#I feel like he’d rise to head peacekeeper

[stormtide-leviathan]

Has anyone written an AU where Snow stuck around in district 12 as a peacekeeper instead of returning to the capital and was there in Katniss’s time?

[etherealperrie]

Anywhere With You

Chapter 2: "The Bolters"

Coriolanus (Coryo) Snow x Reader Word count: 1.6k Contains: pre-hunger games Coryo | buzzcut Coryo | longtime friends to lovers | Coriolanus being soft for the one he loves | mentions of minor tbosas characters | tbosas spoilers

Catching Up? Chapter 1

--

There’s a chill in the air. Your body shivers in response, a reminder that you really are here, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the case you packed late last night. Wind dances across the town center, sweeping the leaves up into the air. You watch in awe as the oranges and yellows mix, their rustling the only sound at this hour. You’ll miss the changing of seasons here in the city, even though they don’t carry quite the same beauty and magic they did when you were a child – before the war. 

The sounds of footsteps catch you off guard, an instinct you weren’t aware you had, forces you back into the shadows behind a nearby building. It’s only Sejanus. You had no real reason to worry, he wouldn’t tell. In all honesty you thought he might try to leave with you and Coriolanus, but he refused. Even though he’d be the last person to try and stop you from leaving, you fight the desire to wave goodbye to him. It’s best you’re not seen. It would be easier to fade away in the memories of everyone here. Not only that, it would erase Sejanus of any culpability. To be honest you aren’t sure what the Capital will do once they realize you’re gone, but the last thing you want is for any of your friends to suffer consequences. So, instead of saying your goodbyes, you watch his figure walk away towards the Academy, noting the strength of his shoulders as he straightens up with every step. 

Your heart thuds against your chest. 

Where you’re headed is uncharted territory, really. A place you’d only heard stories about. A place supposedly far beyond District Twelve. A place with no one in sight – no civilization, just open fields and nameless land. Your heart pounds and you’re not sure whether it's out of excitement or fear: maybe both. After all, you’d been taught to fear a place like that, a lawless land. And yet, the thought of being able to live without the Capitol breathing down your neck, without the expectations and demands of your parents and professors excites you. Makes you wonder for all the things you might do, for the person you might become; to see the ways you and Coryo grow together. 

Slinking further back against the building, you glance up at the sky, the sun just beginning to rise from its slumber. When you woke this morning, Coriolanus was gone, his bed empty. Though the two of you discussed strategy mere hours before, waking up alone was frightening. What if Dean Highbottom heard word of your planned escape? What if a Peacekeeper found your Coryo out in the wee hours of the morning and took him to Dr. Gaul? Coriolanus is smart, but Dr. Gaul is calculated – who’s to say she wouldn’t catch on to your plans and punish him? 

Your worries are cut short as your body collides with something, or rather, someone. Before you have time to panic, a hand covers your mouth, another hand interlocking with yours, rubbing a soothing circle into your skin. 

Coryo. 

His eyes meet yours and you release a gasp, wilting into the strength of him holding you up. Your gaze rakes over him, noting something different about him. His hair. The soft wave of blonde curls are no longer, his hair buzzed down.

“Coryo,” you breathe, running your hands over his head. “What happened? Did they hurt you?” Your hands drop from his head down to his shoulders, feeling every inch of him. 

“I’m okay, love, I promise.” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. “I figure it would be easier to maintain this way.” He shrugs. “That, and I thought it might help us slip out unnoticed.” 

He had a point, he did look different. Everyone here knew him to have those soft, gentle curls.

His hands tuck into the back pocket of his pants and emerge with a saffron yellow colored scarf. The golden thread shimmers in the early morning light. He glances at you and smiles softly, unfurling the satin fabric to drape it over your head. His fingers work to tie the ends just under your chin. 

“What’s this?” Your brow furrows and you reach up to feel the fabric now covering your hair, shielding you from the wind chill and the eyes of anyone around. 

“It was my mothers.” Coriolanus sighs, lacing his fingers through yours. “Anything to keep us out of sight.” He tugs you the slightest bit closer to him and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. It takes every fiber in your being to hold yourself back from him, to not mash your lips against his in such fervor that reflects the danger of the situation the two of you are in. Instead, you pull back as he squeezes your hand, a promise that there’s more on the other side of the two of you escaping the Capitol. 

The sharp whistle of a train in the distance brings you both back to reality, Coryo snapping up, his posture impossibly straight. 

“Come on, we don’t want to miss this one.” 

Close on Coryo’s heels, your hand in his, you make your way across the Capitol center towards the train station. As you approach, unfamiliar voices echo in the station yelling in virulent opposition to the stoic silence of the Peacekeepers as they yank small, frail bodies from the train. 

Your breath catches in your throat, your feet stopping. Coriolanus doesn’t notice at first, the way that you’ve stopped in your tracks, your hand no longer in his but lifted to your lips, the other shielding your eyes from the horror in front of you. 

The tributes. 

Peacekeepers. 

There’s no guarantee that Dr. Gaul or Dean Highbottom aren’t here as well. There’s no guarantee that you and Coryo make it out of the Capitol, let alone onto the train. You hadn’t realized everything Dr. Gaul mentioned yesterday would happen so quickly. That the tributes would be arriving this morning. Where would they go? How many would survive their welcome into the city? How could you run away while they were being carted to their untimely demise – something you’re supposed to have a hand in? 

From where you stand just behind a rusted column at the back of the station, your eye catches those of a small boy. Dark brown hair and pale skin, marred by dirt and what looks like blood, his left eye blackened. Had he been hit by a Peacekeeper? A fellow tribute? No more than twelve, he snivels, crossing his arms as he jumps down from the train onto the platform. A peacekeeper takes hold of his arm, but the boy doesn’t take his eyes off of you. It clicks then. It’s him. Your boy. The one you’ve been assigned. 

“Where did you go?” You jump at the feeling of Coryo’s breath on your cheek, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of you stuck frozen to your place. The two of you are cramped behind this column, if a Peacekeeper so much as glanced in this direction, you’d be caught. 

Coriolanus takes hold of your hand and follows your gaze to the boy standing on the platform. More tributes stand around him now, all of them accompanied by a Peacekeeper awaiting instruction. Coriolanus sighs and brings his hand to your chin, turning your head back to him. 

“I know you want to help them.” 

You nod. 

“I should’ve warned you we might see them, but this is the only train that’s going back out to Twelve for quite some time, we have to take it.” 

“But, Cory–” 

“I know, I know.” Coriolanus places a finger to your lips. “Sejanus is going to do all he can to help them. He knows people back in Two. If he can, he’s going to help them escape – but we have to go. Now.” 

“What if we-” you begin again but Coriolanus cuts you off, placing a delicate hand over your mouth. You raise an eyebrow as the group of peacekeepers and tributes fall silent, their footsteps echoing across the platform as they begin their march toward the transport vehicle. 

“They’re going to bomb the arena,” Coriolanus whispers. “Sejanus, the rebels. They’re already in place, the minute anyone sets foot inside, the whole place will go down. They won’t even be able to hold the games. We don’t have to worry.” 

You’re not sure how to reckon with the information. When did this happen? Whose idea was it? It just might work, though, the Capitol is more than halfway out on the idea of the games overall, most people not having bothered to watch in years. A plan like this just might convince the masses that the Hunger Games are a moot point. That these children are victims to a war they never waged. 

Coryo eyes you, looking for any sign of movement. His eyes are slightly manic, bouncing between you and the train as if internally counting the seconds you have left to board. 

“Okay,” you sigh, taking one last look back at the tributes who had been shuffled into the car. A peacekeeper locks the back door and climbs inside the passenger seat just as the vehicle putters away, its engine just loud enough to mask the sounds of cries and screams. 

Your heart rips in half as Coriolanus tugs you from behind the pillar and out into the open for a singular moment before thrusting you up into the open train car, climbing inside after you. His hand rests on your hip, making sure you’re secure before turning to slide the door closed. 

It's dark. 

The train gives one last, mighty whistle as it lurches forward beginning its long trek back to District Twelve. 

“We’re almost free,” Coriolanus whispers, tucking his head to press a kiss to your neck. He rests there, on your shoulder for a long while, his fingers dancing across your thigh as the sound of the train tracks mimics the pounding of your heart.

--

A/N: I know this is many, many months late BUT I wanted to continue the story & tag those who requested it all that time ago...so...

TAG LIST: @clintsupremacy @jennifer0305 @zucchinimalfoy @marina468 @nishimura-writes @lovebyceleste @ennycutie @mjkale @tellsbabyy

[daboyau]

Forced to Watch prompt with your rise hunger games AU?

-pcw

Oh no I hope you don’t mind that this got long…..

He’d played the game.

He’d lost. 

Leo stands upon the stage, head high and proud, that triumphant grin never wavering. If he hadn’t felt the way that Leo shook when they’d grabbed him and tried to hold him back while they squabbled over who was going to be the one to climb the steps to the stage this year, he never would have known how terrified his brother is. Donnie sits where he’d landed when Leo had thrown him to ground, staring numbly towards the stage. Leo stares back. Meets his eyes. Does that little wrinkle of his nose that’s always meant i’m sorry. 

Donnie doesn’t tell him that he forgives him. He sits in the private room in the Justice Hall during their final goodbye and instead runs Leo through the various ways that tributes have won in the past. There’s been so many victors, and 23 times as many deaths. Leo knows them, too. They’d studied the footage together, after all, but he just nods along and lets Donnie ramble until he’s out of breath, and then Leo holds his hand and lets him hide his face in his shoulder and sob for their remaining time together. 

The Peacekeepers have to drag him out, hands in his hair, fingers bruising his arms, while Leo watches silently. Donnie understands why he won’t speak out. Even with two past Victors in their family, any sign of rebellion from Leo now will mean punishment for the rest of them. 

Raph removes him from the Peacekeepers’ grip when Donnie fights and hisses and bites to get back to Leo, and they won’t let go on their own. His mass alone is enough to make them back down, but it’s his calm demeanor and that quiet air of authority he always carried over himself like a funeral shroud that keeps them from retaliating.  He keeps a firm hand on Donnie’s shoulder, and he cradles Mikey close with his other arm. His expression is firm. Determined. 

“I’m going with him. Don’t worry, guys. Raph ain’t gonna let him get hurt.”

Mikey buries his face in their big brother’s side to muffle his cries. Donnie stares at the wall and wishes he could feel something besides the burning anger and the frozen terror. It would be nice to remember what hope feels like. 

Leo looks stunning during the Chariot Ride. They can all admit it, crowded around the holoscreen, watching with rapt attention for their first glimpse of Leo in days. The stylist had done good this year. Leo’s long black hair is braided to resemble a net, and beads catch the light and sparkle like fish trapped inside the strands. The blue sheen of his costume looks like the sea before a storm, and the gauzy white train that flows behind the chariot is like the foam tipped caps of the tall, dangerous waves their District is known for. The Capitol Citizens cheer when he waves, his smile bright, charm practically leaking from his pores. Leo was always meant for the spotlight. It makes Donnie feel sick.

“Do you think this will be enough to get him sponsors?” April asks, chewing at her nails nervously. Mikey leans his head on her shoulder, watching the holoscreen with wide eyes. Donnie keeps his distance. He wishes their father was here, but he hasn’t left his room since The Reaping. 

“He’ll be fine,” Donnie intones, eyes not leaving the screen. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment. His twin’s absence feels like a hole in his chest, and seeing him in the Capitol just rips that wound further. He watches because he deserves that pain. 

The next three days they only get glimpses of any of the tributes. Paparazzi shots of the tributes going back and forth from the apartments to the training grounds, and replays of the Reaping and the Chariot Ride. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. 

By the time the tribute interviews come around, papa still hasn’t emerged from his room. Mikey has bags beneath his eyes. Donnie hears him crying at night. He wants to invite him into his room so neither of them have to face the silence of their usually shared rooms alone, but it feels wrong. He’s tried so hard to keep himself distant so that something like this wouldn’t hurt. He was supposed to be the one to go, not Leo. 

Mikey must hate him for failing.

Leo dazzles, of course. He’s all smiles and easy jokes, making the host laugh, charming the audience, endearing himself to all but the tributes who watch from the shadows and dream of the fastest ways to kill him. To them, Leo is a threat.

The Game begins. Leo stands upon his platform, eyes narrowed, expression harder than Donnie’s ever seen. Mikey is curled up in Donnie’s lap, shaking all over, his breaths coming hard and fast. April stands behind them both, her arms wrapped around Donnie’s shoulders and hands clutching Mikey’s between them. Her breaths gust along his neck, raising goosebumps. Leo tenses, his eyes darting between the Cornucopia and the arena around him. Trying to decide what to do. 

“Run,” Donnie breathes, leaning forward, wrapping Mikey tighter. He knows Leo can’t hear him, but the words tumble out regardless. “You can find a weapon later. Don’t risk the bloodbath.”

4

Leo’s muscles go taut. His eyes dart between the other tributes, assessing, planning, picking them apart in a way only he can. 

3

Donnie knows the moment he’s made his decision. He recognizes the calm determination that sweeps over his twin, wiping the fear from his face, leaving only resolve behind. April’s quiet no, no, no echoes like a heartbeat in his ear. 

2

“Please,” Mikey whimpers. One last, futile attempt. Donnie wishes Raph was here. He doesn’t know what to do with the quivering mass of terrified little brother in his arms, besides hold him tighter and pray he won’t break him. 

1

Leo risks the bloodbath. 

He doesn’t die, not like they had all feared he might. There is blood on his hands when the dust clears. He holds twin swords in his hands, and he wields them with a confidence and grace that no other tribute can hope to match. It’s a good start. Impressive. Showy. It gets the attention of sponsors and of the gamemakers. 

It gets the attention of the other tributes. 

They come for him over and over again over the next few days, converging on him from different parts of the Labyrinth this year’s arena resembles. A group of tributes have teamed up, forming an alliance for one purpose only. 

They’re hunting him like a pack of rabid dogs, their focus on taking out the biggest threat in between picking off the weaker stragglers. It’s coordinated, as much as such an attack plan crafted by children can be. Leo is strong, though. He doesn’t go down without a fight. Even on the run, with no sleep and no time to eat, he never lets them see him break.

Donnie hasn’t slept in days. He can’t bear to look away from the holoscreen, even when Leo isn’t on it. The thought of missing even one second, of not being there to see his twin, even if the sight is ugly. He hopes Leo knows he is watching; this is as close to being there for him that Donnie can be. He wishes that he’d been there for him when he was still safe at home, too. 

He doesn’t stop even when one of the volunteers from Two gets in a lucky shot. He limps along, sword still clutched in his one remaining hand, the stump of the other one wrapped hastily in the windbreaker he’s been sent into the arena with. He leaves a trail of blood behind him. Donnie’s arm throbs. His fingernails are biting into his palm hard enough to draw blood. 

They find him quickly. He’s slowing down. His face is twisted in pain and in terror and in fury. Donnie feels like he’s going to be sick. Mikey takes his hand. Uncurls his fingers. Squishes himself into Donnie’s side as he silently cries. His voice is gone by now, throat torn to shreds after days of sobbing and screaming and cursing the Capitol. 

A slash at the back of Leo’s knee grounds him. His brother still fights on, but his movements are lagging. Blood loss and shock have made him slow. Someone gets another lucky swipe in. They lose their head for it, but the gash across Leo’s face is something that will never heal. 

Donnie doesn’t look away. 

The canon fires. 

It should have been him. 

.

(When he shudders awake, gasping and choking on his own garbled sobs and bloodied tongue, it takes him a moment to remember where he is. The silk sheets of the massive bed twist around him, clinging to his sweaty skin, holding tight like chains binding him to the Capitol. Reminding him of his fate inside the arena.

Donnie buries his face in his hands and sobs until the first light of dawn filters through the window. He’s never been happier.)

[katnissmellarkkk]

Elllow! Today’s bookcomb consists of Peeta being protective of Katniss. Could have been much more implied moments but here’s some explicit ones 🤗

-

But it’s too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.

I’m helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta’s face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his arm drops to his side.

“What are you still doing here?” he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he’s been dipped in dew. “Are you mad?” He’s prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. “Get up! Get up!” I rise, but he’s still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. “Run!” he screams. “Run!”

-

I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death.

Sick and disoriented, I’m able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life.

-

I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. “No,” he says. “You’re not risking your life for me.”

“Who said I was?” I say.

“So, you’re not going?” he asks.

“Of course, I’m not going. Give me some credit.”

-

Anger flushes my face. “All right, I am going, and you can’t stop me!”

“I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I’ll be dead for sure,” he says.

“You won’t get a hundred yards from here on that leg,” I say.

“Then I’ll drag myself,” says Peeta. “You go and I’m going, too.”

-

“We’re going!” says Peeta, shoving the Peacekeeper who’s pressing on me. “We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss.” His arm encircles me and guides me back into the Justice Building.

-

Peeta steps up on a crate against the wall of the sweetshop and offers me a hand while he scans the square. I’m halfway up when he suddenly blocks my way. “Get down. Get out of here!” He’s whispering, but his voice is harsh with insistence.

“What?” I say, trying to force my way back up.

“Go home, Katniss! I’ll be there in a minute, I swear!” he says.

-

“He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?” says the man.

“He’s her cousin.” Peeta’s got my other arm now, but gently. “And she’s my fiancée. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us.”

-

When we’re outside, I turn to Peeta. “You go on back. I want to walk by the Hob.”

“I’ll go with you,” he says.

“No. I’ve dragged you into enough trouble,” I tell him.

“And avoiding a stroll by the Hob . . . that’s going to fix things for me?” He smiles and takes my hand. Together we wind through the streets of the Seam until we reach the burning building.

-

“Peeta’s argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you,” says Haymitch.

I knew it. In this way, Peeta’s not hard to predict. While I was wallowing around on the floor of that cellar, thinking only of myself, he was here, thinking only of me. Shame isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel.

“You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know,” Haymitch says.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say brusquely. “No question, he’s the superior one in this trio. So, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Haymitch sighs. “Go back in with you maybe, if I can. If my name’s drawn at the reaping, it won’t matter. He’ll just volunteer to take my place.”

-

The reaping takes only a minute. Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.

-

“And I’m not saying I’m not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But if I’m perfectly honest about it. . .”

“If you’re perfectly honest about it, you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena anyway,” I say.

“It’s crossed my mind,” says Peeta.

-

I check over my weapons, which I know are in perfect condition, because it makes me seem more in control. “I’ll take the lead,” I announce.

Peeta starts to object but Finnick cuts him off. “No, let her do it.”

-

No one’s thrilled with the idea of me going off alone, but the threat of dehydration hangs over us.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go far,” I promise Peeta.

“I’ll go, too,” he says.

“No, I’m going to do some hunting if I can,” I tell him. I don’t add, “And you can’t come because you’re too loud.” But it’s implied. He would both scare off prey and endanger me with his heavy tread. “I won’t be long.”

-

Nothing. I find nothing. Not so much as a dewdrop. Eventually, because I know Peeta will be worried about me, I head back to the camp, hotter and more frustrated than ever.

-

I know it’s stopped when I feel Peeta’s hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently.

-

While Johanna collects water and my arrows, Beetee fiddles with his wire, and Finnick takes to the water. I need to clean up, too, but I stay in Peeta’s arms, still too shaken to move.

-

This is when Beetee reveals the rest of the plan. Since we move most swiftly through the trees, he wants Johanna and me to take the coil down through the jungle, unwinding the wire as we go. We are to lay it across the twelve o’clock beach and drop the metal spool, with whatever is left, deep into the water, making sure it sinks. Then run for the jungle. If we go now, right now, we should make it to safety.

“I want to go with them as a guard,” Peeta says immediately. After the moment with the pearl, I know he’s less willing than ever to let me out of his sight.

-

I’m so light-headed I’ll black out in a matter of minutes. I’ve got to get away from this tree and —

“Katniss!” I hear his voice though he’s a far distance away. But what is he doing? Peeta must have figured out that everyone is hunting us by now. “Katniss!”

-

Caesar leans in to him a little. “I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive.”

“That was it. Clear and simple.” Peeta’s fingers trace the upholstered pattern on the arm of the chair.

-

A hush has fallen over the room, and I can feel it spreading across Panem. A nation leaning in toward its screens. Because no one has ever talked about what it’s really like in the arena before.

Peeta goes on. “So you hold on to your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss.”

-

“When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena . . . blew out.”

“Katniss blew it out, Peeta,” says Caesar. “You’ve seen the footage.”

“She didn’t know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee’s plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire,” Peeta snaps back.

-

Peeta’s on his feet, leaning in to Caesar’s face, hands locked on the arms of his interviewer’s chair. “Really? And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing?” He’s yelling now. “She didn’t know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!”

Caesar places his hand on Peeta’s chest in a gesture that’s both self-protective and conciliatory. “Okay, Peeta, I believe you.”

-

Gale’s expression darkens. “Peeta might have done a lot of damage tonight. Most of the rebels will dismiss what he said immediately, of course. But there are districts where the resistance is shakier. The cease-fire’s clearly President Snow’s idea. But it seems so reasonable coming out of Peeta’s mouth.”

I’m afraid of Gale’s answer, but I ask anyway. “Why do you think he said it?”

“He might have been tortured. Or persuaded. My guess is he made some kind of deal to protect you. He’d put forth the idea of the cease-fire if Snow let him present you as a confused pregnant girl who had no idea what was going on when she was taken prisoner by the rebels. This way, if the districts lose, there’s still a chance of leniency for you. If you play it right.” I must still look perplexed because Gale delivers the next line very slowly. “Katniss . . . he’s still trying to keep you alive.”

To keep me alive? And then I understand. The Games are still on. We have left the arena, but since Peeta and I weren’t killed, his last wish to preserve my life still stands. His idea is to have me lie low, remain safe and imprisoned, while the war plays out. Then neither side will really have cause to kill me. And Peeta? If the rebels win, it will be disastrous for him. If the Capitol wins, who knows? Maybe we’ll both be allowed to live — if I play it right — to watch the Games go on. . . .

