#Screech Beetles

[wizardnuke]

bess beetle time ft. mite

[bugster-o7]

You guys should go read this

Literally in love with it like I’m literally eating it

[nitzeart]

Prompt - Forest 🌿🍄

Setting up the story for #whispersofmagic23 art challenge on Instagram.

[mashedpotatosinacup]

I want an insect

[psychosomaticdeicide]

WE GOT FUCKIN CICADAS BABEYYYYYYY

[alisonfelixwrites]

the deal - part 1/3 (*) [harry styles au]

//

part two, part three.

summary: in which harry & claire are both single parents and their kids are best friends in school. atlas & finn are six years old and want to hang out all the time even if their parents don't get along .... at first.

word count: 23,973

content warning: smut!! (not too much for my standards lol). mentions of drug use, single parenthood with neglect from the other parent, mentions of physical/emotional abuse

this one is also already on my wp (to be found under 'muse')!! but she deserved her own moment on tumblr because this is one of my faves ❤️

//

“Oh my god.” The voice of a distressed woman behind the wheel sounded through the car.

Claire pressed her hand down on the honk once more, “Fucking move!” She roared before swerving to the side, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The many curse words easily tumbled from her dry lips as she made her way through a part of town she hadn’t often driven through.

Her old Toyota stood out like a sore thumb between all the fancy cars of the fancy people who resided here in these fancy homes. She was sure that if they took one look at her, her Burger King outfit would stand out too against the bright blue of her old car.

“Why the fuck do you drive a Tesla when you don’t even know how to use it!” Claire continued shouting, making hand gestures to the other drivers. An elderly woman driving a BMW gave her a disgusted look and Claire simply rolled her eyes, speeding off now that the intersection had finally cleared a bit.

Her heart was hammering in her throat and her hands were tightly clamped around the wheel. With her cap still on her head, Claire hadn’t had the time to get changed once she noticed the many missed calls on her phone. She simply jumped into her car after her shift and drove like a maniac to try and keep the damage to a minimum.

Waze finally showed the place she had to be at, and she came to a screeching halt before clumsily driving up a massive driveway which held a Land Rover and an old Volkswagen Beetle. Claire jumped out of the car and rushed up to the front door, completely out of breath.

Jamming her finger on the doorbell over and over again, she noticed a set of lights being turned on in the hallway before the door was yanked open.

“I’m so sorry!” She immediately blurted out, being met with a man who shot her an angry and very judging glare. Claire couldn’t blame him. She had fucked up.

He towered over her, blocking the doorway to his house as Claire shifted on her feet. He took a quick glance at her outfit, “I take it you’re Claire Carter?”

“Yes.” She breathed, “Shit, I-I’m so sorry I’m so late.” She palmed her forehead, fatigue taking over. Her entire body ached after standing on her feet for so many hours, faking polite smiles at the customers who did nothing but treat her like shit. She reeked of fries and couldn’t wait to take a shower.

The man in front of her wore joggers and a casual, white shirt. He had a clip holding his brown hair away and some scruff on his jaw. The judging look he sent her made Claire wish the ground could swallow her whole. He eventually exhaled, “You’re the one who forgot her child at school?” The snide tone of his voice made Claire press her lips together.

She lowered her eyes and swallowed, “Look, I’m just here to pick up Atlas.” Her voice was softer now, “Where is he?”

“Inside.” The man nudged his head inside his house, “Playing with my boy.”

Claire nodded, “Right. You’re Finn’s dad, aren’t you? Atlas talks about him a lot."

“Yeah.”

Silence took over and Claire glanced into the hallway behind him, “So… Can you tell him I’m here? Or can I come in?” A hint of impatience laced her voice. It was already late and Claire knew the never ending amount of chores that were waiting for her at home. Not to mention she had to get Atlas to bed on time to not disrupt their entire weekend schedule.

“He’s a good kid, you know?” The man spoke, snapping Claire out of her thoughts. She flicked her eyes up at him before frowning softly, “I’m aware. I’m raising him.”

“No, like… He’s a good kid. Teacher was raving about him. I went in to pick up Finn and they were the only two left. The teacher was about ready to leave and she couldn’t reach you. She was about to call the police.”

Claire’s cheeks turned an embarrassed shade of pink as she swallowed. She was being lectured by this man, who clearly judged her for not being a decent parent and forgetting to pick up her child after school. Claire’s stomach turned, knowing full well she already wasn’t making a good impression with the people of Atlas’ new school. She was hardly ever there to drop him off or pick him up and had a sitter do those things. She had never even met most of the teachers or the other parents, which was very frowned upon at that school.

“I’d like to take him home now.” Claire repeated, her voice a little hoarse, “It’s late.”

“Wonder why.” He scoffed before sighing and turning around, “Finn!” He yelled into the house. Claire felt her bottom lip wobbling, attempting to recompose herself before the sheer look of disgust of this man brought her to tears.

She soon heard little footsteps running over the wooden floors of the house, which honestly was more of a mansion. Even when Claire felt like shit, the sight of her little boy with his shaggy blonde hair, cheered her up immediately. With a wide grin on her face, she crouched down, opening up her arms for him to jump into her.

“Hi, baby!” Claire squeaked, spinning him around as Atlas clung to her. He had some sort of stain on his shirt but Claire didn’t mind, holding his body close to hers. “Hi, mummy! I missed you today.” Atlas bubbled in response. Claire hummed before putting him down, already feeling the massive ache in her back, “I know, I missed you too.”

Her eyes then flicked to the boy standing in the doorway too, his dad having a protective hand on the top of his back. “Hi.” Claire smiled, holding out her hand, “You must be Finn.”

“Yes.” He timidly spoke, offering her a small smile. He shook her hand with little enthusiasm, “Are you Atlas’ mum?”

“Yeah, ‘m Claire.” She smiled back before straightening up, “Well, thank you again. We should get going.”

“That your car?” Finn’s father nudged his head towards the blue Toyota and Claire exhaled, “Yes.”

“Hm.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes, “Have a good night.” She mumbled, not even waiting for his response. Atlas shouted a goodbye to Finn, waving excitedly before climbing into the passenger seat of the car. Claire checked her mirrors, avoiding the shocked eyes at all costs that her kid was getting in the front seat of the car.

Claire being the responsible parent she was couldn’t afford to fix the broken safety belts of the backseat, so Atlas drove up front with her. Backing out of the long driveway, she watched Finn and his father disappear back inside of the huge house.

“’M sorry, baby. Mum had to work late.” Claire yawned softly as they hit traffic again to drive home, “Did you have fun with your friend?”

“Yes, Finn’s really nice. A little quiet.” Atlas spoke. Claire hummed, “Are you hungry?”

“No! Harry made us dinner.”

“Harry.” Claire nodded, “That Finn’s dad?”

“Yes. He’s nice.”

Claire huffed and took a left, “Debatable.” She mumbled under her breath, not for Atlas to hear. The rest of the car ride was filled with Atlas’ babbles that Claire honestly loved. He spoke about nothing important most of the time but she loved hearing his voice and the way he saw the world, what observations he made. In her mind, she was already thinking about tomorrow though.

She had the Saturday-shift to cover too, so Atlas was spending the day with his father. The thought alone made Claire’s stomach clench but she tried to push it away. He deserved a shot at two parents and perhaps Evan really did deserve another chance to prove himself as a father.

The heavy door to the appartement hardly budged as Claire put her entire weight against it to open it up. The entire building shook as she did so, and she could tell the neighbours were listening to the news through the thin walls of this crappy building.

No one ever said it was this hard to be an uneducated, unsupported single mum.

With a heavy sigh, Claire ran her fingers through Atlas’ blonde whisps as he excitedly walked into their home. As always, both kicked off their shoes by the door and headed through the narrow hallway – passing both their bedrooms – towards the living area. Pizza boxes were on the counter from last night and Claire was glad Atlas had already eaten at his friend’s house because in all her haste, she even forgot to pick up groceries.

Ignoring the rumbling of her own stomach, she decided on a quick shower to feel fresh and clean again before snuggling up on the couch with Atlas to watch some of his favourite shows. Claire fought to keep her eyes open, refusing to go to sleep before her six year-old did.

Life was pathetic enough as it was.

She couldn’t shake the look of absolute judgement and despise she had received from Harry. Yes, she had forgotten to pick up her child after school. Yes, she had driven like a maniac and showed up at his door dressed in her Burger King outfit, hours late. Yes, they had been close on calling the cops on her.

But that didn’t make her a bad mother.

Claire sighed, gently stroking her fingers over Atlas’ forehead as he sucked on his thumb. It was a habit she tried to get him to shake, but simply didn’t have the energy to constantly point it out to him. He was too old to still be doing that, but part of Claire knew that even Atlas was traumatized from the shit he had witnessed as a baby and an infant.

It had taken Claire two years to get away from Evan and the past four years had been hell. And bliss at the same time.

She didn’t think she’d be a single mum at twenty-eight, making ends meet and having no savings to start something up. But Atlas was kind, fun and energetic. Now that he was a bit older, it was like having a mini-me. She could always talk to him and he was intelligent for his age, following along easily in the topics Claire spoke to him about. He was respectful albeit a little wild at certain times.

In his previous school they had called him a ‘wild child’ who ‘acted out because of the way his mother raised him’. Simply because he had learned the word ‘fuck’ from Claire and had yelled it out in class.

Once.

Claire thought she’d be done with the judgement, but after only a few weeks in his new school she could already sense it again. If not from the teachers, then definitely from the other parents. She was happy Atlas made friends so easily and that he was such an open, approachable kid, but she could really do without the critiques of the others.

It was on Monday that she saw Harry again.

After much whining from Atlas, Claire decided to drop him off at school herself for the first time. Along with all the other parents in line, she was crouched down in front of him to make sure everything was in his backpack for the day. She was parked with one wheel on the curb in front of a garage, so she really didn’t have much time.

Glancing around to check for police in the street, Claire hurried up and stuffed everything in his backpack, “There, you’ve got everything.”

“Thank you, mummy.” Atlas grinned. A dimple popped in his cheek, one of the things he inherited from Evan. Claire’s stomach turned at the memory. Another memory was the ache in her arm from the bruise she had there. A much more recent memory, from picking up Atlas on Saturday.

She wasn’t sure who had reacted worse to her being late for pick-up. Harry, who had stared her down and made her feel insignificant, or Evan, who had grabbed her and shoved her against the wall while yelling in her face.

“Good boy.” Claire proudly smiled, cupping his cheeks and pressing a kiss to his forehead, “You be good today, hm? Belle will be here to pick you up after school.”

Atlas’ face dropped, “Belle?” He pushed his bottom lip out into a pout, “Why not you?”

“I have to work, honey.” Claire sighed, “But I’ll be home for dinner.”

“But I don’t like Belle.” Atlas whined, “She stinks.”

Claire could feel a few pairs of eyes on her and rolled her lips inside of her mouth, “Well, that’s because she smokes so much. But I have to work, I’ve explained this to you.” Claire kept her voice down but Atlas whined louder, jutting out his lip, “But mummy!”

“Atlas.” Claire sternly whispered, shaking her head to him, “I’ll see you for dinner, end of discussion.”

He stared at the ground with a thick frown in his forehead, refusing to look at her, “Fuck.” He whispered.

Claire’s eyes widened, “Atlas! No,” She held up her finger, “you promised me you’d never say it again.” Her cheeks flamed up as the parents next to her had definitely heard that. Atlas shrugged while staring at the tips of his worn-out sneakers, “You say it all the time.”

“I’m an adult.” Claire sighed before scratching above her brow. Her hair was in a low bun and she wore jeans and a large hoodie, “Look, just go inside, hm? Class is about to begin, don’t want you to be late.”

Atlas didn’t look at her anymore, simply turned around and walked off. A lump formed in Claire’s throat as she watched him, and her hands fiddled with the sleeves of her jumper, “I love you! Have a good day!” She called after him, but he didn’t react. Exhaling a shaky breath, Claire tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hi!” She heard the voice from next to her, “Are you Atlas’ mum?”

Claire forced a smile, staring at the perfectly done make-up of one of the mums next to her, “Hi.” She nodded, “Yes, I’m Claire. Nice to mee you.”

“Hi, I’m Dolores.” The woman smiled back with her pearly white teeth, “One of my girls is in Atlas’ class. Betty.”

“Oh,” Claire raised her brows, “yeah, I think Atlas has mentioned her.”

Another mum joined the conversation, “So you’re Atlas’ mum, hm? We all thought it was that gothic sixteen year old.” She laughed, referring to Belle and her dark make-up and black clothes. Claire pressed her lips together, “No, that’s just his sitter. She lives in the building with us, so it’s easy.”

“Hm.” The third woman simply nodded, “Well, me and Dolores are off to have some coffee. Would you care to join?”

Claire forced a smile, “Thank you for the offer, but I have to get to work. It was nice to meet you.” She shot an awkward wave and turned around, stopping dead in her tracks when she near bumped into Harry. Claire was only eye level with his chest and shortly looked up, sending him a nod, “Hi.” She went to stride past him but Harry stopped her, turning around with her, “Nice outfit.”

She could hear the judgement in his voice and rolled her eyes before turning to face him, “Look, I could really do without all those comments of yours. I thanked you for looking after Atlas on Friday, there’s really no need for you to behave like that.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest while firmly keeping her feet on the ground. Harry wore a loose, grey cable knit jumper and some blue jeans that hung loosely around his legs. His hair was back in that little clip to keep it away.

The other mums were out of earshot and Harry frowned, taking a step closer to Claire, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She stood her ground although her voice wavered, “I know you think you’re better than me. And you probably are. Sue me for working a lot so I can provide for my kid. Sometimes it happens that I lose track of time or that I cover a shift. ” She bit before turning around and stomping off.

Harry watched her, scoffing under his breath. His eyes lingered as the blonde walked up to her horribly parked car, near flipping of another driver who honked at her for crossing randomly. The car moved from how harshly she slammed the door shut before she drove off. He shook his head to himself. That reckless driving with a six year-old next to her was dangerous.

He turned back with his hands in his pockets, feeling the eyes of the other mums on him. Harry was basically the only father who made it to drop-off moments. It caused most of the other mums to shoot their shot somehow and flirt with him, which he always rolled his eyes at.

He shot Finn one last wave, watching as he hurried up to walk next to Atlas. Both immediately broke out into a grin and Harry sighed, part of him wishing Finn could’ve found another friend in class. Finn was a little quiet and timid, which is why it surprised Harry that he gravitated towards someone as loud and extraverted as Atlas.

Before Atlas transferred schools, Finn never really mentioned many of his classmates. He often played by himself and never asked to invite anyone over for a playdate. Ever since a few weeks, he talked about Atlas all the time.

So when Harry saw the little blonde boy, waiting for his mum who had promised to pick him up, he took it upon himself to take him home and care for him until they got a hold of one of his parents. He had overheard the teachers talking about it, and only one name was on the call sheet.

Claire Carter.

A blonde-haired hurricane who showed up at his door by the time it was dark. The muted brown of her Burger King-outfit didn’t fit her or compliment her in any way. Even from the distance, Harry could see the fire in her eyes, hidden by a lot of fatigue.

But he didn’t really care in that moment. She had put her child in danger, and Harry could never imagine forgetting to pick up Finn from school or not notifying the teacher. He simply couldn’t understand how that happened.

He wasn’t able to keep his snide remarks down, somehow feeling so frustrated with her that she was so casual about fucking forgetting her child.

But he had quickly developed a soft spot for Atlas. Partly because he was making feel Finn so at ease, and partly because he was just a funny, goofy and playful kid. Harry had overheard them as they played together, and he constantly asked Finn questions. Asking how he was doing, asking if he felt okay, asking if he had a good day at school. It was gentle and caring.

Until he had heard Atlas slipping in a curse word and Harry’s eyes had widened tremendously.

After meeting his mum, he wasn’t really all that surprised anymore.

***

“Booze?” Harry frowned as Claire handed him the bottle of scotch.

She sheepishly shrugged, “You don’t drink?”

“Uh – no, I do.” Harry breathed, eyeing the label and seeing some knock-off version of cheap scotch. He cleared his throat, “’S just a bit of a weird gift to thank someone for looking after your kid.”

“Well, I didn’t know what to get you. Don’t think you need another stick to push up your ass.” Claire muttered and Harry glared at her, “Anything else?”

They were back in the same position. Claire was on the grass in front of Harry’s house as he stood in the doorway after Finn and Atlas ran inside. It was a Saturday and even though Claire had felt excited about spending a day with Atlas, he had asked her for a playdate with Finn.

And so here she was, dropping him off at his best friend’s house.

“No.” She breathed, “Not really. You’re just going to text me if I can come pick him up?”

Harry nodded, “Sure. Any allergies or something I need to be aware of for lunch?”

“No, he’s all good. Not a big fan of spinach if you were considering that.” Claire informed him. Harry softly nodded, “Fine then, bye.” He closed the door and Claire huffed, shaking her head. She hoped for Atlas’ sake that Finn wasn’t as much of a bitch as his father.

But disaster struck the moment Claire got in her car and tried to start it, only for her car the make the most pathetic noise and shut down.

“No.” She groaned, “God, please, no.” She tried again, jamming her key in it only to receive no response. Claire sat in the driver’s seat for a good ten minutes, simply refusing to get out and knock on Harry’s door again to ask him for help. She refused. Stubbornly, she sat in the seat until she got too bored and

Finally pushing her pride aside, she got out of the car in the scorching sun. Her arms crossed in front of her, she sighed while ringing Harry’s door again. He opened up with that same frown, “Forgot something?”

“I never left.” Claire deadpanned, “My car’s dead. Won’t start. Can I come inside to call a mechanic? It’s boiling.”

“I can feel that. ‘S like an oven.” Harry glanced outside before opening up the door wider, “Fine, come in.”

“Thank you.” She breathed. Harry cringed at her sandy shoes as she strolled through his hallway and straight into the kitchen like she had been here a billion times before. “Where are the kids?” She questioned while sitting down on a barstool.

“Yeah, make yourself at home, why don’t you.” Harry sarcastically spoke before leaning against the counter, “Upstairs. Finn’s got a playroom.”

“A playroom.” Claire nodded while scrolling her phone while searching for a mechanic, “Fancy.”

“Had to do something with my ex’s empty art studio.”

The comment made Claire flick her eyes up. Harry was staring out the window with his arms crossed. The stubble was more prominent now than a week before and the sun coming through definitely accentuated his prominent jaw and the shape of his lips. Claire put her phone down as she leaned her arms on the countertop, “Want to talk about it?”

Harry huffed softly, “No. Did you find a mechanic yet?”

“Do you know anyone in this neighbourhood? That I can like… afford.” Claire muttered the last part and Harry pressed his lips together, “Yeah, I’ll call my car guy. Don’t have to worry about money.”

“Your car guy?”

“Mhm.” Harry was on his phone, a concentrated frown on his forehead. Claire tilted her head to the side, “That’s… I mean, how often do you need a car guy?”

“Just sometimes.” Harry shrugged, “The old beetle outside gives up every once in a while. I call him and he comes here, it’s easy.”

“Both cars are yours?” Claire asked in clarification, and Harry hummed, “Yes.”

“Wow.” She mumbled, nodding to herself, “Must be nice.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her remark and then called his car guy, sharing a few quick words with him before hanging up again, “He’ll be here soon.”

Claire nodded, “Don’t you have jumper cables?”

“No, my car guy does.”

“Right.” She breathed. They were left in silence for a bit as the coffee was running. Harry hadn’t asked her if she wanted any, but poured her a cup either way and Claire didn’t complain. The longer the silence lasted, the more comfortable it became as both scrolled on their phones for a bit, the occasional sigh coming from Harry’s mouth.

Giggles and small feet carried themselves through the hallway.

“Daddy!!” Finn bubbled as both him and Atlas ran into the kitchen. Harry’s brows raised at the sight of his son, “Bub, where’s your shirt?”

“Atlas and I want to swim!” He ignored the question and Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “Now?”

Atlas excitedly jumped, “Swim!”

“Atlas.” Claire chuckled while shaking her head, “You don’t know how to swim.”

Harry flicked his eyes to hers, “He can’t swim?” And Claire shook her head, “No, he hasn’t been taught yet.”

“Hm.” Harry exhaled, “Uh – well, I have floaties. Finn, you should use them too.”

“But, daddy!” The boy whined, “I can swim!” He stomped his foot down and Harry huffed, “In a kiddie pool. Not in a pool this deep.”

Finn pouted and Claire fought her smile at how adorable he looked, “But, daddy…” He tried again, “you always come in the pool with me and swim with me and throw me around and then save me.” He explained. Claire’s lips curled up in a smile, “Oh, do you?” She flicked her eyes to Harry who scoffed slightly before crouching down to Finn’s level, “Buddy, I have to fix something with Atlas’ mum’s car, so I can’t come in the pool right now. Besides, I have some work to do in the office. I thought you guys would be nice and quiet for me today?”

“We can be quiet in the pool.” Atlas butted in and Harry shook his head, “It’s gonna be a no. I can’t supervise when you guys are in the pool and it’s too dangerous.”

“Mummy,” Atlas whispered, tugging on Claire’s sleeve. She turned to face him as Harry ruffled Finn’s hair, who couldn’t hide the disappointment for the life of him.

“Yes?” She smiled at Atlas, who nibbled his lip a little, “Why don’t we have a pool?”

Claire took a breath, “Because we live in an apartment.”

“Yeah.” Atlas lowered his eyes, “But I like being outside. Finn has a very big garden to play in.”

Claire’s heart clenched as she exhaled before pressing her lips together. Atlas looked at her with big, green eyes, expecting an answer she couldn’t give him. Claire couldn’t tell him she also really wanted a house with a garden and a pool and a dog, giving Atlas the room he craved to play and be wild. He had a lot of energy and no real way to get rid of that in their small, dingy apartment.

Harry saved her though, clearing his throat, “Atlas, you can borrow swimming trunks from Finn. You guys get in the pool for a while once I grab the floaties.” The cheers sounded loudly through the room even though Harry wasn’t finished yet, “Only for a little while!” He held his finger up, “I have to work!”

Before the final word had left his lips, Finn and Atlas had bolted out of the room and back up the stairs and Harry let out a sigh, checking his watch. Claire followed his gaze, noticing his bony fingers tapping on the countertop in thought. The veins wrapping around his arm led her eyes up to the tattoos on his skin.

“I can stay too.” She offered, taking a sip of her coffee.

Harry seemed snapped out of his thoughts, “Hm?”

Claire cleared her throat, “I can stay too. You said you need to get work done and I have a free day. I can stay by the pool with the boys. I don’t mind, if you don’t have the time for it.”

“I want to have the time for it.” Harry clarified and Claire nodded, “I know. But it’s fine if you don’t. You can’t have time for everything.”

Harry scratched his jaw in thought, “I don’t have like bathing suits here. Astrid took all her stuff.”

Astrid.

Claire shrugged, “I’m wearing black underwear. Decent enough, not like… a thong or anything.” She mumbled. Harry fought the flaming of his cheeks before huffing out a chuckle, “Or you could stay by the edge and just put your legs in.”

“Atlas doesn’t know how to swim. Floaties or not, I’m getting in the water with him.” Claire frowned.

Harry sighed and nodded, “Yeah. I mean – uh… If you don’t mind? I really have a project to finish today, I have to meet the deadline or I’m losing this client.”

“What is it that you do exactly?”

“I’m an architect.” Harry mumbled, clearly still lost in thought at Claire’s offer. He nibbled his lip as she nodded, digesting the information. It made sense. Harry worked from home and on his own schedule, which meant he was free to drop Finn off and pick him up from school all the time.

“And you didn’t have any other plans today? On your free day?”

Claire let out a breath, “I – uh… Seeing as Atlas asked for this playdate, I actually planned an actual date this afternoon.” She tilted her head to the side while squinting her eyes at her screen, “But judging by this guy’s texts… he’s about to cancel on me either way so, yeah.” She sighed and put her phone back down, forcing Harry a small smile.

He whistled teasingly, “A date, hm? Spicy.”

“Not all of us are a hundred years old.” She rolled her eyes and Harry huffed out a laugh, “How old do you think I am, Claire?” The playfulness in his tone was something Claire wasn’t used to from him. The Harry she had seen so far in their previous encounters, was uptight and moody. His dimple popped in his left cheek as he smirked slightly.

She faked a small smile back, “Considering your gigantic frown lines, I’d say nearing your forties.”

“Ouch.” Harry placed his hand on his chest, “You wound me. Thirty-four, actually, but thanks. I’ll make some changes to my skincare routine. Noted.”

Claire giggled and shook her head, “I was kidding.”

“Funny girl, aren’t you?”

Claire flicked her eyes up, sensing a shift in Harry’s tone. He had lose the tension in his shoulders, softly smirking at her now from the opposite side of the kitchen as he leaned against the countertop. She lowered her eyes again and Harry cleared his throat, “So, going on a date, hm? First date?”

“Yes.” Claire breathed, “First and last date, which is how it usually goes.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know,” She shrugged, her fingers toying together, “I show up in a pretty dress and flirt and play them a little. It’s all fun and games in the beginning until the real conversations start and it comes up that I’m a mother, raising Atlas by myself.”

Harry slowly nodded and Claire smiled, “You know, they’re usually fine with me having a son. Like, that’s alright mostly. But once they realize I don’t have a week-week schedule with my ex and actually have Atlas near every day, that’s where they draw the line. Like they don’t want to share.” She shrugged, “So that’s where it ends. I’m lucky if I can get some decent sex out of it. Which doesn’t happen often.”

Harry sputtered out a laugh at her bluntness before shaking his head to himself, “Wow. Yeah, I see why it sticks to one date. I could never be with someone who doesn’t appreciate Finn or doesn’t want to spend time with him.”

“It’s a package deal.”

He nodded in agreement, “Sure is.”

Claire leaned her elbow on the countertop and stared at him, “How about you?”

“Me?” Harry chuckled, shaking his head, “Nah. Eternal bachelor.”

She frowned while smiling, “I don’t believe that for a second. I know I’ve only been there to drop off Atlas once, but I could see all those soccer moms making eyes at you.”

“They’re all married.” He rolled his eyes, “And not my type.”

“Rich and beautiful is not your type?” Claire chuckled and Harry shrugged, “Apparently not.”

Silence fell over them again until Harry took a breath, “I’m gonna head up to the office. Grab whatever you want from the fridge or anything. There’s sunscreen in the bathroom and obviously the pool is outside. I’ll go grab the floaties from Finn’s room.”

“Yeah, okay.” Claire nodded. She checked her phone again, just seeing the message come in of her date, cancelling on her and asking to reschedule. She puckered her lips, remembering how he was some hot shot at an up and coming lawyer firm. She didn’t exactly expect him to have time for her on a Saturday.

With Harry’s footsteps heading up the stairs, Claire slowly got up from her barstool and roamed the kitchen. She stared out the window, seeing the pale blue pool in the large garden. It looked inviting, she had to admit. Even if it was nearing the end of September, it was exceptionally warm.

The house felt silent with both boys and Harry upstairs, and Claire’s feet took her to the crispy white living room. Every piece of furniture here looked like it was made by designers and she was nearly scared to touch anything. There weren’t much toys here and then Claire remembered Finn having a playroom upstairs.

As her eyes darted over the pictures on the wall, they stayed put on the brunette in some of the frames. There were about two of her and a younger Finn. The other ones were of Harry and Finn, or a standalone Finn.

Claire figured it was Astrid, Harry’s ex. She was beautiful, obviously. Looking at Finn, he was a gorgeous little boy with obvious great genes.

Just a few minutes later, Claire was outside with both excited boys. Finn and Atlas were around the same size, with Atlas just being a tad taller. Both wore little swimming trunks with either ducks or boats on them and stood perfectly still as Claire put sunscreen on them.

She didn’t see Harry staring at them from the window above. His laptop was open and he was drawing, he really was. Or he tried to. But he stood against the windowsill up on the first floor, staring down the length of his garden. The water of the pool looked inviting and he could see Finn’s wide grin from a mile away.

Claire grinned too, her blonde hair pinned back now with one of Harry’s ballpoints holding it together. It was inventive, he had to give her that. Her hands smoothed over Finn’s back to put the product on him before she gently slid the floaties around the boy’s arms. They both patiently waited at the edge of the pool, excited to jump in.

Harry’s leg twitched a little when his eyes were on her. She kicked off her shoes, a pair of mom jeans on her legs that she popped. The dryness in his throat once she slid the pants down her legs, was something Harry didn’t anticipate. Black underwear was revealed. Simple cotton with just a small lace border.

Harry thanked his impeccable eyesight to see every detail of Claire from a distance. She was shaped beautifully, with curvy thighs and a dip in her waist which was revealed as she lifted the navy top over her head to reveal an equally black bra.

He saw hints of a tattoo on the back of her shoulder, but Claire moved too quickly for Harry to notice it. Urging the boys to get in the pool, she elegantly got in with them.

A small smile tugged on Harry’s lips as he watched the first few minutes of their playing. Atlas and Finn mostly splashed around, ruining Claire’s plans to keep her hair dry. She tossed the ballpen to the side, ducking underneath the water to get in all the way.

She played with Atlas a bit, and Finn too. He laughed loudly as Claire threw him around a little bit, playing gently with him. They did a bit of a race where she purposely let him win while Atlas splashed a little more, without his swimming experience.

It was hours later, when Claire was fresh out of the pool and drying on the sunbed – with both boys running around the garden and giggling – that she felt a towel being dropped on her stomach. Her eyes snapped open in surprise and she squinted, Harry blocking the sunlight a little, “Hi.” He chuckled.

“Oh, hi.” She smiled, sitting up a bit and grabbing the towel, “Thank you.”

“’S fine.” His eyes glanced around the garden, “Did they have fun?”

Claire wrapped the towel around her to dry off, “Yeah. I don’t understand how they’ve got so much energy left, even I need a nap. Two is too much.”

“I’ve honestly never seen Finn this loud.” Harry smiled as his son ran through the garden with Atlas chasing him, “They’re pretty good friends.”

“They are.” Claire smiled as she followed his gaze, “Infectuous, really.”

“They didn’t give you too hard of a time?”

“Not at all. Finn’s a sweet a boy.”

Harry smiled as he nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, “He is.”

“How about you? Finished your project?”

“Yep.” Harry stretched his arms now, yawning a little, “I need a nap too.” He joked.

Claire got up with a mischievous glint in her eyes, the towel around her form as she took a few steps closer to Harry. He involuntary took a few back, but she was still close enough that he could see the freckles on her nose and the remains of an old scar above her brow.

“What are you doing?” He spoke in a strained voice, taking a few steps back still to create some distance. He could feel himself breaking out into a sweat when Claire just continued to step closer to him. “Claire.” He pushed.

“You know what’s a great substitute for a nap?” She purred, daring to take another step closer to him. She could inhale his perfume and Harry held his breath when she batted her lashes. He swallowed thickly, “Hm?”

“A dip in the water.” She smiled, using a hand that she placed against his covered chest to give him a shove back. Harry’s eyes widened as he lost his balance, “Wh- Wait!” He yelped, reaching his arm out. Claire laughed, hardly caring that Harry managed to take a hold of her wrist and pull her in. Unlike him – who made a gigantic splash as he tumbled down – Claire managed to get in a dive and dip in elegantly.

The coolness of the water did wake Harry up immediately and he sputtered out as he reached the surface, shaking his hair out with his clothes completely soaked. Claire was laughing as she quickly took the towel to throw it on the grass and get it out of the water.

“Oh my god!” Harry laughed, splashing water at Claire, who giggled. Harry flicked his eyes to their two boys who seemed unaware, chuckling as he shook his head, “You dick.”

Claire gasped in fake shock, “Are you cursing?”

Harry rolled his eyes as he swam back over to the side, pushing himself out of the pool. Claire was mesmerized for a second, watching the way his shirt clung to him. The muscles in his back bulged as he pushed himself up, showing off every ridge.

“Shit.” Harry chuckled, opening up the buttons of his shirt, “I can’t believe you pushed me in the pool. What are you, six?”

Claire grinned and also got out of the water, feeling Harry’s eyes on her as she wrung out her hair, “No, twenty-eight.”

“You wouldn’t say.”

Claire stuck out her tongue and Harry huffed out a chuckle, “Brat.” He scoffed, “’M gonna grab towels.” He turned around to head into the house, his pants soaking wet and his shirt off. The light reflected off his muscular back and Claire near drooled. Harry handed her another fluffy towel and both sat down on the sunbed.

“So around what time are you going to offer me a drink?” Claire teased and Harry hummed, “I don’t drink around Finn.”

“Well, ‘m not gonna get blind drunk but I wouldn’t say no to some pink wine.”

“Yeah, not blind drunk, just…” He shrugged, “I don’t want to give the wrong example.”

Claire leaned back on her hands, letting herself dry in the heat of the burning sun, “Having a drink every once in a while isn’t setting the wrong example, Harry. You’re an adult.” She shrugged, “I mean, it’s your own decision obviously, but it’s impossible to be responsible all the time around your child.”

“Responsible…” Harry mused, “Like remembering to pick them up from school?”

“Dick.” Claire chuckled, nudging her shoulder into his playfully. Harry grinned, staring at the pool as the boys played still. Harry had changed out of his pants and put on some swimming trunks this time, in case Claire decided to shove him in the pool again. His hair was wet and dripping down his back, sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you again for that. Work just got… in the way.”

Harry turned his head to the side to watch her, “Don’t have to thank me again, that’s not why I said it. Was just making a joke.”

“I know.”

“You work a lot, don’t you? At Burger King?”

Claire exhaled a breath, “It’s not the most glamorous job and it doesn’t pay that much. But yes, I work a lot. I take a lot of shifts and often work weekends or late nights.”

“Is Atlas by himself when you work?”

“No,” Claire breathed, “I’m not that terrible of a mum.” Her voice held a hint of bitterness and she pressed her lips together, “There’s a young girl in my building who babysits for him. She’s like… seventeen maybe and she dropped out of school. She’s always available. The other mums said they’d seen her around to pick him up sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah…” Harry nodded, “like dark make-up, black hair?”

“Mhm, that’s Belle.”

“Isn’t it like… counter-productive? You have to pay her and then work while having to do so…”

“I earn more than whatever I have to pay her.” Claire mumbled, “Like I said, she’s not that expensive. I keep more than I have to give her.”

Harry nodded, “Right.” There was silence for a moment, “Look, ‘m sorry about giving you a hard time last week. I didn’t mean to like… shame you or anything.”

“No, I get it. It’s everyone’s first impression of me, trust me.” She chuckled, “That judgement is exactly why I pulled him out of his previous school, though. He heard people talking that I was never there, that I was leaving him on his own, that I wasn’t fit to be a parent. It’s painful because I’m really doing this all for him.”

Harry nodded again, listening to her. Claire fiddled with her fingers, “Like what he said about the pool earlier, you heard, right?"

“Mhm. I did.”

“Well, I want that too. I want to give him everything, I want him to have a nice childhood and I want to spend time with him. But I don’t have an education so I can’t really go for high-paying jobs. Just have to take what I can get and hope for flexible hours to be there for him.”

“You’re doing a lot, Claire.” Harry sympathized, “Seriously, ‘m sorry. I-I judged way too quick.”

“That’s fine.” She shot him a sly smile, “Happens when you’re old.”

Harry smiled and shook his head to himself, “And hey… I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you drop him off here whenever you have to work late or want some time for yourself? Finn and Atlas can spend time together, he could even stay the night if you want. And you don’t have to pay me.”

“What?” Claire frowned.

“I’m serious.” He shrugged, “It’s nice for Finn to have a friend. They’re joined at the hip.” Harry glanced over his shoulder to see both boys giggling together, a smile tugging on his lips, “I think they’d like it. He could eat here or I could grab him after school, bring him here. You can just come pick him up whenever you’re finished.”

Claire tilted her head to the side with a frown, “But… Don’t you have to work? Or go places?”

“Not really, to be honest.” Harry admitted, “I’m home all the time. A lot has changed since my divorce and I don’t have much of a social life anymore, just put Finn first. Wanted him to grow up with at least one present parent after all the arguing he had to witness as a baby. And I work for myself, got flexible hours. I work when he’s at school or when he goes to bed at night.”

Claire stared at him, “I-I mean… If you’re sure.”

“Of course.” Harry smiled, “Dead sure. You can even go on your dates on Saturday nights, or something.” He teased softly and Claire bit her lip, “You’re right. I can. I should text that guy to reschedule."

He hummed, “You can.” He then turned to face her, “So we’ve got a deal?”

Claire nibbled her lip, “And… you’d want nothing out of it?”

“No.” Harry shook his head, “Just doing it for Finn. And Atlas is a nice kid, Claire. He’s a good influence to bring Finn out of his shell.”

She smiled softly, her bubbly boy being a good influence made her so proud. “Okay. Then I guess we have a deal.”

They stupidly shook hands before bursting out in giggles. Claire hummed, bumping her shoulder into his again, “You’re not that bad, you know?”

“I know.” Harry playfully responded, “Neither are you."

“You’re the first mum-friend I’ve ever made in my life.”

“Oh god.” Harry groaned, “Don’t call me your mum-friend.”

Claire threw her head back in a laugh and Harry leaned back a little bit too, his eyes finally catching the ink on the back of Claire’s shoulder now that her hair dried a bit. He could see now, that it was a tattoo for Atlas. Literally a tattoo of Atlas, who carried the world. It was simple, and even a little disturbed with some dark bruises around it.

Harry swallowed, but decided not to comment on it.

***

“Hi, Harry!” Atlas bubbled as he waved at Harry. He was leaning against his car, sunglasses up his nose as he waved back, “Hi, bud.”

“Atlas!” Claire panted as she came running from across the street – having done another horrible parking job with her car. Harry smiled as she ran up to Atlas, crouching down to catch him in a hug. Atlas ran straight into her arms with a giggle and Claire hugged him, stroking his back, “Hi, baby. How was your day?”

“Good!” He smiled widely. Claire pressed a kiss to his cheek as she smiled.

“Bye Atlas! See you soon!” Finn’s voice sounded as he ran up to Harry, and Claire straightened up as she shot him a wave, “Oh, hi. Didn’t see you.”

Yeah, hey.” He smiled back, “Been here a while, I like to be early, Finn doesn’t like to wait.”

“Are you sure it’s still okay for tonight?”

He nodded, “Yep, ‘s fine.” Harry ruffled Atlas’ hair, “Gonna come over for a movie night, bud?”

