#for my new district every single question I have

[lesbianstarlightglimmer]

I swear if I have to hear “it’s god’s plan uwu” about me losing my job from one more person I’m going to explode

[s-sugustar]

Your heroes — 𝒟．𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 , 𝒥．𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝

🎧﹒synopsis ﹒✢﹐— Should've left her in my care, this wouldn't have happened if you did. — 𝒟．𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧

🎧﹒pairings ﹒✢﹐— Yandere! Red Hood x blk!fem reader x Yandere! Nightwing

🎧﹒content warning ﹒✢﹐— dark content, drug usage, smut, dub-con, power play if you squint hard enough, impact play, spitting, choking, degradation

🎧﹒author's notes ﹒✢﹐— had this in my drafts for ages since i had been a bit skeptical about posting it but here it is.

🎧﹒wc ﹒✢﹐— 3.1k

“D’aww, look Jay. She’s drooling.” Grayson concedes, his hips pushing further and further into while his hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing both sides from time to time. Jason struggled against the ropes as he watched Grayson mercilessly pound into you. The whining and tiredness in your voice had caught Grayson mid-way; stopping you from reaching your climax. “Is the baby tired?” he seethed, pulling you up by the neck to stop you from slumping over onto the bed.

Screeching in pain, the squinting of your eyes and the muffled sounds of your screams had been enough for Jason to wince. Everything was hurting and he knew that but there was nothing he could do. His limbs were like jello and his energy was gone; all because of some poison Grayson had thrown at him when he tried to stop Grayson from entering his apartment. 

“Babe, you know the rules. You go to work, and you come straight back home, y’hear me?” Jason muttered, giving you a light kiss on the lips before placing one on your forehead before putting the metal helmet on. You really wished he didn’t have to lead this type of life; you wanted him to settle down for a bit, so you begged. Every single time he bid you goodbye at 2 in the morning, you always had something to say about staying home with you.

Regardless of how you put it each time, his answer had been the same regardless. “Gotta provide for you and f’me baby. Gotham needs to be at peace once in a while.” The end part being a joke to cheer you up or in hopes of making you laugh but that never happened. Staying quiet seemed like the best option every single time after the very first time you brought it up. 

To say it in the easiest way is best. Jason is paranoid; a bit too in over his head but his paranoia comes from years of battling against Batman and the fear of the Joker finding him once again and stripping him of everything, only this time, he feared it would be you with the aches of being hit with a crowbar.

After his resurrection, Jason bulked to say the least. His confidence hadn’t been there but he was stronger than before and he knew for a certainty that he would have a better chance at protecting you than before. Hiding away in the most grimy places in Gotham was his best alternative at this point. 

After becoming Red Hood, many of the districts fell under him as he ranked up. Unfortunately, he had a run-in with the one and only Batman, and to say that it ended in the most gruesome way possible was an understatement. Oh, no one was injured gravely, but the feelings that had been pent up for years had come all undone. 

“Jason, I’m sorry.” It took three words for the young boy to fall to his knees in tears. After all that he had been through, he still cherished the man that left him to die. Oh what a pity. But alas, had it only been the Bruce and Grayson that had been in mourning? Dear God no. Had anyone think to check on Y/n, who had been Jason’s best friend? Grayson sure did. He had to be the one to keep her going after she heard the news.

The pain, the torment, the nightmares day in and out. It was a lot for Y/n to keep on going but Grayson made it better. During that time of need, Grayson stayed by your side through everything. He was your shoulder to cry on, the one who made you laugh till your stomach aches. He was your everything and all in one when Jason couldn’t have been. 

“You know I’ll never leave you right?”  Grayson questioned, he peered down at you with a sullen look in his eyes, his fingers grazing the sides of your face.You fell asleep not too long ago, your head perched on a pillow with your head resting against Grayson’s arm. He knew that you wouldn’t have answered him, you had an extremely long day and with today being the 2 year anniversary of Jason’s death casting your light down even further than it was.

Bruce hadn’t been around you much, guilt filled his heart whenever he saw you so he chose to stay away. Grayson on the other hand, he knew that you lost the one who truly understood you, who had been there through thick and thin. Although Jason meant everything to you, Grayson held a piece of your heart as a dear beloved friend. 

To say that Grayson hadn’t felt a little bad that he was a bit glad that Jason had been gone was quite the understatement. He felt some sort of joy to see the way your eyes watered and your lips quivering before you had a full-blown breakdown. The heaving and small sniffles that came from you whilst Grayson soothed you made his heart do flips.

Now, Grayson was a sadist in any form or fashion but the way you looked, so vulnerable, so heartbroken, God did it do some things to him. Maybe it won't be a breakdown next time, maybe you'll be under him squirming and squealing as thrusts his dick into you. His plan was in place, all he needed was to wait for the right moment.

Silence filled the room as you looked straight ahead of you, shock written all over your face. You couldn't move, you dearly wish you could've in this moment but how could you when the one you thought was dead stood boldly in front of you, a metal bodice surrounding his form and a metal mask in hand. "Jason?" was the only thing that fell from your lips as you drank in the boy or well man that stood before you.

Red had always been his favorite color from young; you never forgot. His eyes seemed distant; his stance wasn't as before. Rigid and hollow, many walls built for the sake of his sanity and maybe yours but in this moment, all of that crumbled when he spoke. "I came back. I came back. . . . .for you." All the love that had been shared between the two of you came rushing in like a tidal wave, breaking whatever strong force that tried to pull it back.

Grayson laid on the floor, bruised and bleeding; his mouth pooling with the taste of metal and the sight of red on the pavement. He cursed heavily before pulling himself up, his head against the nearest wall as he held his abdomen in pain. "That stupid red mask." He found his way home, easing through the open window, maybe a bounce in his step to see you.

A burning sensation rang through his jaw but that didn't stop him from calling out to you. Yet, he was met with silence. Odd. Usually you would have your arms wrapped around his torso, completely unaware of the wounds he had until a wince fell from his lips making you completely aware of his wounds before apologizing. "Hey munchkin, this isn't the time to play hide and seek with me. I'm hurt and I need your company right now."

Yet no response, again. Maybe you were asleep. With his head, he peeked into the room, quietly surveying it before slipping in ever so quietly. "Baby, stop heading from m-." "She's not hiding from you, she's gone." Nightwing sneered, wincing as he turned to face the one with a metal helmet coated in red with white lenses stared back at his broken body.

His hand balled into a fist before speaking, blood pooling in his mouth. "Where did you take her? Where the hell did you take her Red Hood?" A deep rumble emitted from his throat, his eyes squinting as he stalked towards the bigger man. Yet he didn't make it far as the barrel of a gun found refuge between his eyes, the metal was cold and hard since Red Hood pressed it harder against the skull of Nightwing.

"You come after her, I put a bullet in between your eyes, Grayson." The name fell from Jason's lips with much hatred and malice but with the built in modulator it was hard for Nightwing to understand the emotions behind what he had said. With a pregnant pause, Red Hood gave Nightwing one last look before going out through the window. Nightwing grunted in anger and in pain but stood in his place for a couple of minutes. He'll get you back, one way or another.

"Sugar, you know I love you too much but I can't let you out. I'm sorry." Jason reasoned, it had been almost a year since he scooped you up from Grayson and you loved every bit of it but you felt caged. You couldn't leave the apartment, orders of Jason Todd. Sure, he had his reasons, but you wanted out. No, you needed to get out.

Seeing the same four walls day in and day out started to make you lose your mind and you couldn't afford to do that right now: not to Jason anyways. He had been through too much for you to act out and start whining over not being able to leave the house. Maybe it was for the best. Just like what Grayson used to say.

Grayson, Richard Grayson or well Dick as he wished you to call him. Boy was he some character. His worrisome state and his constant clinginess had been enough for you. You knew he meant well but sometimes you felt if there had been some sort of kick he was getting out of this.

You knew he meant well but sometimes you could feel something more sinister and darker, something he wasn't saying or well doing. Shaking your head from such perilous thoughts, you switched through channels trying to find some that would catch your attention.

A few hours later, you fell into sleepy state, your eyes shutting but blinking back to life to stay focused on the movie that had been playing. What did seem to catch your attention was the loud thunk that echoed from a room in the corridor. You sat up looking towards the hallway patiently waiting for Jason to appear.

