before tearing her sight on Anaya who was still unconscious. She was panicked, it was evident and she didn't know which to go after. Anaya, or Noa.

Growling, she handed a baby Bonobo to Dar as they were still evacuating into the woods and chose Anaya. Drag him away, get him to safety and return to help Noa. Her feet were fastened, she needed to be quicker than the breeze that ran through the desolate Eagles in the sky before Noa was killed. Noa understood - He’d have done the same thing, he thought pensively and let his eyes shut. 

“I really tortured her to get her to just tell us where your lil’ monkey clan was, should have heard her scream.” Swiping his teeth with his tongue, he held his hand out as the other male came forward and handed him that same metallic and black weapon. Noa’s eyes widened in recognition. He had no name for it now, he couldn’t recall in the moment if Mae ever told him what it was, if he was ever told what it was by anyone in the village. The stocky and short shaft of the item pressed against Noa’s head, cold.

He’d seen what it did to one of Proximus’ followers. Whatever projectile this flung out was stuck in his shoulder. Whatever was inside was going to throw Noa into the darkness where he was going to remain.

“Such a waste of screams, honestly. If she had just told us where you were, she’d probably be more alive than she is now, my friends here really did a number on her when she tried to get onto her horse to warn you.”

Squeezing his eyes shut now, Noa heard Eagle Sun's distinctive cry coming from above. He was ready. You were out there, teetering on the line and would succumb, Echo’s were a lot more fragile and the hits he knew, without proper care immediately, were going to cause extensive damage and you’d give up despite being stubborn beyond belief. With his actions, the whole of the Eagle Clan would be lost. With his last breath, just a whisper to the Eagles above and to the Apes in the surrounding forest. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you. 

Noa reached out a hand and let his eyelids flutter open for a moment and he felt your grazing fingertips against his palm. He reacted as such, bringing his fingers in slowly to hold onto you. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you. 

Thunder. Multiple splits like the sky were opening up for his departure from the Earth.

Noa drew a deep breath in and expected to open them to nothing but a wilderness of white as he was torn away from his conscious body into oblivion. Something, something… Slowly, eyes opened to peek at what was beyond death. Was he going to see his Father? Koro? 

He sobbed lightly at that, flooding his vision with tears. He wanted to… He wanted to apologize to him for all of this, for being so weak and for… Not being the Son that the Master of Birds deserved. Noa wanted the embrace of his Father’s hands against his face as they were brought together to kiss foreheads and he wanted him to know that he fought with all he had, how was he meant to be predestined to win against the ardent use of unfair warfare used by Echo’s who saw them as nothing but threats?

Noa sobbed again, this time harder when there was weight suddenly thrusted on top of him, harder than he needed and crushed his ribs even further into his body. 

Noa swore to the heavens now that… He’d heard your voice. Soothing and calling for him. You were there! In the deep midnight and you were telling him to come join. That you’d forgive him if he just opened his eyes and looked at you. The weight was taken off of him, the last adornment before the sweet kiss of death, an Eagle perched atop him, came in with intent to take him under their wing. Yes… He wanted nothing more than your hands against him, his back falling flat onto the ground as he peered into the night sky, the stars drawing him in through the rush of moisture in his eyes that obscured the finer details. Take me. My Echo… My… Beautiful screaming Echo.

“Noa, you ne-need to look at me.” Ah, your voice again and he found himself tilting his head into the caress that your hands suddenly had on his head, blood drawing his line of vision for a moment as you smeared it against his cheeks, a bid to get him to keep his head straight instead of lulling to the side in defeat. 

 “NOA!” Digging your knees into the ground, you tried to ignore the sensation of absolute ripping coming from your calves that you had managed to tie into a tourniquet to get the bleeding to subside with the dull leather of the belt you had. Grime was dug deeply into your fingernails, a silent prayer to the landscape that you just transferred your body against, at least fifty meters of terrain, hard and unforgiving under your weight. A want to defend what was yours to the bitter end. If you fell on the way there as death knocked on you, then fine, so be it, as long as you made an effort to try.

You had woken up alone after hearing the vaguest of ‘sorry’ from Soona as your head was delicately placed against the ground. Not that you could blame her once realization and horror dawned on you at the sight of a dim fire consuming the woods near you, you’d have done the same thing. Gone to protect your own people instead of a lifeless Echo who meant nothing. 

Your hands had torn the male you had shot away from Noa, watching as the bodies of the other Humans lay bare in rapid succession as you impressed yourself with your remarkable aim with swollen eyes, only able to get yourself planted on the ground long enough to actually pull the trigger of the gun that was thrown against the ground as soon as the bullets were spent.

Had they been paying attention, you beamed at yourself for just a moment as you collapsed back down and made your way towards Noa, using your forearms to scoot yourself as your legs were ultimately rendered useless now after trying to stand on such a sustained injury, you had taken one of their primal weapons and tucked it into the waistband of your pants when they had attacked you before.

Stupid Echo, you joked and let a chortled cry radiate through you as you tried to garner Noa’s eyes into your own, your hands caressing the sides of his face, sweeping over the indentation of the bullet into his shoulder.  It was like he was in your own head saying it now as you cried, your tears falling onto his face into a mixture of salt and iron. 

Stupid Echo always leave most vulnerable spots open. 

How you hated that he was right… Fingertips trailed against the fine wrinkles around his nose that were less prominent than they usually were as he was not holding himself conscious. “Noa, you need to wake up, I can-can’t carry you on my own, I don-don’t know where Soona went or where Anaya is, I can---” You tapered as a cry hit your throat at the idea that you were too late and that he was going to be unable to come to, unable to help you. 

Glancing down at your mangled calves, you came to terms that you were going to need to use the torn apart muscles there to get him dragged away from the fires that were rapidly consuming around you. Please, please… You told your legs, please just give me enough to do this and you can take me to death's door step after… Please… 

“I need to save him…” You verbalized, words thrown in on themselves with agnostic punches of air as you were unable to find it in yourself to calm the rapid rise and fall of your shoulders. 

