#But I had no idea how to do that for the trident and make it look good

[0ne-eyed-ghost]

This feels like it's taken years to complete [So many revisions were done] HI I FINALLY BRING the third of the jashlings...... Soul :] Over all his colors were really hard to decide on ? I was stuck between sunset theming from the lyrics or red-pinks, and so one of my friends smacked me upside the head with color palettes. No regrets. My main idea for him was obviously mix-match something that doesn't feel like it's SUPPOSED to be like this, like 2 ideas split and scattered all over. I've been also sticking with a space theming, so we have The stars and the over-expanding abyss that is space ! Half of his hair is similar to the void, splitting half down his body completely as well [To fit the original's design idea, no way would I NOT do that it's a sick idea] Tridents galore.... I've been splitting the rope between the 3 of them , Soul having the majority of it in the form of the trident ! It mostly acts like a belt ? When he's not. Wielding it .... And when he is, the rope turns completely straight and immovable, becoming the proper handle for it ! Tridential sovereign and allat.. Meaning he's the only one who can properly Use the trident, the other two can hardly lift it. [Heart can but that's just due to his over-all strength vs actually being 'worthy' enough to wield it.] For anyone who's curious on the sleeve - pant thing I swapped the both ! So they both seem really out of place on purpose :] Lastly ... His snake; Also deemed the depression snake by yours truly [Has not been named properly yet? Feel free to suggest some !!!] Depression is like. Something that completely poisons your being as a whole[joke intended] and corrupts how you see, feel, and act as a person. Things that weren't that big of a deal become massive, Emotions more raw and sensitive, it just breaks up everything !!!! So I had the idea to incorporate that into Soul's design [He feels snake -like to me for some reason] It's constantly biting down on him and driving him further apart, making him extremely irritable and exhausted from everything else, finding it all too much to resolve by himself alone :] THATS ENOUGH RAMBLING FROM ME !!!!!!!!!!!!! enjoy ...

[jellobubblelol]

just realised, I don't think I ever posted the Jashfest edit I made here.

I wish I could've added the lil speech bubbles but idk the font lol.

[dbphantom]

you know if you guys voted for stretch armstrong i probably would have shut up a lot sooner tonight

[l5byrinth]

slut!

“in a world of boys, he's a gentleman.”

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: in which finnick takes care of you after you survive a blood rain. aka finnick being an absolute gentleman ;)

warnings: idrk maybe thoughts of not surviving, fluff, lmk if i should add more, non-edited

requested!

a/n: this sucks i’m so sorry anon but i loved your request and hope you like how i brought your idea to life 🩵 also i listened to slut! on repeat when writing this so that’s why i associated it with that song 😝

MILLIONS of thoughts raced through your head, as you tried to walk as carefully and quietly as you could. You couldn’t believe you lost your allies - which included one of your closest friends - within the first few hours. Your chances of survival plummeted, and you hated yourself for foolishly wandering off.

The jungle was silent, apart from the birds chirping occasionally, and normally it would bring you comfort. But now, as you were reliving the same nightmare you had a few years ago, it wasn’t much of a comfort at all. Usually, the jungle and the water would be your number one place to escape to. To ease your mind. But now, walking around in the jungle meant life or death.

Something fell on your shoulder, making you stop in your tracks. You looked up at the sky, but saw nothing strange or unfamiliar. You scanned the trees thoroughly just to be sure no one was hanging in there, before slowly and cautiously continuing your journey. But then you felt something drop on your face. You wiped it away with your index finger and looked at it, red substance staining your finger.

With furrowed eyebrows, you inspected it—resembling blood.

You looked up at the sky, confused as to where this might come from. But before you could even register what was happening, the red substance started pouring from the sky.

Your vision was entirely blurred because of the substance you assumed was blood, and there was nothing you could do. All you could think about was Finnick, who you had grown feelings for during the years you had known him. The thought of him was the only thing making the situation look less unpleasant than it was.

You were close to giving up, when you heard a scream of your name. Even though you could hardly see, you moved from your place, looking around. Another scream of your name and you followed it, screaming for Finnick, whose voice you had recognised.

Warmth filled your heart. There it was again, that little hope Finnick always gave no matter the situation.

You got closer, his voice getting louder every time he called for you, “Finnick?!” But it was like he couldn’t hear you. You got so close, you were sure you were close enough for him to hear you. But when you wanted to take another step, there was this force withholding you from doing so. You put your hand on the force as it was still pouring and fear took over you once again.

But that was when you saw Finnick, looking around worriedly, his trident in his hand. You yelled for his name, banging against the force, a cry for help escaping your lips. And when Finnick spotted you, his face relaxed at the sight of you. He ran over without a doubt, but ran straight into the force. Finnick fell backwards to the ground, and all you could do was watch him get up with confusion. It seemed to hit him now that blood was pouring on you like there was no tomorrow.

You could see him say something, but you couldn’t hear him anymore. A tear fell down your cheek, but it was almost unnoticeable because of the blood pouring from the sky. But Finnick noticed everything you did and didn’t do, and he put his hand on the force. “You will be okay.” He said, trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you.

Even when you didn’t hear him, you knew exactly what he was saying and you nodded. You rested your forehead on the force, as he followed your action. With your foreheads almost leaning against each other, you waited until it all was over. It killed you how you couldn’t touch him right now. He was so close, yet so far away.

And when you thought it would never end, the one thing that separated you from Finnick, and the rain, disappeared. Before you knew it, you had fallen into his arms, and he was holding you as tight as he could. “I thought I had lost you.” The tremble in his voice made a lump form in your throat. You tightened the hug, never ever wanting to let go of him.

Soon enough, Peeta and Katniss came running. While panting heavily, they released a sigh of relief, glad to see you were okay. “Finally found you.” Katniss spoke. She rested her hand on her hip, as she gave you a small smile, glad you were okay.

After giving you time to recover - which you actually didn’t at all - you and your allies headed to the beach. During your entire walk back, Finnick never let you go. One hand always lingered on the small of your back, as the other held your hand tightly. Even when you had made it to the beach, his fingers were intertwined with yours. And if you had to be honest, you enjoyed it more than you initially thought you would.

The first thing you did when you stepped foot on the sand was collapsing onto it, obviously still shaken up about what had happened. Finnick sat down next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulled you even closer to him. “It’s okay.”

You nodded at his words, before resting you head on his shoulder with a sigh you were holding in for too long. The two of you sat in silence for a while, your fingers intertwined as they rested in your lap, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand soothingly. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach, but the thought of everything going on right now, gave a whole different meaning to the feeling in your stomach. You almost forgot you were in an arena again, and when the realisation hit you, anxiety washed over you.

Finnick seemed to notice this, just like he always did, and he softly whispered your name.

But you ignored him, lost in thought as the breaths you took were heavier than usual. “Hey,” He gently took ahold of your chin, making you look at him softly, “You’re okay.”

The green in his eyes reminded you of the sea, and if it meant looking at them all day, you wouldn’t mind drowning. The hand holding yours, brought your hand up to his lips. You watched with a racing heart as he lovingly kissed your knuckles one for one, holding eye-contact with you through all of it. Peeta and Katniss, who were watching you two from afar, shared a look.

You took in a sharp breath, before telling Finnick, “I should probably clean myself up.” The man in front of you nodded, and got up swiftly. He offered his hand to help you get up.

With his hand in yours, he led you to the water until it was at the height of your legs. Finnick grabbed a bit of water with the palm of his hand and started washing your arm. He removed every single trace of blood on your body, and you closed your eyes as he did so.

At some point you had sat down, your legs crossed over each other as the water reached the height of your neck. Fish boy - as you liked to call him - washed your hair as if he had done it a million times before. He massaged your head in the process, making you relax under his touch. He was gentle with everything he did, as if you were as fragile as an item made of glass. He handled you with such care, it made you feel like you didn’t deserve him at all.

You got up after he was done, and the smile that adorned his face made your heart leap in your chest. “Almost done.” He mumbled, before cleaning your face affectionately, his thumb swiping softly against your skin. You looked at him as he focused on the dirt on your face, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.

“Done,” He whispered, so insanely close to your face, that you could feel his warm breath against your skin. “Thank you, Finnick.” You breathed out, your hands almost instantly grabbing his, as if his hands were magnets. He left a kiss on your forehead, before finally resting his on yours. There was no force keeping you apart anymore.

It was just you and him.

[mrsnancywheeler]

the lakes (6) // finnick odair x f. reader

merry christmas to all who celebrate, my gift to you 🎄

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous chapter / next chapter

midnight rain

5k words

warnings: angst, fluff, SMUT MDNI (y'all better eat it up while it's here bc this might be one of like twice or three times so merry christmas lmao), orgasm denial, teasing, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slightly mean finnick but also softdom, mentions and allusions to trafficking and sexual trauma, self-hate, manipulation of someone's feelings, allusions to death/violence, pnv, usage of weapons, terms of endearment, no use of y/n, unedited, cumming inside, mental health issues, self doubt, hypocritical reader, savior complex finnick

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Cold air hit your skin as the doors to the training center opened, instantly you could feel the onslaught of goosebumps on your arms. “Remember brush up on skills, knives, spears and number one objective-”

"Katniss.” You finished for him. "You go get your hands back on that trident, and hopefully my instincts will remember what it takes to throw a knife or a spear.”

"If not, work on some survival skills, but I think the instincts will kick in.” You tilted your head to the side, uncertain but humoring the idea. He kissed you softly, “See you soon."

"I'm only going to be a few hundred feet away, Finnick.” You smiled and he did too.

“Well that's a few hundred feet too far.”

"Good thing you can come find me anytime you want.” Squeezing his hand as you reluctantly took a few steps back.

“You don't want to come and admire me back in my element?" He joked, his grin bearing his shining teeth.

“In your dreams, Odair."

“Absolutely!" Finnick's eyebrows quirked up before you finally pulled yourself out of his magnetic field to focus on the more viral thing, survival.

It had been so long since you'd thrown a knife with purpose, over half a decade which had been what you felt most confident in. Of course there had been a couple times, admittedly more than a couple, when your nerves spiked up and a moment where you were simply making dinner, chopping something up, to being spooked by a noise that led to a knife wedged in a wall or cupboard. So Finnick cooked and cut, he wasn't as easily startled or on edge.

This year they had clearly made more of an investment into the training, a little pad verifying it was you when you stood on the elevated block. You took a second before lifting the tiny weapons from where they lay, the weight was instantly familiar in a way that made your chest heave. It felt like you were that same young girl again, trying to see what could help her survive, help her overcome others. Finnick has been right, how to throw a knife, how to throw it to kill, all came back like child's play.

The instant the first hologram appeared it was like your brain went on autopilot, they weren't real but your brain was screaming, survive, survive, survive. Each knife flew from your hand with lethal aim, your arms instinctively knew what to do, how to throw precisely as fast as possible. So you trusted your body when suddenly the simulation was over, you felt your head coming back to reality. It was terrifying, you'd felt like you were in a dizzy high and suddenly you were that same young girl terrified in the arena. Full of guilt and regret for the lives you'd taken.

“I thought your weapon of choice was a spear." A voice cut through your thoughts, bringing your thoughts back to the person you were now. Peeta, ever outgoing and charismatic just as he'd been depicted, with an untrusting looking Katniss not far behind.

“No, that's what was convenient at the end, but the spear was never mine, it was-"

“Conway’s." Katniss finished the name you hated saying, hated remembering for you. “You killed in the Bloodbath with knives and then the girl from District 2." She must have been rewatching everyone's games, learning their tactics.

“Ironic, weren't they the District 2 girl from last year's weapon of choice as well?" You asked, stepping off the platform.

“Yes." She was tense, stiff it radiated off of her, stagnating the air.

“When there's such limited options, it's hard to get much differentiation. You certainly helped mix the bag last year.” Not just with her little bow and arrow, you hoped she knew what you were really saying, but couldn't with the people watching from above. She probably didn't, she was like a guard dog who didn't know whether or not one could be warmed up too, but would always assume the worst.

“I'm glad that was entertaining." Her voice was bitter as if she had no idea that everyone here has gone through the exact same trauma and felt the same way.

“It certainly was for them." You glanced upwards, towards the head game maker and his cronies observing you all like lab rats. “Most of us were." The Morphlings certainly had to be the most boring show of all, to those who couldn't realize it was such a smart tactic to stay alive, even if it didn't make great daytime television.

“You should teach us how to throw sometime." Peeta inserted himself back into the conversation. "If you want, we could teach each other things. I could go over camouflage.” He offered with a smile.

“Yeah of course!" You smiled back. “When you blended into the rocks by that stream, it was truthfully unfathomable in talent to be able to do that."

“And Katniss can shoot, I'm sure you've seen, but she never misses." Katniss shot him a glare, "Just following Haymitch's orders.” Peeta shrugged before his eye was caught by Johanna finishing up with her ax training. “I should get a formal introduction." He was walking away when Katniss spoke again.

“Why'd you volunteer for that girl?" She asked, and you turned your head towards her.

“For Annie?" You felt like it was obvious, but Katniss just nodded. “I wasn't going to put her through this again, that wouldn't have been fair of me. I couldn't let any of them, I couldn't have lived with myself if I had, so I might as well die on that hill now." Your candor seemed to make her less stiff. “You know, she was the first tribute I mentored. Years after my games, I did everything I could to help her win, to prepare her, but I couldn't prepare her for what happened after. Seeing her after that it was like I failed." Annie would forever be known as the one who went "a little crazy.” Maybe that was a blessing though, maybe it saved her from a much worse fate. Katniss' eyes finally looked more soft, not off guard, but not blocked off from your words.

“Even though you know this time only one of you can come out?" Her eyes briefly flickered towards Finnick before landing back on you.

“I'm not expecting to be the one who makes it out and she wouldn't have either. It's worth it to save her, he'll be fine without me." The words were too raw, too much like being stripped naked, but you knew you needed her to trust you and being honest would probably be the most effective route. Of course she couldn't completely trust you if she'd watched your games, you didn't blame her for that, but you just needed a little of it. “It's not different from what you did for your sister, sometimes you just know when that person needs to be protected no matter what that means for you."

Katniss began walking over to where the spears were located, “Like Peeta said, if you show me how to use the spear and the knives, I can show you how to shoot the bow and what plants and berries you can trust." This was her way of some form of acceptance you realized and internally congratulated yourself.

“Sounds like a deal to me." You picked one of the heavy spears up, it was also just as you remembered. It brought back flashes of the boy who taught you how to use it, the boy you'd killed with it. You could tell what she was thinking as you held it, how you used Conway, used his emotions and then his own weapon. “You know, the funny thing is people act like he didn't know, but that’s really what made it so brilliant.” Katniss looked confused as you stepped into the platform, which confirmed it was you. "Looking back you realize how early on he had me figured out and was playing me right back, I really think that's what endeared us to each other in the first place. He was trying to beat me at my own game almost from the beginning and I didn't even realize.” You launched the spear into the first hologram before quickly grabbing the other as Katniss watched on, absorbing the seemingly impromptu rant. “I can't blame him, I don't blame him even if I'm the one who gets it all placed on my head, which I probably deserve." Another spear knocking the hologram figure apart. The final one ready to fly. “You just have to remember who the real enemy is."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"You two already have an advantage being from District 4, plenty of opportunities to practice with what you would be good at using in lessons. So stick with whatever you were good at then to impress, but don't forget to learn other skills that could be life saving in the long run.” Finnick was breaking down the plan for the two of you as the walk for the first training session with the other tributes was about to ensue. Although it went unspoken you'd also been blessed with extra practice even from back when you were dating Finnick in the district, he was so anxious that he needed to ensure you knew how to protect yourself. That you polished your skills, which he was sure you could do.

"Show off your strengths, but don't forget you're not just impressing the gamemakers, but the approval of other tributes can be vital. Alliances are important.” Ondine added.

Finnick nodded in agreement, “Another advantage from District 4, is the availability of the Career pack of tributes. All of the best trained and prepared tributes, especially if you show off enough to impress Districts 1 & 2 you're both a shoe-in. I'd encourage that as the strongest choice."

“I don't think we should do that." Conway’s voice of disagreement made you stop in your tracks. What was wrong with him? What could possibly be going on in his head that possessed him to argue with your mentor, someone who'd won before? Finnick raised an eyebrow, in a look you could only describe as patronizing. “I'm just saying that also means they're the best prepared to stab us in the back when it comes down to it. If we ally with tributes from a less prominent district it could make it easier when it comes down to it, make it less vicious.” He was delusional, it would be vicious no matter what when there were just a few people left.

You looked at Ondine who’s eyes were closed as she shook her head, Finnick's arms were crossed as he looked at the two of you, and Conway looked expectantly right at you. Then it hit you, this was a test. In order to maintain his trust in the fantasy you'd been carefully creating you'd have to take his side, prove you weren't loyal to every thing Finnick muttered. Even if it was hypocritical it angered you, it felt hellishly unfair that he would put you in a predicament like that. Who cared about the relationship between you and Finnick when he was the mentor offering advice to save both of your lives?

Conway pointed at you, urging you for a response. “I mean, what do you think? I'm just babbling aloud, I'll drop it if you think it's stupid." Maybe you were just paranoid, no, this was definitely a loyalty test. To him your love would mean support, it would mean unwavering devotion. So you painfully forced a caring, understanding look in your eyes, for your muscles to relax, and a loving smile on your face.

“Of course we should keep our options open, I mean we're not even there yet, the Careers this year might not even be the best options. You're right, Conway, we should consider every path to help us." Of course the Careers would be prepared, he was going to get you killed if he kept pulling this. Reasoning that at least your actions were well calculated not blindly emotional scrutinization. It made you slightly resent him, but the answer seemed to satisfy him as he grinned at the other two before beginning to walk again.

The slight spring in his step was obvious to anyone paying close enough attention, it upset you. When you hoped Conway wasn't watching, you shot a look towards Finnick. It was quick, but you grimaced and hoped your eyes could express your annoyance. Although the bob of his head was equally quick you could see he understood and was feeling just as enraged as you felt if not more. How could Conway claim to care about you when he could threaten a potentially life saving alliance to try and prove a point about how much you felt for him over Finnick? Although Finnick still wore a charming smile you could feel him seething and it comforted you somehow to know that he would never, that he would always pick safety, your safety and that he wouldn't stand for Conway’s games either. Even if rationally it did make sense, you were messing with him which both you and Finnick knew, but there wasn't time to think on that when it was life and death.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“You're brilliant, even if it pains me to admit that you beat me to it." Finnick shook his head, smiling wildly. Haymitch had informed you that so far Katniss would have liked you as an ally if it weren't for the package deal that included Finnick. A feat considering all the tributes that wanted to ally with her after her impressive show in the archery station. It had truly been amazing, how smoothly she used the weapon, and how accurate she was.

“Well, you're welcome." You pecked him on the lips, smiling. Sitting down on the bed and smoothing out your robe, Finnick soon followed.

“I love you so much." He mumbled as he crashed down onto the mattress.

“I love you too, Finnick." Your head lay down by his, quietly counting the freckles scattered across his face.

“Staring is rude." His eyes shone with his internal brightness that he couldn't hide from you.

“Isn't that a perk I should get being your wife and all?" He scooted closer, nose brushing against yours.

“I suppose. Don't know why you'd need to, there's no need to memorize when you're stuck with me forever now."

“Good." There was nothing you wanted more than to see his handsome face every day, from when you woke to when you slept and every moment in between.

His hot hands embraced your cold face, making you shiver and he smirked. It was so patronizing, how he knew that his skin to yours was like fire on ice so you had no choice but to melt, but you couldn't stop yourself from softening anyways. Before you could even try and conjure up words to try and call him out, his lips were on yours.

He wasn't aggressive, never, but his gentleness didn't take away from his control. Your lips chased him and suddenly you were beneath him, swept up in his plush lips. Hands searched for him before he pulled his face away. You couldn't stop yourself before you whined at the removal of his lips from yours, pouting at him.

He scoffed, looking down at you slightly condescending, “Really, angel?" You could feel your face heating up as his eyes gazed at you, his hand delicately tracing the hem of your robe. “We don't have to do this, if you don't want to, sweet girl. You have to communicate with me, I don't want to push you, if you even don't feel comfortable you need to tell me." It felt like too much in the moment when it seemed so blatantly obvious that you wanted him, craved him. But it also made you love him so much more.

For so long it had been difficult to even be touched. The Capitol had come in and dug their talons into you, your own intimacy didn't even belong to you. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. You'd tried to push it down, he'd dealt with it for so much longer, since he was so much younger. Pushing it down didn't stop the roots of trauma from taking root deep within your soul though.

You felt guilty for not being able to give yourself in so many ways to Finnick who was unbelievably patient, of course he was, he understood, he cared. When you'd finally grazed your hand against his and let him grab it, the pureness of the touch was enough to make you burst into tears. That made it more difficult too though, your tears. A tactic that had once seemed wise in winning over the Capitol as a sweet, innocent girl had come back to bite you. Echoes of how pretty you were when you cried.

When you'd finally given that part of yourself to Finnick, of your own accord, the will that has usually been taken from you. He'd made sure you wouldn't regret it, he brought back the positives of intimacy which you'd forgotten about. You were so used to calling upon the tears as you zoned out, floated away. But not with Finnick, never with him. Where you both belonged to each other and were truly connected as one.

“Are you comfortable?" You asked softly. It felt selfish that he was so worried about you with what he'd been through as well, like it was too much about you.

Finnick sighed, “Don't do that." You looked at him quizzically, “Averting the question, you shouldn't be doing it to please me, I'll be okay. I wouldn't have gotten this far if I wasn't.” His hand stroked the side of your face which chased each movement. "Are you certain you want this? I'm not going to be upset if you say no, angel.” The way he loved you so deeply to be going step by step wasn't even grating anymore it just made your heart buzz even more.

"I do want this Finnick, I know what to say if it is too much.” The thumb grazing your neck was enough to make your eyes roll back, your entire body sensitive with the waiting.

Finnick nodded, slowly. Making sure you weren't just trying to appease him, "Color?”

You sighed dramatically, "Green.” He tugged your hair lightly, "Ow!”

"So impatient, trying to take good care of my girl and she's too desperate to appreciate it.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

You pouted, “I'm sorry, Finnick. I'm just-" You gasped as his hand slipped in your rope, warm hand grazing the cold, hardness of your nipple. Legs rubbing together, his other hand, instantly sitting between them to hold them still.

“Speak up, angel. Just what?" That's what you appreciated so much, he was dominant, took care of you without the casual cruelty others often used. Of course he could be cruel in the best way, a type that still cared and knew what the line was and respected it.

“Need you, please. So, so bad." Your hands grabbed his shoulders, then the sides of his neck desperately trying to feel more of his warmth.

He hummed condescendingly, “You do?" His hand left your breast to the toe of the robe which he slowly unknotted. You nodded, brows furrowed as you tried to buck your hips. The hand prevented your legs from getting closer together, hitting your inner thigh but not in a forceful manner. “Come on sweet girl, can't you behave for me, won't you be my good girl?" His ocean eyes had you nodding along mindlessly. “Words."

“Yes, please, I just, please I need more."

“So needy." The knot on your robe untied, falling open to reveal you to the crisp air. His hand trailing down to where you needed him most, the feeling already sending shocks through your body. You wanted desperately to buck your hips up once again but resisted. He chucked, “Is this all for me? I haven't even really touched you yet." You nodded desperately, the teasing made you want to cry in desperation. Which was fine, but thinking about it scared you, the way they'd taken away two things that were so natural, so personal would distract you.

“Finnick." You said shakily and the time instantly made his face get serious.

“Are you okay? Do we need to stop?" You shook your head vigorously.

"No, just-” Your fingers fiddled with the blanket, embarrassed, "Can you just take some deep breaths with me?”

"Of course, my love.” He grabbed the hand nervously moving around the blankets to hold it to his heart. “You're okay, in and out with me, angel." You closed your eyes, breathing with him, his heart reverberating through you. “Let me know when you want to keep going or stop." He whispered.

“Finnick, I just want to cry, not in a bad way just it's been so, so ruined for me." Weaponized, sexualized.

He nodded, “You can cry if you want, I'll wipe them away from you." The idea made you want to cry at his sweetness alone.

“Okay." Your voice was shaky, “We can keep going, please." His fingers began moving again, right over your core. Palm slightly running against you and it took all of you to not rub with him. Fingers delicately circling your sensitive nub and you moaned out. The first tears falling which he diligently wiped away with his time and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Is that good?" You nodded blissfully and he swatted at your bareness causing a yelp.

“Yes, thank you Finnick, so good."

“Good girl, such a fast learner." You whimpered, toes curling. “What do you need?"

“In me, please."

“What, my fingers?" He held one hand up, moving them in front of your face. The man was mocking you, he knew what you meant and he kept rubbing your clit, making it nearly impossible to keep verbalizing.

“No!" You stammered out desperately. He smirked and removed his fingers from your bundle of nerves, causing you to hit his arm in frustration before he was grinding his clothed member on you and your hands wrapped around his shoulder tightly. You nodded intently, “Yes please. Want you to be inside of me, want to be one Finnick, yours." It hit you that this was the consummation of your marriage which made your heart swell as well as your need.

“Can't deny you anything, sweet girl." He was such a liar, but right now he followed through. Your hands began pulling down the pants he wore, desperate to free him so he could be buried in your walls. He groaned as your hand grazed his tip, precum dotting it. You licked your lips and he smirked cockily, “Another time, angel."

