#chapter one

[writeyouin]

Oo I got something for TFO

If possible would you be open to doing a human s/o with D-16? Like the human came from another planet that was destroyed and they got stranded on Cybertron and somehow managed to end up in Iacon city?

D-16 (Megatron) x Reader – The Creature From Another World - Part 1 of 2

A/N – This is so much longer than I thought it would be. I think it may be the most fun, silly fic I’ve ever written and I am so happy that I got to write it. Also, SPOILERS FOR THE END OF THE TRANSFORMERS ONE MOVIE IN THE FINAL SEGMENT!

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

It was all Orion’s fault. Everything that was likely to get D-16 in trouble was his fault. It was always, ‘Hey, what if we searched the tunnels for something even more valuable than energon?’ Or ‘You want to come into the archives with me? Of course, I have a permit. It’s not like I would try breaking in… again.’

This time, the line that was sure to get D-16 into trouble was, “Hey bud, don’t tell anyone but I got us a pet!”

D-16 rubbed his helm exasperatedly, “A pet, Pax! Why can’t you just obey the rules for once.”

“Hey, there are no rules against keeping pets,” Orion said excitedly, heading over to his locker to retrieve the creature in question.

“Of course there aren’t! Because no one would be stupid enough to keep one!”

“You just haven’t seen it yet. It’s really cute.”

“I hope your spark eater tears off your face, Pax. I really do,” D-16 deadpanned.

“Not a spark eater,” Orion chuckled, then he began whispering into his locker, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt ya, little cutie. That’s it, settle down now.”

D-16 shook his head, “You’re gonna get demoted all the way down to the 40th sub-level and when you do, I’m not gonna save your sorry aft. Besides Pax, there isn’t enough energon to go around as is. How’re you gonna feed a pet?”

“That’s the thing,” Orion said eagerly. “It doesn’t fuel up on energon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of thing doesn’t need energon?” D-16 asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him as he tried to peek over Orion’s shoulder at the so-called ‘pet’ he was trying to grab.

He heard some scrabbling, Orion said some more soothing words and then Orion turned around, holding a creature half his size around the waist in both servos.

“D-16, meet our new pet, Minitronus.”

“Minitronus!” D-16 said excitedly. He knew Orion had only picked the name to foster his attachment and ensure that he kept the creature a secret.

D-16 got close to Orion’s pet, resting his hands on his thighs as he bent down. “Whoa, what is it?”

“C’mon D-16. If you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you.”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Not a one.”

The creature chittered angrily, pushing at Orion’s servos.

“It looks angry,” D-16 observed.

“It’s just getting used to us. That’s all.”

Orion began stroking at the creature’s head.

“Okay Pax,” D-16 said, resigning himself to Orion’s crazy new pet, as he knew he would from the start. “C’mon then. Tell me all about it. What does it eat? Where’d you find it? And most importantly, how’re we going to keep it a secret?”

“Hey! I said HEY! YOU UP THERE! STOP PETTING ME! I’M NOT AN ANIMAL, YOU BIG DUMB IDIOT!”

The giant metal man smiled at you affectionately, opening his mouth to say something you couldn’t understand. It all sounded like scraping metal and electrical noises and you couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Ever since the Quintessons had abducted you, your life had been nothing but trouble. You were their prisoner but when they found out your planet had nothing of worth, they decided it would be better to experiment on you. The only consolation was that you could at least understand the Quintessons, who had multiple translator devices on their ship.

You were very fortunate that the Quintessons didn’t view you as a threat since they didn’t bother keeping you in any kind of high-security prison and so you managed to escape before they did anything too terrible. The worst you suffered were a few zaps from a weak cattle prod, probably testing your nervous system.

Yet, having escaped the Quintesson ship, you had landed yourself into deeper trouble. You had found yourself on a living metal planet, and though a few plants grew on the ever-transforming surface, the pocket computer you had stolen from your captors informed you they were poisonous.

Fortunately, you had thought a few things through regarding your escape. You had managed to grab a backpack, stuffing it full of provisions and interesting gadgets. The food was stored in dehydrated cubes so with proper care, it could last you months, maybe even an entire year. The backpack also contained a device to keep you warm, a cube that turned into a forcefield when thrown to the ground, and most importantly one of the translators that had allowed you to understand the Quintessons along with a few other gadgets.

However, despite your planning, things hadn’t gone very well for you. After touching down on the planet, you boarded a train that you hoped would take you to civilisation, and while it did take you to a city underground that was more beautiful and advanced than you could imagine, it was clear that the alien life-forms there had never seen an organic creature before.

The few you tried to talk to initially screamed as if you were vermin and tried to blast, stab, and crush you in succession. As you scrambled for your life, you took a kick to the back, saved by your pack which had broken your much-needed translator.

You ran and hid, keeping out of sight and soon you started feeling like the vermin the metal people viewed you as. You learned quickly to keep out of sight and made your way to where there were fewer bots, spending many quiet hours either sleeping in vents or trying to repair your translator with the limited knowledge you had.

Yet, your luck couldn’t last forever and eventually, you ran into a vent that turned out to be a transportation tunnel to and from the mines. It was there that Mr Big-Red-Idiot-Bot caught you and took you to the charging bays. At first, you thought your luck was turning around and that he was going to take you to someone who would be able to understand you since he was obviously trying to be gentle with you. Then it became clear that he just thought you were some kind of stupid animal in need of care and he adopted you as his pet.

“What are these things?” D-16 asked, gently lifting your top.

You slapped at his servo, swearing at him even though he couldn’t understand you. Orion laughed, “I don’t know, but that’s how it reacted to me too. I think they’re to keep it warm. Either way, it doesn’t like it when you touch them. Oh, and hey, check this out, it does tricks.”

Orion shoved you back into his locker where your bag was. You ran to your pack, hurriedly grabbing your broken translator and showing it to the new grey bot. You had tried repeatedly showing it to Big Red, but he didn’t get what you were trying to do and always just laughed at you.

“What’s it holding?” D-16 asked.

“Playing with some scrap metal. Isn’t that cute? It has a favourite toy! I think Minitronus might have belonged to someone else once because it has all these adorable toys in there and it can make its own fuel.”

You sighed. Clearly, the grey bot was no better than Big Red, but at least he wasn’t trying to kill you. You shook your head and began searching your pack for some tools to repair the translator. Upon seeing you grab a screwdriver, Orion took it from you.

You yelled a few more insults, demanding it back but Orion just teased you, holding it just out of reach.

“Aww does Minitronus want the toy? Do you? Do you? That’s it, reach for the toy. Grab it.” He cooed.

D-16 rolled his eyes, amused by both Orion and his new pet. He snatched the miniature ‘toy’ screwdriver from his friend, handing it back to you. “Don’t tease it, Orion.”

You nodded gratefully at D-16 and he ruffled your hair. This time, you didn’t bother insulting him since he had given you what you wanted.

The work alarm went off overhead and Orion slammed his locker shut just in time for the influx of workers to come through the shared stasis bunker on their way to work. D-16 tried to fight against the crowd to stay by the locker but Orion pulled him into the fray, muttering that it would look suspicious if he wasn’t at work on time.

“But what about- Will it be okay in there?” D-16 whispered as they headed into the lift.

“Sure,” Orion said from the corner of his mouth, trying to be quiet. “It’s been in there for days and it's been fine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Now be quiet and act normal.”

D-16 smiled and gave a small awkward wave to a bot in front of him who was observing the pair with a raised optical ridge. Over the years, Orion had caused more than his share of trouble so D-16 was used to the scrutinising looks from others, though he always got nervous when they both had something to hide.

You sighed and rested your hands on your hips. It was awful being constantly stuffed in a locker, especially since Big Red didn’t seem to think things through. He shoved you in your new ‘home’ whenever other bots were around or when he went to the lift which you assumed meant he was working. The problem with that was that his species didn’t tire easily and could work a very long time, and with this being what you could only assume was the poorer part of the city, there were always other bots around. You had to get your translator fixed quickly, or else you would spend the rest of your life in the locker. Still, things weren’t all bad. It was warm and safe. You often used your backpack as a pillow, sleeping through the first few hours before getting back to your repair work. You had privacy and a personal collapsable service suite that pulled moisture from the air so you could drink or shower - it even took care of your waste by vaporising it; alien inventions sure were convenient. Besides, now the other bot knew about you too, and perhaps he could help you. Resignedly, you set about keeping to your normal routine and began some light repair work, too awake to rest now. You only wished you knew what you were doing and that you had even the faintest idea on how to fix alien technology; your life depended on it.

Orion and D-16 were the first up and out of the elevator, avoiding the usual crowds by skipping the last few minutes of work with a lame excuse about being called upstairs. Honestly, the pair got into so much trouble they were often called up to meetings with higher-ups for tellings-off, which Orion usually tried to talk his way out of, and so nobody so much as batted an optic when they left.

Upon getting up to their quarters, Orion and D-16 were both relieved to see that the rotation team had already filed out, presumably having taken one of the other lifts to a different mine. Orion ran to his locker and hurled it open.

“Aww, look,” He pulled D-16 close to get a good look at you. “Minitronus is recharging. Hey, do you think it’s dreaming of us? Pets do that, right? Dream of their owners?”

“I mean, if Minitronus is thinking of me, that’s a dream. If it’s you, it’s a nightmare.”

Orion elbowed D-16 in the chassis then reached in to grab you.

D-16 pulled him back, “Whoa hey, don’t wake it.”

“We have to. It’s time for walkies and this is the only time we can get out of here quietly before the others catch up.”

Reluctantly, D-16 let Orion go.

You jolted awake, terrified until you remembered where you were and that you were now the ‘pet’ of an advanced alien. You settled groggily in his arms, wondering what he was going to do with you now.

He proffered you some words that sounded like two lawnmowers smashing together, but by his expression, you could tell he was happy. Then he jostled you, miming something you couldn’t understand until it was too late.

You scowled at Big Red with your arms folded, too insulted to even try yelling as he tugged you along an empty alley on your new wire lead.

This was a new low.

“I don’t think Minitronus likes walkies,” D-16 commented as you dug your heels into the floor, trying to hold your ground.

“Nonsense,” Orion said, trying to be gentle as he pulled at your lead, making you stumble forward, “It’s just not used to it yet.”

D-16 patted his thighs, “C’mon Minitronus. That’s it. Here Minitronus. Minitronus.”

After a few more attempts, you realised that the gentle electrical hum Grey kept repeating must be his name for you. Huh… Well, at least the repetition meant they had a stable language.

You listened again and tried to mimic the sound, making both bots pause to look at you.

“Did it just…?” D-16 asked, pointing at you.

You mimicked the sound again.

“It did,” Orion agreed. He ran over to pick you up, spinning you in his arms, “Who’s a smart Minitronus, huh? Yes, you. You are!”

Although your mimicry had been good, it wasn’t quite enough to convince them that you were sentient. Rather, they were looking at you like a parrot who had picked up a new phrase. Instead of repeating your name, you had managed a babyish mumbling somewhere close, that sounded more like Mini–Tron.”

D-16 beamed and petted your head, quickly coming to love his new pet. Orion was right, it was smart and cute.

“That’s so cool, I wonder if we can teach it more words.”

“I’m definitely teaching it swears,” Orion laughed.

Eventually, the pair headed back to the underground, with Orion heading in first, making sure everyone was recharging, before signalling for D-16 to follow with you.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t put me back in the locker,” You whined as you were placed on the top shelf.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” D-16 begged, listening to you pitchy chittering. He held a digit to his lips, shushing.

“You two will be gone for ages, what between sleeping and working, and it’s dark in there,” You continued, even though he couldn’t understand you.

You only stopped talking when he held you against his chassis, petting your head. You sighed in understanding. He was trying to keep you safe; this was all for your own good.

‘Okay,’ You thought, feeling strangely comforted by Grey’s actions. ‘If this is how it has to be for now… Okay.’

Orion gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to D-16, glad that he had managed to keep your mewls under control.

“Goodnight, Minitronus,” Orion whispered before shutting the door.

“We love you,” D-16 added.

You shook your head after the door shut; life was going to be interesting with those two.

“PAX!” Elita-One shouted, jetpacking up the empty elevator shaft to catch up with Orion and D-16 who had stolen away from work early for the third time that week.

Orion held you behind his back, hiding you just in time before Elita got in his face.

“Captain, what a surprise!” Orion grinned cheekily, already trying to smooth-talk his way out of the situation. “Me and D-16 were just saying what a great and wonderful leader you-”

“Can it, Pax!” Elita glowered. “I’ve had just about enough of you. It’s bad enough that you’re a troublemaker but now, you’re dragging D-16 down with you and- what’s behind your back?”

“My back? Nothing at all,” Orion shoved you into D-16’s open arms, and he in turn hid you behind his leg, trusting that you wouldn’t run away if he wasn’t holding you.

Elita grabbed hold of Orion, slamming him into the lockers, her eyes narrowing when she didn’t see anything worth hiding. She glared at D-16 who held up his servos in a shrug, gesturing to Pax who was already babbling about how strong she was and how no other Captain had had the strength to throw him so hard.

While Pax created a distraction and Elita-One continued her tirade against him, D-16 shuffled backwards, sneaking you out for your daily walk.

You had grown used to the routine now, learning the building’s alarms that marked the beginning or end of a shift. When it was coming time for Orion or D-16 to take you out, you always hitched on your backpack, just in case you needed anything, though you had long since learned not to work on your translator in front of Big Red, since he kept assuming it was a toy and continually threw it for you to fetch. Honestly, he was doing even more damage to the already broken machine, and it stressed you out constantly whenever you were forced to catch it before it hit the ground.