Noa reached up, grasping your forearm for only a second before it dropped onto his chest. You scrambled, gasping as he finally coughed under you, his eyes trying to bring themselves into focus, you dug your hands into the fur lining his face and brought your forehead in towards his own, kissing only for a second in a flurry. He was alive, you brought your eyes to squeeze shut and force the tears away as they were now mixing disgustingly with the mud on your face. “Noa, you need to get up.” That was said against his lips, your face so near in proximity that you appeared cross-eyed. “Echo.” “I know, they---” You brought your face down and pressed it into his chest above where his arm now rested, only pulling back once he winced at the sensation of you being so close to him. I-- Couldn… Couldn’t… Stop them… They…”

Noa’s eyes finally fluttered fully open as he coughed aggressively, blood slipping out of the corner of his mouth that you wiped away without hesitation to cup the side of his face once you pulled yourself from his chest, tucking an arm under his neck to keep him leveraged so he wouldn’t drown on himself. “This… all my fault, the Clan… Yo.. You’re so hurt… I tried they…” 

“(Name).” The sound of your name from him rocketed your senses back to reality instead of pitiful groveling like you had been. His eyes were no longer open.

“Yes, it’s me…” You whispered, your fingers drawing themselves against the wrinkles of his face once again as you braced him against you, slickness smearing itself onto your clothing without reserve and in some sick twisted way, with his blood now seeping into your skin, this was the closest you had ever been to him. You always wanted to touch them, touch his face, but not like this.

Early morning after he took you for the first time would have been the preference, your hands lightly tracing what you had wanted to seek for so long… Something in you hoped that your touch alone was going to revive him but you knew that to be wishful thinking but it persisted when you dragged your fingers down towards his mouth and traced the lines of his lips. Say my name for me, say anything for me…

You tried to hold his head just a bit more, “Noa you need to get up, we need to get out of here before the fire comes. I--- I won’t leave you here again, but you need to help me.” A promise was made in that moment as he willed himself to try, his shoulders moving rather loosely as you tangled yourself into him, prepared to take the full force of his weight against your shins. 

“Soona---” “I th-think she’s-helping the Clan---” Noa let out a thunderous roar this time, regretting it immediately once it left his body as he slumped back once again and you were forced to catch him before he racketed onto the ground again. “SOONA!”

It felt like moments later, she was there; Soona’s eyes frantic as she looked at you, amazement clearly there that you were not dead where she had left you. Only a moment of an apologetic glance as you whispered to her, “I-I can’t lift him on my own, he’s--- I need to get him away from here to get the bullet out of his shoulder otherwise he’s going to die.” 

You were remarked on your ability to speak so clearly, chalking it up to the fact that you were face to face with death anyway and the adrenaline was causing the muscles of your jugular to pound crazily, your heart running itself away from the idea that he could die from the wounds inflicted on him. “Please.” You needn’t bother with formalities, Soona wanted to tell you as she dropped herself next to you, fixating on your legs and their physical state. “I know you can’t carry both of us. Get him out of here, don’t worry about me anymore. I-I’ll get myself out of here, I’m quite a crawler.”  It was a joke meant to lighten the mood as you felt the heat of flames against your back, “Crawled all the way over here by myself.” To say goodbye.

Letting your hand rest on Noa’s head, you petted the fur backwards and admired the scar that Eagle Sun had left him. The Ape accepted the affection unabashedly and tilted into it, your eyes staring down at him for only a moment thinking of what could have been if the circumstances were different. Both could have been happy… The pleasure of knowing what Noa felt like against you, not in a moment of death, but in a moment of ecstasy, your mouth drifting over his own as you told him how much you… You loved him.

Stumbling over yourself, you choked on your own self-pity thinking about the first time you had admitted that you loved him, the first time the idea sprung in the back of your head. Just another day where something lit inside of you, Noa giving you only one glance that lasted longer than any of the others, lips piling themselves into a small smile just for you…

“Will send someone to come get you.” Soona’s voice was rushed with reassurance as she moved to get Noa, taking him from your grasp and leaving you only with the imprint of his body left against your shirt, pants and hands. “Promised To Noa… keep His Echo… safe.” There was a twinge in your heart at that as your fingers left him as she rose to stand. Your hands dangled in the air for a moment before you dropped them slowly. “Thank you….” Voice barely a touch above a whisper, you smiled slightly at her which she returned with a softened gaze before it hardened in focus to hike Noa up with her. 

You hoped Soona was right that someone would come get you, your legs were numb and you were tired from pulling yourself to see him. So tired… Your eyelids felt so heavy, the blurring of the fire behind you deeply entrancing just to roll into. So… tired… The same feeling rushed into your chest like when you were first found by Noa, Soona and Anaya. Acceptance… No more bargaining, as you were ready to see your friends again, ready to meet Koro and tell him how amazing his Son truly was.  

You smiled to yourself with a huff, feeling the cut on your lip split open with one more lingering thought. He was going to be a great Leader, and he was going to rebuild and prosper, with or without you. Who needed a pesky little Echo?

Falling onto your knees as best you could, you tried to scramble yourself to stand but to no avail and drooled onto the ground as you came to rest on your stomach, face down in the dirt as Noa had been when you arrived.  It was a choice you were making, knowing that Soona was only able to carry one of you safely without risking the other to more injuries or even death and Noa was falling into a state of unconsciousness.

Your bit about getting the bullet out earlier was only telling Soona what she needed to do once he was safe, nothing more. Your fingers would no longer touch him. She wanted to speak on it, but you had accepted that this was the way things were meant to be as flames hit your cheeks from a few meters away. She needed to help Noa, their leader, and not what Noa’s interests were.

Death, you thought, always brought new beginnings and you hoped that to be true with all your might as you watched Soona carry Noa once your head tilted in that direction, the last action you felt you were able to bring yourself to do. Need… To look at him, see him one more time… You told the reaper above you, just give me that, please… His feet staggering against the ground, hard and rough as Soona herself struggled to keep him situated against her own body. You’d have always died for him, you felt like it was destined.

One way or another, somewhere in the multitude of the universe, you being nothing more than a speck to anyone else, were an entire world for an Ape. A Chimpanzee. Your heart, you wished you'd protected it a bit more but still... At the end of the day that was more than okay to perish in flame for.

