#Deadset Press

[zenashapter]

It Isn't Over Until It's Over #2022

It Isn't Over Until It's Over #2022 – a post about external validation and love!

2022 was so much better than I thought it would be, both professionally and personally. Professionally, I’m of course ecstatic that my science fantasy YA adventure ‘When Dark Roots Hunt’ was signed by MidnightSun Publishing. It’s scheduled for release in May 2023 and I can’t wait! Woo hoo! I don’t write too much horror or dark fantasy, yet those genres seemed to top my short fiction releases in…

[emmyrosee]

“Baby, I promise I was kidding.”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Rintaro.”

“‘Rintaro?’ Baby, it was a joke! If I knew it would actually make you upset, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Your eyes are watery and pouty when you look at him, and he blinks down at you expectantly. Then you huff, “of course I’m upset! It’s a sign of disrespect.”

Rintaro groans and squats down in front of you, head moving back and forth to keep his eyes locked on yours as you try to move your own gaze, “baby, I swear, I didn’t mean it, I thought it would make you laugh.”

He never thought hitting your Pompurin plush would have you in such shambles. You’ve been ignoring him all ride with a small grimace on your lips, playing with Pompurin’s arms and tiny feet, sometimes answering questions about what’s on the tag. You’re deadset on ignoring him. It’s destroying him.

With a small sigh, he leans up to try and plant a kiss to your lips, despite the fact that the last thing he’d think you’d want is a kiss. It’s something he knows you adore, though, he hopes you see through your anger to see him.

You do pout out slightly to try and chase his lips, and it fills him with relief.

“It was pretend, baby,” he mumbles, trying to convince you. “I’d never mean to hit him, I was pretending to be mad that he’d take you away from me.”

Well. It was only half pretend.

But you don’t need to know that.

You gently twist pompurin’s ears in your fingers, shrugging and shaking your face from his hands slightly. “You hurt my feelings Rin.”

Once again, he grabs your chin, leaning up to press another kiss to your lips. “I know, baby. I thought it’d be funny.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m so sorry-“

“Not to me,” you grumble. “To him!” You hold up the new pompurin plush, and Rintaro tucks his lips in his mouth to hide the annoyed sigh that wants to slip out.

Annoyed, albeit still endeared.

Green eyes hyper fixate on the doey eyes of pompurin, smacking his lips and nodding in respect. “I’m sorry, Pompurin. I never should’ve hit you. And I hope you’ll consider forgiving me and taking care of them while I’m at practice.”

In his peripheral, he sees you smile, your fingers shifting to move pompurin’s head to nod.

“Thank you for apologizing,” you say as you lower the new plush animal. “I love you.”

He smirks and leans forward one final time to kiss you, and you giggle in the kiss and toss your arms around his neck.

If he could guarantee you’d always be this affectionate after, he’d playfully smack all your stuffed animals.

[alvojake]

Surprise Baby | S.JY

「pairing」 : bf!jake x fem!reader 「word count」 : 1.2k

「synopsis」 : jake was deadset on making your birthday special even if that meant making you hang out with your friend until he was finished setting up his last birthday surprise.

「genre」 : suggestive & fluff

「warnings」 : kissing, pet names (baby, my love...), choking (if you squint), usage of a blindfold, implied smut, romantic shit, lmk if I missed anything!

「notes」 : this is going to be part one, I got super distracted towards the end and didn't want it to be trash, so I will be writing the next part probably tomorrow or the day after! also, thank you to everyone who sent me birthday wishes. it means the world; I love you all, sm!!! <33

The day had been nothing short of perfect. It started with Jake waking you up by littering small kisses all over your face and neck. The sweet scent of vanilla and cherries filled the air around you, meaning he had lit your favorite candle. His voice was thick with sleep but still rolled off his tongue like honey, coating your skin in a warmth only he gave you.

After fooling around in the sheets for the better part of the morning, Jake’s lips never gave you the chance to breathe. He finally slipped out of bed, telling you to stay put before bringing you a tray full of your favorite treats and a warm cup of coffee, knowing that you’d need the extra caffeine to get through what he had planned for the day.

You had started to lose track of the places that Jake had dragged you, too distracted by the lingering touches his fingertips laid on your skin and the smile that pulled on his lips. There was also something that he wasn’t telling you, the gleam in his eyes telling on him.

“Jae…” You let his name trail on, stealing his attention from the jewelry display case that you were standing in front of. “As much as I love shopping with you, I want to go home and have some us time.” Your hand snaked around his arm as you pressed yourself against his side, hoping that he would get the idea.

He smiled down at you, but you knew he wasn’t going to give in, causing you to pout. Chuckling, he took your free hand in his, pressing a feather-light kiss on the back of your knuckles.

“I have one last thing planned, but I need to get it set up.” He started, his eyes flickering to something behind you, “That means that I’m going to need you to hang out with Yeji for a little bit.”

You bit back a sigh as you looked behind you, seeing your best friend standing a few feet away, waiting patiently with a smile on her lips. Jake watched your face in amusement as your bottom lip jutted out in that very adorable pout that he absolutely adores. 

The smile on his lips morphed into a smug smirk before he reached forward, grabbing your face, squeezing your cheeks causing you to look up at him with doe eyes.

“Be a good girl and listen. I promise you’ll love what I’ve got planned.” He whispered against your lips before placing a gentle kiss on the plump skin.

You nodded softly, leaning into his touch, hoping to fully connect your lips to his, but he pulled away all too soon, causing you to whine. The older male just chuckled before pressing a finger against your forehead, pushing you back softly.

“Go have fun, I’ll call you when everything is ready.” He smiled once more before watching your figure reluctantly retreat to Yeji’s side, who greeted you with a warm smile.

It felt like hours had passed since Jake left you at the shopping center to prepare things at home. At first, you had managed to distract yourself with idle conversation and window shopping (even if Jake had given you his card to use).

However, now you were finding yourself checking your phone every few minutes to see if there were any messages from your boyfriend, but much to your dismay there was nothing.

“You know, checking your phone all the time isn’t going to make it go any faster,” Yeji joked as she sipped on her coffee.

“I know,” you rolled your eyes before setting your phone down to drink a coffee of your own. I just wish he would hurry up. I hate surprises.”

“Well, give it a chance. I know you’re going to love this.” She giggles as you give her a deadpanned look.

“I just know you’re going to love this, meh, meh…” You mock the girl’s words, causing her to burst out laughing.

About an hour or so later, you finally got that text from Jake and were quick to bid Yeji goodbye and rushed out of the shop you two had been browsing through.

You were sure you had made it home in record time, surprised that you hadn’t been pulled over because you were sure you had been speeding down most, if not all, of the roads you took. However, it seemed that luck was on your side today because there was very little traffic, and you only hit maybe two red lights on your way.

Getting to the house, you didn’t even bother grabbing your purse or phone, too anxious to see what the quote-unquote surprise was that your lovely boyfriend had planned.

When you stepped inside, the apartment was eerily quiet. The lights were all turned off except for the hallway light that led to the kitchen. Your eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. You couldn’t remember a day that the apartment was this quiet with Jake inside.

Just as you were about to call out to the man, your eyes caught sight of the petals sprawled across the floor. Sealing your lips in a silly smile, you crept closer, realizing that they led to your shared bedroom.

“Jake,” you called out as you made your way to your bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, allowing you to see the soft glow of flickering lights. You were met with silence, though, the hairs on your neck and arms standing tall as you reached out to push the wooden door open.

You open your mouth to call for Jake once more when you don’t see him anywhere in the room, only to have your voice get caught in your throat when your vision goes black.

“There’s my birthday girl.” Jake’s thick accent filled your ears, causing a shiver to run down your spine. His warm breath against your neck told you just how close he was as if the feeling of his chest against your back wasn’t enough.

“Jake, what is all of this?” Your voice shook slightly, a sudden rush of excitement coursing through your veins. Your fingers wrapped around Jake’s wrist, pulling them from your eyes and allowing you to look back at him.

Jake didn’t give you a chance to fully turn your head as he pressed a kiss against the warm skin of your cheek, his hand wrapping around your neck softly. Your eyes fluttered closed as he continued to press hot kisses along your jaw before nipping at your earlobe.

“Do you trust me, baby?” His voice was husky, instantly making you drip in your panties, and all it took was a simple mumble of a ‘yes’ for your vision to go black once more. Your breath hitched in your throat when you realized that it was a blindfold, Jake’s slender fingers tying a knot in the fabric, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to keep it in place.

Having your sight cut seemed to heighten all of your other senses. You could feel all of the hairs on your body stand tall as Jake’s hand traveled along the length of your waist, tugging at the fabric of your dress until it pooled at your feet on the ground.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take great care of you. Tonight is all about you, my love.” He whispered in your ear as his hand lay on the plush flesh of your stomach while the other moved to your jaw, tilting your head so he could press a searing kiss to your lips.

It was going to be a long night, but you couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift.

@alvojake | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ.

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 : @heesitation @riftanswhore @yeonzzzn @yzzyhee @skzenhalove @seuomo @moonchus @enha-stars @ikeuverse @prized-jules @ro-diaries @yeonjunsfox @snoopypupp @wonnie99 @pockettwinzz @seunghancore @wonlvkay @enhaverse713586 @kimsaerom

[vampdes]

DES says . . . my bf looks soo good driving, oh my god. shouts out to him, thank you for inspiring me.

SUM. — nanami can’t handle the fact that you wanna fuck him every chance, especially not on the road. so, why not pull over and ensue in public indecency?

CON. warnings — afab reader + feminine pet names, public sex + car sex, no condom, breeding kink, mentions of wanting to get pregnant.

NOTES. — nanami might be ooc & reblogs are appreciated. lazy blurb.

“babygirl,” nanami starts, his voice only wavering a slight bit as his hands flexed tightly on the steering wheel in an attempt to steady himself, “you know you have to wait until we get home. c’mon, sweetness, please?”

you, whilst ignoring all nanami’s warnings, leaned over from the passenger seat, after rubbing leisurely at his thigh with your left hand and palming his growing erection with your right, and unbuckled his belt, quick to pull down his trousers, and traced the outline of his dick with the tip of your tongue.

nanami, now steering down the interstate with one hand, intertwined his freehand with your hair and pulled you back to tell you to calm yourself. the two of you are only an hour out from home, why can’t you just be a good girl and wait? probably because you want him to make you a damn mother, that’s why.

you, ignoring all his demands to wait yet again, pulled down the waist-band of his boxers and was at awe, as you always are, at the amounts of precum that coated his pretty cock. nanami let out a shuddering breath, seeming to malfunction and stutter in his movements, as you kissed the base of his cock, sliding your tongue along his most sensitive parts, leaving lipstick marks in places you’d kissed, licked, and sucked already.

“baby—oh god–babygirl, mama, please–nngh, okayokay, i’m—ffuck—i’m pulling over. .!”

nanami pulled over and outright fucked you raw in the backseat of his car. he made sure that your pussy was painted with his cum, that it was spilling from being overfilled high above the brim, and that you were surely gonna have a positive test by tomorrow morning.

“love your pussy, it’s s’good, ain’t it?” nanami asked, knowing that your throat was choking on his cum covered, slick, glistening cock whilst he was letting his face be soaked by your incredibly sweet, pretty pussy, making it known that nobody could eat you out like he could.

in the end, you absolutely were enthralled that nanami, who was deadset on giving you a set of twins, even broke the headboard when he positioned you in and gut-wrenching mating press where you swore at least half of him touched your kidney.