"How do you want me?” You asked, you'd take him anyway he wanted just to be clenched around him.

"Just the way you are is perfect, wanna see you, beautiful.” He lined himself up with your soaked entrance, "Are you sure, you're ready? Don't need more preparation.” You shook your head vigorously, pushing yourself forward to feel the tip and he grunted.

“Don't need it, so wet, I can take you, promise."

"Only if you're sure.” You nodded again, pouting.

"Please!” You whined and with that he didn't hold back, pushing his full length in and you nearly screamed. Clenching your walls around him, fingernails digging into him.

“That feel good?"

“So, so, so good." You began sliding your hand down, but he caught it tutting in disapproval.

"I've got you, angel, just lay there like a good girl. Let me take care of you too, you're making me feel so good.” His expert fingers went straight back to your clit as he began pounding in and out of you.

“Oh God, Finnick!" Your eyebrows pulled together and eyes snapped shut as he filled you. It was like you were a perfect fit for each other.

“So perfect angel, just looking at you made me think I wasn't even gonna make it into you." Finnick groaned, he knew exactly what you liked, what pace to go. You'd been so used to faking it or them not caring at all, but with him he could get you there so fast, so hard, and could do it over and over so perfectly. His fingers rubbing into your bundle of nerves that had you biting into your bottom lip to stop you from waking the whole floor. Both actions made you want to scream in ecstacy. “Are you close already, angel? Do I really make you feel like that, so fast?” You nodded, dumbly making mindless noises as his hips thrusted in and out. “Me too. I don't know how you do it to me. Where do you want me, stomach, mouth, inside?" His groaning was making his own speech shaky.

“Inside please, need to feel it, Finnick."

“You sure?" He asked, biting down on his bottom lip as your moans from his skilled fingers working their magic as he kept moving inside of you made him even closer.

“Yes, yes, yes, need to be one, just you and me. Need it inside." He pinched the bundle of nerves lightly as he hit the spot inside of you that had you kicking your feet on sheets. “I'm gonna, oh I'm gonna-"

“I know, just wait a little bit longer, angel, I'm almost there. So close, be my good, good girl." You whined, nodding.

“Wanna be so good for you."

He nodded, the words bringing him even closer to the edge as he roughly thrusted into you. “You are, so good, just gotta hold back a little longer." You were sobbing, lost in the high as he wiped away the tears streaming down.

“Feels so good, Finnick, I can't please let me, need to."

“Wait." He said sternly, at this point he felt like he was denying himself too just to watch you squirm and listen to his every word. Grabbing your face softly so your eyes were trained on him, hand still rubbing fast circles on your clit. “Been such a good girl, don't ruin it." His hips started stuttering inside of you.

You shook your head, “I won't, I'm sorry. Wanna be good." He let go of your face with his free hand and pinched your nipple. “Finnick, please, I can't. Please don't be mean, I need you.”

"Making me feel so good, my love. Clenching around me, trying to hold back, you're such a good listener." He pinched your clit again, he was being mean, he couldn't deny it but the way you cried out and started trying to push away from him was bringing him straight to the edge. “Color?"

“Green." You choked out, “Please, Finnick, I can't." Your hands pushed against his chest.

"Then you know what to say, angel." He raised an eyebrow, “So you can." It would feel so much better, be so much harder for both of you the longer he kept this up. His lips attached to your breast and you tugged his hair, he moaned onto you and the vibrations had you desperately trying to fend off the orgasm approaching.

“Please, I need to. I know you are too." He thrust into that special spot in you again and your hands hit the sheets in frustration as your eyes fluttered.

“Be patient, don't be a brat." He pulled away from your breast to look at you. He pressed down on your clit and thrust into you again, “Oh god, gonna let go inside of you now, angel. Be all over your walls, gonna feel so good. Been such a good girl, you ready to let go of me."

“Yes, please!"

“You can let go, sweet girl." His lips pressed to yours to quiet both of you moans as you finally both let yourself go. You could've sworn the way his split inside you made your shaking even harder. It was so good, so worth it.

You were nearly breathless when you pulled away, “That was new."

“Are you okay?" He asked, eyes full of concern.

“Yeah, of course. I just, you're always incredible, I'm great.” You laughed breathlessly.

"Oh, good.” He let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

“Thank you."

“You don't have to thank me, angel."

“Yes I do, they've taken so much of both of us and you just bring so much of it back to just being so real, so it doesn't feel like they own it anymore."

“That's just being a decent human, I just want to take care of you. Through all the ups and downs." He was so kind, it made you ecstatic that for as long as either of you were alive you'd always be one with each other, bonded through everything you loved. “Come on, we have another long day tomorrow, let's get cleaned up."

“What if we just didn't go, just laid here together, until it passed."

“I'd love to." His eyes were earnest and like pools you could drown in, “Nothing I want more than being with you forever. But they'd drag us out and we have things to do, my love.” He helped lift you up from where you lay comfortably. Your nose scrunched up." What?”

You pulled apart your thighs, "So sticky.”

He laughed before he could stop himself, "Well I'm not the one who asked for it.” That smug, loveable ass.

"Shut up, you loved it.” Softly shoving his arms as you went to stand.

He raised his arms in defense, "Guilty as charged."

He was so perfect, the way he was so effortlessly funny, so compassionate for all your needs even if you didn't verbalize them, how patient he was yet so stern and guiding. Much too good for what you could give him, you'd go to hell and back to do half as much as he did for you. Of course he always assured you of all you did to help him, but it felt so miniscule compared to what he did for you. The things you would sacrifice to help him, to be by his side were unmatched.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you so much for reading!! I haven't written smut in so long and this really isn't a smut heavy series but I felt like exploring how what snow did to the victors who were deemed to be desirable would effect their intimacy and sometimes a little spice is needed to deal with all the angst I write. if you enjoyed it feedback is always appreciated, likes, comments, reblogs, anything and my ask box is already open if you have any questions or ideas! thank you all so much for reading 💋

taglist: @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @darlingsoulbeautfulthoughts @thatonegayloser616 @kybermp3 @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @ravensinthedaylight @innercreationflower @uhnanix @aesthetic0cherryblossom @yourdailymemedelivery

[sage-is-in-fact-very-tired]

might've cooked too hard on this. it sure is. so many worbs. [18,320 words, to be exact.]

but, i commit to my bit, and I will continue to do so because i'm a *loser* - so, welcome to the “sage looked at the c!sherb playlist and went far more bonkers than probably necessary” post. because uh. nothing i say ever stays a bit very long-

—

[Section One - Man. Icarus Morningstar is such a character. The most character of all time.]

-> [Icarus]

-> In my mind, this is 2 to 3 people talking to/about Icarus. The first section, up until the instrumental in the middle, being Centross. Just the whole idea of drinking, it feels very much Centross about them. (“Living beyond your years” is very reset coded - not Centross talking about them, but the rest of that section definitely feels like Centross.) The second section, up until “you put up your defenses when you leave”, is very much Fable talking about them. Just the whole idea of them falling - he would've been the one to see that - and the whole idea of him being scared of that happening again and again and *again.* The last section, following that, could be argued it's either Centross or Rae. How they both know that Icarus puts up this front, this armor, when they talk to people, when they walk around, and only really *really* drop that when they're alone or when Centross or Rae is around. (Well. There's an argument that they *don't* drop their walls completely around Centross or Rae, but this is playlist analysis, not character analysis-)

(Also the whole reset idea of Icarus dying over and over again, forgetting over and over again - falling over and over again.)

-> [Redesign Your Logo]

-> This is very much about the whole change from *just* yellow's and golds, to the yellow and purple color scheme they end up with due to the eye. It's very Midas to Icarus coded, basically. Because as a kid, they were mostly dressed up in yellows, but as time went on, and as the eye happened, and as the resets started, that *changed.* they shifted into wearing purples more often, mixing them with yellow - for all intents and purposes, redesigning the logo they had previously had. Also the whole idea of the trident changing from the trident to the Quixis symbol - cause. Yeah that's kinda Icarus’ logo. (The argument could also be made about how they become nicer with the eye and the following resets - their logo, their typical-ness of being a snarky asshole shifts into being something kind and caring and compassionate. It's Redesigned, and it's at least *partially* Midas’ doing.)

-> [Any Day Now]

-> Icarus about the wack. How they want it to stop, *think* it will stop, soon. It'll stop ‘any day now’ - it can't keep going forever, can it? (Also the pain Icarus is constantly going through - the bad, the horrible and the terrible and the suffering - it'll stop eventually, right? It can't keep going on forever - it'll stop any day now as long as they can *make it* there, make it to the point they're good and happy and it can stop. They just have to keep going and it’ll *stop.*)

-> [&]

-> Icarus’ hypocrisy. How they do things, harm, yell at, everything like that, to others - while doing the same things they're berating others for themself. How they'll do one thing, and call it fine, while criticizing that *exact* same thing. Also could be seen in a light of Fable talking about Icarus’ actions and friendships and things of that sort.

-> [Comb Attack]

-> Okay this one is. Mmm. Okay. Most of the words in here are very glitchy, very cut off from each other - something about the resets cutting off Icarus? Cutting their words off, cutting their actions off, cutting their memories off, *glitching* them.

-> [Hungover in the City of Dust]

-> Icarus’ Isolation. How their friends are constantly leaving them alone and isolated, and how they're constantly pushing people away, and how they're left running around in circles trying to catch up, trying to save themself, figure out what's wrong, figure out how to *fix it.*

-> [Mr. Backwards]

-> Icarus’ more backwards way of thinking. How they'll tell you what they *want* How they're hurting, but they're not going to tell you. How they're trying so desperately to not let people see that, seem so backward to others.

-> [Never Meant to Know]

-> Just the whole idea that there is so much about this world that Icarus cannot and should not be privy to until the correct time - how they live their life rather peacefully up to that point, not knowing, never knowing. The whole idea of the resets - and how really, truly, Icarus wasn’t supposed to know about *any* of this, how they were supposed to be *dead* and they’re not, they were genuinely *never* meant to know.

-> [Out of the Box]

-> Resets. The whole idea that Icarus has died again and again - and that whole like. Abrupt manner of the resets. How they can be doing something one moment and the next they're outside, surrounded by grass and surprised.

-> [Digital Silence]

-> Icarus siding with Fable, and really, Icarus’ actions in general - How they have to do this, regardless of what others say, and regardless of how it makes them *feel* - they *need* to do what they're doing right now; it's all a means to an end and they *need to* do it - because if they don't, things could go very wrong and very different. (Different in a bad way, of course.)

-> [Alien Blues]

-> Just kind of describing Icarus’ whole life - the pain, the bad, the terrible. The whole idea Icarus plays everything off as a joke - they *don't* let people see what really happens, and the snark and asshole attitude people give them because of that. Also maybe the whole idea of the way the things snark them sometimes after bad things, when they're repeating history in a bad way. (Also also also “I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Highness” something about how they’d do anything for Fable, *anything* - even if it meant killing their family, if it meant that he might love them; if it meant they’d be good and they’d have succeeded in something - succeeded instead of *failing.*)

-> [Under My Skin]

-> Just. Everything with being not entirely yourself. Everything about being yourself on the outside, but having someone else simmering right under your skin, telling you things, making you do things. The entire idea that Icarus isn't entirely all *themself.*

-> [Able]

-> That whole idea of Icarus not wanting to be alone in their own mind sometimes, on top of wanting to just be *fine* - on time of trying to so desperately *convince* themself that they're all entirely and completely fine. Saying it out loud so it properly sets into their mind, so it properly comes to fruition.

-> [Mirror Man]

-> That need to be *seen* by someone - anyone. That need to be heard and seen and known by someone - and the knowledge that if they don't, Icarus will make it worse for not only themself, but *everyone* else - make them live Icarus’ nightmare.

-> [Brass Goggles]

-> A) Copper duo; B) That whole idea, almost, that Icarus likes to shove down their feelings. They like to pretend the Icarus that has bad, upset emotions doesn't exist - at least, when in front of people. That whole idea that they try to present themself as someone who doesn't break down in front of others, they try not to cry and they try so desperately to keep this facade up and teach themself more as time goes on how to do so.

-> [Bleed Magic]

-> In my mind, this is very Midas talking to Icarus. Just that whole idea of Midas knowing what Icarus is like; that whole idea that Icarus is *lonely*, that no one believes them just because of how much they *lied*, and is, somehow, bleeding magic out. Literally, in the direct form of Sherbert's eye (Which was, in a way, *killing* Sherbert - not necessarily the bleeding eye, just simply the fact they didn’t become Quixis when they needed to), as well as the whole concept that due to the fact they didn't become Quixis when they should've, Midas has spent far far too much time and energy and *magic* on them. Icarus literally draining them, bleeding them, leaving them with such little control.

-> [Gold]

-> This being about how everything they touch changes no matter what they do, how they try so hard to keep if from changing - but the wack is random, Midas’ can't control it, and so it *changes,* it changes gold and bright. Everything they touch changes to gold, huh?

-> [Gold]

-> Just, I guess, that whole idea that no matter how many people leave them, or get killed around them, or anything like that, they'll come back. The idea that those people can't break like that, because Icarus has always seen them like a rock that *can't* break.

-> [creature]

-> That whole idea of how Icarus *is* Creation's child. They are creation, in a way. They push His ideals, however subconsciously, into people. He is leading their way, and will be, and this is a good thing. And Icarus pushes and pushes this idea - showing both the good parts of themself, not quite the good parts of Creation, as well as the bad more twisted parts, parts almost completely Fable's fault due to them almost being *His* ideals. (“I am creation, both haunted and holy.”) Also almost that whole idea of the resets, their body re-created and re-created over and over and *over* again. They *are* the embodiment of Creation's powers - a person remade through Him, made in His image, made to be the person *He* wants them to be. Haunted, in the idea they might as well be a ghost, and Holy simply because Fable deems them as such - deems them His favorite.

-> [Path to Isolation]

-> A) Oh my gods this song is so fucking coded what the fuck; B) The whole idea of how loss, be it of someone, or *something* - leads them down this path. Leads Icarus so often down this path of immense anger, leads them down the path of the side of the enemy. That whole idea of everything breaking, be it through their own means or someone else's. That whole idea that going down this path so often means that they're so incredibly alone, and means they can't *recognize* themself - they don't know who they've become in all this pain and hell and *bad*, they can't find it. They just keep falling apart and they don't even know when or where to begin to pick up the pieces.

-> [Bet On It]

-> Just that whole idea that Icarus wants to do the right thing, so desperately. Despite all their doubts, their disbelief, their questions about this world, they want to do the right thing - they *will* do the right thing. They need to. They've put all their effort into doing the right thing - it'd all fall apart if they didn't continue to do that.

[Section Two - Broters. also family <3]

-> [Problems]

-> Am I aware this is on the playlist because of Charles? Yes. Am I going to say this is brothers coded anyway? *absolutely.* Because it is brothers coded - something about Icarus seeing themself as bad and someone who can't be saved, while they view their brother in a significantly better light, and see him as the good one and the one who's gonna save them.

-> [Two Birds]

-> *Separation* - This is very much Icarus and Rae drifting away from each other. Icarus drifting away and leaving and hiding, while Rae continues time and time and *time* again to help them and save them and drag them back *home.*

-> [Family Line]

-> Something just about repeating history, and something about following after your parents, and something about how they'll try to change and change themself so much so they don't mirror their parents, and something about how they have to live with everything their parents have done.

-> [Call Them Brothers]

-> Separation!! Again!! The brothers are apart from each other, separated rather permanently through the resets, and, from Icarus’ point of view, they probably *can't* fix it. They can't mend themselves back together like they used to, they're broken.

-> [Brother]

-> Something about how despite being broken, despite all the separation and time lost that hangs between them, they still rely on each other. They'll still help each other no matter the cost, because, in the end, they're still brothers - they still love each other and they still *care.*

-> [Rule #4 - Fish in a Birdcage]

-> Icarus being trapped and isolated, be it through their own doings or their father's or *anyone's*, and how Rae will always be there to sooth them, help them, care for them, *love them.* He cares so desperately, and he'll do his best to take care of them, and Icarus *believes it* - that he loves them.

-> [Icarus]

-> This one feels *mostly* Rae talking to Icarus - Seeing just how far they've flown, and just how far they're willing to fall. That realization of what Icarus has become after all of this, and trying so very hard to drag Icarus back down in any way he can. The last part is Icarus to Rae, however. That try to get him to stop - that “you can't save me, Rae.” That acknowledgment, no matter when in the timeline, that Rae can't save Icarus. (Icarus has to be the one to save themself.)

-> [The Family Jewels]

-> Just that whole idea of cycles - that whole idea of just fucked their whole family is. That whole idea that this cycle of pain and suffering will continue until *they* (Icarus) stops it. Their almost snark to Rae, that idea that they only share *one* last name - Morningstar - and not both. Also that whole idea of Icarus being the favorite - that Fable conditioned them to be the “better” one, conditioned them to be like *this.* (Also just the whole idea of “jewels” - royalty. That idea, almost, of Icarus welcoming Rae to this life. This life of trying too hard, so very hard to be perfect - to be the best, to be royalty, because they have to be. And, arguably, that realization that Rae never had to live that life. That realization Rae never *had* to be the perfect one - Rae got to. Live normally, pretty much. Whereas Icarus grew up young having to be a prince and be as perfect as they could.))

-> [Sparkbird]

-> The whole idea of Icarus noticing little things, pointing them out, needing Rae to notice them. The whole idea that Icarus grew up far *far* too quickly, and Rae is almost their outlet of that - they want so desperately to make up for a) all the time they lost with the resets, and b) all the times Icarus was just an asshole to him.

-> [When the Day Met the Night]

-> Did Sherb say this was Fable, Enderian, and Isla? Yes. Am I going to say it’s brothers coded anyway? Also yes. Just the whole idea of how Rae is always there for Icarus, and how they make each other better when they’re together, and how yes, they often have their bad moments between each other, but in the end, there’s always good - in the end they always manage to find a way to have the sun shine brightly upon them, how in the end they still love and care to deeply about each other.

-> [Icarus]

-> Rae to Icarus. That whole idea that Rae can so easily see through Icarus’ front - so easily see what they're trying to hide. The idea that Rae can so easily see the danger Icarus so often leads themself to, and so often tries to deter them away from that. The whole thing of Rae so often giving Icarus an *out* - asking them questions, leading them in the right direction. (Or, at the very least, trying his hardest to do so.)

-> [I've Got You]

-> Considering this is a Zenni song, and one made for Fable specifically, it doesn't *really* need an explanation - However, just like. The whole idea that despite everything, despite all the brothers have been through and all their arguing and all their bad and terrible, Icarus and Rae still care about each other. Icarus will still keep Rae safe no matter what happens, because that's what older brothers *do*, that's what *family* does.

[Section Three - Season one, am I right or am I right-]

-> [Fine]

-> Just that whole idea at the beginning of season 1 that everything was actually *okay.* It was fine, it was okay, they were all *okay.* Nothing bad had happened yet (at least, not that they could remember), and it was all going well - and the idea that it was going to *continue* to go well. To them, nothing bad was going to happen, because why would it? It's all gone well up to this point - why would it start now?

-> [My Eyes]

-> This is very early corruption - the first part being Icarus, that slow realization of what they're falling into - bad and anger and hopelessness (almost?), and that whole idea that they're getting *worse.* The second part is Momboo - almost trying to comfort herself and Icarus, convince herself and Icarus of what they (Icarus) *really* wants - that they don't want to be bad, truly. (Regardless of their actions, and what Momboo and Co see so clearly in front of them.)

-> [If I Killed Someone for You]

-> Icarus to Momboo in early corruption. The idea of their true sense of self - or at least, the sense of self they had before - is slowly rotting away as corruption takes hold. Slowly killing the good person they were, slowly killing them, and leaving only the bad, ugly, and bloodied pieces of them. Would she still care about them, still hold their hands, if they weren't the same person she had fallen in love with?

-> Could also be viewed as Icarus to Momboo in late corruption, more towards the end, after killing Haley. How there's physically blood and gore on their hands, and would she still hold their hands knowing that that covered their hands like that.

-> [Laplace's Angel (Hurt People? Hurt People!)]

-> Corruption. Basically Icarus to *everyone* - That snark of “am I *really* that bad?” because they know, if necessary, they can be so *so* much worse. That acknowledgment that if anyone else was in their shoes, they'd probably drop to the same lows they had - the same bad, terrible and horrible actions. (Well - they *think.* They come to know later that probably wouldn't be the case, but it's almost what they end up believing up until, really, Breaking Bonds.) Just that whole idea of their mentality during corruption - how bad they can be, and how much worse they could be, and how much someone else in their same shoes would be just as bad.

-> [Ways to Be Wicked]

-> Very Ominous Bane. Just that whole idea of there being so many ways they can just be *evil.* The whole idea of trying to convince people to join their side, to join their cause, to change the story, to be *bad.*

-> [Heathens]

-> Sherb said this is very Easton talking to Athena about Ominous Bane/Icarus, Centross, and kinda sorta Seven, and I very much agree with that. Just the whole idea of a *warning* - of how messy and chaotic and bad Ominous Bane can be. The whole idea of everything they've been through before this, be it if they remember it or not, and how it affects them still to this day. The whole concept of someone trying to warn Athena of what they're getting into, *tell them* what everyone here is like.

-> [I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE]

-> Just that whole idea of wanting to be seen as good by Enderian - almost? That whole idea of *wanting* to be her puppet, and wanting her to tell them what to do. (And that whole idea of after it, wanting to be redeemed.)

-> [Twisted]

-> Hot take - Icarus taunting people. Icarus trying to get Ominous Bane with them to help taunt people - *specifically* Athena. Just that whole idea of trying to get them to believe that, a, they're not a hero, they're not going to be - and b, this world as it is, isn't worth saving. They need to mess with it, blow stuff up, kill people, *something* to make it worth it.

-> [Ramalama (Bang Bang)]

-> Just the whole idea of Icarus and Co going around and blowing shit up. Just the snark and annoyance and bullshit they say during it, and the stuff they tell people while they're blowing stuff up - the whole *loudness* and bangs of the explosions - all of it.

-> [Secret]

-> Icarus asking Athena to keep all of this - Ominous Bane, *everything* about corruption - a secret. That loosely veiled threat of what would happen if Athena told *anyone* - what would happen to *them* if they dare spill that to others. The fact that Icarus so desperately wanted to keep corruption, keep their actions, keep Ominous Bane and Athena's involvement in it, a *secret.* (And how, in the end, they can't. Because in the end, Athena *tells* - and Athena gets hurt because of that, but they also get *saved* because of it.)

-> [Hawk in the Night]

-> Icarus to Athena - That whole idea of Athena doing good and being what Icarus wants her to be for them and Ominous Bane. That whole idea that Athena should fight against their friends, stop trying to call out to them for help, stop trying anything - and being proud when Athena would finally end up doing that, cutting ties.

-> Hot take, not in the correct spot in the playlist for this, but also Fable talking to Icarus - be it before or after the cathedral. That whole idea of Fable *wanting* Icarus to isolate themself from their friends and brother, and being pleased when they did that; as well as the whole idea of fighting your friends and family and siding with the “bad guys” and not, well, your family. (Or well, Your family family. The people who really love you. The people who’d care if you’d die. The people who want you to be there and you to be around them.)

-> [Sharks]

-> Just that whole idea of Icarus and Ominous Bane almost taunting Athena while he’s with them. The whole idea that everyone knows, that Athena thinks they can be better than everyone else (when in reality they’re just the same), and the whole idea that one day Athena will see that all she’s doing is swimming with sharks that want her gone and dead and hurt the same as everyone else.

-> Another hot take, Rae to Icarus around A Brother’s Final Stand. That whole idea that one day Icarus will realize their mistakes and missteps and wrong doings and how *Fable* is wrong, and they’ll truly realize how in too deep they are, and just how deep they’ve gone to swim with the sharks.

-> [Lies]

-> Just that whole idea of *all* the lies Icarus tells during season 1. To others, to get people on their side; to Ominous Bane to make themself look better; to *themself* to hide away they're *cracking.*

-> [We Both Reached for the Gun]

-> That whole idea of being a puppet to someone else. That whole idea of someone standing behind you, trying to control your actions and words and *everything* about you. That whole idea of corruption, being a puppet to yourself - in a weird sort of way. And that whole idea that during corruption and Ominous Bane, Centross tried so desperately to make Icarus do what *he* wanted.

-> [Wolf in Sheep's Clothing]

-> Just the whole idea of corruption. All that anger and upset and *mad* - targeted at *everyone.* Arguably, Icarus to Centross. Just that anger at how he gets to Enderian, that anger he gets to do whatever *he* wants, and they're delegated to. whatever this is. All of the arguing that happens between them - it's very season 1 prison duo.

-> [Play With Fire]

-> This is Centross and Enderian, yes; *Arguably* them almost taunting Icarus. The whole idea of them getting to do all of this, and do it *together* - while Icarus hasn't even gotten to *talk* to Enderian.

-> [Can't Stand the Rain]

-> Just that whole idea of literally not being able to stand the rain - how it's constant, how it means this just keeps going and going and *going* and they're not really getting any further than before. (Also like that whole idea of love - how there's truly no such thing as it, as long as this keeps going; as long as they’re corrupted.)