Glancing over at the digital clock that showed 2:14 a.m. in bright red colors, it was around this time that Jason would normally get home but seeing that he didn't appear yet, you went to investigate. You peered into the training room, calling out to him. but you saw nothing, the only other room there had been the one both you and Jason slept in, so you headed there. You pushed open the door, a curious look upon your face when you saw that he hadn't been in there either, maybe something fell.

Now, you weren't one to be paranoid, but you felt goosebumps rise against your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck rising. You were being watched. At times like this, you wish Jason had trained you in some sort of hand-to-hand combat, something you could fight with, but he left you helpless, like a doll without blemishes, perched in a high place just to look pretty and keep up appearances. So caught up in the pretenses of the happy life you lived and the one you longed for, you weren't able to sense the light steps that followed behind you so in esseence, you were an easy target.

Yelping in pain, you grabbed the side of your head from the place where you had been hit and at the same time, you turned to see the culprit, but instead of meeting a face, your eyes met the hard plywood within the apartment; splotches of black covering your sight. Soon enough, you were out cold and left in the hands of the culprit.

A sheer gasp fell from your lips as some strong force from behind. Wrapping their dominant hand around your waist and one hand gripped against your mouth. You tried to scream and hit them at the same time but all failed when the perpetrator tightened their grip on your waist and squeezed the flesh of your jaw, nails and the fabric on their hands digging into your skin.

"C'mon sweetheart, don't be like that to poor little Grayson." Your eyes widen in fear when a voice you could never forget sounded from behind you, but you weren't so shaken by the fact that Grayson had been pounding you whilst you slept but the fact that Jason had been tied to a chair, eyes wide open and staring right at you.

Brusies of all shapes and colors decorated his skin, more so the black eye that was starting to form. It was only then that you realized he had been gagged with some sort of sheer material from what you could see.

Then you saw the watery look in his eyes, was it because of the bruises, maybe so. That had been your first guess since it couldn't possibly be that he was crying, was he? With the little energy you had left, you twisted and turned your arm to loosen the grip that had been around it before you snatched it away, reaching towards Jason with a soft wail leaving your lips as you tried to reach him.

Alas, but Grayson had been attentive. Although caught up in filling you up with his cum and making sure Jason knew you were his, he pulled back your wrist, a tighter grip than before, wrenching it back in the same position, not caring if he had hurt you in the moment.

"You pull away from me again and I will break both your arms, understand?" Fear enveloped your entire body, but you still nodded, not wanting to anger the man any further. Maybe it had been your body that made you fall into the deep end. Panting at the surge of pleasure that flew through you as Grayson thrusted against your hips; the slick fabric rubbing against your skin every time he moved. The grip on your hips maybe have been tight but it felt good, really good. You weren't the only one who felt good in this moment though, the sane yet needy body that had been ravishing you from behind felt the shift in your stance.

Your arch deepened and your moans and whines felt more eased than strained; you were finally started to like it and that made Grayson excited. Yet on the other hand, Jason was furious; fingers deeply caved into his palms, he wouldn't be surprised if they were bleeding and his teeth clashed to the point where his jaw started to hurt. He shook against the restraints, pulling and twisting to find some sort of release.

His teeth snapping into one of your soiled panties, which he only learned that it was when Grayson had pointed it out when you were still passed out. The sweat shined in the moon light, beads of it dripping from his eyebrow. He felt hot and squeamish, he needed to get out of these restraints. Groaning at the rope that restricted his wrists, the roughness from it, bruising his wrists. The discomfort from the tactical pants he wore; not only from the ropes that sat around his ankles but also from inside of them.

The pushing against the fabric, a bit too tight for his liking. God, he felt disgusted with himself, but the sight of you was so appealing, he needed more; needed to feel you, feel inside you. The deep hollowness within his stomach stated enough, it was detrimental but addicting.

He hated the way Grayson corrupted you, pushing you into unknown waters, hazy of all things around you. He wanted to keep you safe, away from the dangers of this world, safe and wrapped in his arms. He was pulled from his thoughts when Grayson started to mumble, murmuring words into your ear. Jason didn't even realize that you were awake; eyes wide and staring right at him.

Was it shock or fear? Normally, with his enhanced hearing, he would have been able to hear every word that Grayson whispered to you and maybe he would've been able to break out from the ropes if his advanced strength and agility was still there but whatever Grayson had in that syringe caused his energy to deplete and his limbs to feel gummy.

Back to present moment where Grayson had your back arched and head pushed down in the mattress, Jason watched as you wiggle and squirm but every time that you did, you received a harsh slap to your thigh, causing you to whine in protest. Grayson had pulled out from his daze and looked towards Jason with a large smile, canines pointed and sharp, ready to strike and pierce.

He saw the mischievous glint in his eyes; that meant he was up to absolutely no good. "God Y/n, your blood smells divine. I don't understand why Jason hasn't sunken his teeth into you yet." As Grayson spoke, Jason's eyes widen in fear, head shaking vigorously, trying to signal to Grayson not to do it but by the smile etched on his face, he knew his attempts were futile.

Your screams were muffled by Grayson's hand as he sunk his teeth into your exposed neck, gripping your neck as he pulled it further to the side for more access. The man in restraints screamed, begged Grayson to stop but his screams were muffled by the now soaking wet fabric that invaded his mouth. His chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, eyes blown wide and bright in red as he heard your screams dying down and head lolling to the side, indicating that you had passed out from too much of your blood being taken.

"Oh no, poor baby all tuckered out." Grayson taunted, dropping your limp body back onto the bed as he pulled out of you; not caring enough to clean you up or wrap you in a soft cotton cloth. The older man got up from the bed, grabbing his escrima sticks before walking over to the chair that Jason had been tied to. With a pat on the shoulder, Grayson left Jason tied to the chair with nothing else but to stare at your unconscious body in the moonlight.

Tears cascading down his face not just from sadness of not being able to protect but from anger that the one person he trusted defiled the one person that kept him going. Once Jason was out of the ropes, he'd clean you and keep you warm but after his eyes were dead set on Richard 'Dick' Grayson and destroying everything he stood for. This meant war.

[writesick-lover]

Just One Date

Finnick x reader!

A/N: I honestly REALLY like this prompt and felt like it could work for Finnick! It's a bit too sudden, but I think that's kind of the charm of this whole idea, sudden, unexcpected but exciting ;) I might make a part two cause I think I built too good of a background for reader (at least in my mind) so please let me know how you like it!

Warning: a bit of swearing and mention of killing if you squint

Prompt: “I need just one date.”

“You think you can woo me with just one date?”

“Absolutely.”

➷ ➷ ➷ ➷

It has been years since the perfectly arranged hell for Finnick Odair had started. But who would have thought about it? That the Capitol's sweetheart, the youngest victor who stole thousands of hearts across the whole country, now suffered in the wealthiest part of Panem?  Unimaginable. To be drowned in gold and washed in blessings, to wake up every day and have his plate filled with food and enough water to drink and bathe in, even for the whole day if he wanted but hate every single minute of it.

And though it was hard to grasp, that was Finnick Odair's case. Because Finnick dreaded every upcoming moment of his life since he was brought from his games as the victor, the survivor. The bloodthirsty drive to live, once warming his heart that followed him through each step in the arena, has now subsided, trapped by an iron fist of fear and desperation.

He could vaguely remember the first time those feelings had settled in, spreading through his veins like poison as he left his firts customer's bedroom, making him loathe every breath taken in and out by his body ever since. That's when he knew he would have thrown everything beautiful about his victorious survival just so he could live again. But that just wasn't the case for Finnick Odair, it simply wasn't his fate. And while his life was partially in his hands, he mostly felt like the blood of whatever part of himself he had killed was preventing him from moving on, from fighting. Maybe he grew tired of it. Maybe he thought he had enough of fighting for his whole lifetime.

He watched from afar, how fond the Capitol had become of District 12's star-crossed lovers, Katniss and Peeta. And for the first time ever since he was 16, something had awakened in him, a hope, that maybe this could be the end of his show. That maybe the citizens of Capitol had found someone else to watch and obsess about and he could finally be free. But that thing, that hope, was killed before it could even be aflame.

As he turned around from the glamorous couple, his eyes fell on the darkened blue ones, hidden like snakes in the snow made of white hair. The disgust, the abomination, the darkness screaming nothing but death brought Finnick to the harsh reality, once his gaze was met with Snow's. He was never getting out of this train. Not alive.

Until the spark inside him ignited again.