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[blackdollette]

i know you write for rory’s portrayal of euronymous but i was wondering if you’d be willing to write something (potentially smutty) with euro and jack kilmer’s portrayal of pelle/dead for the lords of chaos film?

maybe the reader is euro’s girlfriend and one night after a party or show he lets pelle join them in the bedroom bc he doesn’t think he gets much action

ask & you shall recieve :))

"ridin' like a bitch." | euronymous & dead

ridin. - lana del rey + a$ap rocky

female!reader x euronymous + dead

word count: 1062

contents: threesome, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, spit roast position, creampie, cum eating

you and euro were fulfilling your post-concert routine. he would dash off of the stage and lead you out of the crowd, taking you backstage to celebrate a great show. but tonight, there was an addition to your little party. the lead singer was sitting on the couch, looking at you like a predator watching its prey. something about his stare made your blood run cold, giving you a glimpse of what you were getting into tonight.

euronymous gave you a crooked little smile. “don’t be scared, doll. just be a good girl like you usually are. i know you’ll get used to this very quickly…” and with that, the two men approached you and started to strip you down, leaving you with no time to think. euro went straight for your little tank top, undoing the little string that kept it from being just a useless piece of fabric.

dead watched as euro unclipped your bra and let it drop to the ground. he spoke, his voice raspy, “quite the girl you’ve got here… ” he got down on his knees and took off your black miniskirt, tossing it to the side and leaving you in your thong and fishnet stockings. euronymous picked you up and threw you over his shoulder as he walked over to the mattress on the ground in the corner of the room.

he set you down, leaving you on full display for both of them. it was clear that they were thinking about all the things that they were going to do with you. you noticed that dead was slowly palming himself through his black jeans. they had both grown painfully hard just from stripping you down, and they hadn’t even gotten to the main event yet.

they gave each other a look before they both came onto the mattress with you. euronymous got behind you while dead was right in your face. euro laid a sharp slap on your ass, making you wince. “ass up, doll.” you lifted your hips in the air just as he asked. he slipped your thong to the side, exposing your swollen little pussy that was just begging to be ruined. he spat on it before rubbing circles onto your clit with his thumb.

you put your face into the mattress as a quiet moan escaped you. dead grabbed your hair, forcing you to look up. you were face-to-face with his raging boner. he unbuttoned his pants, his rock-hard cock springing out and almost hitting you on the nose. you gasped, the size surprising you a little. you couldn’t say it out loud, but it made euro’s dick look like a joke. dead smiled a little at your reaction.

he held your chin gently but firmly. “open.” it was a simple command, but you felt obliged to do whatever he asked. he slowly slipped his cock into your mouth, you gagging when it hit the back of your throat. he pushed it all the way in, feeling as your muscles clenched around his length. he didn’t give you anytime to adjust, immediately pushing his cock in and out of your throat.

your eyes welled with tears, making both men chuckle. euronymous saw your pussy throb, practically begging to be fucked. he brought his head down and connected his lips with yours, licking complicated patterns on your clit. a blocked moan erupted from your throat, sending vibrations through dead’s body. he shuddered with pleasure, grabbing your head and moving himself a little faster.

the mix of having your throat broken into while being filled with an unearthly amount of pleasure made your body heat up. euro shoved two fingers into your tight cunt, pumping them in and out of you quickly. every moan, whimper, and whine that came out of you brought dead closer to a mind-boggling orgasm. he grabbed your whole head and started vigorously fucking your throat, his balls slapping your chin every now and then. 

there was spit and precum leaking down your chin and dripping onto the mattress. euronymous disconnect his mouth from your pussy, your juices flowing out from his mouth. he had been too occupied to jerk himself off, and he was in desperate need of some relief. he pulled his cock out and gave it a few lazy strokes before lining himself up with your hole.

his tip was red and swollen, already dripping with precum. he wasted no time stuffing you up with his length. your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the feeling of being filled up like this. the room was filled with the sound of their moans and your muffled little whimpers. your face was wet with tears, saliva, sweat and precum. you felt dead’s cock starting to twitch in your mouth, signalling a powerful orgasm.

euronymous pounded into your tight cunt, using his thumb to rub your throbbing clit. a strong shiver ran down your spine as you felt your hole convulsing around him. he threw his head back as a loud groan emerged from the depths of his soul. you felt his hot cum shooting into you as he thrusting into you mercilessly. dead leaned back on the wall for support as your moans sent his body into oblivion.

he shoved his length all the way down your throat, dumping all of his cum into your stomach. a waterfall of tears ran down your face as you choked on his length. euronymous gave you a few more lazy thrusts before he pulled out, collapsing on the mattress. dead pulled his softening length out of your throat, leaning on the wall as he caught his breath.

you lay on your side as you let out a few coughs. you could feel warm cum oozing out of your pussy as you recollected yourself. the three of you were panting and sweating like dogs as expected. after several minutes, euronymous picked you up and set you down on the couch, placing his leather jacket on top of your nude body.

he planted a soft kiss on your cheek as you felt your body surrendering to exhaustion. dead remained on the mattress, looking satisfied. euronymous joined dead on the mattress, engaging in a quiet little discussion. you found yourself slowly drifting off to sleep, your body still sore from tonight’s activity. needless to say, this became your new post-concert routine.

author's note: im so sorry for the delay on all your requests :(( but the box is still open so dont hold back. i also had a lot of fun with this one, so thank you!!

[modernsapphicism]

Randomly thought of a "what if Regina is actually good at math but wasn't showy" and then I remembered Leighton. like, what if Regina took the same AP math class but just a year earlier for god knows why. Regina and Mrs. Norbury actually got along pretty well, not close, but is civil with each other especially that Regina actually pays attention in her class and gets decent to high marks. The mathletes have wanted to invite her to join, but they're all scared shitless of her. and so when Cady was purposefully failing the class to get Aaron's attention, what if she accepted Mrs. Norbury's tutor offer, the teacher telling the red head "I know someone who'd be right to be your tutor." and Cady begrudgingly accepts.

After school, Cady was asked to meet her tutor in the library and the girl complied, thinking she had nothing to lose since the plastics didn't have anything planned that day. to her surprise, no one was at the library yet. Cady settled in one of the tables, her bag and books sat on the chair beside her. She waited for five minutes, cutting this "tutor" some slack, while she browsed her phone. Cady was about to get up when she heard the door open, and to her surprise, she sees Regina striding in while looking around the library, trying to find who's the unlucky student she'll have to terrorize to not fail this damn math class.

When the two of them finally locked eyes, Regina stopped in her tracks, eyes wide in shock as she processed the information that Cady was the one she would be tutoring. Cady on the other hand, suddenly felt like a cat caught in the act. the young red-head felt like she was sweating rivers of cold sweats as she stared at the blonde. Regina knew she wasn't bad at the subject. In fact, she had been Regina's personal calculator for quite a number of occasions since joining the plastics. 