-> [Bust Your Kneecaps (Johnny Don't Leave Me)]

-> Three Strikes Three Strikes Three Strikes. This is so *incredibly* three strikes coded. Just that whole idea of Icarus taunting Athena, chasing after them and everyone else, threatening them. The way that Icarus was fully willing to hunt and kill all of them - fully willing to *go there* and hurt them like that.

-> [6up 5oh Copout (Pro / Con)]

-> This is so very prison coded. Just that whole anger at the fact they were even *put there* - the idea that people would dare misuse their trust like that to trap them. The anger of being alone and trapped and the fact no one was even *considering* letting them out. That need and what to be *out* because they were perfectly fucking *fine* - they didn't need to be trapped like this, why did they even *think* Icarus needed to be trapped like this?

-> [Murders]

-> Getting put in the prison. The idea that they go looking for something, they’re promised something and they work incredibly hard to get to that point - but in the end the prison ruins that for them. In the end, all their efforts were really worth nothing. All their efforts to see the end of this weren’t worth anything because look at where they are now. Look at where this has gotten them - trapped in a prison, panicked and alone and *hurt.*

-> [Nothing Left To Lose]

-> Loose Ends Loose Ends Loose Ends. This is so very incredibly Loose Ends coded. Just that whole idea of Icarus’ to put Centross into the prison - and their attempt at that. Then Centross almost immediately trying to put *them* back into the cell. The following argument and then Centross flying off, Icarus and Rae following. And then the whole idea of Icarus trying so *desperately* to keep him from blowing up their house - and failing because Centross just doesn't give a shit. Centross doesn't have any attachments to them anymore, they've served their purpose (his words), and he doe\snt need to keep them or their house or their anything around any longer - and so he goes through with blowing it up. He leaves Icarus alone there to pick up whatever they can.

-> [As the World Caves In]

-> The season 1 finale - just that whole idea of Centross blowing up the tree, the world literally caving in as Fable rips away yet another page. The way everyone gets ready, gathers around for the funeral of a woman none of them *really* knew, ready to mourn, but not knowing the events that would follow; they get ready for a funeral - only it’s not *only* Haley’s, but also their own. Sure they’ll come back, but the world will still cave in, and the person that sat in those seats will be long gone by the time they do.

-> Arguably also could be the season 2 reset - that whole idea of getting ready and dressing up and *armoring* up to fight Perix/The Warden and getting to that point, putting her soul into the portal frame; only to find Midas had switched Fable and Haley and it was all for nothing, and. Oh. Now the world is caving in - it’s falling apart.

-> [What if Tomorrow Comes]

-> I guess really that whole idea of hoping that Centross blowing up the tree isn't really, truly, the end of this all. That hope that tomorrow will come regardless because this can’t be the end. But also almost that doubt and unknown of if it really would come - that idea that, to them, it really seemed like they were *going* to die with no way of coming back. (And that whole idea of being proven very wrong as they wake up a few weeks later in a reset world, and slowly work to get their memories back as time goes on. That realization that tomorrow *will* come because it came once, it came tens of times before, so it’ll come again and again until they figure all of this out and stop it.)

[Section Four - Season two, why are at least a half of these about putting centross in the prison. *sherb*]

-> [New Life]

-> Just that whole idea of how since no one remembers at the beginning of the Sculk reset, they all - Icarus especially - have an opportunity to, at least until they remember properly, start anew. Icarus doesn’t remember, and for a while no one really remembers them, so they have an opportunity to have a new life; to rebuild things long since broken and make them better. Icarus doesn't have to worry about everything they did in the past if no one can remember it, meaning they get a free past to - at least, for a while, and for all intents and purposes - start a new life on a clean slate.

-> [People I Don't Like]

-> Very much Centross at the beginning of season 2 - to everyone really; though considering this *is* the Icarus playlist, it's arguably to Icarus. Just that whole idea that Centross *knows* them and everything they did and all the feelings he holds about them - and the whole idea that Icarus just. Doesn't. That whole thing of Centross trying to make himself seem good in everyone's eyes, save face and all of that - especially to Icarus. (Especially considering Icarus has/had *very* strong feelings about everything Centross did and told them and. All of that. Not that they remembered all of that at the beginning of the reset, but. Concept.)

-> [Turn The Lights Off]

-> The whole vibe at the beginning of season 2 that people shouldn't go to the end - or at least go to the end *alone* - because look at where that got people last time. Don’t go to the end because you could end up corrupted just like *they* did, and they don’t want that to happen again.

-> Part of me would also say, maybe not within this season, but also season 3 - with the end, that this could also be used in reference to the Worldport and how it’s decaying and how that’s where Quixis is and everything that happens every time Icarus goes in there.

-> You could also maybe make the argument that it’s about Purgatory and Fable - Don’t go with him, don’t go in there and subject yourself to that because you could become more of a monster than a man - more of a loyal soldier than yourself, more of a guard dog than a person. Don’t go down that hole, turn those lights off, because who knows what will happen. (Don’t side with him because you’ll become the monster you’ve always feared becoming - you’ll become the person you’ve never wanted to become.)

-> [The Devil You Know]

-> That whole idea of Icarus not remembering - but also *wanting* not to remember. Icarus has seen the way people react to them, they don't want to remember that person. Sure, right now they're not the *most* amazing person, but they can tell that they were so so much worse before - and they don't want to remember that. It's better to *just* remember the devil they are now, the person they've become, than the person - devil - they were before.

-> [What Did I Do?]

-> Very much season 2 Icarus runaway arc. Just that whole lead up if it - that idea of them wondering what they've done for months and months, and their proposal of an *arena*, and the fallout, the way they ran. That whole idea of them not knowing what they did, what they were, who they were; that whole idea of them wondering what they *did* to be looked at like *that* - what they did to be talked to like that and threatened, what they did to make their family (the only semblance of stability they had even during season 2) so *afraid* of them. (And almost the idea that they were afraid of that - afraid and scared of being viewed in such a way; that idea that this is an active fear that they have.)

-> [It's Not the Same Anymore]

-> Very much Icarus remembering - but less that immediate “*oh fuck yeah I remember!*” and more that “oh. fuck. I *remember.*” Just that whole idea of now that they remember, nothing back home, nothing within town, is going to be the same. None of it will have the same connotations to it, and none of their relationships with people will be the same - because now Icarus *knows* and now they're going to be far, *far* more cautious with their words and actions. It's not the same - and oh how they remember just how fucking *miserable* they were. Additionally, that kind of whole idea of how they should be happy, they should be happy now that they've remembered everything - they *know* now; but really, in the long term, remembering everything just makes it so so much harder to navigate *everything.* (The vibe the end of the song really gives is after all of the Prison Arc Part 2, Icarus trying to make up and make their relationships and friendships and *everything* better - fix them up and pick up broken pieces.)

-> [Could've Been Me]

-> Remembering but we're happy this time! Don't think about all of the consequences and bad feelings and *everything* that comes with remembering you're a horrible person - only focus on the fact you remembered and can now go home and definitely totally be incredibly happy with your family again! All jokes aside, that's very much the vibe this song has. Just that whole idea of Icarus being incredibly happy that they've remembered everything - that they can go *home* finally, they don't have to stay out in the middle of nowhere alone because they're terrified of hurting people. Also that whole idea of everything they want to do now that they remember and know where the line is - know what they can say that won't tow too far over a line and/or trigger someone.

-> [Brutus]

-> Oh to be Icarus Morningstar upon opening their door, post remembering, and seeing David Centross Mistvale. Just that whole anger and upset Icarus holds for Centross after they remember. That anger at what he did, at what he didn't do, at what he said and told them, the anger at what he *left them with* - and the anger that *he* got to talk to Enderian. He got to hear her and listen to her and know her, and Icarus didn't. He was her favorite, and *gods* how that made Icarus so very angry. And the whole idea of how that anger carries over - how Icarus so desperately wanted what Centross had, and didn't get it, and now that they remember they want to *make* it known just how angry they are. (And that whole idea and action of putting him in the prison.)

-> [Absinthe]

-> Very similar to Brutus - that just *anger* at Centross for all of this. That anger at everything he did and everything he said and everything about the endstone reset. And also that way they *don't* believe that front he's put him since the beginning of the reset - don't believe the “good guy” front he's tried to keep up since appearing this reset.

-> [The Main Character]

-> The whole idea that they can do this - do what they're doing to Centross, and *keep doing it* because there are worse people than them out there - there are so so much worse people than them out there, so they can do this, because, well, they’re better; they’re not bad bad like a lot of people. The idea that this is okay because of everything else.

-> [You're Not Welcome]

-> Just all of that angry Icarus holds for Centross bubbling over - this *is* the act of putting him in the prison. That need to make it known he's *not* welcome - the idea they try to convince both themself and him of that no one would care if he just disappeared. And, well. Welcome to the first of like four more detailed line by line analysis cause i'm a loser.

“Don't you know you're not welcome ‘round here?” Just that whole idea of Icarus being willing to lock him away because they fully believe, what to believe, want *him* to believe that he's not welcome - he's not welcome and therefore that makes their following actions “okay.”

“I think you should go ‘fore you cause some drama.” Almost that idea that he needs to leave - he shouldn't be here. That whole idea that he should leave before *they* do something. That whole idea that if he stays, regardless of if he does something, they’re going to *hurt him.*

“Don't you know I'm the one you should fear?” They *want* him to be afraid of them - want him fear them so they *finally* have that upper hand on him. (Want him to be afraid of them like they were afraid of him after they got out of the prison - want him to know that fear, want them to be able to get their revenge.)

“Talk to me if you've got a problem.” That whole idea that Icarus wants to be the one to deal with him - that whole thing of no one else dealing with Centross the way *Icarus* thinks he should be dealt with.

“I can't believe you used to truly scare me.” Because he *did* genuinely scare them - after they were uncorrupted they were genuinely and truly scared of him. However, like this, with the offer that Icarus can stab him, with the way he just lets himself get put into the prison, he's really not that scary. They can't believe he used to genuinely scare them when he's just. almost pitiful like this - in the prison.

“You were like a ghost story told to keep me weary. But I never listened, no, I slept good ‘til morning.” Arguably *he* was the one telling them the ‘ghost stories’ - the warnings he'd tell them, the arguments they'd get into. The way Icarus never heeded them, only pushing further and further until they tipped him (or themself) over the edge. The way Icarus would just sleep it off - because that's what they always did.

“And when our paths finally crossed, I didn't heed the warning.” Similar to that last line - Icarus didn't heed any warning. Icarus just kept pushing and pushing and pushing, arguing with Centross over and over and *over* again.

“Then push, push, push, push. Yeah, you pushed me to the edge.” Haley. Arguably, Centross was part of the reason Icarus killed her in the first place. That need to prove themself not only to Enderian, but also to Centross. That need to prove they weren't useless (weren't a *failure*), that they could be of use to Ominous Bane and weren't just *there* - that they could *do something.*

“I used to dread the thought of falling quickly” Something something resets something something. While they don't remember them or know about them at this point in time, just that whole idea of falling like that. Also, arguably, that whole idea of falling into an ideal and thought process - that idea they don't like to do that quickly, they don't like falling down a thought rabbit hole without thinking and considering it properly first. (Even though they do that so incredibly often.)

“But now I just wish that you'd send me off that ledge - So I can finally fucking take you with me” But also that whole idea that if it meant Centross was going down with them? if them falling down a thought rabbit hole, if them falling and doing something terrible, meant Centross would go down with them? If him pushing them to that point meant they'd go down *together* - two birds, one stone and all - and no one could be hurt by him again? Oh Icarus would gladly fall down. They'd gladly let themself if it meant they could kill or hurt or do *something* to him that meant they were going down together.

-> [Blood // Water]

-> Just that whole idea of Icarus being so very angry at Centross for all of this. That whole idea of there literally being blood in the water - he tried to kill all of them, and he *did* kill hundreds more. That whole idea that Icarus doesn't plan on letting him go *any* time soon - they want him so desperately to know just how what he did made them feel. (Also “you poisoned me just for another dollar in your pocket” that whole idea that he let Icarus dig themself into this hole, he argued and argued and *argued* and pushed and poisoned their mind with thoughts and words that *stuck.*)

-> [Lonely]

-> They hate each other, yes. However, What if they held hands about it? Maybe even kissed about it. Just like. That whole idea of of how during the season 2 prison arc they were really each other's *only* company. They were alone, but alone together. Yeah they hated each other - but they still *had* each other. That whole idea Icarus was *alone* - but they still had someone, regardless of how much they hated each other. (Also “Hey love, Have mercy on me, and keep me company” is very Centross to Icarus. Just that idea of wanting mercy, wanting Icarus to *stop* hurting him - but also still wanting that company because they were *alone.*)

-> [GONER]

-> They definitely still hate each other - like absolutely still hate each other. Like they are arguing and fighting and snapping at each other every fucking opportunity they get the longer Centross is in the prison - especially more towards the end, Centross is being just as snippy and antagonistic towards Icarus as they're being to him. That whole idea of Centross snipping at them - that idea of “at least he fights back when he's imprisoned.” However, arguably, they also probably kissed about it. They hate each other - but like, sometimes you have to acknowledge the other person is definitely a little kiss-able. (“You look so damn appetizing” like. *like.* so many of these lines imply they at the very *very* least kissed about it.)

-> [Forgive Me Chester]

-> Very end of season 2/the season 2 reset. Really that whole idea of seeing the 3 people you've spent your life chasing after all at once, all in the same room, all together. That idea of fighting the Warden, that whole idea of trying to get Fable out, that whole idea of trying to finally chase the bad away - chase the resets and the Warden and the anger and the bad and *all of it.*

-> Verse one is very much talking about Haley; Verse two is about Centross (prison duo the beloved); Verse three is about Rae, something about broters and their relationship being good for that bit at the end there.

-> [Rock in a God's Shoe]

-> Just that general demeanor of late season 2 - trying to figure out if Fable getting out would *actually* help (even if Icarus really really wants him back), and that whole idea of trying to figure out if he will actually be on their side or not. That worry after everything that happened with Perix that maybe he isn't. Also that idea of Fable not giving that much information, and them all trying their absolute *hardest* to figure out how to get him out. (Also that bit at the end is Icarus to Midas coded, especially with the glitchy voice, and in this essay I will-)

-> [Moonsickness]

-> Very much the season 2 reset. The annoyance at Fable, that annoyance and *anger* at Quixis. That very demeanor they have toward Quixis at the end - being done with them and being annoyed at them; them seeing themself as a failure because of *course* they fucked up the thing that was supposed to help them. They can't do anything right ever - they fuck up *everything* they touch. Also, hot take, Midas talking to Icarus and Fable (and almost the grove in general? but I feel like *mostly* Fable). and, well, I have thoughts about some of these lines, so take this silly more specific analysis. (Not *every* line, just some I picked. Because if i picked all the lines we’d be here forever.)

“Everybody knows this place is dying, as am I.” Something about Midas dying as the Worldport does - decaying and falling with their realm. Something about the season 2 reset showing the world *literally* dying, falling apart, crumbling and everyone *knowing* it.

“I might not get another chance.” Midas switching Haley and Fable - they *knew* they probably weren't going to get another chance to try and stop Fable like that. As well as the whole idea of the grove only having one chance to open the portal - they, Icarus especially as the one who *put* Perix's soul in the frame, fully thought this was their *only* opportunity to get Fable out. Obviously this is proven wrong in season 3 - but they didn't *know that.*

“I am such a fuckup, if you only knew that I am such a fuck up.” Something about Icarus seeing themself as a failure - a fuckup. They couldn't even get their father out correctly, why can't everyone just see how much of a failure they are? Why can't everyone see how much they ruin everything they touch? (And, arguably, Midas as well. That whole idea of them failing in their duties to bring Icarus when they were supposed to, leading to so so *so* many worlds decaying.)

“And I am the worst mistake that God has ever made.” Sort of that same idea as the last one - that idea of Icarus seeing themself as a failure. Only this time it's more related to their Dad than themself. He made them, they're *his* child - therefore, if they see themself *that* badly, they're the worst mistake he's ever made. They're a terrible fucking person and they're a *failure.*

“But I make lemons out of lemonade.” Wack wack wack wack. This line is so very about the wack. Something about changing things from one thing to another in a way that *shouldn't be possible.*

“In your guts you know it's all destroyed.” Okay, Midas to Fable. Something about Fable knowing that this world is dying - something about how Fable would *know* the outcome of doing all of this. He would know that Rae would figure it out one day, the cause of the resets, and it wouldn't go *well* - that his relationship with one or both of his sons would be destroyed. (Also, mayhaps, Midas to Icarus - that whole idea that the world is destroyed and their chance at getting Fable out (at least this time) is *also* destroyed.)

“None of us belong, Everything I do is wrong.” Something about everyone being pulled into the resets from different time periods, being shifted and tugged and placed into the present but not quite *belonging* there. Something about how Icarus tries their very hardest to be *good* - but so much of what they do ends up being wrong on so many levels. (But it's all they know.) Something about how Midas tries their very best to fix and fix and *fix* and they can't really - it almost always ends up *wrong.*

“And in your blood you know what's right.” Midas to Icarus - that whole idea that Icarus has Fable's blood running through their veins, that they believe that he is *right.* Even if in the moment they don't know him well, don't remember him well, they still subconsciously think what they're doing that mirrors Fable's own actions is *right.*

Could also be Midas to Fable? That might be a slippery slope to climb and explain though.

“And in your bones you know what's wrong.” Midas to Icarus - something about Icarus so often knowing, but not *acknowledging*, that what they're doing is wrong. Icarus *knows* it's wrong, deep in their bones, they really really do. (But rarely do they acknowledge that.)

Could *also* be Midas to Fable for similar reasons.

“And in your throat you know you're lying to kids” Midas to Fable - While they're not *literally* kids and children still, they are *his* kids - and he's lying to them. Fable is lying to his kids and he *knows* it, not that he'll acknowledge that ever.

“And you know nobody belongs in this hell.” Midas to Fable - Something about Fable *knowing* none of them belong in this hell of resets and everything; that he should probably just let life run its course, let it go as it *should* - but he doesn't. And he's dooming them to this hell none of them belong in. (And he knows they don't.)

“I am God's worst Mistake” Just. Icarus. Once again just that whole idea that they just think of themself as a *failure* - especially after the portal glitches. They can't keep doing this - at some point they're just. A mistake. (Arguably, could also be seen directed more at Quixis as well - the way Quixis made them like this with the eye and all.)

“And you seem happy on the knife's edge, but I just lick the blade.” Midas to Fable - That idea that Fable kind of hovers on the knife's edge, but never tips over it. He tows a line, about to tetter over. The way Midas will *gladly* tip over that line - lick the blade, on this case - they'll go down, tetter over that edge, but they sure as fuck won't do it quietly or unnoticeable.

“And I'm the worst mistake your God has ever made.” Arguably, Midas to Icarus. Fable is the reason they couldn't get to Icarus - Fable is the reason they're *like this.* And, *arguably,* Fable is kind of sort of Icarus’ God. Also just that whole idea that Fable is the reason for *so much* between Midas and Fable. And now Midas is *angry.* Mistake in this case isn't a bad thing - mistake in this case is more “Midas is about to make their anger *very* much Fable's problem - and it's his fault.”

“Invisible hand savior, fucking up your definitions even though it's life or death.” Midas to Fable - Fable is, in this case, the invisible hand. He saves Icarus every *single* reset - he *is* the savior, and he's fucking up definitions *every* time he does it. Even though it's life or death, even though Icarus absolutely *should* die, they should be dead, they're not. He's literally fucking up definitions everytime he rips a page out or edits or does *anything* to As It Is.

“Don't you think it matters when we wish our friends the best.” Midas to Fable - again. Something about Fable wishing Rae and Co good luck on figuring out what the resets were being caused by - when *he* was the one causing them. It *should* matter that he wished them luck, but it really doesn't considering he *knew.*

“Because of all this bullshit I'm not anything at all.” Midas in general really - something about how they're just trying to fix everything now, but they're not really a person anymore. They're alone and they're almost a god and they're *angry.*

“There's nothing to believe in and there won't be ‘till we fall” Okay this line goes *far* deeper into the finale and things than it should. This is Midas talking to Fable but for once they're not being an *asshole* - they're lumping themself in with him. Something about Fable dying at the end of Fable, and Midas passing their torch (metaphorically falling/dying), and the way it leaves room for new gods - new gods people will actually *like* and believe in and won't cause harm and and and. Something about Midas knowing that until both of them are gone, no one is going to properly believe for a *while.*

“I can't get the numbers right - I can't fucking count because not one goddamn thing is in it's place.” Midas to Icarus *or* Vice versa (Icarus to Midas). Something about the wack changing and altering so so *so* much neither of them are really them anymore. Nothing is like it should be, and it hasn't been for a while. The Worldport is decaying, soon Midas will be too. Icarus isn't themself - they haven't been in a *while.* The eye isn't theirs (not that they *know* that), all of the purple isn't theirs, some of their members *aren't theirs.* Nothing is in it's place and that's *really* fucking shit up.

“You fuckers know it's all built on lies” Midas to *both* Icarus and Fable. Just that whole idea of how Fable manipulates and abuses in the way he does; twisting words and fabricating truths, lies laid with the grounds of a truth, but built on things objectively very false. And in Icarus’ case - their entire life and personality is a lie. They act so very differently alone than they do around others, it's all a front. Everything they've built to this point, and *so much* of what they'll build as season 3 starts is built on lies and half truths. (And that whole idea that Midas is *angry* at them.)

“But the beast refuses to die, and so I guess well neither can I.” This line *arguably* also leans very heavily into finale territory - mostly with things we know after the fact though. Just that whole idea that Fable can't die, he refuses to - as long as he's immortal he *can't.* And if Fable is alive, and actively keeping Midas from Icarus - then Midas can't pass the torch, Midas can't *die.* Something about how Midas fully thought they were going to die upon passing the torch to Icarus. If Fable refuses to die, meaning they can't reach Icarus, then Midas *can't* die. (Because what happens then? The Worldport is left without an overseer and wack gets hundreds of times worse? *No* that can't happen. So they power through it to let Icarus see the end.)

[Section Five - You died. Deal with the consequences, Icarus. (Season 3)]

-> [Is There Anybody Here?]

-> The season 3 break my beloved honestly. That's this song in a very very loose nutshell. The season 3 break - both their time in the Worldport as well as their time here. Just that whole idea of trying to find Quixis - and then trying to find *something* that they know and can hold onto. That idea of looking for something, anything, anyone that can help them because they *don't know where they are.* That idea that they're trying to find their way back home, and are struggling because they don't know how.

-> [Maybe Man]

-> Very much that whole mentality Icarus has early season 3. That idea that they *don't* know how they are, not anymore. They're just kind of. Floating. Also that whole idea of trying to figure out who the fuck they even want to be in the first place. They don't really have a direction - they just want to be *something.* (Something that will please people, make them smile whenever Icarus passes by because they're doing *good.*)

-> [Chasing You]

-> That whole idea of how Icarus has spent the past *year* trying to bring Haley back, trying to figure out how to see her and fix their mistake - and that whole idea that now that she's back, now that Midas brought her back, Icarus doesn't know what to do. Icarus doesn't know how to act around her, what they can and cannot and should and should not say/voice, what is too far over a line and what isn't. They're really just left floating not knowing what in the *world* they should do about it.

-> [The Garden]

-> The whole idea of Icarus getting so done with and so incredibly over Quixis and the wack and the changes and *us.* The whole idea of wanting to dig them up and out and remove them completely, no matter the consequence, no matter where it would get them in the end. The whole idea of how Midas knows their name - and we have to figure it out - and the way they don’t, and the way, more often than not, we as chat snark at them and are very passive aggressive sometimes, rather than being helpful - and how they don’t like that.

-> [New Eyes]

-> Two samples Two samples Two samples. Just, Icarus about the eyes in general. The finding put that the purple eye's blood *isn't theirs*, and the following realization that if the blood isn't theirs, then the eye itself isn't theirs either. That want and that need for people - Midas - to stop changing them, to give them *their* eye back - so they can see with new ones; so they can see with the eyes that were always *supposed* to be theirs. (Also just the general idea of needing to see things through a new lens, see things better, because they're suffering and hurting and *no one* seems to see it, and how one day that fact might kill them. (And well, it does, doesn't it?))

-> Sage and their ability to be so normal got this one on the playlist. We win these.

-> [The Tornado]

-> So very Unlocked - this *is* the Unlocked song. That whole idea of them being used to the wack, being almost surprised as it just *kept getting worse*, *the wings,* the running to the bunker and the *yelling* at Midas, Fable finding them, and - arguably - the aftermath of the wings and those few streams following Unlocked where they were just trying to heal and fix and *clean* up the path they had made. (Okay yes Quixis ascension, yes, but we’re not at that part in the playlist yet - so.) And, well. Some more detailed line analysis because I’m a loser.

“It was just startin' to drizzle as I walked out the door, But I've delivered papers in the rain like that before.” Just that whole idea that the wack being weird - being worse, changing their house more than normal, changing *them* and their clothes more than normal - was okay, in their mind. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s done this before, and everything was fine for both them and others - why worry about it this time?

“3:30 in the morning, I was happy as a lark.” That idea that Icarus was so very happy to get Fable out. They were so happy and excited, because this was what they had been working to for months and years and *resets* and they had finally been able to do it. They might’ve been a little worried, but they were mostly *happy.*

“The wind was pickin' up and howlin' louder all the time.” The redstone beginning as they were all standing in front of the now open portal - the way they weren’t expecting it, the way it just kept picking up and getting *worse* no matter what they did to stop it.