It was the meeting of the previous victors, one to which the new love-struck victors were not invited, yet they still happened to be the centre of its talks. Thankfully, the space was filled with only the comfort of people Finnick had known for a while and who had known him. There was a certain silent alliance the victors had built over the years. As he passed the familiar faces, sending polite smiles here and there, he caught a face that was very unfamiliar to him. You were new there, you have won only two years prior to Katniss and Peeta, the 72nd hunger games, which happened to be the opposite of the 74th year's sensation.

Finnick could remember meeting you in the Capitol, you're terrified tearfilled eyes meeting his, billions of questions behind them making his stomach turn there and then. But now you seemed just stiff, your guard high up. He would even go to the lenghts of saying you had an intimidating aura around you.

You could feel his stare burning your skin, so you turned around to face him, your mouth shaping into a genuine smile as soon as you saw him, your eyes sparkling in recognition. That's what he was talking about. All that pressuring shell fell right apart when you smiled or opened your mouth, earning you tons of sponsors back in your games. When you sent him your smile through your tears back then, Finnick could feel the butterflies rummaging through his guts. "Who are you staring at, Finnick Odair," Johanna's low voice beisde his ear made Finnick jump. "Johanna," he groaned, rolling his eyes as his right hand fell on his heart.

"The deceitful seemed to have caught you're eye, hm?" That was your nickname. The deceitful victor. Finnick remembered the talks once your games were over. You were called two-faced, a liar, and while some of the Capitol's people found this feature of yours absolutely unacceptable, others found it intruiging. After all it was thanks to your deceit, that you had won.

"They just seem rather... lost," he hummed, shrugging it off and turning to face Johanna fully. "Didn't expect you to come here,"

"Neither did I myself," she snapped back, looking behind her. "Blight dragged me here," Her piercing eyes slowly turned back, burning a hole in Finnick's face, the sole proof of the little affection the woman had towards him. "Charming. Make sure to say hi from me," Finnick grinned as Johanna scoffed, placing her hand on her hip and rolling her eyes dramatically. He could only nod, leaving the victor from the 7th District be as he made his way through the party again.

"They just did it right," one of the men in the group behind Finnick stated loudly, alcohol audible on his tongue by the volume of his voice. "Getting Capitol into their story, creating a perfect ballad except both of them survived to live the happily ever after," Finnick stopped in his tracks, the glass full of liquid spilling a bit on the grass under him, as he halted too quickly, not entirely sober either. He groaned as some of the drink got on his shoes but it didn't stop him from listening closely. "Do you get it? They are not harrassed by Snow or anyone, except the Capitol's undying obssession. They just continued to live in District 12, leaving as if nothing happened, as if they haven't just dismissed the whole history of the hunger games," a woman shrieked. Finnick smirked. Imagine leaving like nothing happened. That would be nice.

"That would be nice," another boy voiced the same thought. "To leave and spend your life with someone like that. They survive the games with you so you have someone to lean on, support, love, Capitol doesn't bother you that much, just to see what you already do naturally, it's-"

Freedom, was the word on Finnick's tongue. He didn't hear the rest of the sentence as it was drowned out by the sound of Finnick's blood flowing, his heart beating out of his chest as his eyes widened. Freedom, support, protection- no more abuse, no more hell, just peace. Finally, a bit of peace for Finnick Odair. His head spinned, his stomach turning from the sudden imagination, a certain heat spreading through his body, coming from his chest. The flame burned, burned in his eyes as he looked around, his eyes falling on you.

You were perfect. Capitol didn't have an exact opinion on you which was hurting your reputation as one of the victors. You could use some of those blessings Finnick was showered with daily. And he could use you. As his freedom.

His fast loud steps made you turn just before he stopped inches away from you, his feet rocking him back and forth for a while until he stabilised himself. You smirked as you thought about whether he was drunk, wanting to talk with you, but you were sure he had to be when his words hit your ears.

"Come on a date with me,"

You couldn't help but let out a loud snort, immediately clasping your hand over your mouth, the noise still audible. "What the fuck," your eyes landed back on his, the dark browns burning like two coals. "You're serious?" you stopped laughing, your eyes widening at him. "Yes," he nodded, falling silent again, waiting for your answer. "Why?" was another question that slipped out of your mind. You seemed to have caught him off guard, his right leg now tapping nervously. It was a good question. He didn't know himself, why, he just knew he was drunk enough to come up with such idea and sober enough to make it work. But he didn't think of you're answer taking so long. And you partially enjoyed it, finally seeing that confident Finnick Odair uneasy, his state suddenly depending on your answer. It made you wonder what was in it for him.

"Why not?" he finally spoke, voice raspy.

"Why yes?" you retorted back, making him roll his eyes. "We barely know each other, and correct me if I'm wrong, but this is actually about fifth time in our lives we even acknowledged each other,"

"So? Please, Y/n. I need just one date," he groaned, taking a step closer, you refusing to back away. It was always games, everywhere you went, the play never stopped.

"You think you can woo me with just one date?" you lifted your eyebrow in disbelief.

"Absolutely."

➷ ➷ ➷

>>part 2

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

[gravedwe11er]

Prime and Protector

Dusted off my writing skills to try my hand at some of the rarepair event prompts! Big thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for making you read mecha lingo. I will do it again.

Pairing: Rodimus/Deadlock

Cw: none

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: In which Deadlock's plans get drastically disrupted within the span of a single cycle by the prettiest pair of blue optics he's ever seen. And also politics. Can't forget that bit.

If Deadlock had known just how utterly, mind numbingly, spark crushingly boring this job would be, he might not have taken it after all.

Well, no. That's a lie. He’d never be stupid enough to say no to that kind of shanix. When you’re an up-and-coming gun for hire and some noble bastard contacts you, shoving a datapad with the most zeroes you’ve ever seen on it in front of your optics, you’re going to take it, no matter how hard or unpleasant the gig is.

Even if the mech they want dead is the new Prime.

It’s not like Deadlock has some sort of a moral objection to it. As far as he’s concerned, Primus has never done a single good thing for him and neither have any of his chosen, so really, why should he care. This Prime’s a mech like any other, and he’ll die like one too.

That is, if Deadlock could ever get anywhere near the guy. He’s been here for a month already, employed as a guard for the primal residence with the help of the new squeaky-clean records his client got for him, and so far, he has yet to see the Prime anywhere outside a holoscreen. Being the newest mech on payroll, the understandably paranoid chief of security has had him standing outside one of the dozen nearly unused side entrances, out of the way of anyone even slightly important.

Probably until he proves himself to not be an assassin sent here to kill his charge or something like that. Hah.

He’s currently alone, his partner for the day having been called away to deal with an unspecified situation in some other part of the ostentatiously huge residence and leaving him to his own devices. If Deadlock were a betting mech, he’d put his favorite pistol on this being a test, so he stubbornly fights the urge to nod off right where he stands and at least pretends he’s keeping a watchful optic on his surroundings.

Something he turns out to be grateful for when, barely a few klicks later, the elevator separating the Prime’s tower from the rest of the senatorial residential district starts showing signs of activity. Straightening up further, he stands at parade rest with his ridiculous electric spear held up at a perfect angle just as the elevator opens, spitting out two mechs in the middle of a heated argument.

The first is undoubtedly some prissy upper caste bastard, his thin, purely decorative cream-colored armor polished to a mirror shine. But it’s the second one, his arm held by the fancy fragger in a grip so tight it’s visibly denting his plating, that makes Deadlock tense up.

The new Prime looks a bit different than on the holos, his paint nanites changed to blues and purples instead of the usual reds and golds, and he’s visibly scratched up. Reeking of exhaust and burnt rubber, Deadlock would bet he was just dragged away from a street race, which is a shock in and of itself. What really gets him, though, are the sharp, almost bitten off glyphs flying out of his mouth, colored with the strong and unmistakable nyonian slum accent.

Deadlock tries not to stare too hard as the two mechs keep shouting at each other, his presence going unnoticed for the moment. In the few official broadcasts he’s made since his appointment to office, the Prime had sounded like any other noble slagger, the I am better than you attitude oozing out of every polished, perfectly pronounced glyph, but now he’s guessing they must have been heavily edited to hide the mech’s less than stellar origins.Which just begs the question, how in the pit was some nyonian allowed to get anywhere near the matrix in the first place?

Shaking himself out of his inner turmoil and shelving his speculations for the moment, Deadlock turns his attention back on his mark and his enraged minder, having no trouble listening in on their debate with just how fragging loud they’re being.