© vampdes . do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[donatellawritings]

tella!!!!!! how does rafe feel about sweetheart reader doing coke with him like would he allow her to?/????? to me I don't think he would give a fuck as long as he is with her ty tella

idk he’s so tricky i think he’d be against it ngl …

since he started dating you, rafe had drastically cutdown on his cocaine intake - he had caught on to how scared you’d become at his frantic behavior and induced outbursts, so he decided not to do it as much, limiting his indulgence to maybe once or twice a month. he usually kept you away whenever he’d be high, not wanting to have your high and positive perception of him to be fucked with by the white powder. however, as time and your relationship progressed, rafe found it harder and harder to be away from you, i mean you wore his initials around your neck, and found solace on his lap, more often than not. you were his and he was yours. so, you accepted all of him, as he did you.

the obnoxious boom of trap music vibrating through topper’s house muffled your hearing as you carefully made your way through the crowd of people. your body was hugged tightly by the pink strapless dress that clung to your every curve, your supple breasts pushed up just right as you made it to the backyard. your pink gifted louboutin heels clicking against the cobblestone pavement as you lightly swayed your hips to the music. you were about three drinks in and it was safe to say that you are tipsy, not even one-hundred percent sure as to how you managed to convince rafe that you didn’t need him to accompany you while you grabbed another drink.

you earned envious stares and inappropriate ogles as you found your way back to rafe, who sat with topper and kelce, a shit-eating grin on his face as he carefully cut the white powder into three neat lines. something strange had switched within you and left you biting into your bottom lip as you watched your boyfriend snort the line through a rolled dollar bill, before throwing his head back with a smile. maybe it was the fact that you were borderline wasted, or maybe your curiosity about the drug had finally gotten the better part of you - all you knew was that you were turned on and wanted to experience the same blissful high that rafe was currently riding on.

deciding to make your presence known, you took a long sip of your drink, your glittery gloss leaving a stain on the rim of the cup as you sauntered over to rafe, before taking a seat on his thigh, your plush ass clashing with the fabric of his khaki shorts while you ran a hand down his firm chest, “are you high?” you asked, your pearlescent nails now aimlessly toying with rafe’s chain.

looking at you with pupils that were blown to hell, rafe let out an amused laugh, bringing an arm to rest around your waist as he nodded, “yeah, y’want to try it?” he retorted, initially intending for it to be received as a lighthearted tease.

you beamed with an eager smile, “can i?”

rafe’s eyebrows furrowed as he internally fought with the idea of whether or not he should let you try it. a part of him was secure in knowing that your first high would be with him, under his supervision, yet a different part of him remained deadset on never letting that happen. rafe’s hand made its way to the back of your neck, clasping around it gently as he took a quick look of the partygoers who paid to get high on his supply. he couldn’t have you, his sweet girl walking around looking like the rest of these young adults who couldn’t even put a proper sentence together. you were pretty, pure, and smart - he refused to be the one who fucks that up.

pressing his lips to your forehead, rafe shakes his head, “maybe another time, mama - y’too pretty for it,” rafe declines, his grip on you slightly tightening as your face fell, his eyes watching closely as you took another sip of your drink, before sinking back against his chest. you were spoiled rotten by him and he knew it.

rafe hated saying no to you, but it was his job to keep you safe.

“but you do it, rafe,” you quipped with a roll of your eyes, leaning forward to stand up, before rafe pulls you back against him, his hand firmly rooted around the back of you neck, “leave me alone,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes away from rafe’s as he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look directly at him.

topper and kelce continued their conversation, without missing a beat, they knew better than to cut in while rafe spoke with you, let alone, put you in your place, “watch your mouth,” rafe stiffly tapped your jaw with two fingers, “don’t fuckin’ embarrass me, a’ight,” he scolded, his peaked high now coming to a low point as you remained silent, your face twisted with a bitchy attitude.

completely influenced by the alcohol that coursed through your veins, you shifted your weight, licking over your dry and swollen lips as you ran your nails through your hair with a childish shrug, “you’re not my father,” you muttered, your words now ringing in rafe’s ears as he let out a huff, his body falling tense as he stood up, nearly knocking you over.

“m’gonna take her home,” rafe spoke, his tone a bit too calm as he grasped ahold of your hand, silently pulling you along with him.

your heels unevenly clicked against the pavement as you silently followed rafe, his hand nearly crushing yours as he pushed his way through the crowd of people, dragging you as if you weighed nothing. your beasts bounced with each step you took as you made it out of the house, the chill of the crisp midnight air hitting your exposed shoulders as rafe dropped your hand. the tall man remained silent as you continued to approach his truck, your chest radiating with warmth as he made it a point to open the passenger door for you, despite your bratty behavior.

you parted your swollen lips to speak, before rafe raised his hand, silencing you, “get in the car,” he spoke sternly, you quickly nodded, entering the car quietly as he slammed the door shut. you knew full and well that the moment rafe entered the car, you were absolutely screwed.

rafe was uncharacteristically quiet as he entered the car, his eyes focused on properly pulling out of the parking spot as you fiddled with your gifted chain. rafe knew upon meeting you that you were a sweet girl, yes, but a complete pushover? absolutely not. you were submissive enough in the relationship, to where he felt it perfectly balanced his naturally dominant demeanor, but he would be lying if he said that, you didn’t get under his skin when you played the role of a spoiled little girl.

he would never hurt you though, despite his past track record of becoming loose with his hands towards his former partners - you made that crystal clear when you started dating. so, you didn’t care if he roughed you up a bit, as long as he didn’t go too far with you. yet, you sat tense in the passenger seat, subconsciously grinding your teeth together as you mentally prepared for one of his repeated lectures, your lashes damp with awaiting tears as you waited for which selection of harsh words that rafe would hurl at you.

deciding to break the uncomfortable silence, rafe lets out an unamused chuckle, keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead, “m’not your father,” he nods to himself, his tone mimicking yours from earlier, “no fuckin’ shit, but i’m the man who takes care of you, the one who-who makes you happy — keeps you safe, yeah?” he rambles, more so to himself, his hand lifting off of the leather steering wheel to motion towards you.

you licked over the fat of your bottom lip, parting your sticky lips to speak, before he raises his hand to silence you, “i don’t even do that shit as much as i used to, ‘cause last time i checked, you didn’t like how it made me big bad rafe, right?” he continued, taking a quick glance at you, ignoring the small pang of guilt that he’d felt, seeing your eyes welled with tears, “so tell me, princess, why the fuck would i let you try that shit?” he questioned, his eyebrows raised as he returned his hand back to the steering wheel, awaiting your answer.

you took a breath, quickly wiping your eyes, “i dunno, rafe, i just saw you do it a-and i was drunk, so i asked,” you cried, your voice thick as you struggled to steady out your shaky breathing. you hated confrontation, especially when it came to your boyfriend, he knew how deep his words could cut. “i just don’t know why you’re so mad at me,” you squeaked, tears falling onto your flimsy pink dress.

“m’upset because you act like a spoiled fuckin’ kid whenever you don’t get what you want,” rafe retorts, his voice stern as he pulls into the driveway of tannyhill, hastily parking the car, before exiting, allowing the door to slam closed as he made his way to the passenger side, opening the door for you, “lets go, m’tired and i have shit to do tomorrow,” he coaxed.

ꪆৎ

you decided to take a shower and do your obsessively thorough skincare routine, as means to kill time and think about just how you were going to get back in rafe’s good graces. he was stubborn, yet consistent, he hadn’t spoken to you since you entered the house, leaving you to do whatever you pleased as he silently made his way to your shared bedroom. so, you decided to pretty yourself up, you cleaned face, glowing from the array of serums and oils that you’d spent obnoxious amounts of money on, your swollen lips glazed from your gisou lip oil, freshly detangled hair falling down your shoulders. your body butter-nourished skin was clad in one of rafe’s t-shirts, nothing underneath as you were freshly shaved.

shutting off the bathroom light, you padded your way into the bedroom, where rafe sat quietly, resting with an arm behind his head as he kept his tired blue eyes focused on the random netflix show he’d selected for the duration of the evening. “hi, papi,” you called out softly, a pout pushing on your lips as he looked over you, before returning his gaze to the television.

with a roll of your eyes you walked over to the side of the bed where rafe laid, letting out a breath as you you straddled his hips, your bare slick sitting perfectly atop his exposed pelvis.

“s’not good for couples to go to sleep mad at each other, papi,” you cooed, arching your back as you laid against him, batting your wispy lashes at rafe as he looked down at you, bringing his hand to rest on the curve of your back. “i think you should be nice to me, i miss my sweet rafe,” you smiled cheekily, earning a low groan from rafe as you lightly bit his bottom lip, before quickly pecking his lips with a kiss.

your boyfriend sits unhumored, his face blank of any expression as he brings his hand to sit atop of the curve of your back, “yeah, well i miss when my girl wasn’t such a spoiled brat and spoke to me like she had some fuckin’ sense,” he countered, blinking as you let out a dramatic gasp, tilting your head to the side.

“i’m not spoiled, you treat me like i’m a kid,” you rolled your eyes.

“‘cause you act like one.” rafe sighs, lowering the volume on the television, leaning his head back against the sturdy headboard with a sleepy huff. truth be told, rafe could easily fall asleep in this position, but he knew that you wouldn’t leave him alone until he was ‘nice’ to you, “go to sleep, i have to wake up in a few hours,” he muttered, lightly patting your ass.

you didn’t give up, biting down into the swell of your bottom lip as you brought your face closer to rafe’s with a devious grin, “okay, but y’should know that i just shaved and i’m not wearing any panties,” you sang, to some avail as rafe slid his hand underneath your shirt, cupping the plush skin of your bare ass and exhaling through his nose as you cutely wiggled your hips.

“okay, y’know what since y’claim to be such a good girl — you could sit on my dick while i watch this show,” he smiled, lowering the waistband of his boxers just enough to allow his semi-hard cock to be freed, his mushroom tip hitting your lower abdomen as you smiled with delight - a win is a win.

“and you won’t be mad at me anymore?” you questioned, neatly spitting down onto rafe’s hardening cock, evenly spreading out the slick over his shaft, before you guided him inside of you, a low hum vibrating through you as his full length swallowed into your achingly wet pussy.

“nope, now just sit and go to sleep, okay mama?” he cooed, pulling you down to lean against his chest, letting out a groan as your hips shifted around him.

now full and content, you pecked your lips to rafe’s jaw, mumbling a low ‘love you’ before resting your head on his shoulder as you allowed the sound of his heartbeat to lull you into a dreamy nod. completely oblivious to how rafe would sneak kisses all over your face while you fell into a deep sleep, his large hand fiddling with your empty ring finger. he was tempted to fuck his hips up into yours, but he figured he’d saved that for when the sun decided to rise, relishing in your leaking warmth suctioning around his cock.

[mypoisonedvine]

Jackson Rippner- he DOES fuck you in the bathroom on the plane. Instead of Rachel McAdams, it’s the reader. V noncon, and he even keeps his hand over her mouth and says, “better be quiet. Don’t want the flight attendants to see you enjoying having your little pussy filled, right?” Eiiseodkdownsiwos

had to combine this with another request, it's just too good

soo... get ready for heavy dubcon/noncon with lots and lots of choking and degradation :)

He slammed you up against the plastic wall, and the door slid shut on its own: trapping you in here with this monster.

You struggled, obviously, kicking and shoving randomly to try to get him away, but it wasn't very effective; you knew you weren't strong enough to best him, that was why you'd done this in the first place-- to try to outsmart him.

"Don't fight me," he informed you. It was a warning, surely, but the softness of his voice was unexpected. You were trying to yell out for help but there was still a strong hand over your mouth; you still tried, despite what he said, to kick at his feet one more time but he only pressed up against you harder to pin you down. "Shh, shh," he soothed-- well, really, it was more like an order, just given quietly in case someone outside could hear.

You waited in silence together; you glanced over his shoulder to the message you'd left in soap on the mirror: 18F HAS BOMB. Technically not true, but as long as somebody got some attention on this guy, you might be able to get out of here alive-- and spare your father from the hitman apparently waiting outside his house.

"Creative," he smiled at you, though he didn't seem particularly amused. "Why are you so deadset on making this harder for both of us?"

"You don't have to do this... you don't have to do any of this..." you whimpered, but he bared his teeth and tightened his grip suddenly on your neck.

"Neither do you," he hissed, pressing his face close to yours as you reached up and tried to claw at the hand restricting your air. "You could just do what I fucking tell you, save us both a lot of fucking trouble, and stop gambling with your father's life. Doesn't that sound so much better?"

You obviously weren't paying much attention; your face was starting to go numb, your mouth was gaping and gasping for air that never came, and-- much to your horror-- your thighs were clenching and rubbing together. It was a fantasy you'd never dared share before, partly because you were afraid you wouldn't like it much in real life... well, even when there was an actual threat of being forced to pass out, not liking it was far from an issue. You shut your eyes tight, your grip on Jackson's wrist getting weaker as strength fled your body.