“Can we watch Toy Story?!” Atlas excitedly gasped and Harry groaned a little under his breath, recovering quickly as he rolled his lips inside of her mouth, “Mhm.”

Claire chuckled, “Are you sure?” She softly asked him and Harry nodded again, “Positive, really. It’ll be fun.”

Her hair was up in a clip again, whisps of hair flying around. She wore a jumper even if it was boiling, and Harry could tell she was still wearing the Burger King shirt underneath, some of the muted brown sticking out of the neckline of her jumper. Claire took Atlas’ hand and waved at Harry and Finn, “See you tonight!”

“Bye!” Harry waved back, and Finn did too. As Harry urged Finn into the backseat, Dolores walked up to him. With her fresh bob-cut and perfect make-up, she sent him a smile, “Hi, Harry.”

“Dolores.” He nodded. She eyed him up and down, “Did I overhear you talking to Claire for a moment there?”

He pressed his lips together and nodded, “Mhm.” There was no point in lying about it, all eyes had been on them just a minute before. His eyes flicked to the other side of the street where Claire slammed her car door to drive off, not putting on her blinkers before she sped off. He wanted to roll his eyes at her driving behaviour but also knew he was super extreme with his careful driving.

“You know…” Dolores lowered her voice and came a little closer as Harry closed Finn’s car door. He straightened up and Dolores shortly glanced around, “There has been some talk. You know, a new mum… people always talk.” She shrugged as if it was the most normal thing. Harry stiffly nodded, “Naturally.” He vividly remembered all the gossip when word got around about what happened between him and Astrid.

“And well,” Dolores tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “Natalie heard that Claire has a past in drug abuse.” She was near whispering now, “And that she was married to a dealer.”

Harry let out a soft sigh, “Right.” He hardly listened, if he was honest. He knew better. Word got around quickly here, but everything got changed and manipulated. He knew better than to believe everything he heard around this town.

Dolores cleared her throat, “And that she was using while being pregnant. That poor boy… I mean, it’s clear that he’s got ADHD, and that could be a result of her abusing drugs while pregnant.”

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes, “Dolores,” He sighed, “even if it’s true, who cares? It’s her life and it’s been six years since she was pregnant. Let’s not meddle.” He simply spoke, forcing her a small smile.

“I’m just warning you,” Dolores put her hand on Harry’s arm and he flicked his eyes down to the touch with a frown in his forehead. Dolores swallowed, “She’s around Finn, Harry. Think about the influence…”

Harry cleared his throat and pulled his arm away, walking around his car to get behind the wheel, “Bye, Dolores.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but Harry was already in his car with the door closed. He didn’t spare her another glance before he drove off.

A few hours later, someone rang his door. Claire was fiddling with the top button of her dress as she waited for Harry to open his door. Atlas was by her side, excited for his movie night here as she had rescheduled with her date for tonight.

She was sort of excited, it had been a while since she had gone out. Her work schedule didn’t allow her to and she wanted to spend most nights with Atlas. Knowing he wasn’t just in the apartment with Belle scrolling on her phone, but was spending time with his friends eased her guilt a little of leaving him alone.

The lock clicked as Harry appeared, flashing a grin at Atlas, “Hey!”

“Hi, Harry!” He grinned back before turning to Claire, “Bye, mummy!!” He hardly waited for her response before sprinting into the house he knew rather well by now. Claire chuckled, “Yeah, bye. Love you too.”

Harry leaned against the doorpost, shortly scanning her outfit. He was used to seeing Claire either in her Burger King outfit or in jeans and a shirt. Now, she wore a dress. And make-up. It was clear to him she was making an effort. The slippers on her feet made his brows raise though, “Is he super short or something?” He nudged his head towards her feet.

Claire followed his eyes, “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I just can’t drive in heels so I’ll switch my shoes when I arrive.” She explained, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder, “By the way, if I’m done before midnight, I’m coming back over to pick him up.”

“In the middle of the night?” Harry frowned.

“Yeah, we sort of have our morning routing, Atlas and I. So I prefer picking him up and letting him sleep the rest of the night in his own bed. What time do you usually go to bed?”

Harry scratched his chin, “Yeah, around midnight.”

“Okay, but I’ll text you. Maybe he sucks and I’ll be back in an hour.”

His lips curled up in an amused smirk, “What’re dealbreakers to you, Claire?”

“I’d love to go over the list with you,” She grabbed a lipstick from her purse and blindly put it on, painting them a soft cherry red before rubbing them together, “but I’m going to be late if we get into that.”

Harry’s eyes zeroed in on Claire’s lips and he huffed out a chuckle, “Fine. Well, have fun. Be safe. Let me know when you’d come pick up Atlas.”

“Will do! Thank you.” Claire spun on her heel and headed back to her car, driving off the driveway to head to her date. Harry watched, feeling only slightly wary of her going by car instead of being picked up. He wondered if she’d drink during dinner and then drive, picking up Atlas to drive with him.

Dolores’ words ran through his head over and over again before he shook his head to himself and headed inside.

He checked his phone a few times, but Claire was actually having an okay time on her date. The guy who worked at the lawyer firm was charming and showed up in a suit. A bit stiff, Claire thought. And she was definitely underdressed. Her black dress looked classy but was cheap as fuck, and the buttons around her chest seemed near ready to pop.

His eyes were drawn to her tits most of the time as he drank the one scotch after the other. Their conversations started pleasantly and Claire got it out of the way first, immediately notifying him of the fact she had a six year-old son. He hadn’t responded much to it, just hummed and said it was cool.

As the evening progressed, Claire got a bit of an ick though. He seemed to talk mostly about herself and when he ended up not asking one single question about Atlas, Claire decided for herself that this was not it. He was near drunk once they finished their dinner and headed outside. He sloppily tried to kiss her and she turned him down, even having to stifle her laugh when he casually suggested they hook up just once.

He also called her a prude when she refused. Rolling her eyes, Claire got in her car. Before driving off, she quickly texted Harry.

Message to: Harry (Finn’s dad)

Coming back from the restaurant now, I’ll be there in twenty.

It was nowhere near midnight, but just past ten thirty in the evening. Claire had only been on her date a good few hours but it had felt like forever. With the window down, she drove up to Harry’s house again after another disappointing night. It had been the one shitty date after the other in the past few months.

Most lights in the house seemed off as Claire pulled up, getting out in her slippers and softly knocking on the door as to not alert the sleeping children. She heard footsteps, and soon Harry opened up. He looked a little sleepy and Claire suspected he had dozed off on the couch before she texted him that she was coming back.

“Hi.” She bit her lip, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

He stifled a yawn, “You didn’t. Put the boys to bed not too long ago and I was reading a little bit.” He opened the door wider for her, “Come in. How was the date?”

“Horrible.” Claire huffed, following him into the kitchen. Harry hummed, “Want some coffee? Or water? There’s also some dinner leftover if you want.”

“It actually smells so good in here.” Claire hummed, “If you’ve got any left, I’d like to.”

“Sure, I’ll heat some up. Tell me about the guy.”

Claire pushed herself up to sit on the countertop, “Well, he was just…” She shrugged, “Boring. And arrogant. He only talked about himself, was just overall rude and he drank so much, god… I hope he didn’t yet have to drive.”

Harry smiled softly at her words as he put a plate in the microwave. “How responsible of you.” He teased, repeating the words from last week that she had mocked him with. Claire smiled and rolled her eyes, “Hey, I have morals.”

“Hm.” Harry hummed, remembering Dolores’ words again. He turned around, “Here you go. Atlas really liked it.”

“Holy shit. Did you make this yourself?”

“Think I’ve got some private chef here, Claire?”

She shrugged, “Honestly, yes.” Her fork poked into a piece of chicken as she stuffed it in her mouth.

“Nah, I’m quite an okay cook. I like cooking actually.” Harry went to sit on the opposite countertop, his legs dangling over the edge as they were in the dimly lit kitchen, “Go on now, tell me five positive things about the date.”

“Five?” Claire’s eyes widened, “Uh…” She chewed for a bit, “well, one… he paid. So that was nice.” She narrowed her eyes in thought and Lennon chuckled softly, “Only one?”

“No, no, wait, let me think.” Claire shook her head, “Oh, well, he didn’t shame me when I wanted to have dessert. And when I said I had a kid, he said it was cool.”

“Cool?” Harry frowned, “That’s supposed to be a positive thing? The bar is very low.”

“It’s on the floor, let’s be honest.”

“So I assume it’s safe to say there won’t be a second date.”

Claire scrunched her nose, “Definitely not. He tried to kiss me and suggested sex.”

Harry’s brows raised, “Seriously? Bold.”

“You’d be surprised, dating isn’t the same as it was ten years ago.”

He hummed, “Apparently. Thank god I don’t have to go through that.” He shook his head to himself. He knew it could be brutal out there. Hell, Astrid had made it brutal for him. The thought of her left his stomach in clenches and he quickly pushed it all away.

“Harry, this is really good. Wow.” Claire near moaned as she ate more food and Harry smiled, “Thanks.” He felt proud at her compliment and shyly glanced down. Claire swallowed her bite, “So what did you three do tonight?”

“Watched Toy Story. Twice.”

Claire sputtered out a giggle, “No way.”

“Atlas is quite persuasive.” Harry chuckled, “But I was reading a little throughout. They were nice and quiet though, had some popcorn. They wanted to swim but I said no.”

“Stern.” Claire nodded and Harry shrugged, “Some might say, yes.”

Claire crossed her legs over one another and leaned back, “So… I’m curious. If you never go on a date, how long has it been since you’ve had sex?”

Harry chuckled to himself while shaking his head, “Nope. None of your business.”

Claire shrugged, “Fair enough.”

They sat in silence for a bit until Claire decided to head home. Harry guided her up the stairs to show the spare room where Atlas was sleeping. He was dazed until he laid eyes on his mum, a wide grin spreading over his face. Claire carried him downstairs and gently put him in the car before thanking Harry again and driving off.

***

“Thank you so much for watching him.” Claire breathed as she was at the door in her Burger King outfit. She looked exhausted, Harry noticed. Her hair was a little messy and she had bags under her eyes. It was a Thursday and almost a week after she had dropped Atlas off here to go on her date.

He hadn’t seen much of her throughout the week, or just shortly to pick up Atlas after school. Today, she had to pick up another shift so Harry took Atlas home after school to hang out with Finn.

“’S no problem.” Harry shrugged, “I’ve told you, Atlas is a nice kid to have around. He’s polite.”

“Yeah.” Claire tiredly smiled, “Can you go grab him?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck, “Mhm. Or – uh… we were just about to have dinner. You can join if you want.”

“That’s really nice,” Claire sighed, “but you’re already doing way too much for us. And I desperately need to shower.”

“I have showers.” He shrugged.

“Showers? Multiple?”

He chuckled, “Yes. C’mon,” he urged her, nodding his head inside the house, “it’ll be nice for the boys.”

It’s what he went with. That it was nice for the boys. Really trying to ignore the fact that it’d be nice for him too. Claire was easy to talk to and not as uptight or fake like all the other mums in the school. She was blunt and unapologetic, but very straightforward and without bullshit. He appreciated that now, whereas he didn’t at first.

She was trying her best, he could see that.

Claire eventually caved, nodding her head. She wore that horrific Burger King fit and Harry showed her where everything was in the bathroom, handing her a pair of joggers and a shirt of his.

The four of them sat around the dinner table later, with Claire only being slightly uncomfortable at how underdressed and casual she was. The clothes Harry handed her felt nice and soft, but she wasn’t used to having dinner in pyjamas with wet hair laying on her back and with anyone else besides Atlas.

“I have a question,” Harry popped, narrowing his eyes at Claire, “Do you ever eat burgers?”

She chuckled, shaking her head, “Absolutely not. Can’t stand burgers anymore. Besides, I see how they’re made and let me tell you… it’s a big no. I’m in the smell of it all day and I just…” She shuddered, “Nope.”

They fell silent again with just Finn and Atlas whispering something to one another until Finn nodded and cleared his throat, “Claire?” He spoke in a small, soft voice. Claire swallowed her bite and turned, “Yes?”

Finn looked a little nervous, shifting in his chair as he put his fork down and a slight flush rose over his cheeks, “Atlas said I could come to your house.”

Claire frowned slightly, shortly flicking her eyes to Atlas before clearing her throat, “I’m… what?”

“We always come here. I want to show Finn where we live.” Atlas piped up. Claire felt her cheeks heating up a little bit in embarrassment as she stared at her plate. Harry hummed, “That could be fun. Maybe we could all have dinner at your place?”

Claire licked her lip, refusing to look him in the eye, “That’s…well, that’s not possible. I-I don’t have a table that can fit four people.” She mumbled softly. Her shoulders slumped a little bit and Harry paused mid-chew to watch her as she kept her eyes on the food in her plate.

“Atlas, baby, we don’t really have the room for you and Finn to play the way you can here, right?” She softly spoke to her son.

Atlas pouted and Claire forced him a small smile, “Maybe some other time, yeah?”

“But I want to show him where we live.” Atlas murmured in a trembling voice, nearly on the verge of tears. Claire turned to him and kept her voice soft, “I know. But you know how mummy always says we won’t live there for too long? Because it’s so small and loud and dark?” She near whispered to Atlas, who nodded and sniffled once, “Well, maybe we should wait until we live somewhere nicer.”

“Are you poor?” Finn’s voice sounded curious and Claire’s eyes widened.

“Finn!” Harry scolded in shock, “You can’t ask people that!”

Finn looked completely horrified at the sudden volume his father used to talk to him. He stared at Harry with large, green eyes and even his lip was trembling, “B-But Atlas comes to school with dirty clothes.” He near whispered, sounding nervous. Claire’s stomach dropped and Finn sniffled again, “And we share my lunch because he’s still hungry after his.”

“Stop!” Harry snapped, his fist coming down on the table. Finn jumped up with a gasp in surprise and then burst into tears, scrambling from the table to run off. Claire held her breath as she stared at Harry, his fist clenched as he exhaled a sharp breath, “Shit.” He grumbled under his breath.

Claire swallowed and turned to Atlas, “Do you want to go check up on Finn, baby? Tell him his daddy’s not mad at him and neither am I? That we’re all okay?”

Atlas also seemed surprised with Harry’s outburst and timidly nodded before leaving the table to find Finn in the house. The moment he was out of sight, tears spilled from Claire’s eyes. She turned her head away from Harry, hiding it as she hastily wiped underneath her eyes. Her fingers trembled, repeating in her head what Finn had said.

That Atlas showed up with dirty clothes to school and not enough lunch, to the point he was still hungry and ate from the other kid’s lunchboxes.

“Claire.” Harry exhaled and she ignored him, her brain spinning. She was trying so hard. And all this time, she thought she had been doing good. That Atlas was at least happy even if they didn’t have all that much. But people talked, and soon enough the same thing would happen like it had done in his three previous schools. Word would get around, parents would tell their kids not to hang out with him and he’d be bullied.

Harry scooted his chair closer to hers, “Claire,” He repeated, “look at me.”

She pressed her lips together and flicked her eyes up. Harry noticed the wetness in her waterline, the red rimming around her lids. She was exhausted and sad, and it was written all over her face. He wasn’t sure what to do, so gently patted her knee, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” She shook her head, “it’s not his fault. I just – uh… I didn’t know.” She simply shrugged, staring down again, “We’re always in such a hurry in the mornings a-and I just grab whatever clothes of his I can find. And sometimes I don’t have time to do laundry in the weekends. And I swear, he fucking grows all the time, it’s like I have to buy new shirts every other week.” She tiredly scratched her forehead.

Harry listened to her soft rambling and Claire shook her head, “He’s never complained.” Her voice was a little raspy, “about being hungry, or not having enough food. He’s never mentioned it to me.”

“I’m sure Finn was exaggerating.” Harry murmured back, holding his hand on her knee now to give a gentle squeeze, “It maybe happened once. He’s an energized kid who eats a lot, I’ve noticed it here too. I’m sure that if he truly was hungry after lunch every single day, he would’ve told you. You guys are close, right?”

“Yeah.” Claire nodded, “He usually tells me everything.”

“See? I’m sure it’s not that bad. And so what he has a stain on his shirt? He’s a wild kid, always playing and running around… he’s bound to fuck up his clothes.”

Claire listened to him and really tried to hear him, but fresh tears welled in her eyes, “I’m really trying, Harry.” Her tone was shaky and he cooed, “I know. Fuck, I know. I can see it first-hand.”

“Shit.” Claire murmured as she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders trembled in quiet sobs. Harry squeezed her knee and then moved his hand up to her shoulder, “Hey, c’mere.” He urged her to stand up and Claire did so, letting herself be pulled into his chest for a hug. Her forehead was pressed to his clavicle as she sobbed into him, Harry’s arms rubbing up her back to comfort her and shush her softly.

“You’re doing incredible, Claire. And Atlas loves you so much.” He held her body to his, feeling as she weakly cried, both in exhaustion and in feeling powerless. It was a few minutes later that Harry swallowed, “And if you ever need help with money or anything…” He knew the moment he said it, that she’d refuse.

Claire sniffled and shook her head while being pressed to him, “We’ll be fine.”

“O-Or maybe your parents or something?”

“They cut me off. I haven’t been in contact with them since they knew I was pregnant.” Her voice was soft and Harry pressed his lips together, giving her another squeeze, “And doesn’t your ex need to pay? For Atlas?”

Claire sighed out into his neck, “You’d think so. The lawyers are working on it because he refuses to pay. But those things take so long, I’m not even hopeful anymore I’ll ever see a dime.”

It made Harry hate him even more. He had heard little bits about Evan, Atlas’ dad, from Finn. Not much, nothing detailed, just that Atlas didn’t see him that much and that he lived in the area. Any piece of information that Harry found out, made his blood boil. He couldn’t understand how he wouldn’t make an effort to hang out with Atlas, who was such a fun little boy to be around. Harry found there was nothing more satisfying than watching his son grow up and he couldn’t imagine missing it for the life of him.

“Well, you can always ask me. I won’t question it.” Harry concluded and Claire sniffled, “Thank you.”

They stood embraced for another good few minutes until Claire untangled herself, “I’m fine.” She took a breath, through most of her crying as she shot Harry an unconvincing smile, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nodded.

***

Message from: Claire

He’s wearing boat shoes. I don’t know what to do.

Harry chuckled at the screen of his phone as Finn had his head laying in his lap. Atlas was curled up in the couch too, eyes glued to the screen as they were having another Friday movie night. And Claire was out on a date.

It was nearing November now, and their little deal had been going on for a few months. Claire didn’t go out every weekend, but at least every other weekend. And Harry took Atlas here for the night to hang out with Finn so she could go on her date.

It was safe to say that it usually wasn’t that big of a success. Claire would text him underneath the table about all the horrible things they’d say or do and then come here to pick up Atlas. It resulted in at least an hour of gossiping and laughing before she eventually left and he’d watch her drive off in the darkness of the night.

Message to: Claire.

What colour are they?

His phone soon buzzed with a response.

Message from: Claire.

Who cares!! We’re in the city, not on a fucking boat!

Harry laughed again, shaking his head to himself as he stroked his fingers through Finn’s hair. He had a book next to him but found himself almost more interested in the movie playing. Tangled. It wasn’t half bad, to be honest.

Harry hardly noticed it as Atlas crawled closer to him until bumping his head into Harry’s bicep. He glanced to his side to see the blonde-haired little boy with half-tired eyes, cuddled into a blanket.

Harry hesitated for a moment before opening his arm and Atlas didn’t wait a second, simply nuzzled into Harry’s side with a content sigh. Harry’s heart felt full, with Atlas cuddled into him on one side and Finn resting on his lap. He gently stroked his fingers over Atlas’ head and the boy melted into him even more. There was trust here, after weeks and weeks of spending time together. Atlas was incredible, Harry had come to find out. He was clever and witty, making Finn laugh louder than Harry had ever heard.

Atlas was definitely more on the mischievous side where Finn was rather timid and quiet, but they compensated the other very well. And had grown to be very close friends.

Harry’s phone buzzed softly.

Message from: Claire.

Okay, I’m out of here. He just asked how much I make a month and if I can get him free burgers.

Harry snorted softly and typed back.

Message to: Claire.

Yeah, sounds like your cue to leave. You can catch the final bit of the movie if you’re lucky.

The movie progressed and before Harry truly and well realized it, the three of them were dozed off on the couch. Only when he heard the soft footsteps in the house – after he had showed Claire where he kept the spare key – did his eyes blink open.

Claire watched him with an amused smile, eyes darting over Atlas and Finn who were both asleep on parts of his body.

“This is cute.” She whispered. Harry yawned softly, “Sorry, fell asleep.”

“I can see that.” She sat down on the couch next to Atlas and stroked his back, “Baby?”

Atlas nuzzled further into Harry and Claire shook her head with a smile, “He’s taking the moment to his advantage.”

“He can’t cuddle you like that?”

“No,” Claire exhaled, “hurts my boobs.”

Harry chuckled, “Right. So I take it the date wasn’t a success?”

“A big fat no.” Claire sighed, “God, where am I supposed to meet a decent guy these days. I swear, every app I have downloaded has only lead me to horrible evenings like this. Maybe I should just stay single forever.”

“Yeah, come over to the dark side. It’s fun here.” Harry joked and Claire leaned back in the couch. She wore a sundress with sleeves tonight, pushing it a little in these rather cold temperatures. But Harry had yet to see her in pants whenever she went on a date, it was always a dress.

“So boat shoes…” Harry mused and Claire groaned, “I know.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t flip-flops. Like that guy you went out with a few weeks back.”

“Am I supposed to see the silver lining here?”

Harry smiled and it was quiet for a moment, “You want a drink? Or some food?”

Claire yawned, “No, thanks. I think we’re just going to go home.”

“Really?” His voice jumped a little, “I mean,” Harry shrugged while clearing his throat, “you could stay a bit. Or sleep in the guest room with Atlas. He’s asleep anyway.”

“Harry,” Claire laughed, “I know we’re friends but we’re a bit too old for sleepovers, no?”

Friends.

Well, that hurt.

Harry didn’t protest when Claire gently woke Atlas up, who immediately cuddled into her instead. She kissed his forehead, “Wanna go home?”

“Mhm.” He sleepily responded. Claire picked him up, wincing a bit at the ache in her back. Atlas weighed a bit too much to still be carried by her, but he was too sleepy. Harry gently nudged Finn off, who didn’t wake and rested on a pillow instead, before he let Claire and Atlas out.

“Bye.” He waved in a whisper and Claire waved back once she put Atlas in the passenger seat, “Bye!”

Harry groaned to himself once Claire was out of sight. Friends. Friends. God damn it. He knew it. He had let it go on for too long and now he was friendzoned. He was literally her mum-friend, the one she gossiped to about other guys. Holy fuck.

Harry ran his palms over his face and sighed out, picking up Finn from the couch to carry him to bed and then go to sleep himself.

With the colder temperatures approaching, the next few weeks consisted of thicker clothes and spending less time outside. It got a bit harder for Harry to entertain the boys as they couldn’t go in the pool or play outside too much. It was basically waiting for snow now.

December just rolled in and Harry was sitting in his car, waiting for Finn to be done with school and to take him home. He used to always wait outside his car but it was too cold now, so he waited inside. His eyes scanned the street in search of Claire’s old Toyota. They had seen each other on Friday after she came back from another date, dressed in heels, stockings and a skirt. It was a cute look on her, accentuating her figure.

She said it wasn’t horrible this time but there wasn’t really a connection there, so it would stick to the one date. Harry hummed at that, and he couldn’t really say he minded all that much. He found himself looking forward to her texts, or the moments she’d come home after another disappointment of a date, spilling to him. Even if he was in the friend zone, it still cheered him up to see her.

Dare he say, it was the highlight of his week right now.

So he scanned the streets, not seeing her car. Not when the bell rang and the children were let out. Harry exited his car, a wide grin on his face as Finn ran over to him excitedly.

“Hi, m’love.” Harry crouched down to take Finn into a hug, spotting a blonde head of hair in the corner of his eye. He patted Finn on the shoulder, “Do we need to take Atlas home today?”

Finn shook his head, “No, he said someone’s picking him up.”

Harry frowned slightly, scanning the line of parents until he spotted Atlas, walking over to a girl with black hair and a cigarette between her fingers. She hardly paid him attention and his head was a little low. Soon enough, they made way to the bus station and disappeared from sight.

Harry refrained from texting Claire that night. It could be crossing a line, asking if she was okay. They had never really done that before and usually texted in a very casual way or to discuss picking up Atlas.

He didn’t see her the remainder of the week and it was nearing Christmas break now. Although Harry vowed to never pull his kid into this, he couldn’t help himself but question Finn on Friday.

“So… Are you sad that Atlas hasn’t been here all week?” He asked as they were having dinner, just the two of them.

Finn shrugged. He wasn’t a kid to speak out of line, which is why the poor-comment he made about Claire shocked Harry so much. He had raised Finn to be very polite and respectful. He had taught him that whenever a friend told him a secret, he were to keep it to build an keep the trust. It’s why he felt like guilty now, prying.

“He said it’s busy at home.” Finn answered and Harry flicked his eyes to him, “Busy?”

“Mhm.” Finn nodded, “With his mummy. He says she’s not feeling too well so he stays with her.”

Harry slowly nodded, “That’s nice of him.”

“It is.” Finn agreed.

Silence fell over the dinner table and Harry cringed at himself, unable to let the topic go, “Did Finn mention why Claire’s feeling a little poorly?”

Finn softly shrugged as he poked his food, “He says her face hurts.”

Harry near dropped his fork, stomach twisting in discomfort as he heard the words coming from Finn’s mouth. He softly cleared his throat, “Her face hurts?”

Finn was more interested in his food, simply nodding as he continued eating and Harry finally dropped it. He had a pretty clear idea as to why Claire’s face would hurt. He tightly gripped his fork, staring at his phone on the table in contemplation whether or not to text her. If it was crossing a line.

They had known each other for months now but never really dipped into that part of their friendship – as Claire would call it. Their talks were mostly playful or consisting of their children. They didn’t actually know much about one another on a personal level, they never had conversations like that and Harry wasn’t sure if this was pushing it or not.

So he left it at that. And a few days later, she reached out to him. Claire texted him, saying a guy asked her out on a date on Friday, asking him if it was okay if Atlas stayed the evening and if Harry had the time.

He responded faster than ever, immediately agreeing. Even though the idea that she was going on a date gnawed at him and he was searching high and low for the courage to ask her out himself – it still made his chest flutter that he was going to see her and talk to her.

The gnawing feel overpowered though, especially when he opened his door and she was there in a silk mini dress with tights and a dark purple loose cardigan over her shoulders to keep her warm. The cold was biting and even to drop Atlas off, Harry shortly invited her in.

Only when she was in the lights of the kitchen, could he take a decent look at her.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened to your face?” Was the first thing flying out of his mouth. Luckily for Harry, both Finn and Atlas were out of earshot. Claire exhaled and tilted her head to the side, “Is it really that obvious? I thought I covered it.”

She looked at him with big, round eyes. Her blonde hair was in soft waves laying over her back and all he could really see was the bruise on her cheekbone. He could tell it had faded and had gone towards a muted purple colour with hints of green. He could also see the layer of make-up she had put on over that.

“It’s… I mean, I can tell, yeah. It looks like a shadow.” He explained. Claire sighed, “Great. That guy’s gonna think I’m some crazy woman.”

“What happened?” Harry asked again. Claire took a moment and forced him a smile as she tried to busy herself with the strap of her bag, “Just me being clumsy.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, “I don’t believe that for a second. Why did you have Belle pick up Atlas every single day this week?”

“Because I was working and couldn’t do it.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, “So? You could’ve asked me. Been doing it for the past few months with pleasure, so why relay on Belle again?”

“She asked, said she could use the money.” Claire shrugged and Harry huffed, “That doesn’t sound like you. Seems unlikely.”

“Yeah, I’m just that much of a bitch, aren’t I?” She responded bitterly, shaking her head to herself, “I don’t know what the big deal is. You got a week free of me and Atlas.”

“Didn’t ask for a week free of either you or Atlas. Neither did Finn.” It sounded like a dig, and Claire flicked her eyes up in shock of his words. They sounded venomous and angry, as if Finn had been unhappy this week without Atlas here in the evenings, and it was Claire’s fault. Harry continued, “Besides, I think the real reason wasn’t you being a nice person to Belle. I think the real reason was that you didn’t want me or Finn to see you with your face beaten up, which is why you hid all week.”

His voice softened and Claire’s stare hardened too. She inhaled a shaky breath, trying to recompose herself even if her heart was hammering violently and she could feel the lump in her throat.

“I’m going to give you a piece of advice, Harry.” She murmured, “If a person shows up with bruises and you have a feeling they’re not telling you the truth, there’s a reason for that. Don’t fucking pry it out of me like that, and why on earth do you even think you have the right or the audacity to do so? I don’t owe you any sort of explanation.”

He opened his mouth but she cut him off, “No, I don’t want to fucking hear it. You don’t get a free pass into my personal life just because my son likes you and we’re acquainted.”

It had gone from friends to acquaintances now. Harry felt the jab to his chest, knowing he had fucked up tremendously. Claire was breathing heavily as she sniffled once, “Now, I’m going to go on a date and attempt to enjoy it. I’ll see you later.” She strode past him and didn’t wait for Harry to let her out. The door slammed harshly until the pictures of Astrid and Finn on the walls rattled and Harry was left in silence.

He sat brooding that night. Checking his phone constantly for updates. Claire’s dates had never been this quiet. Usually she at least texted him when she arrived to let him know what the guy was wearing. There’d be texts throughout if her date said something disgusting or stupid, and at the end of the night to update him on if they had split the check or not.

It had been hours and there hadn’t been anything. With each buzz, he hastily grabbed his phone only to find it was either his mum or some notification of an e-mail he didn’t care for. His leg bobbed impatiently as he sat through another movie night with Finn and Atlas. And there was nothing that could take his mind off of things.

So when he had put the boys to bed and sat down on the couch again to check his phone, it was still empty. He drew up a message to send her but deleted it again, realizing his apologies would never come across through text while she was out with another man. He had to tell her in person, so he forced himself to stay awake.

Claire never came.

She never texted him, she simply never showed up. Harry stayed up for a few hours until midnight passed and then one in the morning, and then two in the morning. His lids felt droopy before he dragged himself to bed with the harsh realization that Claire was spending the night with her date.

He knew. She’d never go home to sleep by herself and leave Atlas here. She always picked him up. The only reason she wouldn’t pick him up, is if she was sleeping with him at his house or in a hotel room.

She was getting fucked, having sex, and Harry knew it.

The dates in the past hadn’t bothered him that much because they always ended up being assholes or losers and Claire was never truly interested in any of them. She never minded that there wasn’t a second date and simply kept swiping on Tinder until finding someone else.

In all the months they had been doing this, she had never spent the night with someone. It made Harry’s chest sink so deep that it hurt. It physically hurt, knowing she was with someone else. Who got to kiss her, touch her, smell her and taste her. Hear her, feel her, be inside of her.

His fists balled as he suddenly couldn’t catch sleep after that realization. He was so fucking jealous.

Harry hardly slept, but when his phone buzzed at around eight in the morning, he was wide awake.

Message from: Claire.

I’ll be there in like ten minutes.

He jolted up in bed and hastily went into the bathroom to freshen up and brush his teeth. Both boys were still asleep but Harry didn’t know for how long. He rushed down the stairs to be there for when she arrived, and like clockwork he heard gentle taps against the door.

He saw her and it only confirmed his suspicions. Her face was free of make-up and her hair was in a bun, but she was wearing the same clothes as the night before. The bruise was more prominent now with the absence of make-up, but what he could see was a fresh bruise. In the form of a lovebite at the base of her neck. It wasn’t that deep or dark, but he noticed straightaway.

Harry cleared his throat, “Hi.”

“Hey.” Claire mumbled, “Is Atlas up yet?”

“He’s not. D’you want to come in? I’ll make some coffee.”

Claire hesitated and eventually followed him inside of the familiar house. She sat down on the barstool she had been sitting in that first time she spent the day here and Harry had his back to her, working his coffee machine.

He swallowed through the lump in his throat, “So I take it you had a good date?”

“You could say that.” Claire breathed. Harry pressed his lips together, keeping his back to her. Claire cleared her throat, “We’re actually going out again next week.”

He turned around in lightning speed, “What?”

Claire blinked, “We’re going out again next week.” She repeated in a soft voice. Harry felt his fingers tightly gripping the countertop, “Like… like a second date?”

“Mhm.”

His knees weakened and he felt the stinging behind his lids, quickly turning around again to face the coffee machine, “That’s great.”

“It is.” Claire agreed, “He’s nice.”

They fell into silence and Harry poured her a cup of coffee as Claire drew a breath, “I can ask Belle, you know? To watch him. Next week.”

Harry immediately shook his head, “No way. Besides, it’s Christmas break. I’m sure Belle will want to do something else than babysit. And I don’t mind. We’re going to set up the tree, I’m sure Atlas will like that.”

“He will.” Claire nodded, “He’s been wanting a tree for a long time. We don’t have room in the apartment.”

Harry flicked his eyes to her, “Right.”

She forced him a smile and they fell into silence again. Harry realized he had never heard silence quite this fucking loud.

***

The week moved agonizingly slow. Claire showed up at school again, her bruise now faded. She picked up Atlas and shot a brief smile to Harry and Finn before spending the evening with her little man.

They cuddled and played board games, even some video games. It was always a task to entertain Atlas during school breaks. Claire couldn’t stay away from work so she usually organized camps for him or he spent a little more time with his father.

Not this time. Claire refused. She didn’t mind finding sitters and paying for them as long as Atlas didn’t spend any more time with Evan than absolutely necessary.

The had realized, after last weekend. After Atlas witnessed the abuse Evan put her through, that she would do everything in her power to keep him away. She wanted to give Evan a chance to be a father to Atlas, but he let him down over and over again. And mostly, Claire didn’t want Atlas to look up to Evan. And inherit some of his less nice qualities, like hitting women.

She couldn’t even imagine – and the thought made her sick – that Atlas would grow up to be like his father. It had resulted in more calls with her lawyer because she was getting slightly desperate for the money Evan owed her.

What had been taking her mind off things, was the prospect of her second date with Alexander. He had been an absolute sweetheart during their first date, so much so that Claire had felt butterflies. She opened up about Atlas and life as a single mum, and he was one of the first who didn’t laugh at her when she said she worked at Burger King. He noticed the bruise but didn’t ask her about it, besides wondering if she was in any pain.

She was, after a moment, from smiling so wide. So he gently kissed her at the end of the night and things got heated. Claire didn’t hesitate when he asked her to come to his apartment and they had spent a night between the sheets. Alexander had some stuff to learn, but Claire could be patient and guide him so he could learn how to satisfy her. She had searched high and low for an orgasm all night while giving him two, but it still didn’t mean it wasn’t fun.

Harry’s eyes had felt heavy on her when she went to drop Atlas off. Claire knew she looked good. She wore black again, a form-fitting dress to show off her curves with high heels to elevate her. She wore a bit of make-up but nothing too crazy and her hair was pinned back with a little butterfly clip.

His eyes had dragged up and down her form, boosting Claire’s confidence tremendously. She could see the heaviness in his eyes as they made a bit of polite small talk. She knew he was sorry about the way he spoke to her the week prior and she knew he didn’t like the fact she was going on a second date with Alexander.

She saw it in his stance, in his eyes. Jealousy. It was fine, Claire felt. Her and Harry did spent a lot of time together and even she’d feel a slight jab to her chest if he’d suddenly announce he was dating someone. In some stupid, crazy way it almost felt like they both had a claim on one another. But neither said anything and Claire wasn’t patient. Maybe she was taunting him, and part of her was. The dates in the past few months had all been disappointing and she expected the date with Alexander to be the same.

But he pleasantly surprised her and Claire had fun and felt seen. After the way Harry had spoken to her, it’s what she needed. And she couldn’t sit and wait around for him to figure out his feelings. She was moving on.

Moving on wasn’t easy though when your date doesn’t show up.

Claire looked like an idiot, sitting alone at the table in the restaurant. She checked her watch again, noticing Alexander was forty minutes late. She had double-checked their reservation to make sure she got the time and date right. She had texted him, called him, without answer. Her texts didn’t even go through, making her think he had her blocked.

She sipped slowly on her red wine until she had been there an hour, and she decided enough was enough. It was nine in the evening when she asked for the check to pay for her wine. The waiter shot her a sympathetic look that Claire brushed off, and she exited the restaurant.

Driving back to Harry’s house, she hadn’t notified him. She had only dropped Atlas off about an hour and a half ago and she suspected the three of them to just be sitting on the couch, watching a movie.

Claire shivered in the evening air as the had rang the door, hearing the familiar footsteps of Harry rushing over to the door before opening up with a frown. It softened at the sight of her. He hadn’t expected Claire here, an hour after she had left. The exciting glint she had in her eyes when leaving, was replaced by something he couldn’t really place.

“What happened?” He asked and Claire shrugged, fighting the embarrassed flush in her cheeks, “He stood me up.” She mumbled under her breath, “Can you grab Atlas? I really want to go home.”

“He stood you up?” Harry frowned, “What the fuck?”

Claire rolled her eyes, “Harry, it’s nothing. I’d just like to leave.”

“We’re in the middle of Monopoly.” He exhaled, “Look, just come in for a bit, you must be freezing.”

Claire hesitated. All she really wanted to do was go home with Atlas and cry in her shower before cuddling him to sleep. Harry opened the door wider, ushering her in, “Come on.”

And so she did. Her feet carried her into the house, met with the familiar warmth that Harry’s house exuded.

“Mummy!” Atlas sounded exited at the sight of his mother, jumping out of his chair to hug her. Claire smiled and kissed his forehead, “Hi, bub. ‘M back soon, aren’t I?”

Atlas giggled and jumped around, clearly very pleased with Claire joining the Monopoly-party.

“D’you want some tea? Or wine?” Harry offered.

“Wine.” Claire breathed immediately and Harry nodded, taking two glasses and filling them with some red wine as Finn and Atlas filled Claire in on how the game was going so far. She didn’t seem too in it with her head but nodded either way, quickly catching up on Harry’s strategy on losing on purpose to let either of the other boys win.

Claire followed along, playing without thinking and losing on purpose. Her wine was finished by the time Finn was crowned as the Monopoly-king.

As Finn and Atlas quickly settled down in front of the television, Claire and Harry were left to clear out the board game from the dinner table they had played at. Claire had put her hair up again with one of Harry’s pencils as they both tucked Monopoly back into the box.