When you and Grey were alone, you always did repair work at the end of a walk, since he would take you somewhere quiet to rest for a while.

You had been living with the pair for just over two months now and in that time a few things of note had happened.

First, they had entrusted knowledge of you to a few of the others in their ‘platoon’ or whatever the group they worked in was called. This had happened after an incident wherein you had escaped your locker to explore and a silver and blue bot with a passion for dance stumbled into you and squealed. Big Red, and Grey hurried to your rescue and had to explain their ‘pet’ to him.

This led to you being the worst kept secret in the mining facility, though it was bound to happen eventually with so many bots living in close quarters. However, all the mining bots found you sweet enough and they all had a code of honour that meant they kept you secret from anyone with authority like Elita-One or any of the other captains.

Yet, while everyone knew about you and you were generally allowed out of the locker most of the time, it was still only Orion or D-16 who took you out, and they still tried to get out of work a tad early to check on you.

One of the other changes in your life was the delivery of a big bundle of wires as ‘toys.’ That was another word you had learned to mimic since Orion kept bringing you play-things and repeating the Cybertronian equivalent.

This happened after you kept picking up pieces of scrap wire on walks, taking them with you so you could use them in your repair work. At first, Orion and D-16 took them off you, afraid you would hurt yourself somehow, but when you kept collecting them and fought hard to keep the few you had, they assumed it must be a normal nesting behaviour and brought you a great deal more than you needed.

You were delighted with the gifts and hugged both bots for it. Then, after saving the few you needed for your translator, you weaved the extra wires into a new over-shirt. It was uncomfortable, but quite practical since your jumper was wearing away and you needed a new one to keep decent when you were washing your actual shirt.

Another problem to occur was your hair. In your time with the bots, it had grown very long, and much to your bemusement, Orion had tried cutting it. The whole thing had gone disastrously, and you suddenly understood those dogs that got terrible haircuts because they tried to escape their groomers; you could only be thankful that the bald patch was beginning to grow back.

The final change was Grey’s idea. He felt confident that you were well trained since you now responded to your name, paying attention when you were called through the miners’ hab-suite. Because of your actions, he often let you off-lead, which you were immensely grateful for. He rarely put the lead back on you unless he thought something was unsafe, so whenever it went on now, you clambered onto his shoulder, trusting that he would take you home and away from danger quickly.

It wasn’t a perfect life, but things were slowly improving. You could only hope that your lucky streak didn’t break and that you would be able to communicate your needs fully before the year was up.

D-16 sighed, sitting on the side of a tall building overlooking the city with you in his lap. You were content to let him pet you while you toyed with your translator. You went in an almost trance-like state whenever you tinkered with it now, honestly not expecting anything to come of it but needing to work all the same.

He continued speaking in his gentle, rhythmic noises and you hummed as if you understood, pressing a wire down with the flat of your screwdriver.

“- and that’s why I know what we’re doing is important. Even Sentinel says so. Us miners, we’re keeping Cybertron alive,” D-16 said proudly.

“Who’s Sentinel?” You asked absentmindedly.

D-16 screamed, accidentally throwing you off his lap.

“Hey, be careful!” You scolded. “You could have dropped me over the edge.”

You picked up your translator and brushed yourself off.

“Minitronus, you’re talking!” D-16 accused.

“Yeah, well so…are… Oh my God, I did it!” You breathed. Then you punched the air excitedly, “I DID IT!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON? HOW ARE YOU TALKING?!”

“I fixed my translator,” You squealed ecstatically, waving it in front of D-16.

“Your- Your toy?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, practically bouncing on the spot.

“This is impossible. You- You’re our pet!”

“No. Not a pet. Not anymore. I’m (Y/N). Okay, (Y/N),” You repeated your name slowly, trying to get it through to Grey who still looked panicked.

“Primus, this is insane.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve got to explain everything to me, right now.”

“Okay, sit down,” You patted the ledge.

D-16 did so, and you jumped back into his lap.

“What’re you doing? You can’t sit there now. You’re not an animal.”

“Hey,” You pushed against his servo, staying stubbornly in place, “I’m not going back on that ledge, I could fall.” “Fine,” D-16 relented. He went to pet your head again then stopped himself, keeping his servos stiffly by his sides. “As long as you explain yourself, you can sit wherever you want.”

Having told D-16 everything and had him explain a few things in return, things thankfully changed. Initially, things between you and all of the mining bots were awkward, with haunted comments from some of the bots like, ‘It saw me in the wash racks,’ or ‘I can’t believe I tried to rub its belly… No wonder it slapped me. Oh. Oh no.’

Once everyone got used to the idea, your life improved. You were still kept secret since none of the miners knew how the higher-ups would react to an alien species, but with some ingenuity and a few favours exchanged for information about your species and planet, they all came together to transform your locker into a proper living space, complete with all the amenities they could manage to scrape together. They even began forming a plan to try and have you off-planet and en-route somewhere you could survive before your supplies would run out.

After D-16 and Orion were over the weirdness, you still had them take you on your daily excursions, sans the lead since you were no longer their pet. Orion managed to laugh about the whole thing, but D-16 grew to be even more strained around you. However, you didn’t get to ask him about it till you were next alone with him, which was a long time afterwards.

“So… Do you hate me now?” You asked him one day while he walked a few paces ahead of you, keeping an eye out for anyone who he would need to hide you from.

“What?” D-16 sputtered. “I- I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” You smiled easily. “It’s a strange situation.”

D-16 felt his insides squeeze. He had held onto you while you slept. At the time, he thought you were cute. Now though… You were still cute when you slept, but it was a different kind of cute – Softer, somehow.

“I told you everything,” He sighed, defeatedly. “My life, my dreams, my fears.” He shook his head, continuing mournfully, “And you didn’t understand any of it.”

“Not true,” You contradicted, running to stand in front of him.

He watched you warily.

“I might not have known what you were saying, but I did understand you. Your tone, expressions, the sound of your voice. I understood more than you think.”

D-16’s spark pulsed.

“Let’s go home,” He said quickly, turning on his heel and walking away from you.

The two of you had to go where you wouldn’t be alone or things would change again.

D-16 was falling in love with you and he couldn’t let that happen. There were too many unknowns and he had his planet to think about. He was a miner – the life force of his planet. That’s what Sentinel Prime always said, and work came first.

Besides, you weren’t going to be on Cybertron forever. You couldn’t be. Once your supplies ran out, that would be it for you.

D-16 couldn’t get attached. It wasn’t like you were a pet anymore. You didn’t belong to him, even if he wanted you to.

You ran through the destruction of Iacon City, terrified by everything that was happening. Honestly, you had missed most of the events leading up to it, having been stuck in Sentinel’s tower, but you had seen the so-called Prime torture and brand D-16.

Afterwards, you tried to find him or Orion, but you were small and Iacon was big and the city was collapsing around you.

You screamed as you were grabbed seemingly from nowhere and looked up to see D-16, though he looked slightly different thanks to the new infusion of Megatronus’ T-Cog which you hadn’t seen him take from Sentinel’s corpse. Also, there was one other change – his angry red optics, which bore into you.

“D-16,” You shouted, “What’s going on? Where’s Orion?”

“Orion is dead,” He growled. Though he had made a promise that nobody else would be deceived, you needed to hear that lest you side with Orion over him. Besides, it wasn’t a lie. Orion was dead – Dead, and replaced by Optimus Prime. “And my name is Megatron.”

“Orion- Orion’s dead,” You repeated, too shell-shocked to even cry at the moment.

“Yes,” Megatron glossed over your emotions, far too focused on his rage as he transformed around you, keeping you safe inside his alt-mode. “And we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“To war!”

Yet, even as Megatron burned with hatred and his desire to bring down the corruption that fuelled his planet, he was already reading the intel sent by the disgraced High Guard, informing him of several nearby planets where you would be able to get the organic fuel you required to stay online.

Megatron had lost everything. He was not about to lose his beloved pet too. You were his, and you always would be.

A/N - Hey, I worked really hard on this so please comment, or at the very least reblog. Likes aren't enough anymore guys, they just aren't.

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦

summary. reaping day. something ellie is rather indifferent towards, wanting only to return back to the warm embrace of nature. meanwhile you're the complete opposite, today being one that'll determine your fate, as well as your placement in your family. this chapter follows the alternate experiences that the two of you go through.

content warnings. depictions of dead animals, domestic abuse, implications of slavery (avoxes). if you see anything else that i missed, pls let me know!

total wc. 10,815

notes!! she's here!!! chapter one of this beauty!!! i've proofread this at least fifty times and i'm still not happy with it, but! here's the reminder that this fic is formatted and meant for ao3, not tumblr (hence why it's so goddamn long). anyway, i advise you read it there rather than here for that reason. it's updated sooner and i actually make sure that it's intelligible. the link is right here ↓

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

11:46.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

“Again?” Ellie’s groggy cavil is muffled against the crook of Cat’s neck. Her freckled face is buried into the warmth of the woman’s bare skin, chasing the comfort her proximity provides.

Cat huffs an airy laugh, her fingers absentmindedly running along an auburn scalp. “We’ve gone over this.”

“Yeah, but,” Ellie props up on her elbows to frown at her, “You went last year.”

“It’s a good thing if they’re asking me to attend again, Ellie.” Cat reminds her as she’s done at least fifty times by now. Despite her dwindling patience, Cat’s eyes are filled with naught but fondness as they clash with a pair of viridescent irises. Ellie continues to frown at her, adamant in her show of defiance. Cat continues to fiddle with her choppy hair as she speaks. “The Capitol is extremely picky with their stylists. It’s an honor to work for them, not to mention being chosen by them.”

Ellie has to swallow back the words that crawl up her throat and threaten to spill. Words of which vocalize her personal repugnance for the Capitol. She and Cat have gotten into plenty of fights regarding this topic and she refuses to cause another — especially considering the news she’s been trying to avoid facing all morning.

“I won’t see you for, like, a month.” Ellie grumbles before flopping back down onto Cat’s chest. She turns her head so her ear is pressed against her ribs, the gentle thudding of Cat’s heartbeat almost soothing enough to distract her from the world that envelops them.

Their bare bodies are pressed flush together as Ellie continues to listen to the repetition of her palpitating organ. She can feel Cat’s fingers toying with her hair, the soft caresses providing a sense of calamity. Her chest rises and falls, Ellie’s head shifting alongside each breath she takes. The intimacy it takes for to be near someone in this way — especially for Ellie — is oftentimes overlooked and seen only as crude or lustrous. However, in this case, they’re simply enjoying one another’s presence. Nothing vulgar about it.

Oh how Ellie wishes she could stay like this forever. In this little oasis of solace she’s founded for herself. Waking with Cat in her bed whilst morning sunlight filters through the window and casts golden hues over hardwood flooring. It’s nigh impossible to imagine that in only a few hours they’ll be separated for an indefinite epoch as Cat is escorted off to the Capitol while Ellie remains here.

She shuts her eyes, arms tightening around Cat’s waist as she wishes to cherish what little time she has left with her. Cat doesn’t dare cease playing with her hair, delicate fingers toying with the strands. 

Comfortability, domesticity, safety. That’s what Ellie feels when she’s near Cat — like nothing in the whole world could reach her. Like they’ve left the horrors of their District and are now floating through the cosmos all alone. Just the two of them. Though she knows better than to voice that to Cat, having found out the hard way that she doesn’t feel the same.

What they have is impermanent, said Cat when Ellie questioned her on fidelity, it has to be, she’d said. Even now, Ellie is unsure what that was supposed to mean. But she didn’t pry any further, for fear of damaging the fragility of what relationship, or lack thereof, they’d formed. Ever since, Ellie has learned to keep her feelings locked away in a hidden corner of her mind, making sure they never come forth to have the dust blown away. 

“Ellie!”

They both jolt to attention as the bedroom door flies open, doorknob slamming against the thick wooden wall behind it. Ellie sits up and narrows her eyes at the perpetrator, only to roll them once she comes to realize who it is.

“What do you want, Riley?” Ellie grumbles, flopping back against Cat as Riley enters the room. 

“I want to know why you’re still in bed.” Riley responds, stepping over the clothes on the floor with an upturned lip. Half of them are Cat’s from the night prior. Riley seems to instantly realize this, likely because she’s known Ellie well enough to know that she doesn’t wear Capitol-made dresses. Riley puts her hands on her hips, frowning at her best friend who remains cuddled up against her– Cat. “The Reaping is today and you’re still in bed.”

“It’s in two hours.” Ellie is quick to point out.

“I don’t care if it’s in twenty hours, you’re getting out of bed.” She says, picking up Ellie’s discarded clothes from the floor and tossing them at her. They land where her legs are tangled with Cat’s underneath the thin plaid blanket that’s draped lazily atop them. Riley begins to walk out of the room with a pointed expression before calling over her shoulder, “Oh. And these are Marlene’s orders, by the way.” Then she shuts the door.

Ellie sighs heavily, not yet ready to get up. If anything, she cozies even closer against Cat’s bare chest as she once again listens to the comforting thumps of her heart.

“God, she’s so demanding.” Cat scoffs. “I don’t understand how you put up with her.”

“I barely can.” She responds, causing Cat’s eyes to widen at the unexpected concurrence. “But she’s taken care of me since I was a baby, I owe it to her.”

Cat’s initial shock instantly dissipates. “I don’t mean Marlene, Ellie. I’m talking about Riley.”