You'd rather him actually choke you to the point of passing out, than him notice the way your back arched and your hips searched for friction. Why now, of all times-- with him staring dead into your watering eyes with white hot rage, pressing you to the wall, threatening to really hurt you-- did you have to get wet?

His eyes moved down from yours to your lips-- watching you try to mouth that you couldn't breathe, begging for some air-- then down to your chest where your blouse had shifted out of the way to expose just the edge of your bra. His free hand reached up to it, delicately toying with the lacy edge as a small smile curled on his lips.

"Who's this for?" he cooed, just barely relaxing his grip on your throat so you could gasp in a massive breath of air. "Who are you dressed up for, were you planning to meet someone after we landed?"

You were too busy sputtering and trying to get some air back in your lungs to even entertain an answer to that.

"Answer me," he insisted, and you started simply shaking your head.

"N-no, no one," you promised, "I just-- I didn't put it on for any reason..."

"If that's true," he growled, reaching down to your skirt, "then these won't match--"

"Fuck, don't--" you tried to protest, but he gripped your neck again while his other hand pulled your skirt up your thighs.

They matched alright; he grinned proudly when he saw them, because he'd proven himself right-- but he was much more preoccupied with how they felt when he ran his fingers over them, petting you roughly between your legs. "Oh," he purred, looking up at your flushed face again as he choked you to keep you quiet. "I think somebody is getting some naughty ideas about us being alone in here, hm?"

You shook your head, but it was pretty hard to deny-- even if you were capable of speaking, you'd be struggling to deny it. And the more he held you by your neck, the worse it got; he grinned wide when he slipped his fingers into those panties and felt for himself how soaked you were.

"Should've known," he chuckled, clicking his tongue as he slid two fingers into you; your eyes went wide, but you felt your walls clenching on him as you struggled for air. "Those sweet faces, they're always hiding something-- of course a pretty thing like you gets off on this. Dirty fucking whore."

You shut your eyes, afraid it was only moments before you lost consciousness, and yet you felt your hips rocking forward onto his fingers. He released your throat for a moment, and you whined as you screwed up your face tight. "Jackson, please--"

"Go ahead, baby," he instructed you in a low voice, "fuck yourself on my fingers. I know you need it."

You didn't really realize that you were already doing it, your body moving desperately against his hand: your hips rocked on his fingers, and you heard yourself moan hoarsely at the feeling.

"Shh, shh," he ordered again, though this time there was a grin on his face. "Don't want anybody hearing you, do we? Don't want them all to know what a needy fucking slut you are for me..."

Your pussy throbbed again and you winced-- because you hated yourself for this, feeling completely helpless to the way your body chased pleasure. Hatred and shame tugged at your chest from the inside, and your mind still wanted more than anything to fight him off; but for better or for worse, your mind wasn't steering this ship anymore.

He curled his fingers inside you, making you whimper again, and he actually laughed at you-- softly, but an outright laugh. "So fucking desperate," he mocked, pressing his thumb up to your clit hard enough to make your legs shake. His smile fell and he grabbed your face hard, pulling his fingers out and forcing them into your open mouth until you gagged. "Can you taste it?" he snarled. "Can you taste how bad you fucking need me?"

Tears rolled down your temples from all the deprivation of air; when he took the fingers out, he brought his hand down to his trousers. You couldn't even try to describe the look in his eyes as he started to open his belt and fly, and even when you opened your mouth to try to tell him no, nothing of any use came out.

Roughly, he grabbed you and spun you around, slamming you into the wall again as you winced. "Fucking whore," he sneered, holding you down with one arm across your shoulders as he tugged your panties down roughly.

"W-wait--" was all the protest you could get out before he pressed his body against yours again, the tip of his erection sliding between your lips as you gasped.

He grunted as he forced himself inside you, and you when you let out a whimper from the stretch, he put his hand over your mouth again.

His hand grabbed your hip and pulled it back against him, forcing your back to arch. You felt his hair against your shoulder as he looked down at you, and you shut your eyes tightly as you tried not to imagine how it must look: his cock pushing into you, stretching you wide...

Each rough thrust pushed you into the wall, and you whimpered, but your legs quivering gave you away. "So fucking wet for me," he purred, leaning in to breathe by your neck. "Gonna have to make this quick, before somebody catches us-- it's a shame, though, sure could take my time with you..."

When your walls clenched on him, he let out a small chuckle just by your ear, playfully biting on the lobe.

When you moaned again as he fucked you just a bit harder, his hand found itself around your throat one more time, tightening until you were forced into silence. "That's better," he whispered, "good girl."

[kazutora-kurokawa]

😇choso hc request against because he's such a cutie

I feel like he'd be obsessed with breeding a massive kink for it especially bc they way he loves his family and I think he'd want alot of kids in the future sfw and NSFW pls

Choso w/ A Breeding Kink

♡ SFW->NSFW, fem reader, kinda fluffy, husband!Choso, breeding (obvi), soft sex but also rough sex, dom!Choso ♡

note: men with breeding kinks go brrrr ✨

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

🩸 Choso, who knows he wants a family with you, otherwise he wouldn't have married you at all

🩸 Choso, who has constant baby fever and is always talking about the future and how many kids you'll have together

🩸 Choso, whose hand is always on your tummy as if he's practicing for when you're actually pregnant and he'll be able to feel the baby kick

🩸 Choso, who tracks your period and knows when you're ovulating so he knows exactly when to cum in you

🩸 Choso, who always takes things slow with you so he can show you how much he loves and adores you and your body

🩸 Choso, who after the first round loses all sense of self control and picks up his pace, deadset on breeding you and making you his forever

🩸 Choso, who puts you in a mating press and fucks his cum into your pussy until your legs are cramping

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Taglist

@arlerts-angel @i-literally-cant-with-this @trevengersprincess @giugiette @katkusuo @happy-trenchcoated-impala @drunkcheesecake @darkstarlight82 @reiners-milkbiddies @manji-hoe @southside-otaku @xxchthonicreaturexx @evergreen-endo @hanmaslilslut @dystop4in14nd @mysouleaten

[lilac-witch]

Felicity - Rhysand x Reader

masterlist

Summary: Rhysand has recently returned from Under The Mountain and Y/n takes in how the family is whole once again. Meaning: "a state of happiness" Word Count: 500 Warnings: Strong language

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

What better way to celebrate her mate's return, than with a family dinner. All of them together again in one room, after fifty years in a broken home.

It was them: Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Amren and Rhys, who now shared the dining room table with her, just like it was before Amarantha. Before it all went to shit.

Y/n was brought back to the present by Rhysand, who squeezed her thigh gently. He didn't need to delve into her mind to know what she was thinking. They'd been together for almost a century. He knew her like the back of his hand.

"Are you alright, darling?"

The question brought tears to Y/n's eyes. Here was a male, her male, her mate, who had undergone a torture none of them would ever truly understand, asking whether she was alright.

Choking down her tears, Y/n forced a smile onto her face.

"Everything is fine, now that you're home."

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

As a matter of fact, everything was not fine.

The dinner had come and gone, the festivities of Rhys' return extending long into the night. But now, the sun had long retreated, and the moon shone high in the sky, illuminating the contents of their bedroom.

However, Y/n was not asleep. On the contrary, she lay awake, staring at the face of her mate. Afraid that if she closed her eyes, even for just a second, he would disappear.

Y/n turned to lie on her back, eyes deadset on the ceiling above, her mind whirling through everything that Rhysand had told her upon his return. Everything he had to endure, everything Amarantha forced upon him.

"Darling, you're crying."

She hadn't realised that Rhys was now awake, or that tears had been streaming down her face.

Rhys shuffled closer, wrapping her up tightly in his arms.

"It wasn't your fault, darling. I made my choice," he said, pressing soft kisses to her forehead in an attempt to calm her shaken state.

Y/n sniffled, moving impossibly closer to his warm body.

"How did you endure it? How did you endure it all for so long?"

Rhysand brought a hand up and began stroking her hair, his touch as light as a feather.

"I would imagine it was you. Your face, your body, your voice. I imagined what it would've been like if we had never been separated. I saw us, sitting under that old orange tree, watching children, our children, run through the fields."

"That sounds beautiful," she said, a soft smile replacing the frown that had previously occupied her face.

"It was a dream. It brought me so much happiness. To know that when it was all over, I would be able to return to you, to our family, and live out that dream," he said, violet-blue eyes meeting hers.

Y/n placed her palm on his cheek and ran her thumb over his golden skin.

"I'm so happy you're home, Rhys."

"So am I, darling. So am I."

-----------

I wrote this yesterday, but I wanted to keep it to post for today, just so that the content is somewhat regular. Remember, I'm taking requests, so pop one in the Letter Box!

[lix-ables]

🎀 𝐬𝐤𝐳 + 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 ... 🩰

— minors dni, 18+ content.

🧽 smut includes, perv thoughts, exhibitionism + voyeurism, use of mirror, sexting, slight pillow humping (sigh), bondage - use of ties/ribbons, gagging, dirty talk, edging, groping, lingerie kink, panty stealing, corruption kink, oral fixation, dacryphillia, mentions of f and m rec, marking, mentions of tempurature play - ice, etc ( happy reading lovelies ‹33 )

🫀note: this was fr so much fun to write though i reposted this like 3 times so far, but third times a charm ig. please show this one some love, reblog and leave feedback !! it's my baby and im proud of it fr 😩

masterlist | do not repost or translate | words : 3019. ©︎ lix-ables

꒰ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 ꒱… he'd watch you get into the car, his eyes looking you up and down when he saw what you wore - now for him, whatever you wore, he loved it. he thought you looked good in anything you wore. but today was so much more different - he couldn't hold it in. any other day, he'd think about it, and get himself off in the shower or in his room when you weren't home. but he had to tell you. now, he'd be polite but oh so teasing about it.

his free hand would rest on your thigh, while the other was placed on the steering wheel, his voice soft and low.

“wore this for you,” you tease back, pulling slightly at the hem of your skirt. “is that so?” chan smirks, his eyes focused on the road. how he wishes he was watching you right now, maybe stuff a finger or two to keep you from talking at all.

you'd laugh about it, trying to tease him more, before he mentions it and you tell him something was in his head for him to be this needy. “you think its funny,” he puts in, his eyes deadset on the road.but thats when he starts telling you about the thoughts he was having more recently than ever, and he can see you pressing your thighs together from the corner of his eyes. with his eyes on the road, and his mind filled with you, he'd guide you, instructing you more so, telling you things you'd want to hear, and things you have heard before - only thing is you're in the car with him. “fuck i bet its that pretty nude colour, hm? you know how pretty thats gonna look when i slide my dick between those tits of yours?”

“c-chan,” you whine, whispering for him to stop and focus. “oh i’m focused enough, baby. but i don’t think you are hmm?”

his words continue teasing you till the red light, and so now you'd have to be careful for him, there were other vehicles next to you, but chan didn't care about that. no one was watching you from how close he was. if he couldn't take matters into his own hands, he'd have to talk you through it. “take that off baby and be slow. one finger in. tease yourself for me, no one can see you - but they wish they could, hm?”

꒰ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨 ꒱… with minho, it’s simple, and he knows it as well. he loves teasing you to the point that you’re frustrated with him, and he fucks the frustration out of you – with his fingers gripping at your waist as he fucked you from behind, not forgetting to leave marks and bruises to your back. with minho, its also all about fun. from the moment he found out that you get too worked up and annoyed at him when he sent you a dick pic, just once, he wanted to try it out again.

with his thoughts about how you’d feel, with either your fingers or your lips wrapped around his length, teasing him, making him pull you closer, he seats a chair in front of the mirror in your room, a long white ribbon in his hand, taking his shirt and his sweats off, placing them in front of him on the floor, before sitting down on the chair, the cool wooden material making him groan in pleasure. if only he had ice with him right now, he’d bring it in a glass surely, keeping it down on the ground next to him, before taking a piece, teasing the tip of his cock, letting the coolness of the object in his hand melt so that it dripped onto the floor. and he fucking wished you were there to watch him tease himself. he’d either make you sit across him, and make you watch him as he got off, or he’d have you on your knees, while you tried to top him.

“desperate to top me hm?” he’s whisper, when he thinks of you showing up with one of his ties, suggesting that he had them around his wrist while he fucked your mouth. “you know you can’t do that right? no matter how much you try?”