“The sky churned like a cauldron and the distant thunder roared, And I knew that I was in for quite a storm.” The redstone picking up, but also the fact Fable hadn’t come out yet - and they had been waiting and waiting for the others to get him for *minutes* now and it was beginning to worry everyone outside of the portal; that idea that they *knew* something might be up - with Fable or the wack.

“A little rain never hurt no one, so I kept pressin' on.” Up to this point, the wack hadn’t hurt *anyone* - well, with the exception of Icarus themself. Sure it had hurt and changed and wacked animals and blocks and all that - but never Icarus’ friends and family. It hurt them time and time again - but they were fine after all of it (for the most part - with the exception of the many breakdowns and *the eye*), why should they worry about others getting hurt? It had never *severely* hurt them like that; so they kept going and standing there and letting it get worse upon that assumption that it *wouldn’t do that.*

“And I tried to tell myself it's always darkest before the dawn.” Just that way they were so desperately trying to convince themself that it was all okay - that the group in Purgatory *will* bring Fable out and it’ll be okay. The wack will be fine and it’ll stop and it’s just a small little bad thing before they get Fable back - that desperate way they try to convince themself it’ll be okay.

“Lightning struck an oak tree as I leapt off my bike.” The way the redstone, the *bad* just keeps getting worse and worse as time goes on. Regardless of what they do it gets worse and they can’t seem to *stop it.*

“The sirens started wailing, but there was no good place to hide.” That whole idea that Icarus really, really, *really* wanted to run - they wanted their dad and they wanted the wack to *stop* because it just kept getting worse and they really, really wanted to just run. But they knew they column’t because running would make things so so much worse - so they don’t run, they just stand there and let it keep getting *worse.*

“I knew without a doubt there was a twister touchin' down.” That idea that they *knew* it was only going to get worse and worse the longer they stood there, without a doubt, but there wasn’t anything they could *do about it* - they just had to power through whatever happens, like they always do.

“The little bit of courage I had left was almost gone.” Something about how at the beginning of Unlocked they were mostly okay - that had *some* bits of courage - but the longer no one came out of the portal and the longer all the redstone did was get bigger, and the longer they just *stood there* the more that courage just. faded.

“And then the nightmare started, it got deafeningly loud.” Momboo. The redstone getting bigger and the wack *hurting her* (hurting someone other than Icarus, for once) and the way they almost *immediately* panicked and ran (or, at least tried to) off. And then like the following moments of running and running and trying to fly and then their wings *shattering.*

“Every fiber in me screamed out, but I couldn't make a sound.” Something about how they screamed as their wings broke, but about how their panic after the fact was so very quiet. They weren't screaming - they were just hurt and in pain and weren't going well but were trying so desperately to keep it under wraps. They refused to let themself break at *any* point during the run to the bunker, refused to let themself fall apart like that. They wouldn't - they *couldn't.*

“It sounded like a freight train was draggin' me to hell.” Something about the particular way the the wings sounded when they shattered - so *loud* and overwhelming as they crystalized and as Icarus *fell.* Even louder as they shattered against their own weight and Icarus’ back. They dragged Icarus *down.* (Metaphorically dragging Icarus to hell, I suppose.)

“And this was my prayer, "Save me from this terrible nightmare"” *Icarus yelling at Midas.* This line is os Icarus yelling at Midas, both on their way and inside of the bunker. They just wanted Quixis to *stop*, to know why they just kept *doing all of this* to Icarus and their friends. -They just wanted Quixis to stop, and they just wanted someone to be there for them and save them because *gods* they hurt so very badly.

“That was when I saw my family with my eyes shut real tight.” Fable showing up at the bottom of the bunker - they literally see their family. Also something about how they just wanted this to stop - their eyes shut and the denial of the past delays creeping back up on them.

“Would they know how much I loved them if this was how I died?” *Would they?* How many times does Icarus tell their family they love them? (How many times do people tell *them* that?) Would their family know just how much Icarus loved and cared about them if Icarus died - if they died like *this* with no one around?

“No, I vowed I'd not be murdered by a monster in the sky that night.” If you think about it - this injury could’ve killed them. It didn’t - and they definitely didn't want them to - but it *could’ve.* But they wanted to so desperately survive and live and *not* let Midas’ actions get the better of them - they vowed it wouldn’t happen.

“But if I went home to heaven, at least that's where I'd belong.” Midas’ would’ve pulled them before they died (just like they did in the finale) if the injury *did* kill them - they would’ve been where they belong because they were meant to become Quixis *decades* ago; that, the worldport, Quixis, was supposed to be their home for years yet it *wasn’t* - it's where they belong but, at this moment, they’re not there.

“There was nothin' but destruction and wreckage in that town.” The mess the path and wack made; the redstone in front of the portal; *the tree.* (Their wings.) It was all a mess and destroyed and, for at least some of that - there was no fixing it. It was just destroyed and they just had to deal with that.

“And that was how I learned to live when you can run, but you can't hide.” They could run from hurting Momboo, and they could run from the wack, and they could run from their wings breaking - but they can’t *hide from it.* They have to deal with the consequences of their actions, they can’t hide from it. They have to see the tree - see their mistakes, see their bad - nearly everyday. They can run from it, sure, but they can’t *hide.*

“How to feel trapped in a tunnel but come out the other side.” They’re trapped and grounded and alone (somewhat - Fable is doing his whole “isolate his kid so they lose attachments” thing) but they come out of it, eventually. They get their wings back, they can fly again - they may have felt trapped for a time but they *made it out.*

“'Cause with all the stormy weather in the world, you learn to take life one storm at a time.” Pulling out the character analysis card - Icarus gets very focused on *one* (big) thing very easily. Their wings, they wanted to fix those - spent weeks trying to get better; Enderian talking to Rae - they were so incredibly stuck on that until they made up; And, the more obvious one from season 3 - Centross. It was a 5 month long storm - but it’s all they focused on. They take their life, especially during season 3, one big problem and thing at a time - focus on *it* and nothing else. (Because focusing on other things means acknowledging just how much you’re hurting, and they can’t do that.) And I mean, it gets Icarus through. They make it to the end going like that. It’s not healthy - but they *make it.*

“I keep hangin' on.” No matter what happens, no matter how close to death they get and no matter how much death would probably be kinder at a point, Icarus is still there. They keep hanging on - keep living and keep just, going through the motions.

-> [Birds]

-> Just that whole idea of how after Unlocked (and arguably also *during* Unlocked) Icarus just wanted to *relax.* They were done and hurting and upset and they just really, really wanted to sit, alone, with the flock. They just want to be calm and relax and not have to think about any of what just happened.

-> [Look Who's Inside Again]

-> Unlocked. Probably Midas to Icarus? Or just someone outside looking in at Icarus in the moment after their wings break. This song specifically being more about Icarus’ desperation to get to their bunker - and their feelings while inside of it. How this is just like the prison - putting themself into a box, a prison, a *room*, to keep people safe. To keep them from hurting people. They're back here again - trapped in a box with no way of getting out until someone comes to get them, yelling at the person who (for all intents and purposes) put them there. They're back here again, *inside* again.

-> The whole idea of Fable, after he gets out, beginning to isolate and cage Icarus - with the guise of keeping them safe. He’s removing them from their friends and family and leaving *him* as the only person Icarus can safely - at least in their mind - rely on.

-> I have further words about Fable and Icarus in regards to this song, and that’s really tying into the “again” aspect of this. Viewing this through the lens that this is Fable isolating Icarus, and the visions of a child shown throughout this song, then it’s not terribly hard to come to the idea that this probably isn’t the first time Fable did this - isolate and cage and manipulate - Icarus. That whole idea that his manipulation and abuse has been going on for much longer than we see on screen - this isn’t a new thing. He did this before and he’s doing it again and Icarus just has to deal with that. (Even if they don’t *know* he did this when they were a child. They don’t remember any of that aspect of themself.)

-> [Let Me Make You Proud]

-> That whole idea that yes, Icarus has failed and made mistakes and disappointed Fable - probably time and time and *time* again - but that they really, really, *really* want to make it up to him. They want to make him proud because they feel so much like a failure after everything that keeps happening - they want to make all their mistakes and missteps up to him. They want to make it up to him and they keep trying and trying and *trying* to do that. (And, arguably, failing at it rather often.)

-> [the fruits]

-> The whole idea of how Icarus wants so desperately to help Fable and all he’s doing, but the idea of how Fable can’t see that they’re not entirely them - can’t see just how much they can keep falling and repeating history and just how badly they’re doing. The whole idea that they can’t help him - they can be the person he wants them to be and the person he’s trying to make them into because they’re not entirely themself in the whole sense of them; they can’t be that if they’re not entirely themself - they can’t help him like he wants them to, and how they spiral because of that.

-> [Loser Baby]

-> Centross and Icarus. Kind of to each other. This song is. So *incredibly* drinking stream coded. Just. That realization of just how similar the two of them are, just how much they have in common, just how much they're both going through the same shitty situation. That realization that they can *rely* on eachother. The realization of how they're so so *incredibly* similar - especially in regards to Enderian and Fable - and how they're both losers, they're both having a bad bad time, but they can do it together. (Which, arguably, they’ve known for a while - but it becomes a lot clearer in the drinking stream; especially with Icarus calling Centross their best friend.)

-> [Down the River]

-> *Breaking Bonds* - This song is very Athena to Icarus. The whole idea that Icarus likes to run and hide and leave the past and everything they’ve done behind and not acknowledge it whatsoever - How they can’t do that; How even if Icarus wants to forget and leave and run, others aren’t going to do that for them - Others are still going to remember all of this and all they’ve done, and what happens to them, the grove, once Icarus leaves and decides to ignore it. What happens then? What happens to all those people you’ve hurt?

-> [Hero]

-> Centross’ death. That way Icarus just spends that immediate moment after him fading just trying to convince themself it's *okay.* They're okay and he's okay and he'll be *back* and it's okay. Them just trying to convince themself it's alright and trying so so desperately to comfort themself in this hell. Arguably, also almost their anger at Fable for killing their best friend - that immediate sharp anger and bared teeth (“I'm the hero of the story, don't need to be saved.” Just that whole idea that Centross saved them - but he shouldn't have had to. They were the *hero* of this story, no one should have to save them - and no one should have to *die* doing that if they even tried. Icarus’ whole thing is trying to save themself, figure out ways they can fix it *themself.* No one should have to die because Icarus couldn’t do that. They’re a prince, they’re supposed to be alone. People shouldn’t have to die because they weren’t.)

-> [Can't Catch Me Now]

-> Centross almost like. Taunting Fable and trying to comfort Icarus. How he's always going to be there for Icarus, he's always watching over them, even if he can't tell them and show them that physically, he is *there.* But also almost taunting Fable in regards to the fact that Fable can't catch him now; Fable will not find him no matter what he tries and attempts, he will see Centross everywhere, be reminded of him just like Icarus is, and he *will not* find him - and won't be able to bring him back.

-> [Do What You Gotta Do]

-> This that short bit after Fable kills Centross where Icarus just *yells* at Fable. That snark, that anger that Fable *did that* - and Fable's argument that he “did what he had to”, and that was *necessary*; Fable did this (killed Centross) because he had too, Icarus should hear him out. Just that whole conversation between Icarus and Fable after he kills Centross, and that whole falling out between the two of them, and that whole slow manipulation from Fable's end as the conversation continued. (Also Fable's whole “being a god” thing-)

-> [The Cave]

-> Centross to Icarus after the cathedral. How he *will* be there for them, no matter what, but also how he has other duties to attend to - but also also how he can't stick around due to the fact that Fable is currently killing every God in his sight, taking every power for himself. How Centross *wants* Icarus to know he's there for them, but also how he can't physically be there. He'll try his *hardest* to keep them alive - try his hardest to keep them going until the end.

-> [Paid in Exposure]

-> Very much Coworkers - just that whole idea of doing only what they're told and becoming, a, a coworker, and b, one of the bad guys - or the people on the stereotypically “bad” side.

-> [Natural]

-> *Also* Coworkers. That whole idea that for them to be on this side of this war they have to be assholes - they have to be cold and sharp and not care, and the whole idea that they're *good at it.* The idea that all three of them are good at that - they're almost naturals at it. They don't have to practice because they can settle into that role far, far too easily. (Also “Rather be the hunter than the prey” is incredibly Coworkers - because they all know that Fable is hunting gods and hunting people down, and they'd rather be beside him as he does that than cowering beneath his sword.)

-> [Burning Pile]

-> Just like the whole idea of wanting to put all your problems in a big pile and just light them up and on fire - kill them, get rid of them, ignore them. That whole idea of wanting to get rid of all your current problems, all the shitty stuff you’ve gone through, get rid of it all and never properly look back - you’ve burnt it, it’s gone, you don’t have to think about it anymore. (Or, that’s the dream at least. Not really what ends up happening in the end.)

-> [Can't Go Back]

-> Just that whole idea that Icarus should forgive themself - how most of this isn't really *their* fault, and how they should be learning to forgive themself for that - not blame themself for stuff that isn't their fault. (Also the whole idea that none of this is *fair* - it's not fair to them and nor fair for Fable and not fair to *anyone* in the grove.)

-> This definitely feels like Violet trying his absolute hardest to comfort Icarus the best he can even though he can’t physically be there with them in the moment (and he won’t be able to be for a while. (And even when he was able to be there for him, at the end, it wasn’t for very long.)

-> [Try To Change]

-> How Icarus just keeps trying to change, change and change and change, they're trying so incredibly hard, and it just keeps failing. The whole idea that they can’t find it in themself to change - there's safety in it, they’ve always been like this, why wouldn’t they just keep going and being like this. Why would they try - there is *no* point to it. They’re safe like this, Dad likes them like this, why would they change into something he wouldn’t?

-> [Let Us All Down]

-> Just that whole idea of how the Grove feels about Icarus working with Fable. Arguably, they all thought Icarus could be good - they gave Icarus so so *so* many chances, they didn't think that they'd go this route. They didn't think they'd be involved in Centross’ death like this and this didn't think and and and. (Also, arguably, Icarus spiraling. Just *thinking* about what people would say, what people would think, what they would *feel*, how they would react.)

-> Arguably kinda sorta maybe Two Shall Break/Two Shall Mourn for the priorly explained reasons.

-> [Lima Bean Man]

-> Icarus about Momboo. Icarus so *desperately* wants Momboo to not be dead, so desperately wants to be able to bring her back. Not necessarily telling themself she *isn't* dead, but that she *can't* be - because that means they killed another person, that means they did it *again.*

-> [Shots]

-> Icarus to. Everyone basically. They're so so *sorry* - they're breaking down crying near everyday by this point, and they just keep *killing people.* (“why do I kill everything that I love?”) and they're so so *sorry.* But also that they need everyone to know they're *in too deep* - People aren't going to be able to save them now, not through normal means. It's not going to happen - they need to let Icarus drift away because if they *don't*? More people will only get hurt.

-> While I won’t elaborate on this statement, as it speaks for itself, your friendly reminder that Icarus did not truly hate their father when they killed him - Icarus still held some sort of semblance of love for him, even at the end, even after everything, even as they stabbed that trident into his chest as he revealed he was never going to bring Centross back.

-> [Prodigal]

-> That whole idea that where Icarus is right now is all their own fault. They caused it, it's their fault, and there's nothing they can really do about it. They're alone, they've dug themself a hole and fallen down it (because that's all they do, really) and they can't get out - and it's their fault. It's all their fault - it always *is* their fault.

-> [Solitary Confinement]

-> They're alone! After Momboo, and after their conversation with Athena, they're *alone* - Confined. And they're. Okay with it, almost. They wanted to push people away, wanted to be alone, because it makes all of this so so much easier. But they *really* wish they didn't have to do it. Didn't have to push people away like that, didn't *have* to do this to everyone and themself. They do it, yes, because in the end it will benefit them to do so, but they really really don't like doing it - they're spiraling. (And really, they have been for months.)

-> a “devious read” by yours truly according to the sherbertquake56

-> [No Longer You]

-> Okay. Now. What I'm about to say *might* sound like. horribly wrong because everyone kind of looks at this and goes “oh the prophet is Haley” and to that I say. Nope. No, the prophet is Midas. This song is *Midas* talking to Icarus about their future - regardless of how this goes. Because Midas would know what would happen after they “Draw their final breath” so to speak - Midas would know. Haley wouldn't. Also, because I'm a little loser, and the fact this song *really* lends itself to this, line by line analysis.

“I see a song of past romance” Perhaps talking about Momboo? This line could be very ambiguous. Cause you could also argue Wet Birds, but I'm not sure that really *fits.* (If you wanted to go the Prison Duo route, you probably could as well.)

“I see the sacrifice of man.” This line being about Centross - Sacrificing himself to save both Icarus, as well as the rest of his family.

“I see portrayals of betrayal,” This line being about Jamie - Betraying the family they *had* for the family they *want.*

“And a brother's final stand.” This is. Just the ‘A Brother's Final Stand’ stream. Rae trying so so *so* hard to save his brother, and failing because they *just* don't *want* (don't think they need, don't think they deserve) help.

“I see you on the brink of death.” Icarus after they kill Fable. Or, really, Icarus throughout the last week-ish; throughout that they're on the brink of death, they're *dying.* (They have been for almost 5 months - but after he dies Icarus is left so much worse off because Fable isn’t around and alive to keep Quixis’ powers at bay.)

“I see you draw your final breath.” Them *jumping* - Them thinking they were going to die. Them being fully fully accepting of it.

“I see a man who gets to make it home alive.” Midas pulling Icarus into the Worldport, *alive* - telling them that they'll be able to go back home eventually.

“But it's no longer you…” But the person Icarus would become after all that time in the Worldport, after leaving it, would be starkly different to the person that entered it - that it wouldn't really be Icarus anymore. It'd be Icarus, of course, but they'd know and have been changed that they wouldn't be the Icarus they *were.*

Just. It really encompasses those last few months of Icarus’ life before becoming Quixis - those last few months of pain and desperation and *bad.*

-> [Monster]

-> The whole idea of how Icarus *will* be the monster if they have to. They'll kill and slaughter and murder and *be* the monster if it means they'll all make to end - if it means they'll get to bring everyone back, *fix* everything.

-> [No Children]

-> This is very much Icarus’ mentality at the end - about Fable and about Rae and about *everyone.* That idea that they don't want to be saved anymore, not like this. That idea that if they have to go down - they're going to take Fable with them. That idea that they just want Rae and *everyone* to give up on them - and, arguably, that idea that if *they* die, they want Fable to come down with them. Uh. Well here's another set of far more detailed line analysis <3 Not the last one either <3

“I hope that our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us.” That whole idea that Icarus doesn’t want to be saved - not like this. They don’t want to and they don't think they’re deserving of it - they fully hope that Rae gives up on trying to save them.

“I hope we come up with a fail-safe plot to piss off the dumb few that forgave us.” While they didn’t *know* it’d be fail-safe, Jamie. Because by this point there were *very* few people still trying to save and help them - and really, to their knowledge, it was *just* Rae - and to them? To those people *that* was the tipping point. For that last week they were left completely alone because they had *finally* pissed off the people trying to save them.

“I hope the fences we mended fall down beneath their own weight.” Very similarly to that previous line, during Family Reunion - arguably - Rae and Icarus had *kind of* mended their relationship. Icarus didn’t like that - Icarus really hoped that he’d just let it go. They really hoped that the weight of everything would mean their relationship, whatever Rae thought was left of it - at least, would just crumble. That Icarus wouldn’t have to hold on to him and their family anymore because holding onto it means there is *complications* and attachments and they really can't have that - not now.

“And I hope we hang on past the last exit. I hope it's already too late.” That whole idea that Icarus was in too deep - Icarus was going to hold on and stay attached to Fable until the very, very, *very* end. That whole idea that Icarus very much thought, very much hoped, that they were too far gone and it was far, *far* too late to turn back now. (Also that whole idea that

“In my life, I hope I lie. And tell everyone you were a good wife.” Okay, a, that whole idea that Icarus lies about *nearly* everything - they lie about so, so, *so* much that it’s really all they do and hope to do. B, that idea that they so desperately want to see their father as a good person - so desperately want *everyone else* to think he’s a good person; to the point that they *will* lie about it, they hope to, they hope they get the opportunity to lie about it.

“And I hope you die. I hope we both die.” *If he dies they don’t have to do this anymore.* Just that whole idea that if he dies they do not, really and truly, have to continue to do any of this. They can fully and completely leave it behind and *gods* how they really, really want to do that. Also, arguably, that whole idea that they don’t think they’re worth saving, and that whole idea that they think they fuck everything up and ruin it regardless of how much they’re trying. If they both die between now and the end, then when this is all over no one will have to get hurt anymore - their family will be *safe* and sound and they won’t have to stress about themself *or* their family *or* what their father is doing.

“I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow. I hope it bleeds all day long.” That idea that icarus thinks they’re deserving of all the hurt and pain and sorrow sent their way. All this pain and suffering and the way it’s constant - they fully, *fully* think they’re deserving of it; they fully hope it keeps happening solely to prove that point. (This is not the time or place to go on a rant - but I would like to bring up how, after Centross dies, whenever Icarus gets really injured - unless it's dire dire - they refuse to use potions on themself. And even when it *is* dire they’re almost hesitant about it.)

“Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises; we're pretty sure they're all wrong.” Rae thinking he can save Icarus, save them despite everything they’ve done and despite all they’ve been through - and Icarus thinking, *knowing*, he can’t. Regardless of what he says, Icarus knows they’re in too deep and knows that means Rae can’t save them or get through to them very easily.

“I hope the worst isn't over.” Ties back to the line before last - that idea that Icarus thinks they deserve all the pain and suffering they’re going through. It’s their fault, they deserve it, maybe they don’t really like it very much by they do understand where its coming from and they can agree with it because deep down they *know* what they’re doing is so very very wrong.

“I am drowning. There is no sign of land.” They’re falling and falling deeper into this little pit they’ve dug themself and they can’t find a hand hold to even start trying to climb themself out. They are lost and *alone* with no one there to help and they *know it.*

“You are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand.” That idea that if Icarus goes down - they’ll take, to try to take, Fable with them. That idea that both themself and Fable are seemingly unlovable - at least in Icarus’ eyes - and the two of them would go down hand in hand; it’ll be one of their faults and they’d drag the other down with them (Also, arguably, Icarus and Midas as well - if Icarus goes down they want to drag Midas down with them; if Midas goes down they’ll inevitably *have* to drag Icarus down with them. The two of them are so intertwined that if one goes down they’ll drag the other whether they want to or not.)

-> [Mr. Author]

-> How Icarus really just wants this to all *stop* and finish up - how it's been going on for so long and they don't know how much longer they can keep going like this. How they want to talk to the person who wrote their story like this - talk to the person that keeps *letting them do this*, want to talk to the author ruining their life.

-> [Icarus]

-> Something about Fable realizing, however small, that his actions are hurting Icarus. How Icarus is hurting and dying, and how he can't *fix it* - he's not going to be able to fix it, fix *them*, make them what he wants them to be. He can't save them in the way he wants to - they're *going* to die and gods he won't be able to stop it. Specifically right at the end, Fable's death by his own son's hands.

-> [The Bad Guy]

-> That whole idea that all Icarus wanted to do, really and truly, was *fix* everything - but that's not how it went. They went to bad places to fix things, they became the bad guy. They didn't want to be, of course - not again, not after last time - but that's what *happened.* They became the bad guy, and they're finally finally realizing it. (Only, it's really too late, because they're dying now.)

-> [In My Blood]

-> Just that whole idea that this is how Icarus is always going to be, how this is how Icarus is and there's no changing it - how it's in their blood to do this, to *be like* this - how there's no stopping it, no turning back.

-> [Daniel In The Den]

-> Really just that whole idea of Icarus killing Fable, and the following way they attempt to move on. That way Fable was killed by “the ones you think you love” - Icarus, yes, but really everyone contributed. (And, arguably, almost that bit of anger Icarus harbors toward Fable at the end - that idea he wasn't ever going to fix this; that all this pain and suffering was for *nothing.*)

[Section Six - They're. Kind of God now. Question mark. Maybe. I dunno, Icarixis is. Yeah. They're a guy. That's for sure.]

-> [Ruin]

-> They have a conversation. This is simply Midas and Icarus having a back and forth conversation about mistakes and Quixis and *all of it.* It’s very hard to summarize - so uh. Hi line by line analysis, welcome back-

(ICARUS)

“I will bring you ruin in everything I do.” Something about how no matter what Icraus does and no matter how hard they try - they ruin things. Their family, their house, their friends house, their *life.* They bring the people in their life - including Midas, and including themself - ruin and pain no matter what they do.

“It’s never my intention, but it happens all the same.” Icarus rarely means to hurt their family and friends like that - it’s rarely their intention but it *happens.* They can’t stop it happening, be it because of the wack or because they’re trying to *fix something* or or or. They never mean to hurt people - they don’t *like* hurting people - but it just keeps happening and happening and *happening.*

“It starts with love and comfort, becomes a strength of will.” Arguably, talking about their time in the three resets they remember. It started good and okay and alright and it just slowly became their goal to just *survive* - it became a strength of will to just keep going after every little thing that just kept *happening;* After all the death and harm and suffering they’d experience they had to fight to keep going.