Ellie sighs once more, her lips thinning. She knows that Cat and Riley don’t exactly get along. Well. Okay, that’s a major understatement. They literally despise each other. In every aspect that Cat admires the Capitol, Riley loathes it. They butt heads all the time, only ever speaking when it’s absolutely necessary and, even then, it oftentimes ends up in fighting. Ellie tries her hardest to keep them as far apart as possible, hating when they speak ill of the other.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” She mutters, having to force herself to sit up. The plaid blanket falls from her shoulders, pooling around her waist. The cool air chills her and goosebumps instantly begin to adorn her fair skin. She quickly reaches to the foot of the bed to grab the clothes Riley had tossed her way. Cat remains in bed as Ellie stands to get dressed, pulling on a frayed hoodie and worn jeans. “I just don’t want to have to choose between you two, that’s all.”

As she laces her shoes, it’s hard not to take notice of Cat’s lack of response. Ellie lifts her head to see the frown that’s plastered onto her features, the sight of it causing her to sigh. She walks over to the bed, shoes lightly padding across the old wooden floor. She leans one hand on the mattress beside Cat’s head, her other coming up to lift her jaw. She presses a kiss to her lips.

“You know where I keep the key.” Ellie whispers, pulling back only slightly as her hand remains on Cat’s chin. “You can get back to sleep and leave whenever you want, yeah? You need rest.” 

Cat nods, “Okay.”

With one final kiss goodbye, Ellie leaves. On her way out the door, she grabs her backpack from under her desk, swinging it over her shoulder before shutting the door gently behind her. Not yet ready to part ways with Cat, she stands in the hall for a few long minutes, using this time to straighten out her thoughts. 

After the Reaping, Cat will be gone for an indefinite duration as the stylists are taken to the Training Center alongside the two tributes. Not to mention, if the opportunity is provided, she knows Cat wouldn’t hesitate to stay to live in the Capitol forever. And everyone knows how much they love her there. It’s truly a matter of time before she’s promoted to a full-time Capitolite. The mere thought sends a chill down her spine.

Ellie heaves a sigh, mentally cursing anything and everything that relates to their fucked up government before she turns to walk down the hall. Her shoes thud against the floor as she attempts to calm herself, the repetition of her stride mocking that of Cat’s heartbeat. Nigh tauntingly. 

Turning a corner, she spots Riley standing in the kitchen. Her back is facing her as she peers out the window at the passerbyers that straggle down the street. District seven isn’t usually this busy, most citizens at work by now. But it’s Reaping Day and therefore one of the few days of the year that everyone gets off work. Parents cater to their kids, teens get into mischief with their friends, pets are walked through the neighborhood. Though, regardless of how one’s morning is spent, everyone will be amassed in town square by two o’clock. If not, they’re to be imprisoned.

Ellie slows her movements, footsteps now inaudible before she jumps out at Riley, causing the other girl to shriek. She nearly drops the glass in her hands as she whips around to scowl at Ellie. “You scared me!” She reprimands her, frowning.

“Yeah,” Ellie laughs, “That was the whole point?”

Riley rolls her eyes at this. “Whatever.”

She leans forward to set the glass back on the counter, a light clink sounding throughout the space as she does so. Ellie had expected it to be a glass of water or some other form of drink. Instead, it’s a vase holding an array of flowers that Ellie has built the habit of collecting on their daily outings. At first, it annoyed Riley the way Ellie would stop whatever she was doing to pick a flower and stuff it between the pages of her journal. It would interrupt the flow of their expedition. Though, with time, she’s grown used to it and even finds herself taking notice of pretty flowers in Ellie’s absence.

“Are you finally ready to go?” Riley asks, turning back around to face her friend with her eyebrows raised. Ellie gestures down to herself — dressed and obviously ready. Riley chuckles, rolling her eyes fondly before brushing past her.

The two of them exit the small wooden home and begin their journey toward the treeline. Four buildings down, they pass Riley’s house. After graduation, they’d chosen this neighborhood due to its proximity to the woods and the fact that two houses were simultaneously for sale closeby. And here they are, three years later, still fleeing to the foliage every morning.

The low hum of conversation isn’t foreign to District seven, but it’s rather uncommon way out here. To get this type of commotion, you’d usually have to be closer to town where the markets are. That’s where most people spend their time, trading supplies. The circumstances aren’t nearly as dire as in District twelve, but they’re certainly not as wealthy as the Capitol. Starving to death here is rare, but not at all impossible. 

“So,” Riley speaks up after a few minutes of comfortable silence before turning to Ellie with a regaled expression, “You’re sleeping with Cat again?”

“I never stopped sleeping with her.” Ellie says pointedly. 

What she doesn’t say is, It’s just grown more common as you’ve grown more distant from me.

She sighs. “I’m not gonna give you shit for it because you already know how I feel about her. But I want to know, is she going to be a stylist again in this year's Games?”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, “You know I’m not allowed to go around telling people. She’s technically not even supposed to tell me. We could be arrested for disclosing information about the Games prior to their airing. We could be made into Avox for it. And, I don’t know about you, but I quite like my tongue.”

“Yeah, so does Cat.” Riley adds with a disgusted expression.

Ellie laughs, slapping her in the arm. “Gross!”

“What’s gross is walking in on your best friend naked on top of some Capitolite.” She grumbles. 

“We weren’t even doing anything!” 

“Yeah, luckily!” She replies with a laugh before another repulsive thought dawns on her. “Oh, and you didn’t even lock the door!”

To that, Ellie has no excuse. “Well– Okay yeah, fine. That’s definitely on me.”

Riley grins at her victoriously as they continue down the sidewalk. The air is practically buzzing with activity. With naught else to occupy their time, the people of the lumber District naturally swarm toward the woods. It’s in their blood. Even more so for Ellie and Riley, who spend their mornings in the woods even when they should technically be applying for jobs.

Yeah, the two of them have received that lecture from Marlene more times than anyone could count — that they’re adults and should therefore be forming some sort of a career path before they’re rendered undesirably old to any future employers. But, unbeknownst to Marlene, the two of them do have a job. Perhaps not a formal one, but it’s enough to keep the bills paid and water running. And, to a pair of girls in their early twenties, that’s more than they could ask for.

See, Riley and Ellie have built a routine. One where they awake at dawn, meet up at Ellie’s house for breakfast, then walk to the woods and spend the following few hours there. They cut trees, chop wood, hunt animals, etc. Then, at noon, they head toward what’s known as the Hob — basically a black market for those desperate enough to trade their hard earned quarry for a bit of cash. It’s located inside an abandoned paper mill, packed full with hundreds of buyers meandering about the derelict space. Every District has their own version of a Hob, well, perhaps not the richer Districts, but twelve is sure to have a huge one that would make seven’s dull in comparison. That thought alone is enough to ease Ellie’s conscience whenever she feels guilty for the illegality behind her line of work. If any of the Peacekeepers in her District found out about the Hob, all participants are sure to be hanged or, at bare minimum, given a whipping — both of which would be public as to make an example of the persecutors. To imagine Ellie hanging from a noose or tied to a pole whilst everyone else watched, while Marlene watched? It makes her stomach churn. So, habitually, she simply ignores the lack of validity to her actions. Plus, there's no malice to her intentions. She’s just a young woman who wants to put food on the table. Is that so much to ask for? She thinks not.

Anyway. Riley and Ellie basically run that place. Everyone knows them there, recognizing the two women the instant they enter the mill. They always have the good shit — perfectly chopped wood alongside undamaged game — and are willing to be paid less than others because they tend to have a higher quantity and manage to amass a large sum in spite of their lowered payment. However, seeing as everyone is off work today, it’s rather awkward to see the people of the Hob out on the streets. Because they all know better than to acknowledge the illegal trading they participate in religiously. 

Ellie walks silently beside Riley, the unspoken tension in the air doubling in size whenever they recognize someone. The Peacekeepers are large in aggregate today as well, managing to make this impossibly more nerve wracking. The town square is packed full with Capitolites who are setting up for the Reaping, hence everyone now on this side of the District as they look for something to busy themselves with. And, as said before, the woods are evidently everyone’s collective first choice.

“You nervous?” Riley asks as they enter the woods, the familiar scent of pine and dirt wafting toward them. The air is chilly, yet not unbearably so. It’s a nice medium that Ellie finds herself enjoying. She turns, raising a brow in inquiry. Riley digresses, “For the Reaping.”

She shrugs, “Not really. The Hunger Games are morbid, yeah, but they’re a fact of life. If I get Reaped, what good will it do to have worried about it that morning? I feel that fate is predetermined. Whatever happens, you can’t change it so you might as well live regularly until it’s foisted upon you.”

“Um, wow?” Riley gives her a peculiar look. “Since when did you get all philosophical?”

Ellie huffs a laugh, “I’m just saying.”

“I agree that the Games are morbid.” Riley shakes her head with a sigh, dry leaves crunching under their feet as they trek further into the woods. “But why should we have to live in fear while those in the Capitol live in ignorant bliss? It’s immoral and dehumanizing.”

Ellie agrees with her, of course, though she finds herself glancing over their shoulder fretfully before turning to frown at her friend. “Be quiet, Riley. Peacekeepers are fucking everywhere today.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She huffs. “But I mean it.”

“Yes, I know you mean it.” Ellie rolls her eyes. “And I mean it when I say I don’t want to see you punished for your brutal honesty. Truly, it’ll be the death of you.”

Riley laughs before they fall into another comfortable silence. 

Despite the wordlessness being one of easement, it’s foreign to them both. As of late, Riley has been progressively growing more and more distant, causing an awkward rift between the pair. They still go about their usual routines each day and share moments of fond laughter, but it’s different. Only a few months ago, there’d not be a single second of silence as the two would oftentimes end up talking over the other in a coveted rush to share random information. Even after a day’s work had finished, they’d frequently wind up at one of their houses for the night — watching television, feasting on game, or just sharing the space. It got to the point where it was more rare to be without the other than with them.

But now, Ellie feels as though they spend more time in silence than in conversation. Take present for example. Had this happened in July, one of them would undoubtedly be rambling on about something. Though, as it turns out, that’s not currently the case.

Ellie has yet to bring it up to Riley, fearing she’ll say something she’s not ready to hear. She hasn’t even a guess in her mind what could have brought this upon them, but whatever it is, it’s drastic. Hence why she’s recently been hanging around Cat more often, using the woman to both distract herself from her childlike friendship issues as well as make herself feel better. Because Cat always knows how to comfort Ellie, even when she’s not entirely aware of what the problem is.

They continue to walk through the woods, their footsteps nigh inaudible as they’ve grown skilled at adapting to nature. After a few minutes of trekking through the foliage, Riley stops and turns around expectantly. Ellie instantly removes her backpack and crouches to the ground as she sifts through it. She pulls out an axe — which barely even fits inside the bag — and passes it to Riley, who takes it gratefully. Ellie then hands the bag to Riley, who positions it on her back with a few shoulder shrugs.

Where they stopped wasn’t randomized, though. Not entirely. Because, a few yards away is a fallen tree, hollowed out in the center to create a tunnel-like log. They walk over to it, Riley tossing the axe back and forth between her hands. Ellie crouches down and reaches into the log, feeling around the dampened bark until her fingers brush against the coveted items. She pulls out a bow and quiver, adding them to her newly emptied shoulders. 

See, they can’t exactly be caught carrying weapons through the District or the Peacekeepers will know they’re hunting illegally. So, as an alternative, they hide the weapons deep in the woods where nobody else would think to look. Fairly smart on their part, Ellie thinks.

“So,” Ellie muses as they begin walking through the woods once more, “This morning, you said you woke me under Marlene’s orders. What exactly did she say?”

“I talked to her last night.” She explains, swinging the axe back and forth. Had Ellie not done this with her a million times before, she’d likely be fearing for her life. But that axe is quite literally an extension of Riley’s arm, moving as though it’s a part of her. It's, admittedly, rather impressive. “She told me to make sure you’re awake at least an hour prior to the Reaping.”

“Ugh, she doesn’t trust me to do anything.”

“Can you blame her?” She laughs. “You were nearly late to the Reaping last year. Had you arrived less than five minutes after you had, the Peacekeepers would have placed you under arrest.”

“I think my timing was impeccable.” Ellie argues, pointing her chin up in an act of superiority. 

As she does, something in the trees catches her eye and she suddenly stops in her tracks, Riley quick to do the same. She nocks an arrow, the head instantly pointed in the direction of the movement. After a few seconds of tense silence, a squirrel chitters before ignorantly traipsing across the branch. She releases the arrow and it lands right in its eye, so as not to damage the meat. It hits the ground with a thud. Ellie grins widely as she walks to retrieve the corpse as well as the arrow.

“Talk about timing.” Riley whistles, following close behind.

“What did I say?” She responds, positioning the squirrel to hang from her belt. “Impeccable.”

“Yeah, maybe in terms of your aim, but not in your vigilance.” Riley points out.

“Whatever.” Ellie waves her hand to dismiss the accusation. “Shut up and go chop your wood.”

Riley laughs but obliges, turning to leave the scene. Ellie can’t even listen to her footsteps depart, as she’s rather adept at masking their boistry. But she can tell when she’s gone, though, because the atmosphere alters — shifting from one shared between lifelong friends to one of solitude in the middle of nowhere. And yet, despite the latter being far less preferred by many, Ellie relishes in it. The lack of eyes on her is comforting rather than eerie. 

She treks through the trees until she finds a slightly elevated patch of land, allowing her to look down on the forest below her — though, only by a couple feet. But any altitude is better than nothing. She crouches behind a bush and nocks a second arrow, waiting for something to pass by.