“shut up and let me try,” you mumble a reply, as you bring the cloth tie to bind his wrists. how he’d love to tease you about it, before he did the same to you.

<remember the time you wanted to top me?> he sends in a message, reaching for the ribbon that he had set aside, and clicking a picture to send it to you.

<remember how you said i’d look pretty with my hands tied? bought this to see how you’d tie me up :))>

and now all he had to do, was wait for you send in a reply, telling him how frustrated you were.

꒰ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐧 ꒱… now, you grind your pillow, not knowing that he's there, your fingers curling into the material of the pillow, your buttoned up shirt off, revealing your tits.

the way he'd just almost let out a moan when he sees you ride that pillow, when he sees you grab a tit, teasing the nipple once, wishing it was his thigh instead, and wishing it was his fingers instead, flicking and licking that sensitive bud. that's when he has a thought - he needed to see you ride that pillow in front of him, while he was in the room. but that's also when he hears you call out his name, whining until it gets too much, your fingers curling into the material of the pillow case as you rode your high out.

all this, while changbin watches. all this, while he thinks about scenarios of his own, wishing it was him, instead of that inanimate thing under you and between your thighs because of course, he'd be able to get you off as well, much more than the pillow. he's confident of that much.

he'd also think about how when you both went shopping, and you pulled him into the dressing room with you, making him sit down as you changed in front of him. he was your friend, sure - more like a friend who comes over every other night to fuck your brains out, but at that moment, at the dressing room, he had only one thought - his fingers tangled in your hair, as you clamped a hand over your mouth from whining when he reached over to pull you close to him, bringing his dick out only to buck his hips into you, a small help from you making him continue the same movements over and over, until you rode him with your fingers digging into his shirt as his own fingers stuffed past your lips, your tongue twirling around his fingers while his other hand rubbed your clit. “fucking needy little thing, aren’t you, doll? always needing something to stuff you up full, hm?”

꒰ 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧 ꒱… when you're in the car with him, hyunjin has thoughts about you, and it was more now than before, because you just happen to wear his favourite pair of lingerie – he knows this because he took a peek at what you were wearing when you got in, the wind exposing a little bit of your thighs and also the shirt you wore? exposed the top half of the lingerie.

now he didn't mean to look at it. he knew deep down it would be an issue for him, but it was hard for him to control the need to just pull you to him and let you ride his fingers.

“you look good today,” he mumbles as he places his hand on the steering wheel, pausing a minute to take a good look at you. fuck. he should not have done that. and he knew it was wrong for sure, but when he saw the lingerie, his mind just... wandered.

he remembered from the time how he whined at the sight of you on your knees for him, getting him off while his friends/roommates are just outside in the living room, his fingers way too tangled in your hair, pulling and tugging on it while you looked up at him, your eyes watching his every expression. he'd be embarrassed by the fact that he has thoughts about you, unlike chan who is polite about it, but he can't help it. he'd obviously let you tease him, even if it would be torture for him, he cares about you and how you'd feel.

꒰ 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠 ꒱… when you mentioned buying a couple of cute things to try on for him, jisung’s mind was busy. busy with thoughts about how to bring up the topic of gagging – how he wants to see you under him, with either his shirt or your panties in your mouth, while he fucked you. he also wanted to bring up the topic of how he had at least four pairs of your lingerie lying in his room, which he jerked off to… until one day, you found it yourself.

“ji, what’s this?” you call out to him, and he looks up from his phone, paying attention to the flimsy object resting between your fingers – your panties. “uhm, about that… i wanted to uh, talk to you –” he fumbles with his words, shooting straight up, ready to walk towards you with an explanation at the tip of his tongue.

“nuh uh, sit back down,” you shake your head at him, walking to the couch where he sat, motioning for him to sit down. with your hands coming to a rest on his shoulder, and your legs on either side of his own, you straddle him, keeping in mind that your crotch came directly in contact with his own bulge, which seemed to grow harder under you, and you take this as an advantage to grind against it a little.

“tell me more,” you hum when he groans in a needy tone, his hands on either sides and on the couch, fingers aching to fidget with something, anything. “tell me what you do.” “fuck, uhm. i uh –” “– jerk off to them?” you finish for him, bringing the material in between the two of you, before grinding against him once again, which earned a hiss from the boy under you. “shit can you no –”

“show me.” you smile at jisung, hand him your panties, inching forward and leaning close to him at the same time, and he shuffles in his seat. “show me how you jerk off with it. i’m sure you have thoughts, about me, maybe?”

“i’m sorry i just –” “i want to see,” you push again, this time resting your fingers on his chest, caressing the material under your touch. “i want to help. please let me help.”

꒰ 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 ꒱… felix has always thought about how you’d look with his fingers in your mouth, sucking on them. maybe even thought about your lips wrapped around the length of his dick, as he bucks his hips slowly, thrusting in and out to see your expression every time he pulled away. so when you came to him about your oral fixation, knowing absolutely almost to nothing about it, you could say he was pleased that you came to him, instead of someone else.

“what is it that you want to know, darling?” he whispers, his fingers tangled in yours as he seats you both on his couch, and he turns to face you. “i just keep wanting to have something, anything in my mouth, and i can’t help but feel –” you explain, only to stop when you see felix smiling at the words you chose. “what?” you mutter, clearly embarrassed now. “let me explain it to you in this way,” he starts, letting his hand rest under your jawline, tilting your chin to make you look at him. his thumb rests on your bottom lip, while the other fingers support your chin from under. “open, love,” he parts his lips, assuring you that he wouldn’t do anything without your permission. “it’s alright,” felix smiles, as he watches you part your lips for him, letting him slip his thumb inside, before he continues.

“suck. slowly, i’m not going anywhere,” he assures you again, his eyes watching you look at him, while his thumb was in your mouth, and he almost lets out a single groan when he feels your tongue twirl around it. “that’s it, there you go,” felix mutters, the smile on his face never leaving as he continues, “you, my darling, have the need to suck on something all the time don’t you? that’s okay,” he responds when you nod your head, while continuing to suck on his thumb. “i think there was a time when i used to bring people over, i’d either want to eat them out or mark them up, nice and pretty, all the time,” he recalls, his choice in words making your cheeks turn a shade of pink as you pull away from him.

“sorry,” you mumble, wiping your mouth of the drool before looking back at him. “that’s alright, love. i think i’d be able to help you with that fixation of yours, hm?” “it’s not going to change anything between us, right?” you question, hoping you’d still get to be friends with felix. “sure, baby. nothing’s going to change except me satisfying your oral fixation, or teaching you how to,” he smiles. but in his mind, he was thinking about how he would transition from having you suck on his fingers, to choking on his dick, but at your own pace. he wouldn’t want to corrupt you too much now, would he?

꒰ 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐢𝐧 ꒱… seungmin had been thinking all morning about how good you felt, with your lips wrapped around his cock, while a set of his fingers rested on your head, stroking your hair, tugging on it every now and then when he felt you were teasing him a bit too much; another set of fingers gripped your own, as you looked up at him, your eyes filled with tears. “shh, pup. fuck… right there,” he hummed, just when your tongue kitten licked the tip of his cock, before letting him buck his hips into your face, your throat making a sound out of pleasure when he did so.

“fuck,” he mutters, raking his hands through his already messy hair, his fingers slipping past the sweats he was wearing, wrapping firmly around his length before fishing it out right after he pulled the material down for better access. just the mere thought of you tearing up, while being on your knees for him and ready to have him past your lips had him groaning in pain. and just when he needed you, his mind would wander – thoughts about you, sometimes scenarios of your hands being tied behind your back with the tie he wore that day – the navy blue cotton material tight around your wrists, but not too tight to stop the circulation of blood – god, the image he had in his head made him lose control, even when he knew he shouldn’t. on other days, thoughts about him deep throating you when he felt the need to just cool off as he gamed with the boys, you’re on your knees, he imagines, not even out of your work clothes as you took him as deep as you could, your nails digging into his thighs as his hips bucked into your face, his cock making you choke and gag, before it had you drooling – a fantasy he needed to come true.

so that’s when he decides to text you – <when’re you getting here? i need to fuck that pretty throat of yours.>

꒰ 𝐣𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧 ꒱… when jeongin found out about his new found fetish for being tied, he came and knocked on your door, hoping you’d answer quickly. “i need you to help me,” he mumbles when you open the door for him and he makes himself at home on your couch. by now that couch was his favourite place - his second home, if you could say. “do you need me to get you off or…”

“it’s complicated,” jeongin sighs, as he pulls out his black tie from his sweats, and places them on the coffee table in front of you. “fuck, i want to try something, please?” he whines, the neediness in him being so obvious that you kneel down in front of him, holding the tie in your hand, and look up at him. “what do you want me to do, baby?” you nod, resting your hand on his thigh, while your other hand feels the material of the tie in between your fingers. “tie my wrists please? want you to tease me, but i don’t think i can stop myself from holding on to something, and i don’t want to hurt you,” he shuts his eyes, laying his hands in front of him, for you to take and tie them up.

which is what leads to the current situation – you on jeongin’s side, as he sits with his dick out in your hand, his shirt riding up to his chest, while his hands are tied behind his back.

“fuck, please don’t tease,” he whines out, his fingers curling an uncurling at the way your fingers stroked his length. “you were just telling me about how you weren’t being good,” you remind him, applying a little more pressure on your grip than before, which makes him exhale deeply. “shit, y/n… you k-know i can’t–” “talk? i do know that, but you need to tell me what you did,” you caress his bare thigh and look at the way he curled his toes. “you’re going to be sitting here all night, baby, and i’ll make sure you come at least thrice more before i let you go,” you remind him, your voice soft as you let him ride out his second orgasm. “so tell me, what thoughts have you had about me, hm?

taglist. @hwajin @starlostseungmin @chrisbahng @niinjo @chvnnie @lixhues @joonszn @cherryhanji @blueberry-chan @dnadoublefelixx @ethereallino @stuckwithaphobiaa @chewryy @bangchanbabygirlx @zizis-world12 @aimeexx @whatudowhennooneseesyou @nightlychans @americanokisses @katieraven @comet-falls @hwan-g @svintsandghosts @idek-at-this-point-lol @es-kay-zee @writerracha @bbujiikseu @lethallyprotected @sstarryoong @tulips-stuff @guchiljeu @derinxfam

[asuyaka]

My Husband !

★ - hi... (´･ω･`) erm, I know 've been gone for a while (a very long while) but m'back and addin' two new fandoms t'my masterlist !! (Haikyuu & JJBA pt.1 - pt.6!!) - do be warned 've not finished part six yet (m'on chap 114!) so I can't write for every character!

☆ -Narciso Anasui x Male reader!

♡ - he's close enough, welcome back Diavolo !! o((>ω< ))o — forgive me if he's a bit OOC, 've yet to watch video essays on their characterization ＞﹏＜

Being Anasui's boyfriend wasn't the toughest thing on earth. Nearly dying after meeting Pucci for the first time was tough, having to escape a fucking fairytale stand was tough, but dating Anasui was like brushing your teeth with your finger.

Annoying, yes, but it got the job done.

"Love..." Narciso whined from behind you, pushing his head into the crook of your neck. The two of you were situated under the shade of an oak tree, Weather Report and Emporio ate on the opposite side of the tree.

"Yes, Narciso?" You chuckled, patting the top of his hair affectionately.

The other wrapped his hands around your waist and sighed. "Nothing just wanted to say hi," he kisses your neck with a content sigh, sitting down against the trunk and placing you in his lap.

You roll your eyes but decide to humor him, lightly trailing your finger against his forearm. "Hello to you too, Narciso."

Anasui placed your hand on his palm, looking at your matching nails with fondness in his eyes. "So small... perfect for a ring." He mutters as he stares at your (annoyingly) bare ring finger.

Narciso and marriage are like two peas in a pod. When you two first met due to association with Jolyne, his first words weren't 'hi', 'hello', or 'watch out there's a Stand behind you', it was "Please marry me".

So yes, even after the unethical first meeting and the disastrous first date, he's been deadset on becoming your husband no matter what.

That was fine; you didn't hate nor love the idea, but none mattered to Anasui. Once his mind was set on something you couldn't take his mind off it.