"Cady?" the blonde questioned, eyebrow raised. Slowly, she walked towards the younger girl, setting down her bag on the table then asked, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I.. uh," the shorter girl started, her hand settled at the back of her neck while looking anywhere but the person in front of her. "Mrs. Norbury told me I needed tutoring because I was failing math."

Regina didn't even bother to comment on Cady's reasoning. "Huh." was all that she replied, not wanting to push for more and moved to sit down. Cady wanted this session to be over as soon as possible and she guessed that the blonde also felt the same. Regina took a seat on the vacant chair and Cady took that signal to take a seat as well. The two of them took their books out and dived into their work. 

An hour into their session, Cady couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something off about Regina. She couldn't help but stare at the blonde from time to time, trying to figure out how she got put in this situation with Regina teaching her about calculus. The blonde had noticed, of course, especially when Cady took too long to answer a simple question. The blonde in front of her sighed, and then dropped the pen she was holding, the act snapped Cady out of her trance. Cady feared Regina was going to yell at her or storm out of the library when she suddenly spoke.

"Okay,” Regina spoke before she turned to Cady, eyes boring into the red-head’s own. Cady suddenly felt the need to gulp and prepared herself for whatever Regina's about to do. "Since it seems like you can't focus on this stupid question, tell me, what's wrong now?" 

Her question caught Cady off guard. Instead of spewing shit, Regina actually, genuinely, seemed like she wanted to know what's gotten the red-head distracted when she was doing fine a few questions ago. 

"Uh.." Cady didn't know what to answer. Her mind was going through hundreds of different scenarios how this conversation would lead to and none of them was good. 

Regina sighed. 

"Use your words, Heron. Spit it out." the blonde said sternly and her head tilted, waiting for an answer from the girl in front of her.

“I- I didn’t know you were good at math.” 

Regina’s perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. Her signature ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look present the moment Cady finished speaking.

Shit, Cady thought.

A beat of silence fell between them and Cady couldn’t focus on the task at hand. The red-head was about to mutter her apologies when the blonde spoke.

Without looking up at the book in front of her, Regina says with a nonchalant voice, “Just because I don’t tell people, doesn’t mean I’m not good at something.” 

She turned to face Cady and continued, “I can’t let people know everything about me. I need to maintain an air of mystery afterall.” and winked. 

Regina winked. Honest to God winked and smirked. 

If Cady’s brain was already mush five minutes ago, after witnessing that her brain is puréed. She felt her cheeks heat up and as if on cue, Regina tried and failed to hold back a laugh. 

Regina looked back at the red-head. “If you’re done overanalyzing my whole being, sweetheart, let’s go back and focus on this part here so we can pack up early.” 

And with that said, Cady had to take a mental note to ask questions later before she turned her attention back to their lesson. She tried her best to steady her beating heart, making sure that the blonde beside her didn’t hear how her heart was practically drumming through her chest at the sight of the blonde flirting with her.

[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!!!!

[cas-backwards-tie]

Me getting ready, doing my makeup in the mirror & listening to varying types of music from love songs to emo songs to sexual songs just imagining taskforce 141 watching me get ready for an undercover mission as the decoy with differing reactions.

warnings: allusions to and descriptions of graphic sexual situations, oral (male receiving), hair pulling

Simon’s trying not to get turned on listening to the sexual lyrics leaving your lips. Words he’s never heard you say, or if he say, it’s scarce and only in retaliation to a joke someone’s made. Listening to your breathing change with your singing, it draws back memories of how you sound in distress; heavy breathing, hot and heavy under different circumstances. He wonders how you’d kiss, if you’d be slow and passionate, taking your time to explore him with your mouth. Maybe you’d be desperate and desirous, tongue making an appearance as it swipes at his bottom lip. Would you tease him with your teeth? The way he’d love to hear how you sound as he makes you come undone. He struggles watching you put on your lipstick, imagining the color smeared in different places, kiss marks adorning certain places on both of your bodies. It’s the way he can clearly imagine the way you’d look up at him innocently with your doe eyes, dribble, spit, and cum dripping from your chin after you’ve just taken care of him. Oh, how he’d be more than willing to get on his knees and return the favor. 💄

Gaz can’t help but chuckle to himself as he loves to hear your voice. It’s not often you all sing and get to see each other at ease, but it’s one of the times he cherishes with all of you. While he makes sure everything’s prepared to go with Nikolai and everyone else is making progress, the music distracts him time to time. He can’t deny your singing is lovely, and your choice in music is something he’s always enjoy, even if there’s certain genres he’d never admit to liking in front of the boys. Yet, he’s surprised by a few choices. After a while, he takes a break, getting a drink nearby as he quietly whispers the lyrics you’re singing to himself, knowing the song. Yet, as he turns and leans back against the counter he can’t help as his eyes scan the room and eventually land on you. Taking in the outfit your taskforce had picked out carefully earlier that week (he remembers how hard that decision was to come to with everyone needing to be in agreement. That… was an event in itself) Kyle takes in your curves and the exposed skin he rarely gets to see while out on the field. Sure, he’s seen you in various different attire and even in compromised positions, but this is different. Preening and primping, you look like a proper doll and he can’t help but imagine the mascara you’re applying just streaking down your face, your elegantly done hair messy and undone, exposed neck and legs covered in bruises and hickies and love bites by the time he’s done with you. The way improper and unprofessional images of the two of you flood his mind in various different places in many tantalizing positions has him clearing his throat guiltily before making himself look busy and attempting to refocus and return to the task at hand. You’re dangerous, and he’s sure you know it. 💋

Price is mesmerized by the way you style your hair, brushing through your (long) locks and putting it up in a slicked back ponytail. The event isn’t high-class, and your style is modern and sleek enough to bypass as just a stylish choice. Despite trying to focus on the blueprint layouts of the building, he gets distracted by the way you run your fingers through your hair, putting some type of oil—it wouldn’t be conditioner, would it?—in it. Intrusive images of him tugging on that ponytail and keeping you held tight to him by it circulating in his mind. 🎀