Ellie manages to shoot a few more squirrels and a couple of rabbits throughout the following hour they spend in the woods. She then lets out a three-note whistle as she stands to her feet. She’s brushing off her jeans when the same whistles tune is repeated back to her a few hundred yards to the East. Riley. 

They’d come up with this tactic a few years back, where once one of them had finished up for the day, they let out a whistle to let the other know of their completion. Then, if the sound reaches the other, they’ll return it.

They split up like this because Ellie requires quiet in order to hunt whereas Riley tends to make quite a bit of ruckus during her wood-chopping. Ellie’s still gathering her things when a twig snaps a few feet away. She doesn't need to look up to know who it is.

“What’d you catch?” Riley asks as she approaches her from behind.

“Nothing good.” She admits. “Just squirrels and rabbits.”

“That’s not bad, though.” 

“Yeah, animals are so scarce today due to all the people’s proximity to the treeline. I could sometimes catch the sound of their talking. Even from way out here.” Ellie says as she finishes packing up and turns to face Riley, who’s holding an armful of chopped wood. “Here, turn around.”

Without question, Riley does. Ellie unzips the bag and holds out a hand for a piece of wood. Riley passes it back to her and she loads the wood one-by-one into the pack. She then adds the axe and zips it — well, partially. A few inches of the handle remains sticking out, though it’s doubtful anyone will question the contents of the bag. Not when so much is going on today.

They head back to the mouth of the woods, making sure to return the bow and quiver into the hollowed log on their way by. In minutes, they’re emerging from the trees and walking back through the streets, which appear to have grown even busier in their absence. They’d walked in silence the entire way.

“Welp.” Riley says once they’ve reached Ellie’s porch and she’s returned the bag — which has tripled in weight with the addition of the axe and wood. “See you at the Reaping?”

She sighs dramatically, “I guess so. Not like I want to go anyway.”

“Marlene would fucking kill you.” Riley laughs and Ellie joins in, imagining the enraged expression on Marlene’s face had she not shown up. She couldn't get away with it regardless, though. Riley was right when she said the Peacekeepers would either imprison or hang her. It’s happened to someone before — an old man ripped from his home and put in an icy cold cell for the rest of his short life. He’d apparently used the excuse of saying he was in a wheelchair, but that wasn't enough for the District’s law enforcement as they claimed he could easily be wheeled to the square. So, yeah, maybe the jokes of Ellie not showing up shouldn’t be pondered on but so much.

Once Riley has left, Ellie grabs her key from the top of a nearby windowsill. She notices that it’d moved a few inches to the left. Cat. She unlocks the door and enters her home, almost screaming to see the silhouette of a woman standing in her kitchen. Though she quickly regains normalcy when she recognizes the person’s frame.

“Fuck, Marlene.” She curses, putting a hand to her chest as she — as subtly as possible — slips the bag from her shoulders and places it on the floor next to the door. “You scared me.”

Marlene is wearing a dress, a nice one. The neck is in a deep V shape that shows off her collarbones and shoulders. The sleeves come to her elbows, the skirt to her mid-calves. It’s a soft maroon color, complimenting her dark skin and brown eyes beautifully. Ellie would accolade her for it had she not known it was for the Reaping and thereby the Capitol. However, being aware of that fact rather mars the beauty of her accentuated appearance.

Marlene turns to face her with a frown, “What were you two doing?”

“Seriously?” Ellie groans, walking over to grab a glass cup from the cabinet over Marlene’s head, having to shift around her to do so. “I was hanging out with my best friend before we witness two people being shipped off to die. Do I truly have to walk you step-by-step through everything I do?”

“Yes.” She begins filling the cup with faucet water, Marlene looming like a shadow over her shoulder. When Ellie doesn’t respond, she frowns. “Whatever. I don’t even care what you guys were doing, I just seek the consolation of knowing it was safe.”

“I’m an adult, Marlene. When will you–”

“Was it safe, Ellie?” She repeats, tone growing more agitated. 

“Yes.” She replies, the lie coming easy to her now. After all this time of being untruthful, it’s nearly second nature to withhold the truth from her mother-figure whenever she’s pestered on this recurring topic. She has a great poker face, too.

 She raises her brows as she takes a sip from her glass, peering at her from over the rim.

“Was it legal?” She questions and Ellie nearly spits out her water. Marlene scoffs at her reaction. “Okay, so I got my answer.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to!” She crosses her arms and gives Ellie that disapproving mom expression that could make anybody feel remorse. Ellie places her glass on the counter and holds her gaze, trying her hardest not to falter under it. “I assume you saw how many Peacekeepers are here, Ellie.”

“I’d be an idiot to not notice them.” She grumbles defiantly, sounding far more childlike than she’d care to admit. Marlene always manages to bring this side out of her — a scorned child who has no choice but to agree with everything she says. Despite how hard she tries to be mature and release herself from Marlene’s iron fist, it’s so far been proven impossible.

“So what were you thinking? I don’t care for the details of what you guys go out doing everyday so long as it’s legal.” She says. “You know that. It’s one of my only rules for you.”

The acknowledgement of their daily repetition is enough for Ellie to stiffen, not having realised Marlene even noticed their outings. However, now that she’s thinking of it, it makes sense. They've been doing this same routine for three years now. You’d have to be a fool to not notice. And Marlene is no fool.

“I know, I just–”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, cutting Ellie off with a sigh. “Just go wash up. I don’t want you smelling like a dead animal for the Reaping.”

The closeness in her comparison of the miasma to a corpse is nigh to laughable. Except it’s not. Because Marlene is unnerving. She cares for Ellie more than anything, yes, but she’s absolutely terrifying in her vehement need to protect her. 

But Ellie is an adult now. She doesn’t need protection.

Despite this, she follows her orders and trudges off to the bathroom, making sure to scoop up her backpack on her way down the hall.

She discards the bag of wood and lays the dead squirrel and rabbit corpses out on her bedroom floor. Normally, she’d place them in the kitchen to ready them for gutting but that’s, clearly, not a viable option. If Marlene were to see the quarry from their expedition, she’d absolutely lose her head. First, she’d force Ellie and Riley to get a job, and likely a boring one. She’d forbid them from using the forest for income. And, in those two short acts of discipline, Ellie’s life would be over. The woods are her home; her place of solace. Without it, who is she?

She then heads into the bathroom and takes a bath, scrubbing all the dirt and grime from her skin before redressing into something a bit more fancy — though it’s definitely not Capitol material as everyone else typically aims for. She’s simply wearing a nicer pair of jeans and a flannel. The collar and buttons make it fancy. Kinda.

When she returns to the kitchen, she’s still drying her hair with the towel. Marlene looks her up and down and frowns, though she says nothing. 

See, if one is Reaped today, they’re taken to the Capitol. As such, they’re traditionally expected to wear their nicest clothes to the Reaping, just in case their name is drawn. But Ellie cares naught to make any lasting impressions on the Capitol, so she doesn’t give a shit what she wears. The sole reason she’s wearing even a button up is to please Marlene enough so she’s not forced into something else. 

Because, when she was fourteen, she tried to wear a t-shirt to the Reaping and was instantly reprimanded. As punishment, she had to wear something Marlene picked out. Needless to say, never again will she do that. Even now Riley laughs at her for the outfit, though Marlene insists it was the most distinguished Ellie had ever looked. She begs to differ.

“Okay, you ready?” Marlene asks.

Ellie shrugs, “Yeah.”

They head down to the square, the entirety of District seven doing the same. The waves of people grow larger and larger the closer they get to the square until it’s practically a tsunami of them. Once they reach their destination, they pause and turn to each other. Marlene looks down at Ellie, a glint of something unreadable behind her gaze, almost as though she wishes to say something to her prior to parting ways. But instead of voicing whatever it is that’s weighing on her, she just pats her shoulder and walks away.

The crowd is sorted by generation. Everyone between the ages of twelve and fifty are required to be within the crowd as their names are among those able to be Reaped. The younger kids are positioned closest to the stage whilst the older crowd is near the back. Ellie stands with her age group, picking at the peeling skin around her nails as she awaits the ceremony’s exordium. 

The stage before them has been added purely for the Reaping, as it’s not usually present. Atop it resides a podium, a table with a bowl of tiny slips of papers, and three chairs at the back of the stage — one for the District’s mayor, one for the escort, and one for the mentor of this year’s tributes. Camera crews are perched like buzzards atop the neighboring buildings, readying themselves to document the coming show. Each District is going through the exact same procedure. Tonight, each footage will be broadcasted across all televisions in the country.

About twenty more minutes pass, the square growing supplementarily crowded with each passing second. When the clock strikes twelve, three people are in their corresponding chairs. Ellie hadn’t even noticed their arrival. 

The mayor, whose name she doesn’t know despite having heard it repeated throughout her entire life, sits in the far right chair, his jaw set as he overlooks the citizens. The District escort resides in the center chair, a Capitol woman with bright blue hair and a smile that’s so pearly white that it’s almost inhuman — Ellie doesn’t know her name either. The only person whose name she’s sure of is the man sitting in the left chair. That’s Joel Miller. The victor of the 56th Games. Word is, he’s not a pleasant man. Though, Ellie supposes no sane victor would be. Returning from a murderous arena after all other twenty-three tributes have fallen must be the emptiest feeling known to man. She has a deep respect for Joel, despite never having properly met him.

The mayor steps up to the podium and begins reading off his script. The story of how their country came to be. Ellie tunes it out, instead glancing around the crowd for Cat. It takes her an embarrassingly long time before she remembers that she’s absent from the ceremony due to her being the District seven stylist this year. Ellie turns back to the stage just as the escort steps up to the podium.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Says she. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!” 

The slogan has grown old and worn out by now, everyone having heard it an indefinite quantity of times. Ellie wouldn’t be surprised if she mumbles it in her sleep. 

Once more, she finds herself tuning out the rest of the woman’s speech. Despite her lack of listening not resulting in anything beneficial, it makes her feel better. Like she’s showing the Capitol that they don’t control her. Not like the Capitol gives a fuck if one measley twenty-one year old is tuning out the speeches. But whatever. It makes her feel ameliorated and that’s all that matters.

“Here we go.” The escort says before diving her hand into the bowl of names. The glass sphere is packed full with slips of paper, each one reading a citizen’s name. The entire square is holding their breath as they await the name. The entire country is — as every District is being Reaped at the same time. The woman pulls a slip of paper from the bowl and reads it aloud with a grin. “Riley Abel.”

Ellie’s heart drops to her stomach, body frozen in place as the name is spoken. The world feels far away as she watches Riley walk up the stage and stand beside the escort. Riley’s chin is held high, her eyes dullened; they lack the vibrancy that Ellie adores so much. She’s the epitome of strength, standing on that stage as she’s set to be broadcasted across the entire country. 

Ellie knows that expression though. Riley isn’t sad or mourning. She’s pissed.

Fuck. She should have done something. But it all happened so fast. And now the escort’s hand is diving right back into the bowl for a second tribute.

“Aaaand,” She sing-songs before lifting her head joyously, “Ellie Williams.”

11:46.

DISTRICT 4.

“Again.” Your mother’s tone is sharp as a dagger as she thumps the end of her cane against tiled flooring, demanding more, more, more from you. Her voice is tinny, filed through an intercom overhead. To your left is a one-way mirror that scales the entire 20ft wall, through which she pedantically watches your every movement. Though you’re unable to see her, she sees you. And that fact in itself is enough to make you vigilent.

Sweat coats your skin as you reposition yourself, squaring your shoulders and planting your feet in preparation. Your expression is hardened, purposefully so under your mother’s gaze. Her scrupulousness is nigh to tangible, made palpable by the heavy weight on your shoulders, the stiffness in your muscles, the tell-tale feel of her eyes scanning you. 

Then, in a flash of flickering blue, holographic opponents begin to charge at you. These humanoid figures are translucent in visibility, but their hits land just as genuinely in spite of their pellucidity. You’ve been fighting them all morning — another cause of the fatigue in your bones.

A few sessions prior, you’d been permitted the use of weapons. Your mother had instructed you to train with each one interchangeably. She wished to see which you were best and worst at — which ended up being throwing daggers and a trident, respectively. The daggers allow you close-combat, which you’re rather skilled at, as a product of these training sessions, whereas the trident’s weight is off balanced and leaves you fumbling with it for a few seconds prior to use. She soon grew bored with the weapons, though, and instructed you to fight bare handedly. Just to be sure you can. 

There are currently three holograms presented to you — one with a burly build, one with a dainty build, and one that resides between the two. 

The muscular opponent is the first to strike, swinging a right hook toward your jaw. You dodge it, ducking easily under its arm. Whilst straightening back up, the smaller figure grabs you by the hair. Your head is yanked backward. You whip around, snatching the figure by the wrist and throwing its body over your head onto the floor. It lands with a hard thud before you bring the heel of your boot down onto its throat. With a light puff of air, the hologram disintegrates.

One down, two left.

Without a moment’s pause, you spin around to face the other two diaphanous forms. The intermediate combatant surges forward, arm reeled back in preparation for a punch. You swerve out of its way, the figure staggering forward as it misses you by a mere three inches. You kick it in the back of the legs, sending the hologram on its knees. You’re positioned behind it, pulling it into a headlock. 

The sounds it makes is eerily human as it coughs and sputters, blue fingers grasping with desperation at your forearm. You’re used to this though, the cruel personification behind these lifeless things. You snap its neck with a deafening crack. It disappears.

Two down, one left.

When you turn around, the burly one is already behind you. It’s at least three times your size, but you’re undeterred. You stand upright and ready your fists. 