“-an utter disgrace to the Primal line! Escaping your guard detail, engaging in illegal races and shirking your duties! Again!” scolds the noble with his grating, uppity voice, and Deadlock dislikes him immediately. “How many more times must I tell you to conduct yourself as a mech of your statute!”

The white mech closes his optics, attempting to calm himself while the Prime sulkily stares at the ground. “This cannot be allowed to happen again. If you are unable to behave yourself, then we shall endeavor to find someone who will make it so.” he adds, more quietly now, trying to stare his unrepentant looking ward down despite being a helm shorter.

“Like you don’t already do that?” drawls the Prime, causing the other to take in a slow, calming invent before speaking up again.

“Have you considered General Slipwing’s proposal? I believe he would be the ideal Lord protector for someone of your… temperament.”

That seems to bring some energy to the Prime’s frame, Deadlock watching the mech finally rip his arm out of his minder’s grip to gesticulate wildly. “What? Absolutely not! The guy’s a total bore, not to mention insufferable! I am not gonna deal with him for a moment longer than I have to!”

With a dainty flick of his wrist, the white mech waves off his leader’s protests. “Perhaps the proximity to someone calm and responsible would be beneficial for you, my lord Prime,” he says, tone deceptively mild, not at all masking the insult in his statement.

“No way. Nope. I’m saying no and that’s final, you can’t make me,” shouts the Prime, shaking his helm violently. “We’re done here. I can find a way to my own rooms just fine, and you can go back to all those oh-so-important other duties that you keep reminding me you have.”

With that, the mech turns away from the irate noble and begins stomping his way to the entrance gate, Deadlock quickly returning to parade rest and doing his best to look like he hasn’t just been listening to every single word to come out of these mechs’ mouths. The Prime only makes it a few steps before he suddenly looks up, meeting Deadlock’s gaze with the most striking set of blue optics he’d ever seen.

He finds himself frozen as the leader of the entire cybertronian empire stares at him with an odd, considering look, the two standing close enough for Deadlock to feel the mech’s field when it flares out. It’s unusually strong, and warm too, despite the undercurrent frazzle of irritation, with an echo of something ancient and powerful and other that makes him suppress the urge to shiver.

The moment lasts for a few nanoklicks before the Prime stirs to life, pointing at him with one brightly colored digit.

“You!”

Only vorns of practice stop Deadlock from flinching as he tries to quell a wave of rising panic. Could the Prime have recognized him from somewhere? Frag, has Deadlock killed someone close to him, maybe? He doesn’t remember seeing this mech before, but he could have had a reformat and Deadlock would be none the wiser. Hoping to salvage the situation, he forces out an almost calm sounding “Yes?” before remembering to quickly tack on a “my lord” at the end of the sentence.

Out of all the things Deadlock could have expected, “You could be my Protector!” rolling off the Prime’s glossa was not it.

This time, Deadlock really does twitch, a staticky wheeze coming out of his vocalizer. The Prime’s optics widen, seemingly startled by his own words, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before a shout from behind him takes both of their attention away.

“Have you lost your mind?!” the white noblemech shouts, quickly striding to the Prime’s side. “You would reject dozens of proposals from Cybertron’s elite, yet this is who you would have as your Protector?”

“Well, maybe I don’t want any of them,” says the Prime after a moment of hesitation, crossing his arms defiantly. “Maybe I think, uh-,“ a quick ping against his ID pin, “Deadlock here would be better suited for the job. What about it?”

“What about- Preposterous!” yells the prissy bastard, gesticulating towards Deadlock, contempt obvious on his shiny faceplates. “What sort of jest are you making here? He is a nobody, a common guard, practically a gutter- ah.”

Practically a guttermech, is what that slagger meant, obviously. Deadlock can’t say it bothers him much – some of the things he’s heard aimed at him would peel this little mech’s paint right off, so all he feels about it is the urge to roll his optics, and maybe hit the guy a little bit.

The Prime, to his surprise, seems to take it much more personally.

“What was that?” he grinds out, leaning to loom over the shorter mech like some brawler in a bar. “What were you going to say, huh?”

The noble tries to open his mouth, but is quickly interrupted by the Prime’s finger poking him in the chestplate, the atmosphere quickly growing heated. Quite literally, in this case – Deadlock can see heat shimmering in the air, radiating from the Prime’s armor. A point one percenter ability, maybe?

“’Cause it sure sounds like you wanted to call him a guttermech. Did you forget where your Prime, Primus’ chosen, came from?”

“I apologize, my lord-“

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Just- Don’t let me catch you saying that again, or I swear I’m gonna find some way to make you regret it, understood?”

The mech turns to stare at the ground and nods, looking majorly displeased but sufficiently cowed for the moment, and the Prime steps away from him.

“Besides,” he throws over his shoulder as he makes his way over to Deadlock, “the Matrix approves of him, so there’s that.”

Deadlock’s helm is spinning. He’s having a hard time processing the mental whiplash of all he’s just heard, but he’s given no time to steady himself before the mech is right in front of him, his field stretching out in a friendly manner and mirroring the slightly awkward smile on his faceplate.

“So, what do you say? Would you at least consider it? I know it’s all a bit sudden,” says the Prime, accented words slipping quickly off his glossa. “But hey, you hungry? ‘Cause Primus below I’m starving, and maybe we could talk about all this over a cube?”

Deadlock doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like gravity has been turned upside down and he’s left floundering, spinning in the void of space. But the Prime’s optics are on his again, and they’re bright and wide and waiting for him to answer, so without really thinking about it, he manages to croak out an “Alright”.

As he’s led away by the excitedly chattering Prime, annoying noble left behind, his thoughts go strangely quiet. This could have been exactly the moment he’s been waiting for, the Prime distracted and vulnerable and alone; an easy target, really. Deadlock could have killed him in any of the empty hallways of the Primal residence, tucked his grey frame away into a random corner and escaped into the night, collecting his paycheck before running away to live out the rest of his days on a faraway colony in comfort and financial security.

With the Prime’s warm servo on his arm and those bright optics looking his way, it doesn’t even cross his mind.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

In the time it had taken the two of them to wander through seemingly endless fancy looking corridors to find themselves in this lavish sitting room, Deadlock had managed to shake off the mental whiplash and really started thinking through what’s been asked of him. Deadlock, a Lord Protector? Setting aside his real job for a moment, he could just not wrap his processor around why in the pit he’d been asked in the first place. As far as this mech knew, Deadlock was just one of the dozens of guards constantly keeping an eye on his residence. And that mention of the Matrix- It’s not like Deadlock knew much about it or how it worked, never believed it to be much more than a shiny trinket, but if that wasn’t the case? Could it really consider him, him, to be a fitting Protector for this odd little Prime?

Which was why, when they sat down and the Prime handed him a cube, the first question to roll off his glossa was, “Why me?”

“Everyone here sure seems to think I am, but I’m really not,” mutters the Prime, or Rodimus, as he’s been invited to call him, lazily swirling around his own cube of the purest energon Deadlock had ever seen, let alone tasted. Forcing himself to sip it at a measured pace instead of knocking it down like the starving empty he’s been until recently, he can’t help but stare at the Prime’s ridiculously expressive faceplates as he speaks.

“They really don’t want me here. I was never supposed to be a Prime, pit, I was never supposed to get anywhere near the Matrix! But, well, I guess Primus had his own opinion on that,” says Rodimus, throwing Deadlock a cheeky grin.

“So, when it became obvious they really couldn’t pry the thing out of me,” he says, tapping the center of his chestplate, “the senate and the nobles started trying to control me instead. Lightfall has been throwing Protector candidates at me for ages, pretty much the whole time I’ve been in charge. Probably hoping one of them could beat me into submission or something.”

Deadlock rubs his free hand over his finial, helm aching. “That still doesn’t explain why me. We met today.”

“What, you’re saying I haven’t immediately won you over with my shining personality and even shinier polish?” the Prime jokes, spoiler wings wiggling in the most ridiculous display Deadlock has ever seen, and he unexpectedly finds himself fighting a smile.

“But really,” Rodimus sobers a bit, meeting Deadlock’s yellow optics with his own stunning, bright blues, making something inside his chest flutter, “I need someone in my corner. Someone without a political agenda, someone who knows how regular bots live down there, outside of all- this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the riches around them with a downward twist to his mouth.

Contempt colors the Prime’s voice, something very much unusual for a mech of his statute. Then again, if he’s right about his assumption, Rodimus’ origins are far from noble. Oh, and speaking of-

“You’re from Nyon, right?”