Johnny is blown away by you… wholly. Transfixed in his seat at the table as he loads up the equipment, he can’t help but pause here and there to take note of the process. The way you seem so skilled at applying the makeup and transforming your look. You’ve always been stunning, even from the first time he’d laid eyes on you. But this… this is a side of you he hasn’t seen. Sure, he’s seen you in makeup before, but… something about the process, the behind the scenes look at you applying things bit by bit just turns him on. Your lashes curled, getting thicker and more pronounced with the dark mascara. Your eye colors just popping even more with whatever you’d done to your eyelids when he’d looked away to pack up the case at his feet. The way you sing and laugh to yourself as you seem genuinely content, not at all worried about what you’re walking into is… admirable, to say the least. And if that doesn’t have him wanting to praise you and make you see how good you look in the mirror bent over that table with him whispering nothing but sweet words in your ear, his hand on the small of your back as he draws out the sweetest of sounds and contorts your face with pleasure, then he’ll be damned. 🪞

[historicalvandal]

I'm so glad I found your blog! Can I please get some drabble? Proximus,Ceaser, the sunset trio (noa,soona, and anaya) and anyone else you want to add with a human reader that started following them one day. The human is very hard to catch if she doesn't want to be caught, talk, or be seen and will defend herself if cornered. Brings "gifts," bones, shiny rocks, or food if in a good mood. Hope you feel better! Saw your last post. Ignore if you need to, sending hugs 🤗

I'm glad you found me too! I'm excited to write for people! As you can possibly tell from all of my postings about PoTA rn haha- Ofc you can have some drabbles! I'll write a few drabbles for Koba, Caesar, Proximus and the sunset trio for ya!

Proximus Caesar ; The first time he met you was when he took a small trip with his guards, taking it upon himself to do more kingly activities, that being hunting, he'd have been possibly hunting for a new pet when he heard about a certain human causing some mayhem who just couldn't be captured at all and who was supposedly very aggressive once backed up into a corner, even Sylva had gotten hurt by such a tiny human, this of course piqued Proximus' interest, so when he enters the forest in which you usually roamed and came face to face with you, you displayed...curiosity, perhaps this wasn't the human he was told about? But he was wrong, because as soon as he had asked Sylva to capture you, you bit Sylva's hand causing the gorilla to lose a nice chunk of flesh from his hand, his blood covering your mouth, as you spit out the flesh you'd ripped out onto the muddy ground, eyes on Proximus as his gaze lingered on your face. You ended up following him out of curiosity, as he went through the forest, sticking to the shadows, but he could smell your scent in the air, and he more or less ordered Sylva and Lightning to leave him be for some time, once the two had left Proximus alone, he set up waiting patiently for you to come out of the brush and shrubbery of the forest, not expecting you to drop down from the high branches above him, nearly landing on the back of his horse behind him, stalking around him slowly, before holding out your closed hand, Proximus glanced at the hand offered to him and he held his hand out, palm open, you reached forward and dropped a bird skull into his hand followed by a shiny pebble, a small river stone, you looked up at Proximus and opened your mouth to speak, just one word, but it had him hooked, "King." To be fair with you, it wasn't necessarily the best idea to be hanging around Proximus, but you couldn't help yourself, following after him, his shadow, thought of as a pet, but you never seemed to mind, you'd bring him the shiny stones you'd find and of course small animal bones, but feathers were a favourite of yours to give him, he never seemed to mind having these small trinkets, he actually incorporated some of the shiny stones into his outfit, a few feathers weaved into an arm band, all in all he has a new pet and they're very much his favourite for all the small things they do, but mostly how they'll always bring something back when they go out at night.

Koba ; With Koba he'd hate that you follow him around, leave gifts in his nest, even bring him food, but he somewhat understands why you are combative, hate being cornered and refuse to talk when you feel overwhelmed, he'd have first met you in the red woods, on a hunting trip alone, hearing yelping and aggressive hooting, he'd be under the impression an ape had gotten themselves lost and in danger, possibly going to help and finding you facing off against a predator bigger then you, then he wouldn't want to help, but as soon as you notice him you had already used your teeth and bare hands to beat the predator bloody, vanishing up into a tree quickly and out of sight after a staring match between you two. However Koba runs into you more and more, and slowly gets used to seeing you, what he doesn't get used to is you following him back to the colony, he hadn't wanted you to follow or even be accepted into the colony, but Caesar had welcomed you upon the insistence of some apes who had seen you driving predators away from the colony, once accepted you choose to follow Koba, he'd been more or less aggressive and mean to you, but you still followed and soon he got used to calling you shadow other then human, you start leaving river stones in his nest, birds you'd practically mauled to death as a food type gift and you even left ripped up cloth to make his nest more comfortable, he'd catch you one night nudging a necklace you'd made with two other female apes into his nest, nearest to some pelts you had acquired, then he didn't have the heart nor anger to drive you off, and you ended up sleeping beside his nest that night, now he wears the necklace.

Caesar ; He first came into contact with you when you wandered unknowingly into ape territory, you had ran right into the middle of Malcolm and his team first being there in the red woods, and had even bitten Carver in attempts of stopping him from killing Ash and Blue eyes, causing the colony to be alerted to the sounds of shouting and when Ash had been shot, Caesar had heard of a human living nearby, had heard of how aggressive they had been to many others, mainly to humans, but hadn't moved to do anything against the feral human in the forest, since they usually kept predators and other humans at bay, so in thanks for you driving off Malcolm's group, and saving Ash and Blue eyes from being hurt further, also upon the good word both young teens had put in for you and from Rocket himself, he accepted you into the colony, you integrated well at first but never spoke much, always sticking to Caesar's side whenever permitted to do so. Like Koba he'd notice that things were being left at his nest, at some point even a dead buck had ended up near his nest, you take to leaving things you make so he can wear them, he notices your craftsmanship and wears the band you had made that would hook around his arm, the necklace you had made proudly displayed, set with beads and small river stones and a lot of feathers, you even taking to wearing a band around your own bicep and a simpler version of the necklace.

The sunset trio ; The three had accidentally run into you on their first meeting, noticing you as the echo who had been sneaking around the clan and stealing food, Noa had been the one to notice you'd been doing it because you were injured at the time, still it somewhat frustrated the three, they ran into you out in the forest when they were berry picking, you peeked out of the bushes, the thorns from the blackberry bush ripping into your skin and tangled in your hair, Soona had been the first to reach out, and you seemingly were fine with it despite them all hearing stories of your penchant to bite, the three managed to get you untangled, not even saying thank you, you rushed off into the shrubbery, swinging up into the trees with practised perfection, vanishing from view, or so they thought, you followed them above, staying a few paces behind, they caught sight of you again once you had gotten to the natural edge of the forest, hopping from the trees to stand and watch them, this time Anaya was the one to reach out to you, joined by Soona and slowly joined by Noa, they held out their hands with the want to at least bring you to a healer to get your wounds seen too, and you reached out too, speaking to them, voice ragged from going without use for some time, "Hurt..Help- please" Once integrated into the clan you opened up slowly, spending more and more time with the trio, taking to making necklaces, bracelets, arm bands, satchels too, all things learned from Noa's mother, you'd nonchalantly leave gifts in their nests, only growing closer as they started to make gifts in return for you. Okayyy! I have finished these drabbles- I hope these are okay! and hope they bring a smile to your face, sorry for taking a hot second to write this all out! Thanks for the request! <33

[latexcowb0y]

What I've noticed in the angelkin community is that we are all expected to be these dainty, skinny, porcelain pale, blonde, blue eyed, kind and quiet humanoid things.