With a grunt, it charges toward you. You sidestep, but it anticipates this and turns in unison. You back away, putting yourself out of reach, your arms coming up to block your face. It swings and you duck subsequently. While crouched, you grab its left calf and pull, lifting the leg uncomfortably high. The oversized figure hops awkwardly on its right limb. You then hook your foot behind the ankle of the remaining leg it’s balancing on, sending it plummeting toward the ground. 

You’re quick to position yourself atop it, straddling the hologram’s chest. It thrashes beneath you, squirming around like a trapped insect. It’s only a matter of time before it throws you aside due to uneven weight advantages. But you had surprised it and therefore withhold the ascendancy. So, while you still have the upper hand, you lift your leg and drive your knees into its neck. With a gag, the hologram vanishes.

Done.

Your chest aches with exertion, lungs fighting for air as you pant. As such, you remain with your knees on the black matted floor in an attempt to catch your breath. You’ve been killing these things on repeat for the past three hours, your mother having woken you at seven in the morning to train. 

Frayed hair clings to dampened skin as sweat traces lines down your face. It drips from your chin onto the floor beneath you. Your pants and tank top are soaked, causing you to feel gross and sticky. You yearn for a shower.

You oftentimes have to remind yourself that your mother means well, that she’s pushing you so hard because she cares. But, at times like these — where your body is on the verge of collapse — you find yourself questioning her morality.

“You’re getting slow.” Comes her voice through the speaker system, as though on cue with your thoughts. A tap of her cane against the floor is heard prior to that singular word you dread so vehemently. 

“Again.”

It's truly no shock that you’re growing amble considering how long you’ve been at it. But to protest your mother’s orders would be a death wish. You’re still catching your breath as you push yourself to your feet, fully expecting another hoard of holograms to appear. 

Though, in their stead, a spear materializes before you. It’s equally as holographic as the figures you’re fighting, blue and crackling, but it kills them just as viable as you would.

As you lean over to pick it up, something kicks you hard in the base of your back. The force of impact sends you to the floor. Your elbows take the brunt of your fall, causing you to feel rather grateful for the mat. Still in a heap, you whip to face the perpetrator. A hologram; a singular female figure with a lean build. 

You should’ve known better than to let your guard down.

You glance at the spear concurrently, the weapon lying at a perfect distance between you two. Without vacillation, you hurriedly crawl toward it. The figure notices and kicks you hard in the face, its shoe slamming into the bridge of your nose. You land hard on your back as a wave of pain shoots through you, warm liquid tracing down your face. 

By the time you regain your sense, the hologram is thrusting the stolen weapon toward you. You roll out of its way, though the blade manages to slice your bicep. With a reverberated thud, the spearhead burrows into the mat where your head had just been.

You push to your feet, tugging the spear out of the cushioned floor. Now armed, you turn to the hologram. It doesn’t have a face but if it did, you’re sure it’d be glaring at you. The two of you circle one another like vultures, the hologram waiting for you to attack whilst you wait for the perfect angle. Then, once you’re positioned to your liking, you strike. You throw the spear at the diaphanous form. 

The blade whizzes through the air too fast for it to dodge, too fast for anyone to dodge. Your aim is undeniably precise as the point wedges right between your opponents eyes. With that, it disintegrates alongside the spear.

Even once the combatant has elapsed, you remain in that position — chest heaving, brows furrows, fists balled. A metallic taste fills your mouth as your nose continues to bleed down your face, getting past your lips. Your bicep mocks it, crimson tracing down your arm.

You await your mother’s reprimand via the intercom. Instead, you hear the door click open and her cane tap against the floor with every other step. She remains in the doorway, not wishing to enter the abhorrent room. She stands expectantly until you walk up to her.

“Your fatigue impairs your ability to fight.” She tuts, wrinkled lip upturned in distaste. You don’t respond, lowering your head as you wordlessly accept her criticism. “Had you been in the arena and those figures sentient, you’d likely have been long gone. Debility is no excuse for inadequacy. L/ns don’t lose.”

You nod, knowing better than to defend yourself.

She goes through each of your performances, telling you how every one was worse than the last. A few times, she mentions your brother, comparing the two of you in a way that makes your chest cave. Ruben wouldn’t have gotten his arm cut, Ruben wouldn’t have had his hair pulled, Ruben wouldn’t have hesitated when she added a child hologram into the mix.

Once she’s had her fill of castigation, she waves a hand to dismiss you. 

Your first course of action is to shower. Since your mother woke you so early, you were unable to change or eat prior to training. You enter the bathroom, peeling your sweaty clothes from your skin before stepping into the cool water. Your presence tints the liquid pink with blood as your arm and face stain its cleanliness.

You stand in the shower for a long time, relishing in the feel of the water as you allow your mind to roam. Though, despite how hard you try not to think of it, your thoughts continuously lapse back to your mother’s ceaseless mentions of your brother, her favored child.

See, Ruben won the 67th Hunger Games when he was only thirteen years old, becoming a legend in the Capitol and the light of your parents’ lives. He is the Capitol’s favorite victor, deemed the most attractive man in the country. Anyone would die to get a moment of his time, of his attention. People who the Capitol favor, idolize, and center their entire lives around are known as a ‘Capitol Diamond’. And Ruben is the shiniest of them all.

Your father won his Games two years prior to Ruben when you were only six, so you never knew him all that well. The memories you do have of him are rather bitter, invoking flashes of flailing fists and deafening shouts. Though, acting as a warm blanket to the chill of your father’s acerbity, Ruben appears in your memories like a deity. He’d cover your ears when your parents’ shouting bounced off the marble walls; he’d argue with your father whenever he’d hit you for breaking something trivial; he’d always take your side, even if you did technically break that vase. As a child, Ruben was an angel sent from above. But, now that you’re older, you know better than to deem him as such.

Anyway. Ruben and your father’s triumphs earned them both irrevocable places in the Capitol as diamonds as well as homes in District four’s Victor’s Village — leaving you and your mother to live alone in the house of which you were raised. In fact, your entire lineage is among the victors, aunts and uncles and cousins all diamonds of the Capitol and residents of the village. Well, most of them. Some of your relatives moved to higher Districts after their Games, seeking as much proximity to the Capitol as possible.

A L/n has never lost the Games, not in the entire seventy-three years they’ve been running. The mere thought of someone in your family failing to prevail is something unprecedented. 

You step out of the shower and wrap yourself into a towel, grabbing a suture kit from the cabinet under the sink. You pop it open and sit on the closed toilet seat before threading the needle. You’ve stitched yourself up plenty of times, the damned holograms annoyingly good at what they’re made to do — challenge you. 

By the time you’ve finished and your bicep is newly adorned in neat stitching, it’s one o’clock. You only have a short bit of time before the Reaping. As you put the kit back into the cabinet, a second thought dawns on you. 

Fuck! You think, eyes widening almost comically. Mister Alden will be here in ten minutes.

You tighten your towel around your body before padding down the hall to your bedroom. It’s overlarge, making you feel small. The walls are white with golden mouldings, the floors are made of marble tiles. To some, your family’s mansion would be a dream come true. Though, to you, it feels more like a prison than a home. It has ever since your brother left.

Your mother had an Avox lay your Reaping outfit out on your bed. It’s blue — as most clothing made for District Four is. It’s made of a deep navy satin, jewels embedded into the fabric. It’s absolutely gorgeous and you hate it.

Though, your personal thoughts on clothing matter naught. You once tried arguing with your mother on how extravagant your clothes were, saying it was ridiculous when people in lower Districts struggle for food. That comment earned you a week with minimal food. She said that if you pitied the peasants so greatly, she’d gladly treat you like one, claiming empathy to be far more valuable than sympathy. You’d never made another comment on your clothes again after that.

Though, you both knew her anger was rooted far deeper than your mere clothing preference. It was rooted in the underlying criticism you’d made in regards to the governing of your country — the unfair hierarchy of Districts. You never made a political comment after that, either. Not aloud anyway.

You pull the dress on, something symbolic always laced within the act of holding your tongue. 

Each curve and stitch is made specifically for your body, fitting perfectly. Trading fish in this gown will make for an odd sight, but you haven’t a choice. Mister Alden should be here any minute and the Reaping begins in less than an hour; multitasking is your only option.

The halls are just as pristine as your bedroom, walls decorated with fine art and the tile floor kept sparkling. Thanks to the unpaid Avoxes — which are former criminals whose punishments are to be made into servants for the Capitol. You live in the Districts, but your family is so cherished by Capitolites that you’re permitted to have an abundance of your own servants. Despite the fact that your mansion is tended to by over twenty Avoxes, you’ve never spoken to a single one. Not due to your own ignorance, but because their tongues are removed and they’re unable to speak.

One of them holds the door open for you on your journey out to the docks. You thank him shortly, though he doesn’t respond. 

Your house is beachfront, back porch providing a wooden path down to your own private piling dock. It’s unnecessarily fancy for your mother to inherit — who just happened to marry into a wealthy family — and you, who hasn’t even become a victor yet. And, if you’re never Reaped, you’ll have never deserved an ounce of what’s been given to you.

The path to the dock is a downward slope. Your house is built on a rocky cliff, hence the path’s existence. You hike your dress up as you rush down the wooden trail, though as soon as you do, you hear your mother’s past lectures ring through your head. “Never above the ankles!” She’d once said, slapping your hand with a stick to force you to drop the dress. Instinctively, you lower it.

You walk down to the dock, happy to see that it’s empty, Mister Alden not having yet arrived. Though, once you’ve reached the end of it, you hear the low hum of his boat’s motor putting through the salty water. He coasts up to the wooden structure. You reach out to catch him as the motor comes to a halt.

His boat is small, just big enough for one man to fit in. It’s made of metal with only one seat at the helm, situated beside the tilling outboard. 

Your family has bought from mister Alden all your life. When you were a kid and it was Ruben’s job to retrieve the fish, you would traipse behind him. You’d hobble behind him, small legs having to run in order to keep up with your elder brother's long gait. Then, once at the dock, you were rendered useless. You’d peer over mister Alden’s boat, nosily searching his belongings. You watched as Ruben would speak to mister Alden shortly, pay him graciously, hoist the net of seafood over his shoulder, then head back inside. Due to this, mister Alden watched you grow more than your own father had. And even though his presence is short and biweekly, you know the old man rather well.

Well enough to know that he has three grandkids and the oldest of them is a twelve year old girl whose first ever Reaping is today. 

“Oh, what a lovely outfit.” He smiles, crows feet creasing. He remains seated as you moor the boat to the cleats. The metal is so hot from endless days spent in the sun that it burns your hands at the touch. You don’t dare wince, knowing how fast mister Alden would rush to your aid. You’re sure he has enough on his plate what with his granddaughter. “I can carry the fish inside, if you’d like. Wouldn’t want you staining such a stunning dress.”

“It’s okay.�� You’re quick to assure him, offering your hand to help him out of the boat once it’s tied off. He takes it, the man nigh senile in his old age. His hand shakes slightly as he steps onto the dock. “I can get the fish, mister Alden, I don’t mind.”

He smiles kindly, “You remind me so much of your brother.”

You don’t respond. You know he’s only saying that out of kindness, he has to be. Your mother ceaselessly reminds you of how different the two of you are. You try to ignore the comment as you lean over the boat to pull the huge net of fish from the creased hull. They’re blue in color, almost mimicking that of your dress, though their scales shine silver in the sunlight.

“Did you ever hear the story of Ruben’s first Reaping?” Mister Alden asks as you drop the net onto the dock, pausing to converse with him for a while despite knowing it’s a bad idea with your lack of time. “He only attended two Reapings, that poor boy. But his first one, I’ll never forget. It was the first time I met your mother, too, the nasty woman. He was out here retrieving fish, as our exchanges always seem to fall on Reaping Day. He was only twelve, but so determined to carry the fish all on his own. I offered my help at least a hundred times, to which he refused each one. He was strong, though, for his size. He managed to carry them all the way to the porch before the net caught on a twig and the fish fell all the way back down the pathway. Every single one.”

Your eyes widen. You recall this, though the memory is rather blurry to you as you were only seven at the time. That, and also because most of your memories with Ruben are tainted, not to be trusted in your bias. 

“What’d my mother do?” You ask, unable to help your childlike curiosity from rearing its head.

“Well,” He chuckles, though it lacks any sense of humor. “She wasn't happy, that’s for sure. Ruben instantly began to cry when he saw the effects of his mistake. I tried to assure him that it was okay and I could always deliver more fish, but he said that’s not why he was sad. He wasn’t mourning the loss of the fish. Instead, he was terrified of what your mother would do to him.” Mister Alden shakes his head, grey brows turned in an expression of dispirit. “No child that small should fear his own parent so vehemently.”

You frown. In every aspect where your mother lacks morality, mister Alden has a myriad of it. The old man is practically overflowing with sympathy at all times. He’d always treated you and Ruben as his own, offering comfort whenever you seek it and kind words whenever you forget they even exist.

Just as he’s about to continue his story, your mother’s voice is heard. It’s shrill as she shouts your name. Chills trace down your spine at the sound. Mister Alden gives you a pitying expression before you pass him a small pouch of coins for payment, lift the net over your shoulder, and begin the trek back up to your porch. The sound of his motor starting up carries through the air as you approach your mother.

She’s wearing a baby blue dress, just as fancy as yours — if not more. Her usual wooden cane has been swapped out for a fancier golden one. Her hair is done up in a neat braid, gold heeled shoes adorning her wrinkled feet. 