-

Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks him about rumors that I’m taping propos for the districts.

“They’re using her, obviously,” says Peeta. “To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what’s going on in the war. What’s at stake.”

-

He asks Peeta if, given tonight’s demonstration, he has any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.

At the mention of my name, Peeta’s face contorts in effort. “Katniss . . . how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you . . . in Thirteen . . .” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

-

“Katniss!” He whips his head toward me but doesn’t seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. “Katniss! Get out of here!”

I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. “Why? What’s making that sound?”

“I don’t know. Only that it has to kill you,” says Peeta. “Run! Get out! Go!”

-

[hey-its-puddlesock]

I'M SORRY I AM SO SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME

Lord have mercy upon anyone on this taglist: @aldriix, @happi-tree, @elle-cosmic-chaos, @darcysd20, @monarch2800, @yourpersonaltimebomb, @your-local-hurt-comfort-junkie-1, @reyraccoon

Send an ask if you'd like to be added, I have no idea why you'd want to be added after this

As Andrias stepped through the portal, relishing the crackle of electricity against his damp skin as he put an enormous foot down on the soil of a new world, he took a deep breath of the air that was soon to be his as he surveyed his future territory.

Cars squealed to a stop on the busy highway in front of him, swerving to avoid each other as people stopped to stare at the enormous newt standing on the overpass. He gave them a genial wave. A few brave souls tentatively waved back.

The king prepared to step out into his new domain, but a figure in the corner of his eye stopped him. They were tall, by the standards of any normal creature (Andrias knew himself to be an exception). Their face was covered with a mask of pale gold with a pair of horns like those of a beetle reaching into the sky. Piercing blue eyes shined in the hollow sockets of the mask, seeming to bore into Andrias’s very soul. He felt his mouth become dry and his cheeks flush as he stared at the stranger.

They walked towards each other across the crowded freeway, ignoring the cars that were piling up and overturning around them. When the screeching vehicles got too close, the masked figure would blast them away with a blast of energy from the staff they carried at their side, while Andrias would simply nudge them aside with an oversized boot. The two of them found themselves being pulled together, almost magnetically, as tires squealed and cars overturned around them. They met in the middle of the street and stared, awestruck, into each other’s eyes.

The mysterious figure removed their mask, revealing a withered face marred with a stripe of rotted green across the middle and a head topped with a crown of greasy, tangled hair. He was the most beautiful man Andrias had ever seen. The king found himself, for once, at a loss for words.

The stranger spoke for him. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, reaching up to place a gnarled hand against Andrias’s cheek but coming up short by a few feet. The newt made up the distance by kneeling down to the pavement. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“Nor I you,” Andrias laughed, one of the first moments of genuine joy he’d had in hundreds of years. He gently offered an enormous hand to the man, who gently grasped the tip of his index finger. “But I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. May I ask your name?”

The man smiled, a miscolored blush rising in his cheeks. “Emperor Belos, of the Boiling Isles, at your service.” He swept into a deep bow, not taking his lovestruck gaze off of the king. “And you, my blue knight?”

“Andrias Leviathan, lord of Amphibia, peacekeeper of one thousand years and the first of my name.” he gave the emperor a bashful smile, not quite meeting his piercing blue eyes. “But you can call me Ani, if you’d like.”

“I think I’d like that very much,” Belos looked lovingly up at Andrias, whose moist amphibian skin glistened in the light of the fires from the car wrecks piled around the pair of them. “What are you doing in the Human Realm, Ani?”

Andrias’s face split into a wide grin. He swept his enormous arm out, gesturing widely to the city spread out before them. “I’m going to conquer this world,” he declared. “And add it to my glorious empire!”

The emperor said nothing, leaving the newt to look back anxiously, wondering if he had said something wrong. Instead he was met with the sight of Belos grinning from ear to ear and flapping his hands like a giddy schoolgirl. “Ani, you’ll never believe what I’m doing.”

“Shut the front door!” Andrias squealed in excitement. “Who would’ve known we would have so much in common?”

Both their faces turned dark as they looked off into the distance. “Now if only I could get rid of that human girl—” they spoke in unison before stopping short and turning to each other in delight.

“No way, you too?” Andrias gasped. “Let me guess, plucky teenager who was trapped in your world by mistake, and now has a ride-or-die group of friends and found family trying to help her get home?” the newt chuckled, not expecting his overly specific description to be at all accurate.

“How did you know?” Belos gripped Andrias’s enormous hand with both of his own. “And she won’t stop interfering with my plans—”

“For world domination?” the newt interrupted, astounded by the parallels between the pair of them.

Belos nodded emphatically. “Yes, exactly! Ani, I know we’ve just met but it’s as if we’ve known each other forever.” He gazed earnestly into the king’s enormous eyes.

“I, um,” the newt stumbled over his words a bit before clearing his throat and trying again. “Are you doing anything? Like, right now?”

“Of course, I’m with you, aren’t I?”

The king took a deep breath, steeling himself for the question at the back of his throat. He took a deep breath before he was interrupted.

“Do you want to go out with me?” the emperor blurted, his cheeks flushing a pale green.

With a chuckle, Andrias brought his hands up over his face. “No, I was so ready,” he blushed, grinning sheepishly at the man standing just at the height of his knee.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you can say it,” Belos responded with a bashful smile.

Andrias took another breath. “Emperor Belos, do you want to go out with me?”

“Yes!”

They stood there for a moment before sheepishly moving towards each other. Andrias knelt as close to the ground as he could, leaning down towards the emperor who stood on tiptoe to reach. Their lips met, Belos’s face completely enveloped in the newt’s slimy snout. Neither one could tell how long they stayed like that; The sounds of car alarms and police sirens faded into beautiful music as they kissed, moist amphibian skin against dry, withered flesh. Finally, they pulled away, both euphoric from the experience.

“I’m sorry,” Andrias murmured as he stared into the emperor’s ice-blue orbs. “In my millennium of life, I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“It was lovely,” Belos assured, holding one of the king’s fingers in his hands.

“So… how about a date?” Andrias looked away, glancing shyly from the corners of his eyes.

Belos smiled softly. “A date sounds lovely.”

The newt stood, leaning sideways to allow the witch at his side to reach up and grasp his finger.

“Now, do you have any tips on getting rid of annoying human teenagers?” Belos asked as they weaved through the wreckage of the highway around them toward the sunset.

“Oh, absolutely. Have you considered investing in fire swords?”

[suitetarts]

pockets full of stone

A mer-may collab with @miranhas-art 💙 See below the cut for another gorgeous Mari illustration! ... and my fic

Din Djarin nearly dies (again) and meets someone from the stories he heard as a child. He didn’t expect them to be so sassy, though.

Rating: General Word Count: 2.8k Warning: Description of drowning, thoughts of death, vomiting (water) AO3 Link

A push, grunt, then a large splash into the lake’s dark and chilled waters. 

This was the last time Din was going to talk business on a pier without his jetpack. He knew the bounty was desperate, and for Maker’s sake, the Quarren had thrown his body weight around earlier on the Crest trying to piss Din off by scaring the kid. He should have known better.

Din pulls himself back to the present and away from any blame. He could worry about that later. Or never, and he supposes he’ll find that out soon. His whole body feels incredibly heavy, much more than what he has grown used to over the years. Where metal meets man, he is dragged down; the weight of his padding and armor applying an inescapable pressure as the moonlight fades to black above him. He tries pulling at the water with his arms while kicking with his legs, grasping for anything, but still he feels himself sinking deeper. 

Wait, the… Who would take care of the baby if Din can’t....

His breaths are coming fast as he tries and fails to calm himself. Keeping his body upright means that the water still hasn’t crept into his helmet, which is something he can work with. But only for a short few moments. Din realizes he’s probably going to run out of breathable air before he reaches the bottom of this icy lake, much less walk out of it, as he continues to sink.

Din’s mind begins to fog as he figures he might be able to save himself if he loses some of the beskar. He doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on this, as close to his heart and soul the beskar may be. The armor will be at the bottom of the lake whether he succeeds or fails, so he gets going. His normally nimble fingers are cold and difficult, and they fail to find purchase on the slippery latches of his pauldrons. The cape wrapped around his chestplate in such a way to make it nearly impossible to remove without being able to look down and see it. His head lolls forward, allowing water to rush into his helmet and the dwindling air pocket. Din’s mouth and nose are full of water, his throat contracts, his chest stutters, his lungs burn. He can’t focus on the latches to his armor or removing his belts, all he can feel is the cold depths rushing all around and within.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The Mandalorian reflects for a moment. He’s done his best, but his best wasn’t good enough. This is it. He’s flirted with this for years, and it's finally here. Is it honorable? Probably not. Is it what he deserves? Most likely. What’s his legacy? A lifetime spent trying to be worthy of being saved, only to waste it. Figures.

Before Din lost consciousness, two glowing blue lights rushed towards him, but he was too far gone to care. He was finally warm.

Death is a funny thing. No one really knows what happens in the instant before it actually happens. Everyone says they know, but obviously they don’t. There’s no certainty in death, just like in life. What happens to someone when they cross the veil, from one world to the next? If it's anything like traveling at lightspeed, Din knew that like the back of his hand. A shudder felt through the hull, a pause, and then that’s it. Silence and flashes of stars, except perhaps these would fade to black before long. What would he see in those stars? A story?

If Din was to see a story before he died, he knew plenty of them. He had once been fond of the stories that came from strangers. He would beg his father to take him to the cantina, to let him sit in the dirty booths and eavesdrop on the travelers talking about their recent journeys to Coruscant or to any number of exotic planets in the outer rim. The idea of being totally free to do whatever Din wanted in the whole entire galaxy was so thrilling, especially compared to his reality of being tied down to his father’s shop in the bazaar forever. What kind of story would that make for, compared to what was out there in the stars? There were dashing pilots, gunners and soldiers, merchants, bounty hunters, peacekeepers, missionaries. Stories of war in far off places, of mysterious species unlike anything he’d ever dreamed, of personal loss, of unexpected love. Whenever he asked to go -- before, that is -- his mother would give his father a look, one that was always angled so that Din couldn’t see, and then his father would relent and take the young boy out for the afternoon. But eventually, both of them would shush him when he asked. They stayed inside, ‘it’s not a good day’ his mother said, and kept the store closed. There were whispers of war, a real war. The whispers were exciting to Din at first, they reminded him of the stories. The heroes were going to swoop in to stop the bad guys and put everything back to normal. But then the whispers grew into screams, explosions, shooting. Where were the heroes? All the thrilling things he had heard in the cantina, but terrifying and happening to him with no one here to--

Stop. Din’s dead, and yet he continues to torture himself. If he gets one last laugh, it should be at himself.

Din didn’t want a story, or to relive his life. What about something he never got to do? He had always hoped that he could live in a fantasy, if only for a moment, where he could have a simple life. A moisture farmer on some backwater planet, or a working class mechanic for a Mid Rim starport. Although that was never a life he would actually want for himself, a simple life was always a nice thought for a different Din. One who wasn’t so…. damaged.

So here he is, a man on the brink of death. Is he seeing his life flash painfully before him again, is he living in a dream, is he nowhere at all?

A kiss. He’s being kissed.

Now, Din had never kissed anyone on the lips in life. He knew the steps, the basic mechanics, but he imagined that it was a much different experience to be kissing an actual active participant and not just the skin on the back of his own hand. There was a certain give and take that he was looking forward to -- a dance, a battle of will fought with plush lips and soft tongues. Even beyond the direct battlefield, there was the periphery of where one’s hands would be, knees intertwined, legs weak and swaying. His arm wrapped around their waist and his fingers brushing tenderly over their cheek, while they pull him in by the shoulders until they melt together.

He would have much rather died in a kiss like that.

In this brief moment of purgatory, however, he can settle for this one chaste kiss. This ‘kiss’ he is having now, if it’s to be called that, is… Hmm. It isn’t what Din imagined. Everything is dark, and it's not anything like a dance. This person seems to be gasping into him with their mouth wide open, like a fish out of water. Whoever he’s kissing has clearly never done this before either, otherwise why in Maker’s name would anyone want to kiss again? He strains his arms to reach forward at whatever is capturing his lips, but he can’t find his strength. He had never known that kissing would need to be so rushed, or involve so much blowing of air? He --

Oh.

Din grunts around a cough, finding himself on his back and in quite a bit of pain. His insides feel like they are saturated and about to burst. He rolls over onto his hands and knees on the muddy banks of the far side of the lake so that he can proceed to throw up an obscene amount of water, which only makes the burning in his lungs more and more painful with each heave.

A sigh of relief, a soft voice breaking through the silt caked in his ears which seems to speak only above a whisper. “I-I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Din freezes. The discomfort and pained heat in his chest is nothing compared to the inferno under the bare skin of his face. He continues to stare at the ground, but shifts his eyes up so that he is looking in the direction of his savior.

A human, scantily-clad with only a dark cloth wrapped around their chest and some sort of leather skirt, sits in front of him on the rocks, their legs still partially submerged in the murky lake water. They thumb at their wet lips as they smile at him, and he feels a blush creep from his face all the way down his chest. Those glistening, smiling lips had been on his lips.

His lips.

His face.

The Creed.

Despite a sensible voice in Din’s head trying to remind him that they had saved his life, despite the weakness that pervaded every inch of his body, a flare of anger rises in him. He is dar’manda now, because of them.

He pulls himself up into a seated position on the lakeside and puffs out his chest, only to find the pain evaporating his anger. “What did you do….” he asks himself.

Their smile fades as their brows furrow. “I think that’s pretty obvious. I saved your life.”

“I didn’t mean-- My life?” Din sighs around a laugh. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Why’s this different from the cantina? Because this person isn’t made of metal? He knew going along with anything less than what the Creed requires of him would become a slippery slope. The tears come easily and he does nothing to stop them. “No, my life is over.”

They set one of their hands on the rock beside them, leaning their weight onto it and towards him. They open their mouth around a smirk, then pause. They start again, but with a blank sincere expression. “Why’s that?”

It’s probably the adrenaline from nearly dying and being unmasked again, but for a moment Din considers grabbing their arm and pulling them in for a real kiss. What does it matter now? His body shows no signs of his thoughts, not a single twitch of muscle, but his face must be betraying him as he watches their eyes train in on his as they purse their lips and smile with their dark, shimmering eyes. Whatever blush he still had on his face grew a shade darker.

“You’re a bold one.” They say around a smile, their long fingers twisting through their hair.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from them, towards the dark sky full of stars. His voice cracks as he gives weight to the words running through his mind, to the feeling of emptiness inside. “I’m dar’manda.”

They snort, and Din can’t help but whip his head at them. 

“Can’t be that big of a deal if I’ve never heard of it.”

Din expected them to not know, but not for them to be so arrogant about it. He had an explanation ready, but since he was caught off guard and doesn’t want to get lost in the weeds with this person, he summarizes the summary as, “It means I’m done. I can’t wear the armor anymore.”

“Because I saved you?”

“Because you’ve seen me,” Din explains, finding the familiar words of his Creed. “No living thing can see me without the helmet. That’s… that’s the one rule. And I broke it.”

“But I’m the one who broke it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

They blow a raspberry and wave at the air with their free hand. “You humans really can be so dramatic.”

Din pauses, squinting up at the twinkling stars as he absorbs their words. Well. Now he’s curious. He brings his gaze back down at his savior. It's dark and he’d just drowned, but he didn’t see anything… off.

“You seem human to me,” he says as he turns over and sits back on his haunches.

“You seem duller than I hoped.” They bite their lips around a smile as they laugh softly. They pull their legs out of the water; the skirt seems to shine iridescent in the moonlight, like facets of a precious gemstone. Their feet were…. Hm. Their skirt, their legs, are covered in leather? No, scales…. 

Din finds his mouth gaping as he stares at a tail, the fin slapping wetly against the rocks in step with the drum of their fingers against their thighs -- singular, thigh?

As he struggles to think of a good first question, they purse their lips in thought. “Let me go get your hat,” they say before quickly slipping back into the lake.

“W-wait, it’s not a...,” Din calls out stupidly, launching himself slowly and awkwardly from his haunches and reaching out in the empty air where they once were. 

This can’t be real. Mystical, intelligent beings with the head and upper body of a human, but the fins and tail of a fish. He was more than familiar with the stories, but such creatures were just children’s tales. Although, what was fiction now that he is taking care of a fifty year old infant with telekinetic powers? The galaxy was a big place, he supposed.

The mer-person seems to come back just as fast as they’d left, setting Din’s helmet on the shore at his feet before pulling themselves back up to sit their colorfully-scaled behind on the rocks.

Din reaches down and fumbles for a moment with the beskar, checking the inside before placing it back on his head. The pads are damp and uncomfortable, but not any more uncomfortable than feeling so exposed. “Thank you.” 

“It's no problem, hat boy,” they prod as they casually clean their fingernails. Din bristles.

“It’s not a hat.”

“And I’m not alive,” they say seriously, looking at Din’s eyes through the visor somehow. The jovial tone fades to a comfortable yet tense silence. He tilts his head, waiting for them to continue their thought.

“Why get yourself all worked up? No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway.”

“I would know,” Din states softly. The tension dissipates but the two stay motionless. Din contemplates and shrugs minutely in defeat. He would know, yes, but he already knows. This isn’t the first time he’s failed when his Creed has been tested. Yet, who would argue whether droids or mer-people are ‘living beings’? The line is blurry, so it's up to Din to decide when the line is crossed. Considering his responsibility to his foundling’s care, he pushes the thoughts of being dar’manda far from his focus, into hiding in the recess.

Ripples from the lake, bouncing moonlight off of its surface, catches his attention. Save for a brief fading view of two blue lights in the dark water, nothing. They are gone, and Din is alone. His wet lungs wheeze as he reaches down, patting along the areas where they had been, searching for any remnants of their existence. An imprint, a misplaced item, a loose scale. Not a trace.

After a moment, Din pulls himself to his feet and trudges up through the pocket of trees surrounding the lake to a small path leading back to the pier. It had only been ten minutes or so since he had been pushed into the lake, but the bounty and his client were gone. Din assumed they both left giddily, since the bounty could think he was dead and the client didn’t have to pay the back half of his premium. Wasn’t the first time, after all.

The Razor Crest’s security lights flickered to life as her prodigal son returned, the side bay ramp welcoming him inside with a flick of the wrist. As Din walked up the ramp, he was faced with an empty carbonite rack -- and more accurately, what amounted to an empty coffer. He wondered if he still had some of the murky lake water swimming through his brain because he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The beskar helmet quickly pivoted away from the carbonite chamber as he heard a grumble and the shuffling of blankets. The baby stirred from their shared cot, chirping and cooing to be held. Din crossed the hold with long, swift strides and obliged, removing his damp and filthy gloves to thumb over the baby’s warm cheeks.

Din sucked in a breath to speak, but paused. No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway. He would always know, but… He had nothing to hide from his sweet little foundling.

Din sat on the floor below the cot, leaning against the wall as he cradled the sleepy babe in the crook of his legs. The lake water dripped off of him slowly, glinting in the safe yellow glow of home as Din told a story.

[fvrxdrm]

Through the Valley

Pairing: Jesse McCree x F!Reader

Warning(s): Mentions of violence, angst

Setting: Deadlock/Pre-Blackwatch/Pre-recall

Song: Through the Valley (Ellie’s cover)

*****

When the universe was formed, the world was sculpted with rocks, and when the world was sculpted with rocks, strange beings were brought down to earth, and when strange beings were brought down to earth, sins were born, and when sins were born, dissensions were brought to light, and when dissensions were brought to light, war had clouded the visions of many beings and humanity teared itself down, one by one, with metal blades and flying arrows, and evolving into something much more minacious and powerful…

…like a gun.

So much vigor, so much anger, so much power. With one pull of a trigger, one life could be led towards heaven or hell, with no chance of escaping a baneful bullet; piercing through the skin and tearing the flesh, embedding itself deep till the person dies losing blood or be lucky enough to survive such fatal shot.

An excellent marksman’s the only one capable of doing that.

Specifically, those who know their guns by heart.

They are precise. They are rigorous. And they make every shot count. They make sure the target receives the end of their blazing weapons, and they’ll do it again and again till they’re satisfied with the bloodshed they’ve created. Their eyes would gleam with red, and blood would boil deep within their veins.

Even with one shot, those who feel agony could be standing right in front of death’s door.

There’s this marksman though, a gunslinger who seems to have held a gun since his mother gave birth to him. His accuracy cannot be matched even by those whose experiences have passed through the roof. Even with a blindfold on he still knew where to point his revolver at. He was a shit-hot at what he was doing, as they say.

Deadeye is what they call him.

People believe that the Deadeye was a curse that was passed from his ancestors to their descendants, and he happens to be their newest successor, which means he was to hold the malediction whether he liked it or not.

Truth is, it isn’t a curse.

Born by pain and abandonment, he was forced to teach himself how to survive on his own at such a young age. He worked hard to feed himself with enough food to desist from dying from an empty stomach, he rode by rivers and looked out for cacti to give himself something to drink, and most importantly, he taught himself how to pull a trigger and defend himself from nasty foes with the use of a gun he likes to call…the Peacekeeper.

After so many years of living and surviving on his own, a gang who called themselves the Deadlock Rebels took him with them and dinned him on how to rob banks and stir up ruckus in villages and towns. He was happy to have found a family who he could rely himself on even with their twisted intentions, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt rapturous.

Every blood he spilled was a trophy to be held in his hands, every eye that widened in fear had the hunger lurking beneath consume him until he became the monster that he was, every bullet that flew with the speed of light had his teeth grinding together, and every word that spread around town had him grinning with sharpened fangs.

People see him as the devil himself, only softening what was left of his heart when a kiss was pressed against his vulgar lips.