So I've compiled a list of angel care for all my fellow angels who do not find themselves in that stereotype.

This is just the first volume with bits coming from my own experience, feel free to submit your own tips for the next volumes!

[Care for Grotesque Angels vol. I]

1. Encourage yourself and other angels to embrace their unique qualities and celebrate their individuality. Remind them that beauty and holiness comes in all forms, and there's no one-size-fits-all definition of what an angel should look like.

2. Go to places where reality feels altered. Those places that make your back and the top of your head tingle. And laugh, scream, run, make weird noises, bask in the sunlight. Just go ape.

3. Say random words in latin and enochian (you never finished Supernatural) to strangers, etch them on walls. When you have that random latin word stuck in your head just write it everywhere obsessively until it goes away.

4. Be divine. Or don't. Spit on the stairs of churches, or go inside ones you've never been before and just sit in the back. Don't get up for the hymns, don't do anything. Just stare at the priest. At the paintings. Look at Gabriel on the wall looking back and think "brother." Look at Jesus, think how uncomfortable that position must be. Think how many times has God betrayed (you ask yourself "who", someone says everyone. You're alone.) Think he should go to therapy and take his meds. Leave chocolate coins and apples in the offering basket. A book about good parenting. Never go to that church again.

5. If you are, be unapologetically, annoyingly, fully and loudly queer. Be a faggot, a transexual, be one in their churches and scream at them how they have no idea about what the truth is (you don't know either, but it's fun.)

6. Be angry at God. Scream at him, bleed for him, ignore him, cry for him, laugh with him, fuck him, make love with him. And then forget he ever existed and hope he left the body of that 20 years old with black box dyed hair and won't find his next home in the heart of your new lover.

6.5. Slam your door like he just told you to go to your room and took your mp3, and you're packing a bag to runaway with chocolate and your birthday money while your mother (mother?) watches fondly from your white door frame with a look that says "He didn't mean to." But she will not say. And you'll never know. You go to sleep angry. Running away is too hard. And there's gravity falls on tv in the morning.

7. Hold Judas's anger, bask in Jesus's kindness. Be a warrior like Michael. A messanger like Gabriel. An anarchist like Lucifer.

8. Use the Bible to your heart's content. Read it, rip it apart, burn it. Use it to draw, keep stable that wobbling table, roll a lavender cigarette for your lover after they "took you to church," as Hozier would say. Make a flame and make smores with your friends, tell stories. You will never see them again. But the memories will replace your blood. Transubstantiation.

9. Kiss a priest, or kill one. Run for pope, burn a church. Disappear into a forest. Become one with the flowers and the moss and the grass and the water and the moon and the sun and the stars and the birds and the maggots and the foxes and the bears. Become the genesis. Become God. And then go out and get pizza.

10. Pray. Or don't.

[angstphilosophy]

stares at the ocean on the beachside with my hands folded under my chin bc in both iterations launchpad was the first person to know drake mallard under the mask

in the 1991-92 ver, launchpad had to have gotten the knowledge in what I call the Fanfic Gap in the time between the explosion and drake adopting gosalyn. Launchpad had to have known that Drake Mallard and not Darkwing Duck was adopting Gosalyn and crashed the car there accordingly. drake trusted launchpad with his identity.

then in 2017 launchpad inspired drake to take on the mantle. of course ppl working on the movie knew Drake mallard (by name) had DW’s role, but not many people actually took the time to get to know KNOW drake mallard like Launchpad did you know?

[lashysdomain]

@mageofspacemultiverse and @memurfevur 's Oc Name ARG Data

for those who AREN'T me who've spent the last 4 days and almost every waking and sleeping hour thinking about this, here's what we have so far + puzzles i've not yet been able to solve

characters: [name] - (blog they're at)

arceel - (memurfevur)

how we found out about ynygme (from here on referred to as E). ex moirail, used to be known as Balerion. this is the name that E knows him by.

Ynygme - (mageofspacemultiverse)

We have found E's name. it's recommended not to say it, just in case. they're currently in hiding while we find a tether and figure out how to decode the spell we need to bring them home.

the subjugate video

one of E's captors. we've been told to hide from them, so DNI. please. i know, villian, but dni. summoned by us guessing S

the warden video (loud)

another of e's captors, 110% fucked up on this one. i didn't notice, both of these are my fault.

current puzzle objective is solving the spell to get back to E and helping find any parts of their body to create their tether

extra characters and unsolved puzzles/extra info under the cut

watch'r - (memurfevur)

bound to arceel, knows what's going on to some degree, will take gossip as a bribe for clues, unsure what he'll give. that's my bestie

For now we're good on clues, but we might need more soon?

matild kirada - (memurfevur)

gilf. who said that mentioned in the poem posts image, likely whos help we need to find e's body

unsolved puzzles

i'm currently still trying to solve these, but i'm at my wits end in a way

possible code could be from the polls, setting the positions of letters in another key the letters and their resulting poll result numbers are: e2 r4 p5 i6 c6 h3 (the letters spell cipher. kilant you bitch.)

p is interesting, and has the options of 20 5 20 8 5 18 which when put into an alphanumeric substitution cipher gives us "tether" could be nothing but that seems purposeful? every other poll has just 123...

the pastebin clues, found from the description of the subjugate video.

these are settings for the enigma machine. what we put into it probably hasn't been sent out yet, it's also a clue about E's first name more than likely.

as dr el fj ky mt ob qx uz wh I 10 1 III 17 2 VII 6 4

A grandpre grid from the watch'r drabble and following judgements roman numerals gives us a likely second set of plugboard settings for the enigma machine.