"Sucks you haven't found one yet." You squeeze his hand, laughing at his expression.

He turns you over so you're facing each other, your legs wrapped around his torso. "You mean it? You'll marry me?"

"You don't seem to have the whole proposal thing figured out, do you, Narciso?" You ask playfully, watching a flush grow on his cheeks. "I do! This isn't the actual proposal, I'm just...scoping the area!"

"...scoping the area," You repeat slowly. "We've been dating for a while, what 'area' are you scoping?"

Narciso groans, resting his head on your chest. "You know what I meant!"

You chuckle, rubbing his head softly. "You'll know if I'll marry you when you propose."

Your boyfriend looks at you with wide eyes. "Really?"

You smile, pressing a kiss on his forehead. "Really."

"This was supposed to be a picnic." Weather says, looking at you two with a deadpanned expression. Emporio tried to pull him away to no avail.

"Fuck off, Weather." Narciso glared at him, the affection in his tone disappearing.

You sighed—he was the definition of 'I hate everyone but you'. Even with his interesting quirks, he was still your boyfriend; and eventually, your fiancé.

[wittlesissyb4by]

Click HERE to read Chapter 1!

Click HERE to read Chapter 2!!

Click HERE to read Chapter 3!!!

Chapter 4 - The Ritual

“Do you want a mask?” Savannah asked, pulling her diaper/book bag close to her. “It really helps with the smell.”

Jack was on his back, sprawled on the floor with the gaggle of girls seated around him, his wife kneeling between his legs. 

“That’s okay…” Marianne replied hesitantly. Her voice was a bit shaky, staring down at the large, loaded diaper before her. The smell was already quite pungent, but she wanted Jack to be able to see the entirety of her face throughout, she thought he would like that, and she wanted to show that she wasn’t too intimidated by the task—even though she was. “I can handle it.” She said to the crowd, but probably more to herself. 

“They have these things called ‘Devrom’ tablets.” Trinity explained, “crush up a few and put them in their bottles and it takes away the smell like magic.”

Brooke looked shocked. “It doesn’t stink at all??”

“Girl, I don’t even bat an eye.” She scoffed, “ but without them I’m fucking dyinggg”

The girls all laughed and nodded in agreement, now deadset on trying it. 

When the giggles finally died down, all eyes focused on the grown man wallowing in his own filth before them. Marianne felt the heavy expectations weighing on her again. She could easily pass the task off to one of the other girls, she was sure they would happily oblige. But this was her husband, her responsibility. No more dilly-daddling (as she liked to say) the time was now. 

She could feel how hard he was when she pressed her palm to the landing zone of the diaper, holding it down so she could grip the tapes with her fingers and pull them off one by one. 

1…

2…

3…

4…

The front of the diaper flapped about once the fasteners were freed. Marianne gripped the front, then felt a hand to her shoulder. 

“We’re here with you,” Claire smiled reassuringly , “now take a deep breath, and open it up.”

Marianne smiled, happy to have the other girls around even for this moment that would otherwise be intimate. There would be plenty of time for that to happen between just her and Jack in the future. For now, it was time. 

She peeled the front of the diaper open. It wasn’t quite as horrific as she’d imagined, but it wasn’t exactly a pocket full of posies either. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if they didn’t make him mush it around with his humping, but it was still doable. The smell punched her square in the face, she had to clamp her watering eyes shut and turn her head to catch some fresh air and keep herself from gagging. 

Brooke handed her the package of wipes. Marianne pulled out several, then several more. It was probably going to take even more than that to get the job done. 

“Use the front of the diaper to clean the majority of the mess,” Savannah said helpfully. 

Right. She knew that. She’d changed many-a-diapers before, just not one so big and defiled. Pulling the front flap of the diaper, Marianne pressed down and worked much of the mush down his bits and crack to the bottom of the diaper. That took care of most of it, now she would only need a few wiped for the cleanup.  The girls on either side of Jack’s legs grabbed his calves and lifted them up to her so that his ankles locked together in her palm. She raised his legs so that she had an easier access to his crack, which she cleaned with a few wipes as well as other areas that got a little messy. By then, she was more or less nose-blind to the smell. Overall, it wasn’t too unpleasant of an experience, but not exactly her idea of a picnic either. She pulled the soiled diaper out from beneath him, rolled it into a ball, taped it up, and set it to the side. She immediately wanted to wash her hands, but Val already had a tube of sanitizer ready to go. 

“I know how it is,” she said with a shrug and a grin before squirting a healthy dollop of the liquid into Marianne’s palm. 

“Okay,” Marianne sighed, clapping her palms back and forth triumphantly, “that wasn’t too bad!”

Jack and all the girls smiled. The latter gave her a proud little clap. 

“You did so good!”

“Great job!”

“I almost puked my first time!”

“It only gets easier!”

Marianne was so flattered by their words of encouragement that she almost forgot what she was doing. Luckily, the girls were there to save the day again, handing her a fresh diaper, powder, lotion, and all the other essentials. 

“Wait!” Savannah exclaimed once Marianne had the new diaper splayed out beneath Jack’s bottom. “Are we gonna…practice first?” She asked suggestively, then shrugged when the other girls eyed her. “What? It’s part of why we came here isn’t it? The exam isn’t just written, it’s practical too, we’re going to have to demonstrate that we know what we’re do—“

“But we can’t do that if Marianne doesn’t feel comfortable.” Brooke interjected. 

“No,” Marianne said, silencing the room, “No…it’s…fine.” she sighed, “It’s why you all came here in the first place, right?”

The girls collectively shrugged, not wanting to impose, but also a bit stressed for the test. Marianne smiled in hopes of giving them some relief. “Worry not, dears! He’s all yours! Savannah? You’re up first!”

Even though Marianne had reservations about letting other people touch her husband, being able to be a strong leader for other people was always a strong passion of hers. It was hard for her to not have a matronly affection for this group of budding women. She wanted to see them succeed just as much as she did her own. 

Savannah quickly switched places, looking more than a bit nervous. Marianne was happy to see someone else be the center of attention (other than a naked Jack) for a change. 

“Gloves,” Marianne reminded her, handing her a set. Savannah smiled, accepting the nitrile gloves and putting them on her hands ever so slowly. Jack quivered on the floor, the diaper beneath him crinkling, he looked so scared and helpless, but his dick betrayed him. It was sticking straight up in the air, twitching and bobbing back and forth with a hefty amount of leakage. The girls, including Savannah and Marianne especially, cackled in amusement.

“I grew up in a very conservative family,” Savannah explained as she squeezed a dollop of lotion onto two of her fingers. “I didn’t even know about the prostate and the supposed ‘p-spot’. Hell, they wouldn’t even tell me about the female G-spot! So imagine my surprise when I found out men could cum this way!!” She brought her hand downwards between Jack’s crack, poked around for a bit, leaned down to check to make sure she’d found his hole, checked again, then pressed inward. 

Jack immediately clenched, arms and legs splaying upward as Savannah entered him. The other girls, including Marianne, immediately gripped a wrist or ankle and pressed it back down to the floor, holding him still. 

“Shhhh!! Just relax little Jackie!” Brooke cooed. 

“It’ll be okay!”

“Just a little poke!”

Val looked to Savannah. “Did you find it?”

“I’m not sure…” Savannah said, screwing up her face and looking up at the ceiling with concentration as she prodded around inside Jack’s rectum. 

“Up and back,” Trinity explained helpfully.

“Behind his wiener.”

“Give the ‘come hither’ motion.”

“I’m trying…” Savannah said, “but I just can’t–”

Unnghhh!!

It was Jack. He’d let out the most pathetic, high-pitched squeal.

“Oh!” Savannah smiled salaciously, “Well I guess that’s the spot then, huh?”

She spent several seconds working her finger in and out of Jack’s hole. Practicing finding it again and again until she was sure she had it down. When she was satisfied, she pulled off the gloves and set them next to his rolled up dirty diaper, leaving Jack a heaving mess on the floor.

Brooke picked up the next set of gloves, despite being one of the more experienced ones in the group. “Doesn’t hurt to practice, does it?” She shrugged with a smile.

From there, it was a merry-go-round of the different girls snapping on the medical gloves and probing Jack’s asshole like they were looking for buried treasure. Some of them worked it more than others. Val specifically seemed to get enjoyment out of how much leakage she could force out of Jack’s cock without him having a full-on orgasm. 

While the other girls were waiting, someone suggested they give Jack a makeover.

“He’d look sooo much cuter as a baby girl!!” They cooed.

Marianne was reluctant at first, but once they all started painting the nails of whichever extremity of Jack’s they were holding, she had to admit it was quite fun, and he did look rather cute with what was left of his graying hair tied up in a little fountain pigtail at the top of his head. Brooke even had a ruffly pink croptop to put him in. “Always bring extra outfits in your diaper bag, I always say!” she toted over the hysterical laughter of the other girls. 

“It’s back to you, Marianne.” Trinity said while applying mascara to Jack’s lashes. Val hardly needed to apply any blush to his already rosy cheeks, but she did it anyway.

“Well I think we’ve all got it down now, don’t we?” Marianne asked the room, they collectively nodded, feeling pretty confident. “So if that’s the case, I don’t see why we need to go any further with–”

“M-mommy?”

It was the softest of voices. The circle of girls all looked down to the center, where the helpless man in his 50’s was squirming with his made-up face all scrunched up in desperation. 

Marianne eyed the rest of the girls, then her husband, “What is it, dear?”

It was Jack’s eyes that danced around now, side to side, his squirming intensified. He tried to bring a hand up to his face, to do literally anything with his hands, but Trinity gave it a sharp slap so he didn’t ruin his make-up.

“Use your words!” she barked sternly.

It was like watching someone try to speak for the first time. Jack mewed and cooed but no discernible words came out. Until he finally found his voice and said “C-can I cum?”

The girls, including Marianne, roared with laughter. 

“Awww!! Wittle baybee wants to make cummies!!”

“Is somewon fwustwated??”

“Poor wittle guy!!”

“Don’t you mean gurl?? Hahaha!!”

When the laughter died down, Marianne spoke with her leadership voice. “Hmm…watta you think girls? Should my hubby here get to cum?”

The room seemed entirely against it, but Claire at least seemed to consider. “Maybe if he begs…”

“Ooh! I like that!”

“Yea! Let’s hear the wittle baybee say pweez!”

“Use the magic word!!”

“Beg little bitch boi!” Trinity immediately caught her breath at using such language, turning to Marianne, but she immediately shook it off as nothing.

“Go on,” she nodded at her husband.

Jack’s powdered face turned scarlet, but he’d already come this far, he just had yet to cum…despite being fingered, teased and tortured by a bunch of beautiful college girls.

“P-please Goddesses…” he said in the highest tone he could muster, “C-can I pweez make cummies?”

The question hung in the air for several seconds, drawing out his desperation.

“I didn’t hear him…” Claire finally said, “Did you hear him?”

“Nope…” the girls shook their head in unison. “Maybe he needs to say it louder…”

“PWEEZ can I make cummieeeessss” Jack whined desperately.

“Tell us you’re a princess!”

“A pamper princess!”

“Suck your thumb!”

“Wiggle your hips!”

“Shake that clitty!”

It was a pitiful sight. Jack with his thumb planted between his glossy lips, swishing around in his new pink top, whimpering and whining and pleading for pleasure while he smacked his throbbing, leaking cock to and fro from thigh to thigh.

“Watta you say girls?” Marianne asked again, “Do you think he’s earned it?”

This time they nodded, some having to wipe away tears from how hard they were laughing. 

“How should we have him do it?” Brooke asked, always the planner. They looked to Marianne expectantly, but she just shrugged, unsure.

“Humpies?”

“Na, too boring.”

“Let him stroke it?”

“Even more boring!”

“I know!” Claire exclaimed, quieting the room. They all leaned in intently. “I heard…that for last year’s final exam, they had to make a mannekin cum without any penile or anal stimulation. Maybe we could work on that!”

“So, you mean, just make him…cum himself? Without touching him at all?”

“You can touch them.” Claire clarified, “Just not on their naughty bits.”

They all exchanged glances. “Sounds impossible.” Trinity scoffed.

“Yea, no way.” 

“I’ve made them cum in cages,” Val shrugged, “But I always use plugs or vibrators. We can’t use those either?”

“Nope.”