She shoots you a scowl before entering the house, dropping the door on you despite knowing you’re carrying a huge weight of seafood. It slams into your side, the corner of it landing on your stitched bicep. You wince, struggling for only a moment before an Avox rushes to your aid and holds it wide for you. You don’t dare thank her in front of your mother.

You enter the kitchen, placing the bag of fish onto the marble counter.

“We have less than twenty minutes before the Reaping!” She spits, rage evident in her tone as she watches you set it down. “Your feet are dirty and bare, your hair is matted, and you reek of fish!”

“I didn’t—” You begin, though you’re quick to stop yourself, remembering her order of not speaking unless asked to do so.

A sharp pain shoots through your cheek as she slaps you across the face for having spoken out of turn. You lower your head, mouth now sealed shut. She turns to give orders to the Avoxes — instructing two of them to put your hair up, one to put your shoes on, and three to gut and clean the fish prior to your return from the Reaping.

They’re quick to do so, rushing around to oblige.

You’re directed to a stool, two servants doing your hair into some intricate design whilst another crouches in front of you to slip on your shoes. They’re a pair of silver heels that match the jewels on your dress. In record time, the other two complete the updo, holding out a hand mirror for you to examine the design. Two thin braids wrap around the crown of your head, a neat bun resting at the nape of your neck. It’s beautiful considering how little time they had.

“I love it.” You whisper, quiet enough only they can hear it.

Your mother approaches you, thankfully not having heard your words of thanks. She circles around you, looking at the hairdo before she tuts, “It’ll do.”

The journey to the town square is only a few minutes. Though, as you walk beside your mother in deafening silence, it feels like an eternity. Everyone knows who the two of you are, the entirety of the Capitol fond of your family lineage. Their eyes are wide as they watch you and your mother pass through the streets. See, due to your partnership with mister Alden and your large quantity of Avoxes, neither of you ever leave the house unless it’s mandatory, which only adds to the peoples’ astonishment. Not to mention your unnecessarily extravagant clothing. Most people are only wearing plain gowns or linen shirts whereas you two look like you’re about to meet a monarch. It’s humiliating.

Your mother loves the attention, basking in it. You, on the other hand, feel as though it’s rather embarrassing.

You reach the square and part ways with her, wordlessly joining your respective age groups.

Your shoulders are set and your chin is raised as you know everyone is staring. Their gazes feel like spiders crawling all over your body. You fucking hate it, the prestige. Especially since you didn’t do anything to deserve it. You were just born into the family. To you, nothing makes you any different from the people living in the hovels of your District. Even in other Districts. The only thing that separates you from a starving child in Twelve is chance.

Mayor Marriott steps up to the podium and she tells the story of your country’s origin. You already know it by heart, having been taught by your father to memorize it at a young age. Her hair is platinum blonde, younger than most District mayors, though she’s just as strict. Her father was the mayor before her, causing her to take over the career. You oftentimes wonder if she hates lineage inheritance just as much as you do. You doubt it.

Following her speech comes the District escort. You know her by name, you know everyone in the Capitol by name. That’s Alice Reymond. Her hair is bigger than her head, her eyes adorned by lashes longer than her fingers. Capitolites are fucking weird, looking more like disfigured abstract pieces than human beings.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Exclaims Alice Reymond. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

She goes on to tell a speech on how much of an honor it is to serve as this District’s escort. Though every escort says that, you’re sure she means it more so than any others. Escorts are paid based on how many victors their District is able to produce. And, what with your family’s abundance of them, you’re sure she’s swimming in more cash than even District One’s escort is. However, more importantly, the bragging rights must be immeasurable.

Behind the podium of which she stands, mayor Marriott watches with a piercing gaze. Her blue eyes are intimidatingly sharp as she overlooks the crown. Though, the man sitting in the mentor’s chair has a gaze even sharper than she. 

Ruben. Your brother.

He’s tasked with training and keeping the tributes alive each year. He’s rather good at it. And, even when he fails, nobody blames him. How could they when he’s so perfect? You tune out Alice Reymond’s speech, taking in the sight of your brother after having not seen him in years. The closest you’ve gotten to talking to him is watching interviews on the television. 

His features are almost a perfect copy of yours — the same nose shape, same hair and eye color, same lips. But he’s got a certain look to him that erases any sort of similarities you two happen to share. A certain Capitolistic look. His eyes are highlighted with golden eyeliner, all the wrinkles in his face surgically removed. The brother you’d cherished all those years ago no longer exists. In his place sits the shell of a man. A Capitolite and thereby not your brother.

“Here we go!” Alice Reymond grins, yanking your thoughts back to the Reaping. She then begins digging her inhumanly long fingers through the bowl of names. She pulls out a slip of paper and smiles widely before calling it out. “Remy Wilson!”

The crowd murmurs lowly, looking around for the owner of the name. A pause. Nobody steps forward. Then, two Peacekeepers suddenly storm into the crowd and rip a little boy from his parents. The boy, Remy, is frozen in place, unmoving. The Peacekeepers pull him up to the stage. He’s crying, as he stands on the elevated space, trembling under the gazes of the District. Of the country.

He can’t be older than twelve. His cheeks are rounded, his big brown eyes even rounder. His skin is pale with a rosy nose, his wavy hair is an ashy brown that forms a messy crown of innocence around his head. Ruben is watching the boy closely, likely examining whether or not he’ll survive the arena. The answer is obvious, though. This child won’t be making it out.

“And for our second tribute,” Continues Alice Reymond. She pulls another paper from the bowl, her eyes widening slightly as she reads it. A great, pearly smile splits across her face before her spider-like eyes land on you. Your heart sinks.

You already know what she’s going to say when she calls out your name.

[post] notes!! While dual POV will be in this story, this is the only time I'll be showing two perspectives of the same event. This chapter followed Ellie and the reader both experiencing the reaping. It was needed for the plot but grew repetitive at the end, I promise this is the only time that'll happen 🤞 Also, this was a shit ton of exposition & I apologize for that, but the backstory of both characters are very needed. You def needed to see Ellie's relationship w everyone around her as well as have explanatory bg with the reader's family and everything. Also x2, I hope the amount of dialogue in Ellie's pov made up for the lack thereof in the reader's pov. I hate reading huge paragraphs of straight monologue so I try to refrain from writing it, but sometimes it's unavoidable (bc reader literally has nobody to talk to) Anyway, hope you enjoyed!!

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[ranmacapss]

[Ranma ½] ✥ Chapter 1, Here’s Ranma

[chained-spirits]

<<Chapter Art Next>>

Quick edit - can we pretend reaper don't have a sword and sheild in this, this is a RETCON ;)

[thechaoticcheese]

TW: Severe Burning, Hitting, Lack of Care for the Reader

Wrongfully Accused - Chapter 1 - The Morning

You were chatting with Ghost, the two of you having your respective hot beverages clasped in your respective hands. The mood was light, pleasant. The normal morning drink with your good friend to start off each other's day right. While it was usually paired with whatever breakfast item was made that morning, the two of you decided to eat later, Gaz having promised to make something later. And usually you’d spend it with Gaz, but he was pulled into a briefing and you’d never pass up time to spend with your favorite masked man, especially since he offered after delivering the news. In the moment, you feigned sadness and pretended to pout, until Gaz gave you a quick kiss and a promise to be back to make breakfast as soon as he could.

You had just finished a poor dad joke that you've memorized from your book of 100 Different Dad Jokes that you got on your birthday earlier that year, when Price, suddenly, quickly walked into the commons room where you two resided, finding it surprisingly empty in the morning. You only barely noticed him as you attempted to drink some of the scolding liquid. Your lips quickly inform you that it was still way too hot. You always did dislike how hot Ghost preferred his tea.

“Y/N… I need you to come with me.” Price's gruff voice was urgent, anger itching at his lips. He was holding something back. You put your mug down and started to stand up confused.

“Why? What happened?” You asked, confusion filled your voice as Ghost looked between the two of you with even more of a bewildered look that only his eyes showed thanks to his balaclava. As your eyes met Price’s, his blues scolded with hatred. It caught you off guard.

“You know what you've done.” Price growled out as he started to approach you. He's never looked this scary.

Your legs hit the edge of the chair you were sitting on as you tried to step back, befuddlement swirled in your mind.

“I don't… I don't know what you mean.” You informed the pissed looking Brit.

“Price-” Ghost began as he started to stand up. Neither of you could have reacted to the older man's quick movements as he pinned you harshly onto the table. The left side of your face hit the cold wood of the tabletop with a thunk, the mugs shook threateningly. Yours wobbled until it collapsed over, splashing the molten contents onto your skin. A scream soon followed, it took a few seconds to realize that it came from you, by then, the pain was ebbing away. Price wordlessly cuffed your wrists tightly before he yanked at the chains that connected the two metal braces. It tore you off of the table, the cooled beverage dripping down your face, but it still felt warm against your unburnt skin. The skin on the upper section of your cheek and to the left of your eye were now a sickly pale white. The burn didn’t even hurt anymore.

“Shut up. We found out you were the spy. You have no reason to lie.” Price snarled against your ear.

Shock filled your body. What? What did he mean by that? You weren't a spy. You'd come from your birth place to serve and protect.

“I'm… I'm not! Ghost! Ghost… Please tell him.” You begged as you faced Ghost, Though, when you made eye contact with him, you were met with the most chilling expression. There was nothing in his brown eyes. It seemed to just be static. His dead eyes went from you into his mug, his hand gripped at the handle. You could tell that he was trying not to break the ceramic handle.

No.

“Ghost… Simon! Please! I'm not a spy! You know this!” Your voice cried out for him before you felt Price tug at the cuffs that felt a bit too tight on your wrist. Between the cold metal threatening to cut at your skin and the worry that Ghost would clam up again after everything the two of you did, haunted you. The two of you were back to square one, maybe even in the negatives of your friendship. Tears welled up in your eyes as you were dragged away, screaming and pleading with a man that was no longer present in the situation, taking a sip from his mug as you were dragged away.

“Jesus- Fuckin' shut it!” Price snapped, hitting your face just in time for Soap to leave his barracks, having heard the commotion. He hit you right on the burn, but you only felt the contact that barely graced the undamaged skin, the rest of the hit more felt like vibrations than anything.

“Price, Wat’re ye-” Soap started to ask before he was shot a glare from his superior. The Scot decided that he could receive an answer later, ducking back into the room without another glance. Your heart wavered at the closed door, a pit starting to form quickly in your stomach.

You knew it was worthless to beg. It'd only call attention to you. You needed to cooperate. And you hoped you could do that now that some of the shock had worn off. But there was one more unexpected person to see you. You noticed Gaz stopped in the hallway staring at you with wide eyes as you backpedaled to follow Price down the hallway. Shit, now your boyfriend saw. Your heart wrenched as it silently wished he didn’t see the state you were in, that he was told out of view of your sorry state. Yet again, if he saw you in the interrogation room… It’d hurt way worse.

“Price! …  Price! ... JOHN!” Gaz called out,his voice getting more desperate and loud as his Captain ignored his cries to get his attention.

You soon feel yourself hit the solid man, not aware that he had stopped due to you being behind him and facing away. Though you could absolutely feel the heated glare he was giving the Sergeant who dared stop him from dragging your sorry ass to the nearest interrogation room.

“Capt’n. They’re burnt.” He told Price as he worriedly approached. Gaz had always cared for you, being the lover you’ve never had before, and you did your best to show him the same. He went to gently put his thumb against the burn, the rest of his hand following as it warmed your skin. But again, nothing was felt where your scolding beverage had hit your skin. His brown eyes swam with worry. Your heart fluttered at the show of kindness before you were torn away as Price spun around, dragging you with him as he pointed a finger in Gaz’s face.

“Do not take that tone with me Kyle.” Price growled. “Y/N has been outed as that fuckin’ spy we’ve been lookin’ for and I will not have your bleedin’ heart interrupt that.” Price growled towards Gaz.

“With all due respect Cap’.” Gaz started calmly. “If they’re hurt and they can’t feel it. They need medical attention. Captive or not. Y/N didn’t flinch when I touched it, which tells me that it’s bad.”

“Why should I give a rat’s arse about their state?” Price retorted.

“Because if it gets infected and gets into their eye then eats away at their brain, any questions you’d want answered would be gone.” Gaz replied, his voice being the soothing tone you’re used to in these dire situations. You only wish you could see his expression to see how he was handling the false information of you being the spy. Though, the vague description of you going brain dead from a burn sent shivers down your spine. Did Price really not care?

You could hear Price curse underneath his breath, “Fine. But you’re accompanying us to medical.”

“No arguments here Cap’.” Gaz replied as you were once again whipped around, now facing the voice of reasoning. You could see him put his hands down as his eyes worriedly looked down at you as you started to once again backpedal, feeling Price start to pull you along again, giving no complaints.

Your’s and Gaz’s eyes were locked on each other’s. You notice his brows furrowing as he soaked in what Price had said about you. There was this look in his eye that fed that pit in your stomach from before. He was hurt, betrayed from something that you didn’t even do. It was too much to take, so you tear your gaze away guiltily. Why were you feeling such shame? You did nothing wrong and you knew it. Hell, Gaz probably knew too.

Seeing as none of the four knew it was you, it had to be someone else. Who else would try to plant something. Not Laswell, she liked your guts too much. That and if that were the case, she’d be here in person, interrogating you right in front of Ghost. A few other suspects then pop into mind. There were a handful of new recruits that joined with you, and only three remained. It had to be one of them. You tried narrowing it down, brows furrowing deep in thought.