“But all that strength made rubble of the towers we built.” Icarus keeping going like they did broke *so much.* The Worldport, Midas, Themself, *The overworld.* It all fell apart, was all unstable, because of *them* - all of that kept falling apart into rubble because of *them.* (And, arguably, also partially because of Midas.)

“Cause brick by brick, you built us and I’d fill in the cracks.” Midas helped build this world, this *life* for Icarus. They built it brick by brick - keeping Icarus from being Quixis so young gave them *this* - a family, a life, safety. Midas built it, and Icarus made it *theirs.*

“Nothing quite prepares you for when they don’t come back.” Icarus wasn't prepared for when Centross didn't come back - when it wasn't just a fluke. They weren't prepared for being *alone* and by themself for that long and they weren't prepared for him just being. Dead.

“I wish I’d done things different, I wish that I’d been brave.” Something about wishing they'd home about getting Centross back differently - not killing people, not doing any of that. Something about wanting to be braver - be braver to leave Him and side with their brother and the rest of their family and not side with the person who killed Centross and who killed so many people. Something about *wanting that.*

“I wish I’d known these stones were something I could save.” Arguably, something about wishing to have known that they could have saved Midas so much earlier - could've taken up their role *months* (*years*) ago and saved Midas so much pain and bad and suffering.

(MIDAS)

“Our mortar was your laughter.” Something about the funnier aspects of Midas changing things - it kept them together. At least for a little bit. It kept everything okay and alright - the silly-ness of it all. (Obviously that didn’t stick very long.)

“And you hurled curses at the land.” Icarus yelling and ranting and being so *angry* at Midas. That anger that Icarus just let boil simmering over whenever something bad or upsetting or just *annoying* happened.

“We didn’t talk, we made universes - out of bitten lips and broken hands.” Something about how Icarus and MIdas never talked talked - sure they had the book and their comms but they never really properly *talked.* Something about how despite that, they built things through their pain and hurt. They built friendships and lives and all of that - even without talking.

“You said, “I love you less than when it all began.”” When it first started Icraus didn’t think anything of it - wanted to know what was up with it but also wasn’t really *worried.* Icarus, at the beginning, almost thought it slightly funny. They didn’t really care what it did. But as time went on and as Midas lost more and more control and as the wack got worse and worse and as it broke more and more - the less and less Icarus liked it. It lost its novelty once it started hurting people.

“And I said fewer cause I make jokes to show how broken I really am.” Something about Midas communicating very *directly* with the wack and their comm and things as the end came closer and closer - they stopped with the messing around and the jokes and the silly changes they used to do, and they just became serious calls for help on both ends. (And beyond the direct communication - the *interfering* with things that could get Icraus hurt or killed.) Gone are the jokes and the small silly laughable changes, replaced with calls for help and calls for *something* because Midas was dying and so was the Worldport. And something about how the direct communication was a lot more spread apart in comparison to Midas’ jokes.

“And in the wreck of all we burnt, stands our piano like a wound.” Something about how in the wreck of everything Midas has done, and everything Icarus has done - The two of them still stand tall, *alive.* And something about how so does the Worldport - despite all the decay and all the things it's been through, it's still alive and it's still going and it's still holding all the worlds and it's slowly getting fixed and and and.

“I’ll play our song to see if it’s in tune.” Arguably, something about letting Icarus see to the end of their story. Letting the song play rather than stopping it far far too early - letting Icarus live and learn and seeing if they’ll make the correct choice; seeing if the song is in tune.

“And I promise to be patient.” Something about how Midas kept *going* - no matter what happened and no matter how much it seemed like Icarus was too far gone and no matter how much it seemed like Icarus wasn’t going to make the right choice, Midas persisted. They were so patient with them - waiting and waiting and *waiting* until Icarus *did it.*

“And you promise to be kind.” Something something Icarus never really wanted to hurt their family - they just wanted their best friend back something something Midas telling them that they’ll be - *knowing they will be* - a good Quixis something something to be Quixis you need to be kind and considerate and things like that something something

“”We can rest,” you say, “in the pieces of what’s left or what we’ve found.”” Guys we don’t know where Midas is, but we do know they’re *somewhere.* Something about Icarus taking up the mantle of Quixis means Midas *finally* gets a break. Midas finally gets to rest and relax after so long of not being able to and having to constantly be doing something wand watching someone - Midas can just *rest.* (Wherever that may be, we have yet to find out.)

“I wish I’d done things different, oh, I wish I’d made it right” Something about how even if Midas doesn’t regret what they did - doesn’t regret leaving Icarus to live their life, doesn’t regret keeping them from being Quixis - part of them probably wishes they had done it differently. Something about wishing so many people didn’t have to die, or their worlds decay, or or or. Something about wishing they had made it right earlier - so they didn’t have to go through nearly as much pain. (So they didn’t have to go through feeling their body decay and *rot* from the inside out.) Something about wishing that, but not regretting - not truly - how you did it in the first place.

“But we’ll burn a hundred theaters, If it means we get the wallpaper right” Something about how Midas would let the Worldport fall apart, let worlds die, let *themself* die, if it meant Icarus got to see the end of their story - if it meant Icarus got to live the whole of their life that had been written out. They’d let it all die, let so much decay and fall apart until it was even decaying *them,* if it meant Icarus didn’t have to Quixis so young (they were younger than midas), if it meant Icarus got to say goodbye.

“Nothing quite prepared me for when that piano sang again.” While we don’t know exactly what Midas has been up to fo the past 2 months since the finale - I feel like finally getting a break and *centuries* and finally passing on your title and finally being *yourself* (or, mostly yourself) again wouldn’t be something you'd prepare yourself for in years of being alone - something about not being prepared to be able to rest and be yourself again after so long of *not* being able to do those things.

“Tomorrow I’ll do things different.” Maybe a bit more Icarus than it is Midas (Mostly because there’s not much more different Midas can do, not now, not after so much time has passed) - something about knowing what happens when you wait to bring a Quixis and something about vowing to *not* do that and put all of the Sherbs through that for a second time. Something about vowing to be different than the person you look so much alike. (Something about vowing to be different than Fable.)

“Tomorrow I’ll be brave.” This one is Midas - something about finally being brave enough to pass on the title of Quixis to Icarus, finally being able to let it go - give it up. (Even if it was just the end of Icarus’ story - even if it was the only logical time to pull them and pass it on - it was still brave. They had waited *so long.*)

-> [Icarus & Apollo]

-> Something about Midas living vicariously through Icarus. Something about Icarus showing Midas *so much* about life and their world and everything. Something about in turn Midas showing Icarus how to be Quixis, how to do this job *correctly* and not fuck it up like they did. Just that whole idea of ascension.

-> [505]

-> I guess Midas after Icarus ascends. That idea of going back home and not really knowing what awaits you. You have an idea, a concept of what might, and you're fully *prepared* for it. That idea of them *knowing* they have to leave after Icarus takes their place - or something like that.

-> [Show Yourself]

-> Icarus to Midas - How they just want to know what in the *world* Midas wants with them, and wants to do with them. Why Midas is following them, why they're changing the stuff they are, the decay, the eye - just wanting to *know*, but also very promptly ignoring Midas more often than not.

-> [Who You Are]

-> They're supposed to be Quixis!!! This is exactly who and where they're supposed to be!! This song really feels very Midas talking to Icarus - Telling them all of this as encouragement that they're going to do good, and that this is exactly where they're supposed to be, regardless.

-> [The Last Goodbye]

-> Saving the multiverse with another version of you. This is very Midas and Icarus coded - How Midas was willing to go down hand in hand with Icarus if it meant the multiverse surviving; also how Icarus was completely willing to take up the mantle of Quixis, even if it meant the people back home couldn't remember them.

-> Something about how they both think they're gonna die, Icarus and Midas - something about it.

-> [still feel.]

-> Dying over and over again, being reset over and over and *over* again, and yet. They still feel alive. Fable pulled them from the grave more times than they can count, and they still feel *alive* despite all that's happened.

-> Quixis is where they're supposed to be, Despite *jumping* they're still here, and they're still alive, and they're still *living.*

-> [Back To Black]

-> Oh so very wet birds. Something about them genuinely only saying goodbye with words - they didn't hug, didn't touch, no. Only words. Something about Ven going back to when he got pulled out, going back to Fable and all of the consequences that come with it. That whole idea Icarus isn't going to go back like that - they're going to go back to the present day and they're *going* to remember him.

-> [Spring and a Storm]

-> This one feels just very general epilogue/post finale times to me. Just everyone off doing their own thing, having fun and being happy. Reminiscing about the past *sure*, but having fun and being good all the same. (If you wanna look at it through an Icarus *specific* lens, for some added angst - Icarus watching their family and friends grow and be happy and gain things they couldn't gain before, while they're in the Worldport. Watching their family grow and get to be truly truly happy while they work on cleaning up Midas’ unintentional mess.)

-> [Ghost Song]

-> Just the whole idea of how after becoming Quixis, Icarus isn't reality seen or *known* anymore - And how they so desperately want to be. How they so desperately want to be seen and known and lived, but they can't - not for a while. How at this point they're just a ghost - changing and lurking, an entity everyone knows the name of, but not knows properly. Also almost that whole idea that they spend so much of their time watching over the Grove while their in the Worldport; changing and altering the small things so people, even if they won’t know until Icarus comes back, know they’re *there.*

-> [Introduction to the Snow]

-> Just that whole idea of now that Icarus is Quixis, they're alone. The Worldport is *empty* - no one is physically there with them, they're alone. They can't talk to anyone, no matter how much they so desperately want to. Also how this is *exactly* where they're meant to be.

-> [Today Today]

-> Just very ‘end of season 3’ coded - how upset Icarus, how much they were just *crying*, and they couldn't seem to stop regardless of how hard they tried. Also that whole idea of time going so so much slower in the Worldport, how ‘today' to Icarus must feel so so much different now. Also just that whole idea of being stuck between places, having everything to do because of everything up with the Worldport. That whole idea of so much happening in all the worlds they’re watching - there's so much to see and watch and understand and and and.

[Section Seven - Group songs, but an asterisk is attached to the first 4 because I write those pre stream and pre playlist re-organize- (sherbert please why did you do that right before stream-)]

-> [Machine]

-> The doubting of Fable's ideals, the realization of maybe they (Icarus) aren't doing the right thing by doing this, and how they don't *really* want to be a part of this anymore - how they don't want to be a part of Fable's machine, don't want to be a tool in his tool box, a means to an end.

-> The Idea that none of the people here, any of the members of the grove throughout the seasons, *want* to be a part of any of this - what to be here, want to do this, want to see any of this. The idea they don't want anymore resets - don't want anymore people to go through this, don't want to be a part of this revolving machine Fable has built for them.

-> [Suburbia Overture / Greetings from Mary Bell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally]

-> Just that whole idea of how Icarus is just *angry* at Fable - How they're beginning to doubt him, and his ideals, and how they're just angry at the concept that he won't bring people back - that this was all for *nothing.* Also just them being so incredibly angry at *everyone.*

-> This is also very just season 1. Just the anger at Enderian and Ominous Bane and. All of season 1 and its hardships.

-> [Enemy]

-> Something about how, especially at the end, *everyone* wanted Icarus dead, gone, or both. They didn't want to be friends with Icarus, they'd been given too many chances, and no one was willing to save them anymore. How everyone wants to be, *is*, Icarus’ enemy by the end.

-> Just. The idea of everyone, at some point, being each other's enemy. At some point everyone has been on opposite sides with someone else in the grove - and that meant everyone else was going to side with *one* of them.

-> [The Search]

-> Just Icarus’ mentality right at the end, trying to find something, *anything,* that'd save or fix them, regardless of what. Searching for something they won't find, looking for something they can't see. Also their whole mentality towards Fable - anger and annoyance and *mad* - how in the end they end up killing like he almost killed them.

-> The whole idea of everyone like. Looking for something they can't find, can't get back, can't *see* - and the idea that over time they all slowly grow angry toward Fable and the resets and everything that's taken *anything* from them.

-> [Misery Fell]

-> I feel like you could argue this is either the very end of season 3 coded, or just the grove coded in general. Something about how they're constantly going through terrible terrible things - constantly having misery fall upon them.

-> [When You're an Adams]

-> How living in the grove is often a while experience - How you need to be prepared for anything, really, because you never know what's gonna happen next; never know what Gods are going to get involved or whatever people are going to go on a harming spree or or or.

-> [Ready As I'll Ever Be]

-> Either Perix fight coded, Or the Faction preparing to fight Fable. Something about getting ready for this big battle and fight, while the other side does exactly the same as that.

-> [We Don't Talk About Bruno]

-> I feel like you could argue either Enderian or Fable? The grove singing about them - respectively. Enderian mostly after season one, while the singing about Fable more now. How they probably don't really want to talk about much of that, no matter how far into the future it gets.

[julessworldd]

Hey babes! I finally got an idea that was too good to not waste. @valeskafics gave the inspo for this amazing thing 🫶🏻 love you wifey! Also @foxyanon for the tag

Warnings: cucking, age gap (reader is 19, Robb is 19, Jaime is in his 30s) pussy eating, fingering(F), oral(m and f), squirting, hair pulling, p in v, doggy, mentions of face fucking. Spanking, dubcon at first! , dom!robb 🥵 Mentions of beheading, war/battle, cussing. Theon being early season prev Theon(you’ll see) I probably messed a couple timeline things up. I’m not totally up to speed up to westerlands’ house: I didn’t want a westerling reader so house Swyft

I don’t own characters or rights of Game of Thrones, all credits for G.R.R and HBO. Enjoy besties 🫶🏻🫶🏻

A Lannister bride was today’s Targaryen marriage. The Lannisters were powerful and wealthy people. Even better if it was Lord Tywin’s son, Jaime. Tywin’s power bent the rule of a Kingsguard not taking a wife. Owning lands, fathering children. For that Swyft lord’s daughter Y/n it was a dream come true. She remembers seeing Jaime at a tourney at the rock. He was 17 and she was merely a preteen. But she was dead set on marrying the lion.

Y/n’s wish had came true, she married Jaime Lannister, former Kingsguard, son of the mighty Tywin. She loved life at the rock, gold, nice dresses. Better yet custom dresses that the fabric came from the Narrow Sea. A handsome lord husband, who loved to make her scream until his name was the only thing she knew. Jaime had ruined her for other men, especially since he was well blessed below in the belt. And knew how to pleasure her before his own needs.

After the death of King Robert, the realm had 4 kings who thought they were the true king. One was a Stark, the late Lord Eddard Stark’s son, Robb. He was around Y/n’s age, she was merely 19 after this spring. King Joffrey declared war on all the kings, Robb was moving south. He was apparently near the trident, that was close enough for her husband to pick up and head to battle. After a king screaming match, Y/n was with her husband. She made a promise to stay out of the way and let him ride to battle. Jaime was gone as he went after the Stark army, Y/n stayed like always.

Y/n was reading a book when the tent flap moved and revealed a Stark bannermen. Y/n’s chest tightened as she locked eyes with the bannermen. She tried reaching for the blade Jaime had given her. But she was thrown over the bearded man’s shoulder. Soon enough Y/n was carried to the Stark’s camp, she seen her husband. He was dirty, dirt had hidden his golden hair. He was tied up and had a chain around his neck. Her heart broke for her husband, he was so good at battle how did he get captured? Especially by someone who is three years younger his wife.

“Your Grace, I got Ser Jaime’s wife. What should I do with her?” The bannermen asked as he held her arm

“Leave her in my tent, she’ll forget about her lion after she has me in her cunt” Theon smirked as he checked her out

“Theon, she’s a lady no matter whose house she married in. Set her up a tent near mine” Robb said “Leave her with me”

The bannermen let go of her arm, Jaime was so pissed he didn’t say anything as he was dragged away. He thinking of ways to kill the foul mouthed Greyjoy. How dare he talk to his darling like that.

“What’s a lady doing in her husband’s war camp?” Robb asked

Y/n rolled her eyes “Whats a Stark doing riding south? Don’t you remember what happened to your grandfather, uncle and recently your father. King Joffery surely knows what he’s doing to do to you”

“Mouthy little thing” Robb smirked

“Fuck you” Y/n said, she had to restrain herself from spitting on him.

***************************

It had been a few days since she had seen Jaime, she missed him. Missed his voice, his scent, how his hands felt on her waist. Everytime someone brought her food she begged to see Jaime. They ignored her. Theon asked what’s so good about the lion. She told him his cock and how he stretched her. Theon rolled his eyes and left.

A direwolf walked in her tent, she crawled to the corner of her cot. She had her knees to her chest

“Good wolf. Yeah, you. Go on I don’t have anything” she said trying not to sound scared.

“Greywind” Robb snapped his fingers and made the wolf sit the entrance.

“King in North” Y/n rolled her eyes

“Lady Lannister” Robb smirked

“I want to see my husband, please” Y/n sighed

“I’ll let you see him but on one condition, love” Robb said sitting on the cot by her feet

“What’s that? My family rides for Lannisters not Stark men” Y/n told the auburn haired king

“I want my way with you, but I want him to watch” Robb said rubbing Y/n’s foot

“Him who?” She asked

Rob was surprised she asked who instead of being offended and declaring her cunt for her Jaime only.

“Your husband, of course. I need answers and he hasn’t gave any so far. Seeing you beg for my cock will surely get to him crack” Robb said

“No! I’d rather you kill me than you fuck me” Y/n gasped

“I seen a Swyft flag this morning, a man looked like you. Is that your brother?” Robb asked

“Ryan, he’s my older brother. One of my father’s heir” Y/n said

“If you don’t let me do what I want, I’ll kill him and I’ll have you watch” Robb said

“Fine fine. Have him brought here, I don’t want the other prisoners seeing me like that or your men. Please” Y/n pleaded

“Well we think a lot a like, lady. Theon, bring the kingslayer in” Robb yelled over his shoulder

“Your Grace” Theon said before winking at Y/n before leaving

Y/n seen Jaime and got off the cot. She took in his appearance, he was practically buried in dirt. He had scruff, he looked exhausted. Old worn clothes, his hands chained behind his back. Y/n hugged him, Jaime leaned his head on her shoulder.

“My poor lion” Y/n muttered as she kissed his forehead as she stood on her tip toes

“Just let him do this twisted thing. Once I get out of here, it will be behind us, my sweet girl” Jaime whispered

Y/n looked at him but shook her yes. She led Jaime to a chair by the cot. Robb was still on her cot as he smirked. He patted his thigh, Y/n cringed as she looked over at Jaime. Jaime nodded his head signaling her to do what Robb wanted her to do.

Y/n climbed on Robb’s lap, the wolf wrapped his arms around her as he turned her to face him only. Her back towards Jaime, Robb squeezed her ass. He yanked her down by her hair and kissed her. Y/n had tears down her cheeks as she kissed him back.

Suddenly Robb had her dress off and pushed her on her back. Robb had her naked as he forced his shoulders between her thighs as he dipped his head to her cunt. Y/n whined as she felt Robb’s hot tongue tracing her hole. It had been a week since she had been touched. Jaime fucked her four times or more a week, he fucked her hard the morning he left the Lannister camp. Robb was eating her like a mad man, he rubbed her clit in tight circles with his finger.

She moaned as she grinded her pussy on his face as he licked her clit down to her asshole. Robb moaned, feeling her sweet cunt on him. Her stomach tightened as she came, her thighs wrapped around Robb’s head. Her hands clenched his auburn curls. Jaime was half hard from Y/n’s whines and seeing cum ooze out of her as Robb raised up.

Robb smirked as he turned his head towards Jaime. He gently raised Y/n up to his chest before stripping down. Y/n’s eyes flickered to Jaime, Jaime gave her a reassuring smile. Robb gently grabbed her jaw to kiss her, this time she clutched her fingers in his hair. Robb had snuck his fingers down to her hole, one finger rubbed the outside. He plunged his two fingers into her weeping cunt. Y/n moaned against his lips.

After making her cum again, Robb released his fingers. Licking them off, he flipped Y/n to her stomach. She was facing Jaime as Robb grabbed her hips. Bringing her ass up, he gave her soft cheeks a couple snacks. Y/n wanted to turn around and slap his face. That was one thing Jaime never did even do for teasing. His punishment was usually face fucking her and throat training her despite her whins. Oddly enough Y/n liked it when Robb slapped her ass, she felt herself clenched around nothing.

“I’ll show you why your father should have sent you to Winterfell instead of that ugly rock” Robb teased her clit

Y/n bit her lip to hide how she was enjoying this. Being fucked by another man while her beloved watched. Jaime however was slowly losing his cool. Y/n was his wife, her pussy was his nobody else’s, her body was something for him to cherish and push her boundaries of pleasure.

Robb finally entered Y/n and he was bigger and thicker than Jaime. Y/n moaned it had been a bit too long to not be filled. She missed cockwarming Jaime, but Robb found new areas to touch. Felt like he was going to rip her into two. Robb slammed his hips against her ass repeatedly, her moans were so sweet. Her cunt was tight, warm and kept him snug, Robb loved. He thought it was worth killing Jaime and having Tywin Lannister kill him for it. Your cunt was sweet but maybe not worth his sisters and family being killed.

Y/n moaned as Robb grabbed her by her long hair making her look back at him. Her eyes meeting his Tully blue eyes, a couple whins falling out of her plump lips. Robb stuck two of his fingers in her mouth. The same ones that fucked her cunt in front of her husband moments ago. She could faintly taste herself on his fingers. She swirled her tongue around his dights, Robb smirked.

“Guess Kingslayer did good, training you. The perfect lady wife, gorgeous body with a sweet cunt” Robb rammed into her

She wanted to knock his stupid teeth out for calling Jaime that. She was the only one who knew why Jaime did it. She agreed with him, sometimes betraying someone will help innocent people live another day. But that was soon forgotten as she came around Robb’s cock. Except he didn’t stop his thrusts until she squirted. He let go of her hair and she fell into the cot, she silently moaned as she came down from her hair.

Damn maybe her father should have sent her North cause Jaime never made her do that. Jaime! It hit her, he was there and witnessed the whole thing. She looked up as Jaime was fuming , his fits were clenched as his chest heaved. Robb chuckled as he seen the kingslayer’s reaction

“Theon! Take Ser Jaime back to his cell” Robb called his friend.

Theon walked in, Y/n saw his hard cock in his pants. Theon grabbed Jaime’s arm as he walked out of her tent.

Robb stood up getting dressed

Y/n watched as Theon was across camp

“You never asked him anything”

“I was going to but the gods blessed you with the best cunt the realm has had. Forgive me for being distracted, my lady” Robb smirked as groped her breast.

“He’s never made me do that” Y/n smirked

“That’s a shame, my lady” Robb said

Y/n crawled off the bed as she stopped in front of Robb. Running her hands down his thighs “Can I tell you thank you?”

“At once” Robb snapped his fingers like he did at Greywind

“Not a dog”

“No, but you did let the wolf have his way with you. After all you are a lions wife, maybe” Robb smirked

Y/n looked up at him and cocked her eyebrows. Robb had a point, a very valid one. How could she ever lay with Jaime without feeling guilty about this night. Of course if Robb released Jaime and her.

[airrec]

Dream SMP Season 2 idea:

Pandora's Vault exists, still. It is half sunk into the sea, very obviously an old ruin, and there's something - off, about the place.

It's not just a building any more, of course. It's old, filled with pain, haunted. Things this old have their own kind of intelligence, change and evolve into something else.

It's a dungeon now. Filled with monsters, traps, loot, a boss. Filled with things best left undisturbed, if you ask anyone wise.

c!Tommy, enthralled by the idea of loot, is not wise. c!Dream, enthralled by the idea of secrets, is also not wise.

c!Philza, a strange old man who lives alone and seems to know more than everyone else (not that he ever opens his mouth to talk about it), warns them away. They do not listen.

The dungeon is indeed dangerous; once they step in, the entranceway disappears behind them, trapping them inside. There are traps, chests of loot, and monsters - constant Mining Fatigue makes it impossible to carve their own path through, so they're forced to navigate the shifting hallways.

There are crawling black-purple vines and thorns everywhere, lingering remnants of red but that colour has been bled out of them, appropriated for another master. These vines get thicker the closer to the centre they get.

At some point, c!Dream loses c!Tommy in the criss-crossing and confusing platforms and walk ways - he can't quite recall when or how it happened, though.

The boss chamber is in the very centre of the Vault, and there he is, the spider in the middle of the web: huge and tall, oversized the way many bosses are (according to Philza), gold-trimmed netherite armour and a gleaming trident, he looks a bit like a creeper hybrid but if he ever was one that was long ago; he's something else now.

The boss is surrounded by black-purple vines, and they pierce through him, trailing from him as though he were struck through with a dozen harpoons. Like so many chains, they hold him here - he is as much the master of this dungeon as he is its captive. Total control, but only within, and he cannot leave.

He does not want to leave - this place is his. His prison, his home.

"So, you've come back to where you belong," the boss says.

"I've been waiting for you," the boss says.

"I knew you couldn't stay away forever," the boss says.

"You belong here," the boss says.

c!Dream would like it to be known that at this point he has quite had enough of this dungeon, is wishing he'd listened to Philza when he'd said to stay away, and that his whole body hurts as his flesh remembers what his mind has forgotten. The haunting is an open, unhealed wound.