the rest of the settings were found on a past post leading to a soundcloud link

ap cm dv gq iy ne rj sw uf zk V 4 6 IV 6 2 VIII 16 6

from the tags of the last ask + settings for another machine from the post where E told us about their past with balerion. it's unclear if the setting for the third rotor is 22 1 or 2 21

RC EY BF SG JM ID LQ KZ TU HO V 18 3 VI 1 5 III 2 2 1

from a poll with some sort of poem? poem might not actually be important, but the poll post is here

vuypo xu klt syet ya g rukobq crmgp fpkose kkmexf wkzoec knm bwbx qgzkem

Jcif xgs aphwvx rxdgdk jc boyf Irmm g inbfjh b qrqqevn onmzf Mcuvh omeccn diegypgp

from E's latest ask and pulled from the captions of the Warden video. if this is the spell, we're missing the last third piece still

i believe it might be a beaufort vigenere cipher, but we don't have it's key. could also need to be spit through specific enigma machine settings. there are far too many for me to brute force, so we'll just have to wait.

the words that bring them together are likely just the spell, not anything super complex (well more so than finding it all)

current state of the reset conspiracy board

[autisticlenaluthor]

TW: internalized ableism & child abuse

Lena’s whole life, autism was a dirty word. 

It was the girl in primary school Lex used to sneer at, who flapped her hands and jumped around the playground like a wind up toy twisted back all the way. It was the boy who bashed an action figure into Lena’s forehead, but never got into any trouble because his brain doesn’t work the way yours does. 

It was abnormal. 

There was a line in the sand between autism and Lena and where it laid, Lena knew there could be no overlap. 

So when Lillian gagged her with a bar of soap for the rude things she’d said (what was rude about observing?) or smacked her fidgety fingers until they were red and raw, it was because Lena was the problem. There was something wrong with how Lena thought— something that needed to be (that could be) fixed. And though she hated it— that sort of logic, Lena understood. 

She never questioned the moments where she lost the ability to speak. Or how when voices overlapped, it was impossible to hear individual words instead of jumbles of noise, clunking around her skull. She never questioned it because Lena understood that if Lillian knew enough to force those habits out of her, the rest of the world must’ve had them too— they’d just become better at adapting. 

So adapt Lena would. 

She learned to sit on her hands and avoid textures like wool and denim at all costs. She gagged through family meals which she later spit into napkins as she pretended to find the conversation stimulating.

And at school, she learned to plan good days. Days where she’d bite her tongue and keep quiet about chess, piano, and biology, because the other girls didn’t find those things nearly as interesting as Lena did. And when she failed each time and spent her lunches in the girls bathroom with tear stained cheeks, Lena knew those shortcomings were to no fault but her own. 

She didn’t have enough willpower. She didn’t have enough strength.

So she would try harder. 

The childish sensitivity Lena never outgrew was buried beneath layers of sarcasm and wit.

She channeled her maturity and the way that she’d always felt years older than her peers, because nobody could challenge her if she was miles ahead. She threw herself into AP classes and graduated university at the same time as high school. She made her interests worth while because being obsessed with chess stops being weird when you’re a nationally ranked chess prodigy at sixteen. 

She covered. She compensated. She survived. 

Flappy hands turned into unseen bouncing knees and fits of screaming rage into deflated periods of silence. Lena’s faults weren’t debilitating nor disabling, they were quirks. They were malleable and presentable; at times, even attractive. 

Hidden behind fake smiles, Lena found herself holding resentment for those who left galas or charity events early– claiming migraines or exhaustion. She’d bite down on the inside of her cheeks until her mouth filled with blood and dig her nails into her skin to cope with the discomfort. She’d glare as they left, shooting subtle looks across the room as she thought about how weak they must’ve been to give into their unease. 

After all, if she could push through, why couldn’t they?

Lena’s suffering became a badge of honor. 

The more she could handle, the more expectations she met, and the more normal, well adjusted she appeared. Her wounds showed that she’d persevered, she’d committed, and as long as nobody ever saw her crumble, that was all that mattered. 

Lena’s whole life, autism was a dirty word. 

A dirty word she didn't realize belonged to her.

But maybe if she could scrub her skin hard enough, turn the water hot enough, or wash for long enough, she could finally free herself of the sludge she never knew she'd been infected with.

And maybe then, she could be enough.

[boyakishantriage]

"Morning."

The alien crowd looked at the single human, standing before the broken down gate. (Carbonated steel), broken down with what appeared to be a duffle bag of children's toys. Staring in surprise, before one of the lizard animals stood. An Irno, white with small lizard claws.

"Who daresss?"

"A dumbass. Now surrender or die."

The shock slowly dropped, orc like, spiders, all kinds of aliens raising weapons as they chose their words. it was only one human, a duffle bag and while she did have a few weapons, they were all melee. She couldn't seriously beat all of them with such a non deprecating threat?

"I think not little human."

Grunted the large gorilla like animal, several times larger than the single human, as she tosses the handcuffs at him.

"hands."

He swatted her like a fly, slamming her into the concrete building, shattering chunks through the otherside.

The large alien grinned, smiling as he raised his arms.

"HA! I KNEW HUMANS WERE WEAK!"

As the human. Slumped to the ground, body bleeding onto the floor.

One of the nearby guards of the space slowly backed away.

"that's. Not a smart idea." He decided, moving away from the diner as the alien laughed at their back off.

"what? She probably broke some bones, what's she gonna do? Get up?" The gorillas laughed as the guard's friend dragged him away faster as a giggle came from behind them.

"that tickled. No it didn't. It hurt. HAHAHAHHAHAHA, IT HURT. HURT! BONES BROKE AND IT- EHHEHAHAHSGWHBD" She howled into herself, body trembling, snot falling from her face as she drew her knife. Rising to her feet, swaying with the wind as she walked forward.

The gorilla froze. The human was moving with blood splitting from her legs and arms, laughing it off as she linked her way forward with a smile.

"HA! The human is coming to her death! Watch!"

Moving to swat her once more, this time the human stabbed into the hand, gripping the hand as she proceeded to bite into it.

His eyes widened, shaking his hand as the other aliens laughed nervously.

"what'sss the matter Grok? Can't get the hairlesss-"

The snake barely had a moment to finish the joke, as the human practically leaped off the ape and slammed the alien into the bar, teeth smile as she bit into the snake's neck. Laughing as nails slammed into her, voice straining as she began pummeling the alien. The criminals laughed at the sight, soon turning into unease as she begins biting into the snake, as it screams for help. Shrugging, they cock weapon firing into the human.