You must’ve been thinking for a long time, because you came back to your surroundings when you felt a hand roughly grab your chin, wincing as it yanked your head towards the medical professional. It didn’t take you too long to realize it was Price’s gloved hand. The look at the medic made you worry.

“It doesn’t need a skin graft, but I heavily recommend it. Either way they'd need ointments and medication-” It seemed like you had tuned in during their conversation.

“They’re a fuckin’ prisoner now, that’s not-” Price attempted to inject his protest before and even sterner response came from the medic.

“You brought me a patient and I am going to treat the patient the best I see fit Captain. You may not like it, and frankly I could care less of what their damn status is other than alive and well. I am taking them in for an emergency skin graft and you’re either going to help keep them still if they start to struggle or you’re going to sit back as I do my damn job.”

This shut Price up as you feel the grip that was keeping the cuffs closer together than necessary, go away. The medic led you to a cot and started to search your skin for suitable areas to grab a skin graft.

“Something hard to spot please.” You softly requested, glancing nervously at a silently steaming Price as his eyes bore holes into your soul as you sat on the cot, while Gaz only looked concerned.

“Gotcha. Don’t worry. Your skin is in pretty good condition most places, but your other cheek is the best bet we got for the location of this burn. Let’s get you some pain meds-”

“No pain meds.” Price gruffed out.

“Pain. Meds.” The medic growled back in response. “My medical, my rules. Do you want to be kicked out and out of view of your precious captive?” She glared over at Price who huffed in annoyance and shifted, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. He looked like he wanted to smoke then burn the end on your hand to put it out.

You were soon given pain medication on your other cheek. You shivered, it wasn’t cold or anything, but the realization that you got badly burned and the only one that cared enough to say something was Gaz. Your mind started to whirl. Were you just expendable to the rest? Did Gaz actually care like he showed? Or is it all in your head? It was probably just an act of kindness he wanted to act on despite the obvious situation of you doing something wrong.

“Hey.. Hey... Hey… Did you hear me?” The medic’s voice slowly sliced its way inside your brain to bring you back to reality and out of your spiral.

“Huh?” You responded softly.

“It’s going to be a bit before the numbing cream sets in. It might still hurt, if it does, don't move. We don't want to give you more wounds. In the meantime, take these antibiotics and pain meds. Pain meds are for the pain that’ll be after the grafting.”

“Alright.” The medic handed you a couple of pills and a small cup of water and you mindlessly took them.

“Good. The same goes for removing the burn. Do not move. I'd suggest you close your eyes until it's done… People often find it unnerving to see pieces of themself be removed without registering pain.” The calmness of the medic’s voice puts you in a false sense of security, because after you were cleared, you knew where you'd end up.

“Okay.” You hated that you only could muster out one word replies. It felt so disingenuous, but something told you that the medic understood.

She left your side to go grab more medical equipment, and in that time you stared at the floor, not noticing until you were in the middle of reading Gaz’s expression that your eyes had drug you to the only comfort in the room. He was leaning against the wall, his arms pressed against his ribs as his heel nervously bounced on the floor.

He still cared… Right?

You'd think after all of this time of the two of you dating you’d be able to tell if he was genuine or not. Maybe this situation was testing your judgement, not like you blamed yourself. You were just accused by a father figure that you were the one ruining missions, costing people’s lives, when you weren’t.

“Do you feel that?” Her soft voice returns to your ear. If she was touching something, you couldn’t feel it.

“No.” With that reply you closed your eyes and let the medic do her job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: It is 4:30 am, I should've been asleep 2 and a half hours ago but my mind needed this to be out before I sleep apparently. I hoped y'all enjoyed, I am def making this a miniseries, probably 5 Chapters max. If there needs to be any more warnings just let me know!

Inspire by this post.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

[elmushterri]

Would you ever make a fanfic about your au??? Because I'm so down about reading it, if you do make it

Though I don’t have time to make a full fanfic/plan everything, I have scenes and whatnot in mind. Perfect timing, actually, because I just signed up for AO3 specifically for you guys!

Here’s a couple scenes from what is probably Episode One

[reixtsu]

Chapter 1: Unexpected Encounter

Next Masterlist

The city was alive with activity. Neon lights painting the skies in hues of blue and violet. The hum of airships overhead blended with the cacophony of voices in the crowded market square below. For a Stellaron Hunter, such chaos was both a blessing and a curse-it offered cover but also countless opportunities for things to go wrong. Very wrong.

You stood near a vendor stall, your eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Elio's script had been vague, as always, leaving you to fill in the gaps. The mission was to retrieve the data drive, avoid detection, and regroup. Sounded easy enough, but you wished that there were more details within the instructions.

Behind you, Kafka leaned lazily against a lamppost, her lilac eyes glinting with nonchalant amusement. "You're too tense, y/n," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "Relax. Everything's going according to the script."

You shook your head. "I know, but you're not the one with a five-year-old son to look after," you muttered, keeping your voice low.

She chuckled softly, her gaze flickering to where your son, Hajime, stood beside Silverwolf. The boy was wide-eyed, captivated by the holographic displays at a nearby stall.

"Silverwolf's got him," Kafka assured you. "Blade and I will cover the east quadrant. Focus on the task at hand, alright cutie?"

You nodded, though the unease of a mother twisted in your chest. Hajime was your world, the one part of your life that isn't dictated by Elio's vision. You'd do anything to protect him-even if it meant walking away from the man who shared the same magenta and cyan eyes.

The mission began smoothly enough. You slipped through the crowd, your every move calculated like a ninja's. Blade and Kafka disappeared into the east quadrant, starting their part of the script. Silverwolf stayed behind, her fingers flying across her hacking device as she worked to intercept the rogue agent's signal.

"Hajime," you said, placing your finger into the little speaking device that was well hidden in your ear. "Stay close to Silverwolf. No wandering off."

"I know, mom," He replied, his tone both obedient and slightly exasperated as he sat next to Silverwolf, watching as she continued her job.

For a while, everything seemed fine. Hajime stayed within sight, his curiosity tempered by your warning. But then the stall selling glowing crystals caught his attention.

"Silverwolf, can I look?" he asked, his voice tingled with excitement as he stared at her, practically begging.

She hesitated, glancing at her device then back at him while her fingers kept typing. "Just stay where I can see you," she finally said.

Hajime eagerly nodded then darted off.

Minutes passed, and you felt a flicker of unease. After infiltrating the building and finishing your part of the mission, you went back to Silverwolf. She was sitting, legs crossed as she was preoccupied with whatever she was doing. Stretching, you walked up to her, patting her back until you realized something. 

"Where's Hajime?" You asked, your voice sharp enough to have Silverwolf look at you.

"He went exploring," she said blankly, her gaze scanning the crowd to look for the boy's fluffy blond hair.

Panic surged through you. With a sharp glare, you turned and pushed your way through the market, your heart hammering in your chest and making its way up your head, causing you to have a pulsing headache.

Aventurine had no particular reason to be in the fun part of the city other than the fact that he was bored. His work often brought him to places like this-a bustling, neon-soaked market in some distant planet. But tonight the atmosphere intrigued him. Surely the higher ups wouldn't mind if he lingered in the area for a bit.

He strolled through the square with a calm, almost lazy grace, his sharp, neon and magenta eyes taking in the sights. Vendors called out to passersby, hawking everything from the rare spices to glowing trinkets. Children darted between stalls, their laughter cutting through the noise like a sharp melody.

Then that's when he saw him.

A boy, no older than five, weaving through the crowd with the confidence of someone much older. Aventurine paused, his gaze narrowing. There was someone about that child, something oddly familiar that he couldn't place a finger on. Then that's when he saw it. The boy's eyes.

Avgin eyes.

Ones that looked a little too identical to his own.

Realization hit him like a bolt of lightning, but he pushed the thought aside, approaching the boy cautiously.

"Hey there," he said, crouching to the boy's level. "You seem a little far from home."

Hajime looked up at him, his expression wide from curiosity. "I'm not far. Mom's around here somewhere."

Aventurine raised an eyebrow. Why wasn't the boy at least accompanied by his mom then? Was his mom off drinking at a nearby bar or something? "Does your mom know where you are?"

The boy shrugged. "Probably. She's busy. Silverwolf's supposed to be watching me, but she got distracted. Sooo I walked away!"

The name Silverwolf sent a jolt through Aventurine. he knew that name, who didn't? Silverwolf, one of the Stellaron Hunters, a bounty with so many credits for her head. He studied Hajime more carefully, giving him a smile.

"What's your name?" Aventurine asked, keeping his tone light.

"Hajime," the boy said proudly. "Who are you, sir?"

Sir? Aventurine smiled, charmed despite himself. "Just someone passing through. How about we find your mom together?"

Hajime considered for a moment, humming dramatically before giving Aventurine a huge grin. "Okay."

Aventurine couldn't help but genuinely smile as Hajime peppered him with questions. The boy was sharp, his curiosity knowing no bounds.

"Do you live here?" Hajime asked as they walked through the busy market.

"No," Aventurine replied, his eyes wandering off but his peripheral vision on Hajime. "I'm just visiting for a while. How about you?"

"I don't live anywhere," Hajime said matter-of-factly. "Mom says we're always on the move because of her work. But she always makes sure I'm safe."

Aventurine hummed nonchalantly, feeling a pang of something he couldn't quite name. Pity? "She sounds like a good mom."

Hajime nodded enthusiastically. "She's the best! She's really strong, and she knows everything. But she gets grumpy sometimes."

The older male chuckled. "I see. And what about you? What do you like to do?"

the boy tilted his head, thinking. "I really like learning about stars and planets. They's so cool! Mom tells me stories about them all the time. Do you have any good stories, sir?"

Aventurine smiled. "Many, Hajime, like-" He began to ramble on about a star that burned so brightly that it burned the planets around it. Hajime listened intently, his eyes only growing wider with wonder.

You found Hajime just as Aventurine was finishing his story. Relief crashed onto you like a tsunami, but it was quickly replaced by dread as you saw just who he was with.

Aventurine.

He looked up, his gaze locking onto yours. Time seemed to slow, the noise of the market fading into the background. His expression shifted-first surprise, then it morphed into something deeper, something more intense.

You forced yourself to move, your steps graceful despite the chaos inside of you. "Hajime," you said, voice calm but firm. "I told you not to wander off."

Hajime ran to you, his small arms wrapping around your leg. "Sorry mama. But look!" He looked up at you, grinning as he pointed at Aventurine. "He helped me look for you."

Aventurine just stood there, his charm seeming to radiate off him. His gaze never left yours, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It's been a while, hasn't?" He said, his tone laced with something unreadable, making your heart jump a little.

You met his gaze evenly despite the pounding of your heart. "Indeed. Thank you for watching him."

Hajime tugged on your sleeve, momentarily bringing you back into the present away from Aventurine. "Mom, he told me a story about a star! Can I hear more? Please?"

You smiled faintly, your mask firmly in place. "Maybe another time."

Aventurine chuckled, his usual charm sliding into place as he slipped his hands in his pocket. "I'd be happy to. But first, I think your mom and I need to have.. a little chat."

Author’s notes: Here you all go! Your rich sugar daddy baby daddy! I love his gay ass so much… I might do those poll votes on how the story progresses in the future, but let me know if you’re interested so far! I’d love to hear from you!

ALSO!!! If you wanna join the Taglist then comment down below!

Likes, shares, and reboots much appreciated!

Taglist: @godoffuckedupcats, @sweetistic

[thewitchwolf]

The Witch Wolf - Chapter 1: Part 2

<<< Previous | Next >>> See you next full moon.

The Witch Wolf Created by Dani Carr & Bree Williams Writer: Dani Carr Artist: Bree Williams Cultural Consultant: Matheus Nogueira

Patreon | Content Warning | Masterpost

[thelost-comic]

Keep reading... [X]

Beloved Audience, we are delighted to announce that the Sponsors have had their fill, and the first installment of the latest adventure of the Great Coliseum is now available for your consumption free of charge!

In this introduction, you will meet the key players of the upcoming season, and learn why the last was cut short unexpectedly in the middle of an episode. We fellow Watchers apologize for the wait, and hope you enjoy the rest of this tale enough to forgive our fumble.

Real life translation: Chapter one is now available for free for everyone to read!

The website and comic are both meant for mobile viewing, and the link above brings you directly to the chapter one landing page, where you can check the content warnings before reading.

All pages are fully described in ALT text both here and on the site.

If the link ever breaks for some weird reason, the URL is thelost.space. If you want to be notified when new chapters come out, follow this blog! The only posts will be updates on the comic itself, so you can enable notifications without getting spammed!

Want early access for chapter 2+? [X] Want the fonts and/or main brushes used in the comic? [X] (dialogue font will be available later today)

[cryborgmechs]

Set in Stone - chapter one

Juice (pikachu) and Tobee (eevee)'s adventure begins... index and links to pages below!!

cover

page 1 | page 2 | page 3 | page 4 | page 5

page 6 | page 7

[gr8writingtips]

writing tip #3574:

put all your chapter one drafts in one document. that's a novel, baby

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟏

˗ˏˋ fresh start, same weight ˎˊ˗

"Not everything that breaks you has to be traumatic. Sometimes it's as simple as a guy with a crooked smile who ruins you so quietly, you don't even notice until it's too late."