“Some more wine?” Harry suggested. Claire exhaled and shook her head, “No, thanks, I still have to drive.”

“You’re not going home, are you?” Harry frowned, leaning against one of the chairs, “Claire, just stay here. You can sleep in the bed with Atlas. Or there’s even another guest room if you want.”

And Claire was too tired to argue. She timidly gave in and lifted her glass, “Well in that case… refill please.”

About an hour later, they had tucked their boys into bed. It was past their bedtime already but Harry and Claire agreed to cut them so slack since it was winter break and they didn’t have school for a few weeks.

“Do you want a shower? Or just some clothes of mine?”

“Just some clothes, please.” Claire responded, “’M a little cold.”

And so Harry gave her sweats, a shirt, a jumper and a pair of socks she could fit her feet in about three times. It looked a little ridiculous, but Harry had hearts in his eyes when she joined him on the sectional couch. She looked cuddly and soft, and her eyes were a little heavy from being tired and sad.

“Are you tired or do you want to watch a movie or something?” Harry asked as he popped his feet up on the coffee table. Claire was on the other side of the couch with a blanket around her, “Your couch is so comfortable, I’m probably going to fall asleep here.” She contently sighed, “Don’t even need a bed.”

Harry chuckled as he watched her nuzzle into the pillow. With her feet stretched his way, he gently tapped her shin, “How come you’re so tired?”

“’S just been a long week.” She sighed, “Arranging things with my boss for the winter break, so I can hire sitters throughout the day but can stay with Atlas at night.” She explained, “Don’t want him to spend his break with his father.”

Harry took a sip of his wine and softly exhaled, “Can I ask why not?”

Claire flicked her eyes up, appreciating the way Harry was more careful in asking her this time instead of how he approached the subject last time. She swallowed, “Well, he’s abusive.” She softly spoke, avoiding his eyes, “I don’t want Atlas around someone like him.”

“Would he hurt Atlas?” Harry frowned and Claire shrugged, “I don’t think so. But then again, I also didn’t think he’d ever hurt me.”

“He hit you, didn’t he? Two weeks ago?” Harry softly asked and Claire let out a breath, “Mhm.”

“Shit, Claire…” He cursed, shaking his head, “I’m so sorry.”

“’S not your fault.”

“No, I’m sorry for prying. I-I had a hunch and I should’ve just left it at that, it wasn’t fair of me.” Harry apologized, staring at his fingers before he lifted his head and turned to face her. Claire had a sad look on her face, “Just another thing added to the plate this week. His lawyer is literally such a dick. I just… I want this all to be over. To cut ties, to never have to see him again. But I also want Atlas to know his father.” She shrugged, “It’s hard.”

“I can imagine.” Harry sympathized, stroking his fingers over her covered shin. He licked his lip before continuing, “Were you two together for a long time?”

Claire sat up and hugged her legs to her body, her chin on her knee, “Few years. I made some wrong friends in school and went through a phase. I used drugs sometimes, I drank a lot, I partied, dropped out of school… I met Evan during that time and was already on thin ice with my parents. I sort of moved in with him in this little studio. He was – uh… a dealer. And he used a lot. Sort of pulled me into that.” She softly explained.

Claire closed her eyes for a moment, “I even used when pregnant. I didn’t know I was pregnant for the longest time and just kept drinking and doing drugs, I-I had no idea.” She murmured and Harry’s heart cracked, watching her as she blinked away some tears, “It’s literally a miracle that Atlas was born and that he was completely fine.”

It was silent for a bit as Claire relived some memories in her brain. Harry turned to face her more, scooting a little closer on the couch, “Was he happy that you were pregnant?”

“Ecstatic, actually.” Claire mumbled, “He was so happy. Of course, he was high most of the time. When sober, he hardly acknowledged me. He was… very difficult to read. When he was high, he was super happy or the complete opposite. When he was sober, he barely showed any emotion at all.”

Claire took a breath, “The moment my parents knew I was pregnant, they cut me off completely. I haven’t been in contact with them ever since. So I moved in with Evan permanently. Neither of us had a job and he got money from dealing, but it was a dangerous life. He got threatened a lot and was always stressed, he worked that out on me. He hit me, always when he was high. I forgave him, I had nowhere to go.” She shrugged, shaking her head to herself, “It was difficult for a few years. When Atlas was around two, I finally got away. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

The television was softly playing in the background but neither Harry or Claire paid it any attention. She lifted her head to send him a weak smile, “I’m happy now. Atlas is amazing and I love him so much. It’s just… hard sometimes. I don’t want to have to deal with him anymore, it just brings back so many memories and he keeps thinking he’s got some claim over me.” She nibbled her lip, “Atlas goes to his place sometimes on a Saturday. Like… once a month or something. He never stays the night. Two weeks ago he went there and obviously shared stuff about his life. About Finn, about… you.”

“Shit.” Harry murmured and Claire hummed, “Yeah. Evan lost it. I went to pick up Atlas again and he freaked out, said I was… well, every name in the book, really. Doesn’t usually bother me, but Atlas was around a-and I fought back, told him to stop. He just – well, yeah.” She pointed to the faded bruise on her face and sniffed once, “And that’s that.”

“Atlas saw?” Harry whispered and Claire nodded, “Yep.”

“Holy fuck… that guy is insane.” He scooted a little closer again, “Claire, you need like a restraining order. And you need full custody.”

“I’m trying.” She sighed, “I swear, these things take so long. I’ve been trying for months now, years maybe. It’s really not easy.”

Harry exhaled, “No, I know. I know.”

“Do you…” Claire asked warily, “do you have full custody?”

“Mhm.” Harry shortly nodded, “Astrid voluntarily wrote away her rights. She wanted nothing to do with Finn or me, so it was an easy arrangement. It’s more difficult when both parties fight the other.”

Claire frowned, “She… She chose to not be a part of Finn’s life?”

He shortly cleared his throat, “Yeah. Astrid… she’s a complex person, Claire. ‘M not even really sure how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want.” She softly spoke and Harry shook his head, “I think we’re sharing traumas here and it’s only fair if I share mine.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was heaviness in the air. Harry licked his lip, “We met when we were young and got married. Always wanted a family. It didn’t work for some time until Astrid got pregnant with Finn. From the moment she was pregnant I just… saw her change. It’s like she felt suffocated all of a sudden and only then realized how much her life was going to change as a mum. She did all these things, took all these trips spontaneously, like she was scared to be an adult all of a sudden. I sort of let her do her thing, figuring it was just what she needed at that point.”

Claire listened as Harry continued, “When he was born, it got even worse. It was like she resented him. We talked to therapists who brought up the whole postpartum depression thing, but Astrid said it was more than that. She didn’t want anything to do with Finn and actually tried to be as far away from him. Her motherly instincts never kicked in. She took off with her friends, took trips, partied and whatnot, always leaving me here with him. It was like she regressed back to her life in her early twenties. We hardly saw one another, she missed a lot of his first few years. She just didn’t want him. And then one day she just announced that she was leaving. Moving to some island to start over, signing away her rights and… she was gone. We got divorced easily and I’ve been a single parent ever since.”

“Wow.” Claire breathed, “That’s… so crazy. When was the last time you saw her?”

Harry scratched above his brow, “Probably… four years ago? I have no idea where she is right now, or what she’s doing. She’s completely messed it up for me, I don’t want anything to do with her ever again.” He sounded bitter and Claire shortly nodded, “Understandable.”

“It’s just like a sense of responsibility. I don’t know…” Harry mumbled, “We actively tried to have a baby, it’s not like it was a surprise.”

They fell into a silence until Harry exhaled and held up his glass, “Cheers to our exes.”

“Cheers.” Claire chuckled before shaking her head, “How sad are we.”

Harry took a sip, “We’re not sad.” He argued with a soft smile and Claire puffed out a breath, “I am. Can’t believe I got stood up. That was super embarrassing.”

“It’s honestly insane. He’s a fucking asshole.”

Claire pressed her lips together, “I mean, if he just wanted sex, he could’ve said so. I’m not stupid, like I get it. Just fucking tell me the truth and don’t string me along.”

Harry shot her a sly smile, “At least you got an orgasm out of it.”

“He did.” Claire corrected him in a shrug, her voice nothing but a gentle mumble. Harry looked at Claire over the rim of his glass, “Hm?” He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly.

She nibbled her lip, avoiding his eyes as she let out a soft breath, “Well – he did. I didn’t – uh… he didn’t get me off.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Harry sounded in complete disbelief before throwing his head back with a laugh.

Claire blushed red in embarrassment and rolled her eyes, “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” Harry laughed, shaking his head, “Holy shit, I can’t believe this guy?! He didn’t even get you off and then has the nerve to ghost you?!”

She took another sip, “Well, yeah.”

“He’s literally such a dick, what the hell…” Harry mumbled, “So was he just like… bad or anything?”

Claire’s red cheeks didn’t disappear as Harry continued the subject and she let out a shuddery breath, “I mean, not really. Although actually, yes. He tried, I think.” The more Claire thought about it, the more she hesitated. Sighing out, she forced Harry a small smile, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though. Who the fuck does he think he is.”

Harry’s anger was sort of infectious and she felt the fire in her chest, “You know what? Yes. You’re right. It does matter. Because I pulled out all my tricks, you know? Even gave him head! He came twice!” She rambled and Harry’s eyes widened. Claire let out a sigh, “I just want – you know?” She used hand gestures now and Harry watched intently, “What?” He asked in confusion.

Claire put her glass of wine down on the coffee table with a slight slam, “I just want a fucking guy to just… grab me! Like – “ She pressed her lips together, “just someone to throw me around, have his fucking way with me, shut me up. Make it rough, you know?”

It was Harry’s turn to get red cheeks as he listened to Claire explaining her sexual desires. She seemed lost in her head, sighing again with tense shoulders, “And just claim me?! I don’t know, just like fucking take me and kiss me a-“

Claire couldn’t finish her sentence before feeling Harry’s lips on hers. He had lunged forward at her, near knocking her backwards as his mouth was on hers. Claire yelped in surprise at the short kiss. Harry was panting as he pulled back, only an inch or two. His wine-stained lips brushed hers.

“W-What are you doing?” Claire murmured.

“God, just shut up.” Harry groaned, watching Claire’s wide eyes as he grabbed her waist and yanked her body on top of his. Claire near flew through the air, gasping in surprise as she found herself perched up on Harry’s lap with her thighs on each side of his. Her chest heaved in shallow breaths, hands bracing herself on his shoulders as she stared down at him.

His eyes were dark and deep, lust dripping from him as he sinfully slipped his hands up her covered thighs. They stared at each other for just a moment before Harry grabbed the back of her head to pull her down and reconnect their lips.

A moan from Claire got muffled against his lips. Her fingers dug into his shoulders before moving into his hair, cupping his jaw and sliding into his neck. She touched wherever she could reach, feeling his strong arms wrapped around her form to keep her tightly pressed into his chest. A tug on her hips made her scoot up on his lip, her mouth parting at the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck.” Claire moaned, pushing her tongue into Harry’s mouth. Claire reciprocating was something Harry could’ve only dreamed of. Everything she had been describing was exactly what he had been wanting to do for weeks now, but felt too unsure to do so. He didn’t want to scare her off, yet now he felt fucking unhinged.

The moment his fingers tugged at the jumper covering Claire’s body, she caught on. Her blonde hair flew around as they broke apart and she tugged it off, leaving her in one of his shirts.

“Fucking finally.” Claire moaned as Harry pulled her hips down on his and her head rolled back on her shoulders, “Please – oh god…” She was bucking back into him, hips sensually rocking in wave-like motions to stimulate him. Harry felt the heat radiating from her core, his head dropping back on the couch, “Jesus.” He hissed in bliss.

He lifted his head again, brushing his lips over her pulse-point, “Should we go to the bedroom?”

“Uh-huh.” Claire panted, “Please, I need you.”

A surge of confidence shot through Harry, “Yeah?”

Claire wrapped her fingers in his hair, “Yes.” She whispered, “So bad.”

Harry’s lips nipped on her neck, “Do you need me or do you just need to get fucked?”

“You.” Claire spoke without missing a beat, “Been wanting this for so long.”

Harry pulled back with surprise written all over his face, “What? Really?”

“Yes.” She chuckled. Harry frowned, “Why didn’t you say anything? I-I’ve liked you for months.”

“I know.”

His cheeks turned pink again and Claire smiled in amusement, brushing her thumb over his bottom lip. Harry swallowed thickly, “Y-You know? And you never said or did anything? Kept going on dates with other guys?”

“Well, I could’ve been wrong.” Claire shrugged, “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself and ruin our arrangement or ruin anything for Atlas.”

Harry was about to say something but Claire beat him to it, biting her lip and brushing her hair over her shoulder. Harry’s eyes dropped to the faded lovebite on her neck and his throat tightened as Claire batted her lashes, “Besides, it was funny to see you a little jealous.”

“Played me, hm?” Harry growled, tangling a hand in her hair and Claire gasped at the tight hold he had on her scalp, pulling her to the side a little as his mouth latched onto the still existing hickey. Claire’s eyes rolled back, her hips bucking on their own accord as he deepened the bruise, claiming her. She was ruining her underwear, a sob stuck in her throat from how desperate she was and how badly she needed him.

“Still funny?” Harry licked over the fresh bruise, throbbing and angry purple to disturb Claire’s skin. His fingers dug into her hip, “Answer me.”

“F-Fuck, no.” Claire panted, “God, Harry, please.”

He pulled her hips again, dragging her up his growing cock as he exhaled a shaky sigh. Claire blinked her eyes open, somehow sensing his hesitance, “Are you okay?” She questioned softly, cupping his cheeks. Her nose bumped his and Harry puckered his lips for her to give him a gentle kiss.

“Yeah.” He rasped, “I might – uh… be a little rusty. ‘S been a while.”

Claire nodded, “Okay.”

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, “No, it’s like been… years.” He mumbled the last part, too embarrassed to actually say out loud. Claire froze on top of him, staring at his eyes which refused to look back at her, “Wait, are you serious? You haven’t had sex in years?”

“Yep.” He exhaled, “It’s, uh… well, I’ve been with women after Astrid, just not many. Had a few one night stands and it just… well, didn’t really do it for me. And I just stopped then, focussing completely on raising Finn and then it didn’t happen anymore.”

Claire was quiet for a moment, taking in the information before she nodded, “Okay, that makes sense. But you… masturbate?”

“Mhm.”

“And… do you want this?” She checked. Harry huffed out a chuckle, “Fuck, yes. Wanted this for weeks.”

“Weeks?”

He flicked his eyes up, “Months, actually.”

Claire kissed him, “Take me to bed, Harry.”

He didn’t hesitate, grabbing Claire underneath her thighs to pick her up. She was astounded at his strength. She had seen Harry shirtless by the pool and had seen him in shirts all the time with exposed arms. She had never witnessed him working out or anything, but he was strong enough to not blink while carrying her up the stairs.

“We’re gonna have to be quiet.” He murmured into her neck, “Don’t want to wake our boys.”

“Definitely not.” Claire agreed.

Harry’s foot kicked open the door of his bedroom, “What I meant is you’re going to have to be quiet.” He quipped with a sly smirk as he dropped Claire on the mattress. She watched him, standing at the foot of the bed to rip off his shirt and leave him topless. Claire’s thigh quivered at the sight of his muscular body and the many tattoos. His abs flexed as he moved and she was mesmerized.

Harry felt another boost of confidence at the hungry look in Claire’s eyes. She laid on her beck and he took her ankle, sliding off the huge sock he had given her before moving over to the other foot, “How do you want it?”

Claire wanted to moan. She tipped her head back with closed eyes, biting her lip, “Hard.” She whimpered, “Deep.”

Harry chuckled, “A little greedy, hm?”

After taking off her socks, he tugged at the leg holes of her sweatpants. Due to the size of the clothes, they easily slipped off of Claire’s hips and thighs, easy for Harry to take off. Every inch of her legs became visible to him, as did the red thong she was wearing. His mouth watered, chucking the sweatpants over his shoulders before climbing on top of her.

Claire parted her legs immediately, arms reaching out to pull him into her. She hungrily kissed him, tangling a hand back in his hair as her legs curled around his thighs to keep him close, close enough to feel him between her thighs. With the disappearance of her sweatpants, she felt him much more clear, rubbing against her pussy.

Harry was hard as a rock, so turned on by her and this moment and the way he had imagined this. He had never been the most spontaneous person – something Astrid loved to complain about – so it took him a lot of courage to just grab Claire and hope for the best. He didn’t want to scare her off or cross any boundaries, and somehow they didn’t really know each other on a level that he knew if this was all okay or not.

But the way she whimpered in his mouth and desperately pulled at him, was enough proof that she needed him badly. And according to her, it was him she needed. No one else.

Claire got impatient, reaching for his hand to bring it between them. She left it at that, handing the reigns over to Harry. His cheeks turned slightly pink and with their lips still brushing together in kisses, Harry nervously skimmed his fingers over the hem of Claire’s panties.

She shuddered, holding her breath, “God – Harry, get on with it.” She pleaded. His eyes closed with a guttural moan, slipping his fingers inside her underwear to stroke between her folds with the rough pads of them. Claire immediately squeaked and jumped in sensitivity of the touch and Harry latched his lips onto her neck again to silence himself.

His fingers moved up and down to feel her, underwear tenting around his hand as he felt her so wet and warm for him, it could make him cry. Slick, dripping pussy as Claire opened her legs wider to allow him more room. It spread her for him, letting his fingers graze over every ridge and bump she had until he settled the pads of his fingers on her clit.

She gasped desperately, her legs so tense and her entire body so worked up. She wasn’t sure if she was hurting him with the firm grip on his hair, but she needed something to ground herself. Arching her back up, she whined, “F-Fuck me. Please.”

Harry groaned again, a sound that went straight between Claire’s legs as he kept touching her clit. He rubbed circles to arouse her more, to get her all wet and open. Harry knew he was rather well-endowed and even though Claire had sex on a much more regular basis than him, it would be presumptuous to assume the guy who couldn’t get her off last week was anywhere near his size.

“Need to get you ready.” Harry mumbled into her neck, lifting his head and finding the strength to look in her eyes. It hit him like a sledgehammer, the look she sent him. Horny, desperate, near crying for him. Her eyes glazed over, her lips in an inviting, swollen pout and her cheeks flushed.

“I am.” Claire breathed out, “So ready. P-Please.”

Harry bit his lip, “’M not teasing you here, Claire. You’ll thank me for it.” At that, he grabbed one of her hands to guide it to his crotch, inviting her to touch him. Claire did so without hesitation, panting out as she fought with the elastic band of his boxers before finally getting her hand in. She paused immediately, eyes flicking up and widening dramatically, “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Harry smirked arrogantly, “Still think you’re ready?”

Her hand felt small around the girth of his erection, stroking curiously from thick base to swollen tip. If there was anything Harry knew, it was that he was fucking ready for her.

Claire let out a shuddery exhale as her head thudded back into the mattress, “Yes, please – I can’t wait. I need you.” She panted, restlessly writhing on the mattress, “I need you inside of me, I need it to hurt. I can take it.”

“Holy shit.” Harry cursed, bucking his hips into her hand. He stared at her, losing his sense of hesitation as he licked his lip, “You have to tell me if I need to stop, okay?”

“Uh-huh. Promise.”

“Good girl.” He whispered, removing his hand from in between her legs. He quickly brought the tips of his fingers to his mouth to get them clean, his tongue swirling around casually before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to her lips. Claire was fucking dumbfounded.

Harry jumped off the bed, rummaging one of his drawers as she pushed herself up on her elbows, “Are you going to tie me up?” She sounded almost hopeful and Harry chuckled, shaking his head, “No, I like having your hands in my hair. ‘M looking for a condom.”

“Right.” Claire took it upon herself to slip out of the shirt she was wearing and then remove her underwear to leave her completely naked. She laid on Harry’s dark blue sheets, staring up at the beamed ceiling of his house as Harry grumbled under his breath, closing the drawer to open another, “Found it!” He cheered.

He turned around in triumph but his smile quickly dropped as he laid eyes on a naked Claire. His throat ran dry, seeing the length of her torso, the dips of her ribs and her chest. Full, firm tits and hardened nipples sitting up and waiting to be taken into his mouth. The stretchmarks on her thighs, the lines of her underwear denting her skin and some faded tan lines gracing her.

“So fucking beautiful.” Harry sighed, slowly walking over to her. The pace had slowed a little bit and was less frantic now as he stood at the edge of the bed, letting his eyes drag over her. Where Claire assumed she’d feel shy, she actually felt confident. Harry’s eyes studied her and he looked mesmerized. He wasn’t judging any part of her, he just wanted to see her.

Harry exhaled shakily and shook his head to himself, “Should’ve done this way sooner.”

“I would’ve let you.” Claire teased. Harry smirked slightly as he took it upon himself to open up the square foil of the condom. He dropped his boxers, Claire’s eyes widening and her mouth watering at the sight of his hard cock bobbing up and standing up tall.

“Oh my god.” She whimpered when he shortly stroked himself before fiddling with the condom. “Wait!” Claire squeaked. Harry paused and his brows raised, “What is it?”

Claire swallowed, her eyes glued to his erection, “I want to suck you off.”

“Fuck, no.” Harry breathed, shaking his head sternly as he rolled the condom down his shaft, “If you take me in your mouth, I’m gonna cum immediately.”

Claire wanted to protest but Harry was already hovering over her, knees kicking her legs apart to allow him room. Goosebumps rose over her body at his closeness, his nose continuously brushing into hers as he had one hand around his base to guide towards her.

“Still okay?” He whispered and Claire let out a soft moan, “Yes, yes.”

“Still think your little pussy can take me?”

Her eyes shot open as a tingle of arousal ran down her spine. She bucked up while biting down her lip, somehow not expecting Harry to say anything like that. Claire fought for air, “Yes.” She rasped again, “Please.”

The second she felt Harry’s blunt tip against her opening, Claire focussed on relaxing. She attempted to spread her legs wider for him, focussing on not tensing up any of her muscles as he held the eye contact. Both their mouths opened in a breathless whine as he pushed in. He felt her walls rippling around him, fighting the intrusion for a moment. Hesitation flashed over Claire’s face for a brief second until she breathed through it, her eyes rolling back as her head lolled to the side from the stretch.

“Fuck, you’re so wet and tight.” Harry lowly commented, taking his sweet time in inching forward to fill her up. Claire was panting, her nails digging into his back as she felt the burn between her thighs. He was everywhere, and he wasn’t even fully in yet. Harry paused for a few seconds before rocking in again to get deeper. Claire bit her lip with a high moan escaping her lips.

“Quiet.” Harry whispered, kissing her shortly. She nodded frantically, “I-I know, fuck – you’re so big.”

“You can take it.”

Claire arched, Harry holding onto her waist before sliding his hand up to play with her nipple. He cupped her breast, giving a squeeze before using his thumb to tease her. He used his other hand to grip the bedding, holding himself up on his elbow.

“Fuck.” He whimpered when he finally bottomed out. Harry relaxed slightly, feeling his hips flush to Claire’s thighs. His cock twitched inside of her, a tight fit between her snug, wet walls. She was panting underneath him, the sight so erotic. He couldn’t help himself when he let go of her breast and grabbed her throat instead, giving a light squeeze while kissing her.

He swallowed down her moans as he started moving, rearing back about halfway before rocking in again. He kept the pace slow and gentle for now to let her adjust, and their tongues roamed each other’s mouths in the meantime. Harry was sure to have marks down his back from her nails as Claire clawed at him.

“Okay?” Harry checked breathlessly as he brushed his lips over hers. “Yes.” Claire confirmed, “You can go harder.”

Harry sighed, “Thank god.” And then he picked up his pace and the strength of his thrusts. The breath got knocked out of Claire’s lungs with each drop of his hips on hers, nudging up a spot so deep inside it felt near unbearable yet she still wanted more.

Harry shifted his hips, scooting closer as his lips were on her neck and he buried his face in her throat. “God, you feel so good.” He moaned, “Such a fucking tight cunt for me.”

With the constant shifting in his position, it didn’t take Harry long to find her g-spot. Claire jolted up with a high whine the moment his tip brushed up her front wall, and her legs spasmed. He could feel her gushing slightly as her muscles clamped around him tightly.

“Oh my god!” Claire moaned, causing Harry to slap his hand right over her mouth, “Keep it down.” He hissed, holding his hand to muffle her moans. A tear escaped her eye as he kept pounding her into the mattress in a murderous pace, just like she had asked him to.

“Am I getting you close, baby?” He near taunted, sweat pearling at his hairline and a smirk gracing his pink lips at the sight of her wrecked state, “Already?” He added.

Claire managed to nod and he tutted her, “Good. Found your sweet spot, didn’t I? Right…” He brought his hips back before thrusting sharply, “there?”

Claire’s eyes rolled back as she shook uncontrollably, another wave of squirt wetting Harry, who moaned at the feeling and the sight, “Fuck yes, get wet on my cock, hm? Need you to cum for me, Claire. You fucking deserve it.” He put force behind his words and power into his hips, relentlessly fucking into her.

He kept his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, and Claire sobbed as she was on the edge. Harry thought about it. Teasing her, torturing her. But her eyes were watery, her nails denting his skin and her pussy so good for him. He allowed her to cum. With two more deep thrusts, Claire convulsed. A scream ripped through her chest, muffled by Harry’s hand as he fucked her through the orgasm. Claire’s legs clenched around him as she arched and writhed.

“’S good, that’s good.” Harry praised, kissing away her tears, “Fuck, that’s so good. Y’feel so fucking amazing, cumming on my cock like that. Such a good girl.”

Claire whined against his hand, her fingers curling around his wrist to pull at his arm. Harry let go, letting Claire desperately inhale the breath her lungs so badly needed. She coughed slightly from the gagging, wheezing in air as her body trembled in the aftermath of her orgasm. Harry’s thrusts had turned into gentle grinding motions, smirking down at her, “Feel good?”

“Oh my god.” Claire whimpered, still shuddering, “S-So good. Holy shit. I’ve never had an orgasm like that.”

They both slowed down a little, Harry’s cock painfully twitching inside of her. Claire blinked her eyes open, “Can you still keep going?”

“Mhm.” Harry swallowed, “Little more. I think I could get you to cum again.”

She smiled, biting her lip, “That would be great.”

He kissed her, smiling against her lips. His heart fluttered as she ran a hand through his hair, massaging his scalp a little. Harry hummed against her lips, still inside of her, “I’m afraid I’m obsessed with you.”

“Same.” Claire breathed back without a thought, her eyes exuding warmth and comfort as she stared up at him. A slight clench of her pussy brought Harry back to his mission of the night. Getting her off again.

Without warning, he lifted up on his arms and slid back, slipping from her. Claire gasped at the loss of contact, watching dazedly as Harry leaned down between her legs and his hot mouth was on her. “Oh! Oh my god." Claire breathed, hips jolting up as he licked at her, tongue wiggling between her pussy lips and up to her clit to give a harsh suck. Claire bit her lip, “H-Harry…” She moaned.

He hummed back, sliding the flat of his tongue up her cunt before sitting up again. He licked around his lips, tasting her before tapping her thigh, “Are you gonna ride me?”

Claire was still catching her breath as she swallowed, “I don’t think my legs work.”

Harry chuckled, biting his lip, “Won’t have to do anything. Just get on top of me.” He urged her and Claire nodded, letting him help her as they switched positions. Much like on the couch, Claire straddled him. The wet of her pussy pressed into the base of his cock, grinding softly as they indulged in another making-out session.

Harry held her hair back and had one hand on her ass, cupping the flesh and squeezing, urging her to grind into him. When he felt like Claire was too scared to fully sit down on him, he slapped her ass and she gasped, no longer holding herself up.

“So beautiful.” Harry whispered, head popped up on a few pillows as Claire hovered over him. They shared little kisses as he urged her hips up to sink down on him. “God – fuck.” Claire whimpered as she took him, slowly sitting down on his cock and feeling him in a different angle.

“Good, good.” Harry praised, his eyes closing as her warm cunt swallowed him, “So fucking good.” It sounded like a slur and both took a moment to adjust again.

“Hands behind your back.” Harry instructed in a strained voice, “Fuck, ‘m not gonna last long.”

Claire quickly obliged, depending on Harry’s arms to hold her a little upright. She was leaned completely over him, face hovering over his. Harry held one hand in the back of her neck with her hair in a makeshift ponytail, and held his other hand around her throat to keep her head tilted up.

With Claire’s arms behind her back, she was completely folded up for him and she loved it. She could feel her wetness seeping from her pussy, making a mess of Harry’s thighs. He didn’t seem to mind one bit, hardly paying it any attention before he started fucking up into her.

The position made Claire gasp, her body going lax for a moment before the pleasure consumed her and she let herself get used by Harry. He was so insanely deep like this, it was almost painful but in the best way. She’d be sore, for sure. She’d feel him for days, the way he stretched her and claimed her. God, it was everything she had craved.

“Holy shit – Claire,” Harry panted, “I need you to cum again.”

“Uh-huh.” She managed to choke out, “Please, it’s so good.” Her eyes watered again and Harry groaned softly, staring at her. They kissed again, his hand no longer on her throat but affectionately cupping her cheek as her tongue slipped into his mouth.

It was like he needed that moment before turning into a full animal. Holding both hands on the makeshift ponytail, he gave her a sharp tug to have her staring up at the ceiling. With Claire folded back in half and her hands still behind her back, Harry was relentless in the way his hips snapped up and his cock moved inside of her wet pussy.

“O-Oh god, Harry!” Claire squeaked, “I’m gonna cum. So hard, fuck.” Her words were jumbled and stuttering, her eyes tightly screwed shut as her second orgasm washed over her. She was quiet this time, unable to get out a sound or a word. Harry let go of her hair and Claire dropped her face in the crook of his neck, panting out desperately as she clenched and shuddered and convulsed around him.

Harry’s eyes rolled back at the feeling, “Shit, oh god.” He cursed, sliding both hands down to her ass to knead her and keep her firmly pressed to him. He grabbed the flesh, spreading her cheeks and rolling her back down onto him as he finished inside of the condom. He was sweaty and clammy, and Claire was sprawled out on top of him without the ability to move.

Both stayed like that for a moment. Claire shuddered every so often, her muscles tensing after two harsh orgasms as Harry was melted into the bed with her on top of him. They shared gentle caresses, his fingers dancing over her spine as she stroked her thumb over his jaw, “Wow.” Claire whispered after a few minutes.

Harry lazily smiled with his eyes closed, “Yeah. Wow. Shit, that was good.”

“Mhm.” She hummed and Harry sighed, “We should clean up a bit, hm? And go to sleep?”

Claire was yawning as she agreed, “Yes.”

Grabbing her hip, Harry gently nudged her off. Claire let him, no strength in her legs as she fell on the mattress next to him. Harry’s cock slipped out of her, softening up inside of the condom and he hissed in sensitivity as he got up and headed into the en-suite bathroom to clean up and dispose of the condom.

After washing his hands, he went to get Claire. He pulled her up, “C’mon, you need to pee.” He whispered. Claire fought to keep her eyes open, fully naked as Harry helped her into the bathroom and gave her the privacy to use the toilet.

Both brushed their teeth after that and collapsed in the bed. No words were spoken when Harry pulled Claire into his side for her head to rest on his chest and her arms to wrap around him. He cuddled her back, brushing his lips over her forehead, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She whispered back, giving one more kiss to his neck before falling asleep.

Harry feared that it might be awkward in the morning, waking up with Claire after that. But it wasn’t. If anything, his heart soared as he was woken up with kisses to his chest, leading up to his neck and his jaw as her hand stroked over his side.

He shortly squeezed her body, eyes still closed, “Hey.” He rasped. Claire smiled into his neck, her leg hooked over his hips, “Hi, good morning.”

He kept his eyes closed as he lazily rolled around with her, changing the position until he was cuddled into her side with his face in her neck, “What time is it?”

“The sun’s coming up.” Claire responded in a whisper. Harry’s arms were around her and he inhaled her scent, puckering his lips, “Hmm.”

“Think we woke anyone last night?”

His lips curled into a soft smirk, remembering every second as he let out a breath, “Don’t think so, no. How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Claire whispered, shifting a little in his hold until she cupped his jaw. Harry’s eyes opened as he felt her kissing him, a few gentle pecks placed on his lips. He smiled involuntary, staring at Claire who looked giddy and sparkly in the morning.

“This is a nice way to wake up.” He whispered and she hummed, “It sure is.” They were in silence for a bit until Claire took a breath, “So what’s usually for breakfast on Saturdays?”

“Pancakes.” Harry yawned. He gently squeezed her waist, “Wanna help me?”

About ten minutes later, they were in the kitchen. Claire was dressed in her underwear and just a shirt of Harry’s, reaching well over her ass while they roamed around the kitchen to get everything for the pancakes and stealing kisses in between. Harry could hardly focus on the stupid pancakes, constantly having his hands on her and hiking up the shirt to get a peek of what was underneath.

“Harry.” Claire giggled, “The boys will be up soon.”

He stood behind her, pushing her into the countertop a little as his fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt. His lips were on her neck from behind, “We’ll hear.” He whispered, “Just a quickie.”

Claire didn’t say anything, and Harry felt her giving in as she relaxed. He smirked into her neck, “So good for me.” He murmured lowly, bunching the shirt up around her waist. He pulled back a little to stare at her ass, covered by the thin band of lace of the red thong. He bit his lip, grazing his thumb over the fabric, “Let me get a condom.” He whispered.

She whined in protest, grabbing his wrist to keep him right where he was, “No, fuck that. Just do me.” She sighed, “Fuck me bare. I wanna feel you.”

Harry groaned, not needing more convincing than that. He was quick, hooking her thong to the side and pushing his sweats down. He spat down into his hand to lube himself up, guiding between her ass cheeks to find her weeping pussy. Claire leaned over the countertop a bit more to make it easier, and Harry pushed in slowly again.

He watched, the way her fingers gripped around the edge of the countertop, the way her back tensed at the intrusion, the way her head dropped and the way her legs trembled as he entered her again.

“Are you sore?” He whispered, urging her to stand up straighter again so he could wrap his arms around her. They slipped underneath the shirt, palming her tits as Claire leaned her head back on his shoulder, “A bit, but it’s so okay.” She responded. Harry hummed, nipping on her neck as he started fucking her. He was sensitive, early in the morning. His cock was painfully hard and he sighed in bliss of being inside of her again.

The kitchen was silent apart from the steady ticking of the clock and the faint sound of a car driving by every once in a while. They breathed sharply and heavily, but both kept their moans down. The only other thing that could be heard was the sound of Harry’s hips slapping into her ass, fucking her from behind.

It didn’t feel like enough anymore, and after a few minutes he slipped out to turn her around. Grabbing her thighs, Harry easily lifted Claire up on the countertop, lips hovering over one another as he pushed in again. His cock shone in the slick of her arousal, easily sinking back into her pussy as she sat up at the perfect height.

He held one hand on her thigh, hiking it up over his hips as he fucked her quickly and sharp. “Fuck.” Harry choked out a whisper, tugging Claire to the edge to get deeper. She leaned back on one palm, watching him intently as Harry fucked her for his own pleasure. She didn’t mind. Claire was too sore and tired to reach an orgasm, but watching Harry as he neared his own end, was mesmerizing.

No words were spoken, but his jaw went slack and he buried himself deep inside of her when finishing. As Harry felt like he was unable to keep his moans down, he desperately kissed her, spurts of his cum filling Claire on an early, lazy Saturday morning in the kitchen. His fingers dented her hips as his orgasm seemed endless, fucking her bare. She felt amazing and he hadn’t expected anything less.

Both were panting as the ringing in Harry’s ears subsided. He relaxed a little, unclenching his muscles as he stroked up Claire’s sides, “Shit, you didn’t cum.” He panted out. She hummed, “That’s okay. You can make it up to me later.”

He breathed out a chuckle, it quickly disappearing as he heard a door upstairs. Claire’s eyes widened and Harry glanced around to reach for tissues. He slipped out of her, using the tissues to clean up any spilling of his cum. In an ideal world, he’d watch intently as it oozed out of her swollen cunt, possibly use his mouth on her decently this time.

But they didn’t have time. Footsteps from upstairs hurried down the stairs and he heard the giggling of two little boys as Claire hurried into the downstairs bathroom to clean up and get decent. Harry washed his hands and used a clean cloth to wipe down the countertop.

By the time Claire returned from the bathroom, the sight in front of her warmed her heart. Harry was playing around in the kitchen with Atlas and Finn. And everything just felt so normal. She walked up behind him as he stirred the pancake batter. It didn’t feel weird when she wrapped her arms around his form and pressed a kiss to his clothed shoulder, “Can we stay for breakfast?”

Harry glanced at her over his shoulder, seeing the softness in her eyes. He smiled and reached back further to bump his nose into hers, “You can stay forever.”

//

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jaime Reyes x girlfriend reader where she bought or found a beetle as a joke please 🪲

My kind of humour right there ngl 🦦🪲

I honestly didn’t know what to end this off with so if this comes off kinda goofy and dumb, then let it be goofy and dumb.

Entomophobia - the fear of insects.

Part 2

‘WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!’ Jaime screeched as he clung to your side, staring down the small blue critter that was mindlessly scuttling the expanse of the desk in your room, with a bug eyed expression while you stood there unfazed before shrugging your shoulders.

‘A mint blue beetle that I had found a while back.’ You answered nonchalantly as you left Jaime cowering by his lonesome as you wandered over to where the beetle was and carefully ushered it into your awaiting palm, before then turning back towards your freaked out boyfriend whom only looked even more freaked out. ‘I can see that’s a beetle but why do you even have that in your house?! Better yet, when did you find the time to look for one?! No that’s not important, what’s important is when was this idea brought about and -did I forget to mention- why?!’ Jaime squawked, almost tripping over his own feet as he tried to attempt to widen the gap that you were so adamantly trying to close.

When you asked him to come over, this wasn’t what he had in mind…

‘You brought that disappointment upon your self Jaime.’ Khaji-Da told him in his mind as the scarab decided to made it’s presence known, much to Jaime’s chagrin. ‘Oh yeah, I sure did, but I should’ve been at least given a warning prior at the very least.’ Jaime muttered, making sure that you didn’t hear him as he spoke back to the scarab. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve just developed Entomophobia.’ He adds on in a whine just as his lips formed into a pathetic pout.