His lover was pristine and innocent, an angel in contrast to the demon he turned himself into. She had bright eyes and a scintillating smile, a touch so gentle and feather-like, a voice so small and warm, and a forgiving heart nobody deserved to earn unless she allowed it to.

Folks have wondered how on earth had she given a killer a chance and had asked the same question over and over again, but she always replied with the same answer as well;

“He was orphaned by evil and war; always have, always will be. Someone as broken as him may not be fixed, but they deserve love just as much as those who have found their place in order to help find their purpose on earth again. There are paths in front of them to help guide them in life, and what surrounds them will give them a reason to stay in the path they’ve chosen.”

Some people agree, some people don’t. But at the end of the day, it’s her belief and children look up to her and admire the goodwill she possesses even though her trust was something to be worried about. She claims she knows what she’s doing and all the world hopes that she truly does.

The heart of his lover would burn at every bruise and every wound the young man would come home with, and every word of what his gang had done would send her heart palpitating in an almost irregular speed. She feared of what was to come, and she hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t end up like the folks who have met the end of Peacekeeper’s barrel.

Years have passed and the man grew into a more ruthless killer. He had a heart of stone but it never forgot the woman who have given him an aspiration better than what they had then. He was going to be head and shoulders above, he promised. Just not now. The devil on his shoulder was still pulling him underneath. And when the day the voices in his head have stopped screaming comes, he’ll find a better home for the two of them; one where they could raise a few children of their own and make love until the sun rises in the east.

But alas, the dreams he had hoped for came to an unfortunate close…

The Deadlocks had been ambushed by soldiers of Overwatch, slowly killing the only family he’s had and taking him and his lover in to probably rot for the rest of their lives. Blue had befogged his vision, but red had risen flames inside of him.

Bullets flew from his tongue the moment he was thrown into a room flooded in black with only a poor excuse of a light hanging above him. He sat impatient, fists clenching and unclenching in fear of what they might’ve done to his girl. She could’ve been suffering from a harrowing death and nobody gave him one last chance to say what must be said before her final moments, and that was enough to untether something wilder inside of him.

He was given two options: he would be thrown into jail and be left there to rot or be given a chance to walk in the right path and leave the wrong, change himself and the world for the better.

The commander had seen something in him: a potential. The woman was right when she said he was forced into a void full of nothing but anguish at such a young age, and pity was what he felt for the gunslinger.

The power he had with his gun was nothing Reyes had ever seen. He was one with Peacekeeper; both thriving to reach the heights with ardor and strength. It would a shame if his talent was just going to be thrown into waste. So, what better way to use it than with noble purpose?

He was right. The offer was better than to slowly sink into the fires of hell. But what’s the point of throwing his hat into the ring if the woman he loves was in the opposite side of the wall? What’s the point of it all if she wasn’t going to be the shoulder he could cry on? What made it even worse was the fact that he was just going to be stuck in a goddamn loop.

Maybe dreams were only meant to be dreams…

It seemed like the world gave him a certain fate; a fate where death was something that would haunt him like a ghost whenever he was in the firing line, a fate where shadows were to be seen in his line of sight, and possibly a fate where he becomes a weapon himself and shoot down those he cared for dearly. And it scared him. But, what choice did he have? He’d rather see the world again and again, even in its darkest times, than die pathetically in his cage.

“Good choice, kid. I think you both know why you were brought here on earth in the first place.”

'Cause I walk through the valley of the shadow of death And I fear no evil because I'm blind Oh, and I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul But I know when I die my soul is damned

Jesse sang with shaky breath, fingers trembling against tattered wood, before his hands rested loosely against his guitar and sighed into the warm night air.

“We’ll be alright,” his lover said. Her calloused fingers gently grasped his metallic one and smiled sadly at him.

They both wore rings, a symbol of the love they’ve treasured and every trial they’ve come across along the way. The vows they’ve exchanged gave them a reason to stay, a reason to fight again. It was a bittersweet surrender, but it was worth it.

“Yeah, we’ll be alright.”

[dadsbongos]

Insert Coin - Chapter 3 / Series Masterlist

Sunlight streamed down through puckered clouds, sky bathing in golden backdrop and splattering against the rocky hilltop below. Peko stared straight ahead as the marching came closer and closer until she was surrounded by the source. Robots upon robots upon robots aligned in layers of circles around her, the Ultimate Swordswoman.

Without her permission, an arm raised - her gut twisting at the knowledge that yes, now she was a tool, but it wasn’t for him. Young Master.

Rushing forward, Peko cut through one of the robots with what she’d sworn was a bamboo sword.

Robot after robot fell by her hand.

Countless had crumbled and yet there were still so many left.

Creaking rumbled behind her. Before she could register the blond hair and midnight dark suit, she’d already swung. Cutting through her foe… and Young Master.

Holding his fragile self to her body, Peko cooed and murmured sweet nothings to her Young Master. The robots stumbled forward closer and closer and closer. There was a split pain darting through her back and stomach, blood guzzling as more and more bots enclosed her and Young Master.

Opening her eyes once again, Peko looked into the blinking, blaring red eyes of one of the robots. Its sword rose high, high, higher above its metallic head before coming back down on hers in one clean strike.

“Agh!”

(Y/n) shot up from her bed, gripping the fabric of her sleepshirt in terror, cold sweat drooling over her slick skin. Eyes wide in fear and heart racing.

Nightmare.

It was only a nightmare.

Closing her eyes, (Y/n) was struck with the illusion of Mahiru, slumped against the teal door with the back of her head smashed in. Vibrant pink staining her clothes and clumping in her hair.

Her ears rung and in the background, she could hear the wails and broken sobs of Hiyoko. She could feel the snag of hands pulling desperately at her skin, drawing marks over her body with no care.

She slammed her eyes open, hands coming up over her ears to hide the sound of broken cries.

Until there was a knock at the door, her eyes fell from the door to its lock - finding momentary comfort in that it was, in fact, locked. Her legs shook as she stood, debating on whether or not to answer. It was a few moments later, and after a few more rounds of knocking that she decided yes, she’d open it. Her talent was useless anyway, if she got killed nobody would suffer.

On the other side was Nagito, and peeking past his shoulder, (Y/n) saw that the sun was just kissing the horizon with its fiery, blaring passion. His smile was faint, “I know scum like me shouldn’t pop up out of nowhere, especially so early, but you seemed pretty wrecked after that trial.”

“Don’t call yourself scum,” (Y/n) tiredly protested before pulling Nagito inside by his jacket collar, “But yes, I could use the company.”

“Did I interrupt you?” the boy asked, clearly uneasy about walking into his classmate’s cottage, “I really am complete, irredeemable trash, aren’t I?”

“Nagito,” (Y/n) huffed, forcing the sickly skinny teenager to sit on her bed, taking his head between her hands affectionately, “you’re not trash. You’re my friend. You came to check on me, it was a nice gesture. The morning announcement will probably be going off sometime soon anyway.”

“Are you sure?” he almost seemed like a puppy at that moment. So desperate to be told he’d done well - for a person so bent on being nothing, he definitely desired to hear otherwise. Eyes shining up at the girl holding him so tenderly.

“I’m absolutely sure,” she confirmed, brows furrowing in confusion shortly thereafter, hands rising from his cheeks to his forehead, “You feel a little warm, are you okay?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he waved off, “Though my throat’s been a little drier than I’d care for. And it’s been harder to breathe.”

“Since when?!” (Y/n) immediately pulled back to grab one of the water bottles Hajime had randomly given her, “Here, you should be staying hydrated.”

“Just upon waking up,” Nagito avoided the girl’s eyes as he uncapped the water, “I’d had some trouble sleeping… coughing kept me up,” he chuckled lightly at the girl’s evident concern, “Ah, to think, such a beautiful ray of hope - all worried over garbage. It’s almost sweet, if only it weren’t me you were worried about.”

“Of course, I’m worried, we’re friends, remember?”

“Oh,” he muttered, sipping at the water before recapping it, “you meant that.”

“Obviously!” she exclaimed, exasperated with the sick student, “Why would I lie about that?”

“To be nice, that was my guess, you are the Ultimate Peacekeeper. Saying things to make people happy is your talent,” Nagito shrugged off, as if having no friends was normal for him.

And at that thought, (Y/n)’s heart sunk a little further for Nagito Komaeda.

“It is, but I’m not just saying that,” she sat beside him, grabbing his hand when he moved to pull away - not thinking himself worthy to be close to an Ultimate, “Nagito Komaeda, we’re friends, and I mean that. If you really don't want to be, then fine, but don't run out of fear that I secretly don't care - because I always will.”

“I couldn’t run from you, and it’s not just my new sickness,” he sighed wistfully, “How unlucky, I get to be on a beautiful island surrounded by Ultimates but then I get sick.”

His luck cycles. Right. She’d nearly forgotten of those. Nearly.

“Good morning, everyone! Looks like today is gonna be another perfect, tropical day!”

“Not-so-perfect with you out of commission,” (Y/n) brushed back some of Nagito’s hair as he drank more water, feeling how much warmer he’d already gotten since she last checked, “Poor thing.”

Shaking his head, Nagito gave her a gentle smile, “It really isn’t much. Please, don’t waste precious space in your brain on me.”

“I’ll waste as much space as I want, now c’mon,” (Y/n) stood, dragging Nagito up with the hand locked in hers, “I bet the pharmacy has something for you.”

“There’s really no need- "

“Hey now, we’re going to the pharmacy,” at the harshness of her own tone, (Y/n) sighed before tacking on a quick, “Is that okay? Can you agree to at least go to the pharmacy with me?”

“I…” Nagito paused, eyes shifting to his feet before closing completely, “Yeah, I can agree to that. It’s the least I could do for an Ultimate.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, shaking their hands together slightly before heading out of her cottage and into the tropical sunlight so typical of Jabberwock island.

Walking past the dining hall the group typically met in, the pair crossed over the large wooden bridge to the pharmacy, catching Mikan gingerly flipping over bottles of antiseptic in her hands. Hands that weren’t shaking. She appeared so… at ease. At home. Calm with the medical supplies stacked in shelves around her - though that was to be expected, it was her talent after all. It was only when people, two people at this exact moment, came in that her fidgeting and flutters returned.

“No need to panic,” (Y/n) reassured, waving off the nurse’s squeals of anxiousness, “We’re just here for medicine, Nagito seems to have caught something.”

Tears buzzed at Mikan’s eyes, hands coming up to block her face as if Nagito and (Y/n) were about to begin beating her for merely existing, “H-how ter-terrible…”

“Please, please,” Nagito sighed lightly, waving a hand dismissively at the nurse’s tears, “Don’t mind trash like me. It won’t make a difference if I drop dead.”

“It will make a difference,” the peacekeeper insisted, grabbing at daytime and nighttime cough syrup before turning to Mikan, “Do we use our Monocoins to pay for these or no?”

“Our- our w-what?”

“Nevermind, it was silly,” (Y/n) giggled, waving at the nurse as she left with Nagito and handing the bottles to the boy, “Here; I’ll go out on a limb and say you know how to take medicine?”

“Luckily for us, I do… well, luckily for you anyway,” he pocketed the bottles, “Thankfully I don’t have to burden an Ultimate with my problems.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden by asking me to help you take medicine, I’d be happy to help.”

Walking into the dining hall, the pair were struck with the odd sight. Posterboard akin to something at a science fair covered in photos of and taken by Mahiru with candles surrounding the shrine, goat skulls lining over the top.

“Hiyoko built it,” Hajime murmured, glaring at Nagito as he approached the girl, “I wouldn’t bring it up, she’s still reeling.”

“Avoiding and chastising her for it will make things worse,” (Y/n) shook her head before siding herself with Hiyoko, “It’s lovely. Mahiru would’ve loved it.”

Shaking off his earlier nerves about it, Hajime went to the blond’s other side before, rather awkwardly, trying his hand at comforting the dancer, “Yeah, what better way to remember her than photos?”

There was no reaction, simply blank staring - shock, despair, neither were sure - from Hiyoko at her two classmates. Her brows furrowed and as she opened her mouth, another voice cut in,

“Guys… I’m sorry…”

Fuyuhiko stood there. Eyepatch over his right eye, but other than that, thankfully, he appeared fine.

(Y/n) shook her head, “It’s okay, Fuyuhiko. We’re just glad you’re up and awake now.”

“Who agreed to that?!” Hiyoko burst out, tears already streaming down her reddened face as she pointed to the other short blond, “If it wasn’t for you, she’d still be here!”

“Hiyoko,” (Y/n) placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “I know you’re upset, and for good reason, but we can’t turn on each other. Mahiru wouldn’t want us to split apart because of this - we should be living in harmony to honor her, not fighting,” the dancer relented, eyes clenching shut and still letting out tears. (Y/n) brought the girl into her side, holding Hiyoko tightly in what she hoped was a comforting embrace before turning to Fuyuhiko, “And you.”

Hajime flinched slightly at the stony tone suddenly donned by the peacekeeper when she referred to the gangster.

“Don’t go doing something like that again, you hear me?” (Y/n) huffed, “I get what you were trying to do but we almost lost three people in one day. Mahiru and Peko were painful enough, we can’t lose anyone else.”

Fuyuhiko’s brows furrowed, cheeks filling rouge, “Whatever, you all were doing fine without me anyway,” his shoulders drooped as he turned, voice quieting, “You don’t need me.”

“Good riddance,” Hiyoko stubbornly muttered into (Y/n)’s shirt.

Eyes dancing across the worried faces of her remaining friends, Ibuki suddenly piped up, startling everyone in the dining hall, “Ibuki can fix this!”

Unamused by the girl’s rambunctious yelling so early, Hajime merely tilted his head, “How so?”

“Just be on the lookout for something from me later!” the rocker called out as she ran out of the dining hall.

“I’m sure she’ll figure something out,” (Y/n) mumbled, still holding Hiyoko as the girl clung to her, “It’s Ibuki’s thing to be cheerful, right? She can help.”

She can help...

[amintyworld]

Mentors - Dream SMP Hunger Games AU

A/N: So this started as a one page drabble, then it turned into a six page fic. Oopsies! Anyway this is meant to be a sort of prequel to ‘The Victor’ drabble I submitted over at @dreamsmp-au-ideas, but can be read as stand-alone. Anyway, I wrote this in the span of an entire DAY because I have no self-control when it comes to writing and this AU has sparked some Middle School nostalgia in me. Anyway, hope you enjoy and please check out the blog where the AU idea came from, they’ve given me a LOT of inspiration for fics to write. -Minty

TW: Talk/mention of death, fighting, depression/loss, threats of death, slight insanity. (Tell me if I need to tag anything else!)

Summary: Tommy’s an angry orphan, Wilbur grows a soft spot for Tommy, Sam is the only braincell left in District 7, Tubbo has Dadschlatt and needs a lot of hugs, Phil earned the achievement ‘Oh no Feelings’. 

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

Tubbo intertwined his fingers as he walked with the guards toward the white porcelain-like door. The shock of his name getting pulled hadn’t exactly faded yet, and the dread of the logical conclusion he’d drawn up in his head did not exactly help matters. He knew he was dead - he’d never trained for combat, he wasn’t agile or fast, he knew next to nothing about surviving in the wilderness, or even whatever the Gamemaker threw at him for that matter. His fate was completely sealed the moment that boy with devil horns picked his name out of the bowl. 

He took a breath, his hand on the door handle. Time to say goodbye.

As soon as he shut the door, he could feel his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.” His voice was gentle, warm, and kind. Tubbo’s emotions couldn’t help but become unplugged at the voice as tears ran down his cheeks and he clung to his father tightly, afraid to let go. Schlatt wrapped his arms around Tubbo gently, rubbing his back to give him some comfort. “Oh Tubbo, I know kiddo, shhh...”

“I’m so scared, Dad.” Tubbo’s voice wavered as his body shook with sobs, and Schlatt’s heart broke at his son’s voice. 

“I know buddy, I know.” Schatt moved so he could brush his hands through his son’s hair. “But… but you don’t have to be. I know you can do it, I know you can win.” A few tears slipped down Schlatt’s cheek. “You’re so much smarter than any of those meatheads in the Capitol, probably in any other District in Panem. You’re so much stronger than you know, kiddo. I know you can do it. Just survive, I know you can outthink any of them, I know you can win. Just survive, win, and I’ll be waiting right here when you come back, okay?”

“And… and we can finally make s’mores?”

Schlatt’s face broke out into a smile through tears. “Yes, yes we can make as many s’mores as you want! We… we’ll… I’ll show you the bee farms, and I promise I’ll be there every single night for dinner, no more late hours at the office. I swear.” Schlatt’s hands squeezed Tubbo’s shoulders. “But you gotta win and come home, okay?”

Tubbo’s eyes blurred with tears as he scanned his father’s face, words dying in his throat, not knowing what to say. “Dad, I-”

Schlatt pulled him down into another hug as the two wept, holding onto each other for dear life, not daring to let go. Then, a soldier appeared in the doorway. “He’s got a train to catch, Mr. Ram.”

Schlatt breathed deeply, pulling away from the hug to run his hand through his son’s hair one last time, taking in his face as he brushed a bit of hair out of his face. “I…” He bit his lip. “I love you, Tubbo. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“I love you too, Dad.” Tubbo gave a quick hug to his father, wrapping his arms around his neck.

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

When Wilbur was assigned as a mentor for District 7, he was more than a little nervous. The other Victors from Victor’s Row assured him he’d do just fine, but still, he was not exactly looking forward to it. He’d met the escort and advisor a few days ago, someone from the Capitol named Sam. For someone from one of the richest districts in Panem, Sam didn’t exactly dress in high fashion - no bright colors or extravagant hairstyles. Instead, he simply wore a clean formal vest and slacks. He gave Wilbur the firmest handshake he’d ever been given in his entire life, and despite the situation seemed almost cheerful. 

If he remembered correctly, he was supposed to settle in his personal car on the train and meet Sam in the dining car. Sam seemed to have every detail of their trip planned out perfectly, which Wilbur more than appreciated. He was already dealing with enough as it was having to mentor two kids and try to get them sponsors while basically reliving the worst time in his entire life. Ths screams, the blood… the memories were… they were not good.

They called him insane, unstable. The One Who Went Mad. When he used to panic and whimper and mutter to himself, they used to laugh at him. They thought what he’d been through, the things that he’s seen, and the nightmares that plagued him were nothing more than a funny joke. They loved his pain and suffering. Wilbur didn’t like when they laughed at him like some stupid monkey in a cage. That’s why he preferred to just stay home most of the time. But at this point mentorship was unavoidable, it was under Capitol orders.

It was a bit early before he was due to meet up with Sam in the dining car, and he craved a cup of black coffee. His mind whirred a bit from the familiar fancy train cars, and he needed something to clear his mind from remembering. When he opened the door, however, he didn’t expect to see one of the tributes already here this early. From his blond messy hair and his bright blue eyes, he assumed this was Tommy, the boy. Wilbur held up his hand to show he meant to harm before he moved past the teen sat near the window towards the tea cart, fiddling with the french press. Successfully pouring the pitch-black liquid in a very expensive looking teacup, he cradled it in his hands as he moved to sit across from the teenage boy, still focused on the train station outside the window. “Uh, interesting view?”

Tommy looked over at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Something like that.”

Wilbur sipped the bitter coffee thoughtfully. He took a breath before speaking. “You know, you’re allowed to say goodbye to your friends and family in the Governor’s office, if one of the Peacekeepers made a mistake I’m sure there’s still time for you to…”

“No.” The teenager’s voice seemed firm, staring out of the window. “They didn’t make a mistake.” 

“Uh, well…” Wilbur felt the awkward tension in the room rise. “You are a… bit early, we don’t leave for another half-hour…”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go. No one to say goodbye to, so I guess they just skipped that part for convenience.” He looked almost angry as he turned back to Wilbur. “Do you mind maybe not staring at me?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.” Tommy snapped. “You shouldn’t just start up a conversation just because you feel bored. I’m not paid to be your fucking entertainment.”

Add this to the number of reasons Wilbur didn’t want to be a mentor - teenagers. This kid certainly had a mouth on him. 

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed in anger as he gripped his teacup, trying his best to stay calm. “Well, whether you like it or not, you’re all of Panem’s entertainment now.” Wilbur quipped as he moved to walk away. “So maybe you should learn to be a bit more likable.”

As he began to walk across the car to move toward a table in the corner of the room, he felt a heavy weight on his back as he lost his grip on his cup as it landed on the metal ground of the car with a loud crash, the coffee staining the expensive carpets. He felt punches on his back and head as someone tried to pin him down. Wilbur sighed in frustration. With ease, he jabbed Tommy’s side, putting him off balance, and flipped the kid over, grabbing his arm and pulling it behind his back. Tommy struggled against Wilbur’s grip, angry. He could see tears in the teenager’s eyes as he practically growled at Wilbur. “Take it back you bitch! Get off of me and fight! Take it back or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Tommy’s anger slowly disappeared as he began to cry, his body shaking as he sucked in breaths, slowly realizing what exactly he said. “I’ll… I’ll…” Wilbur’s heart couldn’t help but ache at the sight of the poor kid, bringing back memories of that time, that feeling of being trapped.

The door at the other end of the train car flew open, to reveal Sam and the girl tribute from the Reaping, Sarah. “Wilbur, what are you doing?” Sam questioned as Wilbur quickly got off of Tommy, holding out his hand for the teenager to take. 

“Uh, right.” As Tommy’s eyes met Wilbur’s the mentor noticed how they scanned across his face, confused at Wilbur’s sudden change from annoyance to kindness. Wilbur smiled slightly. “Let’s save the real fighting for the arena, yeah?” Tommy hesitated before taking Wilbur’s hand as he helped him up, getting even more confused as he quickly wiped off his tear-stained cheeks.

“Sarah Teller and Tommy Innit, meet your Mentor, Wilbur Soot.”