The Prime jolts at the interruption before nodding, a surprised smile spreading on his faceplate. “Guilty as charged. You ever been?”

“Once.” On a job. He didn’t stick around for long after the deed was done, would have been dumb idea, but-

Seeing the poor people of Nyon sticking together, helping one another, so different to the violence of the Dead End back alleys he’d crawled out of, made something feel tight in his chest. He tried not to dwell on it.

“Ha, nice! Now, I’m not the best with accents, but lemme guess: Rodion?”

“Got it in one,” says Deadlock with the tiniest hint of a smile, and the two share a look of mutual understanding, no further glyphs needed. There is a certain solidarity in hailing from some of the worst slagpits Cybertron has to offer and, Prime or not, it’s something that never really leaves you.

There’s a pause as Rodimus takes a sip of his fuel before turning back to Deadlock, expression grim. “So, you get it then. You know the slag that goes on outside the tower districts, the way the ‘worthless nobodies’ are treated by the same mechs that are supposed to be their benevolent leaders,” he scoffs.

“But I’m not gonna let them. I believe I was chosen for a reason, that Primus knew things need to change. That I could be the one to change them,” he says, stubborn determination shining through his field.  “But hey, surprisingly, the council is really not happy about that. They’ve been pushing back against everything I try to do, tying it down in complex bureaucracy stuff I don’t really get yet and nobody will explain to me. Pit, I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised if they tried to get me assassinated!”

At that, Deadlock has to suppress a wince, trying to chase away an unexpected frisson of guilt and failing.

“But you, I got a good feeling about you,” says Rodimus brightly, putting a now gold colored servo on Deadlock’s arm and making him feel even worse. “If you became my Protector, we could make things better! We could build better housing in Rodion and get more fuel to Nyon, or push for stricter safety regulations in the mines! We could really make a difference!”

Setting his cube down, the Prime reaches a servo towards him. “I know this is a lot, I know it’s unexpected, but please? Would you help me with this?”

Deadlock stares at the offered servo, thoughts flying around in his processor at light speed. This bot has to be terribly naïve, unbelievably impulsive and potentially mad to be suggesting the second highest government position to a someone he met a few joors ago and who is, unbeknownst to him, an assassin sent here to extinguish his spark.

But Deadlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. About all the times he felt hopeless, helpless to save himself or anyone else. About how the system chewed him up and spat him out, made him feel less than worthless, until he clawed his way out over the greyed-out frames of his targets.

About how this bright opticed, newly minted Prime looked at Deadlock as if he was the solution to all his problems, lovely and honest and maybe a tiny bit desperate. How it made him feel like he mattered. How, for the first time in his miserable functioning, he could maybe, just maybe, change something for the better.

“Did the Matrix really say I should be Protector?”

“Well,” hummed Rodimus, faceplates twisting up in thought, “not exactly? It doesn’t speak, not in words, and it can’t see into the future or anything. But it knows things, knows bots all the way to their sparks, and it communicates that through feeling. Or maybe song, I guess.”The Prime chuckles, waving his servo around vaguely. “It’s really hard to describe, you’d just have to hear it for yourself. But yeah, it’s got a really good feeling about you. Feels like I should do my best to keep you around.”

Reaching out towards Deadlock once more, Rodimus wiggles his digits with an inviting grin. “And honestly, I couldn’t agree more. So, come on! What do you say, Deadlock? Wanna give this better future thing a try with me?”

He thinks about it. He thinks about his paycheck, his plans for a colony getaway, the guns in a hidden subspace pocket he could pull out in a flash and end this fascinating, perplexing, unbelievable bot’s life. He thinks about Dead End, about Nyon, about Kaon, Helex, Tarn, about all the places full of forsaken mechs, mechs just like the two of them. He thinks about Rodimus’ optics, the brightest of blues and full of tentative hope.

Well then.

With a sigh, already dreading the inevitable helmaches that are definitely going to come from this, he accepts his Prime’s outstretched servo, and feels his spark spin faster at the broad, joyful smile on Rodimus’ faceplates.

Looks like he’s gotta inform his client about a change of plans.

Oh, and that reminds him-

“So. About that whole assassination thing you were worried about…”

Taglist: @showstopper35

[chalkscene]

lovebrush chronicles ⇢ NOT LEAVING THIS GARDEN OF EDEN

you did follow through your plan, you tell yourself. you saved earth and went straight back home. you just didn’t plan on going back to eden. after all, home is where the heart is.

ft. ayn alwyn, alkaid mcgrath, lars rorschach & clarence clayden

note: reimagined eden endings because i’m still sad i didn’t pull a single eden ssr illustra <//3 also i apologize for the big blocks of texts lmao

“hey, chief. remember little leaf?” o’connor suddenly asks. AYN freezes at the mention of his second-in-command’s endearment for you and though he doesn’t mean to intimidate his companion, there’s a permanent glare in his gaze on o’connor which makes the latter panic in fear. o’connor’s hands shoot straight to his head as he begs, “please don’t burn my hair. it was just a question.” the chief stifles a snort, “i’m not gonna do anything.” o’connor sighs in relief before ayn answers his earlier inquiry, “i remember. why do you ask?” “i was just wondering. how do you think she’s doing?” in an attempt to mask the longing he still feels since you left, ayn simply shrugs, “safe, probably. she’s home now.” “she is.” it’s not o’connor who speaks this time and just like that, ayn feels his entire body go tense—he’d know that voice anywhere. unbeknownst to him, you’ve been standing just a few feet behind him. the moment you walked into the busy tavern today, the members of the order perked up at the sight of you but before they could express the slightest glee, you urgently signalled them to hush. you’re grateful that despite their undying loyalty to ayn, they play along. when you finally speak, the room falls into complete silence as every single member of the order awaits ayn’s reaction. his suspicions are confirmed by the smirk from o’connor who’s now looking past him and straight at you, beaming, “hey, little leaf!” ayn spins on his heel to face you, the usually blunt man now rendered speechless. you can’t help but tease him, “i can’t believe i managed to sneak up on you. you’re losing your touch, ayn.” the seconds that follow pass in a blur and you find yourself in the strong yet gentle embrace of ayn’s arms once again. “you’re back…” ayn mutters, clear disbelief in his tone as if to convince himself that he’s not dreaming and you barely contain your giggles, feeling hopelessly smitten with this boy, “like you said. i’m home.”

with the lantern glowing in his hand, ALKAID is strolling along a commercial district—the exact replica of the street he took you to in eden—and like they always do, his thoughts drift back to you. if you could see this new eden, would you be proud of him? he can’t help but wonder. he hasn’t fully regained his capacity to feel a multitude of emotions since he paid the price to rebuild eden into a better place but one thing’s for certain—he yearns for you. but he also knows that if a star were to fall from the sky tonight, it would be incredibly selfish of him to wish for your return. he can only wish for your safety and happiness wherever you are. that should be enough, he tells himself. you already granted him three days to be his lover—much more than what he deserved after everything he had done. he’s not in any position to demand for more. but the universe is quick to differ because sitting on a bench just a few feet away now is your figure. before he can stop himself, alkaid calls your name and you immediately turn to the sound of his voice. both falling in a state of disbelief at the sight of each other, neither of you say anything for a moment. “hi,” you speak first. it takes some effort but alkaid manages to find his voice, “what are you doing here?” “i didn’t know where to look for you,” you suppose that’s not exactly what he meant with his question but your reply still answers it all the same—i came back because i promised i’d find you. your eyes then dart to the lantern in his hands, “you still have it.” “i kept it. i don’t know why i brought it with me though,” he admits bashfully, his boyish grin so childlike it leaves no trace of the master of eden he used to be. and it’s the loveliest you’ve ever seen him. “i was going to give it to you before you left,” alkaid adds, “you can have it now so you can bring it back home… if you want it.” “if that’s the only reason you’re giving it to me then i can’t take it,” you try to sound as solemnly as you can and guilt immediately gnaws at you when alkaid visibly deflates at the rejection. still, out of respect for your decision, he simply gives a resigned nod, ”i understand.” “i don’t think you do.” you can no longer fight the smile pulling on the corners of your lips and alkaid looks nothing short of confused. “alkaid, i’m staying.”