"Hahhh, no, I'm leaving," c!Dream says, distracted, as he tries to figure out an optimal path over the lava lake, where he should leap on the deepslate and netherite rocks and platforms to make it to the door on the opposite side of the room. The boss, surely, will try to stop him, but c!Dream is fast and surefooted - he can dodge any attacks. He thinks.

"You will not escape," the boss vows, which c!Dream is very much not a fan of.

"You have no right to keep me here!" he says as he sets off running, leaping for the first stepping stone above the scorching lava and using his momentum to carry him to the next. He's got a long way to go.

This seems to utterly incense the boss, striking some deep nerve and causing the very walls to shake with his fury as he turns to try to snatch c!Dream.

"I am the Master of this Vault!" the boss roars. "I am the Warden."

The boss room is nothing but a huge cell, the vines of the boss' power spread so perfectly throughout the dungeon in turn chaining him there. Above, c!Dream can see c!Tommy hovering in the open entranceway he's aiming for, frozen with his crossbow out.

As he flies through the boss room and tries to reach the door, c!Dream shouts back the truth that he knows, welling up from somewhere deep inside that only his nightmares can touch:

"But you're not, you're the prisoner."

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Arthur Playing With Your Son In The Bath

Arthur Curry X FemReader

Rating: T

Warnings: Suggestive themes, stress, and an obscene amount of fluff

Word Count: 984

(A/N:) I found this gif and it inspired me so fast! XD I was actually looking for something else for a different imagine when I came across it. I couldn't leave without writing something for it and this is the end result! I wrote for Orm and since Arthur is a freaking aquababe I have to write for him too! Hopefully my fellow fangirls enjoy it as much as I did writing it! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Being married to the King of Atlantis had it's perks, but it also had it's rough patches. Being so called Queen of a world you never even got to visit had it's pressures. Arthur never told you the horrible things the council would say about you, but you had a good idea of the prejudices they held. Tom was a good confidant and helped you talk about things that bothered you. Arthur had enough on his plate and now with you both producing a heir to the throne, the pressure only increased. Tom was out running errands for you while you stayed at home with Arthur Curry Jr who refused to do anything but eat and cry. It didn't matter how many times you tried, he refused to go to sleep. He was due for a much needed nap and so did you, but the baby universe decided that just wasn't in the cards today. Now as night drew nearer and you being soaked in spit up, drool, and various other baby fluids Arthur finally made it home.

"Sorry I saw dad in town and we stopped for a quick beer," Arthur apologized before brushing strands of your hair to kiss your cheek.

He looked around the little home you both shared with his father. Toys littering the floor and dirty dishes piled up in the sink. His eyebrow raised before leaning his trident against the wall. He knelt down to get eye level with you as you rocked back and forth on the couch trying to keep Jr from crying.

"Rough day," he asked gently.

The strong facade that you worked hard to keep up all day crumbled a little, as your bottom lip began to wobble. Arthur cursed taking you into a hug and trying his best not to squish his son against his giant chest. You let yourself have a few moments of just letting your emotions out before you pulled away. Wiping at your eyes and taking a deep breath.

"That's my girl," Arthur grinned. He took Jr from your arms. "Go take a shower a long one. My son and I are going to have some bonding time with a bubble bath and some rubber duckies. I'll call Pops too, have him bring pizza home for us. Then we'll watch that movie you love and makes me gag. Deal?"

You laughed, this time kissing his cheek, "Sounds wonderful!"

Arthur helped you up from the couch, kissing you deeply and giving you a pat on your rear as you walked to the bathroom. Arthur watched you go before turning to the baby in his arms.

"We'll borrow Grandpop's bathroom so your mom has some much needed quiet time."

Jr gurgled in reply. Arthur nodded in agreement, "Totally. Your mom is a hero. And hot."

Jr just stared and Arthur shrugged.

The hot water was washing away all the day's filth and the stress from your body. Though it was rough at times, raising the future king of Atlantis and being human, you wouldn't trade one moment. Your son was precious. Arthur was a wonderful partner in everything. A doting husband and a loving father. Even your father-in-law amazed you as he was such a help. You couldn't fault him for needing a quiet moment in town. He hadn't given one complaint since you and Arthur still lived with him and birthed the next generation of Curry.

Finished with your nice hot shower, you dressed in one of Arthur's oversized shirts and your favorite pair of leggings. Your slippers silenced your steps and it was easy to hear Jr's squealing giggles and Arthur's laughter follow behind. It brought a smile to your face despite the exhaustion. Opening the door you spied Jr in a little floatie designed for his baths and Arthur bare chested covered in an obnoxious amount of suds.

"Are my boys having fun," you asked.

"Bubbles," Arthur roared animatedly causing Jr to squeal. Water sloshed and bubbles flew everywhere and you couldn't bring yourself to worry about the mess.

Carefully sitting yourself close to the tub and avoiding the numerous puddles on the floor, you stroked Arthur's bare chest, tracing the tattoo patterns. He dutifully scrubbed his son's dirty face before leaning back against the cool tub wall.

"Careful where you touch, or we'll grant Pop's wish early," Arthur warned.

"One's enough for right now," you replied still tracing absentmindedly.

"More than enough. You look like you went to war with an army of babies."

"And here I thought baby spit up was the new Gucci," you sighed.

Arthur tugged you a little closer, tickling your ear with his warm breath, "You did look pretty hot."

"Now who's trying to seduce who," you teased.

You helped Arthur finish up cleaning Jr and get him changed into warm pajamas when Tom finally made it back. Hauling in grocery bags and boxes of pizza, all of you were finally able to sit down together as a family. Arthur wouldn't let you get anything for yourself, so you sat on the couch holding Jr while Arthur made your plates. True to his word he started the movie you loved and he abhorred. Halfway through Jr had finally fallen to sleep and despite wanting to stay up and finish it, you found yourself nodding off too. Without a word Arthur put your son to bed before he scooped you up in his arms.

"Night Pops," he whispered and Tom nodded before turning off the movie and switching to the weather.

"Artie," you mumbled into his chest as he carried you to your shared room.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," you yawned.

Arthur kissed your temple before depositing you onto the messy bed, "You're welcome."

He tucked you in before getting in himself and with the warm blankets and Arthur's body pressed against yours. You fell into peaceful slumber and all your worries melted away.

[cosmicwhoreo]

context- This started as Tortuca running from capture by Caviar via a desperate sail through the Duskgloom sea. Thinking there was nothing really out there and that the superstitious cookies wouldn't follow. 'Course Caviar wasn't letting him go that easily. Leaping off of his own dang boat to chase the overgrown lizard onto his own boat to wrestle him into submission. ...Except they went and pissed off a massive murdermaid in the process of their little spar+avoiding sinking into the murky depths. where she made her feelings on the situation very clear. Doing everything in her power to see the pirate ship underwater with that pathetic cookie that she cursed with it. Of course, in a bid to at least fend her off, Caviar manned a cannon and got a lucky shot in and blasted her trident out of her hand. Letting it fall onto the deck with a shrill scream and nearly crushing Tortuca under it. However, when he tried hoisting it off of his ship in a seemingly desperate bid to keep the heavy weapon from weighing them down... It actually shrunk to a much more manageable size in his claws. And then he got a wicked idea... Now, Caviar had been dealing with a now even more angry sea beast that was doing her best to squash him like a bug. Until Tortuca shouted out from the crashing sounds of thunder and fury. "LETSEE 'ERE HOW YOU LOIK BEING BLASTED!!" and fired a bright blast of power at the surprised siren, hitting her square on the chest. She let out a pained scream as she was engulfed in a bright light. And like flicking a switch; She was gone. Much to the shock of the Durianeers, Caviar and a Tortuca who honestly didn't think that would work. And then Caviar saw it before anybody else. The look that Tortuca got on his face as he looked back down at the dangerously powerful trident in his claws, grinning like he had won the lottery as you could see a whole slew of terrible ideas running through the pirate lord's head. Fearing what he knew to be the inevitable, Caviar ran over to try and wrestle the thing out of Tortuca's grasp.

Only to be thrown off the ship as the power mad pirate cackles in victory...

Yeah, you can tell I originally wanted to have more comics drawn out to make this more concise as opposed to the small summary I just gave you, but hey these comics here were getting outdated in my eyes and I wanted them posted before I got the dumb idea to redraw and start the process all over again...

This is a little plot I have for having these two crazy kids get along with that good slow-burn gucci~! Don't know what I'mma call this AU but I'll figure it out latur. MErry chimpmus.

[everythingne]

KINTSUGI - AKIN TO A PRIDE VERSE - MV1

When brought to panic by ruthless reporters, Reina snaps and hits a reporter out of instinct. In desperation, Hana flies Max to London help her daughter out of a depressive episode caused by Reina thinking that she's more like her father than she ever wants to be. And Max realizes some things about who you call family.

warnings: reporters grabbing reina, mentioned rumors of domestic abuse, mentions of child abuse and past/current broken metacarpal (hand) bones (wow look at me being sciency?), many assumptions about max's childhood, reina has a whole break down, reminder this isn’t a romance series, also btw I changed reina's age to make her 20 (legit go back and look LOL) and that totally isn't something for silly foreshadowing purposes no no, my comeback after going to college LMAO

I'M FUCKING SCREWED. I'm so fucking screwed. I can feel the anxiety coursing through my arms as I stand there, my teammates off to my side as we try and fight through the media pen. We weren't even supposed to be here but Ollie Bearman had decided he was bored and dragged me and Kimi Antonelli along to see some other drivers by wandering along the pit lane. We were all pretty civil with one another, save for one or two weird rivalries here or there, so we were quick to amass a group that eventually Trident broke up when they needed Richard back.

And then media had shown up, and we'd gotten quickly swarmed with no real way out.

Luckily, Kimi had called someone from the paddock to come get us and help us out so as we slowly pushed through the crowd as politely as possible, someone was actively coming to us.

And then I had gotten split off.

"Ollie!" I shouted, trying to grab his attention, but my voice is lost among those of the reporters who chase after him. How theres so many reporters here, I have no idea. It's not normal. And then again, nothing about this season really was normal because of the whole siblings thing.

"Miss Matsumoto!" someone shouts and a camera is shoved in my face, I try to keep a calm composure, nodding sharply in greeting as I try to continue through the crowd, "How are you feeling about your race tonight?"

"I think I'll be alright," I nod, pulling the rim of my hat down a bit further, "My team has grown a bit with Max's personal trainer giving us some tips for my physical training and it's been really interesting seeing how just changing my diet and training has made drive different."

"How is your relationship with Max?" Someone else shouts and a smile happily crosses my face, okay, I can do this. Just keep talking and just keep pushing forward. Do what Max taught you.

"He's been incredible, a lot kinder than people give him credit for." I make sure to point that out as I walk. A few more questions about Max are tossed my way, what exactly he's been teaching me (how to train for Formula One specifically, different ways to keep my brain sharp, physical training adjustments, how to cope with the drastic difference between F2 and F1, which both Logan and Oscar had already told me about), if I've met Kelly and Penelope (I have, Penelope adores me for some reason), who I've met in Red Bull (Daniel, Max, Christian, Geri, a few engineers, some other drivers who now raced for other teams, and such.)

And then someone asks something that makes my stomach crawl, "Can you tell us why we haven't seen your father in the paddock this season even though his racing company is one of your main sponsors?"

"It's only the third race. I'm sure we'll see him in Sakura." I smile, trying to keep my voice level, but the reporters have found something to latch onto. I took too long to respond.

"How is your relationship with him been impacted since moving in with your mother?"

"The timezones make it hard to speak, but he is still my father, so," I shrug, trying now a bit more desperately to shove through the crowd. They're not letting me go. I can hear Kimi telling someone to move, his voice is sharp and annoyed, but the reporter doesn't listen.

"Is it true your father abused you?"

"What?" I gape, but reporters flash cameras and shove over each other to get to me. My reaction fuels them.

"Is Project Matsumoto a real thing, or just a mimic of Project Verstappen?"

I can't even recover from the last question as I gasp out, "I'm sorry?" I don't even know what they're referencing.

"Did Red Bull pick you to be Max's sibling due to your similar childhoods?"

I can't get words out now, the berating is on, and all I can do is try and back away. I can see Ollie waving a hand, trying to beckon me through the crowd, and now FIA officials are coming to move the reporters away. It's a mess of shoving and screaming, people in my face as they repeat themselves until their voices pitch to shouts and screams. I can't move through because any step I take is immediately countered by a shift in the tide of cameras and voices, blocking my path.

"Was your fathers attitude is Sakhir last year reflective of your childhood with him?" "How did your parents divorce effect your racing career?" "Is it hard to be living away from your Japanese roots?" "Why did your mother accuse your father of emotional and physical domestic abuse when they divorced?"

A reporter steps forward and grabs me and I rip back from him. Ollie's shoving a reporter to the side, trying to grab me before he's closed off by the ocean of people around me.

"Is the rumor of your fathers mistreatment of you true?" The man asks again, trying to grab me and I stumble back in a panic. My hat is pulled off by him instead, and I just let it go as I bring my arms to my stomach and wrap around myself.

"Please! Everyone, wait--!" I cry out, the obvious panic in my tone making my skin flame with embarrassment.

"Answer the question!" The same man shouts, shoving a reporter aside as raising his hand with his microphone. All I see is the raising of a fist in the shadow of my father, and my brain reacts before I can really think about what I'm about to do.

Crack!

I gasp as soon as I make the connection. It's hard. Max's training paying off well. Ollie's infront of me, grabbing my wrists and gently pulling me to the side until he can get me out of the crowd. Prema's around me in seconds, closing me off as I stare at my hands and feel the blood seeping across my knuckles.

I'm so screwed.

They get me into the paddock, voices over my head and slipping through my ears. I'm sat in my drivers room, Ollie and Kimi being peeled from my sides to go off and get ready for the race. I can't hear, can't think, a constant ringing ruining any conscious thought. My knuckle is split. My ring finger. I stare as one of the medics begins to clean up the wound.

Not even the sting can pull me from the thoughts racing through my head.

I hit someone. Struck a man out of fear. He had grabbed me, knocked my hat off, I had every reason to hit him. Yet, I had hit someone. I could hear my father's voice ringing in the back of my head, warnings of inheritance and passing down genetics I had shaken off to make myself feel better.

I was not my father. Never would be my father. I was so sure of that. Until today.

When the medic lets go of my hand and sets it on my lap, I feel fear strike my bones. And when René comes to get me, my silence is terrifying to everyone. I stand silent, straight faced, not even cracking a smile. The cameras watch me twice as much, I react a thousand times less.

Max is sitting on his bed, Penelope happily napping on his chest as he watches the pre-race bullshit for Reina. He had off today, oddly enough, and Kelly had gone out to do some sort of PR management event which left him to watch little Penelope. No problem at all.

The pre-race is what he's expecting, he can see Ollie dragging Reina and Kimi around and amassing a small group of F2 drivers outside of Trident. He laughs when Kimi hoists Reina into his arms, loudly announcing her by her nickname of Little Lion and making the rest of the boys cheer. What he isn't expecting is when they break up from the rest of the drivers to return to their paddock. Ollie's leading Kimi and Reina back when they get cut off by a mass of reporters. F2 hadn't been prepared for their usual amount of media to almost multiply by ten, and apparently it had been causing all sorts of issues.

Like this.

The questions are easy enough. He feels a weird swell of pride when he notices how easily Reina answers the reporters compared to before he'd started teaching her some media techniques.

And then the questions shift.

He can see Reina's panic after the first question, actually he sees it as soon as the word 'father' is brought up. He sits up a bit, gently readjusting Penelope as he turns the TV a bit louder. The camera swings away for a moment to show Ollie and Kimi pause when they realize Reina's not there, and their quick turn around before the camera swaps to show Reina.

She looks horrified. Max feels a burn in his chest as he sits up and leans forward, almost willing Ollie through the crowd. He can see multiple Prema people attempting to shove through, but every attempt is in vain. Nothing is working. It's a Sisyphean task.

Then the reporter tries to grab Reina and Max has to hold himself back from getting up and shouting at the TV. Not that it's gonna change anything. Reina steps back, and her eyes are darting around, trying to find a weak spot to escape. She can't, Max realizes, as the reporters close in.

The next thing he sees is her arm jut forward, a loud crack sounding over the speakers. His jaw drops, the sight of Reina hitting someone so foreign to him. Silence falls over the crowd as Ollie grabs her and pulls her away, someone else shouting for her to come on as Prema swarms her in a protective bubble. The feed cuts there and leaves Max on a cliff hanger for thirty minutes until they are just about to start the race. The anthem is playing. But, the Reina he sees on the screen is not his Reina.

She's silent, stone faced, frozen still and almost robotic. She moves soft as a dancer, but her gaze is sharper than an ice skaters blades. She wins, sure, but he can't get her haunted look out of his brain. She carries it even through her podium, not even able to smile when she hoists the trophy above her head.

The call from Hana the next day is expected. The invite to their flat in London is not.

"She just needs someone who understands what she's going through." Hana had pleaded on the phone, "I know it's wrong of me to say it, but you were treated a very similar way when you first got into F1 and especially when you started winning. You had a similar past, you both have similar struggles. She needs your help, Max.”

Max had wanted to suggest a therapist, a psychiatrist even, but he knew Reina would rather throw herself in front of a Le Mans car, probably the Porsche 936, than talk about her problems. Which left the question of if she would even talk to him.

But he tells Christian and Geri what's happening for a second opinion, and he is told he should go.

So he's on a flight to London three hours later, about a weeks worth of clothing packed haphazardly. He thinks he forgot a toothbrush and aftershave, but he doesn't care to check. After careful conversation, Hana had agreed to let him get a hotel close by, so he could give Reina space. Hana had been so certain Reina needed him, but Max wasn't even sure if Hana had tried to reach out to her daughter herself. Apparently Reina wasn't eating, doing her training, or even the sim. She had been in bed except for when she was forced out, and luckily there was a bit longer break than usual, it gave Max time.

He gets to the flat around eleven in the morning, twirling the keys of his rental car in his hand. He tells Hana he's coming inside and she gives him the code to the lobby and to the flat. The second one isn't needed, the woman is waiting for him in the hall.

“Thank you so much for coming out here.” Hana sighs when she sees Max and he’s shocked to see the usually classy woman in such a disheveled state, he gives her a hug in greeting but allows her to ramble through it.

“I’m sorry that I’m such a mess, I just—Reina hasn’t done this in so long it’s genuinely frightening to see it again.” Hana wipes her face, sniffling as she shakes her hands to sort of shake it off, “I’ve been trying to get her to do anything and she just won’t, she’s usually twice as active after a race, not sedimentary! I don’t know what to do—“

Max cuts off her rambling with a soft, “Hey, relax. You’ve done all you can. You go and take care of yourself, I’ll talk to Reina.”

It must be what Hana needs to hear (it’s something he’d been told by his mom when comforting Victoria growing up) because Hana barrels into his chest in a hug, thanking him probably thirty times in a row before stepping back and letting him in.

The apartment is gorgeous, Max can’t lie. It’s got big windows and tons of natural lighting, bright bold colors in decorations he’s sure Reina picked out. Which, he guesses, makes sense, because it will become her apartment soon. Hana points him in the direction of Reina’s room, but seems so genuinely distraught she can’t go near.

And this is where he’s stepping off the dock.

He hesitates to knock, but does eventually. It’s soft enough he’s sure Reina won’t hear it, but then he hears the most broken, teary and bitter, “what?” from the other side of the door.

“It’s Max.” He presses his hand to the handle, eyes staring through the wood as he leans in to the door itself, almost as if trying to see Reina through it, “can I come in?”

There’s a long enough pause he thinks she’ll say no. But theres a soft, "okay."

He pushes the door open to the darkness of Reina's room. One Himalayan salt lamp is on in the corner, providing a slightly warm glow to the room. The blinds are drawn tight, blackout curtains hastily thrown over them, and Reina's head is the only part of her body that's visible under her mass of blankets. Her room isn't quite messy, just cluttered with partially empty water bottles and a plate of cold breakfast. He remembers this. The shutting yourself off part of this all, of being raised like they had. Or, the lack thereof.

"Mornin'." He says simply, walking over to sit on the edge of her bed. Reina blinks a few times, like she can't even believe Max is there, and slowly sits up.

"Why are you here?" Her voice is groggy but not in the sense of just waking up, it sounds more like shes been sobbing for hours. A claim backed up by the redness of her swollen eyes and sniffly nose.

"Your mom called." He doesn't sugarcoat, never has, "I saw the punch. What did the FIA give you for that?"

“Five second penalty. Kimi was behind by six. Didn’t matter.” She grumbled, looking over at him from where she’s bundled up. She looks miserable, and though Max knows he’s started to crack through to get her to talk, he needs to keep trying.

“Did they fix your brakes?” Max asks and Reina nods, then sits up and sighs.

“I know you didn't fly all the way from Monaco to London for small talk. What’s wrong?” She asks, scrubbing at her red cheeks as she crosses her legs and grabs a large plush Hello Kitty and buries her face in it.

“Your mom said you’re not handling it well,” Max hums, leaning back on his hand and looking over at Reina as she curls a little bit tighter around her plushie.

“I hit someone.” She whines, “I hit him.”

“He grabbed you.” Max says, looking over at Reina and letting out a tiny non-committal hum, “the reason the FIA gave you such a little punishment is because it’s self defense.”

“But Max, I hit him.” Reina emphasized and Max blinked. What the fuck was she getting at here? His confusion must be all over his face because she shifts slightly closer and he can see where she'd split one of her knuckles open. Hana hold told him the finger was technically broken, but Reina refused to wear her brace on it. Something about having already worn one in the past. Not that Max would know. But when Reina goes to ball her hand into a fist, he notes her pinkie and ring finger don't close. Daniel's injury rings in his mind for a second, but he shoves the thought away as Reina continues to repeat herself, more broken, more panicked.

“Reina," Max attempts to soothe her, scooting a a bit closer to place a hand on hers, hiding the injury from her sight, "what are you getting at here?"

"I..." She stammers, eyes darting around his face, and then she huffs out a question he's not expecting, "Are you afraid of being like your father?"

Max blinks. The silence encompassing the room for a long while before he sighs out a soft, "Yeah, terrified."

"Me too." Reina nods, flexing her hand again. Max watches the way her eyes dart down to her injury and he realizes she's trying to cue him in. It's like a puzzle, and he has to put together the pieces to get the picture. She doesn't say anything next, leaving Max to figure it out himself, so he just watches Reina.

She's fidgety, fingers tapping along her injured hand, but he notes she keeps poking her pinkie. She'd injured her right ring finger, not the pinkie, so he's not sure what she's trying to do. She's not concerned over her current injury, but the past one. His eyes trail along her clothing, her mothers old NASCAR jersey, the rest of her hidden under mass amounts of fuzzy blankets. Her hair is braided back, greasy, and knotted, her skin is dull but still clear save for one or two pimples in her hairline. She wasn't taking care of herself, he could see that, it was a classic depressive episode.

Max meets her eyes and sees shes trying to pick him apart too.

But why? What did she need to know? Max was pretty open with her, he'd told her more than he told most people. Geri had encouraged it, hell she'd even asked if she could tell Hana some stuff from when he first got to Red Bull. The first time he'd snapped at Christian, expecting to be shouted back at, but was shocked at his calm tone. The first Christmas, when he had no one to go to, and Christian invited him to their home and though Max was slightly out of place he'd stolen the attention of the kids in a heartbeat. That was the day he'd become almost like a fifth kid to the Horners. Geri had asked if he was comfortable talking about his childhood with Hana, and he had, though it was a difficult conversation. She'd asked wonderful questions about healing and growing up and moving on, asked how much moving to Monaco and being on his own at eighteen had helped. Being on his own was freeing, he'd said that much, and though he kept some parts out he knew Hana could piece it together.

Hold on.

Max had snapped because he thought Christian would be like Jos when he'd failed to overtake on a turn.

Max hadn't had anywhere to go that Christmas because it was the first time he was celebrating without any family in the same home.

Max became an unofficial Horner because his own familial issues.

Max had moved to Monaco to get away from his father.

Reina was afraid to be like her father.

Reina was always looking to Max for validation, even with how short they had known each other.

Reina's injury, from what little Max knew, was caused after she had crashed out of a race--in heer drivers room. The last time she'd seen her dad after she'd left their house in Fukushima.

Shit.

"Reina." Max starts, not sure if he even knows how to approach this. He'd been the messy one, the one to snap, the one to shout, the one to lash out. It was evident of an 'avoidant attachment style' from his childhood or whatever the hell that meant, therapists always confused him with technicalities. Max wasn't gentle, he wasn't soft like this, he was hard edges and half-broken promises. How does one avoid their own sharp edges when trying to handle something so soft? How can Max be sure he won't break Reina?

"What happened to your pinkie?" He asks, gently prodding the knuckle with his own. Reina meets his eyes. He can't find her in her own gaze.

"Boxer's fracture." She murmurs, "Like Daniel's."

"I know that, but how did it happen?" He pushes and when Reina freezes up, he whispers, "Listen, it's just us right now. I'm gonna keep you safe, yeah? Like a real brother would."

Max had enough experience protecting Victoria.

"My dad." Reina starts, then swallows and closes her eyes. She leans forward, seeking out Max, and he moves so she can rest her head on his shoulder, staring down at her hands covered by his, "Last year, when I crashed out towards the end of the season. I was living with my mom by then, so I never really saw him. I didn't even know he was at the race. I got to my drivers room and we got in an argument. My mom tried to split us up and he slapped her so hard she fell over. I pushed him to get him to leave her alone and..."