‘How can you possibly fear such an inferior being Jaime Reyes?’ The scarab practically scoffed at it’s host’s dramatics. ‘We have faced more difficult hardships then this, but if your so perpetually frightened of the damage this insect can do then I shall have not choice but to terminate-‘

‘Those questions will all be answered in due time, so say hello to little blue!’ Your voice cuts Khaji-Da off and Jaime almost felt his soul jump out of his skin when he noticed how close you have gotten in the time he spent talking to the scarab and automatically took a step back; only to realise his shock and horror that he had subconsciously backed himself into a wall and all of a sudden.

‘Jaime?’

‘Jaime?’

…

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry little blue but it looks like he has collapsed.’

[orphicrose]

I got bit by a spider a while ago and it made me come up with this request idea, imgiane Alastor x reader were they were already together and one day they come to him with a spider bite and then he aboustly looses it on Angel even tho the reader persists it wasn't him it was an actual spider and AL is like "doesn't matter! I'm not letting any spider harm you!" And Angel is like "HEY! IM A SPIDER DEMON NOT A SPIDER! AND I DONT BITE...unless ya want me too, and what are ya a spider racist?" And its a stupid argument but Alastor is still mad at Angel for a spider bite he didn't cause and Charlie and Vaggue have to break it up. 🤣

Tiny spider

This was really fun to write. Thank you so much for the suggestion

_______________𖤐

Alastor was always your night in shining armour when it came to bugs. Hearing your squeals of terror from the room next door to him, he could always safely assume it was because of some sort of mutated beetle or spider. And he was right 90% of the time. He’d swiftly eliminate the threat, sometimes letting it outside. Sometimes calling over niffty to have her fun with it. This time, though, he was too late. It got you. Seeping into your skin with its sharp fangs before you had the chance to notice it was on you.

Flinging your hand about in sheer panic, you let out a cry for help. Alastor assuming someone had murdered you, materialising into the room next to you hearing his hands. Ready to smite someone with his black magic at any given moment.

You turned, showing him the tiny red mark at the end of your finger. He calmed down, posture adjusting itself. He took your hand in his, moving his monocle closer to his eye to get a better look at the microscopic mark the even tinier perpetrator had left on you.

“What happened my love? A paper cut?” He mindlessly questioned to the sobbing face in front of his.

“It got me…” you almost wept from the panic.

“What got you, my darling” his arms slithered around your waist to pull you into an embrace.

“A spider”

His pupils dilated at the sentence, his beloved was hurt and his instincts tell him to seek justice. Arms pushed you away and within the blink of an eye, was on a search for said spider. There is was, all of its arms waving about in front of him, golden teeth bared ready to attack its next victim.

“Yeah so, now I have to work all day to make up for it tomorrow” angels arms waved around, exaggerating his story to the cat behind the bar in front of him.

“Uh huh.” He responded nonchalantly , cleaning a glass in his hand with a mouldy cloth. His face slowly lifted to see the spiders face, but his eyes widened when he saw the enraged Alastor behind him. Thinking it was for him, but almost relieved when Alastor reached for Angels neck from behind.

Angie screeched in a mix of confusion and fear, managing to twist his flexible body around in the deers clench. Soon being thrown to the floor “What the fuck are ya doing there, Alastor?” His voice was nervous, backing away as he was planted below him.

“You bit my darling y/n. Spider” he walked slowly toward the spider, before he burst out laughing. Leaving the confused Alastor with a tilt in his neck. “You think this is funny?”

Angel struggled to form a word between breaths of air. “Let me guess. Y/n got bit by a spider and you’re automatically gunning for me?” He got up, hand on his knee to help him.

“That’s a bit discriminatory to us spiders, we don’t all have 8 legs yanno?” He dusted his blazer off and wiped away a tear from his eye. Alastor losing his temper the more he spoke. Someone needed to pay for the harm, he thought.

Within seconds hell broke loose. Charlie and Vaggie rushed to the lobby after hearing something break. To be met with glasses being throw at the wall, a black tentacle slapping husk around the face, angels golden tooth glaring as he shot anything that moved and a fire In Alastors eye that said “death to all”. It was mayhem.

Before they had a chance to react, another scream came from the living room. Stopping everyone from what they were doing… except for niffty. Niffty was still cleaning up after everyone like a mad man.

Rushing to the room next door, the group stopped in their tracks to find you hiding on the mantle piece above the fire place.

“My dear? What’s the matter?” Alastor spoke first, stepping into the room.

“SPIDER!! ITS BACK TO FINISH ME OFF!” You screamed, pointing at the tiny black spec on the floor.

“Oooohh…” everyone in the door way collectively hummed, realising the mistake.

“what have you got to say to me now,huh?”Angel poked his shoulder, the demon gritting his teeth as his head snapped back.

“There’s still time to kill you, Angel dearest!”

[beetlebabe]

Frantic, desperate, she could only manage to shriek,

“BEETLE--OOF!”

Gravity suddenly returned and Lydia felt a cold, solid pair of hands clasped around her waist. She was whipped skyward once more.

“SHE'S BAAACK!" screeched a gravelly voice, followed by a peal of cackling laughter.

Get a Life! Chapter 1 on Ao3

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I'm SORRY but,,,,, instead of Legacy accidentally injuring Reader, what if Reader accidentally injures Legacy????

Poor guy is always so careful around them!! Careful with his claws, with his sharp armour, with his inhuman strength. Such a teeny tiny wife person cannot protect themselves from him so he has to be extra careful!!! It does not even CROSS poor guy's mind that they're not all that unable-to-fuck-up either, especially with how they're sometimes prone to being a little absentminded

:))

I'll leave it you your deviously beautiful mind to come up with the details, and whether this is going in the angst direction (YES) or the fluff one (ALSO YES) but,,,,

😌😌😌 yeah

oh, you're devious for this anon,,, however i am feeling fluffy tonight so we shall be silly!!!

it happens, like many injuries do, entirely by accident. the day is warm and sunny, beetles chirping in the trees and only a few clouds drifting across the sky- it's the weekend, too, so you and Foul Legacy are sprawled out in the warm grass, soaking up as much sun as you can before you inevitably have to go back to work. Legacy purrs beside you, stretching his claws happily as his delicate wings glitter in the light. you can't handle as much sun as he can, though- sometimes you joke that Legacy is powered by sunrays and snuggles- and after a bit of dawdling you haul yourself to your feet and wander back towards the house to prevent yourself from getting overheated and lethargic, slipping through the unlatched door and idly giving it a quick shove so it shuts faster

there's a sudden CRACK and a pained screech, and your blood goes cold

Foul Legacy whines faintly as you rush back outside, holding his head and letting out little anguished cries- he had just wanted to follow you back inside! but you hadn't noticed, so the door slammed shut right in his face, making a small crack where it hit. there's no blood, thank god, but you can't help but murmur countless apologies as you gently massage around the area to soothe the pain, Legacy leaning into your palms with a soft whimper. the chitin will repair itself rather quickly, a gauze patch over the crack for good measure, and Legacy insistently buries his head into your lap once you get inside and sit down, craving more of your tender care. he doesn't blame you in the slightest, your shoulder already laden with the guilt of accidentally hurting him- until he gives your hands a quick, careful nip in retaliation, hiding his face in your shirt and shaking with growling laughs when you let out an indignant yelp

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: A voice calls to you.

Author's Note: Set around two weeks after the ‘earthquake’ and is canon-compliant except there is no Eddie in 1986. This fic takes a couple of chapters to get going, so stay with me. I am SO excited about this, and I think you will love where it goes.

1986

The colony screeched and swooped, taking off into the inky dusk sky with graceless chaos. Each bat had stretched their wings and dropped from their forest dwelling to join the trilling and flapping. Only one remained.

He perched high in the treetops, an unwillingness to join the others that was not typical for a bat. Impossible for a bat, depending on who you asked. He observed the night grow darker with an entirely unnatural sense of understanding.

Eventually, he would fall from the branch and join the others in the hunt for moths and wasps, beetles and bugs. The hunger would drive him to it, yet the hunger could never be satisfied. It had been like that for one hundred and fifty years.

He was the oldest in the colony and couldn’t remember being young. He couldn’t remember reveling in warm nights or cicada season. He felt as if he had always haunted the forest and always would. He felt, and that was the problem.

The other bats did as all Eptesicus fuscus did. They were born into a colony around April and spent a month nursing from their mothers. The pups grew up, hibernated in the winter, mated, and bared the next generation, ultimately living a short life, just shy of a decade at best.

This bat did not. He did not hibernate alone or with others. When they found warmth and shelter in dilapidated buildings, under tree bark, or in caves, he remained a presence on the boughs of the forest’s tallest trees. He did not mate and did not father. He did not fly patterns across the sky while the town below slept. He ate to survive and continued to live well beyond his species’ dictated years. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He watched over Hawkins, Indiana for over a century. With each passing year, things would change. Slowly, the wilderness had been reduced to clusters of wooded areas by modernisation and industrialisation. It was becoming more and more common for the bats to come into contact with humans. A vast majority of the time, the people screamed and ran, terrified of disease or spooked by urban legends. Some marveled at the bats with respectful awe. Some tried and failed to catch the needle-teethed things for sport. Mostly, they were left alone to mind their own bat business, and mostly, that’s what the ageless bat did.

It wasn’t until mid-nineteenth century that the bat sensed a deep and profound shift. The Lab was built and the earth suffered. The bat had an ariel view and echolocation, but he couldn’t know what happened within the walls. Decades passed and the mystery continued. By 1983 though, he knew his kind wasn’t the only nightmare fuel in the woods.

1984. 1985. And, in 1986 the ground split open, spilling the Upside Down into Hawkins. An earthquake, reported the news. The sixth sense innate in all animals knew better Deers, birds, and bees all migrated out of pattern. The colony of bats entirely disappeared one night, having feared the vibrations pulsating from the cracks in the earth.

Only one remained, an unshakable and quite possibly magical force tethering him to Hawkins.

…

“That town is no place for a witch,” came the warning. “Something is still wrong with Hawkins. Can’t you sense it?”

Infamous in Indiana, Hawkins was the place where buildings burnt and people went missing with threefold outcome. One: they were never seen again. Two: returned, but at what cost? Three: bodies found, so disfigured by unseen violence that it was hard not to believe in monsters.

When the streets fell apart in 1986, sending part of the town down into hell, it would have been fair for Hawkins to lose what remained of their resolve. Yet, the town would go on to rebuild, and between the freshly poured concrete and funeral services, a battle was fought in secret.

“A doorway was opened. They may not claim victory,” came another warning with a beg to heed.

Yes, it would be the fight of their lives, but it wasn’t for a witch to interfere with. That was a hard line in the sand of magic that even you would not cross. They called him Vecna, but you had no name for him. His sorcery was not of the natural world. To let him know of yours would be to risk it all.

There was more to you than witchcraft, however. Hawkins was a town in crisis, and there was space for you to help and heal.

“It’s not just him,” cried a third and final warning. “The ground is consecrated,”

“That’s old superstition,” you dismissed.

“So is blood moon bad luck, but look what happened last time. And falling brooms, broken mirrors, and circles of salt. We are superstition. There are some places witches should not go.”

Your mind was set and your path clear. “Something is calling me there. Doesn’t that have meaning?”

“Not all callings are sanctified,”

“Do we fear holiness or not?” you asked. “I can’t walk consecrated ground but should only show devotion to the sanctified calls?”

There was no answer.

You sighed and softened your voice. “Look, I know you mean well. All you do is out of love. I know that. But, I need to do this. It’s… I don’t know… So real. The calling. It almost has a voice,”

“The timing,” was offered as a reminder.

The first time you felt something coming from Hawkins was when the quote unquote earthquake happened. A catastrophic event like that had to have more consequences than just Vecna, you thought. It could have shifted other magic and natural musings.

“I’ve made up my mind,” you stated with boldness beyond your rank in the coven.

“Are you so willing to discount lore?”

“Folklore. It’s 1986. I know witchcraft isn’t a science, but you have to give me more credit than that. We don’t have to listen to every whisper on the wind and take for gospel the tea leaves in our cups… Nuances, you know?”

Your eyes stayed closed and your hand gripped the pen tightly, waiting for a reply to be sprawled out on the page. When nothing more came, ‘Are you so willing to discount lore?’ the last words scribbled in a handwriting not your own, you breathed out hard.

Automatic writing took a lot of energy out of you, but it was the best method of speaking to The Witches Who Came Before. Reading back their psychographic warnings, you felt a small sense of guilt over defying them, but more than guilty, you felt empathy for a town so beaten by evil over and over.

Hawkins was calling.

…

Aid workers, distressed families, and reporters had flooded the small town, making it all the more easy for you to slip by the city limits unnoticed. Although you weren’t sure what should or could be noticing you, there was still a small exhale of relief when you didn’t burst into flames as you drove passed the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign.

The voice calling you to the town hadn’t been polite enough to give specific instructions. In lieu of directions or coordinates, you drove along roads that appeared to be out of the path of the earthquake, finding your way to a bar called The Hideaway.

Inside, patrons sat around watching their town on the news while staff rushed to cook food and package it up for the crisis centers.

“Bit of a wait on food, honey,” a waitress called to you.

“Just after a Coke.”

It seemed uncanny for a bar to be operational in the middle of an emergency, but it also befit a town so used to death. You took your can of Coke from the waitress, left a ten on the counter, and made your way around the tables to get to the noticeboard on the other side of the room.

Lost dogs. Swimming classes. Babysitters for hire. Then, your eyes landed on it.

1BR TRAILER. PARTLY FURNISHED. WATER/ELECTRICITY. NEEDS REPAIR. CHEAP. CALL: FOREST HILLS TRAILER PARK. 312-683-1192.

Maybe it had already been volunteered to home displaced people, but you trusted it was worth a shot. “Hey, can I borrow your phone?” you asked the waitress, walking to the bar and leaning on it. She nodded and dumped the old rotary phone in front of you.

After four rings, “Forest Hills,”

“Ah, hey. I saw your flyer. About the one-bedroom. Is that still available?”

The woman made a scoffing sound. “Apparently beggars can be choosers. Ain’t nothing wrong with that trailer but Red Cross said it ain’t fit for people. On account of the mold, they said.” Her voice was gravelly from a pack a day, but she didn’t sound unkind.

“I don’t mind mold,”

“Guess it’s available then.”

…

The bat had never known illness or injury. Whatever was killing the trees though, had touched him. He didn’t wither and die like other flora and fauna, but he wasn’t unscathed. It was as if he was burnt from the inside out, a mark on his feet spreading slowly but surely.

The sensation was unpleasant at first, but grew more noxious. His wings wouldn’t stretch their full span, and he could only glide small distances. The bat found a small patch of trees not yet turned to ash, settling in at the base of one, hiding under brush for warmth.

It was a fine place to die, if that should be his fate. He was where he belonged.

…

Forest Hills Trailer Park had been subdivided again and again; any spare patch of land was used for caravans and tents of people left homeless or those coming to watch the disaster unfold.

The one-bedroom trailer Michelle, manager of the park, gave you the keys to was indeed in need of repair. There were air vents that sat wide open, the outside cold seeping through. Dark mold grew in the corner of the bedroom’s ceiling. And the carpet should have been replaced years prior.

The very first thing you did once alone in your new home was ring a small bell you kept in your bag. Three shrill rings for good fortune. For everything else, you’d need supplies.

The local general stores would likely be low on stock, and the shopping mall had burnt down only a year ago. It stood in ruin, yet to be redeveloped. Before you ventured to the shops, you decided to take a short walk around Forest Hills and the surrounding land to see what could be foraged.

As you passed people, some looked you up and down, Satanic Panic clouding their perception of anyone they considered to be different from themselves, to be ‘other’ in any way. Some neighbours though, waved and offered a friendly greeting. “Michelle con you into that old trailer?” one asked, to which you politely faked a laugh.

Out beyond the trailers and RVs was a patch of land that seemed unaffected by everything happening in the town. The trees soundproofed the space, making it feel miles away from civilisation. While there wasn’t much in the way of edible mushrooms and plants, nor things needed for your craft, you sensed an undercurrent of magic there.

Crouching down, you picked up a golden leaf, twirling it between your fingers. Close, you thought, but didn’t know what it meant.

It was then you saw it out of the corner of your eyes. Something moved under the tree near you. Small. An animal. A rabbit, maybe? Rats or opossums or a trash-stealing raccoon?

Slowly, you sat down on the forest floor, cross-legged and facing the tree. You would wait until the animal revealed itself on its own terms.

The bat was so weak he could hardly move. He tried to hide away from the human that was watching him, but he couldn’t. When he resigned to his position, he let his vision focus on you.

You weren’t surprised to see the bat. The feeling was relief, like you’d found a missing thing. It was clear something was wrong with the creature though. “Do you need help?” you asked it.

Still slowly, you scooted closer to the bat. There were no obvious signs of injury. His brown fluffy body was free from blood or gore. Perhaps he had torn a wing or flown into a tree.

“I can help,” you whispered, holding a hand out flat to the ground. The tips of your fingers were close enough to the bat that he could bite if he wanted to, or he could shuffle forward into the softness of your hand.

Whatever compelled the bat to never leave Hawkins, compelled him to fall onto your palm.

“Hi,” you greeted, bringing your hand to your chest and holding the bat safely between your hands. “What’s happened?”

The bat was a common species; you recognised him as the aptly named big brown bat. His body was the size of a baseball, and some of his colouring was wrong. His legs and arms would normally be pink, but they were a sickly black colour. It looked like his brown fur was beginning to turn too.

“Did you eat something bad? Accidentally poison yourself?”

The bat, of course, did not answer your questions. You looked around the trees for other lost animals or any sign of something that may have caused your new friend to become sick. When there were no answers there either, you stood and took the both of you back to the trailer.

…

Destiny and a little folly may have led you to Forest Hills and the one-bedroom trailer, but you had come to Hawkins prepared nonetheless. In your car, there were supplies to ensure if you’d had to sleep there for a couple of nights, you could. The bat would benefit from your readiness.

The sleeping bag you’d packed was turned into a soft nest for him. “Alright, let’s get you warm,” you whispered, placing him in the middle. He shuffled on the spot for a few moments before settling, his brown eyes still watching you.

When you offered him a piece of banana, he nibbled at it.

When you gingerly stroked his fur, he let you.

Still, there was something about the way the bat watched you, something in his reaction to your movements. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was most definitely curious.

“Alright, my furry friend. We need provisions. Especially if there’s gonna be two of us.” You spoke to him as you pulled your jacket on and grabbed your bag. “Please be here when I get back. I promise I can help you.”

…

It was dark when you returned home. Stores were staying open late to receive interstate deliveries and provide goods to the in-need townspeople, so you managed to get most things on your list.

Inside the trailer was cold, the spring air outside not yet filtered with summer’s coming warmth. You checked on the bat, ensured he was still cosy in his nest. Then, you got to work.

After soap and scrubbing did its part and the mold was attacked with vinegar and bleach, you boarded up the vents and added repairing them properly to your to-do list. In the bedroom, the bed was covered in fresh linen while you dreamed of a brand new mattress.

The only other furniture in the so-called ‘partly furnished’ trailer was a couple of bar stools at the kitchen bench, a televisionless television stand, a couch in surprisingly good condition, and a coffee table that sat a little too low to the ground.

Next, you took a ritual learned from your sisters whilst in India and let milk and rice boil over on the stove for prosperity and abundance. From time spent in Lowcountry, you observed the practice of painting your porch blue. The trailer didn’t have a porch, but the doorframes would suffice. It would ward off evil spirits, as would the salt ring you ran around the home. Finally, mugwort and sweetgrass smudged through the space, cleansing and claiming it as your own.

By the time you were finished, it was almost midnight and your stomach growled obscenities. The bat had been nibbling on the fruit you’d offered, but you’d not eaten since the morning.

After two cups of noodles and a cup of white jasmine tea, you unpacked the small cat bed you’d purchased for the bat. You relocated him into it, still with the sleeping bag, and pushed it under your bed. He’d like it in the dark, you thought.

Skipping a shower, you changed into pajamas and got into bed. Sleep came quickly, perhaps quicker than it had in decades. You dreamt that night. Of darkness. Of blood. Of screaming. Nothing coherent, nothing recognisable. Just an ominous feeling that you were going to find what you were looking for, ready or not.

End Note: Reblogs and comments are so appreciated. Like I said, it will take a couple of chapters for you to fall in love, but I promise you will.

If you are interested in the witchcraft in the story, check out The Grimoire. It will be updated with each chapter!

Fic Taglist: @kaitebugg03 @paranoidmunson @amira0303 @munsonsbait @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @stardustmunson @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @munsonlives @sweetpeapod @depressooo-expressooo-blog @thorfemmes @hawkins-high @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @mymoonisalways-in-scorpio @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @lacrymosa-24 @mel-the-fangirl

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 14

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 32.5k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau A/N: 32.5k....uh, i...this is fucking crazy, years in the making basically. and tumblr let me post all of It!!!!

Present (XIII)

THE ARENA; THE BEACH (4:10 am—4:23 am)

The female morphling gasps raspily in Peeta’s embrace as he soothes her and Finnick feels fuzzy, blurry around the edges. He turns his back to the display, his gaze sweeping the treeline. He can’t look—won’t look—as she takes her last breath. He doesn’t know her, but he can’t shake that feeling of helplessness. There’s nothing more he can do but watch as she dies. 

Would you have thrown yourself between Peeta and certain death just as readily as she did? Like Mags did? He grips his trident and tries to keep a grip on his sanity as well, but that’s a lot harder to hold on to than the metal in his hands.

The monkeys have all but disappeared back into the jungle. They wouldn’t come onto the beach, toppling over themselves as they snarled and spit at him. Finnick knows he’s threatening, a formidable enemy with his trident wielded as an extension of himself. Still, even he knows that shouldn’t have been enough to intimidate a rabid pack of apes with a preference for the blood of victors.

It was almost like they couldn’t come onto the beach. From what Katniss told him, the fog behaved similarly after they fell down the hill. Billowing upwards along an invisible barrier. 

She was so close to making it. Just a few more feet and Mags…

He feels his throat tighten, tears gathering behind his eyes. His nose will start running any second now, which means it’s a perfect time to collect Katniss’s arrows. He stays on guard, but there’s nothing—not one chitter or screech. He pulls blood-stained arrows out of monkey carcasses with the sound of cannon fire dogging his steps.

SECTION 6  (5:47 am—6:38 am)

You have no idea how long you’ve been roaming, but the sunlight sprinkling through the treetops tells you it’s finally morning. The sun isn't very high, yellow rays don't envelop you. Instead, you stumble under the lethargic blue hue between night and day.

You can see again, fully. That's an obvious plus. But, on the downside, the heat will only get hotter. Not that you’d be able to tell with how hot your injury has already made you. 

It’s gotten worse— you’ve gotten worse. It’s made you hazy, you’ve lost track of time. 

You escaped the blood rain, got separated, fought killer beetles, and skulked around like a fox with a lame paw, hiding in the shadows from any predators looking for an easy kill.

You left behind one of your sickles somewhere in the last mile. Having two weapons seemed like such a novel idea when you had other people with you. But after being attacked, wielding them both has only been a nuisance. You could have placed it in one of the belt loops meant for weapons if it didn't pull at and weigh down your tourniquet.

You now hobble along on numb legs as you apply pressure to the wound by pressing your free hand against the blood-soaked cloth you have tied around your waist. 

Between now and the bugs, you had received a sponsor gift. Some sort of thinly sliced dried meat and a seeded roll from Eleven. You hid yourself in the thick underbrush and scarfed it all down; there was no time to savor it while you were so vulnerable.

You’re still vulnerable. As if being alone in an arena deadset on killing you isn’t bad enough, your injury, and whatever is in it, has you moving at half your normal speed. But, for better or for worse, you haven’t come across anyone else. You know not to expect anyone from your original group, but you haven't seen anyone. Your only company is the pounding in your head, the burning in your side, and the odd little creatures that scamper in the trees. 

You thought, perhaps, you’d come across Chaff and whatever’s left of his group. You know from last night that he didn’t die in the bloodbath. The same can’t be said for the male morphling. You sigh, long and heavy. 

So much for trying to learn his name.

You remember how it felt to see Cecelia’s face in the sky. Cecelia and old man Woof, his mind hardly there but still hellbent on keeping her safe. Your throat reflexively tightens. You hadn’t thought she would make it far, but you had hoped—you shake your head. You don’t know what you hoped for, but you can’t help but think of her three children clinging to her as she was reaped and your own mother’s scream when you volunteered. 

You’re all dropping like flies.

You stop for yet another break. Eyes squeezed tight as you gasp in the muggy air—you’re winded. Again. You wipe your forearm across your forehead, sweat wetting the dry blood. It runs down your hairline, dripping a salty mixture into your eyes and mouth.

You can’t keep going on like this. At this rate, you’ll succumb to your injuries before anything else kills you, and, had it not been for the revolution, you’d be fine with that. Dying in the arena was your plan as soon as you raised your hand to volunteer. But things are different now; your plans have changed, and you refuse to break your promise to Finnick. The only way out is through. And your only way out is by getting sponsored. 

You can’t mistake survival for self-sacrifice, which is what this is. Survival. You’ll lose no part of yourself in return for their help.

They’re not taking something you haven't already given—that they haven't already taken before. 

You lower your head, feigning exhaustion as you catch your breath, though you don’t have to act much. Subtly, you adjust your hand, ensuring any movement escapes detection. At most, it might look like your fingers are involuntarily twitching, disguising the deliberate pressure you're applying to the wound. The pain makes tears spring to your eyes, but that isn’t enough. They need to feel your anguish like it's their own. With a grimace, you dig deeper. Your body flinches away from the feeling, but you don’t let yourself get far. Your nails, trimmed and well-kept, still manage to cut into the fabric, aggravating and stretching one of the already gaping wounds. 

It's an odd feeling—the strike of pain in a place you never imagined you could feel it, fingers worming around like a flimsy stick wrapped in barbed wire. An even odder feeling to scratch at something that was never meant to be felt.

You sob, abandoning any attempt at stifling your groans and ragged breaths. Tremors wrack your body, muscles spasming weakly under your merciless touch. There's a harsh rasp in your lungs, labored breathing, a tang of something metallic. The relentless pressure sears through you, yet you persist. You continue to wiggle your fingers around until you feel the warm trail of tears tracing your cheeks.

You look to the sky and swallow your pride. You’ve done it your entire life; what’s one more time?

You can imagine how you look now. Your face streaked with tears and blood, a mix of desperation and agony etched upon your features. The rivulets of red fluid mingling with teardrops, tracing sorrowful paths down your cheeks. The pain and exertion must be painting your expression, your eyes wide and brimming with torment, the viscous liquid obscuring the once familiar contours of your face. And you top it off with a pitiful pout.

“Seeder, please— please ! I need…I need…somethin’. Any— anythin’ .” You hiccup, gesturing toward your likely festering wound. “I need help. I don’t wanna die.” You allow your face to screw up in anguish, really playing it up. After all, it’s not actually Seeder you’re performing for. 

" Please ." Your plea, a soft sniffle, is barely audible, and it's almost comical how quickly the package arrives. They were waiting, just like you thought. Waiting for that moment of surrender.

That familiar three-note tune pings from above you. The sponsor gift floats down languidly as if it has all the time in the world and you aren't being slowly poisoned. 

You move closer, but it's stopped before it can reach its destination. Instead of falling before you like it should have, the package hangs precariously among the branches. You scan the mess of white, brown, and green. The parachute has gotten tangled in the lower canopies.  

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” You bemoan. 

You stare despairingly up at the package. It tweets that little tune, taunting you from its high perch, and it won’t shut up until you get it. It’ll only draw attention the longer you stall.

From down here, the climb seems daunting, but you’ve climbed higher than this in Eleven when you were younger, starved, and overworked.   

You touch the trunk and the bark is different than what you're used to, but it’s still firm enough that you have faith it’ll hold your weight without breaking. The bark back home is rough and sap-sticky with little to no give. These trees are somewhat slippery and damp from the excess humidity, no doubt. 

You swallow hard against the rising nausea, your fingers gingerly probing the covered wound as you attempt to ground yourself. Your arms tremble as you place your weapon among the gnarled roots. Your side sears with raw hurt that pulsates with each breath, made worse and reopened by your little stunt. With that at the forefront of your mind, the urgency of retrieving the parcel tethered between the two trees outweighs the agony.

With gritted teeth, you reach out for nearby branches, using them as anchors. The mud-slicked roots serve as precarious footholds, threatening to betray you with each move. Each upward pull sends fiery jolts through your injured side, but you ignore the throbbing ache, fingers finding purchase in the deep grooves. You wince, fighting against the dizzying waves threatening to overwhelm you. You realize, perhaps a bit late, that you've been overestimating the adrenaline's ability to numb the pain. You claw your way up, inch by agonizing inch. 

It’s within sight and then within reach. It hangs above you. You position yourself a little higher until both feet rest on one branch. You shimmy, your chest pressed against the trunk as you hug the tree with one arm. Your other arm stretches up, fingers barely brushing the bottom of the silver canister. You pant open-mouthed as the stretch brings your attention back to your injury, destroying the brief blissful second you forgot about it as you came upon your gift. 

You relieve the pressure along your side by pushing to your tiptoes, batting at it like a cat, before you’re finally able to get it in your grasp. It’s a dodgy hold at best. Only your thumb, middle finger, and ring finger have any real grip on it as you attempt to shake it from the branches. It’s not enough. The tendon in your forearm flexes as you rock back onto your heels, using your full weight to dislodge it, and it feels like the entirety of your abdomen twinges with the reintroduced stretch.

But the suffering was worth it. You got it, bringing it to your chest, relishing in the feeling of cold metal in your hand. Each breath is a pained gasp as tears blur your vision. Whether they’re from pain or relief is anyone’s guess. You can't help but smile, laughing with each pant. It's a small accomplishment, barely an accomplishment at all, but—"You did it. You fuckin' did it ." 

You steady yourself before opening it and reading the attached note.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

A rose by any other name is watered just the same.

You flip it around and it reads:

For the venom. Drink up.

- S

The price of medicine in the Games is nothing to scoff at. And who knows how much the prices may have inflated for a Quarter Quell. You'd like to pretend that one of your higher-end patrons sponsored this. That Seeder pulled this together through numerous donations. 

But you know better. 

Snow is supposed to be impartial regarding who survives in the arena. The president sponsoring someone is unheard of, but you know the man better than most. You know what echoes through that dark abyss he calls a soul. There’s always a way around, a way to cheat if you have enough power. It wouldn’t surprise you if he bent the rules in whatever way benefited him. In fact, you know he did. And it seems your survival benefits him. You’re no use to him dead.

Volunteering wasn’t enough to escape him. You’re alive, because he allows it—in the arena more than ever. Your life isn’t even yours to take. It’s his.

You'd throw up if you could afford to lose the food in your stomach.

You pick up the bottle from the canister. It's clear and about the size of your palm. There’s no label, no indication of what may be in it. You pop the cap and sniff it. It smells herbal, almost minty. When you bring it to your lips and tip it back, it goes down fast, leaving an oily film on your tongue. It has no taste.

You wait. You aren't expecting it to instantly fix you, but wouldn’t it be lovely if it got rid of the nagging ache in your wound and the sheen over your vision? Or maybe just your migraine? 

With a sigh, you close your eyes as you thump your forehead rhythmically against the tree, not helping your headache in the slightest. 

Something is bothering you—something you can’t understand. This antidote. Why would this even be a sponsor gift? Sure, at face value, it’s just medicine—there’s tons of medicine a mentor could send in—but it isn’t, not really. There are salves and sleeping aids—those sorts of things. Things that’ll assist a sick or injured tribute, but they won’t cure them. 

This? This is quite literally a cure. What fun would be in that? Where’s the entertainment value? Wouldn’t betting on the stakes lose its appeal if there was something a mentor could buy to instantly get rid of them? 

Did he…? No. No, he couldn’t have. But nothing else makes sense. He must have had it made after you were attacked. For the venom , he knew exactly what was causing your rapid decline—something that can’t be picked up through the camera. The only reason you know those beetles left a toxin in you is because you feel it. You doubt something like this is even available to buy in the shop. If someone else gets poisoned by those bugs, they’ll no doubt die. But not you. Because of Snow, you’ll survive something that should be a death sentence.

He’s cheating. For you.

You look to the ground and contemplate, only briefly, if a fall from this height, in your current state, would be enough to end it all. If you aim for your head or neck, would it kill you instantly or paralyze you? 

It’s because of these morbid musings that you’re able to catch it—the man barreling through the jungle through vines and low branches—but you surely would have heard him with how loud he is. You freeze like a deer, hardly breathing as he stumbles over his own feet. 

The man from Ten. 

He's not a part of the alliance. And it’s just your luck that he falls below you, crashing face-first onto the ground hard enough for you to wince. He crawls up, panting loudly as he spins in frantic circles before focusing back on the direction he came from. It's almost like he’s being chased—

Whoever is chasing him enters your line of sight like they read your mind. Not who, you correct yourself, because the thing stalking forth is certainly not a person. You see its vague, hulking shape in the low light.

You don’t know if it’s something native to the jungle, a mutation of an existing animal, or a completely original mutt. It’s bipedal, bigger than any human you’ve ever seen. Bigger than any bear you’ve ever seen. 

He’s gonna make a run for it, you can see it in his tense stance. It’s a horrible decision, but the only one he can make. The urge to warn him not to turn his back on that thing, because it will give chase is strong enough that you have to bite your tongue, iron bursting in your mouth as your canines dig in.

He tries to run again, but, as you predicted, it easily catches up to him with its much longer strides. He dives down to grab something off the ground. A fallen branch—nothing you could have picked up as weak as you are right now. He aims it at his pursuer. 

“No! No ! Stay–stay back! Back,” he swings the stick threateningly, unbalanced by its heavy weight, and you remember being in a very similar position in your first Games. Your heart seizes at the reminder. The glassy-eyed desperation in the other tribute as he ran towards your scythe, the sound he made as he held his intestines, the resistance and then the sudden give of his neck under the knife—you barely register dropping the metal canister, distracted as you are. It tumbles down a branch before getting stuck in its leaves. 

The thing freezes and perks up at the sound, listening intently, before seemingly letting it go. Go for the kill you do have over the one you could.

The man warns it back again, and to the astonishment of both him and you, it listens. A momentary pause follows, during which the beast regards him with an uncanny semblance of animal intelligence, only to abruptly lunge forward. The beast is unnervingly silent as it moves, despite its enormous size. He tries to flee again, but this isn’t the terrain for a fair fight. From this height, it’s hard to tell if his legs get caught on vines or ensnared by a dead log, but he tumbles again. In an eerily swift motion, the creature seizes his waist, effortlessly hoisting him into the air, holding him aloft like he’s a doll.

You watch on in horror as it grabs his shoulder, nails digging into where his upper arm meets the joint of his shoulder blade and pulls, wrenching his left arm out of the socket. His scream is blood-curdling, echoing back through the trees so clearly that it sounds like jabberjays flying around you. Despite that, it doesn’t drown out the sound of his severed arm hitting the ground.

You’ve heard a mountain lion and their vixen screech before, their mating calls that sound like a woman shrieking in pain. They could be heard from miles and miles away and you would know not to wander too far into the woods for a while. His screams put them to shame.

Its claws are like a hot knife cutting through butter as it tears through his flesh with ease. It shreds muscle and tendons with a sickening squelch. You slap your free hand against your mouth, digging your fingers into your cheek. You want to climb further up to escape having to witness the carnage, but what if it hears you?

You glance down to where you left your weapon on the ground. Why the hell didn’t you bring it with you? If you had , maybe you could’ve helped him. Could’ve thrown it at the beast’s head or dropped it for the man to use. As it is, it’s too far away to be of any use to him. You’re no use to him. You’re helpless. You can do nothing more than watch and you feel sick with this strange, unplaceable guilt. He isn’t your ally, you shouldn’t care, but you do. You care a great deal.

You make the mistake of making eye contact with the man and you wish it were still nighttime. You wish you couldn't see and you were only left with the sounds and your imagination. You wish you hadn't seen the palpable desperation in his eyes. You wish you hadn't looked down and saw a human staring back. 

“Help me! Please!” He lifts his remaining arm towards you as if you can do anything of significance. As if all you need to do to save him is reach down. “ Please !” The Beast doesn’t seem to understand English since the man’s pleading doesn’t draw its attention up to you. Or maybe it’s just too busy relishing in its kill. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper an apology, shaking so hard that you're scared you’ll fall out of the tree. You turn your head away as the Beast starts pulling at the man’s legs, forcing him into a position he shouldn't be in if the series of pops are anything to go by. 

His screams become piercing. You close your eyes, pressing your forehead into the rubbery bark. You’ve never been an awfully curious person or particularly morbid by nature. You’ve never wondered what it sounds like for limbs to be ripped off the body, but now you know. 

Stop. Stop fighting. Just die. Just die, please, just—

There’s a sound of what can only be entrails hitting the ground. 

You whimper, slapping your other hand against your mouth to stifle a sob. Sniffing and chest hiccuping loud enough that it might draw its attention. Luckily, the man’s agonized screams of pain distract the beast.

You start counting, shaky mumbling muffled by your hands. You keep getting interrupted by the wailing from below. 

It takes under two minutes in total for him to stop screaming. Screaming for help, screaming for mercy, screaming for God. It’s replaced by the groans of a dying animal, a death rattle mixed with what you can only assume is the beast playing in the mess it’s making. 

It takes another forty-three seconds for the cannon to fire. 

The nearly silent, but not quite, sound of the hovercraft is the only thing that convinces you to open your eyes. You chance a glance down and it is horrific . It’s what you imagine the aftermath of the blood rain looked like. Your brain can’t make sense of it. It’s almost like you’re staring at a complex math problem you never learned to solve. You can only see the numbers and the symbols, but not the equation they’re making up. You can’t see how this barbarity used to be a human being with thoughts, and feelings, and hopes, and dreams, and people who cared about him.

The claw drops down to pick up his remains. The light shines down, and it’s in this faint light that you're able to get a better look at the beast. Its dark blond fur works terribly to hide the blood stains, which it’s covered in. It’s congregated on its hands, arms, stomach, chest, and legs, but not on its face. That has to count for something, right? That it didn’t…didn’t eat him. It has to count for something.

You push yourself flat against the trunk of the tree, but it doesn't even look in your direction. Still, you try to make yourself as small as possible as the giant thing lumbers off. Just in case.

The hovercraft claw drops down five times to collect the man—a leg, another leg, an arm, a torso, a head —

The ground isn’t safe. That much is clear. 