They all bit their bottom lips in thought, contemplating. 

Finally, Marianne broke the silence: “Well…we can always try. And if we don’t get it, no harm no foul, right? I’m sure Jack can wait for another time!”

He didn’t seem thrilled about that at all, but he also liked the idea of them trying to make him cum, so his frazzled brain just sat there drooling instead of making up its mind on how it felt about the situation.

“Soo…” Brooke intoned, “how should we start?”

******

Jack was a mess of panic and excitement. He quivered like a cornered puppy within the circle of six women. Marianne found herself surprisingly aroused by how helpless and exhilarated he seemed.  She could feel the pheromones radiating off of him. 

“It’s okay Jack,” she said softly, running her hand affectionately up his leg, “we’re going to take good care of you…”

The girls giggled and hummed, like they were all in a cleansing ritual of some kind. Their hands traced the skin of whatever body part was closest to them, arms, legs, neck, chest, ears and feet. The pressed their perfect, perky tits out and into his line of sight, bouncing them, squeezing them together, bringing them centimeters from his face only to bounce them away again.

Marianne continued to move her hands over his legs, up and down, up and down, feeling his body tense and relax rhythmically. His cock was standing straight up in the air, bouncing and bobbing as he clenched, pre-cum raining out and down his shaft. It was working.

Jack’s eyes closed and rolled backward, Trinity didn’t seem satisfied enough with that, though, pulling a blindfold out and placing it over his balding head, depriving the one sense so as to intensify the rest. 

Brooke took a pacifier out and brought it to his lips, gently running it over and around them. Jack opened his mouth to receive it, breath catching and releasing desperately. Soft, squeaky moans creaking from his throat. He tried to reach blindly for the rubber nipple with his mouth, but Brooke deftly pulled it away each time, making him even more whiny and desperate.

Savannah ran her nails along the ruffles of his princess shirt, tweaking his nipples until he let out a gasp, then a bit harder until he yelped, but he didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, it made his dick swell and twitch even more.

Marianne didn’t think she’d ever seen her husband so turned on. She used her finger to circle around his pubic region, making sure not to touch any of his private parts, even though she wanted to. She knew if she could just wrap a hand (or even two fingers) around his pulsing shaft, it would all be over in seconds. He raised his hips and wriggled desperately over his diaper, searching for her hand, trying to get any sort of stimulation to his cock that he could, but Marianne just smiled and dodged it easily. 

Val brought Jack’s hand close to her breast, looking to Marianne for approval. She gave a definitive nod. Jack would be eternally grateful to her for this experience, and he would be thanking her in plenty of ways later. He gently squeezed Valencia’s boobs, and Savannah’s too.

“Squeeze his thighs,” Claire whispered in Marianne’s ear to where Jack couldn’t hear, “I do it when I give my boyfriend a blowjob and it drives him crazy.”

Marianne obliged, gripping his inner legs while he gripped the girls’ boobs. His breathing intensified, his thighs shook beneath her grasp. Trinity and Brooke were whispering and nibbling at his ears, breathing down his neck, Brooke still dangling the pacifier ever so slightly away from his puckering lips.

Jack was getting stimulated in every single one of his erogenous zones and then some, with the exception, of course, of his penis. His groans were gutteral, then high-pitched and needy all at the same time. Six pairs of hands circled his skin, rubbing, poking, pinching, scratching, tapping. Jolts of electricity coursing through him. Marianne had never seen him so turned on, she didn’t think she had ever been so turned on, just by seeing her husband turned into a pitiful, whimpering, whining puddle right before her eyes. 

“You’re gonna be our little fairy boi” Trinity whispered in his ear.

“Our little loser we’ll parade around town” Brooke continued.

Jack shook his head back and forth, as if trying to block out the sounds that were making him so incredibly aroused.

“We’ll make you our little bitch!” Val said, joining in.

“Everyone’s gonna know how pathetic you are.” Savannah intoned.

His breathing got louder, crescendoing. His body tensed, spasming. He humped the air, rubbed his ass over the diaper below, making it crinkle. Brooke shoved the pacifier in his mouth, he sucked it like it contained the nectar of the gods. Marianne squeezed his thighs, forcing him down. So did the other girls on his extremities, pinning him down like they were worried their little ritual was going to make him levitate up to the ceiling. 

Marianne smiled, they had him, he just needed one last little push. She leaned over so that her mouth was inches away from his dick, to where he could only feel her hot breath upon it: “...and all of it while you are wearing a big, fat, diaper.”

Then, to all of their surprise, with one last, powerful grunt, his dick started erupting. A huge shot of semen soared through the air, then another, and another. Marianne backed away as soon as she saw it go off but, being between his legs, caught the most of the onslaught. Sticky juices rained out of her husband’s penis, showering the front of her shirt. The girls continued to pin him down while he spasmed and suckled his pacifier, air whistling through his nose as he had one of the most powerful orgasms any of them had ever witnessed.

All of them were wide-eyed, exchanging glances, like they could not possibly believe what they just saw. Jack’s jism was everywhere, he just came a gallon’s worth–and they didn’t even touch him. The girls checked their arms and legs to make sure none of it got on them, then they erupted in genuine, surprised laughter. 

“I can’t believe he did it!”

“We did it!”

“I didn’t think it was possible.”

“If we can make a creepy old man do that, imagine how easy a horned-up college boy will be!”

The girls released Jack, who was still panting on the floor, eyes glazed from his orgasm. Marianne returned to the task at hand, bringing the diaper upward. She didn’t bother cleaning up his goo goo, the diaper would absorb it, and he’d probably be wetting it soon anyway. Speaking of wet, a slight shifting of Marianne’s thighs told her she had enjoyed that little ritual too. Why had such a scene been such a turn on? And why was she starting to come up with more ways to degrade and humiliate her husband? She was enjoying all of this quite a bit more than she ever would have thought.

To Be Continued

I just released Chapter 6 - Diapers and Dommes - on my Substar!! I'm pretty proud of it, so I hope you'll decide to join and read it. Your support goes a long way to continue to keep a roof over my head, and provide electricity to write more! ALL of my stories are available to Bronze subscribers and up!

[mirrrorballs]

right where you left me — p. jongseong

pairing / non-idol!jay x fem!reader

genre / angst, a bit of fluff at the very start, lovers to strangers, forced marriage au :(

warnings / like, one cuss word..., usage of y/n, i think that's it^^

synopsis / jay always said he'd marry you one day, until suddenly he breaks it off claiming he 'found someone else'. months later, on the day of his wedding, you find a letter slipped under the door of your apartment from none other than the groom to be himself.

author's note / dedicated to my jay obsessed best friend!

“I’m going to marry you one day,” your boyfriend, Jay, said softly with a smile on his face as he shifted in his position lying down together with you on his bed to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You and Jay have been together for almost two years, and it’s been nothing short of pure bliss. Sure, like any other couple, you two would have the occasional arguments — but rest assured Jay would come knocking on your door with a bouquet and stuffed toy in hand while he asks for your forgiveness.

You let out a light laugh before pressing your lips into a tight smile. “As if your parents would allow that,” you told him as-a-matter-of-factly.

Jay was rich, to put it short. His parents were CEOs of different companies that their parents before them passed down for multiple generations. You, on the other hand, lived a normal and comfortable life. But apparently, it didn’t seem to be enough.

After you met his parents, Jay assured you that they just put up a cold front. Both of you knew he was lying through his teeth.

Jay shook his head. “I don’t care about them. I only want you,” he said before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A tear rolled down your face as you recalled this memory. It’s only been a year since that sweet exchange of words that you thought secured your relationship for good. You hate how you were wrong.

You let out a dry laugh. “I— I don’t get what you’re talking about. Was it something I did? Come on, Jay. We can talk this out,” you sounded desperate as you shook your head, tears threatening to fall down.

Jay shook his head silently. You thought you almost saw tears pooling around his eyes as well. But to even think that seemed delusional. He seemed so deadset.

“I told you, we just can’t be together anymore,” he still wouldn’t look up to meet your eyes.

“I know, you told me that. But why?”

“It’s not you, it’s me,”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Jay,”

“We just can’t,”

“A reason. You owe me that much—”

“I found someone else,” he said with a tone so final, though the crack in his voice almost made him sound hesitant.

A silence filled the air.

You knew nothing lasted forever. A part of you knew that what you and Jay had going might have shattered one day. 

But he always sounded so sure that you two were something permanent. Something written in the stars. So you pushed that part of pessimism in you to the back of your mind.

Now here he was, taking everything he said, the promises he made, the sweet nothings you shared, and twisting it all around. The part of you, the ugly voice that didn’t believe in the timelessness of the love you and Jay shared mocked you as it boomed with laughter and insults.

“Oh,” you breathed out.

A man in a black suit approached your table in the privately booked restaurant and tapped Jay’s shoulder.

“Sir, it’s time to go. You’re going to be late for your meeting with your parents,” the man hesitated as his stoic face held a hint of sympathy when he glanced at you.

“I’ll be right there,” Jay replied as he picked up the coat from behind his chair.

For the first time in this meeting you two had, he managed to look you in the eye before turning his gaze back downwards.

As he turned around and walked away, you mucked up the courage to ask him a question.

“Do you love her?” You asked, suddenly standing up.

Jay turned around and met your hurt gaze. His stone-cold expression melted slightly at this. He paused for a while taking in your presence with a look that almost seemed pained.

He nodded once his eyes traveled back to meet yours once more. “Yeah,” he breathed. “More than I can say,” he paused before turning back around and leaving.

It’s been five months since you and Jay broke up, and you’ve managed to stop breaking into tears at every reminder of him after the first three.

There was no contact between you two. And it was easier to keep him out of your thoughts that way. But that didn’t mean you stopped thinking about him. It was hard to do so.

You were scrolling through social media on your phone as you rode the elevator going up to your apartment. You exited the lift and got your keys ready with one hand while you kept your phone in the other.

You stopped in your tracks after seeing a headline on twitter.

‘Heir of Park Enterprises, Park Jongseong and daughter of the CEO of Hwang & Yoon Law Firm, Yoon Jiwon: Everyone’s Favorite Newlyweds!’

You took in a sharp breath. You’ve managed to steer clear of any news and media about the couple for a while until today. You pressed the power on your phone to turn it off before making your way to open your apartment door.

As you shut the door behind you, you noticed a cream colored envelope facing downwards with your name and address written on it.

You placed your work bag down before picking up what seemed to be a letter, sitting down on your couch and opening it.

As you unfolded the crisp paper, your eyes landed on the first few words. And you immediately knew who wrote it. The handwriting was one that you could recognize as easily as your own.

Y/n,

I’m writing this the night before my wedding. And you’re all that my thoughts consume. The day we fell in love, a part of me knew that you were the girl of my dreams. The girl I wanted to see once I walked up the stairs to an altar. And tomorrow, that girl isn’t you. I’ve thought about how we broke up, how I left you, every day since it happened five months and fourteen days ago. I never wanted to leave you. But when my parents first gave me the instruction to do so for them to be able to set me up with someone else, I showed apparent impertinence by not following their words, and they were angry with me. They told me that you were a bad influence. That the reason I kept disobeying them was you. So they told me that if I refused their instructions once more, they would’ve done something terrible to you and your family. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t hurt you like that, yet I still ended up causing you pain. I thought that if I said I found someone else and treated it like a normal falling out of love instead of saying the contents of the previous paragraphs, the hurt would last shorter. I proved myself wrong with that. It pained me either way. I hope you move on from me. You deserve better. You deserve someone who would protect you and your loved ones instead of giving up. I’m sorry I couldn’t be just that, and I should’ve. I question myself everyday why I wasn’t. As for me, I know I will never find someone as good as you. Everyone else will always fall short. A part of me has loved you since I first met you, and since then I’ve only fallen in deeper. You’ve consumed my heart and my soul. I love you, Y/n L/n. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop. By the time you read this, the ring meant to be yours settles on the hand of another. But it will never be truly hers. One day, I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for the hurt I’ve caused. Maybe in some other universe, I never would’ve had to leave.

Yours, Jay

You finished the letter with a hand clasped to your mouth in a failed attempt at stopping yourself from crying.

You thought the wound was just starting to scab only for it to turn raw once more.