Reina struggles to find the words and whatever she had gone through is a thousand times worse than Max could've ever expected.

"He grabbed me by the wrist, I grabbed a door to get away and he slammed it on my hand. Broke my metacarpal in two places, I needed surgery, so I never finished the season. Finished thirteenth."

Max is still. So still he's not even sure he's still breathing. Reina sniffles, and Max feels her tears hit the back of his hand.

"You don't wanna wear the brace because it takes you back." He says and Reina just lets out a soft hum. He doesn't know what to do. So, he does what Geri had done the few times she'd had to comfort him. One arm around her shoulders, the other on her head, and he pulls her taught to his chest to cradle her there.

The sob she lets out shatters his heart and he tries to pull her impossibly closer. They're flush to one another, theres no more space to close, but he still tries as Reina breaks and shatters in his hands like fine china. He attempts to piece her back together but there's not enough of him intact to repair her. Max, for his benefit, has dealt with Penelope's tired melt downs and so he gives Reina a waterbottle and wipes her tears, lays her down admist her blankets and tucks her in tightly. He sits on the floor by her face, running his fingers through her hair as best he can, gently running his thumb along her shoulder.

He can tell shes not just crying because she'd hit someone, but theres more to it. And an hour or so later, when the tears subside, she finally opens her heart to him.

"I hate my dad." She whispers after maybe five minutes of silence, no longer broken by her sniffles.

"I do too." Hate his dad? Hate hers? He's not sure. But he stands up to open her curtains and blinds, hands itching to do something rather than just sit silent. The noon sun warms the room almost instantly, and Reina lifts her head to shift into the sun. He turns and speaks as he bends down to pick up a stray bottle, "Why do you hate him?"

"Just... everything he put me and my mom through." Reina sighs, "There's a lot he did I can never forgive him for."

"What did he do?" Max sits down again and Reina reaches out to his hand, which he obliges, and she pokes at his fingers.

"When I was growing up, I started karting in Japan with my father. He wanted me to race rally cars since I was born, even with his obvious disappointment I wasn’t a son. I competed for the first time on my fifth birthday, and won. I got scouted that day and my dad completely changed. It went from a little hobby I could have to a future career, especially when my mother learned she was infertile after my birth." Reina speaks monotonously, eyes distant as she recalls, and though Max has read up on her past he knows he's getting a new raw look at her life.

"My dad finally got me in rally when I was ten, a year before the divorce. I did it for three years. The worst three years of my life." Reina shifts so she's laying on her back, looking up at the ceiling and avoiding Max's eyes, "everything that my father had just simply said became physical. Every single time I made a mistake, I was hit. Every time I talked back, ignored him, walked away, did anything he deemed to be incorrect, I was hit. Sometimes just a whack to the back of my head in annoyance, most of the time closed fists. The only thing I was allowed to do was race, extracurriculars, and school. And that includes sleeping, eating, showering, and such."

"On my thirteenth birthday, my mom came to visit us in Japan for a race I had in Fukushima. I finished second because of some dirty play and my dad was so angry at the company for not catching that, he took it out on me completely. My mom and her boyfriend at the time saw the entire thing, a huge fight broke out, the cops got called, it was a whole thing.

"My mom sued my dad for only my custody, no payment, nothing. And he dug his own hole, the court found out he was spending all the money my mom sent for me on himself, I had saved years of evidence... my mom ended up getting full custody without a challenge, and a payment that amounted to all her payments of child support and then two years worth of payments of my fathers child support in advance. That all happened around the time I switched to Formula racing. The entire time I've been racing Formula I've been living with my mom and my dad has been sending child support."

"When he got... aggressive with you, was it always physical?" Max hums and Reina shakes her head. Max slowly starts to undo one of the braids to redo it, trying to ignore the greasy feeling on his hands, and she leans into his touch so much he has to pause as he feels her face rest against his arm.

"No, it was just shouting until I got into rally and then every once and a while he’d hit me. And the most he did before I got into rally was slap me once when I was like, six? But it was mostly just him ignoring me or screaming at me, or making me race to exhaustion." Reina sighs as she then rolls to curl up against his side and Max adjusts so that he's half laying down with Reina curled up on his chest. It's similar to the way he'd gotten the youngest Horner kids to sleep when he'd visit or babysit over the years.

"My father is one of the worst people on the planet," Reina stares out the window. Max hums non-committedly, moving a little bit closer as Reina speaks in the most dead tone he's ever heard as she says, "and I have always been his favorite punching bag."

"I was my father's favorite too." Max admits and Reina nods.

"What was he like?"

"Just a lot more manipulative and way less physical. A lot of it was just him ignoring me, leaving me places, shouting at me, pressuring me. A lot of manipulation when I'd call him out on it." Max hums, finding the braid he'd half undone to fully pull it out. Reina grabs a brush off her nightstand and hands it to him so he can start to brush out her hair. It's weirdly remnant of Victoria and Penelope. Reina hums and as Max brushes out her hair, he feels the way her body relaxes.

“So did you pick me or did Red Bull?” Reina asks maybe five minutes later and Max hums, fingers finding loops of her hair to slowly braid it again. Practically hearing Geri’s voice instructing him on how to braid because it was ‘something good to know for Penelope.’ He was glad he had listened to her. It was a good thing to know.

“They told me I was gonna train you, then told me I was gonna train Ollie.” Max hums, “Ollie’s great but… I dunno. I just knew I should mentor you. Call it divine intervention but I knew.”

“Im glad you chose me.” Reina murmurs against the fabric of his hoodie and he realizes how odd this moment is. He’d packed up in thirty minutes, gotten on a two hour flight, and spent an hour coaxing his mentees trauma out so he can help her. He could’ve just said he was busy, and yet he’d already given so much of his heart to Hana and Reina he knew he couldn’t just abandon them. Reina needed him just as much as he needed her.

"I'm glad I did too. And... listen, Rei, you hitting this guy because he scared you doesn't make you an abuser." Max watches as Reina picks her head up, resting her chin on his sternum to watch him, "and Reina, you being afraid of being like your father tells me you will never be."

"But I just... I hit someone like he hit me and it was just an echo. He always told me I would grow up to be like him." Reina closes her eyes and Max takes a hand to cup her face, running his thumb along her wet undereyes.

"But you hit out of fear, not out of anger or with the intention of abusing someone, thats the thing that will never make you like him."

Reina nods, and Max knows it'll probably take him the whole week to convince her of that. But, as Reina lays her head back down with a soft thank you, he feels like he's done enough. Only twenty four hours ago he had Penelope sleeping on his chest. Now Reina’s in the same spot, her hand reaching out to cup the setting sun with her injured hand.

“Kintsugi.” She says softly, then sits up. Max watches her, head tilting as she moves to her closet and swings the door open. Grabbing a stool, she clambers up to the top shelf and starts rustling around. From his vantage point on the bed, Max can see deep scars running the inside of her leg and wonders briefly where they’re from before Reina settled back in front of him on the couch. She sees him looking and swallows, digging something out of a box from her closet.

“Also from my dad.” She says, eyes flickering up, “same day my mom was in Fukushima.”

“Ah.” Max nods, and lets Reina continue to rustle. He wants to ask questions, but he’s curious as to what she’s doing. She sets down her brace and a thing of gold paint and hands a brush to him.

“What is this?”

“Okay. It’s kinda stupid because this is no where close to what you’re supposed to do, but hear me out,” Reina raises her hands in defense. Max let’s her have the floor, he’s not gonna judge her.

“Kintsugi, it’s a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery or dishes or whatever with urushi lacquer mixed with powered gold or whatever and I don’t have lacquer and this isn’t technically broken but!” Reina pauses her rambling, chews her lip, and looks away from Max and to the window, “When I had my first hand brace, my Jiji—my grandmother, she painted it with this beautiful gold design. She told me it was my kintsugi. That I was broken, and that she was mending me. And… she’s always been my biggest support. Besides my mom, Jiji sacrificed so much for me, almost all her salary went to helping me get into F4 because my dad stopped helping me pay for racing until he started sponsoring me last year. And… Kintsugi is our thing. If she breaks anything she waits for me to fix it.”

There’s something hanging here, something so vulnerable, so Max asks with plenty of pause to show his trepidation, “Why did you give me the brush, then? Where’s Jiji?”

“In Washington.” Reina hums, “And… you… you’re a really big supporter to me. And you mean a lot to me, Max. I’ve only known you for half a year now but… you’ve helped me with a lot. And you sacrifice a lot for me. You flew all the way here to help me because my Mom asked. And don’t think Christian didn’t tell me about you trying to anonymously sponsor me.”

Max laughs softly, “Guilty as charged.”

“I want you to paint something on it. Anything. I have a—“ Reina starts to dig again, “a gold marker too. I do this all the time with things I break—like my phone cases or my hair ties. This is a whole bin of knockoff Kintsugi.”

She hands Max the marker and then rolls off to the side to curl back into her blankets, but rests her head on his thigh. Max sits and stares at the brace in his hand, rolling it around in his grasp as he thinks of what to write. There’s about a thousand things that ring through his head, and none he can settle on.

And then he gets an idea.

While Reina watches him focus, the golden light of the sun haloing him, she wonders briefly if she’s found her own form of Kintsugi in him. Sure they weren’t perfect, and both deeply troubled in their own right, traumas rooted deep within them, but they had each other and that was what they needed.

And Max knew he found Kintsugi in Reina.

Reina sits up when Max hands her the brace back, making an odd face when she sees its written in Dutch.

“laat u niet definiëren door uw naam. Do not be defined by your name.” Max says simply, and Reina looks up at him and tears prick in her eyes immediately. When Max helps her put it on, he adds a bit more gold flare to the boring black brace and smiles.

“Now you can wear it, yeah?” he says, and Reina leans up to wrap her arms taught around him. He laughs softly and hugs her back, letting her bury her face in the side of his neck.

If she sobs, he doesn’t comment, just lets her lay there until she’s run dry.

A week later, Max is unpacking in Monaco when he notices something new in his bag. He finds a small little keychain, a little blue ribbon tied to a clasp he knows he can snag on his keys. It’s in Japanese, but the note attached makes him smile a little watery smile.

‘Max,

Thank you. That’s all I can say. For everything you were supposed to help me with, and everything you chose to do on your own. I hope I can return the favor.

Reina.

ps. it says ‘do not be defined by your name.’ just like my brace,’

The keychain hangs off the zipper of his work jacket instead. And if anyone asks—and Yuki is the first to ask the meaning since he knows what it actually says, he simply smiles and says it’s a gift. No other explanation needed.

Except for when Geri asks, and he tells her the whole story, and then Christian ‘yells’ at him for making Geri cry.

reinamatsumoto made a new post!

liked by gerihorner, logansargeant, maxverstappen, and 458k others...

reinamatsumoto: [come back soon, big brother]!!

viewing translation from japanese

tagged: maxverstappen

misshanatanaka: [so sweet! glad having him by helped sweetheart!!]

user1: CAPTOIN HAS ME IN FUCKING TEARS

user2: MAX IS HER BROTHER !!!!!!

logansargeant: did our sushi date meaning NOTHING.

⤷ reinamatsumoto: GOD YOU WANT A POST FOR FUCKING SUSHI??

⤷ logansargeant: YES?

⤷ oscarpiastri: please rei he's pouting.

⤷ reinamatsumoto: fine. anything for my favorite white boys.

⤷ user6: my favorite prema survivors <3

user3: CRYING OVER HER CALLING MAX HER BROTHER. OH. IM SO NOT WELL.

user4: so are we gonna talk ab her punching a reporter? bc shes hot for that.

oscarpiastri: PERONI??? FOUL.

gerihorner: so so so cute!!!!!

⤷ reinamatsumoto: thanks mom!!!

⤷ maxverstappen: thanks mom

user5: logan crying in the comments is so real

yukitsunoda: [max is a big softie!]

⤷ reinamatsumoto: [I KNOW !!!]

taglist (thank you for your support!!)

@vellicora @justsomejess @struggling-with-delia

[jaskierx]

can't wait until somebody more intelligent than me writes a big post about the ed and hornigold scenes but for now this will do

so uh once upon a time i had therapy which is weird bc i'm completely mentally well and always have been and my therapist introduced me to this theory called transactional analysis where the idea is that as well as your 'regular' adult self you have an inner parent (who acts like your parents/parent figures) and an inner child (who acts like you did as a child) and a lot of how we process what happens to us is influenced by these

and i'm climbing my walls and hanging upside down from the ceiling because to me this was so perfectly shown in those scenes

ed and hornigold are ed's inner child and inner parent respectively

ed wants to play pretend. he wants to play innkeeper with a friend and have fun. he does not want to eat his soup in case it isn't safe. he wants to be told that he's special ('it's not that basic, mine was pretty intense') he wants to gently suggest things ('i think i'm supposed to choose live') and look to an authority figure and have them confirm that he's doing well and making the right choices

and hornigold as the inner parent doesn't let him, because ed didn't get that kind of parental support as a child. hornigold indulges ed in the innkeeper roleplay, but spoils it by not playing 'properly', by trying to change it from a fun game about running an inn to a hard lesson about how in the real world people will be rude to you. he forces ed to eat the soup for his own good. he's unimpressed by ed's various misdeeds and attempts to get the crew to kill him even though ed is showing them to him and asking for approval. he's indifferent and gives absolutely no encouragement when ed is looking for assurance that he should choose to live - in fact, he ends up deciding ed is taking too long and makes the decision for him, literally causing him to fall off the cliff

and then when ed's about to die, when he's chosen death and he's almost at peace with letting himself drown, the person that saves him is stede - who has always seen him and never judged him, who works on the same wavelength with how ed communicates through games and metaphors, who was the first person to ever look past the blackbeard exterior and see ed as a person who is soft and vulnerable and likes fabrics instead of a man so scary he's become a legend - stede who appears as a literal light in the darkness, as a mythical creature, armed with a trident to protect ed from harm

yeah in conclusion ed has childhood trauma and everybody is worse off for it including me :)

[frozenjokes]

do we think cannibalism is a good idea yet? please? please do cannibalism?

“Hey, you okay, Mumbo? Can I come up? I’m thinking I’m going to come up regardless of what you say, but I’d like it if you just said yes.”

It was Scar. Mumbo said nothing. Scar hit his head twice attempting to get in with a trident, but made it on the third go, sighing with a dramatic ‘whew!’ There was a small silence in the wake of Scar’s arrival, causing the same agony Mumbo was sure Cub experienced when Mumbo smashed his ribs.

“Guess he told you,” Mumbo muttered, resigned to this outcome. Cub would tell Scar, Scar would push for more answers, and eventually the whole damn server would know something was wrong, not that they could do anything about it. Mumbo would not leave. Not until his shadow had its way.

“Cub told me you were really upset, yeah. Said he didn’t know why,” Scar shrugged, “Told me he thought you needed a friend. So here I am.”

“Ah,” Mumbo couldn’t even manage the noise without his voice slipping in a soft crack. Scar stepped toward the bed where Mumbo was curled up, moving to take his hand, then letting it go when Mumbo flinched.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Scar said, so impossibly gentle, and while Mumbo most certainly would not, he didn’t want to say nothing; he didn’t think he could just say nothing, it was too much.

“I think I’m- I’m very ill. I’m having a- a crisis, I think. Mentally. I’m not well. I’m really not well.”

Scar hummed, low and thoughtful, “Want a hug? I could lay down with you, no need to sit up.”

“I don’t want to face you.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“I-Okay. I’m just. I’m just going to stay here. I’m just going to stay here.”

Mumbo felt the bed dip beside him, Scar muttering a soft, “Alright,” before sliding in and holding him in a gentle spoon. It was nice feeling Scar behind him, warm even through the blanket that separated them. Slowly, Mumbo let that heat consume him, felt his heart rate slow. And then out of nowhere it seemed, wretchedly, he started to sob. It was not unusual for Mumbo to cry, though most of his grief was saved for the end of worlds, the friends he’d never see again. So much of his focus was dedicated to staying in the moment, distracting himself, putting one foot in front of the other; stopping to sob was a waste of energy, a waste of resolve. It was giving up. And Mumbo was aware of what was coming, he knew it, but in each new world acceptance came later, the moment where the gravity of his soon-to-end life hit him harder each time, and today, it was hitting now. He could delude himself all he wanted that he’d hold on until the end of the season, but he knew he wouldn’t make it. He would hardly be able to stand more than a month of this. It was over. Maybe it’d be better to bite the bullet now. Stop drawing out his own suffering and deal with the hurt after it was done.

How selfish was that, with Scar at his back. With monstrous effort, he ground down the thought that this would be the ideal way to do it; turning around and tearing through Scar’s chest, disabling any means of fighting back, then taking his damned time. Mumbo cried harder when Scar followed his arm down to his hand, rubbing circles with his thumb into the back.

He would wait.

“Please tell Cub to leave me alone. I don’t know what he wants, I don’t care, I just don’t want to see him anymore. For the rest of the season, I don’t want to see him.”

“He wants you to eat him.”

Mumbo stiffened, a short, strangled sound crawling from his throat, but Scar shushed him gently, holding Mumbo’s hand tighter in turn.

“Just listen, lay here with me and listen before you freak out, alright?” Scar's voice was little more than a whisper, gentle force at Mumbo’s side serving to keep him still and as calm as he could stand to be.

“Why?” Mumbo croaked out, and felt Scar gesture vaguely with his head.

“He’s worried, mostly. He gets in his head about things, and he’s trying to solve them but he- well, he’s not the most tactful guy sometimes. I think he got scared when he saw you at the start of season ten; the last time he’d really seen you was after your break when you looked really bad.. He’s worried things are going to escalate to the point they did before, so he’s uh.. decided he’s gonna fix it. With cannibalism. When he’s talking about it to me it makes a lot of sense, but uh.. I mean, I guess it’s a little out there..”

“How do I make him stop. You have to- Scar, please make him stop.” Mumbo felt himself quivering in Scar’s hold, be it from fear or anger, he did not know.

“Oh, he won’t take it from me. I mean, he would if I was the guy he was trying to convince to eat other people, but he doesn’t always take secondhand advice like that. In this case, he’s way too zeroed in. You have to do it.”

“Well- fine. I’ll do it then, I’ll do it right now-“ Mumbo wriggled in Scar’s grip, but he held fast.

“Wait a minute- Not like that, no, not like that.” Scar almost laughed, but there was a little more stress there than anything.

“Not like what?” Mumbo huffed, annoyed. He pushed one last struggle, but gave in when Scar didn’t let go.

“You’ve got to be straight with Cub, you’ll put him off if you go about this too.. emotionally charged, let’s say. I’ll tell you exactly how to do it, I want to help you, Mumbo.”

Mumbo took a breath, then forced himself to relax, “Okay. Tell me. Please.”

Mumbo felt Scar straighten up behind him, then clear his throat, like he was about to address a crowd. “First, you gotta be as close to emotionless as you can make yourself. Fire up the coldest, deadest soul you can manage, and talk to him like you’ve just found out a close friend from like ten years ago got really sick, like really sick, terminal, and you don’t really know what to do, but the messenger of the news is looking awkward so you tell them it’s okay, it’s fine, but you don’t really feel fine, you know, your old friend is-“

“I understand, Scar,” Mumbo said, stuck between annoyance and a soft pang of amusement.

“Oh- alright,” Scar sounded a little embarrassed, but not offended, “Well I say that because Cub doesn’t- I know he doesn’t do this on purpose, and he’d probably be hurt if I said this to him so please don’t say anything, but he tends to take you less seriously when you approach him in an emotional kind of way. He really doesn’t mean to, he just gets a little confused I think, frustrated maybe. He doesn’t get it, is what I mean. He’s extremely bad at getting it. He’s sympathetic, but if you approach him and you’re emotional about it he’ll start thinking he knows better than you, in a ‘I’m just gonna take care of it for you,’ kinda way, which is completely infuriating, believe me, I know.”

“Are.. Are you guys okay?”

“Ah!” Scar jumped as if Mumbo had tazed him, “No no no! I’m just trying to explain it to you. I love Cub, he’s great, he’s the best. Literally. He’s just kind of an asshole sometimes. And he knows that, he doesn’t like being an asshole, so he listens when you tell him how it is.”

“Okay.. Then I’ll tell him I’m not going to eat him. And to stop bothering me.”

“No you won’t.”

Mumbo made a face, then gave in, “Okay. What will I tell him then.”

“You gotta tell him how he’s acting, right? You can’t tell him how what he’s doing makes you feel because he does not care, and he’ll probably tell you that, because when he’s made his mind up about something he seriously does not give a fuck unless you reach into his brain and shake it around a little. You gotta really take him by the temples and just shake.” Scar shook Mumbo a little for emphasis, Mumbo half fighting half chuckling as Scar dissolved into giggles.

“So I tell him that he’s being a prick and he should snap out of it before I get other people involved,” Mumbo sighed harshly, “Honestly, I shouldn’t even bother. I’ll just tell Grian. He’ll take care of it.”

“No, no,” Scar laughed, but it was a more nervous sound, like he knew just how serious Grian would take a matter like this, “That first bit is perfect. If you tell him that like you’re really serious- approach him first too, don’t wait for him to come to you- it’ll stop him right in his tracks. If that doesn’t work, call me. You don’t have to threaten him or anything, just make him see he’s not going about his business in the right way. I don’t do much more than tell him he’s being an asshole and he backs down. It’s magic.”

“Well- Okay. But I’m going to Grian if this doesn’t work.” Mumbo started to get up, but stopped when Scar squeezed his hand.

“Wait until tomorrow,” he said, quiet, “It’ll be better for you. Stay, rest today.” Even quieter still, he continued, “I’m sorry you’re going through something, Mumbo. If you ever want to get into the weeds I’m here, and you know Grian will be up and arms for you at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t.. It doesn’t matter what it is. To me especially, you have to know it doesn’t matter,” and with a small laugh, he said, “You could tell me you wanted to saw my head off with just your nails and I’d probably go yikes! I don’t think I’ll be very alive before you finish with the decapitation, but I'm free all day Wednesday, so we can give it a shot!”

“I’ll wait,” was all Mumbo could say. He hoped Scar would let it go now, but less than a minute later, he was speaking again.

“I just hope you know Cub’s got good intentions. He’s not trying to hurt you. I know it doesn’t always feel like that, especially when he can look you in the eyes and disregard your feelings because he’s more convinced he’s helping than he sees he’s upsetting you. I.. I’m also worried about you, if I’m being honest. It doesn’t take me finding you curled up in bed to know you haven’t been in the best shape lately. I don’t know the best way to go about this, Mumbo, and I don’t think- I don’t know if Cub.. I don’t always think he has the best way of going about things, but I understand where he’s coming from. I understand why. I know it’s difficult to extend him the kind of patience that you would for a closer friend, but please try. All of the hermits care about you, even the ones you don’t know well. We want to see you doing well.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore, Scar.”

Scar was quiet for a long moment. “Okay.”

…

Mumbo found Cub at the permit office where Scar told him Cub would probably be most consistently at least some part of the day. The idea of doing this in the permit office was most comforting for Mumbo, for the slim chance that Grian might also be there, might come up to Cub’s office and save him from the agony of this confrontation, though, the more logical part of Mumbo’s brain said that Grian was the wrong kind of person to convince Cub of anything. It was probably a good thing he never came in to work.

Mumbo had never been to the permit office before, but he couldn’t find an entrance, so grimacing, he poked a hole in the wall, replacing the blocks as he went. He climbed up the stairs with some issue (everything here seemed to be cluttered and difficult to find), then stopped before coming to the third floor, hesitating.

“Cub?” he called, feeling exceedingly stupid.

“Mumbo?” Cub nearly squawked, more than surprised, but this gave Mumbo some confidence, climbing the stairs to Cub’s office.

“Hello,” Mumbo said coolly, finding the even tone much easier to achieve now that he was face to face with Cub. Cub straightened his posture, and Mumbo, pleased to have gotten his attention, continued, “You’re being a prick.”

Cub blinked, then again a few times, but his expression stayed mostly the same. “Okay.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Yes.” Cub tapped his nails on his desk, looking thoughtful.

“I’d like to know what you’re going to do about it. Because if things continue the way they’re going, I’m going to have Grian get involved, and that would be a mighty pain in your ass.”

Cub nodded like this made perfect sense, “I think that’s fair. I do not want that. How about you sit down, Mumbo.”

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s fine. Regardless, I’d like to have a conversation about this so we can work out what we’re going to do next.”

“I already know what’s going to happen here, Cub. You’re going to leave me alone, cut complete contact, or I’m getting other hermits involved. That’s where this is going.”

“I would appreciate it if we could talk first, because as much as I’m sure you have plenty of words to say about me, I have a few things to say of my own, and I think it’s only reasonable that I speak my peace before you call in the dogs. You can hear exactly what I want from my own mouth and decide for yourself how you’d like to move forward when I’m done.” Cub closed his eyes, then opened them a moment later, “Because it doesn’t matter if you pit the entire server against me, I’m a damn stubborn cunt in the face of the kind of adversity you’re threatening, and the easy way out is here, at my desk. If you sit here and listen to everything I have to say and still want out, then I will leave you alone.” Cub eyed his own chair distastefully, getting up and maneuvering to sit with his legs crossed on his desk instead. He brushed away the few papers and knickknacks he kept, pushing them onto the now empty chair. “My desk chair is meant to sit higher than the one where a client would sit, but that’s all roleplay, let’s ditch the nonsense.”