after a long trip beyond the borders of eden, LARS couldn’t be more ecstatic to go home and get some rest but as he rummages his backpack for his keys, something at the foot of the door catches his eye—a small pot of cactus. maybe his mind is playing tricks on him but the prickly succulent looks identical to the one he gifted you during your time in eden. he recounts the past events, from your arrival in this world down to the moment you left. he’s sure he packed the cactus for you. “at least, put that in a box before you stuff it in my bag next time,” you quip as you come into lars’s view, raising your finger to show him the small bandage over the spot where the cactus pricked you. with the traveler stood frozen and speechless, you take it upon yourself to cross the distance between the two of you. soon, lars is reaching for your hand as if to inspect the tiny wound but that is the furthest thing from his mind right now. he’s trying to process the sight of you standing in front of him and holding his hand and that this is all, in fact, very real. still, he manages to match your teasing. “how about daisies, hm? would that be better?” brazenness drips from his tone but there’s obvious sincerity swimming in his eyes. you can’t even describe how badly you missed those blue eyes. “much,” you tell him. in an instant, the playful atmosphere dissipates until there’s nothing but genuine longing in the air surrounding you both. “i thought you went home,” he says softly but you don’t miss the subtle shiver in his voice as he keeps it steady. “i did.” “why did you come back?” “i wanted to see you again.” “but it’s safer there.” “i feel safer with you.” lars doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. “i missed you, lars.” “i missed you, too,” he mutters as he takes you in his arms, planting a chaste kiss on your forehead, “are you sure about this? i don’t think i can let you go again.” with a giggle, you cradle his face and bring him closer for a kiss that he’s eager to reciprocate. “i don’t want you to,” you mumble against his lips.

eden has begun to live up to its name since CLARENCE took over but sometimes, the falcon in him still comes out and clarence finds himself at a shooting range practicing his aim—not that he ever needs it. he can hit multiple bullseyes in a row within seconds. but better safe than sorry and today is no exception. when he shoots the last of his ammunition, an audible thud shortly follows, catching his attention. he immediately glances at the target and at the center, among his many gunshots, one rubber bullet stands out. on full alert, clarence scans the area to deduce the possible source of the dart only to be met by the last person he ever expected to find in eden—you. “i didn’t think i’d get that on the first try,” you quip. “what are you doing here?” the urgency in his voice contradicts the cheeky expression on your face. “i took some shooting lessons and i wanted to show you,” you tell him proudly, “but i’m not sure if they’re eden standards.” clarence huffs out a laughter at your remark as he shakes his head in amusement. your playful wit hasn’t changed one bit, to his relief. “if you want me to teach you, just ask,” he banters. “i literally hit a bullseye,” you retort but clarence only shrugs, “beginner’s luck.” his mock indifference reminds you of the clarence—or rather, the falcon—you met when you first arrived in eden. it’s only been a few months but it all feels like a distant memory that you can’t help but laugh about it now. not wanting to waste another second apart from him, you cross the space separating you, running into his arms where he catches you with ease. “i was scared you wouldn’t remember me,” you mutter against his shoulder and a soft chuckle escapes him as he deems the mere idea of your confession ridiculous, “i never stopped thinking about you.” when you eventually pull away, clarence’s gaze drops to the gun in your hand. “what kind of gun is that?” “this?” you hold it up so clarence can get a better look at it, “it’s a nerf gun. and it’s just a toy.” you point the gun at clarence and aim for his arm. before he can protest, you pull the trigger to prove it causes no serious injury, “see?” still, the impact makes him flinch. “where did you get it?” “i brought it with me.” the insinuation of home in your reply slightly dampens clarence’s mood. he can’t help but ask, “how long are you staying?” “depends,” you answer in a tone that’s unwaveringly cheery, “how long are the lessons you promised?” the corners of clarence’s lips quirk up at your joshing and hope begins to bubble in his chest, “as long as you want them.”

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

Everlark (Catching Fire, Ch. 17)

katniss looking at peeta to help save her like he did last year when they're being questioned by haymitch and effie after the individual assessments is so cute (and this time he can't because he did something equally rebellious!)

peeta painting that picture of rue is so him. soft but glaringly rebellous. revolution through kindness. and katniss loves him for it

the fact that they both did something similar and scandalous, without meaning too. again being so in tune. and the fact that it makes katniss appreciate peeta in a new way. catching fire is really her falling for him so completely, after really uncovering every part of him. she's so fascinated by him

they have haymitch so stressed though. a single mom who works two jobs!

katniss initiates the hug with peeta, after a few days of frostiness

her finally understanding what peeta said about not being a piece in the capitol's games, after learning just exactly how he avoids being that through his personality and choices

i made this post a while ago and here katniss kinda confirms how loving peeta/her relationship itself is an act of rebellion and defiance in the face of the capitol: "the beauty of this idea is that my decision to keep peeta alive at the expense of my own life is itself an act of defiance... my private agenda dovetails completely with my public one."

she's saving him selfishly for herself and her own peace of mind but she knows that her doing this is revolutionary

"i just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you" peeta pls

them sleeping together again making katniss realise how much she's craved him and his warmth. they chase away each other's nightmares wrapped in each other's arms ugh

them just lazing together in bed speaks so much to the relationship they've developed since the victory tour. they're so content and at peace just being together.

the rooftop scene!!!

another instance of them having normalcy in their lives and how they relish being together in it. it's nothing extraordinary but they're so happy just being together.

peeta sketching katniss, katniss lying with her head on his lap while he plays with her hair

her allowing him to live in that moment forever. her joining him in that moment forever. ugh.

the toasting ceremony that suzanne made up. like if it wasn't clear that everlark were the intended endgame from this then idk for you! district 12 couples marry by toasting a piece of bread (ahem) over a fire (ahem). the toasting ceremony symbolises union. one of the things that went over my head reading this as a 14 year old

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - A Songfic

Pairing: None 

Rating: General, although my blog is, as always, 18+ only 

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane

Summary: I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

A/N: @whatsnewalycat said that The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by the Postal Service was a Marcus Pike song and then I listened to it during a thunderstorm and imagined a whole scene based on it. I’m not sure whether or not to call this a songfic, but there are several direct quotations from the lyrics and the “plot” of this follows the song pretty closely.  For best results, listen to this song while you read. The lyrics are posted at the end of the fic <3

Masterlist

A lone figure cuts through the wet fog, his collar turned up and shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to ward off the elements. The faded leather jacket may have been sufficient enough for even the coldest winter days in Austin, but against the drizzle and wind in this new climate, it only succeeds at keeping him dry. Mostly. The notion that he may not be as well-prepared as he had originally thought himself to be grates on him, shame niggling at the back of his spine at the realization that he doesn’t even know where to go to purchase a winter coat.

A gust of wind sends thousands of miniscule, stinging droplets of water into his face, making him grimace, and Marcus wonders to himself how it could possibly still be raining with temperatures so close to freezing.

It seems as though he’s stopped at every street crossing, because of course he is, and he squints against the endless line of headlights and brake lights extending in either direction, blurring and distorting in the soggy weather, as he waits for the traffic lights to turn.

It gets dark so early here.

His phone buzzes against fingers shoved in his pockets, and he fishes it out to read the text message that flashes on the screen.

Sorry, I think you might still have my spare key? If so can you mail it back? Thx.

The cavity of his chest feels empty and raw as his vision seems to darken around the words, twisting and warping them much like the rain and the headlights. Marcus pockets the phone again without responding and stares blankly at the ground. He thinks about the endless, pitch-black tunnels stretching out in every direction beneath him, wondering how many feet of asphalt and concrete there are between the bottoms of his feet and the top of the cavernous expanse of the DC underground. He imagines the sidewalk crumbling, sending him down into the unknown depths.

In reality, he takes the escalator across the street.

The station is buzzing with life–as it always seems to be, no matter the hour–and Marcus watches vibrant humanity swirl around him. Two teenagers sharing the same pair of headphones. A tired-looking mother with two young children. A woman in a business suit, eyes glued to her phone. A disheveled old man, smelling of booze, that everyone subconsciously steps around without even a look in his direction. 

Marcus fishes in his pocket for his metro card, his fingers bumping against the badge he had immediately unclipped from his lapel upon leaving work–the one that spells out a single word with big block letters, just another indignity upon all of the other indignities he’s suffered this week.