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

Tubbo formally met his other tribute mate, a girl he knew from those fancy business dinners Schlatt would host - he never really talked with her much then, but it was nice to see a familiar face, that was for sure. Her name was Crystal.

They arrived and settled in without much really going on. Their advisor, the one with the devil horns a few hours earlier was their advisor, Bad. They were very confused at first why anyone would name their child that, until Bad insisted it was a nickname for ‘Badboy’… Tubbo couldn’t say he didn’t believe the advisor with some of the fancy and absurd names that seemed so popular in the richer districts. “Now, the best part is that even though you are both chosen as tributes, you’ll be able to see all the Capitol can offer before you’re in the arena. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

“I guess it’ll be kind of cool to see the Capitol.” Crystal agreed as she took a sip of a fruitful smelling juice of some kind. Her eyes furrowed as if she was focusing intently on the next words out of her mouth. “I mean, this year economy-wise wasn’t particularly the best for them, seeing as their main exports have been plagued with attacks. It’ll be interesting to see how they fair under unseemly conditions.”

“E...Economy?” Tubbo asked in a silent question to his fellow tribute, whose face flushed in embarrassment. 

“My father is the head of exports for District 3. Knowing about stocks and stuff is kind of his thing… then, I guess, it became my thing.” Crystal shrugged, and Tubbo thoughtfully bit into a buttered crust of bread. “I don’t really think that’ll be too helpful in the Games, though.”

“Speaking of the Games, where’s that old man… I told him to meet us here almost an hour ago.” Bad thoughtfully added with a sigh. “He’s going to miss dinner completely if he doesn’t hurry up.”

Almost as if on cue, the car door slid open, and in walked a tall broad blonde-haired man who looked completely mentally checked out. He yawned as he reached over the table to grab an apple and one of Bad’s homemade muffins from the basket. He looked over to the two kids and gave them a slight smile and a two-fingered salute as if to say ‘hi’. “Crystal, Tubbo, this is Phil Craft, your Mentor,” Bad said, quickly gesturing to the man, anger bubbling to the surface. “Phil, where have you been?” Bad demanded, leaning over to snatch the muffin out of Phil’s hand. “No muffins until you eat actual food! We’re in District Two tomorrow and they expect us up and ready by 9 am sharp-!”

“Alright, alright! Stop freaking out, okay?” Phil pinched his nose in annoyance, turning his gaze to look over at the two teenagers again. Phil met Tubbo’s eyes and smirked. “Also, you said I needed real food?” Phil threw the apple up into the air as it caught wind on his arm, traveling over his shoulder blades and taking off of his opposite hand, landing in his mouth as he sunk his teeth into the apple flesh. “That count?” He asked between chewing as Tubbo and Crystal couldn’t help but smile and laugh, clapping to applaud Phil’s trick.

“You bail on us for a whole hour, show up to eat a single apple, and then got back to your little hermit hut?!” Bad’s voice raised slightly. “What do you even do in there that’s more important than this, huh??”

Phil’s playful smile dropped for a moment, replaced with something more melancholy as Bad clearly struck a nerve. There was a tense moment of silence before Phil resumed his happy persona. “Well, I didn’t mean to be a bother and disrupt your dinner. Now that I have my apple and my muffin, I’ll take my leave.” He looked over to the two tributes. “I’ll see both of you in the morning.” Phil smiled before quickly exiting the room once more, leaving a slightly irritated Bad, and two very off-put tributes.

Tubbo couldn’t sleep. The day’s events weighed too heavy on his mind - the Reaping, saying goodbye to his father, dealing with the thoughts of his own inevitable fate. He missed Schlatt’s warm embrace, he missed how his father ruffled up his hair just in the right way to say ‘I’m proud of you, kid.’ He missed home and its faint smell of motor oil and coal from the factories that always seemed to seep in through the windows and cracks in the walls just right. He didn’t feel safe here, he was in one of the fanciest bedrooms on a train that he knew he’d never be able to get a ticket for years, and yet nothing about this place felt safe.

He was being chased by something, something with claws and teeth that whispered nothing but death. But Tubbo didn’t want to die. Even if he knew it was his fate, Tubbo did not want to die. So he ran, his legs quickly getting sore and tired from overuse, yet he pushed on. He heard whispers in his ears, taunting him, laughing at his pathetic escape. Tears ran down Tubbo’s eyes as he pressed his hands over his ears and continued to run, something pinned him to the ground, claws sinking into his back as he whimpered in pain. A chill ran down his spine as the monster growled close to Tubbo’s ear. His heartbeat quicker as he begged, no pleaded to whatever was out there, please please I just want to live-!

He awoke with a start, looking around, tears streaming down his face as his body shook with an adrenaline rush. His hands found their way over his heart, making sure he was still alive as arms wrapped around him, shushing him and holding him close. “Woah there, Woah there… it’s okay, it’s okay. It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real, shhh…” The panic in Tubbo’s chest slowly quieted as he wrapped his arms around the person, needing comfort desperately. The figure seemed startled for a moment before brushing back some of Tubbo’s hair out of his eyes. Tubbo looked at the figure for a moment, confused.

“Phil?”

“Hey mate.” Phil smiled warmly. “That was quite the nightmare, yeah? You were flopping around like a fish out of water.”

“But…” Tubbo sniffed, pulling away to wipe away his tears. “But why? How?”

“You sounded like you were in physical pain, I was worried. Can’t have a tribute dead before they even get to the arena, you know. Would really throw off the whole schedule.” Phil half-joked as he looked down at the mattress, not being able to meet Tubbo’s eyes at that moment. Tubbo’s gaze was focused on his mentor.

“Why’d you help me, we just met today for like two seconds at most-”

“It doesn’t really matter that much, I was just passing by-!” Phil dismissed quickly before Tubbo’s tone got more serious.

“Phil, if you’re going to be my Mentor you’ve gotta at least tell me the truth. I need you to tell me the absolute truth when it comes to this because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, what I’m up against, how I’m even supposed to survive, but you do. I need you if I ever stand even a chance of getting home. Please.” Phil let out a frustrated sigh.

“You reminded me of my son, that’s all. When he used to be a tribute.” Phil said, looking toward the ground. “He’d have nightmares, he was so scared but I told him I’d never leave his side, so when he got picked I went with him as his Mentor.” Phil sucked on his cheek. “I thought that if I went with him, talked him through it, got every single sponsor I could, he’d…” Phil sighed. “I just didn’t want for you to have to deal with the nightmare alone, no one should have to handle everything alone.” Moving off his bed, he looked over. “I’ll be across the hall, okay?”

“Oh...Okay.” Tubbo said, nodding. “Thanks.”

Phil nodded back as he turned and Tubbo saw Phil’s hand move toward his chest quickly, was he putting his hand over his heart or something…? As Phil moved toward the door, one question stood on Tubbo’s mind, he bit his lip for a moment, considering. 

“Phil, wait-!” Phil turned around, and Tubbo saw Phil’s hand wrap around a necklace of some kind he didn’t notice before, in the shape of a heart. “Did… did he survive? Your son?”

A tense silence followed.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Phil said. “No more questions, you need to get some sleep.”

[psalloacappella]

tenerezza

Day 6 Prompt: Cuddling // “Come closer.”

@sasusakublankperiodweek

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

He keeps his comments to himself: That she has staff for a reason, that their ex-sensei-turned-Kage works her too hard and he’d made a curt mention of it when reporting back, that perhaps someone could take the task of laundering bloody work clothes off her hands. Their responsibilities even in this delicate period they call peacetime still weigh heavy, principle baked into their bones.

In the future, their children won’t know the world quite like this.

A routine peacekeeping mission turns, twists, becomes mayhem.

Surgery is an intensive thing, the delicate dance of suspending chakra and soul in the void to negotiate with Death. And though it is a grim and arduous opponent with which to skirmish, Sakura more often than not emerges victorious.

Drained, though. Frayed at the edges.

It startles her to know that she sometimes has an audience.

Bringing the back of hand across her forehead, she dabs at the shimmering sweat. An assistant hands her a small towel, bows, and retreats. Hitching a tired grin onto her face, she inclines her head. “Hokage-sama.”

Familiar, how he can show up jauntily in a chaotic atmosphere, a mess, and still manage to seem bemused. The political consequences of this recent skirmish unspoken between them. Hands in his pockets, he brings two fingers to his temples and flicks them toward her in an affectionate motion, channeling yesteryear. “Don’t bother with that, Miss Haruno.”

Sakura wrinkles her nose at his sarcastic drawl. “That does sound weird coming from you.”

“Ah, you see? So stick with ‘sensei.’”

Despite her exhaustion, she musters up the energy to stick out her tongue.

“Mature of you,” he sighs. “But of course, well done. Exceptional, in fact.”

“You didn’t watch my whole surgery just to praise me at the end?”

Kakashi smiles, the fabric forming folds that reflect expressions innate, the way she’s interpreted them for years and knows as well as the comforting wrinkles in a beloved shirt.

There’s something knowing in the set of his chin, the easy, languid way his weight settles onto one hip, almost irreverent. 

“I’m here to tell you to go home,” he says gently. “It’s been hours. Days, really. Your capable staff will wrap up the rest.”

Perspiration, fluids; she wipes clammy hands on her coat. “Am I needed somewhere else?”

“No, I am simply invoking the powers of my grand office to send you home.”

Sakura narrows her eyes at him, swaying a bit on her feet. He’s not wrong about the rest, but she does resent his smugness in a situation where she’s unable to see the reason.

“Tell me why.” Raising her chin, she folds her arms, a stubborn root settling in for long, protracted and perhaps heated discourse.

Chuckling, his eyes twinkle in a manner just borderline risque enough to make her frown. 

“He’s home.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Simmering rouge moving swift and fast through her cheeks, flooding out the pink from her exertion and becoming full-blown embarrassment. “Just say that first. Actually, no! No, don’t — how do you—?”

“He’s already checked in, report done. Doesn’t waste time chatting with me much anymore, I’m just his old, grey sensei.” Kakashi’s sigh is wistful, aiming at charming. 

But his eyes are sharp, always watchful of everything and in particular, his loved ones. Can he see her shakes, or does he just see

tears gathering on her lashes, the nightmares ripping her from sleep the night before, and the night before that, and — 

She’s sure she catches his self-satisfied wink as she hurries out on unsteady legs.

Weak knees, breathless, for all sorts of complicated reasons.

.

.

Plants watered. House slippers and shoes chivvied back into line, a neat row. 

The scent of him:  Of earth and salt, traces of forests and faraway lands and a bite — oh, that crisp bite of smoke and fire, heady and hot, from his essence rather than his clothes. 

She finds it difficult to hold herself up, clinging to the threshold frame. Laid out across her couch he’s something of an enigma, an infamous man whose existence sparks ignorant prattle, the truth and falsehoods hoarded and passed as collective talismans. Half-informed tales of the team she adores and the man she loves. 

Handsome, of course. That aspect has never changed, never will. Vulnerable, arm resting behind his head, the placid rise and sink of his chest. Managing to come back without summons but always, forever, at the precise and needed time. 

Socked feet padding against the cold wood floor, (there was a rug, she needs a new one — knucklehead Hokage-in-the-wings spilled red wine all over it), she kneels next to the couch. Eyes following the cut edge of his jawline, the sovereign slope of his nose. And most of all, the unexpected serenity his face reflects, no furrows or creases in his expressions even in sleep.

There’s an object out of place, and its energy distracts her, draws her gaze. A basket of laundry that she assumes was gathered but unfinished, a medley of clothes he undoubtedly stripped off upon arriving tossed in with the several layers she’s been through in the last week, the sanguine fabric narrative of her journey to the void and back. 

And yet. 

On hands and knees she drags it across the floor until it's in front of her, snatches a shirt right off the top. 

Bringing it to her face, she inhales the scent of devotion so potent that the tears come swift and sudden.

“Sakura?”

Sleepy, a little hoarse, but even on awakening the concern threads his voice through. Her, crying into a shirt he’s just washed for her; she sulks inwardly, feeling stupid.

When she tries to respond, struggling to force out some chirpy greeting and loving quip, it slips into impossibility. He reaches out to her, hand starting at the top of head to run through her clammy pink locks, then down to take her face in his fingers, a thumb gently swiping hot tears away. 

“Sakura.”

A hitch in her breath; she struggles to swallow down the sobs clawing and turbid at the back of the throat. Pressing her face into his chest, she mumbles, “Welcome home, Sasuke-kun.”

Still with his hand on her head, fingers exploring her scalp in idle and soothing trails as tracing familiar ancient etchings, as memorizing braille.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, shifting onto his side. Taps his fingers against her head, gentle, a quiet ask. 

Sakura’s face emerges pink, tearstained, with a wobbly smile that feels like a throwaway lie for a fool.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I’m so glad you’re—”

“Apologizing,” he interrupts. Like a quiet rumble, the purr of a prowling cat. “Ah, what did I say about that?”

“To stop it?”

Sasuke makes some noise of assent, from the throat rather than his lips. 

And he looks at her and knows. He’s learned, but has always intuited this habit of hers since Genin days, the way she plasters on a smile and flashes those bright teeth to disarm fools. How deeply mortifying crying feels to her in certain moments, the way it becomes an acute weakness and liability, especially regarding work. Families don’t want to see your tears, only your triumph — the way you’ve bowed to Death and danced, and depart at the end of the number with their loved one’s soul as crown and winnings. 

The problem being there’s rarely an expectation of anything less. 

Now he’s sitting up, still cradling her face in his hand. Mismatched eyes searing, searching, flickering rapidly across her face. 

“You’d better be off-duty now,” he says. “You look exhausted.”

“Oh, you sure know how to charm a girl,” Sakura sniffs. Leans into his hand and touch, raising no protests at the way his thumb continues to sweep away an endless estuary borne of things she can’t articulate. A gravity in her demeanor, at once present but faded into an unreachable inner sanctum and self. 

Instinctual, the way his fingers remain in constant contact with her skin, cheek to hair to shoulder, trailing warm down her arm and finally to her cold, shaky hand. 

Tugs her gently, indicating the space he’s made for her to sit. 

“I have to—”

“There is nothing; I’ve done it all.”

There’s nothing for her to protest, no way for her to pretend she’s fine. 

“Come closer.”

This act for her seems onerous, pulling her tired body into his lap appearing utterly spent, bereft. He keeps his comments to himself:  That she has staff for a reason, that their ex-sensei-turned-Kage works her too hard and he’d made a curt mention of it when reporting back, that perhaps someone could take the task of laundering bloody work clothes off her hands. Their responsibilities even in this delicate period they call peacetime still weigh heavy, principle baked into their bones. 

In the future, their children won’t know the world quite like this. 

She melts into him with her heavy head against his heart, his fingers continuing their simple repetitions in the tangle of her hair. 

Sasuke thinks of her shirt still soaking in the sink, one he labored on for a while before her return, desperately trying to lift the rubicund crimson from the white fabric.

Wondering if that one pulled through, for her sake. 

Her grip catches his attention, as if her head is spinning and she needs rooting to the earth — fingers in his shirt, head tucked under his chin. 

Sickle-cresents of leftover copper in the beds of her nails, the trials and triumph of a woman fighting back. 

She says something he doesn’t catch, a flutter, possibly I love you. 

What she does holds such importance, but he cannot imagine the cost. Pressing his mouth to her forehead, he speaks in a quiet chant in tender cadence with his fingers moving through her hair:

I’ve got you. 

I’ve got you. 

I’ve got you. 

[bensoloslover]

her.

Kylo ren x Force Sensitive! Reader

(She/ Her Pronouns)

Preview: Madam (L/N) is called aboard  to the Supremacy to discuss the terms of an alliance with the First Order. She gets much more than she expected when she finds she has a very special connection with a certain dark harried man 

Y/N’s POV 

The Debutont, Mega- class Lead Ship of The Dowarly, Deep Space.

“Madam (L/N), the supremacy has requested you attend a meeting to discuss an alliance with The First Order.” Mela stated as she entered your office quarters, carrying her holopad in one hand and interplanetary communicates device in the other.

The Supremacy. Oh how you loathed the idiots who ran that joint. Between them and their whole little empire knock off, otherwise known as the First Order, you could give a womp rats ass about forming an alliance with them.

“First, I’ve asked you to address me as by my name when we’re not in a formal setting. Second, Why exactly would they believe we’d want to form an alliance with them?” You mused looking up at your darling assistant, Mela, who’d be with you since you became head of the coven for The Dowarly. The Coven consisted of a chosen representative from each planet allied with The Dowarly, and the leader of the organization, otherwise known as you.

What’s The Dowarly some might ask? It’s an mostly neutral interplanetary state, dedicated to protecting their allies from the ravages of the war. With its allies choosing not to join either side of the war.

“Not a clue. But they’ve been begging for years. Also with so many of our allied planets thinking of joining, maybe it’s time you at least consider meeting to hear their offer before they make us an enemy, (Y/N).” Mela replied as she took a seat in your office.

“When you speak like that Mela I am tempted to give you a seat on The Coven, even if you’d never accept it.” You laughed as you sat back and weighed your options. Even with Dowarly’s promise of protection and peacekeeping within its allies wall, and it’s neutral stance in the ever growing war between planets, more and more planets had been making the move to either alliance with The Resistance or The First Order.

“I’d hate it, I’d rather just feed you my ideas as your humble assistant and watch them unfold from behind the scenes.” Mela laughed. You’d always thought her to be the smartest person you knew. She’d been your best friend at the academy, you’d grown up together, and when your grandmother passed down her seat at the table to you when you were 19, just a year before her passing, you’d without second thought chosen her to be your right hand woman and most trusted advisor.

“What have you heard from The Coven members about meeting with The Supremacy? I’m sure many of them have been asked to represent their plants.” You asked, knowing Mela had been keeping up with the topic since eventhing started.

“Most of them have already met with them. The rest are waiting for your call. Most will follow The Dowarly’s lead whether we decided to stay neutral or to join the First Order under Supreme Leader Snoke.

“Then let’s prepare the ship, we have a meeting to attend, and once this is over call The Coven to meet so we can state our decision.” You smiled as you stood, your hand outstretched as your saber flew off its pedestal beside you.

“Shall I Call the dressers to get you something sent up that’s… appropriate for a formal meeting perhaps?” Mela mused as she looked at your uniform up and down, with a look that said ‘I dare you to say no.’ “Make sure they prepare something for you too, if I’m stuck meeting with the Supreme Leader, so are you.” You laughed as you both made your way to the hangers of the ship.

Location: The Surprency.

You knew in this moment if your grandmother could see you now, dressed like a queen of some planet in the Outer Rim, walking up to the outside door of Supreme Leader Snoke’s Throne Room, she would have slapped you for even stepping foot on this ship. Let alone what she’d done if she heard you were staying on it for the next week. Force. This is dumb. This was very very dumb.

Your grandmother’s parents had denounced their monarchy, and in her young adult years she had become the senate representative of their home planet, Centonia. She was dear friends with the late Organa Family of Alderaan, who’s daughter is not only the face of the rebellion/ resistance, but also your late mother’s best friend. Though your mother had passed when you were only 3 years old, your grandmother had told you stories of the two of them growing up.

You’d always wondered if she would remember you if she saw you now. You had only met her three or four times as a child, mostly in passing at import meetings and events held by your grandmother. One of the last times you saw her was at your coronation and at your grandmother’s funeral. It was quick, it only felt like she’d said hello and given her condolences before she’d left the planet on urgent business, you were only Twenty at the time and you were too distracted to hear exactly what she said before she left.. Something about her son and her brother's Jedi temple, if you’re not mistaken.

That was well over five years ago now though. God you’ve gotten old.

You’d always thought she was the coolest person ever though. A princess turned General of a Rebellion Group, fighting for their beliefs, plus she was force sensitive? She was everything any little girl would dream of being at your age. At your mother's funeral she told you that if you ever needed anything that you were always welcome. She even offered to take you in as a child when you’d been discovered to be force sensitive, having a son maybe three years older than you with the same abilities.

Stars, did you feel like a traitor at this point. Your grandmother, mother, and the closest thing to another relative you’d ever had would absolutely knock you upside the head for this. You also couldn’t help but think of ways an alliance with the First Order would be beneficial.

“Are you ready to enter Madam (L/N), I was told to announce your arrival.” Said the First Order Captain standing by the doors, her silver armor and perfect posture making her look intimidatingly powerful. Phasma you’d remember her saying her name was when she met you when you docked your ship.

You looked down at your dress, smoothing down the black velvet fitted to your body. Too much you’d thought when you noticed almost everyone dressed in uniform here. Mela was beside you in a navy gown, she’d agreed the dresser had gone a little too hard with your attire, but it was too late now. You adjusted your lightsaber on your navy leather belt, now or never I guess.

“I’m ready.” You started, but then cleared your throat once again. “Also, please announce Mela Montanno, my advisor as well, her opinion is vital to my decision and her presence at this meeting is significant.” You spoke as you reached for Mela who looked as stunned as you could assume the Captain looked under her helmet.

“Yes Madam.” Phasma said, she turned to the doors and knocked twice, the shuffle of feet could be heard and the doors to the throne room were pulled open by two guards clad in red armor.

“Introducing Madam (Y/N) (L/N) of Centonia, Granddaughter of Rosemary (L/N), and esteemed leader of The Dowarly. And Mela Montanno, her distinguished Personal Advisor.” Phasma’s voice seemed to echo throughout the hall as you and Mela walked side by side through the doors into the red throne room. Phasma branched left and kneeled next to a ginger haired and a dark haired man kneeling next to the foot of snokes throne.

Kylo’s POV.

(L/N). Force sensitive. He’d surely heard that name before. Kylo could almost remember the day he’d heard his mother tell his father that she’d offered to take in the (L/N) girl. Force sensitive. She hoped her presence would be good for him. He’d only been ten years old at the time.

“What a pleasure to be in the presence of (Y/N) the Divine Ruler of The Dowarly. The last of a long line of royals and a force user if I’m not mistaken.” Supreme Leader Snoke spoke, Kylo could still hear their heels click against the floor as they approached the throne. “Ren, Hux, Phasma, rise please and greet our guests.”