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next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 2.8k

rating: mature

content: moving day, roommate introductions, & that lingering feeling something's about to go wrong

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✧ author's note ✧

fun fact: initially split between fandoms, but hey - good writing is good writing, right? so here we are, back with this story that wouldn't leave me alone.

this started as my "simple" project while working on something more complex… but we all know how that usually goes. (;'༎ຶٹ༎ຶ')

aiming for around 3k per chapter because honestly? quality over quantity. and yeah, maybe it'll end up more complicated than planned (because apparently i can't write anything without psychological depth) but that's half the fun, isn't it?

ps: prepare for emotions. all of them. you've been warned.

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⋆｡°✩ socials ✩°｡⋆

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

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♡ ⋆ ୭ ┉┅━━✶━━┅┉ ୭ ⋆ ♡

Moving sucks.

The boxes are heavier than you'd like to admit, the weight of them making your arms burn, but you keep going. Because that's what you do. You push through, even when you're dead tired or half pissed off at yourself for not hiring movers.

The gritty heat of New York City in August sticks to your skin as you lug the last of your stuff up the stairs to your new apartment. Cheap rent means no elevator. Cheap rent means you're sweating through your shirt before you even knock on the door.

When it swings open, you're met with the sight of your new roommate. Or one of them, at least.

He's standing there, lean, loose-limbed, wearing a dark hoodie despite the oppressive summer heat. His bleached hair looks almost white in the dim light of the hallway. The first thing you notice is how still he is. Like, eerily still. He blinks at you, slow and deliberate, like you've interrupted something—though it's clear he doesn't care enough to be irritated by it.

"Y/N?" he asks, voice as lazy as his posture. You nod, and he steps back, wordlessly letting you inside.

"Yoongi," he says, half a nod in your direction as he glances down at your box. You can't tell if he's sizing it up or just wondering what the hell you're doing carrying it on your own.

"You need help with that?" His voice doesn't sound particularly invested, but you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Politeness? Obligation? You can't tell.

"I got it," you say, even though your arms are screaming for a break.

Of course, it would be nice to hand off some of the work, but you've always hated asking for help. And especially not from some guy you don't know, who already looks like he'd rather be doing anything else.

"Alright," he replies with a shrug, and that's it.

He moves away, padding back inside, his socks soft against the hardwood. You blink, standing there for a second longer than necessary, then shake it off. You're here now, in this cramped, dingy apartment, where the walls are scuffed and the kitchen light flickers every other second. Home sweet home.

Yoongi disappears down the short hallway to the left, leaving you alone in the cluttered living room. You notice the secondhand couch, positioned in the middle of the room but pressed against a long, narrow kitchen table—the kind meant for stools rather than chairs. It serves as a makeshift divider between the living area and the open kitchen. The coffee table, cluttered with empty takeout containers and a couple of forgotten textbooks, sits in front of the couch. The faint smell of something you can't quite place—cigarettes, maybe?—lingers in the air.

You exhale, setting the box down with a thud. The place has character, you tell yourself. That's what people say when things are a little run-down, right? Character.

A few minutes later, Yoongi reappears. He's changed into an oversized t-shirt, the hoodie abandoned somewhere.

"I can get the rest of your boxes," he says, like it's an afterthought. He doesn't look at you when he says it, just past you, like helping was always the plan and you're the one who's being weird about it.

"You sure?" you ask, more out of reflex than actual concern. Your arms aren't exactly in the mood to carry another load.

Yoongi nods, already moving toward the door without waiting for a response.

You follow him back down to the street, watching as he picks up two of your boxes like it's nothing. You wonder, briefly, how many times he's had to help new people move in, how many strangers he's let into this apartment. Maybe he's used to it by now. Maybe that's why he's so... indifferent.

As you walk back upstairs, you steal a glance at him. There's something unsettling about how calm he is, how little he seems to care about this whole process. But at the same time, you kind of appreciate it. No small talk, no unnecessary questions about your major or why you're moving here. Just... silence.

When you get back inside, he drops the boxes next to the others and turns to you.

"There's beer in the fridge if you want."

His voice is still that same low monotone, like everything he says is just a suggestion.

You raise an eyebrow. "At noon?"

Yoongi shrugs. "Helps with unpacking."

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. Great, you think. Your first roommate is either a functioning alcoholic or just really good at pretending nothing matters.

"Maybe later," you say, and Yoongi nods, walking towards what you assume is his room. The door clicks shut behind him, and just like that, you're alone again.

You take a deep breath, scanning the space. It's not ideal—none of this is, really—but it's better than your parents' house. And rent in New York is a joke, so random roommates are just part of the deal. You remind yourself that you're here for school, for a fresh start. Not to make friends.

Still, there's something about the stillness Yoongi leaves behind that lingers in the room. Like the apartment isn't quite empty even when you're the only one in it.

You drop onto the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling. The cushions are lumpy, smelling faintly of something—cigarettes again, or maybe weed. It's hard to tell, and you're too tired to care. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, made worse by the fact that you're nowhere near done unpacking.

But at least the hard part is over, right? You're in. You're here. You're out of your parents' house, away from the small town you'd spent years clawing to escape. New York, with all its chaos, grime, and ridiculous rent, feels like some kind of warped freedom.

You force yourself to get up, pushing off the couch, and start tugging at the tape on one of the boxes. It's the one marked essentials—a sarcastic lie considering it's filled with clothes you'll probably never wear and random knick-knacks you didn’t have the heart to throw away. One of those just in case boxes. You grimace as you pull out a sweater. Like you'll need that anytime soon, with the way the city is baking in the August heat.

The door creaks open, and you look up to see Yoongi again, standing in the doorway of his room, his head tilted as he watches you rummage through your box.

"You're unpacking already?" he asks, sounding vaguely surprised. You're starting to pick up on the fact that Yoongi doesn’t seem to do anything quickly—not talking, not moving, not even blinking.

"I figured if I leave it for later, it'll just sit here for weeks," you say, pulling out another sweater and cramming it back into the box. "Might as well get it over with."

He hums in response, leaning against the doorframe like he's waiting for something. You glance up at him, and for a second, the silence feels a little too heavy. Like he's observing you, trying to figure something out without asking. It makes your skin prickle.

"Do you work or something?" you ask, half to break the quiet, half out of genuine curiosity. You still don’t know much about him, just that he lives here and seems unnervingly calm about everything.

"Yeah. Music," he says, scratching the back of his neck, but he doesn’t elaborate. Of course he doesn’t.

You nod, chewing on your lip. A musician, huh? Makes sense. He has that broody, artsy vibe—probably spends most of his time in his room working on beats or whatever people like him do. You resist the urge to ask him more, reminding yourself that you didn’t come here to make friends, or get involved in whatever’s going on in your roommates’ lives. You just need a place to crash while you figure out how the hell you’re going to survive college in this overpriced city.

"Cool," you mutter instead, shoving another sweater—how did you even pack this many?—back into the box.

Yoongi lingers for a moment longer, then nods toward the kitchen. "Like I said, beer’s in the fridge if you want it."

This time, you don’t argue. "Yeah, alright," you reply, finally giving in. Maybe unpacking will be a little less miserable if you're buzzed.

You follow him into the kitchen, which is slightly less depressing than the living room, if you ignore the flickering light and the fact that there’s no real counter space. Yoongi reaches into the fridge and hands you a bottle. You take it, twisting off the cap and leaning back against the sink, while he props himself against the counter, sipping his own drink.

There’s a quiet comfort in the lack of conversation. Yoongi doesn’t fill the space with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. It’s not awkward, just... easy. He’s detached, sure, but not in a way that makes you feel weird. It’s almost like he exists on a different frequency—one you haven’t quite tuned into yet.

"You here for school?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Yeah. NYU," you answer, taking a long swig of the beer. It’s cheap and warm, but you barely notice.

Yoongi just nods, like he expected that. "Jungkook goes there too," he adds, his tone casual but the mention of the name makes your ears perk up.

Right. The other roommate. The one who hasn’t shown up yet. You’d almost forgotten about him in all the moving chaos. You remember seeing the name on the lease—Jeon Jungkook—but you don’t know anything about him beyond that.

"Is he... around?" you ask, though the answer is obvious. The apartment’s been dead quiet since you arrived, and something tells you you’d know if someone else was here.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Not right now. Probably with his friends."

You take another sip of beer, mulling that over. So, a musician and a social butterfly. This should be interesting.

"Anything I should know about him?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light, though you’re genuinely curious. You’ve already gotten the sense that Yoongi’s easy to live with—quiet, unobtrusive—but there’s no telling what kind of chaos the third roommate might bring.

Yoongi glances at you, his expression unreadable, then shrugs. "Jungkook’s... alright."

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you pause, like there’s a story behind those words that you’re not being told. But before you can ask more, Yoongi sets his beer down and stretches, like the conversation’s over.

"I’ll be in my room if you need anything," he says, already turning to leave.

You watch him go, feeling that same stillness creep back into the room as the door clicks shut behind him.

Jungkook’s alright.

The words bounce around your head as you finish off your beer, trying to figure out what the hell they’re supposed to mean. You’re not sure if Yoongi’s being cryptic, or if that’s just how he talks about everything.

Either way, you guess you’ll find out soon enough.

You’re left with Yoongi’s parting words and the faint clink of his door closing, the sound reverberating through the thin walls. Jungkook’s alright. A statement that could mean anything—or nothing at all.

The silence settles in thick around you, as if the apartment’s absorbing it. With Yoongi gone, the place feels even smaller, the air heavier, as if it’s been lived in for too long by people who don’t talk much. The kind of place where secrets get stuck in corners, gathering dust.

You sip the last of your beer, leaning against the sink, the sharp metallic taste mixing with the stale warmth of the room. The thought of Jungkook lingers, though you quickly push it away. No point trying to decode a guy you haven’t even met yet.

You glance at the boxes still stacked near the door, the last hurdle before you can call this place yours. The thought of unpacking exhausts you, but sitting in this half-done space makes your skin crawl. You decide to tackle the basics—at least enough to make it feel like you didn’t just get here on a whim.

Back in the living room, you pull open a box labeled Books + Misc, and a stack of novels topples out onto the floor with a muted thud. You stare at them for a second, wondering why the hell you thought you’d need all this when you haven’t even figured out how to feed yourself in this city yet. A couple textbooks, sure, but the rest? The stack of poetry collections you brought from home seems laughably out of place here, like a relic from some other life you’re trying to leave behind.

You set them on the coffee table, a half-hearted attempt to make this place feel like it belongs to you. The couch creaks under your weight as you sit, staring at the peeling paint on the walls, the faint water stain near the ceiling, the sound of traffic bleeding through the cracked window.

The room feels heavy in a way you didn’t expect, as if there’s something pressing in from all sides, a presence that you can’t quite shake. You shake your head, trying to laugh at yourself. You’ve always been like this—getting weird in unfamiliar spaces, as if your brain’s determined to find something wrong even when everything’s perfectly fine. It’s just an apartment, just four walls and two random roommates. No ghosts here.

Probably.

You stand, deciding to push through and finish unpacking your clothes. The small bedroom that’s now yours is still a maze of half-open boxes and crumpled bags, but at least it’s your mess. The single window lets in just enough light to make the room look less depressing, though you can’t help but notice the faint smell of old paint, that same mustiness that lingers in old buildings like this. You wrinkle your nose, already making a mental note to grab some candles or something to mask the scent.

After a while, the rhythmic task of hanging up clothes becomes automatic. Shirts, jeans, the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school—things that remind you, even in this weirdly suffocating city, of who you are. Or, at least, who you were. The space around you starts to take shape, but it still doesn’t feel like you yet. Maybe that’s just New York, though. The city’s too loud, too indifferent to care who you are or where you’ve come from. You’re just another body in its endless sprawl.

Eventually, you sink down onto the bed, more tired than you’d like to admit. The mattress feels stiff, not yet broken in, but it’s better than nothing. You lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling. There’s a hum in the distance—cars, people shouting, music drifting from an apartment below. It’s a far cry from the suffocating quiet of your old bedroom back home.

Your phone buzzes from where you left it on the floor. You reach for it lazily, already knowing what’s waiting for you: texts from your parents. You wish the thought didn’t make you internally recoil as much as it does.

𝙼𝚘𝚖: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚝?

You stare at the screen, debating if you even want to respond. There’s a part of you that feels guilty for how you left things back home—leaving them behind without much of a plan, just the vague idea of getting out. But you’d never have made it here if you’d let yourself get tangled in their worries, their expectations.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before you type out a quick, noncommittal response.

𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐.

You toss the phone back onto the floor, not waiting for a reply. You almost feel guilty for the way your brain immediately wants to run away from the conversation. To escape. Like you always do.

Your thoughts drift back to Yoongi. His quiet presence still feels strange, like a puzzle you’re not sure you want to solve yet. He seems content to exist without explanation, floating through the apartment with the kind of calm that makes you wonder if anything fazes him at all.

And then there’s Jungkook. The mystery roommate who’s apparently “alright.” You scoff softly at the thought. It’s almost laughable how little you know about him—just a name and the fact that he goes to NYU, like you. You’re not expecting much. People always disappoint, especially when you’re crammed into tiny spaces with them. But something about the way Yoongi said his name keeps nagging at you.

Before you know it, the room is starting to blur, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your vision. You’re too tired to overthink anymore. Your eyes flutter shut, the city outside fading into the background as you drift off. You’ll deal with everything—school, Jungkook, this weird, cramped apartment—later.

For now, sleep.

♡ ⋆ ୭ ┉┅━━✶━━┅┉ ୭ ⋆ ♡

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[risingashescomic]

Page 1

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[Ranma ½] ✥ Chapter 1, Here’s Ranma

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Cover Art for Chapter One: Second Awakening

I'm glad to finally finish the cover art, and the first update should be coming out sometime this month (maybe)

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