You told Rue she’d be safe in the trees. Maybe you should take your own advice. It takes you a while to finally move. To convince yourself that, while you’re not safe by any stretch of the word, the beast isn’t coming back for you. Your muscles are sore from being tensed up for so long, joints stiff and aching as you move out of your position.

As you push further up the tree, something makes you pause. You strain your hearing, listening closer to your surroundings. It’s completely quiet now. Even when the beast came thundering through, the animals were still around like nothing was amiss. Yet, now, no bugs are chittering, no birds chirp above you, and no small critters scurry in the foliage. The jungle is completely silent. 

It’s strange because it sounded like someone was calling your name, but that can't be right because that voice—You whip your head to the right. You heard it again. 

You squint, your eyes moving rapidly to spot anything through the underbrush. It's still quite dark—dark enough that it feels like you're peering through a pitch-black pool. But you swear you can see a shape, a black mass stalking through the trees.

And whatever it is, it's calling your name.

You grab an especially thick branch, your stomach turning as you clamber up. It’s a desperate climb as you propel yourself up the tree, ignoring your body’s protests. 

You put your foot in a crevice of the tree trunk, but your wound throbs with the stretch, and your foot slips. You wheeze like you've been punched in the gut, footing faltering on the slippery bark and sending another tremor of agony through your injured side. You react in enough time to tighten your grip so you won't go plummeting to the ground.

You breathe deep and try again, leaning forward to account for the pain in your side.

You grow light-headed as whatever that thing is stalks forward, but by the time it comes close enough for you to see it, you're already perched high on a thick branch—straddling it so you can observe it.

You look down at the animal and big, brown eyes stare up at you. Big, brown human eyes. The light peeking through the trees illuminates its black fur and when it finally stops moving, you're able to get a good look at its face—a familiar face . You don't know how, why, or from fucking where, but you know it. You know that face.

It stands up on its hind legs, clawed front paws leaning on the tree. Not like an animal, it stands almost like it's human and like the beast and—what the fuck is it ?

Its collar turns—its collar ?

“What the fuck?” You whisper, staring with your mouth agape. Why the fuck is it wearing a collar?

Its collar turns with its movement, revealing the number ‘11’ and the insignia for the district.

It opens its mouth and calls out to you. You see its too human tongue and too human lips fold around the syllables and your ears ring with recognition.

It sounds like, like Rue?

That's exactly who it sounds like and now that you've given a name to the voice, the resemblance jumps out at you.

That's her face, her little face, meshed with the monstrosity of the Capitol. And those are her eyes so big and trusting—so uncanny and so human—that you're almost certain those really are her eyes.

It's horrific and cruel; it's inhumane and revolting—it's the Capitol and its hatred staring up at you.

She couldn't even find peace in death.

You grind your teeth together as it scratches at the tree, its voice growing more desperate the longer you watch it. It—it isn't being aggressive like mutts normally are. Not like the beast from before. It's whining like a dog, like a child , like it's hurt.

"Please, don't leave me down here!"

Your resolve falters. Maybe, maybe they found a way to bring tributes back. Maybe Rue really is in there, trapped. And if she is—

This is what they want . They want to bait you, bring down your defenses, and make you vulnerable. If you go down there, it'll tear you apart instantly. Leave you in pieces.

And if that doesn't work, they'll torture you with her voice. Torment you with what they made her into.

You pull your legs up on the little space the tree provides and close your eyes, ignoring the sting of dried blood cracking apart and retearing your wound open. She doesn't like that; her little voice grows monstrous. You don't bother looking down.

You wish you could cover your ears, but you need to be able to hear if something approaches—something else . 

This is hell.

THE BEACH (10:04 am—9:07 pm)

Johanna has no idea how much time she spent searching for you before she decided to just cut their losses and head towards the beach. And, of course— of course —Beetee became too faint to walk on his own two feet, forcing Johanna to drag him through the vines, underbrush, and whatever the hell else was on the jungle floor. 

Her feet finally sink into the sand and she almost cries. The breeze carries the salty smell of the water and each breath of air is already thinner and cooler than any she’s taken since walking into the jungle. The dramatic shift from solid ground to soft mounds is disorienting but not enough to stop her. She keeps walking forward when she realizes she’s the only one carrying Beetee’s weight anymore. She drops him once they’re a few feet away from the tree line. There’s no telling what else could be in there and he makes for an easy target. She looks down at his blood-caked form, scrutinizing him. His eyes close behind skewed glasses, his face slackens, and—he’s passed out. 

He is completely unconscious. 

“Great. This is just— ugh !” She stomps her foot, kicking up sand. You’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth, Blight is dead, and Beetee is well on his way to being next. “This is shitty. This is so shitty.” She snarls down at Beetee’s unresponsive body—soon to be his unresponsive corpse, she’s sure.

And Wiress—Johanna sighs.

Honestly, she’s surprised Wiress didn’t wander off at some point. Instead, she almost walked herself in circles around Johanna. You’d probably say she reminded you of a bird or something, but if anyone asked her, she’d say it was more gnat-like. Just consistently buzzing nonsense into Johanna’s ear—tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock— God !

Wiress circles near her— gnat, gnat, gnat —and Johanna is fed up with just about everything, but especially this. She shoves the older woman down onto the warm sand and she lands next to her district mate, acting for all the world like she wasn’t just pushed with a considerable amount of Johanna’s strength.

She knows that isn’t what you would do; this isn't how you’d handle the situation if the roles were reversed and you were the one stuck with the invalids. You would probably find a way to treat Beetee's injury so he doesn’t fucking die. Then, you’d tend to Wiress with kid gloves and figure out some way to fix her in the process. But you aren’t here and that’s sort of the entire problem, isn’t it? 

She searched for hours and there’s no sign of you. She’s worried; of course, she’s worried. The number of people Johanna actually gives a shit about can be counted on one hand and she’d still have fingers to spare. You happen to be one of them.

When she first won her Games, Johanna hadn't been looking to make friends. Prickly and irritable, she didn't hold back from making this known. She was condescending and scathing and vindictive—she still is—but you just kept coming back.

And then something changed.

Johanna had made the mistake of underestimating just how much Snow hated when things didn’t go his way—just how much he hated to lose. But Coriolanus Snow always got his pound of flesh, whether it was given willingly or not. 

She refused his offer and her family paid the price. Her mother, her father, and her big sister were all taken from her and killed on the president’s orders—framed as a freak accident with them as the only casualties. At sixteen, she was a victor with nothing but three graves to show for it and a fury burning in her chest like a forest fire, never to be extinguished.

So she lashed out, striking at anyone who got too close to her with cutting words that were meant to hurt as much as she did. She kept her distance and she tried to convince herself that it was much better that way. That being alone was her choice. And yet, you were there. You were there despite how much she claimed to want otherwise and you brought Finnick along with you.

Finnick, who just so happens to be another one of those counted fingers. What is she supposed to tell him? 

Oh, hi, Finnick. Why isn’t the love of your life with us? Yeah, we kinda lost her hours ago. Absolutely no clue where she might be or if she’s even alive. Oops.

Yeah, fat chance that doesn’t end with him walking into the ocean, never to be seen again.

She knows you’re not dead. She just needs to find you. She refuses to put another finger down.

Johanna stares down at her allies—her dead weight, more like—as Wiress climbs to her feet, heading straight for the water. If the revolution didn’t need these two so badly, she swears she would’ve drowned them herself to get it over with. If it weren’t for them, she could’ve covered more ground in her search for you like she wanted without having to keep a leash on Nuts and carry Volts. That’s the only thing keeping her here on the beach instead of in the jungle looking for you like she wants to. 

“ Johann a !”

Her head whips up, looking over her shoulder at the quickly approaching figure. “Finnick!”

The relief is almost blinding. Or at least, it would be if it weren’t for the guilt. He descends the slight hill and she sees him looking for you, eyes searching and finding nothing.

She starts prattling off before he can say anything. She doesn’t know why, maybe to buy herself some time before she’s asked the question she doesn’t want to hear and forced to give him the answer she doesn’t want to give.

“We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood.” Just describing it makes her remember it all in disgusting detail, makes her sick. Wiress fluttering around certainly doesn’t help.

“Johanna—”

“You couldn't see, you couldn't speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it. That's when Blight hit the force field.” She gestures roughly to the jungle, but Finnick is already looking, eyes combing the treeline as if you’ll come hobbling out any second now and she feels a bloody bead of sweat drip down her neck.

“Johanna—”

“He wasn't much, but he was from home.” 

“ Johanna! ” He shouts, scaring Nuts into a brief, but blissful silence. Honestly, she’s more surprised he lasted as long as he had without fully cutting her off.

“I’m sorry about Blight, Johanna.” He says, all at once calm again. “Where’s Star?”

Let it be known, Johanna Mason has never found a bush she was willing to beat around, even one as prickly as this. "We lost her in that blood shower." People have called Johanna many things since she became a victor, namely a vindictive bitch—which was more true than not—but no one can ever claim that she’s cruel. She doesn’t enjoy watching the color drain from Finnick’s face, and with it, whatever tentative hope he managed to hold onto. She’s quick to add, “She didn’t hit the forcefield, I know that for sure. It was nearly impossible to see anything, but the hovercraft only picked up Blight.”

Peeta and Katniss come up to them, but no Mags. No response from Finnick either.

“Finnick?” She prods, but he doesn’t reply.

She prepared herself for any reaction he may have. Crying, running off to find you himself, letting himself get carried away by a current, a combination of all three. She doesn’t know what to do with no reaction at all.

He’s silent as he stands alarmingly still, face clear of any discernible emotions. She regards him warily despite her concern winning out over the caution. She’d seen enough animals freeze up just like this before striking. Not that he had ever acted like that before and he’s not the kind of guy to take his anger out on others, but…grief isn’t logical.

Finnick stares off somewhere over her head sightlessly. She might as well be having a conversation with the crashing waves and the salty breeze. He doesn’t answer when she calls his name again. He doesn’t say a thing. And then, all of a sudden, he drops all at once like whatever’s been holding him up has been cut at the root, strings snipped abruptly. 

She and Katniss move forward on instinct to try and catch him, but he crashes down into the sand on his ass faster than either of them can move, his trident landing beside him. She blinks, then blinks again as he collapses in on himself. His back takes on a miserable curve as his elbows lie propped up on his bent knees. He looks completely gutted and Johanna can tell the drastic shift in his behavior has left Katniss confused, but not Peeta. Peeta stares down at Finnick with more pity than she’ll allow herself to show.

" Jesus , Finnick, I'm not saying she's dead. She's just by herself.” Which is almost as good as dead in here. Johanna squats down beside him. She grabs the back of his neck when he won't look up, getting in his face until he has no choice but to meet her eyes. They’re watery and it’s the closest to crying she’s ever seen him. "But she can survive, you know that. She’ll find a way, she always does."

She throws in a scoff like it’s ridiculous that they’re having this conversation in the first place, leaving out the panic she felt when she realized they had lost you. 

“...Right.” He croaks. He doesn’t nod. But he isn’t crying either, so she’ll take it. He sniffs and she worries he’s about to prove her wrong. “Yeah. Yeah, um. You’re right.”

“Let’s just try to stay in one place. Let her find her way to us.” She gives him a pointed look. Meaning no running off.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to stare down at the sand. She'll cut him some slack. After all, she's never loved anyone the way Finnick loves you. She doubts she ever will.

She stands up, getting an armful of Nuts for her troubles, still wet from her dive into the water. Johanna pushes her in another direction that isn’t her personal space. She nudges Beetee with her foot when she notices him slowly gaining consciousness. 

“I got left alone with these two.” She nudges Beetee, who's barely conscious, with her shoe. “I don’t even know if we can consider him alive. And her—”

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

“Yeah, we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock,” Johanna says. This seems to draw Wiress right back in her direction and she careens into Johanna, gripping her and refusing to be steered away again. “Listen, just— stop it .” Johanna manages to get out of her hold, shoving her to the beach. “Just stay down, will you?”

Katniss rushes in and pushes Johanna away, finally opening her big mouth to say, “Hey! Lay off her!” As if Johanna is the one accosting Wiress.

Johanna narrows her eyes in hatred. “Lay off her?” She hisses. Before anyone can react, Johanna rears her hand back and slaps Katniss hard enough that her palm stings with it. She could have done it a lot harder and she probably should have for extra measure.

Finnick finally reacts to that, standing up to pull them apart. “Hey, hey, hey !”

He lifts Johanna over his shoulder, but she doesn’t make it easy for him. Twisting and writhing in his hold like a rabid badger as he carries her to the water. And Johanna is so very tempted to chuck her axe at Katniss’s confused face.

“I got them out for you!”

-

The mood amongst the group is rather somber. Wiress was killed right under their nose. Preventative, if they had only been paying attention. Their canary is dead, as Katniss said. But they noticed too late. It’ll cost them somehow, Finnick is sure.

After making sure a waterlogged Beetee is breathing more air than water, Finnick can’t look at him for long. For no reason other than the fact that he can’t stand it. What is there to see other than a man mourning his district mate, his friend? Someone who’s been in his life longer than they haven’t. It sparks a resigned anger in Finnick, an anger that simmers and smolders. An anger that burns but doesn’t have the room to spread. An anger that’ll consume him and only him. He burns for Beetee and himself, for Wiress and Mags. It’s an anger that prays Chaff will survive, or else it’ll consume you too.

Beetee rolls his thin, golden wire between his fingers and Finnick knows he’s thinking of Wiress. He looks away, down at the low-hanging branch he’s leaning against. What is there to do? He won’t apologize to Beetee for his loss, because that means he’ll be acknowledging that he’s lost something too. 

Katniss is the first to speak after a long stretch of silence. "So, besides Brutus and Enobaria, who’s left?”

“Maybe Chaff?”

“Star.” Finnick reminds them, loathed to leave you out of the count. 

Peeta nods. “Just those four.”

“They know they’re outnumbered. I doubt they’ll attack again. We’re safe here on the beach.” Or, at least, safer than they’d be if they made camp in the jungle. 

“So what do we do? We hunt ‘em down?” Johanna asks, still somehow able to make the only viable option sound like the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. An admirable skill. Finnick isn’t that eager to go marching back in there either. He’d much rather stay in one spot to make it easier for you to find them, but there are only two careers left and he’s confident that the four of them could make quick work of Brutus and Enobaria—

“Katniss!” A girl yells Katniss’s name somewhere behind them, somewhere deep in the jungle. He doesn’t recognize it at first, doesn’t understand what’s happening until—

“Prim!” Katniss is up in mere seconds, darting off faster than he’s ever seen her move. He lunges for his trident, rushing after her. This has trap written all over it, using her little sister to lure Katniss away from the group. And here he is running right after her. 

Shit.

Finnick is the fastest out of the five of them, no doubt. It’s no chore at all to catch up to her. Though it would have been impossible to lose her with how loud she screams, “ Prim !”

By the time he gets there, the screaming is cut off abruptly. 

“Katniss!” He crashes into the small clearing that she’s stopped in, panting. “You okay?”

Before she even opens her mouth to answer, they’re interrupted. The shrill screech that rings throughout the jungle isn’t Prim’s. It’s—

“Annie?” He asks, but he knows those screams and they are without a doubt Annie’s. She screams again as if to answer him and his heart drops. He doesn’t think, doesn’t have time to before he’s running. “ Anni e !”

He chases the sound of her voice deeper into the jungle, but it feels like he’s simultaneously getting closer and further away. “Annie! Annie !”

“Finnick! It’s not her! It’s just a jabberjay. It’s not her.” She says as she catches up to him, but that does nothing to soothe him.

“Well, where do you think they got that sound? Jabberjays copy .”

“You don’t think…?”

He doesn’t bother answering, chest heaving, because he does think. He knew the Quarter Quell would be a death sentence for more than just him and Mags. He knew that despite her many triumphs and growth since her Games, Annie wouldn’t make it alone—not yet. But this ? This is a worse fate than he could have ever imagined for her. 

“Katniss ! ” This voice is different from the other two, more masculine. Finnick doesn’t recognize it, but Katniss must if the fear in her eyes is anything to go off of.

“Gale.” She whispers, and that’s when the birds stop hiding.

His eye twitches at the next scream, his shoulders hunching closer to his ears. “Finnick! Finnick, please!”

“Star?” Your name falls off his lips as a faint whisper, but it feels like a razorblade as he forces it out of his throat. Because putting your name to that tortured voice is torture in and of itself.

But that doesn’t…how could they have—if, if you’re here, then how would—But he doesn’t know that for sure, does he? He doesn’t know where you are, does he? None of them do. He wouldn’t put it past Snow. 

He could see it now: Snow plucking you out of the arena during the bloody chaos, dragging you kicking and screaming somewhere deep in the walls of the Capitol, and letting animals in lab coats draw these horrible sounds from you. There really is no limit to his sadism, is there? There’s no line he won’t destroy as he crosses it.

The birds start diving low to pinch at their skin, pull their hair, and strike at them with their wings. He tries to swat them away when dodging doesn’t work before realizing the only way out of this will be by getting out of the four o’clock wedge, like with the fog and the monkeys.

“Come on, come on, come on!” He shouts, pushing Katniss to run back the way they came from and he can barely hear himself despite the way his vocal cords protest at how loud he yells. They run— sprint away from the birds, unsuccessfully. They draw blood but the wounds the jabberjays leave are more than skin deep. When they finally spot the others, Finnick almost feels the relief viscerally. 

It’s this that makes him blind to the fact that the other three don’t approach them, that they hold their hands up to tell them to stop. He only sees it when he runs face-first into the barrier with a crunch of something important. He groans, barely catching himself from falling on his ass. His eyes water as something warm and metallic dips into his mouth and he doesn’t need to touch his face to know his nose is bleeding.

They try to get Finnick and Katniss out from the other side with their weapons as Beetee stares on with palpable sadness. It’s a good effort, Johanna with her axe and Peeta with his machete, but they don’t even make a dent. He’s stuck here for the next hour. When that sinks in, Finnick can’t stop his ears from listening to the screams around him.

“Help me, Finnick! Please!”

“Finnick!”

Finnick stumbles backward over his own feet as he stares up at the hundreds— thousands of jabberjays circling above them. The sheer number of them, they almost paint the sky black. Some fly just out of reach, tauntingly, while others settle into tree branches. But they all open their mouths to sing a cacophony of horror. He looks over at Katniss and he knows she’s screaming. He can’t hear it, but he can see it in the way her entire body quakes as she bangs on the barrier. 

The wails of pain are deafening and he gives up before Katniss does, dropping to the floor. Finnick hunches over, making himself smaller as he clenches his hands over his ears and digs his nails into his scalp, hoping the pain will distract him. It doesn’t. He presses the heels of his palms into his skull and the throbbing ache does nothing to take him out of the moment. 

He’s trapped.

Even though there must be at least five voices surrounding him, including Katniss’s, Finnick can only focus on two. He only hears you and Annie, your begs and screams swimming together to grate against the confines of his skull. He apologizes but it’s more of a vibration in his chest than any sound said aloud. He tries to think, but he can’t, he can’t—can’t think of anything else. What could they have done to make you scream and plead and cry like this, reaching out for him when he can never reach back? Helpless, yet again, as you and Annie are tortured. 

He’s helpless and he’s hopeless and Finnick sobs, his forehead thudding against the ground over and over. He imagines your hand rubbing his back soothingly as you run fingers through his hair and it only makes him cry harder, chest rocking with painful hiccups.  

-

Coming to the beach feels like admitting defeat, but your chances of survival in that jungle decrease substantially the longer you stay there. You don’t know how long you cowered in that tree, but you know you stayed long after the Rue mutt went silent. 

You limp along in the sand. Your only hope is that you’ll spot Finnick when he comes to the water to fish. That’s when you hear it. A masculine voice yelling, screaming something. You poise yourself to start running in the opposite direction. You don’t know who’s left, but it would be difficult to take on Gloss or Brutus even if you weren’t injured. Something makes you stop though, something tells you to listen. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but you can make out who’s saying it. 

Peeta !

Your feet carry you back into the jungle, tripping over your boots and vines and anything else in your path, but you don’t fall. You don’t allow yourself to. You speed up the louder Peeta’s voice becomes, closer and closer and closer until you see them. 

You don’t quite understand what it is you’re looking at. Beetee looks to the sky underneath his glasses, scanning for something. Johanna is slamming her axe against a clear barrier, clear like what you saw the beetles bumping into. And you were right, Peeta is the one screaming. 

Johanna spins around as you approach and her eyes light up at the sight of you.

“You found us.” She pants, axe falling to her side. “Oh, thank God.” She moves and it’s only then that you see him.

Finnick is curled up on the ground with his hands covering his ears.

“Finnick!” You rush forward, falling to your knees without a second thought, reaching for him and meeting nothing. “Finnick, it’s me!” You bang your fist against the barrier but it’s like he can’t even hear you.

“Jabberyjays.” Johanna says from behind you, and, suddenly, you understand.

You don’t take your eyes off of him, to do so feels like you’re leaving him in there alone. It becomes even clearer why Peeta is yelling, because curled beside Finnick sits Katniss. Peeta’s yelling, because he’s trying to be louder than whatever voices are being used to torment her. 

This isn’t how you wanted to reunite with Finnick, but, you sigh shakily, blinking back the water in your eyes, you’re so damn glad to see him. 

“It’s no use.” Johanna huffs, you feel her pacing behind you. “He can’t hear any thing, not even you.” That may be true, but seeing him in such a state is making you desperate in your panic. 

“But he can read my lips.” You realize, you just need to get his attention. He needs to know you’re here, that’s it. You don’t know how long you kneel on the ground yelling, screaming yourself hoarse alongside Peeta, focused only on Finnick. But, by some miracle, something makes him look up. Maybe he can feel you, sense that you’re there—regardless, he looks up and you smile, laughing in relief. 

He’s crying, tears making tracks in the dirt along his face and it breaks your heart. There are a few scratches along the right side of his face and there’s crusted blood under his nose. The birds got him good and you don’t just mean physically. 

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you’re really there. Like he can trust what his eyes see as much as what his ears hear. 

“Finnick! Finnick, baby, it’s not real.” You enunciate, shaking your head rapidly. “ It’s not real.”

Star? He mouths and you nod eagerly, pressing your forehead to the transparent wall. He clambers up, shuffling forward to copy you. He presses his big hands to your smaller ones, forehead to forehead. His eyes slip closed, lips quivering and you can see the same relief you feel shake through him. His shoulders quake with his sobs, but his eyes don’t stay off of you for long. He’s scared to look away from you, you can tell. 

You take in a deep breath, and then another, each one less unsteady than the last. Telling yourself not to cry proves to be fruitless. You can only imagine what it is he’s hearing.

“Remember when I ate fish for the first time? I think you had just turned eighteen—no, nineteen and, I don’t even know how it came up, but I told you I never had fish before and you were appalled .” A small crease develops between his brows as he watches your lips, but eventually, he nods, beautiful eyes flickering up to yours. They almost look gray whenever he cries, a glossy film muting the color. But they’re still breathtaking. A thousand and one poems, you think. “You made me try more fish than I even knew existed and I ended up throwing up over the balcony. And, and you felt so bad, and you kept apologizing, but I couldn’t stop laughing at the idea of some Capitol elite wearing my puke as a hat. Do you remember that, Finn?” He blinks a few times before his mouth tilts into a small smile, one you don’t even realize you copy. 

Yeah, sweetheart. I remember. 

Your heart flutters at the pet name even after all this time. 

You go on like that, saying whatever comes to mind with Finnick watching your lips carefully, reverently like your words are the only thing keeping him upright for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, maybe even forty. 

“The hour’s up,” Peeta says, relieved, though you aren’t sure what he’s talking about. But then the jabberjays start falling to the ground dead, wings flapping pitifully before they still, and you know it’s coming to an end. It’s an unnerving sight. Not that Finnick notices with how closely he watches you. “The hour’s up.”

Something shifts. The air goes still and then, suddenly, you feel warm callused skin under your hands and a damp forehead against your own. Finnick falls into you, his big frame feeling incredibly small in your embrace as he trembles. 

“Star.” He breathes almost mournfully. 

“Hey, baby.” You grin, taking his face into your hands. You rub blood-smeared thumbs along his cheeks. His eyes are puffy and you want to kiss them. Something rushes over you, because you can do that. There’s no reason not to now. You’re not acting for the cameras anymore, not hiding anything to make your patrons feel special. You’re together now, they can’t use you against each other as punishment. You lean forward and he closes his eyes like he already knows what you’re going to do.

Or maybe it’s a case of your desires syncing up so intrinsically that you’ll know what the other will do without being told. 

Just like it used to be.

You press your lips against each of his eyelids, savoring the feeling. You pull back—he freezes momentarily, probably at the thought of you letting him go—but only enough to see his face clearly. “Are you alright? You okay?” He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know the answer is no.

You wind your arms around his shoulders and he buries his face into your neck. You whisper reassurances into his ear, running your fingers through the hair curling along the back of his nape. One of his hands reaches up to grip your bicep while he folds his other arm around your waist.

“It’s over. It’s okay. They’re gone. The hour’s gone. The hour’s up. It’s alright.” You look over to see Peeta comforting Katniss, coaxing her out of the protective ball she’s curled herself into. She jumps, gasping once he touches her. 

“Prim! Find Prim!” She yells, to your slight confusion. 

“No, no. Prim’s okay.” He reassures her and, though seemingly impossible, Finnick’s grasp on you tightens.

“They used your voice.” He says into your neck. Your voice? Why would they do that when it’s something so easily disproven? And why your voice specifically? Another protocol broken by Snow? You wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve got more questions than answers and the only person that can answer them is the last man you’d want to speak to again. “Yours and Annie’s. I-I thought, I thought you were gone. I,” he inhales, “I thought they took you.” He croaks despairingly and you just might start crying again.

“I’m right here, Finn. No one’s gonna take me.” You whisper, a promise meant for his ears only as you curl around him protectively.  

“Okay? They won’t touch Prim. Alright?” Peeta talks her down and you wish you could help.

“It was fake.” You say, loud enough for the others to hear. Their gazes swing to you. “Apparently, it’s not hard to take a regular recording of someone’s voice and—”

“Modify it,” Beetee picks up, nodding in agreement. He was the one who told you about it a few years back. It has always stuck with you. It made your skin itch then and it makes your skin sting now. “Change the context, in a way. Our children learn a similar technique in school. Fairly young, at that.”

“Your fiance’s right. The whole country loves your sister. If they tortured her or did anything to her, forget the districts, there would be… riots in the damn Capitol.” Johanna attempts to help in her own blunt way, but there’s an undercurrent of jealousy. Something every victor must feel. You know you do. What makes Katniss’s family more lovable than your own? Doesn’t your mom deserve the protection that comes with that kind of public acclaim? That safety net? A part of you hates how envious you are of Prim, this little girl, but it can’t be helped.

“Hey, how does that sound, Snow? What if we, what if we set your backyard on fire?! You know you can’t put everybody in here!” She shouts to the sky. You all stare at her, silent. Even Finnick who still clings to you watches her. “What? They can’t hurt me. There’s no one left that I love.” You know that to be tragically true. 

When it happened, it spread amongst the pool of victors like a plague. A factory fire in Seven? The same district whose entire industry is lumber just so happened to be negligent enough that a fire started in one of their sawmills? Only killing three people, no less?

Snow has never been subtle, not when it falls and not when it sticks. Not when it builds and certainly not when it traps. He’s much like his namesake in that way. But he has no need for subtlety. Not when he’s exacting his own special brand of justice. Not when he’s teaching someone a lesson. Because a lesson for one of you is a lesson for you all.

He attempted to trap her just like you feared he would and Johanna told him no, perhaps very loudly and colorfully. She told you she doesn’t regret it, she only regrets that Snow took it out on her family. And that she didn’t curse him out more before she was escorted out. Johanna Mason has always been the bravest girl you know.

She huffs like a bull. “I’ll get you some water. You too.” She points her axe to you before she storms off. You almost forgot how thirsty you are. 

-

Finnick can’t sit in this jungle anymore surrounded by these fucking birds, even if they are dead. 

He needs to go back to the beach, back to the water. He doesn’t say any of that, and yet you stand, pulling him up with you. He grabs both his trident and your sickle in one hand while you intertwine your fingers with his. He doesn’t ask where you’re leading him, because he’d follow you anywhere. Beetee follows with Katniss and Peeta not far behind. 

His nerves feel raw and exposed, but seeing you, holding you loosens a knot between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t know how he would have fared after the jabberjays if you weren’t there. If he couldn’t get some kind of confirmation that you were okay. If you weren’t there to hold him together. 

They clear the jungle, stepping onto the beach and he sweeps for enemies. When he sees none, he buries the hilt of his trident into the sand and lays your weapon next to it. He notices something as you pull him to the water. 

He looks down at the hand he had wrapped around your sickle to see…blood. You held his face earlier. He uses the back of his hand to rub at one of his cheeks. He pulls back and sees—blood. He thought it was just sweat but both of your hands are covered in fresh blood.

The blood rain your group got caught in happened hours ago, it should be dried and tacky by now. So unless you’ve had the severe misfortune of being caught in it twice—

He stands still, pulling you to a stop.

"How much of this blood is yours?" He asks, dreading the answer. Already, he looks you over, but it’s hard to find anything amiss when you’re drenched like this. You stare up at him confused, brows furrowed before they raise in realization. 

“Oh!” 

Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean? ‘Oh’ isn’t what he wants to hear. ‘Oh’ sounds nothing like ‘none at all, Finn’. ‘Oh’ suggests something substantial that you remembered, ‘oh’ means bad .

"More than you would like." You shrug indifferently like your words aren't kickstarting Finnick's heartbeat double-time. He looks you over again and finds that you’re favoring your right side.

"Let me see."

You sigh, reaching down to your waist. You’ve tied your sleeves together in a tourniquet. You grit your teeth as you untie it and he winces as the cut on his thigh twinges in sympathy. He squats down to get a better look, carefully pulling back the sticky fabric of your shirt and cursing. 

God.  

What could do this? He raises his other hand to your back to steady you. The wounds are, he doesn’t want to say bad , but they’re far from good. There’s no discoloration to suggest infection, he thinks. There’s harsh bruising, but that’s normal, right? It’s to be expected for any injury. There’s nothing to suggest that it’ll kill you. 

He looks up at you and you seem fine, all things considered. You know more about medicine than he does and you would tell him if this was fatal.

The two crooked circles make him queasy to look at, but at least you aren’t bleeding any more. Your entire side is covered in your blood, so that doesn’t promote much confidence. There’s loose skin and jagged cuts and, and…

He tries not to outwardly show how freaked out he is, he doesn’t want to scare you, but, of course, you can tell anyway.

“I’m alright.” You place a bloody hand on his head, lacing bloody fingers in his hair.

He looks between you and the wound in disbelief. This does not look alright. 

He shakes his head, stunned. And more than a little amazed. “How could you forget about this? Even for a second?”

“I saw you.” You say and smile and he knows you’d shrug if it didn’t hurt so much. “And, I, uh, I guess it…it didn’t seem that important. At the time.”

“Star,” he scolds, despite the way his chest feels tight and his eyes feel scratchy with the need to cry again because this is very important. 

But . 

He felt the exact same way when he saw you. He doesn’t know what told him to look up at that moment, doesn’t know what made him lift his forehead from where he pressed it into the dirt, but he did. And there you were. And he could suddenly hear again. Not the screams of pain and anguish around him, but you. He read your lips as you talked and it was like you were beside him, he could almost hear you. The real you. The you that the jabberjays couldn’t mimic. He could feel again and it wasn’t the feathered wings hitting him or the tears trailing down his face. It was you. You were there and that meant nothing else mattered because you were there .

Even now as he stares up at you, at the way you glow under the sunlight, he can barely feel the sting on his cheek from a jabberjay’s talons that got too close for comfort.  

He looks back down at the wound before your beauty can further distract him and frowns.

“What happened to you, sweetheart? Another victor?” He asks, but he can’t even think of what kind of weapon could do this kind of damage.

You sigh wearily. 

“No. No, nothing that simple. I’ll explain later, I promise. C’mon.” You pull at his wrist and he stands. “Come help me wash all of this shit off.” He’s conflicted. You do need to clean up, but he doesn’t know if you should be so blasé about this. He looks over his shoulder at where the others sit a few feet away.

“Okay. But we need to get that taken care of, Star.”

“Of course, Finn.”

“Katniss helped Beetee. With, like, moss. And…Water and stuff. He was in much worse shape, so she can definitely help you.” You let him ramble.

“Okay, Finn.”

-

Katniss sits in the sand, warm despite the permanent chill the jabberjays have left behind. She jumps at the sound of metal on metal, an arrow being added to her quiver. She looks up and behind her at Johanna’s smug face, probably getting a particular kick out of scaring her. 

She hands Katniss an opened coconut full of water and she takes it hesitantly, still more than a little confused about where the two of them stand. “Thank you.”

Johanna says nothing back, not that she expected her to. Instead, she picks up a stray stick and sits to the left of her. 

"What's the deal with those two?" She asks, running the risk of sounding like one of the older women back in Twelve—as rare as they are—who loved to gossip. Not that there was ever anything to gossip about in the Seam. Katniss thinks they just liked the distraction.

Johanna glances up at her before looking to where you and Finnick sit in the water a foot or two away from the shore. Or, more accurately, Finnick sits in the water as you lay across his lap. He washes the blood off of you with the kind of gentleness Katniss thought he only had reserved for Mags. He takes your face between his hands, seemingly taking a moment just to look at you, and the exact nature of your relationship only further complicates in Katniss' mind.

"What isn't the deal with them," the older girl throws the stick a couple of feet, giving up on whatever she was trying to draw. "They won their Games so young, fourteen and fifteen. They practically grew up in the Capitol together. You don't go through half the shit they've been through without growing a little attached."

Ah. She can believe that. You won your Games before her father died, so she remembers some of the fanfare—the interviews you and Finnick used to do together, all of which were projected in the town square, had always confused her. From what she learned in school, Four and Eleven couldn’t be any more different. What was the point of pairing you two together? 

She isn’t a strategist like Peeta, she can admit it’s not her strong suit. But if she thinks less like the districts and more like a victor, it makes sense.

Two victors who are close in age, both attractive and charismatic. Who wouldn’t want to see them together? Usually, victors from the same district get paired together for their television appearances, but neither Four or Eleven had another victor appropriate for public consumption, either too old or too crazy. 

“Hmm.”

When she was younger, she imagined victors like you and Finnick—pretty, charming, well-loved—were living the dream. 

But if two of the most beloved and revered victors are miserable, what chance did she and Peeta stand? No, she knows the answer to that. She doesn’t have a chance. She can’t handle it, the Capitol. She’s barely been subjected to it for a year, and even then, that’s only the tip of the knife.  

You were right, she realizes. In comparison to you and Finnick who’ve been on this ride for nearly a decade, she’s incredibly lucky. She’s already slipped up once, and it cost a man his life.

The weight of Snow’s threat looms over her and without the Quell, it would have only been a matter of time before she did something else to displease him. But Peeta knows how to play the game, he knows how to sway the audience. He came up with the romance, with the baby. It took her some time to understand the significance of those two plays, but she gets it now. She couldn’t have done that, couldn’t have possibly thought to.

Nobody worries about Peeta and whether or not he's selling the romance. She's the risk factor here.

Yet another reason why he should be the one making it out of here and not her.

"Then what happened?" They didn't act this close during training . In fact, while she was unsure of Finnick's intentions, Katniss was almost certain you hated him. That was, perhaps, partially the reason she found it so hard to trust him. 

"The same thing that always happens when Snow sniffs out that someone has an ounce of happiness. He cut it at the root.” Katniss attempts to understand the implications of that statement. How much is she not saying? Suddenly, Katniss glances to the sky, remembering all at once where they are and that this conversation is far from private. How much can she say? She looks back to where you and Finnick have huddled even closer together, noses nearly brushing. She’s too far away to hear the conversation, but she can tell from here that whatever is being said is done in a whisper. As soft as freshly hung sheets drying in the sun. Maybe softer. 

You two are a mystery she hadn’t even been aware of. And maybe it isn’t her place to try and solve it, but she knows one thing for certain. It’s becoming increasingly clear that the only real victor is Snow.

Suddenly Johanna sighs, long and weary like the old bloodhound Katniss used to stop and pet when she sold her catches in the merchant area. “Love is weird.”

-

“So it’s a big clock?”

“Yep.” The water has become a murky red, just diluted enough to not be opaque. “Wiress figured it out—in her own special way.” He didn’t think twice about her weird little chanting. There was too much going on in his own head to wonder about hers.

He can’t dip you into the water like he did Johanna. It would be far from productive and certainly less fun. You need a gentle hand which he’s more than happy to provide.

He’s heard of saltwater washes being used for wounds, but that might be a little different from the water in the arena. There’s sea life swimming around, which means bacteria. Not to mention the blood of victors unlucky enough to be slaughtered during the bloodbath. All of which will open you up to an infection. 

So instead, he thought it best to lay you horizontally across his lap, propping your torso up to keep your wound dry. 

“That makes so much sense. It feels so damn obvious now.” You scoff, shaking your head. 

He smiles and says, “I’m sure you could’ve figured it out too.” 

You huff. “Mhm. Sure.”

The blood comes off of you in thick clots before disintegrating in the water. The real problem presents itself when he attempts to wash it out of your hair. The blood sits heavy and congealed in your curls, oily enough that rinsing it out proves nigh impossible. The salt in the water helps, but only barely. 

Finnick’s fingers are gentle as he works, diligent yet soothing. You inhale, relaxing into him. He finds himself hunching over you protectively, curling his body over yours like a shield. 

“and…Wiress?” You ask, not so much about her absence. It isn’t hard to guess what the absence of a woman like that means in a place like this. It’s what caused said absence that you’re after. Finnick sighs.

“The careers came. Snuck up on us while we were busy mapping out the arena. And then Gloss ran a knife through her neck.” He says. He knows you wouldn’t want him to spare you from the details. You asked him because you want to know.

“Oh.” You say, the subtle waves withdrawing and climbing around your shoulders and your head. It might get in your ears. Should he scoot back? Maybe further up the beach? “How’s Beetee taking it?”

“He’s…taking it. The man’s a robot.” He grumbles with less snide than it should have come out. The people expect him to be catty, but Finnick’s been declawed for a long time now. Your eyes stay closed but there’s disapproval written in your brow. Because you know him. You know where to look when he’s hiding.