When he had asked why his regular badge–the one he’s clipped on his lapel every morning for over a decade–wasn’t sufficient, the bored door attendant tried to explain about building access being tied to his network credentials, which were tied to something called “Active Directory,” and it couldn’t be done right now because they were experiencing downtime after a backup server failed, and Marcus didn’t really understand what any of this meant or why this hadn’t all been set up beforehand, but there was hardly a point in trying to get answers to his questions because none of it would speed up the activation of his new credentials, nor the delivery of his new laptop, which wasn’t arriving until Monday.

None of this was done with malicious intent, of course; nor is he the only new employee affected, going by the line of badged Agents standing in line every morning this week to get the day’s temporary access, but Marcus still feels like a marked man. Separate. Apart. Singled-out. 

I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

It only compounds upon that same feeling inside of him: that feeling that he’s on some sort of strange vacation, and that soon he’ll be able to return home. Home. To his little duplex in Austin, where he shared one wall with Mrs. Ruth Galloway, the eighty-five year-old widow he had a cup of tea with every Sunday at two pm. To the city he knows, the field office where he’d spent most of his career, with familiar rooms and familiar faces… where she walks through the familiar halls. With him. 

Marcus swallows thickly, shoving the painful lump down into his stomach. 

No, he can’t go home.

The spacious condo certainly doesn’t feel like home when he opens the door to find the large living room dark and cold and foreboding, although that’s probably mostly his fault–the walls are still lined with moving boxes, most of them still half-full with his belongings, messy and unkempt after rummaging through them to find the essentials and leaving the rest.

When he had toured the building, two weeks before the move, the large residence felt full of dreams, of possibilities, rather than empty and sterile. Marcus remembers going from room to room, his head filled with images of an idealistic future: a king-sized bed, his and hers towels in the pristine bathroom, a bookshelf large enough to fit all of their books in the first spare room, and, in the second spare room… a crib. 

Now, they’re just two empty rooms. 

The fridge is empty too, Marcus suddenly remembers, having not had a chance to find a grocery store yet. He’s been living out of takeaway containers, not even bothering to open the box of dishes and silverware. He takes out two styrofoam boxes–one half-filled with leftover Pad Thai, the other with chicken Tikka Masala, and dumps them side-by-side into the same container with a half-grimace.

Beats going back out into the weather.

There are two beers left in a six-pack bought three days ago, so he opens one and takes a long sip while the microwave heats his food. He thumbs through the mail he left on the kitchen counter absentmindedly, finding mostly junk advertisements and coupons, but a takeout menu for a Sushi restaurant catches his eye. As he sets it on top of several other menus he’d accumulated over the last couple of days, the microwave beeps, alerting him to the fact that his dinner is ready. 

Marcus sits at the kitchen table and flicks on the TV in the living room, setting the channel to some random rerun of a syndicated sitcom that he doesn’t recognize, mostly for background noise. He pulls a somewhat-soggy copy of the Washington Post he snagged from the breakroom from his messenger bag and flips through the pages without really reading any of the headlines until he finds the crossword. He halfheartedly fills out the clues as he eats, the canned laugh track from the show filtering in and out of his awareness. The clue ‘strips in geography class (6 letters)’ finally causes him to rub at his temples, setting down the pen as he rises to his feet to toss the empty container and bottle in the trash. 

The other beer is popped open, and Marcus settles down on the couch, flipping through channels. He pauses briefly on a black and white film–Roman Holiday, he recognizes after a minute or two of watching–but when Ann and Joe kiss on the riverbank, he quickly switches to a basketball game instead. Keeping the volume low, he lets his mind wander as he blankly watches the teams run back and forth on the court, not all that interested in the score. 

He needs to buy food. He needs to find somewhere he can get a winter coat. He needs to find a post office, he suddenly remembers, thinking of the text message from earlier. He checks the time–late, probably too late. Wait, no–it’s two hours earlier in Austin. Two beers is hardly enough to even feel the alcohol, but apparently it’s enough to dull his sense of judgment, because he finds himself pulling out his phone. The call goes straight to voicemail, and he tries not to think about the possibility that she’s screening her calls because of him.

“Hi, uh… Hi. I’m sure you’re busy, but I got your message earlier about the key, and… I think I do have one, yeah, but I’m not sure… where, exactly. I’m still in the process of unpacking, got a couple more boxes to go through,” Marcus says, looking at the large pile of boxes in front of him and knowing he’s got many more throughout the house. “I’ll make it a priority to find it and send it off this weekend.

“It’s really nice here,” he continues, seemingly not able to stop the flow of words once they’ve started. “There’s a Thai place down the street that you’d like, but the spring rolls are so-so. Not like that one place we found in Ridgetop, remember that one?” Marcus chuckles softly to himself, hardly recognizing the sound of his own laughter, and it sends a pang down into his chest. “I–” he stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know things weren’t perfect between us. The–the timing wasn’t right, and there were a lot of… of uh, obstacles in our way, but I’ve been doing–” he huffs humorlessly, “–a lot of thinking over the past couple of days, and I think I understand now. I saw a life that I wanted, and… I pushed for it. I pushed too hard, without–without thinking about how you felt about it, about whether you were ready, whether you even wanted a life with me. You were… you were trying to tell me, that whole time… and I didn’t listen. But I… I think I finally see it–why I was the one worth leaving. It was never going to be me, it couldn’t have been. I ignored all the signs that I was pushing too hard, not listening, pressuring you…” He takes a shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. You were right to leave. I–I wish you the best, Teresa.”

*

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

The Postal Service

Smeared black ink

Your palms are sweaty

And I'm barely listening

To last demands

I'm staring at the asphalt wondering

What's buried underneath

I'll wear my badge

A vinyl sticker with big block letters

Adhering to my chest

That tells your new friends

I am a visitor here, I am not permanent

And the only thing

Keeping me dry is

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

The district sleeps alone tonight

After the bars turn out their lights

(Where I am) And send the autos swerving

Into the loneliest evening

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

[catindabag]

That’s it. Here are my personal Top 10 favorite TBOSAS fanfics to read on the weekends.

PS: Most of them were published even before the trailer for the upcoming movie premiered.

So here are my recommendations:

1. The Plinth Prize by Redex

This oneshot is a certified classic angsty Snowjanus/SnowPlinth fic. And honestly, this is why I support my fellow SnowPlinth shippers, cuz this story could definitely replace the last 3 chapters of TBOSAS and I wouldn’t even question it.

2. Nothing to lose by HopelessRomantikk

This oneshot is another Snowjanus/SnowPlinth fic. However, this one is quite romantically sweet as cinnamon with lots of kisses. Just play the song Say Yes to Heaven by Lana Del Rey in the background and you’re good to go.😘

3. Reflections of the Garden by madzdolin

This one is an angsty SnowBaird fic that actually gives you one of the best bittersweet endings ever. It also gave the readers a proper closure to Coryo’s relationship with both Lucy Gray and Sejanus. You might even cry a little when you read the last chapter. Just saying~.😚

4. Saving Each Other by flipflop_diva

This oneshot is one of those unique SnowBaird fics that gives the readers a good “What if” scenario to seriously think about, cuz in this AU, Coryo doesn’t escape the Arena with Sejanus. So he’s basically stuck with Lucy Gray as another “tribute,” until they both won by waiting and poisoning everybody else. And yes, Reaper was not amused.

5. You Complete Me by gaytriforce

This oneshot is another classic Snowjanus/SnowPlinth confession fic. Moreover, I really loved the simple way of how they got together. And to be honest, this short fic could replace the whole Peacekeeper arc and I wouldn’t even notice the change.

6. Pursuit Predation by evaerobics

This oneshot is that rare Snowjanus/SnowPlinth AU fic that deserves another 50 chapters. It basically gives the readers a “What if” scenario where Coryo was chosen to Mentor District two’s male Tribute, Sejanus Plinth. And yes, Sejanus kissed Coryo in front of his classmates before entering the Capitol Arena.

7. The last two loves of his life by boneslen

This one is a good bittersweet angsty SnowBaird/SnowPlinth fic. Basically, Lucy Gray was forced to become an Avox by Dr. Gaul. Sejanus is still dead. And Coryo is busy having a mental breakdown every second of the day. The newly elected President of Panem just really wants both his girlfriend and boyfriend back, ok. The Bi-panic is real with this one.

8. Roses and Nutmeg by PliaPlia

This Snowjanus/SnowPlinth oneshot features a very stressed out malnourished AF Coryo, who became quite ill because he keeps giving away his food to a very busy Tigris. Seriously, somebody give the poor cabbage boy some soup. Sejanus, call your Ma and feed your future boyfriend.