As Kylo stood he looked up and saw her approaching. Her (H/C) hair shines under the light, her (S/C) complimented perfectly by the black velvet hugging her curves. Her strides powerful and head held high, her aura dripping with the confidence of a queen.

She was stunning. He knew he wasn’t the only one who thought so when he heard General Hux gulp next to him.

“It’s an honor to be here Supreme Leader Snoke, though my grandmother Madam (L/N) II was the Divine Ruler of The Dowarly. I’m simply the Leader of The Dowarly. Madam (L/N) would be fine.” She spoke, her voice sounded angelic yet strong. Her words were confident and precise.

Everything about her screamed power. As he took her in he saw the lightsaber attached to her hip. He knew then she was the little girl his mother had offered to take in. She had to have been. From what General Hux had told him about her family, they’d all died off long ago, her being the soul survivor of her bloodline.

Kylo almost couldn’t take his eyes off her, how he wished he had his mask at this point. At least it wouldn’t make it feel as wrong to be looking at her. He tried to clear his mind of her, Supreme Leader Snoke would surely notice his wandering thoughts.

“Well Madam (L/N), it is an honor to have you here. This is my apprentice Kylo Ren, and General Hux of the First Order. I know you’ve already become acquainted with Captain Phasma. They are here to help discuss the benefits of our alliance, for both sides of the party.” Snoke spoke proudly as he gestured to Kylo and the others with him.

When their eyes met Kylo could feel his heart skip a beat. Her (E/C) eyes pierced holes into his dark ones. That’s when he felt it. The force. The draw. The energy in the room shifted. As if the stars and planet had aligned themselves for this.

He felt her.

(Y/N)‘s POV

Suddenly everything in the room seemed to stop. All noises faded into the background as I locked eyes with him.

He felt so familiar.

Like, someone she’d known before, but she’d never seen him before. She’d surely remember someone so beautiful. Oh god this is supposed to be my first meeting with Supreme Leader Snoke and I’m staring at his apprentice. Shit.

(Y/N) turned away to look back at Snoke, but she couldn’t help but feel the waves of disappointment almost roll off of Kylo. This was already weird and it was only going down hill now.

“It’s an honor to meet you all. I look forward to our meeting about a future alliance. I hope we can come to a mutual agreement.” (Y/N) said, braving another glance towards the dark haired mysterious man, who seemed to be looking anywhere but her, thankfully.

Supreme Leader Snoke smirked, turning his head towards his followers. “Ren.” He said with a tone sharp enough to cut the tension in the room like butter. “Would you please show Madam (L/N) around the ship, and then escort their shared quarters. It should be right near yours. And General Hux, could you escort Lady Mela back to their ship to help receive their bags, and then escort her to their quarters as well. Then you both can be their personal escorts for the remainder of the trip. We wouldn’t want anything or anyone getting lost.”

“Yes sir, Supreme Leader. Captain Phasma could you please arrange a group of stormtroopers to help with the luggage, right this way Lady Mela.” Hux spouted off, holding out a hand to Mela with a warm smile, looking almost relieved to be able to leave the room. Mela on the other hand gave you a painful smile and squeezed your hand goodbye.

“Thank you, it was an honor, Supreme Leader.” Mela bowed and turned to the ginger haired man still holding his hand out to her. “Thank you General Hux.” Mela smiled. Taking his hand and letting him guide her. “Armitage is fine ma’am.” He replied as he led the both of them out the door, you could hear Mela giggle on her way down the hall. Dammit.

“Yes Supreme Leader, right the way Madam (L/N).” Kylo gestured as he walked towards the door. Unlike Mela you didn’t receive a hand, arm, or even a warm smile. Great. At least he’s as uncomfortable as I am, you thought to yourself as you two made your way towards the elevator at the end of the hall.

Force save me now.

“Ladies first.” Kylo spoke softly as the elevator doors opened in front of them, stepping aside so you could enter. Nervous? Why do I feel so nervous, you thought. I’ve been around plenty of powerful men before. Hell I just spoke to The Supreme Leader of The First order. I wonder if he can feel how nervous I am. I can feel how uncomfortable he is. Or maybe he's nervous too. Maybe I should say something. 

“This is a huge ship, definitely bigger than our debutont.” Oh god that was dumb.Now we sound like an dumbass. God I’m Dumb. 

“Yes. It is large. It’s one of our Mega- class Star Dreadnoughts. It houses our most esteemed Generals and Supreme Leader Snoke.” Kylo spoke, the words coming out flatly. You've already annoyed your tour guide and it's been two minutes, good going. Try and make it less awkward please (Y/N/N).

“So you must spend a lot of time here then?” Worse but whatever, guess you're trying to make the First Order hate Dowarly. 

“I reside on the finalizer most of my time, I'm only here for as long as you are Madam (Y/N).” Kylo spoke out, once again very monotonically. 

“Since we’ll be spending some time together this week, (Y/N) is perfectly fine outside of formal setting Mr. Ren? …” Moving to a first name basis so fast? Brave. Maybe it'll break the ice some. I thought while looking up to the man next to me. God he’s tall.. 

“Kylo is fine, (Y/N).” He turned his face to mine and once our eyes locked again it was like I was thrown back in time. 

“Leia …” Was all I could utter before I felt myself fall before too large arms grabbed my shoulders.

Fin.

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to send me feedback if you liked it!

[ilguna]

Belamour - Chapter Two (f.o)

summary: they say the odds tend to favor those who need them. well, they were wrong.

warnings; swearing, death mention

wc; 8.5k

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Back home, in the backyard, stands an oak tree that has been there for generations. The tree is tall, it reaches a good thirty to forty feet into the air. The leaves are green in the spring and summer, turn orange and yellow in the fall, and it’s bare in the winter. It has plenty of branches, all of them sturdy and reliable. Perfect for rope swings.

For years, your father would tie the knots into the ropes, and leave the job of climbing the tree to your brothers. He was always much too busy to climb it himself, but sometimes he’d come out and watch Reed or Mox scale the tree. When they did it, it was always graceful and they made it look easy.

Reed would shove his feet into the bark of the tree, and he'd dig his fingers in between the wood to pull himself up. It always took him a moment to start off, but as soon as he found a pattern, he was up the tree in seconds. As for Mox, he’d start off the same, but as soon as the first branch came into arm’s reach, he’d use the branches to pull himself up.

No matter how they did it, they always picked the same branch to dangle the rope off of. Sitting on top of it, tying it tightly to make sure it wouldn’t slip off, and then they’d carefully lower themselves down the rope. As soon as they were back onto solid ground, the three of you would take turns on who’d get the swing.

That pattern went on for a while. Until one day, after your father finished tying the new knots on the new rope--the ropes were always on their last leg, so you’d use them up until their last swing before getting a new one from The Square--you decide that you wanted to be the one who climbed the tree.

You had watched your brother’s do it at least once or twice a month for years. You memorized where they would put their hands, and what they’d do in stick situations. Honestly, you thought it would be the easiest thing in the world. And with no interjection from your father or your brothers, you threw the rope over your shoulder and went climbing.

You found the start easily, and had gotten a good start compared to your brother’s. Sometimes it took almost five tries of them breaking off the bark at the bottom before finding a good place to put their foot. But with how small and light you were, you had it easy. 

Before you knew it, you were up the tree and on the branch you all normally went to. You took your time tying the rope to the tree, knowing that it’s a crucial detail and since you were so weak, you had to work harder to put it in place. When you were sure that it was done, you went ahead and tried to get down the same way your brother’s would, straight down the rope.

Except, you were weak. You didn’t have those years of upper body strength like they did. You were nine, you still had years to get grown into your body like that. Of course, you didn’t take any of that into consideration at the time. You just thought that you’d be able to slide down the rope easily.

The second you started to go down the rope, you realized your mistake. It was too late to backtrack, and you had no choice but to go down the rope. You started off slowly, taking deep breaths and watching your every move. Then, one hand slip led to another, and the next thing you knew, you were free falling.

It was a weightless feeling. You weren’t holding your body any longer, it was the air around you. You could feel the wind whistling through your ears as the ground came closer and closer. It was a terrifying experience, and yet you never screamed once. It was caught in your throat, hitched. You couldn’t bring yourself to push it out.

And after the weightless feeling came your dad’s arms, as you were suddenly grounded again. No more leaving it up to gravity.

Needless to say, you’re feeling weightless. 

Honestly, you’re feeling pretty green too. And it’s really no surprise, anyone in their right mind would be feeling just as terrified as you are. Given the circumstances, they’re justified too.

(Y/n) Gallows, the female tribute of District Four heading into the sixty-fifth Hunger Games.

You nearly gag, so instead you grit your teeth, still not moving towards the aisle. You take in deep breaths through your nose, trying to get air into your throat to calm down. Although, breathing seems a little difficult at the moment too. The wind has been sucked from your lungs, just like how it had been when you landed in your father’s arms.

The impact hits now.

The girls around you take a moment to try and search for you, like they’d suddenly forgotten your name and what you look like. A thousand curse words go through your mind all at the same time when their eyes seem to land on you. You can feel their stares boring into the back of your head. All simultaneously giving you away to the Capitol Representative.

If they’d direct their eyes literally anywhere else, she’d have no clue. The peacekeepers would have no clue that it was your name that it was drawn, and you’re the one that’s supposed to be on the way up already. Elysia spots you easily, eyes seemingly shining in the sunlight. You can hear the peacekeepers boots on the dirt as they make their way over.

There’s no hiding. And really, there’s no running either. You could try of course, but you wouldn’t get very far. There’s nowhere to really go. You can’t go home, you can’t go beyond the fence, and you can’t swim your way out of this. There’s only one place that’s open to you. The second you give away your position to the Capitol camera’s is the second you sign your death certificate.

This is what it’s like to be cornered and have no options left.

Gritting your teeth a little harder, you clench your fists tightly as your sides as you turn to walk out into the main aisle. As you walk, you’re gentle on your feet, hoping that if you’re light enough, you’ll float right away into the sky. Because that’s one way out where they can’t stop you. 

As soon as you’re in the main pathway, you take a look at your brothers, your sister, and consequently, Caspian too. That was a bad idea. You should’ve waited to look until you were on stage. Seeing Mox on the verge of tears is enough to make you grind your teeth.

When the peacekeepers obstruct your view from your family, you let them escort you up to the staircase. You try your best to straighten out your face, but it’s hard to scrub it from your mind so quickly. You take your time going up the stone staircase, not wanting to trip and make yourself look like a fool.

Near the top, Elysia offers her hand for you to take. Every single cell in your body screams at you not to take her hand, even though it’s the polite thing to do. Ignoring them, you take it gratefully and let her lead you to the front of the girl’s bowl. And as much as you’d like to stare at your dirt-covered flats, you force yourself to look out to District Four.

Your throat swells immediately.

You can see the exact spot you came from, no girls filing in to stand there as if it’s cursed. You don’t blame them much, because it probably is. You can’t imagine how many girls that have stood there, have been called up onto this stage. Only to die a week or so later inside of the arena.

Your brother’s stand along the perimeter of the reaping area. It’s hard to see what they look like exactly, but the longer you stare, the more you’re able to see how upset they are. Reed’s face seems to be stone cold, hands holding onto Alyssum to make sure that she doesn’t fall off backward. She doesn’t understand what’s happening at all, and because of it, she has a smile on her face.

As for Mox, he’s crying. The way his face twists painfully, and how he’s got the neck of the shirt around the bottom half of his face to conceal it the best he can is a giveaway. Next to them, Caspian looks pretty grim too, a hand on Mox’s shoulder as he probably tries to console him.

You can’t begin to imagine the hundreds of scenarios already running through their heads. Reed’s probably wishing he was younger now, so that he could volunteer to be the male tribute to protect you inside of the games. And Mox… yeah, he’s probably thinking about your inevitable loss.

You’re only fifteen. Of course, fifteen year olds have won in the past, but when it happens, it’s boys for obvious reasons. 

Suddenly, Reed waves his hand to catch your attention. You look over to see him stand taller from his slouch, drawing his shoulders back and raising his chin. It’s obviously instructions, he just can’t yell it across the stage to you.

Listening to him, you stand up taller, already raising your head and placing your hands behind your back. You hold onto one of your index fingers to keep your arm’s in place, and watch as Elysia moves back to the microphone.

“Next are boys.” she says in passing, and then moves in front of the bowl. She takes her time again, tilting her head a little. Once again contemplating the worth of every single piece of paper inside. She opts for one on top this time, instead of digging her hand in like she did with the girl’s bowl.

Had she grabbed one off to the side for the girl’s, you wouldn’t be where you are right now. You’d still be standing in the fifteen section, feeling bad for the girl that had gotten picked. Instead, you are that girl. And people you know and don’t know are the ones feeling bad for you.

You find yourself glad that Reed and Mox are too old to volunteer. They need to be here for Alyssum. If either of them were to volunteer, they’d be taking the chance that both you and them don’t come out alive. Instead of just one more gone, it would be two.

You don’t realize that Elysia has resumed her spot in front of the microphone, leaning down to speak into it, “And District Four’s male tribute is Finnick Odair.”

Just before your mouth falls open, you catch it. You grit your teeth again, feeling hysteria rise in your throat, easing the swelling but now you’ve got to keep yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs. This isn’t fair. The papers have to be rigged, because this shouldn’t have been possible.

You don’t mind Finnick, really. He’s a nice boy, you’ve had plenty of conversations with him during passing periods at the high school. You wouldn’t say that the two of you are best friends, but you’re surely not strangers. You can’t count the amount of times after school you’ve stopped to talk and catch up.

No, the problem is the fact that he’s not the older boy you were hoping for. In fact, he’s not older than you at all. To have someone older than you would give you the chance of them protecting you inside of the arena. Their odds are greater, and therefore the sponsors will like them better. They’re also likely to take pity on you, and spare you because you’re from home.

This is Finnick, though. A freshman, fourteen, handsome, and an entire year younger than you.

Since you’re older than him, you’re going to be expected to be the one to take care of him inside of the Capitol. Or at least guide him, since you’re going to have the most ‘experience’ or something. All you really know is that this is going to be miserable. You won’t be the one receiving protection, you’ll likely be the one giving it. You are the shield, not the shielded.

Finnick comes out of the fourteen section much quicker than you. There’s a hard look on his face, eyebrows turned down and a little crease between them. This, and the fact that he’s much taller than you, actually makes him look older than you. The wind picks up when he hits the steps, making his blonde hair messier than it was before. 

Elysia doesn’t bother helping him up the steps. When he gets to the top, his eyes meet yours, and instead of feeling cold and afraid, there seems to be an understanding that passes between the two of you. You’re friends, you’ve been friends all this time. So, there’s no reason at all for you to start being enemies now. Especially in the time you’ll need him the most.

You nod at him, and he nods back.

Turning to look back out to Four, you listen as Elysia wraps this up, “Happy Hunger Games,” she says again, that same smile spreading over her face, “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

She takes a step back, and without a single cue from her, you and Finnick step forward. You offer your hand first, and he takes it.

Up close, you’re allowed to get a better look at him, and think of the future you’re going to have together. Possibly victory, possibly loss. Whatever it is, you’re ready for it. Because all the times before, when the tributes didn’t get along, they ended up dying because of it. Sticking close to your district mate is important. They are the first ally you can make, and you want to be the last to lose.

You and him shake once, sealing the deal.

One last time, you face the crowd as the anthem plays. This is your second to last goodbye. The very last will be at the train station, where your brothers and sister will hopefully be there to send you off.

After, you’re swept away into the Justice Building. You and Finnick are split, and you’re guided and then locked in a room. Here, you’re forced to wait minutes on end as they corral your siblings to allow them to come and say goodbye. This is the last time you’ll get to talk to them. 

To calm the nerves beginning to swell again, you hunch over, hands on your knees as you think of your odds. Something to distract your mind while you wait for your siblings to come around and confirm what you already know.

You’re fifteen, but you’ve been preparing for this for years. Before your father had died, you were being taught ways to survive. At the time, you hadn’t really realized it, since he was so subtle about it all. Of course, you knew about the Hunger Games and the severity of them, but his lessons didn’t sink in until Reed took over after his death. 

Dad used to point out the edible plants at the dock just before you and your brothers would go out to water. Then, in the middle of the water with no one around, it was fishing lessons. He would make the three of you list off how to set up a fishing pole without showing it. Step by step instructions just by words alone.

If you got it right, you then had to fish. If you didn’t, you had to start over and try to find where you made the mistake. Then, later he would make you all describe how to make a fishing pole from scratch, apart from how to put it together. He’d give you different arena scenarios, and from there you’d have to decide whether or not it was open for fishing or not.

It was a fun game to play, and sometimes you’d beg to play it. When Reed took over the job, he wasn’t as fun with it. Which is understandable. He had to work much faster to catch up on what dad hadn’t taught. So, you went from playing a simple fishing game to having to stand in waist-deep water and fish with a spear. 

Looking back at it now, it’s obvious that was a sort-of training to teach you how to stab with a spear. It’s not like you didn’t know how to already, he was just honing your skills, so to say. Getting you better at it, so when the time did come, you weren’t mediocre and unsure of your abilities.

Really, if you know things thoroughly, you’re bound to be more confident in yourself. If you’re not doubting yourself at every turn, then you can focus on other things instead. Like surviving.

Besides knowing how to work with fishing poles, spears and identifying edible plants that live in water, the last thing that Reed did was teach you how to tie knots until your fingers bled. Really, it was a tedious task to tie the same thing over and over. Always in your ear about each knot having a different purpose. All very important on different occasions. 

You have to admit, that it was hard to pay attention. And now you only know a handful of them still. Which is pretty embarrassing, considering he had to have taught you over fifteen of them. But the ones you do know will do the trick, you know it.

And where you lack in certain skills, Finnick’s sure to make up for them. He might be younger than you, but everyone parent’s different. He’s bound to know some things that your family didn’t even consider, and you’re counting on it.

The door opens now, making you look over from where you’ve been staring at the wall. The peacekeeper says you only have a couple of minutes, lets your family in, and then shuts the door loudly. 

You’re engulfed in arms almost immediately after, pulling you tight against their bodies. 

“You’re going to do just fine, (Y/n).” Reed tells you quietly, cradling your head in his hands, “You know what to do.”

“Right.” you agree, hugging him tightly.

Mox breathes in, and it’s shaky. When he goes to say something, he starts crying again so you pull him into you tightly, next. He doesn’t have to say anything, because you already know what he wants to say. He’s going to miss you, he loves you so much. He doesn’t want you to worry about them.

Focus on yourself.

You hug Alyssum the tightest, and the thought of never getting to see her grow up, sprouts in your mind. You scowl slightly, and hold her a little away from your body to get a better look at her. You can’t recall the amount of times people have told you she was a spitting image of you, when you were her age.

You hope she doesn’t look exactly like you when she’s older. You don’t want her to get the same sad look from people she doesn’t know. It’s been happening to you for months now, people will mistake you for your mother and call out her name when they mean yours. 

Except, it won’t just be from strangers for Alyssum. It very well might be from Reed and Mox too.

“You can win.” Reed says, and that’s enough to make you look at him with wide eyes, “Don’t say you can’t. You can if you believe it. You’ve seen the mistakes that other’s make, and you know not to fall into their traps.”

“The arena’s are always unpredictable, Reed.”

“Then make them predictable.” he says.

Make them predictable.

Before you can say anything else, he pulls something out from his pocket. At first, you don’t recognize what it is at all, because it looks so different. But it dawns on you, and before you know it, your eyes begin to water. It’s your mother’s engagement ring. She never wanted anything too big, so your dad got her something small instead. Something that would represent District Four, while also still be very unique and beautiful.

It’s a dainty silver ring, now polished and free of scratches. On the front is one lone wave. Reed holds it out for you, and you take it to inspect it like it’ll disappear into thin air. It’s a valuable thing, and it must have cost a lot to get it fixed up, considering the old condition. It used to be so dull, so scratched up and aged. But now it looks brand new.

You slide it onto your right ring finger. When you look up to them, the tears begin to gush down your face harshly. Reed and Mox give you one last hug, Alyssum still being too young to understand that this is her goodbye. When Reed steps away, he wipes all the tears from your eyes.

“Don’t cry in front of the camera’s, okay? You’re strong, so show them that.”

You nod, and the doors to the room open. The peacekeepers order your siblings out, and you wave goodbye to Alyssum. The doors shut heavily behind them, the last thing you hear is Mox’s fresh wave of tears. After that, you feel a bit dizzy so you move around the white couch and take a seat on one of the cushions, hugging yourself.

You have a chance. You can win if you try hard enough. You just have to keep thinking like that. Think like you’ll win, and eventually you’ll convince yourself it’ll happen. But if you even consider accepting the fact that this is the end, you’ll ruin it. You’ll end up weak, useless and depressed just like all those other tributes.

The ones who give up early are almost always the ones who die first. So, all you have to do is not be like them. Make an effort, and maybe you’ll stand out to everyone in the Capitol. District Four is already considered a career, so you’ve already got a foot in the door. All you have to do is act like it.

The door opens again, and you mostly expect it to just be the peacekeepers ordering you out. But instead you’re surprised to see Caspian and his mother. You get back onto your feet, and the second you do, Caspian’s mother has her arms open for you.

After your mother died three years ago, Caspian’s mother--Naida--helped your father out for a while. Naida might not have lost her husband, but she knew how hard it would be to raise four kids all by yourself. Two of them teenagers, one of them in elementary school, and the other just a baby.

She would babysit Alyssum while you all were out at school and he was fishing. After school, you’d go to her house to get your homework done. And as soon as you all assured her that it was done, you’d take Alyssum back home and take care of her yourselves. Because of her, Reed passed his senior year with good grades.