“Finnick…” You sigh, and he sniffs.

“I don’t know. I guess…he didn’t really think she’d make it.”

“I’m sure he hoped though—that it wouldn’t be so violent, I mean.” You peek an eye open as you catch yourself before relaxing again. He chuckles. And then he remembers where he is.

There was an agreement, something all the victors wanted if they were going to do something as risky as openly rebelling. Immunity for their loved ones. Plutarch agreed to make it a priority ‘if possible’. He knows you asked for your mom, the same way he asked for Annie. But Beetee came into the arena with the only person he cared about. He doesn’t think Beetee has any family other than Wiress. And now, other than you and Annie, Finnick doesn’t either. 

“Yeah. Well. See how well that hope worked out for him.” Instead of replying, not that there’s really anything to say to that, you grasp his hand tenderly, pressing a kiss to it. You open your eyes to look up at him, lips pressed to his knuckles and he can feel the apples of his cheeks along with the shell of his ears go warm, flushing with something other than the heat. It’s not that he isn’t used to physical affection from you, he’s getting reacquainted with it. All while being on national TV. Caesar’s gonna have a field day with this. He wonders how he and his odd little cohost are narrating this, but his mind doesn’t stay on them for long. You let your lips linger, idly drifting to the tips of his fingers, and the muscle in his hand flexes with an impulse he can’t quite explain. Though he is particularly distracted by the drag of your lips against his skin as you talk.  

“I’m sorry about Mags, Finn.” His lips twitch downward. 

“Me too.” You didn’t get nearly enough time with Mags. It adds insult to injury. 

It’s quiet. But it’s not heavy like he’s gotten used to it being since they’ve entered the arena. It’s light, there’s nothing expected of either him or you. He can breathe. The salty smell of seawater calms him almost as much as your humming does. He recognizes it as one of the songs you composed.

“This is technically an ocean, isn’t it?” He pauses, looks around, considers it. 

“I guess you could call it that. Albeit, a rather small one.”

“And, that would make this a beach then? Right?” Your mouth twitches, you’re trying not to smile. He rubs his thumb along your cheek because he wants you to.

You sit up with a little difficulty that you try to hide. He sees it, because he always sees you, and helps you sit beside him. He’s been done for quite some time now. He just wanted to keep touching you. Making sure you’re real, and you’re here with him. In your time apart, he forgot that he didn’t need to find his own assurance. All he had to do was ask. He holds out his left hand and you take it.

“It’s the first I’ve ever seen in person. I haven’t had the chance to take it all in considering, well, y’know.” You laugh and Finnick assumes the birds can only listen in jealousy. Not even they can sing a song as sweet as that. “I could do without the circumstances that led up to it, but, hey.” You nudge your shoulder into his and stay there, sides pressed together, and he leans into you. “We’re here, aren’t we? We’re side by side in the sand.”

His head tilts in confusion before his eyes widen. Side by side in the sand, just like he wanted all those years ago. A childish wish that never stood a chance of coming true, but a wish he sent to you in a letter all the same. Looking back, that sort of hope should have been drained from him—it had been drained from him. But not with you. No, hope is your currency and Finnick had been in massive debt before he met you. 

He wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life, it seems. It’s been a long two years and, before that, a long couple of months. He needs to kiss you and, he realizes with a buzz of excitement that he can.

“Star?” He coos, tracing circles on your palm. You hum in reply, turning away from the view to look at him. He leans forward, closing the distance between you, and finds you more than eager. His lips meet yours in a tender, slow kiss, a culmination of two years' worth of longing. One hand goes to the back of your head to pull you closer, the other goes to your jaw. It’s always been easy for the two of you to get carried away, to get lost and found in each other.

The softness of your lips against his ignites a flame that had been dormant for too long. Time seems to stand still as the world fades away, leaving only the sensation of your touch and the caress of the sea breeze. He’s a symphony of emotions—passion, longing, and the sweet relief of finally coming home. The taste of salt from the sea mingles with the sweetness of something familiar, creating a flavor that is uniquely yours. It’s a rediscovery of something he feared might be lost. 

As he pulls away, the echo of the kiss lingers in the air. He’s slow to open his eyes, but when he does, they lock onto yours. Your lips are wet with spit and slightly open as you stare at him with open awe, like he’s something to be admired. The entirety of Panem has witnessed your reunion. And he’s still holding you close. Pride probably isn’t the right emotion to feel right now.

His smirk says otherwise.

He and his silver tongue grasp and flounder for something to say. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look, how beautiful you always look, even when covered in scrapes and the Capitol’s vitriol. But that’s obvious in the way he’s gazing at you. Hasn’t been able to look away from you.

He wants to tell you how thankful he is that you’re finally here with him, but that’s obvious in the way he’s kept a hand on you—always touching somehow since that barrier came down. He wants to say all that and more, ardently and profusely, but you already know how the sky is blue. Instead, he says something you don’t know.

“I saw a monkey.”

 You grin in excitement, still so close that he can feel it against his own smile. “Really?” 

-

The two of you fall back into step with each other, synchronous like no time or space has passed between you at all.

What they know so far is enough to keep them alive. The arena is a clock and each section houses a special horror that rears its head twice a day. Twelve to One, Lightening. One to Two, Blood Rain. Three to Four, fog. Four to Five, monkeys. Five to Six, jabberjays. With you here, they’re able to map out two other sections. 

You explain to them the other active wedges you’ve been through. In the wedge between the blood and fog, Two to Three, you draw a crude circle with spikes. 

Finnick tilts his head. And then tilts it in the other direction. "Pineapples?" He guesses. 

"No," you say with an offended pout. "Beetles."

"Right." He nods like that was his second guess.

“Venomous.” You add.

“ Venomous?”

He regards your wound with a new kind of fear. It’s not just infection that you’re fighting, but now there’s venom working through your bloodstream? Finnick’s ears ring for a second, out of tempo with his elevated heartbeat. He looks you over. It isn’t like he didn’t notice how drawn and fatigued you look, but now he can attribute it to something deeper than just the arena draining you. 

A surge of panic seizes his chest. The image of you in pain, alone and vulnerable, haunts him. His grip on his composure fluctuates as he struggles to comprehend the new threat for what it is. For what it’ll do to you. But before his anxiety can fully manifest into something he can’t predict, your eyes meet his over your shoulder. Silent reassurance is given while a wordless plea for his composure is asked for in return. 

The warmth of your presence soothes and settles him. 

You turn back to the group, addressing them calmly about something that should normally cause, well, the exact opposite of calm. 

“The beetle’s venom is poisonous, but I was… fortunate. A Sponsor sent in an antidote.” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow. A mixture of relief and bewilderment clouds his features. He meets Johanna and Beetee’s eyes and finds that same relieved confusion reflected back at him. A sponsor gift like that shouldn’t be possible. Your touch grazes his arm gently, and the value of that kind of gift is only lost on Katniss and Peeta. As well as the realization of who could pull off such a thing. Who has enough money, enough power, enough sway to have such a gift at the ready and sent into the arena? Who else but their president? Who else but Coriolanus Snow ?

Finnick feels sick at the realization, a queasy anger that's unfortunately laced with gratitude. Because Finnick Odair refuses to be thankful to Snow for anything . His brain knows that—swears by it. But you place a hand over the one he has resting on your shoulder, a reminder that you’re here when it so easily could have ended differently. He can be grateful for your resilience, your strength. And that has nothing to do with Snow.

The group says nothing for a while. Peeta and Katniss look around in bemusement, look at each other, and then look around again.

Briefly, you look to the sky, the back of your head pressing into his stomach, and Finnick copies you. He looks up and sees nothing but an artificial blue sky with formulated clouds drifting by, but he knows you see something different. 

A bird squawks in the distance and Finnick stiffens. But it's not a jabberjay. Only a seagull. 

“The sun had just started to rise, so…here.” You say, finally coming back down to Earth. You point at the Six and Seven o’clock wedge in Peeta’s rough sketch of the arena. “There are multiple mutts here. All of them monstrous.” You say as if it’s something you were taught, not something you know for certain. Detachment. 

“Well?” Johanna prompts. “You can’t just say something like that and not elaborate.” She pokes and he glares at her. He has half a mind to scold her for pushing you, for poking at a crack in a glass just to see what’ll spill out. 

“What?” She asks, incredulous at the lack of support for her probing. “What’s the point of mapping any of this shit out if we don’t even know what we’re looking for?” She huffs.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” You cut Peeta off. Exhaling sharply, you start, pause, and then start again. “There’s a beast. It’s twice the size of a normal man and covered with fur. It walked on two legs and it was strong . Like, like a human-bear hybrid. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but it tore the man from Ten apart. In the most literal sense. The claw had to dip down four more times to collect all of him.”

“God.” Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles along your nape. He can’t imagine it, doesn’t want to imagine it. Because if he does, it would be all too easy to imagine you in the man’s place as Finnick is forced to watch. He takes a deep breath and squeezes your shoulder momentarily. 

“...Alright then.” Peeta is the first to speak after a short silence. “Beast, six to seven o’clock—” 

“ Beasts .” You correct, not rudely. “There’s, um, there’s more than one thing in there. There was another mutt—a, uh, a dog. It was Rue. It had her eyes an–and it spoke. I was already hurt, lost a lot of blood. Too weak to run, to do much of anything. So I stayed hidden in a tree and she... it begged me to come down until the hour was up. Then it was gone."

"...That's—" Finnick starts, pressing the line of his leg to your back from where he stands close behind you, but he doesn’t know how to finish it.

"Fucked." Johanna says, looking around at their stunned faces like they're weird for not saying it first. But, she's right. Finnick can't think of another word to adequately describe it other than ‘fucked’. "That's fucked. "

“I can’t imagine.” Katniss pipes up to the surprise of, most likely, everyone. She hasn’t said a word to you until now. Is she picturing herself in your position? High in a tree, hiding from the remnants of a little girl you both cared about. “What that must’ve been like. I can’t imagine.” 

Finnick can’t see your face from this angle, but he knows it’s deceptively blank.

“I’m just glad my dad passed before my Games. Don’t know what I would’ve done if they used him too.” You laugh, dry and humorless. He didn’t even consider that.  

Katniss stares at you a little longer, contemplating something, before looking away.

-

It’s a little while later that a parachute arrives. 

District Three has sent loaves of bread if the bite-sized cubes can even be called loaves. Finnick counts them, methodically thumbing them over before placing them in neat, even rows. By the time Beetee asks for the amount, he’s already counted four times.

“Twenty-four.” He says. Four pieces for six people. 

“An even two dozen, then?” Says Beetee.

They’re coming on the third day, tomorrow, but the time doesn’t make much sense. Unless they’re using the twenty-four-hour clock, that is. In this instance, he assumes they’d have to. He’s familiar with it, more than just familiar. He’s lived by it for most of his life. Four primarily uses the system since so much of their time is spent out at sea. After his Games, it was a shock having to get used to the twelve-hour clock used throughout most of Panem with the exception of Two, Three, Five, Six, Twelve, and, of course, Four.

So then, that’s when they’ll come. On the third day, at twenty-four hundred. Midnight. For whatever reason, the plan has changed. Not just the time, but they’ve bumped the day up too.

Beetee will understand it, even if you and Johanna don’t. That’s his role in the plan, after all.

And Finnick reiterates, “Twenty-four on the nose. I’ve already divided them.” 

He passes out each pile to the group. Four for each person with an extra fifth to you from his pile, bringing him down to three.

“I can’t, it’s yours.” You attempt to deny the extra loaf, but it’s perfunctory at best because you and he both know he won’t take it back. 

“It’ll go to waste.” He says. Because no matter how frivolous those in the Capitol may be, that particular trait never rubbed off on you. He also knows after living your entire life in Eleven, you’d never let food go to waste if you can help it. Luckily, no one in the group is enough of an ass to try and claim the loaf of bread for themselves. It’s more than apparent to everyone that you need the extra sustenance. “If you don’t eat it, no one else will.”

So you do so while leaning heavily into Finnick’s side.

-

In the time it takes for everyone to settle in and finish eating, Beetee calls their attention to him.

“I have a plan.” He nods to himself, still rolling his wire between his fingers. “I have a plan.” It makes Peeta a bit apprehensive. Not because of the man himself or anything. Moreso the possible complexity of whatever it is he’s about to say.

Despite how much he wishes he could act otherwise, that brush with the force field has taken more than a physical toll on him. His ability to…to think is hindered, if only slightly. A bit slower to connect the dots sometimes, but that’s all it takes for things to go wrong. He had trouble understanding Beetee before the shock that stopped his heart. But now? Peeta fears that his brain may end up being his own worst enemy here. 

He can’t afford to mess up and force Katniss to save him. He certainly doesn’t want a repeat of what happened to the morphling, to sweet Mags, happening to any of his allies—to Katniss. 

Peeta can only hope that nothing else happens, some other enemy catching Peeta off guard and someone, taking pity on him and putting more value on his life than it’s worth, takes the knife or the claws or the razor-sharp teeth for him. No , he decides. He can’t keep being the deadweight someone else has to carry. He means that literally, in Finnick’s case. It might have worked in his favor during his first Games, but it won’t fly here, especially if he plans on getting Katniss out alive.

He leans forward on the knee he’s kneeling on, digging his machete into the sand to use as a crutch, eyes trained on the older man so he can’t possibly miss anything important.

“Where do the Careers feel safest? The jungle?”

Johanna shoots that down. “The jungle’s a nightmare.”

“Probably here on the beach.” Peeta theorizes. It’s where he’d want to be if he was by himself in the arena with no allies. But it’s more likely he’d be forced to hide in the jungle, blending in enough that anything bloodthirsty—both human and man-made—wouldn’t find him.

“Then why are they not here?” Beetee counters. And Peeta isn’t able to answer him right away, his mind taking a little longer to formulate a response.

“Because we are. We claimed it.” Right. That’s the response he was making his way towards. Only, he’s walking to it rather than sprinting like Johanna seems to be. Hell. Even then, he’s more hobbling than walking.

“And if we left, they would come,” Beetee says, a statement this time instead of a question.

“Or stay hidden in the tree line.”

“To spy on us or find food. They’d be able to see an attack from the jungle or the beach, escape ahead of time.” You finish Finnick’s thought from where he stopped it. Peeta’s thankful for the explanation that nobody else probably needed. “It’s the position with the best advantage.” 

Unlike Johanna and Finnick, you’re sitting down with your back against Finnick’s shins, probably largely due to those holes in your side. Peeta winces thinking about them. He only got a glimpse of them over Katniss’s shoulder as she tried her best to patch you up before he looked away, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever leave his mind. Plus, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget the look on Finnick’s face as you told them everything you had been through.

When you were recounting your journey before you stumbled across them, all he could think about was how strong you are. Certainly stronger than he is. If not physically, then in, perhaps, every other way possible. 

“Which, in just over four hours, will be soaked in water from the ten o’clock wave. And what happens at midnight?” Beetee turns to Katniss, prompting her to answer just with his stare alone. It all reminds him of some of the school teachers back in Twelve. The ones that actually cared about the kids learning anything, at least.

“Lightning strikes that tree.”

Instead of confirming whether she’s correct or not, he continues on. “Here’s what I propose. We leave the beach at dusk. We head to the lightning tree.” Beetee points towards the twelve o’clock wedge where the tree towers in the distance. “That should draw them back to the beach. Prior to midnight, we run this wire from the tree to the water. Anyone in the water or on the damp sand will be electrocuted.”

Peeta picks up a handful of the damp sand underneath them, rubbing the grains between his fingers. It seems like a sound plan, but what would Peeta know? He hardly knows anything about open bodies of water or the conductivity of sand, let alone electricity. Twelve’s curriculum didn’t really have room to fit anything in that wasn’t about coal.

“How do we know the wire won’t burn up?”

“Because I invented it.” Is that why he wanted the wire enough to get stabbed in the back over it? Peeta assumed it was because it would’ve been Beetee’s only chance of survival. Maybe it’s both. “I assure you, it won’t burn up.”

Beetee pauses, looking around. Waiting for the rest of them to shoot the plan down, but nobody else has a better suggestion. Peeta goes to say just that but notices Beetee isn’t looking at him. That by itself is normal, he’s used to it. What he isn't used to is the fact that he isn’t looking at Katniss either. Beetee is looking at the three older victors behind them. 

Peeta first looks to you. You tilt your head, picking at the skin around your nails as you contemplate something. You turn to look up at Finnick who’s already watching you. Something is said without words between the two of you, Finnick places a hand on the back of your neck before you both turn to Johanna. Johanna answers with a slight tilt of her head and a minute twitch of her eyebrow. You’ve all agreed to do it together then, he can tell that much.

He and Katniss look at each other.

“It’s the best we’ve got.” You say, and Peeta agrees.

“Well, it’s better than hunting them down.” Johanna concedes.

“Yeah, why not? If it fails, no harm done, right?” Katniss says.

Peeta purses his lips into a slight frown, followed by a nod. “Alright, I say we try it.” 

Finnick asks, “So what can we do to help?” 

“Keep me alive for the next six hours. That would be extremely helpful.”

-

Peeta suggests they take turns getting some rest in. First go Peeta and Beetee, curling up in the sand under some shade where they made their temporary camp.

“You should rest,” Finnick says to you. You’ve been through hell and you couldn’t have grabbed more than a scant few hours before being pelted with bloody rain. 

“Yeah, I should.” You agree, too tired to put up much of a fight. He can see just how exhausted you are in your eyes. Instead of leaving to lie down, you grab his hand, staring up at him with beseeching eyes.

“Sleep with me?” He wants to, really, he does, but then he looks over to where Katniss sits cleaning the fish he caught. 

By now, he can trust her not to kill him in his sleep, but can he trust her not to bolt? She won’t leave without Peeta, but what’s to stop her from sneakily waking him up and ditching them? As if hearing his thoughts, you nod towards where Johanna paces the shoreline. 

She watches the stretches of open land around them before glancing over to Katniss. She does this again, over and over, all while idly swinging her axe beside her. Deceptive in the way she isn’t on guard. She could handle Katniss long enough for the rest of them to wake up if she tried something. And the siren song of sleeping beside you is too beautiful to resist. 

“C’mon, Finn.” You pull him along and he goes. Of course, he goes.

-

When Peeta comes to, it’s to the sound of unfamiliar birds and the movement of water. He must have fallen asleep outside the bakery, but…he can’t remember there being any water in Twelve. 

There shouldn’t be. He sniffs. Especially not salt water.

He turns over expecting grass and finds something grainy instead. 

He shoots up, eyes opening. 

Sand. He’s sleeping on sand. He’s not outside of his family’s bakery. He’s not in Twelve at all. Had he been, sleeping during the workday would have ensured him a beating from his mother.

He’s on a beach. In the arena. 

He finds a head of chestnut brown. It’s mostly dried by now, made wavey from being in her signature braid for so long. Katniss. He’s on a beach, in the arena. And he’s with Katniss.

He relaxes. Beside him, on his right, sleeps Beetee. If you asked Peeta how well someone could sleep on sand, he’d say fruitlessly. But Beetee sleeps like the dead, clutching his spool of wire to his chest. If he tried taking that spool, Peeta’s sure he’d find that Beetee is gripping it like the dead too. 

To his left, curled into each other like the roots of a tree, lies you and Finnick.

Face to face, legs entangled, Finnick’s arm that isn’t cocooned between your bodies is draped over your waist, somehow mindful of your wound even in his sleep.

He probably doesn’t have the right authority to call two seasoned killers cute, but, and maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in him, but right now, you two don’t look much like killers.

You do, however, look quite young. And, if his minimal prior knowledge is trustworthy, quite in love.

He was more than a little shocked by how intimate of a reunion the two of you had, but, honestly, he was glad to see it. He doesn’t know Finnick well and, in retrospect, he doesn’t know you all that well either, but he thinks he’s an apt judge of character in a way that Katniss isn’t. And he thinks…he thinks you guys deserve each other. He can say that much, right?

You and Finnick deserve whatever moments together you’re able to grab. Peeta doesn’t know how it’ll end for you, doesn’t know how it’ll end for Finnick. Who knows how much time will be left before one or both of you meet cannon fire? Peeta doesn’t seem to know a lot of things, but he knows he doesn’t want to be here to find out.

He doesn’t know what happened before the Games, what led to the strain in your relationship. Honestly, with the way you stared at Finnick—similar, much too similar to how he knows he looks at Katniss—he was a little too scared to ask. But whatever it was apparently can’t touch you two in here.

From what he saw, you two hadn’t even interacted much before that spectacle the night of the interviews and he was tempted to ask you what was talked about after you got off the elevator together. Regardless, words didn’t need to be exchanged for anyone to see how much you two cared about each other. Not for Peeta, at least. And what you told him that day in the Training Center struck a chord.

"You shouldn't have to go into the arena with someone you love. It's cruel."

It is cruel. Crueler still to be the one waiting for someone who doesn’t want you back. You deserve to have that kind of love returned tenfold, and he’s happy you found that in Finnick, that whatever those hurdles were could be cleared, even in here.

He stands and goes to sit with Katniss. For a while, they don’t say anything, just sitting in comfortable silence together, back to back. 

Finnick is the next to wake up, and once Finnick is up, it doesn’t take long for Johanna to go down. Beetee wakes up slowly, and Peeta’s able to convince Katniss to take a short cat nap. Through it all, Peeta notes that Finnick doesn’t leave your side. You’re the last to wake up.

They all meander around, idly talking, until the sun has almost completely set and everyone is awake, coiled, and ready to enact the plan.

-

Johanna is more relaxed, Beetee notes, now that you’re back. He may have been somewhat incapacitated for the majority of your absence, but from what he can recall, she had been snarling and pacing like an anxiety-ridden dog. Even after they finally came across Finnick and the others, she had been tense, maybe even more so. Only after your return did she regain her composure. She’s still rather volatile, but, in comparison to before, she’s almost docile now.

“Do you think it’ll work?” She asks after a moment of silence between them and he knows she’s not just referring to his plan to get rid of the remaining Careers. He knows she’s talking about their escape. “Like, really, honestly work.”

He removes his shoe, turning it upside down to empty it of the sand it’s accumulated. Shaking it, patting the outsole, and slipping it back on before repeating the process with his left shoe.

“It’ll depend on more factors than just us. There are a number of variables we can’t control. Outcomes we can’t account for until they happen. I can’t say for certain, but,” he puts his left shoe back on and adjusts himself on his spool of wire that he’s using as a seat, “yes, I believe it’ll work. One way or the other.”

“Great pep talk.” She mumbles, but he knows she’s being sarcastic. 

A few feet before them are you, sitting, and Finnick wading in the water. They watch Finnick twirl his trident for your enjoyment. He does a complex maneuver, of which you applaud him for.

“Bravo! Bravo!” You laugh and Finnick bends at the waist in a bow.

From the corner of his eye, Beetee sees the divots in the sand Johanna is making with the blade of her axe. “I think it’ll work too.” 

“Mmh. Good.” He nods.

-

The sun beats down on you as you lean back. It’s disorienting to feel the ground shift beneath your hands. And under your nails. Sand is far coarser than you thought it would be. You always imagined something softer when you saw it in textbooks, like powder. Instead, it’s gritty, like salt. Getting in almost every crevice, something Finnick did not warn you about.

Finnick crouches before you, both hands on his trident as he digs its end into the sand and uses it as a crutch, filling you in on even more things you missed. You hadn’t thought too critically about what your other half would be doing while you worked your way back to him, but, even if you had, you certainly wouldn’t have guessed any of what happened.

“You should have seen her after I got his heart beating again. I mean, she was beside herself. Crying, laughing, snotting. The whole nine yards.” Almost absently, Finnick gathers a handful of sand to pour over your shin, adding to the growing pile he’s already gathered at your ankles.

“‘s that right?” You ask, though it’s not really a question, peeking an eye open to regard the couple and closing it again when they go in for a kiss. For the cameras? “She’s so…stoic. It’s a little hard to believe.” You, much like everyone else with two brain cells to rub together, hadn’t put much stock into the romance as a whole. Unlike everyone else, however, you knew it was very much real for one of them—Peeta. The way Peeta talked about her, described her, you’d think she was some sort of angel, but, personally, you think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“Only because you didn’t see it with your own eyes. I was honestly a little worried I was witnessing a nervous breakdown.” Finnick shivered dramatically. “Shush.” You push at his shoulder when he laughs even though you’re hardly any better, barely holding back your own amusement. “And I don’t think I’m all that torn up over missin’ that.”

The last nervous breakdown you can recall happening in the arena with any real clarity is Annie’s. You’re not hurting over not seeing anything like that again or seeing Peeta laid out, dead to the world.

You imagine yourself in Katniss’s position, a snot-nosed blubbering mess curled over Finnick’s body, listening to his renewed heartbeat. You bite your lip. What does it mean that you can understand her?

Finnick rubs a thumb over the furrow between your brows you hadn’t realized was there, before moving down to free your bottom lip from its sharp prison. “What’re you thinking about, beautiful?”

“I haven’t really had the chance to talk to Katniss.” In fact, she’s talked to everyone but you. It was hardly noticeable during training. But it certainly sticks out now. She’s giving you, one of her few allies, a wide berth. Why?

He hums, no judgment in his voice, only curiosity. “You’ve got something to say to her?”

Do you? “Maybe.” You look at her again. “Won’t know ‘till I say it.” 

No time like the present. No point pushing it off for later when you might not survive the next hour. You shift like you’re about to stand and you think you do a pretty good job of pretending your side isn’t spasming with such little movement, like these wounds aren’t slowly killing you.

“Where’re you going?” He asks, offering a hand for you to grab and push your weight against to help you stand before straightening back to his full height.

“Off to get some one-on-one with our bride-to-never-be.” You joke, smile dropping into a scoff when he wrinkles his nose at you. “Oh, come on. That was funny!”

“Mm-mmm. No. Bad joke. Bad wordplay.” He shakes his head, treating your shoulders as an armrest and ignoring the elbow you dig into his ribs—and you just know he’d lean his full body weight on you, making your knees buckle if you weren’t injured. You can literally feel him holding back. ”I’d say have fun, but I doubt that’s possible.” The arm around your shoulder curls inward, his bicep flexing against the back of your neck so his fingers can play with the ends of your hair. You lean into his heat despite the arena supplying you with a surplus of it. “Want me to go with you?”

“No.” You say, before grinning up at him. “Why don’t you keep the others company? I think it’s your turn to babysit anyway.”

His scowl tells you what he thinks of that idea. Now, that’s funny.

-

Katniss’s lips are still tingling with the distinct pressure of Peeta’s mouth against hers when she notices you approaching them.

She’s expecting to see the rest of the group behind you, or even just Finnick, but it’s just you. 

Peeta says your name, “It seems you’re moving around fine enough. I’m glad you’re alright—relatively speaking.”

“You and me both.” You nod.

You say a joke, she thinks, because Peeta laughs, but she didn’t catch it over the beating of her heart in her ears.

“I’m gonna head over.” Peeta nods over to the rest of their allies as he stands. She bites her tongue to stop herself from begging him to stay.

She isn’t afraid of you, necessarily, but she isn’t exactly fond of what you remind her of. Guilt.

Once she learned you were Rue’s mentor, she’s tried her hardest to avoid you. She didn’t want to give herself the chance to ask you questions she knows will only hurt to hear the answers to. Or give herself the opportunity to apologize for things that you won’t forgive. Rue. Thresh. Whatever it is she sparked in Eleven. 

Katniss supposes it’s not your fault that being around you fills her with an overwhelming sense of remorse. She can’t explain any of this to Peeta, who already seems to have taken a liking to you. Instead, she just nods with a grimace of a smile.

She can’t blame anyone but herself for believing that there wouldn’t be a confrontation eventually.

“How’s your side treating you?” She asks.

Her eyes flick to your stomach. She had never felt such profound shock from the severity of a wound before, except perhaps when they had to attend to Gale's back. Genuinely, it’s a wonder you're moving around the way you are with your side so mangled. She was able to clean it with some fresh water Johanna got from tapping a tree, before pressing some of that absorbent moss against it with the tourniquet you made from your sleeves. 

You were an easy patient, with some slight difficulty considering Finnick glared at her like he caught her kicking a puppy whenever you flinched. You sat still, even giving her advice despite the pain you had to be in. She’s seen men twice your size weeping from sprains—though they were usually from the merchant side of Twelve. 

“Better, thanks to you.” You lower yourself to sit beside her in the spot Peeta previously occupied. Now that it's just the two of you, she notices that you speak with a distinguishable drawl that she doesn't think was there the last time you talked to her. It's familiar, almost. Similar to how her father’s folks sounded, from the little she remembers of them. “Is that common in Twelve? Being a healer?”

“No. I’m a special case,” is all she says, but you, surprisingly, don’t ask her to elaborate. “And you? Is that something everybody learns in Eleven?” Rue knew so much about natural medicine and she hadn’t even been in her teens yet. Who knows how much more she would have known had she been older? There’s so much she’ll never have the chance to learn because of Katniss.

“If we want our kids to live into adulthood? Then, yeah, it has to be.” You, surprisingly, elaborate with a wry laugh and she wishes you hadn’t. Hadn’t been so truthful. It’s a privilege in Twelve to have this kind of knowledge, something to use to their advantage. For Eleven, it’s a necessity. The closest thing she can equate to it is hunting. Without it, neither her or Gale's families would have made it long after the mine accident. Many families hadn't.

She waits for you to say something, ask her something—do something to explain why you’re here. But you don't. Instead, you pick up a handful of sand and let it spill out of your hand, somehow impervious to Katniss’s expectant stare.

Do you think she wants to ask you something? Did Finnick send you over? She glances over at his exceptionally bored expression as he idly spins his trident and decides that can't be it. She knows that if she had been separated from Peeta with no way of knowing he's safe only for him to show up injured, she'd want to keep him as close as possible.

Are you trying to wait her out then? If so, for what?

Well, not for nothing. There is one question on the tip of her tongue. 

She hadn't asked before because it didn't seem important to know. She was also wary about mentioning Eleven at all after what happened the last time she was there. Whatever answer she'd get wouldn't help her in the arena, so she never asked.

But now, now that she's aware of what the Gamemakers put you through with that mutt, aware of just how badly she would have handled that, aware of the fact that you cared for Rue—she didn't know how much, but she knows that you did care—and it suddenly feels very important to know. 

“...Was it you?” You look at her with a raised brow. She looks away to watch the sun begin its descent. Fake or not, a sunset will always be beautiful. “When Rue…I was sent bread. I know it was from Eleven. It was meant for Rue. Was it you?”

You pull your left leg up, forearm resting over your knee as your hand flexes open and closed.

“If I said yes?”

“I’d ask why.”

“Why do you think?” 

Weirdly enough, she wants to get the answer right. Almost like she doesn’t want to disappoint you or something equally as stupid. Does she care what you think of her? If she does, it has to be because of your connection to Rue. And, apparently, Haymitch and Peeta.

She knows why she would have sent the bread in your position. “A repayment. For what I did for Rue. And I, I guess so it wouldn’t go to waste.”

You look at her for a moment, long enough that it makes her, no stranger to staring, shift a little. 

The way you stare at her, always slightly amused. Like she’s a long-winded joke you already know the punchline too, but want to hear again. It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t feel malicious or like you’re making fun of her. But it’s confusing and more than a little intense. Another thing she noticed about you, especially in your interviews. Haymitch had explained once, how it’s a part of why you have so much influence in the Capitol. Sure, you’re beautiful. But more than that, you’re captivating, persuasive. Your stare is a snare that prey willingly walk into. Even Katniss feels it, which is saying something.

It’s vastly different from how Finnick looks at her like she’s a puzzle he keeps finding pieces to, with no clue where to put them. Or how Johanna looks at her like—well, like she hates her. Of the three, she can’t tell which she prefers.  

“I have no siblings. Shockin’, right?” The only shocking part is you bringing that up seemingly out of nowhere. The shift in topics makes her blink. “I’m sure you learned that each family in Eleven has, like, ninety kids with full smiles and even fuller stomachs.”

Truthfully, Katniss is too embarrassed to say what she learned about Eleven, which is close to nothing. When they were being taught things about the other districts, as rare as it was, it was typically kept to their purpose and how they utilize the coal Twelve provides, if at all. Other than the little the teachers went over about how food is produced and the assumptions from other children that were treated like facts, Katniss can’t say she actually learned anything about your district. And she learned that from Rue. “Something like that.”

“If you get rid of the full stomachs, then it’s not too far off, honestly. More kids mean more workers. I’m sure it would have happened eventually, might’ve ended up with twenty brothers and sisters.” You joke. Or, at least she thinks you’re joking. She doesn’t know, but she’s too embarrassed to ask. She does know, however, that they’ve definitely cut the cameras away from the conversation by now. 

“Why didn’t it? Happen, I mean.”

“I’d imagine you’d need two parents for that.” Despite the blankness of your face that gives nothing away, you somehow manage to slip some humor into the statement, so you can’t be too upset at her for inadvertently making you mention your dad again.

She wonders how it happened. An accident like her father? Or…?

The punishments for minor crimes are distributed harshly in your district, Rue told her this much. And she’s seen it with her own eyes. Just how brutally the citizens of Eleven are treated by Peacekeepers. A feeble old man executed swiftly and without a word like he was no better than a dog with rabies. If that’s what they’re willing to do publicly, she can’t imagine what it’s like when there are no eyes on them. 

Is that something she can ask you? Does she even want to know? You choose for her.

“He and a few other men were hung in the square on grounds of treason and conspiracy.” Rebels . You don’t say whether the claims were founded or not, but Katniss can tell by the way you say it that, rebel or not, your father was an innocent man. Your eyes cast around aimlessly. She’s relieved they aren’t focused on her anymore. “I was eight. So, yeah. No big family.” 

Eight. Even younger than she had been.

“But I always wanted one growing up. Wanted kids of my own. Someone to love them with.”

With a level of fondness Katniss hadn’t expected to see, maybe, ever, let alone in the arena, you look over at Finnick who—despite Peeta’s best efforts to engross him in a conversation—keeps glancing over here. And, she squints, he’s slowly edging closer. Poor Peeta seems none the wiser about how unengaged his audience is. It would be a funny sight. How desperately Finnick seems to want to be around you. The most eligible bachelor in Panem so very obviously in love. He’s nothing like he was before they entered the arena, or even a few hours ago when Johanna had to pull him off the brink of what seemed to be a panic attack. Funny if they weren’t in the arena. And funny if it wasn’t so very sad.

“You lived in the Seam, right?” She turns to you, surprised that you knew that, before nodding. The ignorance about other districts isn’t as universal as she thought it was. She isn’t sure if that says more about Twelve or her. “I grew up in a Shacktown, somethin’ similar. So you know bringin’ a child into that is practically a death sentence and, and…” You sigh. Suddenly, Katniss feels incredibly guilty for this fake pregnancy. “Forget I said any of that. None of it’s important. Just, just got a bit sidetracked.”

“It’s alright.” But it’s not alright, is it?

“So, no kids. But I had my tributes. And I cared. About every single one of them.” You say with a bit of steel in your voice as if she might claim you’re lying. 

She just nods, recalling you telling her she’s lucky to never have to worry about being a mentor. Thinks of how Haymitch treated them before their first Games. She thinks of you and him both having to train and send off kids from your districts that you knew had no chance of winning, having to do it year after year. 

“Rue—she was a good kid, real good. But she never would’ve survived after the Games anyhow. Young girl like her? They would’ve eaten her alive. And then thrown her right back up to make room for more.” You purse your lips together, slightly twisting them to one side. “Just tradin’ one arena for another, really.”

She doesn’t wanna think about how true that is. Do you see her too? In the song birds and the meadows? Do you see Rue in the small animals that scurry high in the trees, too trusting to not fall victim to the snares and traps? You must. With how much you care, you must see her too.

Katniss has a moment of clarity. 

It’s possible she completely misunderstood what you told her at the chariots. She was under the impression that you hated her a little bit, different from Johanna’s general ire. She thought that your hatred, valid and pointed, came from the fact that she survived only because your tributes saved her. That’s what she thought you meant before Finnick interrupted the conversation and you left like you were allergic to his presence. 

But you never said that. You made no indication that you blamed her for anything, for either of their deaths. That was all Katniss projecting, wasn’t it? 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing at all.

“I held her. The night before. We couldn’t sleep, we talked and…gossiped. And then I held her. And, for that small moment that wouldn’t really matter to anybody but me and her, I guess…I guess I could imagine what it would feel like to be a mother.” Katniss frowns and has to look away from your wistful face. It’s horrible, the things you’re saying. A lesser woman would be crying. But you say them with a smile. It’s also horrible, she realizes absently, that had the circumstances been different, had you met at a nauseating Capitol party or grieving over your respective tributes, she could see you and her being friends.

“Seems you’ll be livin’ that out for the both of us, huh?”

“What?” You look down at her stomach. “Oh.” Right. The baby. That is supposed to be inside of her. This is the third time she’s had to be reminded. How did she forget that fast? She’d be better off writing ‘remember to be pregnant’ on her arm.

“ Oh .” You mimic, an amused smirk growing. “It’s alright. Your belly’s still flat, must be pretty early in. I almost forgot myself.” You wink and, stupidly, Katniss feels herself blush. Now, if it’s from embarrassment at her misstep or being the focus of all of your… you is anybody’s guess. 

She doesn’t understand how Finnick can stand to be at the center of it. Not only that but actively seeking it out, if how visibly impatient he seems to be to head this way means anything, shifting his weight from foot to foot. You snort. He locks eyes with you, pulling a face that turns your snort into a laugh that you hide behind your hand. He seems to be begging you for something and Katniss never realized how much could be said with just eye contact and some funny faces.

Nothing’s happening, per say, but it still feels like she’s intruding on a private moment despite neither of you saying a word to each other and being a good thirteen feet apart. Still. The air around you two feels so constantly charged that she can’t help but notice it.

And that kiss earlier…

Katniss wills her ears to cool down, but it appears her body is just as good at listening as she is. Caesar must be beside himself about the whole thing. It’s not hard to imagine him fainting live over it. She wishes she could see it.

“So I did send the bread because it’d be wasteful not to and because it’s what Rue would’ve wanted. But, also, as a thank you. For protectin’ her when I couldn’t, even for a little while.” You sniffle, rubbing at your nose. “Sorry. For, um. Makin’ that so long-winded.” If she knew you better, she’d be confident in saying you sound embarrassed. There’s no reason to be. It didn’t even feel like the two of you talked for long, but the sun is barely peeking over the horizon now.