The human. Dropped onto the bloody snake. His chest with blade slices, fist pummels and bite marks. Before it trembled again, the alien firing into it. Shooting the human's arm to bits as she looked at the pirate.

"hehehehe. That hurts. Naughty little slug."

Stabbing the slug like alien with the knife, before gripping her head. Screaming.

"NOT NOW. NO. I-"

She froze, cocking a gun as she glared at the leading wolf.

"Nighty night."

BANG.

The pirates stared, with one dead, two injured the criminals started backing off from the diner like space. Then the body rises. Laughing as she stands. Blood coursing through her. "Y'know if you inverse a gravity cube, you can make a bomb right?" She said, laughing as she twisted the modified toy. The weapon turning alive as it's gravity reversed. Shoving the device into her chest, as she limped quickly towards them. Pirates now panicking, as the human slumped forward blocking the exit.

The diner exploded, coughing as her now cauterised wounds began healing themselves. Stabbing herself with nanites, spitting out blood as the surviving criminals stood behind the dead corpse of a Surarian. The heavy chitin plates alien's face stuck in confusion, as the human drew her weapon. Cocking the gun, several guards looking at the human, the criminal and the blackened building.

The human was currently stabbing a praying mantis like alien, slapping the alien in delusional as it begged for its life. Finally a human walked over, slapping her friend and dragging her into a ship.

"sir-"

"Right. Let's just mark these bodies and leave."

"But. Sir. The-"

"it was a human, let's not ask questions."

[xbl00dy-r0s3x]

Hi lovely, hope you're doing alright!! May I request Hobie x reader who's having a rough time mentally ( I call em bad brain days) and they're having a rough time with school (college finals), crazy bs at the day job (customer service fucking blows lmao), and in their dimension they have a shitty guardian ALONG with dealing with being a spidey. After patrol Hobie swings into his place and finds them having a really bad panic attack (and he's freaking out cuz he's never seen them like this before). They're trembling like crazy, hyperventilating, really warm and crying and it just sets his Spidey sense OFF. He talks them down and comforts them from a distance then when they ok it, he comes closer to provide physical comfort...letting them touch his accessories (he hands them one of his bracelets for sensory purposes to help bring them down), play with his rings, etc. He just cuddles them to his chest, providing words of comfort.

Sorry if this is too specific, I may have gotten a lil carried away lmfao.

Anyway stay freaky, have good vagina, I love ya!!

(honey anon)

A lil mental health awareness story, I like it(I hope I do good man, it’s been a minute since I’ve written) Let’s see how this goesssss(I might’ve went off script a lil, apology in advance if I did)

Bad Brain Day

“These finals are gonna be the death…” you sighed while studying for your math final. You barely got through AP Literature review packet(that was on stuff the teacher regrettably didn’t cover😒😒) and you hoped to god(or whatever you believe in) that you passed your 3 other finals. The past two weeks working at the little cafe a block from your college wasn’t any better.

Some customers were nice enough to realize you were sleep deprived and not ready to deal with bullshit, but apart from them, the rest were hell. It went from getting yelled at constantly, to being tripped by a group of high school girls and spilling hot coffee all over their uniform, to even someone random dude being racist and spitting in your face before throwing his money and his coffee at you.

It didn’t help that most of your friends were all busy, two or three actually checked on you from time to time to make sure you were doing okay mentally(you tend to have bad things happen around finals week) and the one person you tried to talk to about the “debts” that you owed them for raising you was unreachable. You tried texting, calling, hell you even tried zoom calls and e-mails, but to no avail, you wouldn’t be surprised if the motherfucker withdrew a couple hundred dollars(that you didn’t have) as his payment this month(like he usually did).

And the countless times of having to disappear from class and work to go deal with some bad guys in not only your dimension, but Miles and Pavitr’s dimensions as well hadn’t helped the stress that was starting to build up, even Miguel started to worry when you’d show up more sleep deprived then the last time you were there. Eventually he told you to take a break from the spider society so you didn’t get hurt and you were thankful, but it wasn’t like the bad guys in your dimension would ever let you catch a break.

Which leads to today as you were studying for your last final, you started to feel your chest close up and your eyes started to water. “No, not again,” you groaned internally as you went into another panic attack that started with you in your little spinning gamer chair to being on the floor in the corner of your room. You were violently shaking, trying breathing exercises to calm yourself down, but to no avail. As you were starting to calm down from the attack, your anxiety spiked as you heard a knock at your window.

‘F-fuck. Who is it? I-I can’t deal with this and another person right now,’ you thought as the person knocked again. “Y/n? Y’kno is rude to leave company waitin’,” said Hobie as he opened your window and saw you in the corner. ‘Oh shit,’ he thought when he saw your state. Your hair was messy, you were crying, but it didn’t hide the eye bags that you had from the lack of proper sleep, and your clothes made you look more bummy then you thought it did.

“Hey love, you doin’ okay?” he said in a softer tone than before as he sat on the windowsill. You slightly shook your head no. “Y’kno… I’m not the best with words so is it ok if I play my guitar a little?”

You thought he might play some of his punk music he’s been practicing, so you were a little off put by the request, but you slowly nodded yes, wiping tears that wouldn’t let up as you hoped you didn’t make the wrong decision. To your surprise, he strummed his guitar strings softly and it was one of the songs he’s heard you have playing when your really stressed out that helps prevent these attacks from happening as often.

As time went on, you felt more and more relaxed, eventually letting him come sit next to you and gave you one of his bracelets to mess with. After a bit, you ended up between his legs and had started messing with both of his hands, admiring how the rings complimented his skin and his surprisingly nice nails that he’d let you paint from time to time. While you were in your own world of mind fog from the panic attack, his voice brought you comfort as he mumbled some words of comfort that sounded a little jumbled by his accent, but you loved it nonetheless.

You laid back against him while opting to mess with just one of his hands, his other wrapping around your waist and pulling you in closer to him, letting you know you were loved. Soon enough, you both fell asleep, with him leaning his back against the wall and you leaning in to him. Little did he know, he was gonna have a crock in his back for a while, but he’ll think it’s worth it after what he accomplished the night before.

I WAS NOT EXPECTING IT TO END THIS SWEETLY BUT YKNOW WHAT, I LOVE IT AND HOPE YOU DO TO, Much love and light, have a great rest of your day, my lovelies (I did try to capture hobie’s accent/slang and his pronunciation of words, I hope I did well)