And then she was there again months later, when your father died in that fishing accident. She couldn’t feed you four on top of her family, but she was there to help anyway. She helped Reed get that job on the water, and even helped him to get promoted a ton. She did the same for Mox a year later, too.

In a way, she replaced your mother, and then your father. Even if you don’t like Caspian, you love Naida. Anything you could possibly need, she’d be there to help you with.

You hug Naida, blinking a ton when your eyes begin to water again.

“It’s all right.” she says, rubbing your back.

“We’ll take care of your family while you’re gone.” Caspian says, “I’ll be with them the whole time. They’ll be okay.”

“Don’t worry about them while you’re in there.” Naida now holds you at arm’s-length, “Focus on yourself.”

“I know.” you smile, “Thank you.”

Caspian tilts his head for a moment, “I have a good feeling, (Y/n). You’ll be good in the games. We’ll be cheering you on from here.”

Normally, you’d be disgusted by a statement like that. There’s a lot of people in the districts that treat the games like some sort of sport. They’ll even bet on kids, and be disappointed on losing their money when they die, with absolutely no remorse on the actual tribute or family itself. It’s a gross game for them to play, but you can’t exactly say you’re not surprised.

After a while, you either become desensitized or sensitive to it all. 

Naida and Caspian don’t get as much time as your family did. Soon, you’re hugging Naida goodbye and even giving Caspian a side-hug as a farewell. They wish you good luck, knowing that you’ll need it. And then, they’re gone too. Just you alone in the room.

You know for a fact that no one else is going to come to visit. You have close friends from school, but they’re not going to bother the same way that Caspian’s family has. In all honesty, if Finnick hadn’t been pulled too, you’re sure he would be the third group coming to say goodbye.

As soon as the peacekeepers come back to escort you to the car, you take a deep breath and stand tall again. You’re going to be fine. Just two more instances with cameras, and then you’ll be hidden in the train.

The car ride is mostly silent, it’s obvious he’s been crying, so it has to be obvious on your part too. You spend the last couple of minutes in the car wiping your eyes thoroughly and making sure your eyelashes are dry. Elysia leads you from the car, to the train station platform where you get to look out to everyone who’s come to bid you off. 

Up front are your brothers, with Alyssum on Reed’s shoulders. Alyssum waves goodbye with a big smile, while Reed and Mox aren’t even able to pull themselves together long enough to give you one too. Their faces are pulled downwards, they look like they’ve aged twenty years, and you can’t even begin to imagine what’s running through their head.

Since you know you’re on camera, you go ahead and take a moment to wave goodbye too, standing tall. Finnick seems to to follow your example and does the same.

Farewell District Four, you think, it’s been fun.

As soon as you’ve stepped inside of the train with Finnick and Elysia, the doors seal shut behind you. Almost immediately, the train starts moving, making you and Finnick sway, having to catch yourselves on the wall. Elysia isn’t nearly as bothered, she’s used to being on the train several times a year.

You and Finnick share a long look, as if neither of you know what to say. It’s understandable, neither of you ever imagined you’d be going into the Hunger Games. And if you did, it wouldn’t have been when you were fifteen and fourteen years old. Maybe when you were sixteen, seventeen or eighteen. But here you are, two very young tributes.

“Allies?” you ask hopefully. He’s not going to be stupid enough to turn you down. He’s your friend, and he knows that having one person have your back at the start will be another head-start.

You’re both from District Four, you know each other, and if you’re allies then your odds have significantly increased already.

And he definitely knows this, “You don’t even have to ask.” he laughs.

You crack a smile, “Just making sure.”

“Yeah, better safe than sorry.” he agrees.

“Glad to see you two are friendly.” Elysia interrupts, making the two of you look over, “Last year they weren’t so…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, and she doesn’t have to. She’s completely right, the tributes last year were at odds. They couldn’t agree on anything, and as soon as they got into the arena, it was clear that they weren’t allies either. The boy stayed with District One and Two, while the girl ran off to do her own thing. She got killed a week in, while the boy lasted up until the near-end.

Again, you and Finnick are off to a good start.

“Your rooms are ready.” Elysia says, and then has the two of you follow her to where they are. On the way, she’s kind enough to let you know that you guys will be there in only a couple of hours. As opposed to districts like twelve, six and ten who are pretty far off. Four is much closer.

She shows Finnick off first, making you wait in the hall for a couple of minutes. Then, when she comes back out, she shows you to your own. When she said ‘rooms’ you thought she just meant that Finnick would have a bedroom, and then you would have one too. 

Until she opens up the door, and you’re greeted with three rooms all for you to take. The regular bedroom, with a queen size bed, a chair in the corner of the room. Then the dressing area that has a vanity and a dresser full of expensive clothes that are to your disposal. And finally, the bathroom with a walk-in shower, a separate tub and running hot and cold water.

Just before Elysia leaves, she lets you know that supper will be in an hour and a half, and that’ll be the same time you meet your mentors. After supper is the recap of the reapings, where you’ll be able to assess your competitors, and then you’ll be in the Capitol not too long after that.

The door seals shut behind her, and you turn around to stare into the room.

The room smells clean, like laundry detergent, vanilla and cinnamon. 

The walls are a light blue, playing into the District Four theme, you think. The floor is white carpet, and it looks to be soft and clean. To the right are windows that are above your head, much like the one back home in your bathroom. Except, these ones are devoid of curtains, and they also look like they don’t open either.

In front of you, the bed. The comforter is white, and there’s not a single wrinkle to be seen. At the end of the bed is a plush fleece blanket, with the pattern of a beach. It’s folded to just take up the very end of the bed. It’s probably a spare blanket in the case that you’ll get cold, but you can’t imagine it being very hot at night. With the air conditioning--something you definitely don’t have in your house--it’ll keep the train cool, but not cool enough to make you consider a second blanket.

White pillowcases, to the right is a birch nightstand with a single lamp that you can imagine you’ll be using later tonight. There’s a clock too, the time isn’t important. It’s well past noon at this point. When you open the drawer, you’re greeted with some cheesy book titled ‘Welcome to The Capitol’. When you flip it open, you’re met with the sight of colorful pictures with blocky texts next to them.

Knowing it can’t hurt, you move to the little chair in the corner of the room, leaving the drawer open. The chair is soft to sit on, but the back is the same roughness of a dining room chair. As you flip through the little magazine, you can’t help but to feel angry at it.

It’s been placed here purposely, of course. And the first word that comes to mind is ‘propaganda’. Really, all this is about is telling the tribute that the Capitol isn’t nearly as bad as it seems. With the constant rotating fashion, and the colorful buildings with fun jobs. What it lacks is all the respect towards the districts for allowing all of that ‘fun’ to exist.

They take all the labor from the districts, and give them no credit. They don’t thank the districts that supply their grain, cattle and fruits and vegetables. They don’t thank Eight for the supply of sewing material, or Seven for the lumber or Twelve for their coal.

The only districts that really get rewarded are One and Two. Because District One gives them their diamonds, and rubies, and their fancy furniture all encrusted with their junk. Too expensive to ever be afforded by the poorer districts. And District Two is masonry. Their entire district is a military trip. They supply the weapons for the Hunger Games, and they’re the biggest supplier of peacekeepers too. A lot of people call them the ‘pets’ of the Capitol.

But what happens to District Three? A supplier of technology, transportation and firearms? Or District Five, they give the most power because of a dam in the middle of their district. It’s all unfair, giving the spotlight mostly to the first two districts just because they happen to be the most convenient.

The further you go into the magazine, the worse it gets. Until it immediately strikes you in the heart with a title like ‘You Can Visit When You Win!’. And then it proceeds to list all the brand names--or really, famous stylists--stuff you’ll be able to afford with your monthly income. On top of that, cosmetic surgery to alter anything on your body that you don’t like.

You close it now, and nearly have a heart attack when you see someone.

It’s Finnick, and he’s not even looking at you, he’s got his head in the closet. He flicks the light on, and then wanders inside, “Huh.”

His hair is wet, and it looks like he just came out of the shower with the way the shirt sticks to his back. He probably didn’t bother to dry off all the way. Your brothers have the same habit when they’re rushing out the door. They don’t really care about looking like they have a sweat stain down their back. It’ll only be a matter of time before it’s real.

“You scared me.” you tell him.

He turns around, a smile on his face, “Did I?” he asks, and then he turns the light off on his way out, “What do you think?”

“I hate it.” you hold out the magazine for him to take. He wanders over, running his fingers over the blankets, and then takes it from you. He flips it open, eyebrows skyrocketing.

“That’s bold.” he shows you the page where it says ‘You’ll Never Want to Go Home!’.

“Oh, I know.” you tell him.

He laughs, dumping it right into your drawer and then pushing it shut, “So, you want to stick together the entire time? Like Capitol and arena?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Oh, I do.” he says, “I’m just making sure.” he takes a seat on your bed, “It sucks that we’re both going in.”

You nod, leaning back in the chair, “I was thinking that earlier in the Justice Building. How if I had only been picked, you would have said goodbye and vice versa.”

“At least we get to eat good for a week.” he smiles.

You snort, covering your mouth when you laugh, “Right, and then we get to starve for a couple of weeks.”

He plays with a bracelet on his right wrist. It’s made out of some brown hemp rope. It’s braided, and it’s a little frayed in areas. You can’t imagine how itchy it must be, it’s not exactly a soft material. Either way, he doesn’t seem to mind it.

Finnick seems like he’s zoning out, and you don’t bother to snap him out of it. It’s not an uncomfortable silence that the two of you settle in. All you do is stare at the painting across from you, to the left of the closet doorway. If this room had a theme to it, it would be ‘sailor’ or some sort of beach house.

“Guess that means we should eat a lot at dinner, huh?” Finnick says, and you look over, “Eat a lot, and we’ll gain weight that wasn’t on our bodies before. So while we’re in there, we won’t be burning ‘our’ body weight.”

You nod, “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

He grins, “See? I’m helpful already.”

“Guess my turn is next. I know Mags is my mentor, but who’s yours?”

“Probably Anchor, maybe Luther. I don’t think Scotch would bother.”

“Me neither.” you agree.

Scotch isn’t really the hands-on type. He didn’t even mentor Anchor, it was all Luther, you think. Mags and Luther really need a break when it comes to these things, they’ve been doing it for years, and they’ve only got two victors from it all. You know you’d be depressed.

“Well, you should probably take a shower before supper.” he stands from the bed, “Not that you stink or anything. The shower is pretty cool, and the clothes are neat too.” he motions to the closet on his way out, “I just stopped to say hi.”

“Thanks.” you tell him, “I’ll see you in an hour or whatever.”

“Yup.” he says, and then slides out of the room.

The door shuts again, and you think it wouldn’t hurt to take a shower. You play with the ring on your finger, not exactly used to the feeling of it just yet. When you step inside of the closet, you realize just how much they did for you. Or rather, the female tributes.

You go ahead and take your time going through the drawers. You find a light blue tank top with a criss-cross back. And later, a pair of white shorts with three silver buttons instead of a zipper. On a shoe rack is a pair of white sandals, so you scoop those up and start your way towards the bathroom.

The bathroom seems to keep the seashell and beach theme pretty well. A clear vase on the counter is filled to the top with seashells, sand and pearls. There’s beige towels for you to take. So, you set your outfit onto the counter, to the left of it is your towel, and in a little bowl next to the vase, you place the ring.

You start the shower beforehand, turning it to the warm setting. You expect for it to take a moment, but warm water comes from the showerhead almost immediately. You slip off your black flats, unpin your hair and unzip your dress and pull off everything else.

The shower feels nice on your skin, and for a moment, you stand beneath the running water with your eyes closed. Because District Four is against the west coast of Panem, it means that rain clouds come and go pretty often. Everyone will always be able to tell if it’s a rainy day just by the tell of the clouds and wind on early mornings.

Those are the days you pull on your old rain shoes and coat, and your brothers spare you the umbrella. You always hug them goodbye tighter on those days, because the water is going to be choppier, and therefore more dangerous. There’s hardly outdoor time during school, so you spend the entire day inside until the end of the day.

And because you were never in a hurry to get home, you’d take the longest path ever just to make sure you’d get the most time in the rain. Even if you’re beneath the umbrella, you like the sound of the rain on the plastic, and watching it run down the top and to the edges where the water drips off in streams.

Funnily enough, Finnick would walk with you every now and then too. You’d walk him home first, since you didn’t want him to walk back in the rain and get a cold. He’d always send you off with some sort of goodie that his mom had packed into a cute package for your family. And then you’d walk back home, trying to keep it warm beneath your coat. Those nights, that would be your treat after dinner.

You scrub your body clean for a second time, but skip over your hair to keep it from getting frizzy. You dry off your body, slowly slipping on your clothes to make sure that they don’t stick to your body too heinously. You open the door to the bathroom to allow the steam out and for the mirror to clear up.

As you rummage through the drawers, Elysia comes into your room. She looks pleasantly surprised to actually see you in the bathroom, and kindly informs you that supper is ready. Which only means that you had taken a long ass shower.

You squeeze a lot of water out of your hair with the towel, and then gather it all up for a ponytail after. You move your head around to loosen up some tight areas, and as soon as you’re done, you slip the ring back onto your finger and allow Elysia to lead you to the dining compartment. On the way, she corrals Finnick, too.

Mags and Anchor are already sitting at the table when you enter the room. The table is round with five seats around it. At the ‘top’ sits Elysia, on her left is Mags and on her right is Anchor. Which leaves two seats at the ‘bottom’ for you and Finnick. Really, imagine the formation of a star.

You take the seat by Mags, and Finnick takes the only option left. Before food is begun to be served, Elysia tells you that it will keep coming, so eat slowly and don’t take too much. But with what Finnick brought up earlier, you know that you’re going to end up doing the opposite.

The first thing served is a salad, which is pretty light. But it only gets heavier, as she promised. Next is a stew, with beef, carrots, green beans, peas and so much more, with the side of rice. Mags tells you that it’s best if you stir the soup and rice together, so you go ahead and do just that.

After the small soup, is pasta and white sauce and chicken. While you’re eating, and even moving to grab a second helping, all you can think about is all the protein you’ll be getting. You eat just fine on most days back home during dinnertime. But for breakfast and lunch, it’s bread and water.

You keep drinking water through it all, grateful that it’s so unlimited, but knowing that eventually you’ll have to use the bathroom with how much you’re taking in. The water here seems sweeter than back home. And Finnick looks like he’s noticed this too.

Finally, vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce is dropped off in front of you guys, the last course of the meal. For a moment, you think it’ll be easy to eat it, because it’s been easy the entire time. But the second you’ve taken your first scoop, you realize just how sick you’ve begun to feel.

“The food is rich.” Anchor says, “Give your body a moment, the ice cream isn’t going anywhere.”

You can’t remember the last time you’ve had a treat like this. If you were to guess, it would have to be before your mom died, because back then, your dad and her were working at the same time. Which means they’d be able to afford luxury items like this from the local parlor, that’s located right next to the bakery, and fabric store, and so on. 

Shops you’ve never been able to afford even now with both of your brothers working overtime. It’s a dream, and if you were to ever bring it up to either of them, they would have laughed in your face.

When your stomach has settled a little, you go ahead and finish off the last meal. It’s sweet, and sugary, and you can feel a rush coming on. You’re full, and it’s the fullest you’ve ever been in your life. You can’t help but to feel guilty though, knowing that your brothers and sister back home are probably mourning the empty seat at the dinner table.

Then again, Naida and Caspian did promise to take care of them. And Caspian said that he’d be with them all the time. So, you hope that they either had dinner all together, or Caspian is sitting in your seat to fill the spot. 

Soon, you’re moving to a different train car to go and watch the recap of this year’s reapings. They’re typically staggered throughout the day to allow everyone to watch them in order of when they happen. But it’s only realistic for the Capitol citizens to be able to do that, since the districts tend to be worrying about the reapings itself and looking presentable for them.

Anchor takes a seat by you, elbow on the arm of the couch, leaning his head against his first. He won the sixty-first Hunger Games, starting a streak for the careers. A female from Two, the siblings from One, and hopefully, now either you or Finnick. You can’t help but to feel remorse for all the other districts, they don’t nearly get as many victors as you three combined do.

Naturally, it starts with District One. The Capitol Representative calls a name, but the girl doesn’t even get the chance to step out until someone else is volunteering. When the volunteer gets to the stage, you’re almost appalled at the sight of her. She proudly states her name is Trink, and then turns to her district with a grin.

She’s tall, and she’s muscly too. Every time she moves, the sunlight catches how defined they are, and the shadows accentuate it even more. She’s got blonde hair that’s been manipulated into curls. She’s pretty, as most tributes from District One are. And typically, the prettier you are, the more of an advantage you have inside of the Capitol.

With her is a boy with tan skin and a mean smile. He’s nowhere near as impressive as Trink, muscle-wise, but he easily towers over her. He’s got dark hair, and he’s pretty too. Lennox, is his name. And you make note of them, because you might be expected to be allies with them.

If you were to guess their ages, judging by the angle of the cameras and where they came from, Trink is at least sixteen, and Lennox is the same age as her, or seventeen.

District Two is the only other district that you know for sure you’ve got to keep an eye on. The girl is much taller than the boy this time around. She stands her full height, baring her chest. Her thick brown hair crowds her face, but that doesn’t stop her from grinning. The dress she wears is incredibly too short and shows off a lot of her legs. Her name is Eytelle.

As for the boy, he’s a volunteer and he makes sure that the crowd knows his name; Allio. He looks tough, gritting his teeth so that it shows off his jawline. Again, the prettier you are, the more likely you’re bound to be liked in the Capitol. And there’s a sick reasoning behind it, which you’d rather think about later and not when you’re full.

District Three is a blur. A dark haired boy and a girl that starts crying the second she’s on the stage. That’s a mistake on her part, showing weakness like that is a turn off, and a set back. You won’t be surprised when she gets little to no sponsors inside of the arena.

Of course, now you’ve got to watch yourself and Finnick get picked. You can’t help the sigh that escapes you, and Finnick leans in on his knees, seemingly feeling the same was as you.

You feel yourself reliving the moment. Elysia takes her time, picks your name and calls it. It’s a second or two before you actually emerge, head turning straight for your family. But it could easily be mistaken for you looking at the peacekeepers. It’s funny how what felt like an eternity to you, was only a couple of seconds for them.

And you’re grateful for that, actually.

You’re marched up to the stage of course, take the hand of Elysia and then you’re stopped in front of the girls bowl. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you belong in the career pack already. With Reed’s directions for you to stand taller, you almost look proud like the others already.

When Finnick comes down the path, he’s just as strict as you are. Side by side on the stage, it’s obvious the two of you are still very much children. And it’s also clear that you two are friends when Elysia moves out of the way and the two of you shake hands without a single word from her. How comfortable the two of you are.

You try your best to find anything, anything interesting about the other eight districts but it’s a struggle. The only two that stand out to you are possibly the tributes from Seven, and that’s because they maybe know how to wield axes. None of them seem threatening at all, which you’re glad for. 

It’s a sick thought, but the less threatening they are, the faster they’ll die. The easier they will be to kill.

And just like that, Elysia snaps the tv off, and you’re left sitting in silence with everyone.

“Well?” Anchor asks, looking over to you and Finnick.

You’re already staring at Finnick, and he’s doing the same. You tilt your head slightly towards the tv, “Might as well take advantage of the careers while we can, don’t you think?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” he agrees, “Tributes from One seem to be the ones we should be looking out for. The girl is bigger than usual, so she’s going to pose a bigger threat.”

“They should be the first to go if we can make it happen. Them and the boy from Two, the girl I could care less about.”

“Right.” Finnick says, “That means we’ll need a second-hand alliance.”

You look at him, shaking your head.

“No?” he asks.

“I’d say we make an alliance within our alliance.” You raise an eyebrow, and Finnick hims, a smile spreading over his face.

“Clever.”

“Well, someone has to be.”

Finnick snorts, bumping your shoulder with his, “See anyone else that you think would be worth allying with?”

“District Seven.” you say, and Finnick’s nodding right along.

“Looks like we think alike.”

Butter smooth.

[asmileyoucouldbottle]

Found - Odesta

"Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" I ask. "No," A long time passes before he adds "She crept up on me." Pre-trilogy, Odesta. Mostly fluff.

TRIGGER WARNINGS! - panic attacks, mentions of r*pe (nothing detailed or explicit)

Word Count- 2561 

~*~

There she was again. The red-haired woman everyone said was mad. She didn’t look particularly crazy, laughing as she splashed in the surf with the neighborhood children. But Finnick knew a thing or two about madness. It sneaks up on you, and you don’t see the memories coming until they’re there.

The woman dunked underwater, and reappeared in a wave that drenched all three of the children. One of the kids fell over giggling, and the other two continued to play. 

A slight turn of her head, and the woman caught Finnick staring. Her smile widened as if they had just shared a private joke, and Finnick ducked his head. He was surprised to find his own lips curling up.

Swinging a net over his shoulder, Finnick walked over to the woman and children.“Would you mind helping me?” 

The children hopped up immediately to grab the two wooden poles on either end of the long bait net. The woman stood opposite of him, and he could see the laughter still flickering in her eyes, as well as slight shyness.

“My name’s Annie.”

He smiled, and nodded in turn. “I’m Finnick.”

The group stepped to the side, dragging the net along as they went. Finnick could already see the little bait fish getting towed along against the net. 

Annie paused while Finnick and his side continued, making a rotation around her until the net made a C. From there, they dragged it back towards shore. The dance was as natural to Finnick as breathing, and he felt peace in familiarity wash over him. Every brief respite from the Capitol was a blessing, and he’d just arrived home yesterday morning.

They brought the net up to shore, and the children squealed as the minnows and other little fish began to try and jump from the net. Annie ran to get a bucket, which they promptly emptied the contents of the net into.

Finnick noticed a Peacekeeper glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, watching to make sure he didn’t steal the bait.  He picked up the bucket, and began to haul it in the direction of the Peacekeepers. “It was nice to meet you.” Finnick’s words were sincere, and carried a weight that the overused formalities rarely held. Annie waved as he left. 