“I should be the one apologizing. For Rue. And Thresh…For the old man…”

“Briar.” You say. Your district is massive. So much vast land that barely houses its population. Unlike Twelve, Eleven is far too big for you to know everyone. It should surprise her that you know his name. But it doesn't.

“For Briar.”

“Katniss…Nobody blames you for a damn thing that happened except for you.” Obviously, you haven’t had a chat with the president recently. As far as Snow’s concerned, anything bad that’s happened in Panem since her win is entirely her fault. And almost as if you know what she’s thinking, you say, “Nobody of any real importance, at least.”

She scoffs but doesn’t argue. There’s no point. Something tells her you're the kind of person who can convince anybody of anything. And no matter how desperately she wants to believe it, she doesn’t need you to convince her that she’s faultless. 

She remembers Peeta vouching for you. At the time it didn’t make much sense, and a small part of her had wondered if it was because he liked you. Stupid . 

You taught him, he had told her, about plants. From their toxicity to their edibility. A subject Peeta was particularly lacking in. Valuable information given away freely when you didn't have to. In fact, it would have served you not to help your competition. She doesn’t understand it and she has a feeling Finnick wouldn't either. But you do, and so does Peeta. And she knows that means it was strictly kindness that drove you. Between you and Finnick, she’ll never be able to get rid of this debt. How could I possibly kill them now?

“It seems I have a lot to be thanking you for.”

You regard her for a moment.

“You don’t owe me anythin’, Katniss. That’s what you’re thinkin’, right?” It seems even her thoughts, like her secrets, are public knowledge known to everyone before they’re known to her. “Well, here and now, I absolve you of any debts.” You wipe your hands together like you’re clearing them of dust. “How’s that sound?” It sounds like you’re only making her predicament worse.

“That sounds very generous.” And too good to be true. In fact, she hopes it’s too good to be true. It would make this whole thing easier. She unsticks her tongue from where it feels frozen to the roof of her mouth and asks, “How was it? The mutt, I mean.” Katniss doesn’t even know why she asks. Maybe because she knows it’ll hurt.

The mutt hybrids of Foxface and Thresh tearing Cato apart are still seared into her mind just as much as the flinch that went through Marvel’s body as her arrow struck him dead. Who knows how she would’ve handled it if they had turned Rue into one so soon after she lost her?

Instead of describing it in vivid, painful detail, your eyes get flinty as your fingers tap your thighs in no specific rhythm and you say something much worse. “When I was fifteen, after I won my Games, I thought I’d eventually become—jaded to all of it. That the blows would be dulled. And, after eight, almost ten years, you think you’ve seen all they had to throw at you. That they can’t possibly hurt you worse than they already have. But that? That was… mean. That’ll haunt me more than havin’ to watch her die.”

“...Oh.” She wants to apologize again, and she would if she thought you would accept it. Most of this conversation will be cut from the final product, and that’s if the Gamemakers are even risking keeping the cameras on them. 

Finnick is the only one still standing among the other group, his hands on his hips as Peeta recounts some sort of story. It looks like Beetee is the only one actually listening, following along. Johanna watches on in amusement, seemingly cutting Finnick off every time he tries to interject. He does nothing more than sigh in response, but his growing frustration is evident as he crosses his arms.

“Ah. That’s my queue.” You chuckle as you clamber to your feet, slow and cautious. She’d almost forgotten you were even injured. You wear your pain so well. “I better head over there before he pulls somethin’.” 

You smile at her so easily that it makes her smile in turn. Small and without teeth, but it’s not as tense as she thought it’d be. “Right.”

You turn away, getting a few steps before abruptly turning back around. What stopped you?

“You know, Cattails mean peace and prosperity. At least in Eleven. Many a feud and petty squabble has been patched up just,” you snap your fingers, “like that once people start exchangin’ Cattails.” 

“I…didn’t know.”

“And Katniss, the Arrowhead, brings to mind protection, courage, strength. And they can be surprisingly sweet.”

“...What do they have in common?” She can’t help but ask.

“They both have ‘ cat’ in them.” You say it so matter-of-factly, completely straight-faced, that it catches Katniss off guard enough to make her laugh. “They’re both resilient, adaptable. Bred for survival. You’d look them over at first glance, but they can save your life. But I’m sure you already knew that part though, huh?”

“Some of it.” Mostly learned from her father. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I think you have a lot in common with both—”

“Not just the stuff about the flowers. All of it.”

“Why not? Just seems like things you should know.” You shrug and, despite herself, she believes that you really believe that. “There doesn’t have to be some convoluted reason behind everyone’s actions. I wanted to tell you, so I did. You’re allowed to do things just because you want to.”

“...Right.” The last time she did that, a man had been killed.

 “Don’t brood over here for too long, Cattail. It’s bad for the baby.” Cattail? So close to Gale’s nickname for her. She doesn’t hate it, but she won’t encourage it. Things are hard enough as is. “I’ll go save my boy from yours.” She’s taken aback at Peeta being referred to as her boy, that you feel like her and Peeta’s relationship is worthy of being held up next to yours and Finnick’s. Maybe she’s a better actor than everyone gives her credit for.

You wave over your shoulder at her and she realizes with a dawning sense of horror that you’re more like Peeta than she wanted to be true. Seemingly kind without reason. Genuine. A good person.

If she hadn’t been convinced before, then she certainly is now. She and Peeta need to leave. Because if she has to shoot first, she’s not sure her hand won’t shake as she notches her bow. She looks over to the group. To where Finnick’s face lights up with a grin at your approach and Johanna, Beetee, and Peeta sit in a semicircle and talk like friends. Only one person gets to leave here alive, and she needs it to be Peeta. That hasn’t changed. But it’s the first time she’s felt something like guilt because of it.

SECTION 12  (9:20 pm—?)

When he and Katniss guesstimate it to be somewhere around nine, they all start heading to the twelve o’clock sector. Not before he had Katniss check your wounds despite your insistence of, I’m fine, Finn. It hardly even hurts anymore. But he knows you’re lying because you hardly argue when he prompts you to get on his back so he can carry you.  

Finnick leads the charge, precariously stepping from rock to rock. He uses one hand to shift away obstructant vines and the other to hold his trident. Your arms are looped around his shoulders, your right calf resting in the crook of his elbow—the same hand gripping the shaft of his weapon.

As he slows down a bit so Beetee and the others can catch up, he’s glad they decided to head to the tree earlier than they previously planned. It’s not that they aren’t making good time, rather, he doesn’t want there to be any reason they’ll need to rush. No reason for any possible slip-ups, no potential to become sloppy.

They hike forward, led by nothing but artificial moonlight. Finnick keeps a good pace even while carrying you, leveraging himself uphill, gripping tree trunks to support the both of you. When he gets to a high point, the others a little ways behind, the Capitol anthem trumpets throughout the arena. 

You huff, warm breath hitting his ear, when Cashmere’s face flashes in the sky. He hadn’t been friends with her, just two Careers out of dozens floating around in the same circles, and as far as he knows, you hadn’t either. But he knows you don’t need to be friends with someone to care about them, that’s just who you are. He squeezes your calf. Effortlessly compassionate, one of the reasons he loves you, but it must’ve been exhausting. 

Gloss follows behind her, replaced by his victim, Wiress. He glances over to Beetee who’s looking under his glasses at her portrait mournfully. Finnick looks away, right into Mags’s kind eyes. His nostrils flare, something in his chest pinches, but he doesn’t cry. Not again. You tighten your arms around his chest, keeping the blade of your weapon away from his face. You kiss his temple before laying your head on his. Some of the tension leaks from his shoulders as you move to press your cheek to his. You don’t say sorry about Mags again, which he’s thankful for. He squeezes your calf once, twice. A comfort. You’re a soothing weight on his back.

Other than Blight and the female morphling, no other people of interest appear. No Chaff, which is relieving. 

The music cuts out and they move forward in silence, the sound of bugs chirping following them further into the jungle. Thankfully, no birds.

When they get to the ginormous tree, he pauses, gawking a bit at the sheer size of it. Its branches cut a cruel figure above them. It looms all the more in the night, with shadows and a lack of good lighting making it look even bigger. 

So this is what gets them out? It certainly looks the part. 

He helps you off his back, ushering you in front of him as the others step closer to the tree. He looks over his shoulder, scanning for enemies hiding in the dark as hard as Beetee is inspecting the tree. Finnick grabs your wrist— “ Stay close to me .” He whispers, looking away from you to the sky beyond the branches. Soon enough, it’ll split open and they’ll be free. It hasn’t fully sunk in yet.

“Minimal charring.” Beetee notes. They all look back at the tree trunk to try and see what he sees. “It’s an impressive conductor.” Nobody agrees or disagrees. How could they? “Let’s get started.”

Anticipation bubbles in Finnick’s stomach, making his hair stand on end as everyone follows Beetee closer. You raise your eyebrows at him, lips pursed briefly. You feel it too. They’re steadily approaching the climax.  

“Typically a lightning strike contains five billion joules of energy. We don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity when it hits.” Finnick keeps his back to the tree as Beetee works his wire around a part of it, keeping his gaze glued to the tree line. But, for a split second, he glances behind him in enough time to catch Beetee looking you over from under his glasses, a quick clinical sweep before he says over his shoulder to Katniss and Johanna as he unspools more wire, “You two girls, go together now. Take this. Unspool it carefully.”

Beetee pushes the handle into Katniss’s hands, speaking so surely that you don’t even object to being excluded—which Finnick is very grateful for. You’re the fastest of the girls, have the easiest time moving swiftly between the trees and rough terrain. On a normal day, when you didn’t have an injury sinking you. “Make sure the entire coil is in the water. You understand? Then head to the tree in the two o'clock sector. We’ll meet you there.”

Beetee nods at them, heading back to the tree, and Finnick thinks that’s the end of it.

“I’m gonna go with them as a guard.” Finnick freezes momentarily, before turning back around to face Peeta. That won’t work. He can’t emphasize enough just how much that won’t work. Not only are the two of them active flight risks, no matter how well they think they’re hiding it, but they also need to handle the trackers as soon as possible. Johanna is strong, but not strong enough to take both of them.

“No, no, no. You’re staying here to protect me. And the tree.”

Finnick alternates between watching the trees, watching the increasingly tense conversation, and watching you. Working to not treat this interaction like it’s as high stakes as it actually is. They can’t make it seem like they’re eager to separate the two of them—which they are. It’s actually a large part of the plan. Some might say the crux.

“No, I need to go with her.” Peeta stubbornly digs his heels in. 

“There are two careers out there. I need two guards.”

“You have two guards.” Peeta gestures to you and Finnick.

“Allow me to correct myself. Two able-bodied guards.”

“Hurt or not, I’m sure she’d be much better at fending off the careers.” You shift enough behind Finnick to grab his attention. You purse your lips into a frown, one that he returns. He hadn’t anticipated Peeta being a problem, especially this close to their escape. Katniss makes sense, he was almost banking on her making this difficult, but Peeta is a surprise. You raise a brow, tilting your head minutely. But not a surprise to you. "Besides, Finnick can protect you just fine on his own.”

“Yeah, why can’t Finnick and Johanna stay with you and Peeta and I’ll take the coil?”

Finnick fully turns around at that, slowly creeping up to stand slightly in front of you. He doesn’t want it to escalate, but if push comes to shove, he and Johanna will just have to move in quickly to incapacitate them. And it really looks like Peeta’s ready to push and shove. Finnick subtly has his weapon at the ready, not enough to draw attention, but just in case. He can see Johanna do the same, moving her axe to her dominant hand.

“You all agreed to keep me alive till midnight, correct?”

“It’s his plan. We all agreed to it.” Johanna bites out, making the two of them seem all the more unreasonable to be arguing over who’s paired with who when they’re all trying to do their parts.

“Is there a problem?” Finnick asks, working to keep any aggression out of his voice, trying to make it seem like he’s just supportive of Beetee’s plan and won’t let anything obstruct it. However, he must not work hard enough because you grab his elbow. An anchor. 

“ Excellent question.”

Katniss’s eyes flick from Beetee to you and then back.

“No. There’s no problem.” Whatever trust she has in you and Beetee to not hurt Peeta apparently outweighs the distrust she might still harbor in him and Johanna. Peeta, however, doesn’t seem as convinced. 

“I’ll go with ‘em, Peeta.” You pipe up and step forward past the protective wall of Finnick’s body. “Six hands spreadin’ the wire will get us done three times as fast.” Finnick tenses at the idea, teeth grinding together. That’s not the plan. You going where he can’t protect you, again, has never been part of the plan. Maybe if you weren’t so grievously wounded—no, not even then. 

His hand lands on your shoulder, sliding limply down your arm to latch onto your wrist. “ Star .” He rasps, dismayed. He understands a situation as delicate as this might require improvising and flexibility, but this isn’t something he’s willing to bend to. He’s not letting you leave his sight if he can help it.

You lock eyes over your shoulder, and that split-second look holds a thousand and one words. All of which tell him that you have no intention of leaving him, but Katniss and Peeta don’t know that. The fact that you even offered to go in your current state just to appease Peeta’s worry should be a grand enough gesture of goodwill to extinguish some of that lingering apprehension. 

If Finnick is willing to send you on your merry way to lay the wire without his protection, then why can’t Peeta do the same with Katniss? His thumb brushes the shell of your bracelet before letting you go.

He leans away, listing leisurely against his trident—he’s all lax lines as he regards Katniss and Peeta almost apathetically. “Well?” He raises a brow at them. Your move.

If he was Peeta, he’d pull the baby card, the only good argument he’d have for wanting to stay with her. But Finnick isn’t bringing that to his attention if he’s clearly forgotten.

“Like Katniss said, there’s no problem.” You eye Peeta uncertainly, much like how he looked at you in the elevator. Maybe that’s what makes him concede in the end. “And it’s probably best if you stay up here.” Finally , something Finnick can agree with.

Beetee nods, an infallible thing that conveys no further arguments. “That settles it, then.”

Of course, it isn’t that easy.

The two of you have stalked further away, out towards the outreaches of the tree’s massive roots, speaking in low tones. The distance is intentional and not just to keep him from overhearing anything. Peeta will feel more compelled to stay close to Beetee and watch his back, less likely to sneak off or outright run if he’s the nearest one to him. 

He leans down to hear you better, as you take turns subtly watching Peeta and less subtly watching the trees. 

“It’s almost over.” You mumble. “Not much longer, I’m sure—” Something cuts you off. A soft metallic sound, not so much loud as it is sharp. The sound a spring makes when abruptly bouncing back to its original position. Or, more accurately, the sound of a very taunt, very thin wire. 

In sync, you both turn and watch the suddenly lax wire coiling at Beetee’s feet. You turn to each other. He reads fear in your eyes that he knows is reflected in his own. The wire’s been cut and cut very suddenly. He hears voices so faint he thinks he’s imagining them, before a scream that can only be Katniss rings out. 

You don’t even hesitate to run towards it, which makes sense, he shouldn’t be surprised by it. Katniss is a key factor in their escape if not the rebellion as a whole. Every rebel vowed to put their lives on the line for Katniss and Peeta. Knowing that doesn’t stop his stomach from dropping at the sight of you running head-first into danger. 

“ Star !” He yells after you, but you’re already too far ahead to think about stopping. He tells Peeta, “Stay here and guard Beetee,” before chasing you. 

“Finnick, wait! ” He ignores Peeta calling his name well enough, focusing on not losing you.

Despite your head start, he catches up to you. Quickening his stride, he overtakes you, jumping over a log to skid in front of you. You crash into his chest, but he’s able to steady you. You pant, sagging against him. As tough as you are, the wounds are doing nothing but crippling you.

Making noise isn’t a privilege either of you have right now. There’s no telling where Brutus and Enobaria are skulking around, no telling if Katniss still considered anyone an ally other than Peeta. You’re too hurt for this, and you’re only getting worse. He needs to get you out of the open. Head whipping around frantically to find— “C’mon!” He whispers, steering you away from the moonlit path.

"I need you to hide here, okay?" His voice shakes, heartbeat in his ears as he crowds you behind a tree where large leaves hang low and the grass grows tall. No one will see you here.

"What? No, we need all hands on deck.” You say, a Four phrase you surely learned from him, trying to stand up straight despite the way your shoulders shake. You’re starting to look pale, sweaty from more than the humidity.  “We need to keep Katniss saf—”

"No. No, me and Johanna can handle that. You're hurt—"

"I can still help, Finnick." You beg, moving away from the cover that the tree provides and Finnick can feel the clock breathing down his neck.

" This isn't up for discussion, " He whispers harshly, softening when you flinch back. "I can't watch you and help Johanna at the same time—I know I don't have to, but I will anyway. You know that."

He hears feet hitting the forest floor in the distance and curses.

"Once we handle the other victors and get Katniss and Peeta to the tree, I'll come back for you, okay? Just," you turn towards the sound of someone yelling and he grabs your face, "focus on me. Do you trust me?"

Your eyes are glossy as they look between his, face resolute despite the pain he knows you're in and the absolute hell breaking loose around you both. But for a split, vulnerable second, Finnick sees the mask slip. Your lips quiver as you nod.

"Then, please . Stay here. I'll come back for you, I promise." You grab his wrist, your grip tight. You're scared. He is too. Not just for himself, but for the rebellion. What it'll mean for the cause if this all goes to shit.

He's scared for you.

"I promise ." He repeats, presenting his pinkie for you to take with your own. You hesitate. You hesitate long enough for Finnick to become hyper-aware of the sweat dripping down his neck.

You hook your own around his tentatively, and then certainly. Putting an insurmountable level of trust in him.

He leans forward, lips meeting yours, and he savors the feeling. He’d drink poison from your mouth if it meant he got to kiss you. You're soft against him, but he knows how tough you really are. He knows it must kill you to sit back and let someone else handle the situation, and you're right about them needing all the help they can get. But you're letting him be selfish and he loves you so much. 

"I'll come back." He swears into the air between you and him and you keep your eyes closed. "My Star." He whispers into your hair and hopes you can hear the declaration of love hidden in it. You squeeze his wrist one more time before stepping back.

He waits for you to hide before he runs off to look for Johanna and Katniss.

“Katniss! Johanna!” He sprints through the jungle, down the slope, looking for any sign of either girl and giving up any attempt of discretion. “Where are you?!”  

He leaps through the underbrush, pushing past vines and leaves, coming to a stop when something glints out of the corner of his eye. He reaches his hand out, grounding himself against the bark. On his left, down in a deep ditch, he sees some of Beetee’s wire, but not the spool and neither of the girls that should have been with it. He squats down, squinting at what looks like blood next to the wire. “Johanna!”

No reply. No shout, no groan, nothing. He rushes further down the slope and realizes it’ll only be a matter of time before he stumbles onto the beach, which reminds him he’s working on borrowed time. He turns around, looking up at the slope he just sprinted down.

“ Shit .”

He doubles back, passing that same ditch in time to hear a cannon. It’s not you, he knows it’s not you. You wouldn’t have left your spot after promising him, and no one would even think to look for you there. It’s not a spot someone can just stumble upon. Which means it’s someone else, a complete gamble. The chance of it being a good thing is tragically low. He pushes himself forward, suddenly very worried about how vulnerable Beetee is. There’s no way Peeta actually listened to him, especially not after that cannon.

There’s shouting, and it sounds like Peeta, but he’s very faint and very far away. Almost as soon as Peeta starts yelling, Katniss yells back and she sounds much closer. “Peeta!”   

His relief is quickly followed by fear, fear that he won’t be the first person to get to her. There’s no telling if she’s hurt or not, but she can speak at least, which is a good enough sign for him. 

Another cannon fires right before he rounds back to the tree. He has chills despite how scorching hot he feels. Nothing. He sees nothing . Not a damn thing. His heart sinks.

“Katniss, where are you?!” He yells, chest heaving. He takes a second to scan his surroundings, hoping to see a head of long brown hair or maybe the light glinting off Beetee’s face from wherever he’s hiding. Hopefully hiding. There’s a very real chance one of those cannons was him. Just as he’s about to turn and look in another section, he sees her. Or, more accurately, he sees an arrowhead pointed right at him.

Silence. Neither of them speaks, both panting and wired. He raises his free hand slowly, trying not to give her a reason to let her arrow fly. 

“Katniss.” He had hoped it wouldn’t have come to this, had hoped for a lot, it seems. Hoped that he wouldn’t need Haymitch’s plan B. But it’s the last chance the revolution has and it depends on the next words out of his mouth. “Remember who the real enemy is.”

He holds his breath at the same moment it looks like Katniss holds her. That reaction could mean a lot of things. Could mean Finnick will leave this arena in one piece or it could mean he’ll leave with an arrow between his eyes. 

Please. He prays. Please don’t shoot.

She lowers her bow, slowly and then all at once. They regard each other for a moment. The sound of thunder cracks the silence, making him flinch.

Finnick eyes the gathering clouds warily. Glaring into the swirling storm. Suddenly, he remembers that Beetee said they shouldn’t be anywhere near that tree at midnight. “Katniss, get away from that tree!”

She doesn’t listen. Of course, she doesn’t listen. She must have some kind of death wish, she must not understand just how unlikely it is she’ll survive. She wraps Beetee’s wire around the arrow she had pointed at him and Finnick doesn’t think he can comprehend just how poorly this will end.

She aims at the sky, and Finnick rushes forward on instinct. 

“Katniss, get away from that tree!”

There’s a flash of blinding light as the tree is struck and Finnick goes flying back.

He feels warm. Too warm. The warmest he’s ever been. This heat. It vibrates through him, so deep that his bones must be shaking with it. 

No. 

His muscles. They’re vibrating, they’re tensing, they’re cramping and straining. It leaves him breathless, like a kick to the diaphragm. The pain is almost as blinding as the light was. 

In the second it takes for Finnick’s body to go numb, to become paralyzed, to become deafened by the bombardment of sound, his heartbeat speeds up so rapidly that he can feel it contract and relax. 

Every time he blinks, he loses time. 

He blinks and the hovercraft lifts Katniss’s limp body into the air. Katniss is taken away and he needs to find the others, needs to—Star, Johanna, Peeta, Star, Star, Star —he blinks and he’s fighting to stay awake as they airlift Beetee. 

He doesn’t know when his eyes close, but when he opens them, it’s to the expanded claws of the hovercraft. Fear seizes his chest as the claw descends to him because he knows . He knows if they lift him up, if they take him out of the arena, they’ll never find you. He knows you won’t move. Knows you won’t come towards the sound. Towards the pickup point. Because you promised him. And he promised you.

I promised, I promised, I promised.

He tries to move, to shift, to scream . To give you some kind of sign, some kind of signal. But he can’t. He can’t fucking move.

But even if you do move, you’re too injured, too far.

The metal talons slip underneath him. His eyes blur and he can feel the tears slipping down either side of his face. As he’s lifted, his eyes slip shut and don’t open again for a long time.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN; HOVERCRAFT 

The first time Haymitch talked to you, you called him a jackass. 

Not that it wasn’t well deserved. He was being a jackass. No more than what was usual at the time, but enough to put anybody new off. That wasn’t what happened though. You weren’t put off despite it being your victory tour and having met hundreds of people who were no doubt far nicer to you than he had been.

But that didn’t deter you. You called him a jackass, yes, but not to be mean. It was an observation of a grown man who was purposefully acting like a drunkard. Haymitch was even more of an acquired taste back then than he is now. Instead of scoffing and turning your nose up at him, you left and came back with a flute of what he thought to be champagne, but was actually water. 

Even though you were forced to entertain dozens of people cloying for your attention, you kept an eye on him for most of the night. He would have thought Chaff and Seeder put you up to it, but, even if they had, the fact that you were taking the time to actually look after a stranger was insane to him.

The last time Haymitch talked to you, he reassured you that they would get you out—that he would get you out. You were skeptical, as you always are, but you trusted him. He saw it in your eyes, you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that it was possible. You believed in Haymitch. 

He looks at your picture now, the one Finnick gave him for safekeeping. It’s aged with love. A little worn around the edges, but loved. 

Stop shaking , he tells his hands, stop fucking shaking. He wills his body to listen to him just this once so he can actually look at you. Just let him look at you smiling, so it can replace the last time he saw you. Replace seeing your body getting airlifted by the Capitol with you happy and smiling. Safe and whole. When he hadn’t broken his promise to you and Finnick. When he hadn’t failed you.

-

When Finnick wakes up, it's with the biggest headache known to man and the intuitive feeling that something is very, very wrong. It takes a moment for his brain to tell his body he's awake. And when it does, he’s sore in places he didn’t even know could feel sore. 

He’s on a padded bed. There’s a pain in both of his arms, though he can barely feel them—as heavy and limp as they are at his sides. A twinge in the crease of his left elbow. He tries to bend it and it’s a laborious effort, but when he does, it’s to the unfamiliar sounds of beeping. 

His hearing is back, followed by the smell of antiseptics and burnt hair—the stale taste that comes from sleeping for a while. He’s in a medical ward of some kind. There must be an IV in his arm then, pumping him full of fluids. And in his right arm, there’s a deeper throb. His forearm itches, wrapped in a scratchy gauze—his tracker. Gone now, surgically removed. He tries to open his eyes, but it’s like there are hundreds of anvils tied to his eyelashes.

Star.

He floats in and out of sleep, he thinks. It’s hard to tell. 

The final time he wakes up, it’s to the silver-gray ceiling of a hovercraft. He panics for a second, not entirely sure whose hands he’s wound up in. He paws at the oxygen mask on his face, heartbeat picking up sluggishly. It’s new; it wasn’t here the last dozen times he gained consciousness. When he gets free, he waits for the beeping. But there is none. The IV hangs from the machine on his left. Weakness clings to him like a heavy blanket, tucked into all his joints. 

He pushes himself up, arms straining under his weight. Even that winds him and he sits, dazed. 

Something’s wrong.

He can’t remember, but something, something, something…

Something terrible has happened. 

It’s like his memory is filled to the brim with piles of rope tied in an impossible knot. He pulls and pulls, but there’s no end in sight. A chill goes through him as he swings his legs out from the blanket and over the side of the bed, feet bare. He’s still in his arena getup, though they removed his shirt and there are more than a few sizable holes in his pants. He’s bruised all over. Ugly splotches of purple, blue, and yellow paint the majority of the skin he can see. Various cuts and scratches are twining in between, like vines or the lines of a constellation—

“ Star!” And just like that, the knot unravels. He remembers the feeling of being paralyzed, stuck on the jungle floor as the sun streamed in and Katniss and Beetee were lifted out. He remembers the guttural fear, not at the prospect of death, but because he knew, in your current state, getting there on your own before the hovercraft left was incredibly unrealistic. He remembers how you gripped him as he kissed your forehead. 

But that’s just what he remembers. He’s been asleep for who knows how long, so they must have gone back for you. And Johanna. And Peeta. He does a sweep of the room. To his immediate right, Katniss lies in the same state he did. Only, she’s chained to her bed. To her right is Beetee, hooked up to more wires than he and Katniss had combined. But the reason behind that is the least of his concerns. 

There are more gurneys, all with medical equipment on standby. But they’re empty. All perfectly made, not a sheet out of place. 

He lurches to his feet. His stomach sways almost as much as his vision and saliva fills his mouth as acid burns his chest. There's a reason why you aren’t here with him. An explanation for why he didn’t wake up next to you. Your injuries were more extensive than theirs were. Needed closer monitoring, maybe even surgery. So he just, just needs to find a different medical wing. That’s all.

Each step is a conscious effort. Even now, his body doesn’t feel like his own. Every muscle protests his movement, even his brain. You’re here, on the hovercraft somewhere. He’ll walk every square inch until he finds you, because you are here. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to get to the automatic door. He just knows that there’s a pounding in his head like a grandfather clock. It feels nearby. If he could just press his fingers into his eyes, he could rub away the pain like an aching muscle. 

Instead, he presses his hands against the walls, using them as crutches as he shuffles and limps to—well, he doesn’t know where. He has no idea where he’s going. The lights in the hall nearly blind him, any brighter and his nose will start bleeding again, and whatever brain injury he has won’t allow him to focus on any signs. He needs, needs to…He needs to find Haymitch. 

Haymitch!  

He needs to find Haymitch. He’ll tell him what happened, explain it all away. He’ll bring him to you. He drags his battered body toward the sound of voices. He finally gets to the room where two men are arguing. Haymitch and it takes a moment for Finnick to recognize the calmer voice as Plutarch Heavensbee. Whatever he’s saying, Haymitch doesn’t like it.

“That’s it? Really? You’re a smart man, Plutarch. You and I both know that shit’ll fly over as well as a lame bird. You can’t expect them to just… deal with it.”

“That’s exactly what they’ll do, Haymitch. There was no guarantee they’d all get out of the arena. It’s a shame, but casualties happen in revolutions.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see you look those kids in the eye and say that to their faces. We’ll be lucky if they don’t end up planning a coordinated attack to crash your fancy hovercraft.”

The words he’s hearing don’t make sense, but he attributes it to whatever the hell is wrong with his brain.

The door opening cuts their conversation short. Finnick pants as he leans heavily along the frame. He can’t help but look for you, but the two men are the only ones in the room. Medbay it is, then.

“...Kid.” Something painful flashes in Haymitch’s expression, but Finnick dismisses it. He’s sure he looks pretty beat up, that’s all. “We, uh, didn’t think you’d be up moving around so early.” He approaches Finnick slowly and stares at him expectantly. He’s waiting for something, bracing himself for an approaching wave. 

“Haymitch.” He nearly jumps at hearing his own voice. It’s hoarse and raspy, and he’s acutely aware of how dry his throat is. “How long have I been out?" The older man grabs his shoulder, places a guiding hand on his back, and directs him over to the table they’re speaking over. Something he’s thankful for because he isn’t sure how much longer his legs would have held up. When he leans most of his weight on the cool metal, he realizes it’s more than just that. It depicts moving treetops and mountain ranges in light blue projections, presumably what they’re flying over. 

“Nearly ten hours,” Plutarch answers. Good. More than enough time for you to be out of surgery. 

“Where’s Star?” Haymitch goes still beside him, looking at Plutarch, and then back at him. Your injury must have been worse than any of them anticipated if you’re still in surgery. “Is she still in surgery? Or, or if she’s recovering in a different med bay, I wanna go sit with her—”

“Kid.”

“—I won’t be in the way, I swear. I just, I’ll feel better if I’m with her and I don’t want her to wake up alone—”

“ Finnick .”

He opens his eyes, though he doesn’t remember closing them. His fists are clenched as he leans on them, nails working their way into his palm.

With the kind of blow he received, it’s expected that Finnick will be a bit absent. The medics told Haymitch to prepare himself to talk slower and repeat questions when necessary. But Haymitch didn’t prepare for this. He should have, but he wasn’t expecting the earnest hope in Finnick’s eyes as he determinedly clung to his senses. This has nothing to do with being electrocuted. He genuinely thinks you’re here. As the seconds tick on, Haymitch’s need for something alcoholic claws at him. 

“Here, drink some water. It sounds like you’ve been gargling razor blades.” Haymitch forces him to take it into his weak hands. It goes down uneasily. Though, luckily, it doesn’t come back up. 

The thick silence sits heavily upon them. Before he can ask where you are again, Haymitch sighs. 

“She’s not here.”

“...I know. Tha–that’s why I asked—”

“She’s not here.” Haymitch interrupts him. Finnick can feel his brain working desperately to make the connection, to fill in the blanks—of which there are many. Haymitch pauses, looking to the side and then down. He licks his lips. “We…we didn’t get her out.”

“What? What does—? Wha—” He laughs in disbelief, shock coloring his otherwise pale features. “What the hell do you mean?"  

Finnick sways, his determined gaze faltering to give way to terror. Haymitch prepares to catch him, but he doesn’t fall. He visibly steels himself, but the walls he builds aren’t nearly as high or impenetrable as they usually are. As the truth sinks in, those walls start to crumble, and Haymitch can’t feel sorry enough.

Plutarch takes over, though Haymitch isn’t sure how good of an idea that is. “We were only able to retrieve Katniss, Beetee, and you.”

Finnick doesn’t know what’s worse, that they’ve given up on you so resolutely or the fact that Haymitch doesn’t bother hiding how remorseful he is.

"You said that if we did this, we’d be free. You said you’d get her back to me." He hisses. Despite how his circumstances shaped him, despite how his father tried to raise him, Finnick isn’t a violent person. It’s something he’s capable of, but it doesn’t come easy to him. He wasn’t born with it in him, rather it was tattooed into his skin. You, however, wear violence like a heavy coat you’ve borrowed. It was never meant for you. With that in mind, Finnick lashes out with an anguished scream that rips his throat to shreds.

He lunges forward, his feet still clumsy and his mind disoriented, but Haymitch still struggles to hold him back. Finnick doesn’t know what he’s trying to accomplish, not sure whether he’s attempting to hurt anyone other than himself, but his fist strikes Haymitch’s jaw. 

“Whoa— stop !”

“You were supposed to get her out! What was the point!” Haymitch tries to restrain his wrists. “ What was the point! ”

People rush in. Medical personnel with syringes, ready to put him to sleep. I’ll let them. Before they can get close, Plutarch raises a hand and they freeze. 

"Finnick, we couldn't find her. Or Peeta and Johanna for that matter." He’s calm and rational, distantly sympathetic like Finnick is just overreacting. Like hearing this should be enough for him to see apparent reason. But it only makes it worse because—

"I know where she is! Just turn around and we can get her! Please ." He pleads to Plutarch, to Haymitch, to anyone who’ll listen. 

“Believe me, Kid, I want to go back.” Haymitch grunts. Finnick’s weakened, but he’s not weak. At this rate, Haymitch will be as bruised as he is.

“Then go back .” 

"We're too far away with too little time. We go back, this’ll all be for nothing." Plutarch says. Like there’s nothing else to be done. Like it’s the end of the conversation. And for everyone but Finnick, it is. If you got left behind, then it was all for nothing. He struggles against Haymitch before his body betrays him. The anger that powered his attack evaporates and in its place now stands despair. His legs give out. He’s heaving and practically limp in Haymitch's arms.

Haymitch allows him to sink to the floor, and Finnick allows himself to cry.

Tremors wrack his body as he stares ahead sightlessly, lips quivering as he weeps. Cool air brushes his back like a feather, but he doesn’t even feel it. He can’t feel anything, only your absence. He feels it more than he did over those torturous two years he spent apart from you. 

His shirt had been so badly singed, they had to cut it off of him, is what Plutarch says, but Finnick is done talking to him. The man is saying something else, Finnick can see his lips still moving out of the corner of his eye, but he’s done listening to him too. 

Haymitch puts his cardigan over Finnick’s shoulders and slides a paper into his hands. Instinctively, his thumb rubs over it, over the subtle grooves and creases and he recognizes it even without looking. He presses a kiss to it, dry and cracked lips caressing your picture as he asks you, "What was the point?”

"I just got word from my men.” Finnick looks up, hope clear even through his tears. He should know better than to have hope, but he just can’t seem to help himself when it comes to you. “The remaining four victors in the arena...have been taken by the Capitol. They never took their trackers out."

That breaks him, Haymitch can see it. The kid just, he just deflates . Curls in on himself, forehead touching the ground— sobs .

 “You, you should have left me in there. Why didn’t you leave me in there? I wasn’t,” he gasps, hardly breathing at all. “I wasn’t supposed to get out. Not without her.” 

“I’m sorry, Finnick.”

Finnick says nothing, because what good does that do? Haymitch’s guilt, what good is it? Who does it help? It means nothing to Finnick, nothing to you.

“I’ve given special orders for Annie Cresta’s retrieval, if possible.” Plutarch reminds him. “With Snow’s attention split between the arena and Eleven seizing control of transportation, it should be fairly easy to slip into Four unnoticed. If that’s any consolation.” It’s not.

Eventually, the weeping tapers off. Not the crying, no. When Finnick eventually sits up, the tears are still streaming down his face. Haymitch is used to seeing him trailing behind you with a cocky grin, shoulders back, and carrying arrogance like a shield if his sharp tongue wasn’t enough. The man that Haymitch has grown close to over the years isn’t here, neither is the boy he once was. And neither are you.

“Do you see that?” Haymitch nods over to the shell of Finnick Odair. “You see that reaction? That’s what I tried to warn you about. Now, how do you think Katniss is gonna react? You think she’s gonna be any better?”

“He’s in shock. She will be too. But they’ll have no choice but to see reason.” Plutarch says and Haymitch’s face twists in disbelief. For how strongly he feels for the rebellion, Heavensbee is still Capitol raised. That ignorance shows like a flashing sign now. People aren’t ruled by logic, they don’t make decisions based on what they know to be true, not really. Especially not in this case. Emotions will be high. And considering it’s Finnick and Katniss they’re talking about, the one less adapted for it, they’d be lucky if they don’t go catatonic.

He nods. “Sure, sure. Once they stop seeing ghosts. And as long as their ghosts are leashed by Snow, you’re gonna be short two rebel leaders.” He says. His jaw aches from Finnick’s right hook, and his chest aches for, well, many reasons. And he is shockingly far too sober for the rest of this ride.

“They’re both intelligent people.” Plutarch counters. “They’ll understand that the revolution is more important than any singular person.”

“Of course they’re smart. There’s no doubt about it. But they’re also strong-willed. They’re stubborn . They’re kids. Pair that with them also being… stupidly in love.” Haymitch can see that none of this is particularly clicking with the other man and sighs, throwing his arms up in frustration. “You know what? Nevermind. You’ll find out just how much we need them more than they need us.”  

“Hm.” The ex-Head Gamemaker hums, not entirely convinced. But he will be. God , will he be. He’ll learn the hard way what happens when you live for someone else, and Haymitch will run as much damage control as he can. He’ll keep these two alive even if they hate him for it. He owes you and Peeta that much.

Finnick sits in silence as Plutarch and Haymitch speak in low tones. He thinks Plutarch attempts to talk to him a few times, tries to rope him into the conversation. Maybe to ask for his input or some type of council. But what good is Finnick to the rebellion now? How could he possibly think of the future of Panem when his future is trapped in the Capitol? 

Eventually, Plutarch stops trying, probably dissuaded by Haymitch. Finnick’s standing now, leaning heavily on his hands like he’s drunk. Haymitch must have helped him up.

“Maybe,” he wonders aloud, an open stream of consciousness that he doesn’t bother to censor. He doesn’t need to look at the other men’s faces to know he sounds as desolate as he feels. “Maybe if I’m dead, they’ll let her go.” They could broadcast it live. A hanging or execution by gunfire. Or lethal injection, so he can drift away with thoughts of you. 