Jay was right. Maybe in another universe.

author's note / lowkey got emotional writing this ermmm.....

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕟𝕖𝕨 𝕟𝕠𝕚𝕤𝕖𝕤 ⋆*･ﾟ𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕝𝕗𝕗𝕖

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ᴡᴏʟꜰꜰᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀʟɪɴᴇ ꜰᴜʀʀʏ, ʀᴏᴜɢʜ-ɪꜱʜ ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ ꜱᴇx, ɢʀᴏᴡʟɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪ!!!

⋆ ★ ᴛᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ɢᴜɪʟᴛʏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡᴏʟꜰꜰᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴡᴀʏʏʏʏ ᴛᴏᴏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴅ. ɴᴏ ᴊᴏᴋᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀɴ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴏ 🥵🥵🥵 ɪ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ 5 ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴇxᴛʀᴇᴍᴇʟʏ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʏᴘᴏꜱ ʟᴍᴀᴏ. ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴀᴠᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ :)

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

He's rocking his hips in tandem with yours at the pace of a fucking rabbit. 

It literally took only about ten minutes when he returned to you from a long deployment to get you back in bed again, his body unable to stop itself from thrusting his tight codpiece into your core, looking composed yet utterly desperate for you. And now he’s had you like this, underneath him with your chest pressed to the mattress, squirming and gasping for almost thirty minutes now. He’s only just finally slipped his cock in.

How he's kept his stamina this high up for so long, getting you to come on his mouth and fingers and not even trying to take some pleasure for himself before finally splitting you open with his cock is difficult to figure out.

There's no space to think about that now, though. Not when a new sound has ruptured out of him.

At first, you don't even notice. You're too busy enraptured in your own release and just how damn good he feels inside of you. But then you feel the aftershocks, the vibrations of his voice as he slows his pace down for just a split second. You lift your chin up, tilting it to the side ever so slightly, with the smallest tinge of confusion on your face.

Did Wolffe just... growl?

Not even a typical kind of noise one might make when wrapped up in mind-numbing pleasure. It’s a type of noise that came from his pure, unadulterated, animal instincts.

Shit. Fuck. Why was that so hot?

“Wolffe?” You call out softly. There’s a large pause in the air, something thick. He lifts his body off of you, letting the cool air flow against your back. You sigh again and rest the side of your head on the mattress. 

“Hey…” You whine.

Wolffe doesn't respond; he graces you only with a dark grunt and pulls his hips back, pushing his body against your ass again with a hard thrust.

You can’t help but mewl in a meek voice, involuntarily clenching around him, but you don’t just forget immediately. He's still not kriffing responding to you. Not even a simple acknowledgment. Just expects to get right back to it as if he hadn’t just let out the most sinful noise fall from his mouth. Even worse is that you’re absolutely deadset on hearing it again. You can’t just continue like it was nothing.

So you decide to pull out the big guns.

“C'mon, I liked it,” You say with a vexatious, teasing tone, ending it with a borderline pornographic moan. To further effect, you pull your hips away, pushing yourself back onto his cock with a soft hum and resting your chin atop your shoulder. His eyes are cast onto yours without any intention of straying away, and his fingers curl rougher into your skin. He raises an eyebrow. You smirk victoriously and tilt your head with sweet, imploring eyes.

“Can you do it again for me?” The ask can’t be that big… can it?

He only grumbles, eyes finally looking away, and he moves to place his body back on top of yours. Like he’d never stopped, he rocks you again; a steady collision of each of your bodies with each other. You moan pleasantly, fingers curling into the mattress, but feel the difference in how he moves. His hands melodically, yet sporadically squeeze your hips, and you don’t even realize that his hand has moved and is slowly rubbing tight circles on your clit until the shiver runs through you.

“What do you want me to do for you?” He then asks, low and husked, against your ear.

The only thing that comes out of you is a whine because Wolffe blatantly decides to press onto your clit and thrust into you harder. There’s a giddy smile on his stupidly handsome face, and you know this without seeing it because of just how pronounced it is against your skin. “Gotta say it clearly, sweet doll.”

You’re just barely able to get your words out through desperate whines and soughs.

“Growl for me.”

A melodic hum is his only response, and he continues thrusting. You clench, once, twice, eyebrows furrowed. You try to sobber out his name, but it comes more jumbled; both of you can feel how absolutely wrecked you are.

Then, Wolffe finally speaks.

“Think you’re forgetting something important at the end there.”

Oh, this asshole.

“Please,” you beg anyway, because this asshole has you whipped. Then, only then, do you get what you want.

He sounds like an animal behind you, the rumble of his voice seeping into your skin like a snake, your entire body being inflicted with waves of absolute filth. Not just growls, even; he’s letting out the most deprived and primal noises leave his throat. How long has this pent up? Because there’s absolutely no way he’s just now susceptible to carnal noises from pleasure.

Either way, he sounds delighted.

You’re feeling just about the same as well.

tags: @dukeoftheblackstar @pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @ladytano420 @jediknightjana @sleepycreativewriter @shinyshayminflower @secondaryrealm @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius

[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!!!!

[glossysoap]

that add-on abt the creamation I AM SHAKING YOU BY THE SHOULDERS VERY INTENSELY !!!!!!!

there’s also the factor of simon having to comfort johnny and being all “that wasnt the tattoo, johnny please listen to me, it’s not them.” and he’s desperate. he’s borderline begging johnny to listen to him.

he’s so caught up in his own greif that he cant realize that by being so deadset on noticing the imperfections in “their” dead body that he’s pushing away the one pillar that’s keep him sane.😓💕

HHHHHH IM GLAD SOMEONE NOTICED THOSE TAGS JSKAJSKSJAJS i was muzzling myself LMAO

OMG YESSSS (gworl,, tell me why i accidentally wrote a lil drabble)

imagine simon just can’t shake it. he just can’t stop bringing it up, especially to johnny. in bed when they’re trying to sleep. in the locker room. on missions.

especially when no one’s talking. when his brain is quiet. and all he can think about is that corpse on the morgue table, all cold and stiff. the body that was pretending to be yours. the body that wore some imitation of your face — but it wasn’t fooling simon.

he knew his y/n. and that wasn’t you.

which is what he tried to say, to plead, to johnny. they were laying in bed together, simon staring at the ceiling and johnny laying on his side desperately trying to fall asleep.

“johnny, you need to listen to me! i’m telling you, it wasn’t them! their tat—”

“lemme guess, their tattoo wasn’t the same?” johnny almost spat, throwing his blanket off of him and sitting up in bed. when he saw simon recoil, he regretted his outburst. he sighed and brought his hands up to his face. he groaned into his hands.

simon sat up and patted johnny’s back, moving closer to his love when he heard johnny sniffle. simon wrapped his arms around johnny’s shoulders, pulling him to lean into his arms. johnny shifted so his face was pressed into simon’s chest.

“I know, love.” simon murmured into johnny’s hair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head.

“no, I shouldn’t have said that.” johnny cried into his chest. “it just hurts. it hurts so bad.”

simon felt wetness stain his shirt as johnny’s body jerked with every sob. simon’s scarred hands rubbed johnny’s back.

“it hurts me too, johnny. believe me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.” simon’s voice would crack.

“I see their face every time I close my eyes. sometimes their face is from when they were alive, sometimes it’s them on the morgue table. but every single time.. I never know which one is real. I never know which one is actually them.” simon whispers.

“because of the tattoo..,” johnny mumbles into simon’s chest, throat tight with emotion. “you- you said it was supposed to be faded, right?”

simon felt a weight lift off of his shoulders when he heard johnny beginning to finally hear him out. he sighed in relief.

“right, exactly. I mean, just think about it. you remember when they would stitch us up? and they would mention how they needed to get it redone?”

“yeah! they would talk about it all the time. they were always annoyed about it fading.” johnny would start to catch on.

“yes, exactly! and when they were,” simon gulped, trying to find words. “taken.. it was still faded. so it should’ve been faded when they recovered that body. right?”

“right. when I think about it.. yeah, that tattoo looked way too perfect on that body. way too fresh.”

johnny pulled away from simon’s chest, looking up at him with wide eyes, filled with realization.

“that wasn’t them. they might not be-” johnny cut himself off with a sob, covering his mouth. “they might not be dead.”

simon nodded with a smile, tears glossing over his brown eyes.

“yeah, johnny. that’s exactly what i’m tellin’ you.”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[chans-room]

Winter Things

❄️ Stray Kids (Bang Chan, Changbin, Han Jisung, and Hyunjin) x reader and Ateez (Yunho and Hongjoong) x reader

❄️ Word count: 3.7k

❄️ Happy holidays babes! I decided to make a few gifts for my friends based on their favorite winter activities but everyone can enjoy, so merry ficmas 🖤🎁 Each has a mood board, fluffy date, and the spicy ending! All soft, fluffy winter vibes here folks, nothing too wild. All contain smut so minors DNI!

Hongjoong + baking cookies for @kiestrokes

Hongjoong comes over after you tell him you’re planning on spending the day baking Christmas cookies. You figure he needs a change of scenery to keep working and you, as a friend, provide a low stress environment and tasty treats. But when he shows up in his sweats and hoodie, no laptop in sight, your heart melts a little. He really just wanted to be with you. You had worried that becoming friends with benefits would ruin your friendship, but it actually only made you both closer. There was no awkwardness, no secrets, just complete trust and honesty. He sits at your counter and watches you as you work, helping here and there when you ask for it. You discuss everything that’s happened since the last time you saw each other. It’s only been a few days, but you both love knowing even the smallest detail. But when it comes time to decorate, Hongjoong is ready to show off his skills. He’s deadset on getting every single one absolutely perfect, and once you’re done — and after he attacks you with the leftover icing — he’s pushing you toward the bathroom, promising to clean up the kitchen as you clean up yourself. After your shower, all comfy and bundled in your pajamas, he’s pulling you under the blanket on the couch and into his arms. You let yourself relax with your back against his chest — you feel undeniably safe with him.

His voice in your ear nearly lulls you to sleep when you feel his hands under your shirt, skimming up your ribs, one hand cupping your breasts while the other traces a finger down your stomach. You can’t make out any of the words he’s saying, sleep clouding your brain, but you don’t care. It feels good and you’re perfectly willing to bask in his casual affection. His featherlight touches pull back to reality, but his cold fingertips slipping just below the waistband of your pants jolts you awake. You barely whisper a plea as the thought of his fingers inside you make you squirm with anticipation. He chuckles at your excitement and in no time, he has you naked, his pants abandoned by the armrest as well, your back still pressed against his chest. He whispers all of his most lewd fantasies, praises, and appreciation in your ear as his fingers work inside you. He makes you cum like that, writhing against his hold, twice before he relents and pushes into you. It’s not long before he’s gasping your name into your ear and moaning as the tight circles he makes around your clit quicken, pushing you over the edge with him. You spend the rest of the day under the blanket with him, relishing in the uninterrupted time you two have together. 

Changbin + looking at the Christmas lights for @eureka-its-zico

Your husband calls you on his way home from work, saying he’s on his way, and tells you to put on something comfortable. When you get in Changbin’s car he hands you both a coffee cup, your usual order, and his sweatshirt. He refuses to tell you where you’re going, but you don’t mind. You trust Changbin with your life, and sitting in the passenger seat with his hand in yours, your favorite playlist filtering through the speakers is exactly what you needed after the week you’d had. You can always count on him to brighten your day; he would never let you wallow in your bad week. He’s always coming home with flowers, a milkshake, or a new book to brighten your worst days. You let yourself relax as you watch the sun set and the street lights turn on, when he pulls into a neighborhood that’s teeming with lights and decorations. His giggle echoes in the car as your face lights up, gasping and cooing at every house. Changbin tells you to get comfortable — because he’s not stopping the car until you’ve seen every decorated house in the city. You both pick favorites in every neighborhood, picking the best ones and reminding yourselves to go back next year to see if they do anything different. You drive around until you start yawning. Changbin stops the car, pulling off to the side of the road. He turns the car off, running out into the cold to your door before pulling it open and hauling you into his arms. You scream and laugh as he spins you around before coming to a stop, showing you the city laid out in front of you. You can’t help but kiss him — your Binnie is the best husband you could ever ask for.