He was intrigued by her, this woman like him, and he wasn’t sure they were so different. 

~*~

It was the day of the Hunger Games tour, and earlier the winner of this year’s games had given their speech. Now was the “partying,” where the whole town was in the main square “celebrating” the Hunger Games for the cameras. 

Finnick caught a glance of Annie, her eyes vacant and hand twisting her hair. 

“Annie?” At the sound of his words, she turned her empty eyes on him. “It’s very loud.” She murmured, eyes seeking Finnicks own. His heart panged as it related painfully. He knew all too well how triggering loud noises could be, and on a day such as today- a day completely dedicated to The Hunger Games, he'd had his own share of flashbacks. 

“Maybe we should get a breath of fresh air.”

Annie nodded, and Finnick took her hand and led her out the door. Her eyes were frantically darting, and he took them to a dock just outside the square. No one noticed them leaving the crowds. Sitting down, he took off his shoes and put his feet in the water. Annie followed him, and the water seemed to soothe her. Yet, one hand continued to stay on her ear, even though the only noises came from fishing boats in the distance. 

“Hey.” Finnick touched Annie’s hand  gently, and she looked at him. Her eyes focused on his, as if trying to bore holes.  Or maybe climb out of one. He didn’t break the contact. “You’re in District 4, and the water on your feet is from the bay.” She nodded, feet wiggling in the water. 

“District 4.” She repeated to herself, gaze moving to her toes as she grasped for footholes out of her mind. 

Finnick continued to talk about District 4, all its features, and the land around him. Every word seemed like a wedge in a cliff, a little ledge that she used to pull herself up, bit by bit. Even the flashing light of the Peacekeeper watchtower over the sea, which was always a point of anger and anxiety for Finnick, seemed to be helping.

Once the light had fully returned to her eyes, Annie half collapsed on Finnick’s shoulder, as if the effort had exhausted her.

”Thank you.” She whispered.

“Of course,” They looked out at the water, trying to find peace with the marching of Peacekeepers, the barbed wire fences, and memories threatening to drown them.

~*~

Finnick awoke, gasping. He shivered at the sensation of hands roaming all over, his body not feeling like it belonged to him.

Breathing heavily, Finnick tore back the sheets, blindly fumbling out of his room. Blinded by a rising panic as he started working himself into a frenzy, he ran to the beach right outside his house. Tearing off his shirt, Finnick jumped in the water without a second thought. The salt stung his eyes, and he began to rub himself down with sand, trying to clean off the fingerprints of hundreds of people who’d touched him over the years. His breathing and heart only quickened as the seconds dragged on, his skin raw with the friction of the sand. And yet, the fingerprints never went away. 

“Finnick?” He looked up to see a silhouette in the light of the lighthouse. “Are you alright?”

No, he was definitely not alright.

Intending to dismiss her, he was surprised when the simple truth was pried out in a tight breath. “Not particularly.” 

There was a beat, and Finnick let his handful of sand sink from his hold. A slight ripple, and he saw Annie coming to join him in the water. The moon outlined her frame, and her exposed shoulder only made him shudder. His vision of her kept being interrupted with images of other women, people he’d never learned the names of, and their faces were blurry in his memory. All that remained were their hands and the scars they left behind.

“It’s alright.” She said, forcing the images away. “it’s alright to be not alright.” 

Something about the words made him choke out a breathy laugh. 

“I’m glad that it’s okay that I’m having a meltdown.” The word meltdown echoed around his soul, the connotations raising a new round of battering. Words like coward and weak soon joined the symphony, and Finnick felt his self-control slipping.

“You don’t sound very convinced.” Annie commented. Finnick forced his mental downward spiral back as he tried to focus on her words.

She kept talking. “Right now, I’m fine. But sometimes, I’m not okay either. But that’s alright. We’re hurt, but that doesn’t make us lesser.”

A little bit of the frenzied knot began to loosen in his chest as words finally sunk in. The chorus belittling him receded, and he braced himself- expecting a new onslaught of phrases and the secrets of various lovers to fill the space.

Before his mind got the chance, Annie asked, “Would you like to know what I do when I’m upset?” 

Finnick tried not to sound desperate when he responded, “what?”

“Follow me.” She led him out of the water, and the panic was delicately held at bay. Annie brought him to a pile of rope on the dock. She chopped a bit of it off using the sharp edge of the rusty ladder. Finnick watched, enraptured, as she began to tie knots. Any sailing teacher would’ve been proud as she filled the whole rope, untied, and repeated. 

Once she’d finished her demonstration, Annie handed him the rope. Immediately, his fingers began their work. With each knot, his horror became more manageable, easier to put in the back of his mind as the burning of his fingers and endless lessons on knotting took the foreground. 

~*~

The mayor was getting married, and he was throwing a huge party for the whole district to celebrate. 

Finnick was more than content to sit by the refreshments and listen to the music. He’d had a fair amount of guests, man and woman alike, beg him to join them.  With a charming smile and claim of exhaustion, he’d send them on their way.

“Would you like to dance?” 

Finnick spun around, his signature smile already playing on his lips. At the sight of Annie, all deceptive charm vanished, and his lips melted into something real. Her own eyes were clear of all flirtations, and he felt that this must be what friendship is. No manipulations- just two people, everything laid at their feet.

“It would be my pleasure.”

The song was an old sea shanty, one that sang of a sailor and his lover reunited on land. The music resonated in their bones as the dancers clapped, stomped, twirled, and laughed. Finnick picked Annie up in a spin, and she showed off her footwork while prancing in a circle around him. The dance climaxed, and all he could see were the spins and motions. A brief catch of eyes there, a glimpse of her smile, the flash of her sea green dress. An unknown sensation built in the pit of his stomach as he felt her hands in his.

The downpour began all at once, with a loud crack of thunder and sudden sheets of water. The rain only brightened Annie’s face, and her laughter became fuller as the water clung her clothes to her skin and dripped off her nose. 

Though their movements weren’t as light or graceful, the heart of the dance only grew as the pair became more and more soaked. The energy of the remaining crowd built up, the dampness only feeding the fire. With a final twirl, the song ended, and Finnick was left looking over shoulders to see where Annie had twirled off to.

~*~

There was something about her that drew in Finnick’s eyes everytime she was in his vicinity. At the market, fishing, on the street, everyone and everything dulled to the background. 

He watched her exhibit kindness to the smallest of creatures, from bugs to the animals on the streets. More than once, Finnick had seen Annie scooping bees and beetles out of the water to dry on the jetty, rinsing off scraped knees of the street children, or slipping dogs little bits of fish. Her smile awaited him everywhere. Every one of her sunshine looks felt like a countdown, one that he could only imagine how it would end.

Many nights they’d find each other, distraughtly walking the beach. Wordlessly, they’d decide to go on together, often finding comfort simply in being in the presence of another who understands. He didn’t know exactly when they started holding hands along the way. It was a mutual agreement, a subconscious reach for the other. Their eyes hadn’t met, but the pressure of her hand intertwined in his stabilized both of them better than any line of rope. 

~*~

Finnick didn’t know when he realized. He’d thought of it as a countdown, every little action pushing forward the timer in his heart. But what it really was, was a buildup. Every smile that was bolder than the last, every musical laugh, every knot he tied beside her, all collecting to tip the scales of her heart. The way she would hold him in moments of weakness, just as he held her. The peace of mind that came just from seeing her, and how she’d now take his hand in moments of excitement or happiness as well as fragility. Her ability to see the light of the world despite a darkness within and all around her. 

They had been drawn together by mutual need. Need of understanding, need of comfort, need of true friendship. But if the flipping minnows in his stomach were any indication, Finnick wasn’t quite sure that ‘friends’ was a suitable enough word. 

He never expected it. How could someone as broken as him fall in love?

The answer was simple. Annie had said it to him once, “we’re not broken, nor missing pieces. We’re still whole…  just a little cracked.” From there, she’d intertwined her fingers with his. Finnick looked down and saw that seperated, the spaces between their fingers looked like cracks. But when they laced them together, the cracks were filled. They were still there, but less noticeable. 

That’s how Finnick felt with Annie. He knew that no person or love could completely heal him, but it could help. It made the hurt less prominent, and replaced some of his dreariness with hope.

~*~

The sunset was brilliant, and Finnick could see Annie sitting on the dock outside his window. Her auburn hair was stunning in the golden light, and his breath caught. Not bothering to even put on sandals, he walked out to meet her.

She turned to see him as he walked down the dock, the light making her face glow. Something in him felt like it was filling at the sight of her. Even his view of patrolling boats on the sea wasn’t enough to damper his happiness. It was all he could do not to lift her up, twirl her around, and tell her everything he felt. 

Actually, he hadn’t completely ruled it out yet. 

“Annie…” He didn’t know how to continue, and she was watching him expectantly. Despite being the Capitol’s darling, he didn’t know the first thing about actually sharing his feelings when they were true. Never once had he been seductive around Annie, nor her to him. 

It made no sense, yet here they were.

He reached down to take her hands, and pulled her up in front of him.

“You fill in my cracks.” He said finally.

Her eyebrows flickered briefly with surprise, but soon her face softened with a smile. “And you fill in mine.” She whispered, barely audible over the sound of waves. The moment was so heavy, Finnick could barely breathe.

He searched her eyes, longs poems he’d heard in the Capitol, he was anything but lost in their depths. Rather, he felt found. 

Annie stepped towards him, and on tiptoe, rested her forehead against his. Finnick sighed, and she tilted up her face and pressed her lips to his sweetly. The kiss was over in a moment, and she was flat on her feet, face open as she waited for his reaction.

Something in his chest felt wild, and without hesitation, he picked her up and spun her around- just as he’d wanted to. She giggled, her hands stabilizing on Finnick’s shoulders. He laughed, holding her gaze as he set her down. A rush of emotion filled him, and he didn’t know how he could contain it all. 

He leaned down and kissed her again, and she clung to his neck as he dipped her down. The sound of waves receded as his pounding heart filled his ears, and brought her back up to standing. 

“I love you Finn.” She looked up at him, bashful yet bold. Finnick beamed at her, and brushed her nose with his own. “And I love you.” 

Capitol be damned- he’d found love just where he was. 

[aquaquadrant]

shinies

Star Wars: The Clone Wars fanfic Rating: G  Warnings: Minor language, death mention  Summary: After Order 66, Rex and Ahsoka finally talk.

A/N: Hi readers! I hadn’t planned on writing anything for the final season of The Clone Wars, but then I saw some art by @lornaka (here) that really inspired me! And honestly, I had to write something for Rex and Ahsoka, I love them so much. Hope you all enjoy, the A03 link is below if you prefer, or you can continue reading on Tumblr! Reblogs/comments are much appreciated! - Aqua

Click here to read on Archive of Our Own

Click here to support me on Ko-fi

~*~

shinies

Rex does a third and final check of their hyperspace route before turning in the pilot’s chair.

Their shuttle is a small thing, and Ahsoka isn’t far from him. She’s sitting on the bench, resting her elbows on her knees as she stares at the opposite wall. She hasn’t spoken since they took off. She seems numb, in shock.

Rex clears his throat, rising from the chair. “You okay, kid?”

Ahsoka’s eyes cut to the side, regarding him with a look that isn’t entirely there. He’s struck by how harsh the hollows of her face look, the exhaustion that’s settled into her features.

Kid, he calls her, but she’s been without the innocence of childhood for a long time.

He remembers the shiny Padawan he met on Christophsis, what seems like a lifetime ago. Bright-eyed and capable beyond her fourteen years- Rex was only ‘fourteen’ for six months, as part of a childhood that passed in the blink of an eye. If they’re speaking chronologically, he’s still only thirteen.

But experience outranks everything.

They were both shiny, then. He’d liked to believe himself not to be. His higher level of training granted him a certain degree of authority that made it easy to forget he was leading brothers who’d been made the same year as him. But really, back then, he knew nothing. Nothing at all compared to what he’s been through now.

The war had been new, then. Ahsoka was part of the first generation of wartime Padawans, the young commanders raised on months-long campaigns and all the horrors that came with them. In some ways, they had it easier than the Generals, the Jedi Knights and Masters who remembered a time before the war, when the Jedi were strictly peacekeepers. In other ways, they had it much, much worse.

Fourteen years old and coping with the loss of men on her orders. Fighting for her life just to fight another day, no end in sight. Surrounded by death and destruction, haunted by the faces of the ones she couldn’t save.

In that way, they’re the same. They were both kids forced to grow up too fast.

There’s nothing shiny about him anymore. Every part of him is coated in dirt and grime, his hands and his soul stained with the blood of his brothers. It’ll never wash out, he already knows. He won’t try to forget- he owes it to them not to.

“You can talk to me,” Rex says quietly. Almost a plea. “Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, her gaze is clearer.

“The force is mourning,” Ahsoka tells him. “It’s so… empty. A gaping, bleeding wound. It’s… I’ve never felt such an emptiness before, never felt so… completely alone. It’s like every star in space has been blotted out. It’s disorienting.”

Her assessment is delivered with no small amount of grief, sharpening the edge of her voice. Rex can’t imagine what it must feel like. He feels the loss of his brothers as keenly as a blade to the heart, but he knows it’s not the same thing, the same way Jedi are connected to all living things through the force. To lose so many in a single moment must be devastating.

Rex approaches. “You’re not alone,” he reminds her. “I’m here. We’re gonna get through this, alright?”

Ahsoka stands up to face him, her expression terse. “You shouldn’t be following me, Rex,” she whispers, bowing her head. “I don’t know what to do.”

It’s a painful thing, to see Ahsoka so uncertain and lost. More so to know that she fears she’ll get him killed. It was always the Jedi with the plans, the clones dutifully carrying out their orders like good soldiers- good soldiers follow orders- and now that’s been turned on its head, like everything else.

Rex hums noncommittally. “Well, I know what I’m doing.”

Ahsoka looks up in surprise, confusion knitting her brows.

Rex speaks honestly, reverently. “However long they made us to last, I’m gonna spend it protecting you,” he swears. “It’s what the General would’ve wanted, to know you’ll be safe.”

Ahsoka is quiet for a moment. Conflicted. “It’s going to be dangerous, travelling with a Jedi,” she warns.

As if leaving her is an option. Rex summons the barest of grins. “Good thing you aren’t one, then.”

Amusement dances in Ahsoka’s eyes for a brief second before it’s gone, overcast by sorrow and guilt. “I might’ve been, again,” she confesses, surprising Rex. “I didn’t really want to leave forever. Maybe… if I hadn’t left at all, things would’ve been different-”

“You couldn’t have stopped this,” Rex cuts in sternly. “None of us could.”

Ahsoka smiles sadly. “That goes for you, too.” Her voice is soft, but knowing. “I know you want forgiveness from me, but you don’t need it. It wasn’t you. I know you’d never hurt me.”

Rex swallows and glances away, unable to hold her gaze. Damn Jedi and their ability to sense what he’s feeling. Or maybe that’s just Ahsoka, just because it’s him, it’s them. They’ve been through a lot together. They know how each other thinks.

He does want forgiveness. From her, for not being strong enough to resist the chip. From Fives, for not fighting harder for him or looking further into it. From all the brothers he had to kill or leave for dead. But Ahsoka’s right; it’s not something that can be given to him, so he’ll have to live without it.

He inhales. “And you’re not afraid…?”

Of me, he can’t quite finish. Of what I almost did. What I might try and do again.

Ahsoka’s hand travels up, fingers brushing feather-light over the bandage on the side of his head. “The chip’s gone,” she says simply. As if that answers everything.

Maybe it does.

He’s still got questions. Who was behind the chips? How many other Jedi managed to survive? Where will they go? Who is their enemy now? Can any of his brothers be saved? Who do they serve? Are there any other horrible secrets built inside of him, fixed to strands of DNA like armed mines, waiting to blow?

But they can wait.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Rex murmurs. “It’s over now.”

Moving carefully, Rex cradles the back of Ahsoka’s head and presses their foreheads together.

Ahsoka doesn’t pull away. She winds one arm around his shoulder, her other hand gripping the front plate of his armor- armor that’s been scorched and beaten and worn, coated in ash and dust. She breathes in, breathes out. Then she breaks.

Her eyes squeeze shut as a sob is strangled in her throat, like a dying gasp. Her hold on him tightens and he feels her tremble. Terrible and violent, that trembling is, like the way the ground shakes in battle when it can no longer withstand the firestorm raining down on it. Her tears trace the lines of her markings, the same markings painted on the helms of the 501st.

Rex closes his stinging eyes against his own tears, pointless as it is. They streak unbidden down his face, dripping down his chin. It hurts to let himself cry, his mouth twisting into a grimace. His other hand grabs Ahsoka’s arm, to hold her close, as if that could somehow protect them.

They cry together, lost and confused and hurting, grieving the death of everything they knew before and terrified of the uncertain depths they’ve been plunged into.

Like a couple of shinies.

~*~

[maple-writes]

WHG 14: Boat 5

tagging @concealeddarkness13 (Triel, Nesri, Zenith) @ratracechronicler (Elvira, Rebecca) @pen-of-roses (Lynn, Rowan, Laurel) (I think those are all the others in this anyway lol)

###

The next morning came and the others went off to grab their targets and I slipped my way into the main room where Ceasar was finishing up one of his first presentations of the day. According to Amy and her notes, this one was something to do with a new fashion line, and the next would be introducing some performer. Unfortunately for them, I didn’t think they would be getting their chance to perform today. The crowd still seemed a little sleepy, muted enjoyment ebbing from partygoers as I brushed by them, making my way towards the front, towards the stage. No one seemed to notice when I didn’t laugh at Ceasar’s jokes, and no one seemed to notice me weaving past them. I guess that was one good thing about missing half my soul if it made me easier to ignore, easier to overlook, just a step up from some inanimate thing.

Applause filled the room as he finished his talk and stepped off the stage. Ten minutes. That’s what the schedule said. I smiled, already starting to get excited. More than enough time to set myself up. Peering out from the front of the crowd, it looked like no one had expected anything to happen here. No security that I could see, no railings, just an open stage low enough to clamber up on. Perfect. Chances were peacekeepers would be more focused on guarding the tributes, on patrolling the secluded areas of the ship to catch us doing anything out of line. But here? Here in the spotlight, center stage, with dozens upon dozens of eyes on the shining star? Fools. They’d never see it coming.

Chatter replaced the applause and the waiting began. Surrounded by casual patrons, I curled my hands in my pockets, fingernails already starting to sharpen. It was all I could do not to vibrate with excitement, with energy. When else could I justify doing this again? Ginger would kill me if she knew what I was about to do, where I was about to do it, in front of so many people, so many potential victims. But I could handle it. I could, I could. I’d practiced, I’d worked on it, and I wouldn’t go too far. Just enough. I smiled, lips pressed together to hide my teeth. Just enough to scare him, to make him fear, to make him fear in front of everyone.

Cheers jolted me alert as the lights went back up and Ceasar strutted back on stage, adjusting the little microphone headset by his face.

“Hello again distinguished guests!” He flashed a smile of too-perfect teeth. “Thank you for your patience!”

My cue. Ceasar paused for affect and I went for it before I could change my mind. I scooted forward and hopped up on the stage. The lights shone hot and blinding on my shoulders, but I hardly noticed, eyes locked on Ceasar as he stared, shocked and confused to the silence of the crowd.

Ceasar only took a second to regain an image of composure. “Ah, can I—”

“You don’t recognize me?”

As soon as I spoke he froze, paling even under his layer of makeup. I grinned, teeth sharp and shadowy horns starting to materialize off my head like smoke as I stalked towards him. Every step closer and I could already start to feel his nerves, buzzing just off his skin to crawl across mine. Coward.

I laughed, coming up behind him to snarl into his ear. “So you do? You know exactly who I am don’t you?” He didn’t respond and I grabbed his jaw, digging the points of my claws into his skin. Not enough to bleed, not enough to cut, but enough. Enough that he knew. “Aw, come on now, say something.”

The lights flickered, shadow gathering around my legs where it couldn’t reach the floor. Disappeared before it could find it’s destination. Panic flooded from my grip on his face, hot and fast and racing straight to my heart. Straight to my heart where it sped and sped. He wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t. He’d never not been in control.

“Not so confident now are you?” I jeered and leaned in closer, leaning over his shoulder to let him see me, see my teeth, see my horns, see the tails twitching in the dark. “Go on, scream. Scream and beg for someone to come save you, to come help you, to stop this.”

I twisted his head, making him look to the petrified crowd. “You think those are your friends, your fans?” I asked with a cock of my head and a cruel smirk. “You remember what I said to you? How I could hurt you? How I could tear your skin from your bones and your bones from your body? Do you really think any of them would come save you? Come save you when it’s that bloodlust they crave so much?”

This time he struggled, pulling back from my grip and leaving thin scratches down his face where he wrenched from my grip. I could see him shake, see him panic and I stood up taller. I stood taller, holding my hands out to my sides and laughing, laughing, louder and louder. The lights went out, power drained and gone from the very wires running through the inside of the ship, from the bulbs screwed into the fixtures as shadow grew behind me.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” I twisted, leaning over the stage at the crowd. They flinched back, pushing and bumping each other to put distance between them and the stage where I stood, where I stood overlooking them and snarling, laughing, threatening. “You want blood, you want violence? Well what are you so afraid of? What are you so afraid of now that you have it, now that you have it right here? Isn’t this what you wanted? What you vied so hard to get with your tickets and your events?”

None of them responded, of course they wouldn’t. They only liked the thought of pain, the idea of bloodshed.

“Well lucky for you, maybe you’ll get just a little. I want you to watch, isn’t that what you’re here for?”