Plutarch raises his eyebrows. It’s the first thing the kid has said in the last hour and a half.

Haymitch’s reaction is as upset as Finnick thought it would be.

“No. No, are you crazy? Your dying won’t help anything. Hell, it’ll probably make whatever treatment she gets worse. And you and I both know Snow didn’t take her just to fuck with you.” If Finnick was more present, he would have noticed Haymitch softening. But he’s not and he doesn’t.

Haymitch is right. Of course, he’s right. But it’s increasingly hard to see that past the tears in his eyes.

Later, when Katniss barges in and lashes out, as angry and despondent as he was, and has to be sedated, Finnick sits beside her in the same bed he woke up in. What a cruel twist of fate to be sitting at her bedside, wishing she was someone else while knowing Katniss was doing the same with him.

But there’s nothing to be done for that because he isn’t Peeta, and she isn’t you. And they’re both here when they shouldn’t be.

He stays out of the way as medics bustle around the room. They check her IV drip, measure out more medicine, and contemplate aloud if they should tie her down again. Ultimately they decide against it and leave the room one by one until it’s only them. Three patients in a room that should have held six.

“Katniss. Katniss, I’m sorry.” He apologizes, but even then it doesn’t feel like it’s really her he’s apologizing to. He wants to picture you in her place, lying here beside him, but Finnick’s imagination has never worked that way. 

He stares at your picture.

She mumbles something incoherent, which is more than he thought he’d get from her. Her voice must be shot. She’d been wailing. For so long. Even after they drugged her. He hadn’t minded. It gave him something to focus on other than his thoughts. A ringing in his ears that wasn’t from head trauma or grief. It was the kind of animal-like keening he’d only heard once before—from his father when his mother died.

And then she went deathly quiet. But even before that, she refused to talk to anyone. Like she was a wounded creature surrounded by predators and the only way she could communicate was by screaming and sobbing. He gets it, they wanted to put him on IV fluids as a precaution. You can cry yourself into dehydration and, apparently, he’s already at risk. Luckily, Haymitch talked them out of it.

Not that he would have noticed. Or put up much of a fight. 

“I wanted... to go back for Peeta and Johanna. For Star...” He trails off, blinks his puffy and watery eyes, and tries again. “I wanted…to go back for them, but I, uh, um..." He sniffles, “I couldn’t move ,” he says. Not as an excuse, or an admission of guilt. He doesn't need her to validate or coddle him. He tells her because she has to know, somebody other than him has to know that he tried . 

And that he failed. 

She says nothing, but that deliberate silence speaks volumes.

“They, um, they took her, too. Th–they took…they took Star.” That gets a blink out of her. Or he thinks it does, his eyes feel swollen from crying. They offered him something for it, but he refused. He continues, feeling the need to fill the silence.

“It's better for him than her and Johanna. They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you.” He shrugs even though she can’t see it. “Knowing Snow, he won’t kill Star either.”

“They’re bait…aren’t they, Finnick?” Her speech is delayed as she talks at the ceiling, the sedative doing its job. “But you get rid of bait…when it gets no bites.”  

They should have given her some kind of tranquilizer or anesthetic, those would have put her to sleep. He wishes she was asleep, that her vocal cords were so strained that she couldn’t speak at all. He wishes she hadn’t said that, hadn’t brought logic into his delusion.

He tries to imagine what they’ll do to you, but his mind whites out to the sound of static. No. Not static. Your screams in the arena, once fabricated, but now made real. 

No. 

It’s both. 

Static and screams and static and screams and he covers his ears, weeping. 

“I wish she was dead. I wish they were all dead and we were too.”

-

Epilogue

-

THE CAPITOL

There are snipers at all possible vantage points. 

All hovercrafts have been grounded. 

Should anything be picked up by the sonars, he has given express orders for it to be shot down immediately. He had peacekeepers previously stationed in Two brought to the Capitol overnight, almost tripling their numbers. This close to an attack like that, he can’t afford to be lax in his security. 

Despite the extra muscle milling around, or perhaps because of it, the citizens cheer as he steps out onto the balcony.

Even after all these years, the sight of his faithful, if not at times inane, people falling over themselves at the mere sight of him is invigorating. It’s what he is owed, of course, what he’s due. It’s invigorating all the same.

Coriolanus allows himself to relish the feeling. He’s worked tirelessly to get where he is today, to get his country where it is today. Day after day, making the difficult decisions needed to keep the scales balanced so those unsuited for the task didn’t have to. Moments such as these, it wouldn’t do to squander them.

He raises a hand and a hush falls over the crowd, quelling the unrest. He surveys the audience, taking in their fears and hopes. He has no need to contemplate the approach he should be taking. He knows what his people need to hear. 

“Esteemed citizens. Today, we stand in the shadow of a grievous attack. An assault upon the very heart of our beloved nation. Yesterday's events in the arena were not merely an affront to our sovereignty, but a blatant act of terrorism perpetrated by those who seek to undermine the tranquility and stability we have fought so very hard to maintain since the Dark Days."

He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the assembly. There are very few people who witnessed the Dark Days firsthand and lived to tell the tale. Even less so now than when the war initially ended, their names almost all lost through death or forgotten by time. Despite that, he made sure the generations that came after were taught about it, and the words ‘Dark Days’ became synonymous with ‘horrors beyond comprehension’. Bringing it up has the desired effect. He watches as they shift uncomfortably. 

“I know many of you are concerned by what you witnessed last night. Frightened by the events that have left us all shaken. Your safety is my top priority. I will not deceive you, my dear citizens, I will not shield you from the harsh realities of our world.” A lie. A necessary one. But a lie, nonetheless. “Hear me when I say you have every right to be afraid. Rebels have infiltrated our sanctum, defiled our most cherished institution. They have stolen into our home, wreaking havoc and sowing chaos.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a tide of uncertainty underscored by a palpable sense of unease. Fear, apprehension. The perfect state for susceptibility. 

“But, they could not have done it alone. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that some of our own, once celebrated as champions—as victors , have now fallen into the clutches of treachery, their allegiance swayed by the insidious whispers of our enemies.” He grips the sides of his podium, leaning forward. “As of today, they shall be branded as terrorists. Enemies of the nation.” He declares and so it is true.

There are gasps and cries of dismay, of outrage. Aghast and stricken, the people begin to speak over each other. Murmurs turn into shouts. He allows it as he already predicted this very reaction. Accounted for it, even. He lets them stew in their despair for a moment longer before raising his hand again. Silence.

“It is a grave tragedy,” he says, voice heavy with somberness he doesn’t feel, “that the people we have allowed into our hearts, have put upon our very shoulders in an effort to uplift them— raise them from their stations, would throw our generosity into the mud and our benevolence into our face. A tragedy,” he nods along to his words. “But not a surprise. While we mourn the loss of innocence, we must also acknowledge a glimmer of hope. We have reason to believe that some of our victors, unwitting pawns in this treacherous game, remain untouched by the poison of rebellion. Swift action was taken to rescue the innocent and the unaware, to shield them from the grasp of those who would seek to corrupt and manipulate them. They were spared from the rebels’ clutches only by our decisiveness to intervene despite great risk. And we will continue to safeguard them from the horrors that would have awaited them at the hands of the rebels.”

There is a discernible note of relief in the air, a whiplash of emotions as they look to him for guidance. He had always been focused on the marketability of a victor, even when he was a boy. How to best sell them to the audience, what skillset should they develop, what makes them charming. As he gained power, climbed the ladder, those questions became someone else’s to answer. But it’s possible he has set the foundation for the job too well. Though it was his intention, the citizens have become far too attached. And the victors, far too comfortable.

“But let me assure you, we shall not cower in the face of fear or despair. Our resolve remains unyielding, our commitment unwavering. We shall stand tall as we unite to root out this insidious threat. Let it be known that those who stand against us are not only enemies of the state but enemies of peace and progress. Enemies of every man, woman, and child in Panem that cherishes the stability and prosperity of our nation.” 

“Even the children?”

“What animals!”

“Where do they draw the line?”

The irony of their outrage isn’t lost on him. It’s why he said it, after all.

"Our path forward is clear. We shall embark upon a thorough investigation of every remaining victor and sift through the ashes of betrayal to discern friend from foe. We shall leave no stone unturned, no shadow unexplored. And mark my words, justice will be swift, and it will be absolute."

A sense of righteous fury and determination sweeps through the crowd as if they’re getting ready to fight the war themselves. He would scoff under his breath if didn’t irritate the sores. Realistically, many of them would think about this for a week, a week and a half at the most, before moving on. Shopping frivolously, partying excessively, hoarding their wealth gratuitously. Living naively in the bubble he formed for them. Over half a century later and Coriolanous is still bitter that they’ve never had to understand the disparity. But that is how it must remain, this is what he strived to keep. The Capitol citizens relishing their opulent lives as a right and not as the privilege it actually is.

"Together, we shall weather this storm. Together, we will emerge stronger, more united than ever before. For in the end, it is not the darkness that defines us, but the strength of our collective will to overcome it.” He stands resolute as the cameras zoom in, just as he instructed them to. Fervent applause echoes around him so loudly, it wouldn’t surprise him if it could be heard across the Capitol. He raises a hand in farewell, his mind already turning towards the trials that lay ahead. He finishes with, “Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

-

“Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

“And that was our brilliant president, making sure to reassure us all in these uncertain times.” Caesar Flickerman opens after Coriolanus’s speech. Showmanship has certainly become more wooden since the days of Lucky Flickerman, but it was a change needed to fit the times. He’s paid to be a distraction and he does it well.

“Wonderful speech.” His cohost, whose name he doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know, tacks on. He has no idea how the man has kept his job for as long as he has while being utterly forgettable. Though, it’s most likely they’ve just forgotten to fire him.

“Wasn’t it? Doesn’t it just make you wanna get out there and kick some rebel butt?” Caesar throws one of his legs out in the semblance of a high kick before breaking into his clenched jaw laughter.

“Now, although no names have been officially said, I do have my fingers crossed about which victors were saved.”

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that, Caesar. I know I’ll be in the minority in this, but, out of all the victors left in the arena, I hope Enobaria was saved.”

“ Really?”

At the mention of her, he recalls the image of four victors strapped down to gurneys and unconscious.

He could have done without the woman from two, Enobaria. The rebels know better than to allow a potential mole in on their plot. As such, she’s completely useless to him, most likely to just be sent home. Johanna Mason, always so willful, so self-assured—well, no longer. He’ll see to that. 

Capturing Peeta was almost better than capturing Katniss herself. He told her to convince him of their romance and convince him, she did. It was nothing short of pure stupidity to leave him behind, but Snow isn’t wasteful. He’ll have a use for him undoubtedly, and he’ll have it soon.

And you. It wouldn’t be hard to find out if you had any part in the rebellion, and he knows you must have. For all your supposed obedience, you’re still defiant at heart. You can bat those pretty eyes of yours however much you want, it doesn’t hide the hate in your gaze. He chuckles. Always so resentful. But you’re far more clever about it than Ms. Mason and far more convincing than Ms. Everdeen at hiding it. They’ll squeeze every last drop, every morsel of information out of you—-he’ll see to that personally. 

A clash was inevitable, it had been too long since the rebels had last made their move. Katniss and the heat her win garnered had all but handed them their opportunity on a silver platter. All of it was an annoyance, one he’d been preparing for. And, truly, it seems Coriolanus has gained much more than he’s lost.

There’s a knock at the door that breaks him from his musings, followed by a Peacekeeper pushing it open. Behind them stood a timid girl, one of the assistants.

“President Snow?”

“Yes.”

“Your granddaughter is waiting.”

Coriolanus hums and says nothing else, the sound of leather rubbing against leather as he squeezes his hands into fists making her squirm.

He decided long ago to lead by example when teaching his children etiquette and virtues, and his grandchildren after them. Punctuality is one of them. With that in mind and without looking away from the recap, he says, “Very well. Bring her in.” No point in keeping her waiting. The girl rushes to do just that, almost tripping over herself when he uses two gloved fingers to motion her in. 

She sets up the communication device, connecting the call, and his granddaughter’s grinning face is projected before him.

“Grandpa!”

“Hello, darling.” He smiles briefly, irritating the sores in his mouth. “Was there something you wanted to share?” He wonders momentarily if she was saddened by his announcement, knowing how much she idolized the victors.

“I learned a new song today! Would you like to hear it?”

“Did you?” He asks though he knows saying she ‘learned’ anything is being very generous. “By all means.”

Calliope places the violin between her shoulder and her chin, getting into the correct position. She knows that much at least. Discreetly, he lowers the volume right before she drags the bow across the strings. He winces once she starts playing, another word used loosely, lowering the volume even more. She’s abysmal, to put it simply. So bad, in fact, that he can’t notice the improvement she and her instructor swear is there—he never does. 

But she only started her lessons very recently, she’s a novice. Unlike you, the entire reason she even wanted to take lessons. Your skill with the violin is truly something to marvel at. After your moving performance, she’d been taken with the idea of playing herself. He’s happy that was her main takeaway from that night. And you’re a far better person to emulate than Katniss Everdeen. 

Coriolanus, for a long time now, has been of the mindset that music is only good for causing trouble. And he’s been proven right time and time again. Despite that, he’s always been partial to your playing. The way the notes soar and dance through the air, each one carrying its own emotion and story. You become one with your instrument, movements sure and fluid like you’re channeling something other .

You’re not a singer, it’s part of why he prefers you. You played so often, not because you enjoyed it, but because he willed it. Perhaps that’s where he went wrong in the past. He didn't need a performer. A bird couldn't truly be tamed without breaking its wings, after all. They were meant to entertain you with their primitive songs from afar, heard not seen. Birds weren’t meant to be cared for or doted on. 

You, however, invoke memories of the wayward lap dogs that once roamed the desolate streets during the Dark Days—lost, yet in need of guidance and a firm hand. You responded with surprising grace to both rewards and punishments. The sort of unwavering loyalty that could be harnessed. Akin to those loyal canines who, once taken in, never strayed far from their master's side. Indeed, there was no need to break you; you were already tamed, domesticated by circumstance and necessity.

His mind wanders to a time long past, to his grandmother's cherished garden. He remembers the times she would force him up to the roof to help her, tending to the whims of the temperamental woman and her equally temperamental plants, diligently pruning away the encroaching weeds. He could never claim to have a green thumb, but there was one plant he remembers being fond of: lavender. A hardy plant that survived longer than many of his neighbors had and was always so rewarding to see grow. Splashes of purple and green on the ever-present backdrop of gray had made those days a little less dreary. The memory brings a faint smile to his lips that leaves just as fast as it arrived. 

The woman is long since dead and so is her garden.

Coriolanus absently adjusts a vase of pristine white roses on his desk, contemplating the parallels between you and that resilient lavender plant.

So, yes. Perhaps you aren't an animal at all. Instead, a flower that endures. Beautiful and useful. And a Snow only surrounds themselves with the best. 

You’ll need tending to, of course, some nurturing. Just as well. You have quite a few weeds he'll need to prune, but he’s certain the end result would be just as rewarding as those sprouting lavender buds in his grandmother's garden. He’ll need that splash of color in the foreground of this eternal war.

And who knows? Perhaps he’ll have gotten you under control in enough time to have you perform at Calliope’s birthday celebration. You might even be able to train her yourself. A mentor yet again.

While Calliope continues to play, his eyes drift back to the recap. 

“Now, let's lighten the mood a bit, shall we? Did you catch that electrifying moment between two victors? I mean, talk about sparks flying!”

“Pun intended, I hope?”

“You know it, Claudius. Ha ! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or you were unlucky enough to miss it, two of our very own victors shared a fiery moment on the beach.” They pull up a short video of your and Finnick’s pitiful display on the beach. “ Oh, the passion! It was so unexpected, so intense, that yours truly couldn't contain his excitement, and well, I might have had a little tumble. But fear not, because we've got the clip ready for your viewing pleasure. Let's roll it!" 

“What’s this?” Finnick pulls you forward into a deep kiss with crashing waves and the setting sun in the background. “I—excuse me.” Caesar holds up a finger before passing out. 

"Ah, classic Caesar, always getting carried away by the drama!” He speaks in the third person, laughing at himself as the clip of him is played again in slow motion. “But seriously, folks, wasn't that kiss something else? Oh, what a moment! I think I need a fan myself after that!" 

"I was on the edge of my seat, practically squatting the whole night!" 

"Words right out of my mouth. Is it possible this fiery little dalliance flew under our radar all these years?"    

"You know, I wouldn't be surprised. Those two had always been prett y close. So cute." 

"Too true, my friend. Too true. And you can bet your Capitol couture that we'll be talking about those two in-depth later.  For now, let's dive into more highlights from the Games. Who impressed you the most? Which victors left you speechless with their skills? Which death rocked you the hardest? Share your thoughts with us about our all-star season, because the excitement never ends here at Capitol TV!"

-

END OF PART 1

A/N: I know this was a doozy, like WOOO. right? But that's the end of part 1, next part is mockinjay. might take a hiatus in between just to breathe and like, give me some air and time to plan. Come yell at me over on tumblr!!!!

[simp-ly-writes]

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spies (pt.5)

Pairing: Spy!Task Force 141 x Handler!Reader

Summary: Will John make it out- will your team arrive in time for the mission? And with some unexpected guests to greet you in it all- they all bring forward memories you did best to hide away.

Warnings:4000~ words, light swearing, blood, highly suggestive scenes and trauma. A/N: are we having a good week? Masterlist | Taglist Request | edited.

Forced into the backseat of a black car you pound back on the door- begging for it to release you yet the sound of tires screeching against the pavement has your head filing back into the seat behind you as you slip to the other side without your seatbelt. You tug the band over your shoulder, snapping it at your waist as you feel the coldness of the glass against your face- watching as the city whips past.

Your heart drops for a second, realizing that you were leaving your car at the agency. A groan escapes you- just another reason to hate the people around you. Samantha was driving you to the airstrip as you looked at her with betrayal. Shaking your head and focusing in on a folder set with more information about your targets set in the seat in front of you. Reaching towards the folder, you slip through the various images, documents, and mission logs. Agent Beetle you had sent ahead of your arrival had already made great progress- tracking down members related to the kidnappers and a series of locations where the princess might be housed currently.

The car turns hastily as you curse out- wishing that you were in your own car about to fly your own plane yet management had to say otherwise after your inability to follow company guidelines… fuckers, is all you could think as yet another turn was taken. Samantha was driving like her ass was on fire and you couldn’t help but take down the divider to check and make sure. Gripping the wall as she sped down the now gravel road, she had a vice grip on the steering wheel, lights on bright as tree branches threatened the paint job. 

She takes a quick glance at you through the rear view mirror, shaking her head and eyes filled with tears yet never speaking a word as the car suddenly stops- a private jet awaiting your control as the door opens with an automatic release and you are being thrown out- the keys hitting your head leaving a dull ache. Stumbling up from the ground while dusting off your suit, she boards your luggage onto the plane before giving you a mocking salute. The dirt kisses your face as the tires grind into the earth- the car joining the setting sun in the distance.

Weighing the keys in your hand and looking around- you shrug and roll your shoulders before making your way inside. Much to your surprise, Ghost is already waiting for you inside. His long legs rest in the aisle as he leans back in the chair, absent-midedly staring up at the star-studded ceiling without acknowledging your appearance but based upon the twitch of his boot. He knew you were here. 

Giving him a playful wave hello, he nods his head once in acknowledgement before going through his own mission debrief resting on the chair beside him. The black-metal briefcase dazzling in the setting sun's rays. Ducking into the operations space, you ready yourself in the pilot's seat, flicking on the various lights as you warm up the engine. The plane roars to life as you set your headset on- testing communications to receive a very giggly Samantha in reply- trying to lighten the evening mood. 

You hear footsteps coming up the aisle as you turn around- expecting to see a skull-face on your own. Soaps and Gaz’s features meet your own with mutual surprise before they tackle you into a hug. Not thinking for a moment you return the gesture before the wheels turn lightly from underneath you all. Cursing out you stomp back on the brakes and turn back with a guilty smile as they laugh in reaction before settling themselves in for the flight. 

Your fingers tapped against the dash, there was only so much daylight left and you had to get wheels up in 10. Starting to pick at your nail polish once more- a frantic set of boots come to a fault by your side. You only find a back as you turn to face them as they move to operate the seat beside you. Confusion coats your features- unknowing of who lied on their report to be qualified in operating a plane. John smiles at you yet his eyes speak of unknown horrors that you acknowledge with a small sob escaping from your lips. 

A soft smile falls upon your own features, eyes welling over as you extend a hand, silently asking if he was alright. Taking your hand in his own- he offers a light squeeze before dropping it and settling into his own headset. Samantha cheers in both of your ears yet you both play no mind to her excitement. Price moves the microphone closer to his mouth, “Load of shit those trials were- the fuck- trauma they try and instil in you lot.” You can only chuckle out to his crude words breaking your cries as John takes control of the flying gear and starts the take off procedure as you dab off your eyes from the handkerchief of your suit. 

“Hello, this is your Captain Daniels and Price speaking, he is readying ourselves for take off. If all passengers could please strap themselves in and pour a drink- we have seven scheduled hours in the air for tonight.” You can distantly here Soap groan out as Gaz ever-so kindly asks him to, “Shut the fuck up.” Shaking your head at this interaction, Price cocks his head over to you- his own smile growing and the prior events of the day being set to the back of the stove. 

--

Clouds paint your peripheral vision as you take control of the flight. Price has fallen asleep beside you as you drift through the sky. Samantha had long fallen asleep at her desk as your mind wandered, wondering where Whitby had been sent, how Charlotte and Handler Jacobs wedding plans were going- she really did try and hide that engagement ring from a spy out of all people. Jason was probably messing around town for the night, celebrating being the only one in the organization who actually worked the nine to five as your external trainees were scheduled for space clearing the next morning. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Simon asks, taking the small seat behind you as he shook Price awake and overtook his seat, taking control of the plane as you rubbed your wrists- sore from the handling. “What are you doing up?” You reply with another question as he slowly turns his head to you. “Couldn’t sleep. I ask again, what's going on?” He pressures, eyes staring through the open airspace ahead of you both. 

“Work like any other time,” you reply with a yawn, “S’all I do.” “Well that's shit,” he responds in a blank tone that has you sitting upright. “Not really, I mean, it's a pretty great job minding all the strings attached,” you say, looking at the side of his mask. “But no vacation? No PTO?” he asks, legs shifting below as he revives word from a nearby communications tower to make a turn in response to an emergency flight coming near. 

“Nope,” you respond, popping the P sound as you start to close your eyes. “Vacation is drinking after hours and hooking up with whomever will forget about you in the morning.” 

“I’m sorry ‘bout that,” Simon responds with sincerity. “I mean… don’t you guys go through the same shit?” you ask, voice starting to become more gruff from the lack of sleep. He is silent for a few moments, picking the words as you open an eye- concern starting to raise as you thought to have crossed a line. Beginning to open your mouth to apologise he responds, “Yes… no. I mean… some of us do have people waiting at home for us… Gaz and Soap have an on and off girl- but at the end of the day, it's a job. You work your hours- get fucking bloody and wash it all off before heading to bed.” 

“That's the thing though… about jobs like ours, you never really wash it all out. Just what can’t be seen on the front…” your voice drifts off as you turn in your chair, trying to make yourself comfortable in the upright position. Ghost does not speak further, only humming yet that sound is all you need to understand he knows your words on a personal level. “Why be so personal now, Handler?” Ghost questions, the words slipping as part of him uses your tried physique to gain an answer. 

“I could ask the same to you, Agent,” you tease back, “....and maybe I am just doing my job in the end too, using everything I’ve got…” you fall asleep soon after, soft snores exiting your mouth as Ghost turns to look at you once with soft eyes before addressing Samantha's report request. His gruff tones are like honey on your ears, drifting you further into a dreamless abyss. 

--

You are shaken awake as the plane begins to descend. Price had retaken control as you swear out, pausing from asking if he wanted any assistance from the glare he sent towards you. “I let you sleep for a reason,” he responds through the headset as you stretch yourself awake and feel for your water bottle, taking a large drink. He speaks up once more, “we have no fucking clue what we are doing once we are out of the sky.” 

“Did they not give you all a report?” you question, body now more respondent. You watch as he shakes his head, the tires scratch under pressure as the plane jumps a handful of times before becoming stagnant on the arstrip. “Had us work to the location of the plane from an unknown location. We had to use Whitby and Charlotte as our handlers to find our way back to you- they said it was comms and finding training and as you can see- we all passed with flying colours.” Rolling your eyes you speak back, “Good to hear my sass is rolling off on you all.”

You listen to him chuckle before locking the plane for any further motions, he helps you up from your seat with a hand as you grace him with a thankful smile- embarrassed from your jelly-like legs. Soap, Simon, and Kyle are all waiting in a convertible, your bags stuffed into the trunk as you all drive into the city, the wind whipping through your hair, the sun beginning to rise against your face as you voice out directions from the passenger's seat. 

--

The private estate sits atop a cliff casting over the sea below. Its deep blue waters invite you into their depths as you lean over the balcony, listening to the waves chase their way up the rock face to only fall back into itself. Light summery pop songs play through the radio as you think about the cold weather back at home as you bask in as much sun you can- praying that you can maintain a tan as a cough sounds from behind you. Pivoting on your heel your eyes go wide to see a barely buttoned linens-shirt in front of your face. The light white material blowing with the breeze as their salmon shorts tease a smile from your lips. “Hello love,” Whitby responds while pulling you into a hug. 

“Do you even work anymore?” you question out to the man, “I-mean. You were scheduled to be with the Americans this week- what changed?” “Solved it online, a few late nights of security footage here, a few voice-changed phone calls there and the president didn’t know any better about the corruption boiling underneath her feet.” You shake your head before following in step with the Agent as his arm drapes its way over your shoulder. Leading you towards the gardens with a smirk as the 141 team look towards him with utmost confusion. 

Johnny calls from the outdoor shower- already having explored the beaches from down the road ahead of your mission start time. “You do look good in swimwear but why are you here man?” Whitby cocks his head to the side before responding, his hand casting gentle rubs to your side. “I also made a… request-” you shove his side. “Well- erm more of a demand that I refuse to work with any other handler too- perks of being the best,” he boasts as you shove him off of you. His smile dips as he whispers sorry as you roll your eyes and take a bow. 

“Glad to know you love me only for work,” you tease- starting to make your way back inside the villa as Whiby darts back over, pulling at your waist as you both fall into an outdoor couch. “You know it's not like that… I mean fuck- I even prop-” you cover his mouth with your hand as he kisses it teasingly. Shaking your hand off with mock disgust, everyone around you stands still and walks closer. “You are engaged?” they ask, worry coursing through their features as they think back to your… quite possibly flirtatious moments Whitby's in the company history that was more than well known throughout the ranks. 

“Oh heavens no! Definitely one day but, duty comes first,” You say, hand on Whitby's knee as a light apology yet he already accepted your decision years ago but that did not mean the offer didn’t hang over both of your heads as did everyone else in your life know not to come in between in beside the playful banter your teams were generally known for. Simon huffs out as your mind darts back to the conversations you shared last night, you watch as he walks back inside the house- Soap trailing behind with a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Price sits across from you both as Gaz resumes sketching out the landscape of the hills and orchids just off in the distance. 

 --

In the night, you and Whitby settled into a room together. Singing softly to the lyrics coming off your phone. Brushing your teeth and doing your skincare in the mirror, steam from the earlier shower was still present within the room, warming your skin as you leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of his face.

Whitby smiles leaning forwards, slipping his glasses back on while placing his arms at either side of you and lifts you atop the countertop. The cold stone drew goosebumps across your skin as Whitby's light caress from your hand, to your shoulders and resting on your neck as he squeezed lightly, bringing your lips back onto his with a moan. Your hands squeeze at the towel around his waist as you pull back, breathing heavy as your foreheads rest against one another, taking in air as your breathing starts to become more rapid. 

You feel his hand cup your cheek, making its way to your hair as he massages your scalp. You hum out softly, eyes closing as Whitby leans forward once more, taking your lower lip between his teeth in a playful bite. You feel the towel drop as he shivers, hands dropping to your thighs in an instance. Your eyes snap back open, gaze starting to look down before you are being lifted and carried into the bedroom- thrown on the bed as he stalks up to the bedside. Going on his hands and knees as he climbs over to you as you playfully back up, racing towards the headboard as he shoves you down- trapping both of your wrists between one of his hands- his legs locked around your waist as you huff out and try to blow the hair out of your face. 

Smirking down at you. He takes his glasses back off and sets them on the nightstand before gently brushing the hair out of your face, leaving a featherlight kiss to your temple. “Now do tell me… Handler,” He speaks out to you in a breathy tone as you clench your thighs together. “...what are your commands for me tonight?” he teases. 

“Well if you would let me go, maybe I could do a better job at that,” he hums out in contemplation, your breath hitching as he shifts his body weight still hovering above your lips. Your lips start to feel dry in anticipation, “not the answering I was looking for, love.” You roll your eyes before he switches positions, flipping you to face him- his face hovering over your own yet he does not connect his lips to your own. 

“Tease,” you groan out, wiggling your legs, trying to escape from underneath him. He lets go of your hands as they trace the muscles of his lower stomach, down to his abs thoughtful yet just before your hands can drift deeper he distracts you with his lips against your neck as your back arches, hands falling to grip at the bedsheets. He whispers to you, “I ask again, what is it you desire tonight?”

“I desire for you both to put some fucking clothes on you horny fucks,” the voice startes you both- bodies going still and blood going cold as Whitby covers your body with his own as he starts to pull a gun from underneath one of your pillows. You crane your head to see over Whitby's shoulder, eyes going wide to see red-hair glowing underneath the moonlight. Their green eyes search your own with distaste before curing up into a smile seeing Whitby's ass. 

“Looking truly peachy tonight, Whitby,” Agent Beetle teases as you shove the agent off of you, picking up and slipping on the shirt Beetle throws at you with a whistle. Whitby remains on the bed, face red as he racks his mind for the best way to not embarrass himself further. You open the closet, offering the other agent a pair of pants as he hardly covers himself and makes escape to the bathroom. 

“Do I want to know how long you were standing there, Agent?” you press, hands now feeling around the closet for bottoms as the female Agent sits down at the foot of the bed, eyes trailing around the room. “Not too long, Handler of Dick,” she teases further as you press your face into a pair of pants, shaking your head and letting out a silent scream before placing them on. Whitby had yet to return from the bathroom as you both listen to the shower turn on with a raised brown before you show the female agent towards the kitchen for a late cup of tea. 

“I have a 87% accuracy rating to where the Princess could potentially be held from intercepting a call,” you nod your head, “2 sugar- one milk, right” “correct.”

“Anything else?” you press. Beetle looks at you, taking a slow sip of their drink, “yes, I managed to speak with them briefly while they were being moved. No signs of serious physical injury and they smiled at the mention of your name- something about their knight in shining armour or maybe that was Whitby…” their voice trails off in contemplation, eyes replaying the conversation. “No, actually it might have been Jacobs- well that part does not matter! What matters right now is why you were about to go down on an Agent who is not supposed to be here, Handler?” they rebuttal as you take a small sip of your own, setting it back down on the counter. 

“Can a person not have needs?” you ask as they send you a deadpan look. Your face falls into your hands, groaning out, “Not you too…” “How is this me too?” Beetle questions with a knowing smile. Gossipers- the whole lot… you swear to yourself before picking conversion back up- trying to save what little face you have left. 

“I already said no… but that does not mean we both do not love one another. I’ve already told him, multiple times at that to find someone else- to-to move on from me yet he never does and I never do either. I love him, I know that but…” you exhale a deep breath, the floor creaking from down the hall as you both pause. Your shoulders tense before dropping as Whitby places a kiss to your shoulder and steals a sip from your drink. You watch as he does this, maintaining eye contact yet as you peer deeper in- you only see understanding. He has been listening… 

He moves away, placing the cup back down before messing through the fridge for a late night snack as you playfully shake your head, Beetle clearing their throat- drawing your attention back to your previous conversation. “But as I was saying, it was one of my final missions before getting promoted and it went tits up. We became swarmed and I was the only agent left on the premises. Aggressors were everywhere, Police were moving up the stairs and I was blocked into a corner- underneath a table. One of them managed to get through my jacket. I strangled them, reaching towards the gun and just as I fired… the bullet continued and hit a civilian. I didn't notice at the time, my body filled with adrenaline and the need to escape yet as I looked back, church bells ringing- I…” you start to quietly sob as Whitby wraps an arm around you for support as you lean back into his embrace. “I killed the groom on what was supposed to be his happiest day, I made it his last and… it's the guilt. Knowing that I took that away from someone that I cannot allow myself to have the same.” You fail to even out your breathing as Whitby begins to glare over your head at Beetle for making you into this state. 

“That’s why I can never be anything more with anyone… no matter how much I may want to… I deserve to be in this pain for giving it out to someone undeserving-” 

“Daniels-” Beetle speaks out softly as you shake your head. “It's s'alright agent,” you say while blowing your nose. “We have a princess that I can hopefully save the next day and a man I can fall into bed with later that night and I am okay with that… as long as he is.” you say, hands now tracing patterns into his arm as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as his arms tighten around your form a bit more snuggly. 

“As long as I’m with you darling, in any way,” Whitby states. “Let's go back to bed now, Beetle, there is a room across from ours, I think we have awakened the rest of the house- best we all get some good rest.” You look down the hall, seeing the various lights lit underneath the doors before holding Beetle's hand gently- giving it a squeeze and dropping it. Both watching as she turns into her room as you both do the same.

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[mashedpotatosinacup]

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Beetle for my mutuals:)

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hey! I've gotten super into solo rpgs but I tend to find combat boring. Are there fantasy themed rpgs with less focus on combat that you would recommend? (If they are soloable, that's also a win!)

THEME: Fantasy Solo Non-Combat.

Hello friend, thank you very much for your ask! I'm going to direct you to two Solo-themed game recommendations first, before I dive into today's recs.

Character-Focused Solo Games: Games that focus on character-building. Lighthearted Solo Games: Fun, non-serious solo games.

A Year in the Spirit World, by ToriBee.

The wind rustles through the emerald canopy above as you open your eyes to an unfamiliar world. You're lying on a bed of lush moss, the gentle warmth of the Spirit World sun caressing your face. Around you, a forest of towering ancient trees, each pulsating with an otherworldly glow. It's ethereal, enchanting, and unlike anything you've ever seen.

Drawing from a deck of fate, you'll encounter spirits, creatures, and natural phenomena as enchanting as they are daunting. Each encounter might test your spirit, challenge your harmony with this world, or tempt you to act against your values.

There is some combat in this game, but it certainly doesn’t seem to be the focus. The game is about survival, but you’re as likely to be navigating social situations as you are to be fighting enemies. What I like about this game is the spirit companion who will travel the world with you: there are four different options, each of them cute and enchanting. If you love Studio Ghibli films, you should definitely check out A Year in the Spirit World!

The Goblin Thought, by Kai Medina.

The goblin hoard - a pile of goods and trinkets - is a place of greed, yes. But it's the same greed that thrives throughout this land of men and beetles. It's the allowed selfishness that helps us learn and grow, walk and run, screech and scramble. The hoard is the goblin's memory.

The Goblin Thought is a unique and engaging journaling game that combines chance and narrative to create a compelling story. Players take on the role of a goblin, collecting memories and items in their hoard as they navigate through a world of wonder and danger, allowing for growth and change. With a deck of cards and a six-sided die, each turn presents new challenges and opportunities for creative storytelling, drawing, and reflection. 

This game is placed in a fantasy setting, but with a larger purpose. It’s both a journaling game and a thought experiment, a chance to place yourself in the shoes of someone whose history exists within the hoard they have accumulated. Each card you draw from a deck has three prompts attached to it, so you have the potential to play this game (and build a history) for a very long time.

Little Shepherd, Little Spy, by @psychhound.

You try to keep out of the whole war business.

It’s just not really your thing. There are more important things to worry about, like Gethin, your biggest ram, getting stuck in the fence again, or Ffion rubbing against the raspberry bushes and getting her wool all sticky.

Life is pretty simple for a humble shepherd such as yourself.

Little Shepherd, Little Spy is a solo journaling game about being a spy in the fairy war. Choose which side you're on, then draw tarot cards to interpret the messages coming through the information ring. Your tarot card tells you what book to look at and what page. Then you copy down all the relevant information on that page and consult your spy codebook.

I absolutely love fairy games and the premise for this one is super interesting to me. Your character will be interpreting messages that take the form of books that you have on your shelf, and you’ll determine which book to look at (and which page to read) by drawing tarot cards from a deck. If you look into this one I definitely recommend setting aside some time, and perhaps selecting a few books for each category to have on hand, to ease the cycle of play.

The Wandering Library, by AP.

You are the proud owner of a Wandering Library. Whether you bought, built or inherited it, it is your home. Travelling as far and as wide as you desire, your days are spent encountering an assortment of customers, exploring new locations, and tending to your beloved home of books.

This is a a game designed to generate prompts for you to answer in as much or as little detail as you would like. All you need is two six-sided dice and your preferred method of journaling. Using the tables provided, you will explore locations and meet different people, recording your adventures and encounters as you travel in your Wandering Library.

This is a simple one-page game that presents you with a few starting questions, and the supplies a grid of prompts that you’ll roll 2d6 for. Each prompt is a new event, complete with a question, asking how your character reacts. There’s plenty of room for your own imagination. The house is a travelling library, which feels pretty fantastical to me! This game will likely last a few hours or so; it’s not really built for extended play.

Fetch My Blade, by Ethan Yen.

For years you have served your Master faithfully. A loyal companion, you accompanied your Master through the difficult times, and the good times. Now, you are called in a moment of dire need: a Stranger has challenged your Master to a duel, alluding to time before you. Your Master rises to the challenge, calling you forth. This is your moment. You have trained for this. It is time to do your Master proud. 

FETCH MY BLADE is a solo journaling roleplaying game where you play as the dog of a retired legendary master of the sword, tasked with a quest of your own: retrieve your master’s fabled weapon in time for their final duel. On your quest, you will uncover and explore your Master’s guarded past-- transforming your character, deepening your relationship with your Master, and ultimately influencing your Master’s fate.

This is a lovely little game of exploring a dog’s relationship to their Master, and developing a backstory as you play. I don’t think there’s specifically a setting in place for this game, but the presence of swords certainly points towards the fantastical. There doesn’t seem to be any specific combat in the game, but violence is considered to have happened in the past, as the game provides a content warning regarding a war that has already happened.