Mumbo frowned. He considered calling Scar, but that wouldn’t help him here. He sighed. For the peace of mind of never having to deal with Cub again, this seemed a small price to pay. Mumbo climbed onto Cub’s desk, awkward with his long legs.

“Okay. Speak then.”

“I’ll only leave you alone if you listen to everything I have to say, got it?”

“Just get on with it, Cub.”

Cub rolled his shoulders, seeming quite content with taking his time. And then Cub’s eyes narrowed, throwing Mumbo a look so fiercely knowing that Mumbo felt it pierce straight through his bleeding heart.

“Let me start with what I don’t care about, because as far as shit like this goes, I prefer to lay it all out on the table. When it comes to the hobbies of this server’s inhabitants, slowly torturing, dismembering, and eventual eating alive of animals is pretty low of my list of Things That Make Me Feel Good but ultimately high on my list of Things I Don’t Really Give A Fuck About, and given everything I know about you, Mumbo, I don’t think you’re psychotic, I think you probably have a pretty good reason to do those things you do thousands of blocks out from spawn. And before you start squabbling at me, I found out in season eight, Scar knows because I told him, and I’m 99% sure Grian knows, but he never told me so and I haven’t directly asked him. I’m willing to bet he’s known since season six though, probably weeks within the first day he met you. If anyone else knows, I haven’t been told about it.”

Mumbo covered his gaping mouth with a quivering hand. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Part of him wanted to lunge forward and silence Cub, but that wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t keep him from coming back. Cub did not look sympathetic. If anything, he looked angry.

“What do you need, Mumbo.” It wasn’t a question.

Mumbo didn’t answer.

“What do you need. What do you need? Why are you hiding it? What’s the damn point? If you need to eat, Mumbo, fucking eat, wasting away isn’t doing anything or anyone, especially not you.”

“It’s not about me.”

“Is it not?” Cub asked snidely, whatever neutral patience he’d been holding onto before evaporating, “What, you don’t want to hurt anyone? Are you a monster, Mumbo, because you have a little thirst for human blood? Join the fucking club! I can not for the life of me figure out what’s going on in your head- Do you think you’re better than the rest of us? Don’t want to stoop so low? What’s your damn problem! More than half of the server would lay themselves out on a platter for you on a whim of cannibalism related curiosity! Forget it if you need to eat people to survive; even the hermits you haven’t spoken to in months would cut themselves open for you! Have you opened your eyes in the past ten years? We’re all fucking deranged!”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mumbo felt the coolness come easy to him, encompassing him like black tar, “You’re making an ass out of yourself, jumping to conclusions like you can read minds.”

“You don’t give anyone much of a choice but to speculate.”

“Then I’ll lay it out for you,” Mumbo felt the rumble of a growl in his throat, expecting Cub to bite back, but he did not, silent, waiting. “Eating is not a matter of meat, not for me. Meat in the final step, but alone it is nothing, just a conduit. I need terror. I need hopelessness, despair, the kind that builds over years and years of terrorizing and watching your back and holding tightly to the things you love because you don’t know how much longer you can stand to stay, to hold them. Trying every avenue of escape, but it’s never enough. Drawing it out, leaving you alone just long enough that you think it might be safe, you think it might be over, but it’s never over. The only thing you can do is leave everything behind, find a new world, and hope to whatever higher power you believe in that I don’t follow. This isn’t as simple as asking for permission, Cub. When I finally decide it’s over, this world will end. You can not convince an animal otherwise. Animals only want to eat, grow, feel full. I will never be full. I don’t think I can be full. I can escape to sentience for a little while, spite that animal inside me, starve, but I have a feeling I’m only allowed to do so because it makes the upcoming meal that much sweeter. Betrayal, fear, hurt. To answer your questions, that’s what I need. You can tell the whole server, and it will not change the outcome. You can’t get rid of me. I won’t stop until Hermitcraft and all the history of its seasons, held in this one server, is completely abandoned.”

Cub was quiet for a long few moments after Mumbo was done, thinking, considering. “Right,” he said, almost like he didn’t believe him, the carelessness of that one word enough to make Mumbo want to bite his head right off. “That makes a lot more sense.” Then under his breath, trailing off, “..a little dramatic, but..”

“Does it.” Mumbo seethed, though part of him didn’t even know why. The callousness, the disregard- maybe he was angry that Cub wasn’t afraid because it made for a worse build up, a modicum less satisfying in the end. Maybe he was angry because Cub didn’t seem to care, and he should.

“What are you? Never heard of anything like that.” Again Cub continued casually, and despite Mumbo’s seething, his anger eased slightly at the question, reasonable enough.

“I don’t have a name. Over the years victims pass rumors of my existence around, but I’m hardly widespread enough to surpass the standard obscurity in worlds of temporary horrors. As far as I know I’m the only one of my kind,” Mumbo paused, shrugging, “Guess that’s not super likely though.”

“How old are you? You look like you’re in your twenties, maybe early thirties.”

“I don’t know. I tend to match the age of the people around me. It’s not a conscious effort.” Mumbo’s anger was starting to fade, replaced instead by a deep confusion, possibly a small amount of relief. He had very little idea what was happening here, what Cub was trying to get at, but he’d never been able to.. talk about this. Ever. Even his shadow didn’t seem to know how to feel, the both of them side eyeing each other from their places on Cub’s desk.

“Oh, I don’t mean now. I mean like- forever. In total, since you were born, or.. whatever created you.”

“I don’t remember when I started to exist. Atoms aren’t very concerned with the passage of time, nor are plants and animals. For the majority of my existence I did not count the years. Even now, I don’t count them like people do. I only want to know how long I can hold my sentience before it’s gone again.”

“Ah. So like. Really old. Really really old. Wow. I knew your body could change, I’ve seen it, but you can be different species altogether?”

Mumbo shifted uncomfortably at the idea of having been watched. He could not afford to feel shame for the animals he consumed, but he really didn’t like the idea that multiple hermits may have witnessed what he was doing and not said a word. He was always so careful- even then, if someone was following him, Mumbo was certain he would be able to sense their fear. Maybe he didn’t notice over the screams of jackrabbits. It was entirely too possible. Cub seemed unconcerned about Mumbo’s silence, continuing to ask questions almost like he was speaking to himself, like he didn’t need or want the answers because theorizing was entertaining enough.

“Can I see it? See you change?” Was the question that snapped Mumbo back to reality, the utter stupidity of the words rousing him back to life.

“If you’d like to see me lose my sentience in real time then paint the floor in your blood, sure Cub, whatever you want.”

Cub paused, almost consideringly, like he’d completely missed the sarcasm, “Maybe another time. What about something sentient? Can you do that? Like a vex- Like Scar and I! I mean, I honestly don’t know if the little guys are very sentient, so best not try-“

But Mumbo was already rolling his eyes, resigned to doing circus pony tricks, and the ethereal blue skin that painted Cub and Scar’s vex forms rippled across his own, dark hair curling into streaks of white, small wings fluttering at his back. Without entirely knowing what he was doing, he raised his newly clawed hands in a playful splay, hissing for emphasis, then let the whole change ripple away, returning to his human form. Cub looked spellbound, and the attention felt dangerous, appealing to Mumbo far more than he thought safe.

“That’s incredible! Oh, Scar would get a real kick out of that! You’ve got to show him!”

“I- It’s really nothing,” Mumbo rubbed the back of his neck, deeply unsure how to feel about this, but certainly mounting in alarm, “I’m not- I’m not showing Scar, I’m not doing that again-“

“Can you turn into other people? Can you look like me?”

“I- Probably? I mean I’m sure I can, I don’t really have limits, but this isn’t something I-“

“Try? Can you try? You don’t have limits? Okay we’ll go back to that later. Can you try?”

“We aren’t- we aren’t going back to anything!” Mumbo squeaked in his distress, but Cub was so genuinely interested, so genuinely impressed that Mumbo didn’t- he’d never experienced something like this before. So he gave in and tried, though, ‘tried’ implies there was any effort at all when in reality it was quite easy, basically second nature, until the change was complete and his mind seemed to double over on itself, the same but entirely different, thinking his thoughts but in completely different ways, stalling Mumbo where he sat, paralyzed by the horrors of a new inner working. Almost immediately he changed back, heaving shallow breaths as his mind caught up with the speed of his thoughts.

“Whoa- That was- Are you okay?” Cub stopped in his tracks, apparently failing to notice the internal explosion that occurred in Mumbo’s head.

“I am never doing that again.”

“What-“

“Your brain is awful,” Mumbo heaved, and Cub blinked, and Mumbo knew exactly what was happening, that Cub was processing, everything inside of him sluggish and those pauses, all those times he paused between sentences, it made sense now.

“You copied my body and mind?” Cub breathed, and Mumbo was still reeling so hard from the momentary terror of being in Cub’s head that he could not respond, “That’s- I mean maybe I should have guessed that might happen if you’re changing completely, but- I don’t know! I wonder why you reacted so badly if you were just me, because I wouldn’t have cared, I’ve lived here all my life. Maybe you keep part of your own head? The internal dialogue? Oh- Maybe you didn’t get my whole brain, you just got all the mental illness. In that case, I am very sorry. I bet you’d inherit physical problems too, the ones that don’t get fixed by respawns. Scar’s sickness, for example. Wow. That is really cool. I’ve never needed to cut someone open so badly in my entire life. Can I study you? I’m asking but I really don’t want to be asking. I know I said I wouldn’t pester you after this was over but I have way too many questions.” Mumbo was honestly shocked Cub could talk so fast in a brain like that, but then again, he hadn’t stuck around to find out the complexities. Maybe it only sounded fast because Mumbo’s own head was fried.

“Okay, so how do we kill you?”

Mumbo blinked up at that. “What?”

“If you go crazy, how do we kill you? Stop you, whatever.”

“Okay- one. This isn’t about ‘if’s’ so don’t get in your head about it. And you can’t stop me either, that’s not how this works. I don’t just die.”

“You can die perfectly well right now,” Cub pointed out, unconcerned.

“Well- sure. But it doesn’t matter if you kill me or not in any form, I don’t stay dead.”

“That’s fine,” Cub said, tapping his fingers impatiently on his legs, “Just tell me how. When you were hunting all those pigs you didn’t look like you got hurt or even bled.”

Mumbo huffed, impatient himself, “Well if you want to kill me, you’d better do it instantly. I don’t sustain any injuries if I don’t want to, the skin heals over as soon as whatever’s hit me is gone.”

“So if I wanted to keep you somewhere, I’d impale you. Get you in the head or heart, or maybe not some place lethal.”

“You can’t keep me anywhere, I’ll just change.”

“Ah, right. Then I’ll have to convince you not to somehow. How do you feel about peoples’ suffering if you’re not the one inflicting it? Can you tell the difference between a real scream and a fake one?” Cub talked casually like this was a simple matter of problem solving, far too animated, almost like it was fun.

“I- I don’t know, Cub, but I don’t think this is a very productive line of thought.”

“Why not? I mean, I’ll have years I’m sure to experiment on my own, but while you’re here and talking to me I think I should take advantage, don’t you?”

“You can’t stop me!” Mumbo nearly shouted in his distress, though Cub remained unperturbed.

“Is this Mumbo Jumbo the sentient human talking or Mumbo Jumbo the flesh eating terror, because if I may, you’re sounding suspiciously like the flesh eating terror.”

“You- You have no idea what you’re dealing with. This isn’t something you can stop or fight, Cub, I’ve lived hundreds of lives and worlds where everyone I’ve ever befriended has-“

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Cub interrupted him, “I don’t care. However, maybe you’re right that prepping for the worst case scenario isn’t a great use of our time because who knows how much you’ve got left. Let’s see what we can do to extend it first, yeah? If we can do that indefinitely, then there’s no problem!”

“I’ve already tried everything, Cub-“

“Have you tried cannibalism?”

“No, but-“

“Then you have not tried everything. What’s your deal? Why are you so against it? I understand your methods are a tad more intense, but who cares. Y’know, I bet this would be more effective against someone who isn’t going to see it coming. Scar is a prime candidate, but Grian would be even better for your purposes.”

Mumbo blanched, reddening in turn as anger brought flush to his face, “I am not going to attack anyone without telling them! What is wrong with you?”

Cub raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, “If you want to maximize the time you have with sentience, you should take advantage of the beginning when no one understands why you’re doing what you’re doing. For the purpose of farming enough suffering to last you, it seemed reasonable, but yeah, probably a little extreme. Still, I think you’re going to have to ease up on the ethics here if we’re going to figure something out.”

“I’m not- No, Cub. I’m telling you no.”

“Why?” It was Cub’s turn to be frustrated, scowling as he rolled his eyes.

“Because I would feel bad!”

Cub nearly hissed, throwing up his arms, “For fuck’s sake! Are we not past that? I thought your whole issue is that you make friends then torture them to death a thousand times before moving on and doing it again. Why do you suddenly have problems now that you have a willing participant?”

“Because I’m sentient, Cub!”

“You’re cowardly is what you are. Get over it.”

“Right, sure, yeah, I’ll just do that.”

“Great!” Cub huffed, “I’m ready then! Go on, paint the floor red or whatever you said about my blood. Get it all over. Give me a reason to be afraid.”

“I can’t. I don’t- You don’t get it. I spend so much time in this body doing my best to make up for everything I’ve done. I’m glad that you don’t seem to have a guilty conscience, but it’s not so easy to know the full weight of the horrors you’ve committed and the pain you will bring again because you can’t stop. What’s the point of spending the rest of my time here inflicting the same kind of suffering I will when I lose my head. You think you can stop it, but you’re wrong. You are wrong. I am past delaying the inevitable. Let me have this. Let me starve. I will do all I can for the server in my last months. I won’t live here just as I would live as a dog. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth inflicting, knowing exactly the harm I’m bringing and wanting more all the same. And that’s in the case that everyone here is magically okay with being stalked and tortured to death until I crack regardless, no, I refuse to believe even you would want to live like that.”

Cub stared at Mumbo for a long moment, searching, though for what Mumbo didn’t know. “You’re guilty,” he mumbled, like this wasn’t obvious, “You think you deserve to starve.”

“Of course,” Mumbo replied, struggling between his own shame and the hot anger simmering below his skin.

“I don’t think so,” he said, like it was just that simple. Mumbo opened his mouth to argue, or maybe just scream, but Cub interrupted him, “Regardless of what you are now, Mumbo, you are not human. You can take the shape of a person, you can do and feel the things that people do, but you are not one, not really. You’re something else. This ‘something’ doesn’t have a name, but you have different needs. You are not a person. Why is it so evil for you to take what you need, Mumbo? I mean, sure, you can’t expect to take what you need from the friends you’ve made and keep those friends all the same, but you are not bad for taking. You are hungry. You are hunting, and you are eating. It’s callous of humanity to consider themselves above this dynamic of the food chain. We are not. Nor are you, most likely. There’s always a bigger fish.”

“It’s not the same. I am far crueler than any animal you can name, and I know better.”

“Do you think dolphins deserve to suffer for hunting fish?”

“Cub, I told you it’s-“

“Many things eat their prey alive,” Cub interrupted coolly, “You found a renewable source of food, one that feels emotions stronger than any other options, comes back to life, and fears you greater each time. You are not a person, Mumbo, you are a predator that hunts people. It doesn’t matter if you ‘know better.’ You need to eat. You need it. Talking ethics, if you want to ease your guilt, you should limit the time you spend interacting with people in the body you’ve made for yourself, but even then, you’re only preparing yourself a better meal. It is not evil. People can hate you for it, but that’s not any different from how a rabbit might hate a fox. It is not any different.”

Mumbo quieted, knowing little of what to say. It was different. It was different because Mumbo hated doing it, he hated having to do it, he hated fighting with himself, and he hated being This. He liked people. He liked being a person, he liked living among them, he liked it all so much more than he liked himself.

“But I don’t want to. I don’t want to need it. I want to stay here, stay human. I want to be human. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well,” Cub said, voice softer, sympathetic for the first time since Mumbo had joined him on his desk. “That’s a separate can of worms, isn’t it.”

Mumbo didn’t speak for a long time. He kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see Cub. Cub, who was looking at him, looking directly through him.

“I guess so.” The words were so quiet, they hardly passed Mumbo’s lips before they were nothing.

“Well, here’s what I think, Mumbo,” Cub started, the softness dissipating in favor of something calmer, more logical, “I think you have a lot to say about what will or won’t keep you sentient longer, but for someone so confident cannibalism won’t work, you certainly haven’t tried it. So you’re going to try it. See if this can be a temporary possible-solution until we can find a more permanent one. I need time to work this out, and I refuse to let you keep starving yourself out of shame.”

“You- What? You think you can-“

“I don’t think I can do anything,” Cub interrupted, voice hard, “But those woodland mansions have a hell of a lot of books, and I happen to enjoy looking through them. Scar and I are always looking for something to do. So.” Cub looked back at Mumbo from where he was staring out the window, “Are you willing to try? It’s a little cramped in here, so I think it would be better to go somewhere else, somewhere I could run from you, if you like that. Outside might be ideal as well, so we don’t have to clean up so much. We could probably-“

“I- Wait, Cub, please wait,” Mumbo needed to interrupt him, needed to stop him, but when Cub did stop, waiting for Mumbo to continue, he found his mouth dry.

“What.”

“I can’t. Not yet. I’m not ready.”

Cub looked just about ready to kill him, and honestly Mumbo didn’t blame him, but the mental block was still there, he was just so- he didn’t even know, and maybe that was the worst part. He was scared. His limbs were stiff and numb, and even with the shrill screams of desperate starvation in his ears, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Cub took a long, deep breath, barely holding on to his composure, “Mumbo, if we don’t do something to stall for time-“

“Eat me. Eat me first. Do it all, everything I would do to you, draw it out, make it hurt. I need- I need to know how it feels. I need this.”

Cub paused, eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Mumbo. You don’t need more excuses to back down. I’ve had my fair share of being torn apart, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’ll do it. I promise I’ll do it, I’ll eat my whole damn fill if you want me to, Cub, but I need this first. I have to know.” Mumbo had no idea where this had come from; the feverish desperation, but now it was all he could think about, knowing, he had to know, he had to face what he’d done directly, and then he could swallow this pill and move on.

Cub considered him, eyes still narrowed.

“Alright. Fine.” he closed his eyes, inclining his head then opening them with a smile, “We’ll do it in the labyrinth.”

[fletchingbrilliant]

Good evening, my sinful skanks. Katie Killjoy is back with an update on Princess Morningstar's ill-advised attempt at love and togetherness through horrible bloodshed, the Helluva Hungry Games!

The opening of the games has kicked off, and blood has already been shed. Do you think the dopey princess is rethinking her brilliant scheme already? Probably not, but that means more bloody entertainment for us!

All twenty-four contestants were circled up on motion sensative plates, rigged to explode should anyone step off before the bloodshed was set to begin. One of our intrepid battlers didn't take too kindly to the request to be patient:

The cameras trained on Team Nine are temporarily down after the explosion, so we do not yet know what fate Cherri Bomb suffered due to her impatience.

As for the rest, as soon as the horn sounded, they were off. Some made strategic (read: COWARDLY) retreats into the surrounding forest. But others were more bold, and headed for the massive cornucopia in the center of the arena. It was filled to the brim with supplies; weapons, food, fresh water, all things these idiots are gonna need if they want to survive.

I found it especially hilarious when, in the first few moments after the horn sounded, the King's imp showed an impressive level of grace and dexterity:

One of our angellic guests snatched up a spear, and was intent on making her presence known:

Looks like her attack met its mark. But I'm with the mutt, what's up with the gold blood, Vaggie? Katie's got the scoop of a lifetime here, motherfuckers!

We also managed to snag a shot from inside the Cornucopia itself, and it seems that Team Three isn't going to get very far, seeing as one member is still deathly afraid of the other. Especially now that she's found a very shiny, very sharp sickle:

We didn't think it worthwhile to catalogue the other events, so here's a quick summary of the rest of the teams activity thus far:

Team 2: Angel Dust and Adam kept surprisingly even pace with each other in a hasty retreat to avoid early carnage

Team 5: Sir Pentious acquired a pack of fishing gear, while Emily unearthed a trident before the pair vanished into the woods

Team 6: Neither Husk nor Stolas had to say much to agree that retreat was the best choice

Team 8: Asmodeus carried the princess with him into the woods, apparently concerned that none of this was a great idea

Team 11: Vox and Moxxie went in separate directions, Moxxie snatching up a backpack filled with unknown supplies, and Vox went off to set up camp fairly close to the Cornucopia. No word on whether they've regrouped

Team 12: After Fizzarolli ran screaming from his partner, we lost track of both him and the Radio Demon

That wraps up our reporting on the initial Bloodbath! Stay tuned to see how they handle the rest of the day! This is Katie Killjoy signing off!

[bones4thecats]

I please ask for an alternate scenario to Poseidon Thor and Beelzebub and Loki but how would they react to their Maids just leaving kianna on the ground bleeding from blood loss unaware of her being the gods lover and thinking she was an intruder and just waiting for her to die just for the god to come back after a long day of trying to look for her just to find her

Body barely clinging to life due to the injuries and blood loss and the floor being practically covered in her blood

And finding out the maids did

A/N: Part 1 is down below this. This was a very neat request, and I hope it was alright, since my ideas kinda flatlined in the middle of writing! Now, enjoy~~

Part 1

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🔱 He had sent to many people out to look for you, even fellow Gods joined the search, he even joined whenever he was free too

🔱 He pushed work behind everything just so he could go looking for you

🔱 When he had arrived home, he expected to come back to the average empty halls, the only actions coming between the silence and water sloshing outside being the workers doing their jobs

🔱 But when he saw your familiar form laying on the ground, blood surrounding you, he froze and summoned his trident

🔱 He ran up to you, picked you up and moved like the lightning that Zeus had to the infirmary for you to get healed

🔱 Once he found out that the maids had just decided to leave you because they thought you were in intruder, he got madder than ever

🔱 Poseidon and demanded them to go to the dungeon he had in the castle to await a proper trial for their lives

🔱 But, in the meanwhile, he would focus on your health, making sure you were fully alright before making sure those, leeches, were properly punished

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🌩️ Thor knew how to keep his personal life away from the public, as his dead-pan appearance would through people way off

🌩️ So he wasn’t surprised that they didn’t know, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t mad, he still was

🌩️ He had found you bleeding on the ground in your bedroom, and needless to say, he leaped into action

🌩️ His arms wrapped around you as he took you to the infirmary 

🌩️ When he had heard from one of the guards that the maids were whispering about finding a possible intruder and leaving them to die, he launched himself at them

🌩️ Nobody could withstand his might, especially when mad

🌩️ So, when they were found outside dead the next day, everybody knew, and everybody turned a blind eye

🌩️ Thor looked over you constantly, from the start till the time you woke up

🌩️ While he was still mad about you leaving without telling him why, he could put it past him for now

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🪰 He knew you left, but he wasn’t sure when you’d return, so he was sent into a spiral of hell

🪰 Beelzebub’s alert went off when he felt movement, excessive movement through the lab’s halls, so he looked up from his depressed state and his eyes widened

🪰 Your small frame was laying on the ground bleeding excessively, and he got up and started to run after you

🪰 He watched as the maids whispered about you being an intruder and them leaving you to die

🪰 They were gonna pay for that later, but for now, you were his main focus

🪰 Beelzebub picked you up and took you to his lab to heal you up, he was quite talented in healing and creating

🪰 But unlike with the experiments in those scenarios, he touched you with the urge to help you, not tear you apart or cause you pain

🪰 Once you were fully healed, you smiled up at him and thanked him while he made sure your relationship would be well-known, so this wouldn’t happen again

🪰 Now, where the f-?!

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🐍 Loki was not happy that you left, I mean, you may not return! Who knows what he’ll do without you?!

🐍 The newest maids of the main Norse Pantheon family had looked at you, believed you were a invader and told the rest of the maids, ones that had been there far longer

🐍 They recognized you as Loki’s S/O, and they helped get you to the infirmary

🐍 When he heard from one of Odin’s birds that you were found and taken into recovery due to your wounds, he sprinted as a cheetah to your room

🐍 Thor and Odin had to hold him back so he wouldn’t re-open your surgery wounds, and he was super close to turning into a large dog to cuddle with you

🐍 Thankfully, he noticed how truthful his uncle and cousin looked and he calmed down

🐍 When you woke, he immediately started asking where the hell you were, while cuddling, of course!

[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 good 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, 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. 

Dropping like flies, all of you.

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, as if 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 leave your weapon among the gnarled roots. Your side sears with a 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, claws 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 his mother, his father. 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. 

“Johanna!”

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. “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. Preventive, 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. 

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. “Annie!”

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.” Katniss 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.

You look over to see Peeta comforting Katniss, coaxing her out of the protective ball she’s curled herself into. “It’s over. It’s okay. They’re gone. The hour’s gone. The hour’s up. It’s alright.”

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 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 and 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. 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. But the way you look now, lips wet with spit and slightly open as you stare at him with open awe, like he’s something to be admired, 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 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. 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 shivers 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 she 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, 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, is all about 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 obstructing 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 be 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, and you 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 will 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 that. 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 is 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 does not 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 back 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 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, that 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, so willful, so self-assured. No longer. They'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 will 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 has 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, simply simply put. 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 up 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 will 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 firey 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 pretty close. So adorable." 

"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!!!!