After a few lighthearted complaints, you force him back into the car, but you pull him into the back seat with you. It may be freezing outside but he’s warm and broad and lights a fire in you that burns so hot you have to strip down to nearly nothing. He folds you into positions you weren’t sure were possible, mumbling about how the backseat isn’t big enough for how he wants to ravish you, but his selfish wife can’t keep her hands to herself. He promises to make it up to you when you get home but for now, he needs you too bad. Despite being with him for as long as you’ve been, you still need him to prep you before he can fuck you the way you want him to. Your knees are pressed to your chest as he scissors his fingers into you, mouthing at your neck and chest. The fleeting thought of his leather seats passes through you before his cock bullies its way into your cunt — the stretch tearing all the coherent thoughts from your brain. You’re a brainless mess as he fucks you, digging your nails into his biceps until his hips start faltering. His name tumbles out of you in a gasp as you shatter, dragging him with you into the abyss. You both lay there, catching your breath before you both start giggling, feeling like a couple of teenagers again. He kisses your forehead once before climbing back into the front seat, starting the long drive home. He tells you he doesn’t mind if you fall asleep — he’ll get you both home safe.

Hyunjin + Decorating the Tree for @slashersteve

You were in the middle of a holiday puzzle when your phone started ringing, interrupting the carefully curated playlist you’d set up. Of course, it was your best friend Hyunjin with the dramatics, complaining about how he desperately needs your help with his final project for his photography class; nothing was going the way it was supposed to and he needed you more than ever. You sighed and grabbed your box of Christmas decorations you’d been procrastinating setting out before bustling out of your apartment. You decided it wouldn’t hurt to stop by a few shops on the way — you knew what he was planning and exactly why it wasn’t working the way he’d wanted it to. He’d spent the last three weeks telling you endlessly about how his final project was going to be about Christmas Traditions, but he had only picked out high end, avant garde decorations. He lacked the warmth and comfort of home, which you were more than happy to provide to your best friend. You didn’t bother knocking as you got to his apartment; you let yourself in the unlocked door and found Hyunjin laying on the floor of his living room, surrounded by an army of expensive miniature nutcrackers. You ignored him as he began lamenting about his failure, deciding instead to set up all your decorations. They were things you’d had since childhood along with things you’d begun collecting throughout your life, or things that looked like what you’d find in your mother’s Christmas collection. Eventually, his complaints faded into silence, which was only occasionally broken by the click of a shutter. You forced him to set the camera down to help you decorate the tree he’d set up. Your heart clenched in your chest when you thought about how desperately you wished you could do this with him for real. Your family already loved him, and his loved you, so the transition would be seamless. But he didn’t feel the same way about you — you’d packed up that hope years ago. You had accepted that Hyunjin would always just be your friend, your best friend. But in moments like this, you couldn’t help but long for more. You finished decorating in amicable silence and you both stood back from the tree, appreciating how beautiful it was. Hyunjin handed you the tree topper you’d brought with you, a Tinkerbell you used every year, and bid you to place it on the tree. As you stretched up onto your toes, you heard the distinct click of the camera firing behind you. You rolled your eyes and straightened her out before dropping back onto your heels, glaring at him. But you were surprised by his face so close to yours, a look you’d never seen in his eyes. You didn’t have time to decipher what it was before his lips were descending on yours.

It was a rush — both of you pulling at each other's clothes with no regard, desperate and frenzied. You didn’t want to waste any time, unsure if you’d ever have the opportunity to be with Hyunjin again. You tried to convince yourself that one time would be enough, you could live with once if it was all you could get from him, so you were going to make it worth it. You marveled at his naked body, nearly wept when he pressed his sinfully long fingers into your entrance, screamed his name as he made you cum with his mouth, and felt the world come to a stop when he finally had his cock inside you. The idea that you could ever move on was laughable — not only was he your best friend but he somehow knew exactly what to do and when, and exactly what to say to tear you apart at your seams. You were catching your breath when he finally spoke, expecting him to tell you that it had been a mistake. But instead he tearfully confessed his years long held affection for you and begged you not to break his heart, at least not until after Christmas. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his dramatics, and instead tackled him backwards onto the couch, kissing him again before informing your now boyfriend he didn’t have to worry about being heartbroken, before Christmas or after.

Yunho + cozy nights in for @j-a-nuary

As soon as the snow starts coming down, you cancel your minimal plans for the day. Yunho is one of your first calls — you were supposed to go out for lunch to a new restaurant you’ve been wanting to try, but now all you wanna do is curl up on the couch and watch some comfort shows. You apologize for calling off your plans with your boyfriend, but trekking out into the snow sounds horrible to you. He laughs and tells you he understands, leaving you to your couch and your shows. An episode and a half later there’s a knock on your door; it’s Yunho with a bag of food from your canceled reservation, and another bag of snacks. He spreads your lunch out on the table and hands you a plate. You both eat in silence, focused on the TV, but his body is pressed against yours comfortingly. He presses his lips to your head every so often, and when you finish, he takes the dishes to the kitchen and refuses your help when he starts to wash. He tells you that you can repay him in cuddles when he’s done.

You don’t wait when he comes back to the couch — as soon as he sits down you crawl into his lap, fingers threading into his hair to tip it back to give you the room you require to show your appreciation for him. You take your time trailing your lips across his jaw, relishing in his subtle shivers and the way his hands twitch where they sit on your waist. You know he’s struggling to not flip you onto your back and take over, a move you’re intimately familiar with, but you have other plans. He lets you strip off his flannel and the shirt underneath, nails trailing over his muscles as your lips and tongue and teeth trail across his broad chest and over his sensitive neck. It’s when you suck a small mark into the thin skin at the hollow of his throat his hands finally tighten on your waist, and you know you’ve won. The broken moan falling out of his mouth tastes like victory, his body relaxing against the back of the couch. You waste no time ridding both of you of the rest of your clothes before positioning yourself over his cock, sinking down onto it with a satisfied hum. Yunho’s hands on your hips keep you from setting the pace you had wanted, but you’re willing to give him this minuscule amount of control. He keeps your pace slow, forcing you to grind down onto him when he seats you fully in his lap, and you nip at his ear in retaliation before he lets you move. The pleasure and arousal builds in you quickly, and you know he’s purposefully keeping it slow so you won’t cum, but the way he’s looking at you and the subtle shift of his hips when you grind down sends you reeling. Yunho just smiles and watches you shiver as you give into the orgasm. Once you catch your breath, the desire to wipe the smug look off his face takes over. Before he can stop you, you’re pushing yourself out of his lap and falling onto your knees, taking him into your throat without warning. He shouts, throwing his head back and digging his long fingers into the cushion of the couch, not wanting to stop whatever you have planned. You watch his eyes flutter as you slowly push yourself to take the rest of him, only coming to a stop when your nose is pressed against his skin. Your eyes open to meet his and as soon as they do, he comes with a shout of your name. As the snow piles up outside your door, you both sink further into the cocoon of intimacy your apartment provides.

Bang Chan + sledding for @minisugakoobies

Chan wakes you up with a wide smile and a cup of coffee, a shocking turn of events considering you’re usually the one to wake him up. But you can’t complain when his excited face mere inches from yours is the first thing you see. He’s speaking so quickly as soon as your eyes open that you can’t understand him; you only catch the words snow, sled, and melting. And they’re enough to get you out of bed immediately. You both pull on your thickest winter clothes as he rambles at you again, telling you about how it snowed the night before and how he wants to make sure you get enough time to sled before it melts or gets too yucky. You spend the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon outside, sledding and laughing with each other. He makes you feel like a kid with a crush again, and you can’t believe he’s yours. Chan helps you pull your sled back up every hill, and always checks on you when you fall off your sled, kissing your palms and your snow covered knees. It makes you want to cry, you're so happy. It’s only when the cold has sufficiently numbed your fingers, toes, and nose that you even consider going inside, you and Chan giggling the whole walk back, recounting your favorite moments of the morning as you kick off your shoes. He pulls you to a stop before you go inside, pointing at the mistletoe above the door with a shy smile. You can’t resist. You throw your gloves on the floor and jump into his arms, kissing over every inch of his face before planting a soft kiss to his plush lips.

Chan walks you back into your house, kicking the door closed behind him as he stumbles into the kitchen, setting you on the counter for just long enough to pull off your jacket and his before he’s got you back in his arms and shuffling down the hall. His hands knead into your thighs as he hums into your mouth how much he loves you. He finally sets you down in your shared bathroom, disappearing for a second to turn on the shower before he’s closing the space between you again, keeping you trapped against the sink when he sneaks his frigid fingers under your shirt. You scream and scold him, but he just laughs as he peels the layers off you until you’re bare. You return the favor, pressing your chilly palm to his lower back, earning a yelp of surprise, before you strip him of his many layers and pull him into the steamy shower. He wastes no time lifting you into his arms again and pressing you against the shower wall, plush lips on yours as you reach down to line him up with your entrance. He pushes into you, a ragged sigh following as he stills for a moment, forehead pressed against yours. You kiss him and thank him for giving you such a memorable day, and being the wonderful man he is. His knees nearly buckle at your words before he pins you to the wall, hips slamming into yours. You know you’ll have a bruise tomorrow, but you don’t care. He doesn’t last long, panting as he professes his love for you as he finishes, letting you stand on your own two feet again. You cling to him as he regains his balance, forehead pressed into the junction of your neck. It takes him a minute to set you down, mumbling about how he’s going to fuck you so well later you won’t be able to walk. You giggle and nod as you pull him under the warm water and uncap his shampoo, lathering it into his scalp as he sags against you, humming appreciatively into your skin. After the water is turned off, you remind him of his earlier promise with a wink over your shoulder; his smirk tells you that he would never dream of breaking that promise.

Han Jisung + watching the snow fall by the fire for @minttangerines

You could not be more annoyed that you have to spend what would have been a perfect day with him. Han Jisung is quite possibly the most annoying person you’ve ever met, and yet he seems to have absolutely everyone wrapped around his finger; most of all your professor who paired you with him on an important project that’s due in a few days. He has bailed or ghosted you on every meeting you’ve set up beforehand, claiming something arose or that he simply forgot the time, which lead you to infuriatingly inviting him over to your house in the hopes you can get the assignment over with. You outright refused to go to campus again just for him to bail on you, so you demanded to host. Of course that was before the forecast had predicted snow. Now all you wanted to do was curl up on your couch in front of the fire, but instead you have to host your enemy and try not to strangle him. He shows up early, beaming at you with a package of hot chocolate under one arm and laptop under the other. You manage to get through most of the project in amiable silence, accompanied only by the sounds of your respective keyboards and the crackling of your fireplace. It’s only after you finish, praises falling from Jisung’s pretty mouth that you realize the snow hadn’t stopped as previously forecasted. In fact, it began to snow much harder; and you weren’t sure he could make it home anymore. You sigh and offer him to crash on your couch till morning. You spend the night chatting by the fire, watching the snow drifts build, and forgetting why you hated Han Jisung to begin with.

By the 2nd cup of hot chocolate your rivalry with Jisung is forgotten; all you can think of is his adorably squishy cheeks, his sparkly doe eyes, and his pretty pink mouth. You aren’t really paying attention to what he’s saying until he chokes on his words and turns away from you, looking embarrassed and a little flushed. Then your brain catches up; Han Jisung has a crush on you. Without thinking, you lean across the coffee table and plant your lips on his. Before you know it, he’s stripped you of your pants and has you gasping as his shoulders settle between your thighs. He can’t stop giggling to himself, mumbling about how he never thought this could happen, how hot he thinks you are, and how lucky he is to have gotten paired with you. His rambling makes you tremble with anticipation as your arousal grows and makes you heart flutter, making you grab his hair to guide his mouth to where you want him. He’s messy and vocal and all it does is turn you on more until you’re moaning his name and falling apart. After a few minutes he’s crawling back up to lay at your side. You tell him to give you a minute before you can continue, but he admits sheepishly that hearing you call out his name made him cum in his pants. You can’t help but laugh as you wonder aloud why you ever hated him. He gasps in outrage, claiming he thought your behavior towards him was your way of flirting; he never suspected you actually didn’t like him. You can’t help but laugh; Jisung would think your outright dismissal of him was a flirting tactic. You pull him in for another kiss and offer your washing machine as an apology — he won’t need his clothes until tomorrow morning anyway.