I turned, snatching Ceasar by his sleeve and hauling him back to center stage. He staggered, struggling for balance as I grabbed him again, sinking my claws into his shoulder to turn him around. Fresh panic flowed from his skin though my bones, through my veins, and the thin trickle of blood down my hand. He wavered, weakening, struggling. I was taking a lot from him. He wasn’t used to it. Everything near me, everything around me was fair game. The lights, his strength, the crowd’s fear, it all came to me. Came to me and died when it reached my skin, my blood, my body, like the light itself that turned to dark rising all up my back like crawling insects and creeping illness.

“Oh?” I pushed Ceasar down, bent at the hip with a hand in his hair to overlook the crowd. “Is it different now? Different now that you’re here, that you’re seeing it, that he’s one of your own? Oh no. Oh poor you?” I dipped down, looking Ceasar in his half-closed, half-conscious eyes. “What ever will we do about that?” He didn’t say anything, of course he wouldn’t. His heart was probably beating weaker already, drained, struggling with the energy lost through my hand on the back of his neck. “Awfully quiet now aren’t you?”

I pushed him down and he lay there, crumpled and limp on the stage floor. He struggled, tried to move, tried to get his arms and his legs and his limbs under him to get up, to run, to do anything, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t do anything as I loomed above him, stared down at him with just enough of his own blood on my hands for him to notice. For him to know. For him to start thinking to himself, pleading to whoever he plead to to try and save his life.

And I could kill him. I could kill him right now. Slice though his neck, server that one critical artery running straight from his heart to his head. Plunge my hand into his throat and tear out the trachea, tear out that voice he loved to hear so much. Cut through his stomach, tear out all the soft parts hidden inside and leave them to rot and ooze all over the clean floors.

I could do it. Could do it right here, right now, right now. My heart raced, fast and excited in my chest. Fast like a greyhound, a greyhound held back by nothing more than a gate with it’s eyes fixed on a lure. On a rabbit, on a prey, and any second that gate could open and out it would run, racing, until it caught it with it’s teeth. It’s teeth that tore flesh and—

He was lucky I promised Cirrus I’d stop myself. Lucky. Lucky bastard.

Snarling, I kicked him in the ribs instead, rolling him over onto his back before twisting to glare at the crowd again. “So that’s it? You’re just going to stand there? Stand there and watch?” I spat. “I thought at least you’d have the sense to run away. To save your own lives. Pathetic.”

I lowered my had and stepped across the stage and they pressed back again, some starting to wake up, some starting to figure it out. That this wasn’t a show. That this wasn’t what was supposed to be happening. Some ran, fleeing for an exit but they couldn’t get out because there stood Amy. The avox, the one Cirrus had sought out and how had so graciously given us all the information we could have needed.

There stood Amy with a peackeeper’s pistol.

She aimed it just above the heads of the crowd and fired. Fired loud and ear-splitting at the one remaining, one weakly shining candle chandelier in the middle of the  ceiling.

It fell with a crash and the room plunged dark. Screams erupted, screams and shouts and cries and pleads. I could only laugh, cackling with my head back as they screamed and pushed and shoved and fought for anything to keep themselves safe. anything to get out of there. Anything. Anything. Anything

Another gun shot. And another. And another. Tiny flashes of light as glass broke, as windows shattered with the bullets fired from Amy’s new gun. Curtains pulled away and some tried to climb out, tearing up their expensive clothes on the broken glass. Others hid, hid as best they could under tables or in corners, frozen, fearing, fearing for their lives and lit only by the slowly growing fires from the downed candles taking hold on the carpets.

All while Ceasar lay on the floor, barely propping himself up on one elbow and staring in horror at the scene in front of him. At the scattered trays, at the broken crystal, at the drinks spilled n the floor and the panic seizing the crowd as they turned on each other, pushed and shoved and fought over trying to get out.

The shadowy silhouette of someone running the stage made me turn, snarling and drawing shadow up over my shoulders, but it was only Amy. She waved me on, towards her with her free hand, but I ignored her. I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done. There was still so much I could do here. Still so much I could.

Her hand closed around my wrist and she pulled, pulled me nearly off balance and toppling off the stage. I spat and fought, pulling back and swiping at her face but stopped myself just short. Just short of her eyes. Amy. This was a friend. A friend. She was on our side.

She flinched only a moment before yanking again, and I half relented, spitting and swearing as she dragged me out of the room and back into the sunlight of outside where I wrenched myself out of her grip.

“Get lost!” I spat, pushing her back against the side of the ship. “Leave me alone, let me, let me, I’m going to—”

“You’re not doing to do a damned thing Asher.”

Cirrus grabbed me from behind, hooking his arms under mind and dragging me back, away from Amy. She blinked, shook herself of and ran off along with us, towards the others, the others gathered underneath the ladder dropped down from the ship.

I stopped, stopped resisting as Cirrus half hauled, half guided me towards the others. The horns, the tails, they faded first as I clung to his arm. To something familiar, to something calm. It was over, time to draw back, time to stop, time to…

But I laughed, I shrieked, I shrieked with the glee of what I’d done. Of how Ceasar crumbled under me, the panic that still spread unmitigated through the main hall. That I could still hear, could still feel crawling under my skin and begging me to go back, to finish what I’d started, to—

“Come on, work with me here,” Cirrus hissed, trying to get me up the ladder. Amy was already way ahead of us, her stolen gun still in hand. “Climb the damn ladder.”

I sneered. “Fine, if you insist. If I must, but you—”

“Now, Asher.”

Right. The plan. The escape.

The three of us were among the last in the airship. Already the others had gathered in the hold, or whatever this place was, wherever we were on the ship. No one spoke, and I took a breath to shout, but Cirrus slapped his hand over my mouth and dragged me to one of the far walls. I growled something meaningless under my breath as he tried to get me to sit.

“No!” I growled. “Let me go! I want to—”

“You can do whatever you want later but you have to calm down first.” Cirrus grumbled, keeping his hands on my shoulders to try and hold me back. “Just sit down for now, okay? Come on.”

I grinned, pushing back against his grip just to bother him. Just to test him, to push, to tease. I grappled with him a little longer, grabbing at his hair, his clothes as he tried to wrestle me down. I laughed, sharp and giggling and Cirrus groaned.

“Come on Asher…” Something caught his eye and he glanced over his shoulder at Amy, celebrating and brandishing her stolen pistol in triumph. “Hey, put that away before you hurt someone.”

She didn’t listen, smiling from ear to ear like she hadn’t even heard him and Cirrus gave up, turning his focus back to me. This time he succeeded in wrestling me down, shoving me down to sit down on the floor against the wall. Fine, he won this time. I’d let him win this time. He was right. It was over. Time to calm down, but my heart still raced, my body still shook with too much energy, too much everything.

I hardly noticed when Triel entered, dripping wet and triumphant. “Congratulations on a successful heist! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

Rebecca whispered something, but I could only hear Elvira properly as she noticed Amy. “Ah… You must be Amy?”

She nodded eagerly, weapon still out despite Cirrus’ request to put it away. I smiled, near matching her smile. She deserved it, she should keep it. She must have been clever to steal a gun right off a peacekeeper like that.

Lynn looked up from Rowan and Laurel. “This is real right? You’re all really here, this is really happening?”

Rebecca nodded. “We are. You don’t still think we’re Peacekeepers, do you?”

Triel shook her head. “The winds were favoring us today. No one was able to come after us.”

I leaned back, grinning from ear to ear. She did it! The murrelet and her husband kept their promise. Lynn spoke next, but I only half paid attention, trying my best to slow my heart, to breath deep enough to ease the ache in my lungs. I clenched my fists, trying not to fix my eyes on the back of Cirrus’ leg. It was right there, right there, and even through the boots I could probably cut him. Probably cut through the skin enough to hurt, enough to get him down to… No no. I didn’t want to do that. Didn’t want to hurt him.

The conversation shifted, Nesri and Cirrus and Rebecca all teasing each other about the events in the apartment, of the popcorn throwing, of the spar in the living room, much to Lynn’s confusion. I listened in, staring up at Cirrus as he tried not to look amused. I was still smiling, grinning like an idiot as the lighthearted mood, the relieved celebration ran through my blood, not quite slowed enough to block it out yet.

Zenith grumbled something and Nesri chimed in, “Shenanigans, tomfoolery, etcetera.” She crossed her arms at him with a big smile. “Who’s the one that walked into the apartment in the middle of the night, cursed with magic, and had to bed Asher to knock you unconscious?”

I remember that! “That was Zenith!” I laughed, louder than I’d thought, throwing my head back against the wall. “Got himself cursed!”

Zenith sighed, as if trying to hide the little smile tugging at his lips. “Who’s the one who had me and Elvira swap bodies and then race?”

I grinned, teeth still a little too sharp, a little too far gone, but I didn’t care. Not with them. They knew me. They knew. “Are you just mad you lost?”

He muttered something under his breath, but didn’t say more, eyeing Elvira until Triel took over again and I stopped listening. Cirrus would tell me if she said anything I needed to know. He was always paying attention. I thought I heard something about phones, about a mansion, and something about communication, but I kept them all tuned out as I spread my hand over the metal flooring of the airship. The faint engine hum buzzed under my palm, firm and unyielding though the steel. Minute after minute, things slowed, my breathing, my heart, slowed back to where they should. Leaning back against the wall, I let my eyes close as everything started to feel heavy. I’d just have to join whatever celebrations there’d be a little later.

[brasskier]

First chapter of my six-part fluffy geraskefer modern AU holiday series spanning five years of holiday celebrations is up! 

Christmas 2016, or The One Where Flights are Cancelled. After a string of delayed flights and closed rail lines, Geralt, his new music teacher friend Jaskier, and his on-again/off-again girlfriend Yennefer find themselves trapped on Christmas Eve. Thank god for duty-free stores.

Read it below the cut or on my ao3

When Geralt first met Jaskier, checking an ID he was almost certain had to be fake (it wasn't; Jaskier was twenty-four), he slid off his coat to reveal an incredibly garish reindeer-emblazoned tie. At Geralt's judgemental stare, he shrugged and said, "work party."

"Pre-gaming or post-gaming?" Geralt gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Post." He settled onto the barstool, called for a Blue Moon - "and don't forget the orange slice!" - and let out an exhausted sigh before returning his gaze to Geralt. "It's just - it's my first year teaching, and I'm not really used to the political fraternizing, which is hard enough. But they nearly cut the music program before they ended up hiring me, so not everyone's exactly happy to see me there." He scrubbed a hand against his face, noting silently that he needed to shave. "Sorry, didn't mean to chew your ear off." Geralt shrugged again from the doorway. It was a slow, dull night, the usually thriving college-town bar nearly dead over winter break. 

"Not like I don't get paid for it." This elicited a chuckle out of Jaskier, who seemed to relax some. "You teach music?" 

"Yeah." He smiled fondly. "High school. Had every intention of making it big and touring the world, or maybe becoming principal trombone at the Phil. Just wasn't in the cards." 

"I'm not exactly familiar with classroom politics, but I know someone who might have some pointers." He was referring to, as he'd later reveal to Jaskier, his on-again/off-again, city councilwoman girlfriend. 

"I do like Christmas, you know," Jaskier's voice came again from the bar, between sips at his beer. "Just not the parties." 

"Humbug." Jaskier giggled again, swiping the foam mustache off his lip with the back of his hand. "Geralt, by the way."

"Jaskier." He sat in contemplative silence for a moment. "What time do you get off?" Geralt's brow furrowed, startled by the question. "It's just - I just - sorry if that was a little forward." He heaved a sigh. "My apartment's decorated. Thought you might like to see it." 

"Hmm." He glanced down at his watch, then up at the bar, empty save for Jaskier and a handful of other patrons. "Ten." Jaskier's face lit up. 

Decorated, as it turns out, was an understatement, and Geralt couldn't help but gawk as Jaskier led him through the threshold of his tiny apartment. A beautiful, grand tree stood in the corner of the living room and stretched so tall it nearly scraped the ceiling. Tinsel and garlands adorned the doorways and the arch leading to the kitchen, a buffalo plaid throw was carefully folded on the back of the couch, and a single stocking hung just below the television. Lights snaked around the perimeter of the room, warm white and snowflake-shaped. 

"Do you like it?" Jaskier asked pleadingly, shattering the protracted silence.

"It's cozy," Geralt remarked. It really was. He flopped unceremoniously onto the couch while Jaskier disappeared into his kitchen.

"Jack or moscato?" He called from the archway, holding up a bottle of whiskey in one hand and white wine in the other. "Sorry, I don't have much right now." 

"Jack is fine." He gazed around the room absentmindedly. "On the rocks." Jaskier returned before long, pressing a glass of whiskey into his hand before sipping at his own glass of wine. 

"Wanna watch something? I have Netflix." Geralt, against his better judgement, shrugged and agreed.

Jaskier was back at the bar not even a week later, excitement flashing across his face when he laid eyes on Geralt. To his credit, Geralt was keenly aware that the man had never visited the bar in his life prior to last week, let alone frequented the establishment. He just decided some things were best left unsaid.

Speaking of unsaid, Jaskier was in love - it was obvious from the way he’d follow Geralt around like a lost puppy. Started lingering around the bar every evening, choosing the seat nearest the door every time, inviting Geralt back to his apartment just as frequently. And Geralt would usually accept, watch stupid movies through all hours of the night until his new music teacher friend inevitably passed out, and then silently creep out of the apartment.

It was three days before Christmas, and the chatter of choice for the evening was holiday plans. Jaskier, as it turned out, had a flight to catch back to Jersey. 

"The worst part's taking NJ Transit down to Lettenhove," he groaned, nursing a bay breeze complete with the little paper umbrella. "It's always delayed coming out of Newark." Geralt himself had plans back in the mountains of Vermont, mainly dinner and then watching his younger brothers play football with nothing but shorts on in the freezing cold over a few cigars with his old man. 

"I have a layover in Newark," he remarked idly. Yennefer - who had hit it off interestingly with Jaskier, to say the least - was heading to New York, and he'd arranged his first flight so they'd be on it together. Which meant it was way earlier than he liked.

"What time? Maybe we'll run into each other." Jaskier looked way too excited by that possibility, leaning back on the bar with all the composure of a middle-schooler. Geralt, despite his best efforts, couldn't help but find it endearing.

"8:15," he grumbled, exasperated just thinking about having to be at the airport at 6am. Jaskier's head perked up.

"Delta?" He asked, grin growing impossibly bigger by the minute. Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was already tearing through his phone to pull up the app. "What gate?" 

"Hold on." He fished his own phone from his pocket with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his boss wasn't nearby, and pulled up the screenshot of the boarding pass Yen had sent him. "B4?" Jaskier nearly fell off the barstool.

"Geralt," he squeaked, struggling to right himself. "We're on the same flight." Just as soon as he'd regained his composure he lost it again, doubling over with laughter. 

"So's Yennefer," he added, and Jaskier shrugged.

"Well, then I'll be sure to pack my trombone." Geralt couldn't stop the snicker that escaped him at the sight of Jaskier's shit-eating grin.

For as much as he might wax poetic about the prospect, Jaskier absolutely despised a white Christmas. Which, just as well, is exactly what they got. He was shivering in just the time it took to flee his Uber and shuffle into the waiting warmth of the airport. Security went blessedly quickly, as it tended to at six in the morning - precisely why he settled on such an early flight. (Nevermind the fact his parents practically demanded it of him.) 

He was nursing a venti peppermint mocha latte - light and sweet, with an extra shot of espresso - when Geralt appeared at the edge of the terminal, and he patted his instrument fondly when Yennefer waltzed up behind him. 

"Geralt!" He exclaimed, rising from his seat and wrapping his free arm around him. "Yennefer!" She held a hand up as he moved towards her.

"Not so fast. I'm not sure if I like you yet." His face fell briefly, but he laughed anyway. 

"Can take the girl out of New York but not the New York–" he began to joke, but Yennefer cut him off with a roll of her eyes.

"Save it. I'm from Connecticut." That finally, properly, seemed to shut him up, and he nestled back into his seat with his coffee. She softened a little. "Where are you going?" 

"Me? Just south Jersey," he perked up. Geralt looked like he had something to add, but before he could the gate attendant started boarding calls.

The flight was thankfully brief, if a little turbulent. Geralt spent the journey playing peacekeeper in the middle seat, while Yennefer idly read some news articles she'd saved on her phone, and Jaskier slept soundly against the window, curled around his trombone. 

It was midday when they arrived in Newark. Yennefer was teasing Jaskier for managing to pass out despite the massive cup of caffeine and sugar he'd consumed, Jaskier was trying his best to put together a groggy retort, and Geralt decidedly just wanted them to shut up. At least they were all about to part ways, and he could enjoy his next flight in – shit.

"Flights to Vermont are cancelled," Jaskier's words, urgent and harried, snapped him out of his thoughts. 

"Fuck," he growled under his breath, eyeing the departure board. Sure enough, in bright red letters, his flight was delayed until further notice, with a little asterisk telling him to download the app to keep up-to-date with any developments. 

"I'd offer to let you join me," Yennefer began with a deep sigh. "But you know how my parents feel about you." Geralt ran a hand down his face. Just his luck, wasn't it. So much for cigars with his old man.

"You can come with me." Jaskier's voice was so uncertain, so small, he almost didn't hear it. "My parents haven't had a chance to hate you yet." Geralt groaned.

"Sure. Why not?" He forced a smile across his gruff features, and Jaskier met him with a toothy grin in return.

"Beats this shithole." He glanced around, trying to find his bearings in the busy airport. "Let's grab some lunch before we head out, yeah?" Geralt nodded before turning to Yennefer.

"Joining us?" She shrugged.

"As a wise man once said, 'sure. Why not?'" The wait at McDonald's wasn't terrible, so they shifted eagerly into line, and all but devoured their food the moment it was in their hands. 

"Right, so," Jaskier began between mouthfuls of Big Mac. "Northeastern Corridor down to Trenton, and my parents will pick us up there." He peered over his burger at Yennefer.

"Northeastern Corridor to NY Penn," she replied flatly, the straw of her drink stained with deep burgundy lipstick. They tossed their trash and headed off towards the train terminal, and, at the very least, Geralt would only now have to deal with one of them at a time. Except god, it seemed, was laughing at him that Christmas Eve. 

"Are you kidding me!" He'd never seen Jaskier so worked up - though, granted, he'd only known him for a month. "NJ Transit's down!?" He flung his arms about dramatically before squatting right in the middle of the station, head in his hands. Yennefer quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Is he… Okay?" Geralt shrugged, fitted a palm on Jaskier's shoulder. He gazed up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. 

"Fine, fine." He pressed his hands against his knees and shifted to his feet. "Now what?"

"We're stuck here," Geralt groaned and heaved a breathy chuckle. "Merry Christmas, huh?"

"Wait…" Yennefer held a finger up, face drawn in thought. "Won't they put you up in a hotel?" Geralt hummed, and ran a finger along the massive, glowing map kiosk, searching for the nearest Delta help center.

They did, in fact, put him up in a hotel, and he did, in fact, agree to let Yennefer and Jaskier tag along. Not before stopping at one of the duty-free shops and snagging as much overpriced liquor as his wallet would allow, of course. Jaskier cast an appraising eye at his haul, shook his head, and wordlessly extracted his trombone from its case. Thank god for all those solos he'd memorized in college.

"What the hell are you–" Yennefer began, but cut herself off when the first dollar bills landed at his feet. "Oh." A few more followed, and then some more, and within a few minutes a crowd had gathered, phones out and pointed at him. He ate up the attention, playing to the crowd for another twenty or so minutes before excusing himself and collecting the cash that had collected at his feet. He bought yet more alcohol, and they departed for the hotel.

It was small and held only the bare essentials - queen bed, TV, bathroom, and the world's smallest fridge. He popped open a bottle of whiskey before he even bothered to kick his shoes off, tilting his head back and taking a deep swig before grabbing the bottle of wine still in the bag and holding it at arm's length for whoever wanted it next. 

"Thank god," Yennefer sighed, yanking it from his hand. It was a deep red that matched her lips. Jaskier dumped his bags in the corner and fished out one of his bottles of vodka. 

"Cheers," he called, raising the bottle to the air, and Geralt and Yennefer held theirs up as well, clinking the three together. "To Christmas!" They dissolved into laughter, shoes discarded randomly across the floor, limbs splayed across the bed, and alcohol sploshing precariously. 

When Geralt cracked his eyes open the next morning, early light was slipping through the blinds, a series of texts from Delta informed him his new flight was set to leave in four hours, and, well. Yennefer was naked in his arms, which he supposed wasn't entirely surprising. He shifted up against the headboard, rubbing sleep from his eyes and gently extricating himself from her unconscious grasp, jarred by the rattling of liquor bottles. His feet were about to finally hit the floor when his heart nearly stopped, and he paused urgently. Yennefer wasn't the only one he'd shared the room with…

"G'morning?" Came a breathy yawn, and soft brown hair poked up from the blankets. Fuck. He planted his feet firmly below him and scanned the room for his scattered clothing. "G'ralt?" Brown hair was followed by scrunched eyes, a half-ajar mouth, and a splotch of pink on his cheek where his hand has been pressed against it in his sleep. Geralt cursed under his breath and plucked up his underwear.

"Did we…?" He half-asked, not daring to finish the question. Jaskier - naked, for the love of god, stalked around the bed to Geralt's side and pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"Yes," he said warmly.

"All of us?" Jaskier nodded and hummed, following suit in tracking the remains of the previous day's outfit. "And… did we… did we like it?" Jaskier laughed, soft and breathy.

"We had a great time, Geralt. Relax." He slid his sweater over his head.

"Right." Finally he spotted his pants, and stepped into them unsteadily. "Suppose we should wake her?" Jaskier shrugged.

"Probably." They roused Yennefer, who also seemed to have a better recollection of the night before than Geralt, and was none too surprised. Breakfast was a brief affair in the hotel lobby, all of them downing cup after cup of shitty black coffee and basking in afterglow. Finally, at long last, they bid their goodbyes and parted ways. Geralt could finally get some peace, quiet, and alone time. On the flight to Vermont, he found himself missing the two anyway.