9. Feverish Dreams by Cordeliadumaurier

Let’s just agree that this long ass SnowBaird fic has the craziest story of the season. I mean, the revenge plot alone is amazing, and every single character is insane in their own way, even Lucy Gray. Moreover, everyone is just borderline obsessed with Coryo’s dead dad, Crassus Snow. Even dead Dean Casca Highbottom was freaking in love with Snow’s dead dad! So yeah, they’re all obsessed, depressed, and crazy. Everyone needs therapy, but Snow still lands on top. #Crasca4ever

10. The Sound of Snow Falling by PRES_CS_HGT

This HG/TBOSAS fic is one of my personal favorites. The plot alone is great and unique in its own way, because it features a very young and confused 5’4 and a half Coryo Snow waking up after the end of the Second Rebellion. Also, the new President, Alma Coin wants to place him inside the Arena as a Tribute for the crimes he doesn’t even remember committing. And his assigned Mentor, Katniss Everdeen hates him for some reason. And what the heck happened to Tigris?! Why is she so old?! And why does she look like a literal tiger?! Who knows, Coryo Snow.

Special Mention:

1. I’m so sorry, Coryo by HopelessRomantikk

Basically, this features Sejanus Plinth’s angsty POV in TBOSAS, and how he was secretly in love with Coryo Snow since forever. However, he still meets the same fate here.

2. The needle in the brain by Sweetlit

This TBOSAS AU fic is already wild and spicy like some Lana Del Rey album. The plot alone is great and full of mysteries. Moreover, this story’s “What if” scenario features a very desperate and depressed Coryo Snow seducing a heartbroken Dean Casca Highbottom to let him stay in the Capitol after winning the Hunger Games. And let’s just agree that if ever Crassus Snow reads this fic, he might as well burn Panem to the ground.

3. The Hanging Tree by SirFanfic

This oneshot features a regretful Coryo Snow, who decided to have a last minute change of heart and saved Sejanus from being hanged.

[httpscomexe]

Muzzle

Summary: Turns out, the butterfly effect can be real even without a butterfly to be affected. Now the only thing that can go wrong is the words that come out of your mouth.

(Find what I'm currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Bucky x Reader (Use of fake name)

Tags: @scott-loki-barnes @cjand10

Warnings: Mentions of shooting, mentions of sedation, mentions of guns. (There will be individual warnings each chapter)

Word Count: 2863 (Find all chapters here) Chapter 3

So what if you fucked up? Just because you patched him up, doesn’t mean you’ll ever see him again or have anything to do with Hydra, right? I mean you did them a favour if anything, making sure their precious Winter Soldier didn’t suffer.

“Panic near the Manhattan district when a violent shootout occurred last week. Damage happening all around the street. Cars windows smashed and delicate plates broken in antique stores and coffee shops. Only 2 civilians were found dead, shot by Hydra agents, and multiple others found with minor injuries.” The TVs volume is low as you mindlessly stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for your friend to call you back with whatever “good news” she claimed she had, you had waited hours, but still no call back. It was almost the next day, so you finally decided you should go to bed for the night.

You awoke to the sound of your alarm on your nightstand. Instead of immediately standing, you drag your hands down your face and then turn onto your stomach before screaming into your pillow. Only then do you continue with your normal morning routine, security would be there to inspect your dorm in about five more minutes, so all you had time to do was brush your teeth, and do your hair before there was a knock on your door, so with your toothbrush still in your mouth, you unlock and open the door to your dorm, not even bothering with a good morning as you step to the side immediately and three men storm in with their guns pointed forward, inspecting every inch and undusted corner or your room. As they inspect your room, you spit your toothpaste back into the bathroom sink and rinse your hands before cleaning your face, deciding to go without makeup.

“Okay ma’am, and now for the questions that we’re required to ask you by the-”

“My name is Clover Whittaker. I am the only person who lives in this dorm, no I have not seen any suspicious activity, men, women, or heard anything suspicious from anybody or gotten any suspicious texts or calls from either a hidden or known phone number.” You tell them, giving them your fake name. Only your closest friends would ever know about who you really are. “Why are you staring at me like that? Did I miss something?” You look up from the sandwich you were lazily throwing together.

“Well the thing is ma’am.” One of the men stepped forward. “We got an anonymous tip from someone. They said last week before the shooting that you had been in contact with the Winter Soldier. What do you have to say about that?” You look back and forth between the three men.

“He knocked on my door asking for help. I didn’t know who he was, I don’t really watch the news or keep up with anything happening.” You answer honestly before walking past them to grab a light jacket.

‘Well with your TV I just assumed you watched it every morning.” One of the other men nod towards your TV. The 24/7 news channel is still on your TV, you’d forgotten to turn it off last night and now some fundraiser was on there, something about a pumpkin patch near the college.

“Haha, so funny.” You laughed, your humour entirely dry as you toss a dirty shirt into your laundry bin. “Well sense I’ve been having fully armed, bullet proof government agents barging through my door every single morning, yeah, I’ve had the TV on the news a lot lately.”

“So I take it you don’t know who I am?” The last of the three finally speak up. He’s black, or kind of light skinned but you were sure it was just the way the ceiling light was hitting him. He also had a big ass bag that looked like it weighed a ton or two and some stupid looking goggles were perched up on his forehead.

“Nope.” You answer plainly before grabbing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. “Now if you excuse me, I need to get to class because unfortunately the grade that I get in maths could also potentially construct my entire future. Please leave my dorm.” You say quickly, waving your hand towards the door in a way that wasn’t meant to seem as rude as it did.

“Ma’am. We’re going to have to ask you to come with us.” Another man walked over and only now did you bother to read his nametag, it read “Coulson.”

“Stupid name…” You mumble, emitting a questioning ‘hmm’ from his closed lips. “Why should I come with you? Actually I don’t care. Don’t answer that. I’m not going.”

“Well see you don’t have a choice because if you refuse to come with us then we’re going to detain you and if you fight we will have to temporarily sedate you.”

“Sedate hmm?”

“Yes, sedate.”

“I feel like I should be calling my lawyer.”

“You don’t have one cause apparently you’re hiding from the law.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding from the law?”

“Anonymous tip.”

“Seriously?”

“This is your last chance, ma’am.”

“Please stop calling me ma'am. It makes me feel old and by the look on all three of your faces combined I’d say your ages would add up to at least three hundred, and there's only three of you so that’s not a compliment.”

“Well, we would refer to you by your real name but you still have refused to give it to us. So unless the name Clover is a nickname, don’t expect us to call you that.” The third one speaks up, last name “Barton,” on their nametag, also stupid.

“Right.” You sniffle awkwardly and part of you feels like running down the hall through the still opened door would be your best option but you weren’t bullet proof and their guns looked pretty real.

“Well?” The black one, who wasn’t wearing a nametag, spoke up.

“So what is your name? I mean you asked if I knew who you were and usually if the answer is ‘nope’ then normally you would tell them.”

“Sam Wilson.” He answers, his voice suddenly getting louder with either pride or annoyance, possibly both.

“You look darker on TV.”

“Okay.” Coulson says loudly, clapping his hands together. “You now have a limited option on what you say next. It will either be ‘I’ll come with you,’ ‘I’m not going anywhere with you guys,’ or you can run away and say whatever you decide so we can sedate you and get this over with.” He says.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Is it sarcastic?”

“Why is there an Avenger in my dorm?”

“Well I thought that was obvious. We’re part of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division, S.H.I.E.L.D for short.”

“Could’ve just said S.H.I.E.L.D the first time. Actually you could’ve said it before I made fun of all three of you, I would’ve already made up my mind.”

“You haven’t made fun of us though?” Barton spoke.

“Not outloud.” You mumble.

“Well then I’m assuming that means you’re coming with us now that you know we have two avengers and an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D in your dorm?”

“No actually I was gonna run.” You pause, watching as their brows quirk into confusion. “I said that outloud.”

“Yea, you did.” A new voice came from the open doorway and yet another man was standing in your dorm. This one you recognised and wanted to kill yourself over.

“Hey, Nick. How’s your eye?”

At first you were okay with waiting to be interviewed, then the clock passed thirty minutes and you’d had enough of waiting. “Hey.” You start to yell out, hoping for someone to come into the small room to see what you wanted, but no one came in. Instead there was a scratching sound before someone spoke to you through the speaker in the corner of two of the walls.

“Yes? Is everything alright?”

“No everythings no alright. Why am I just sitting in this uncomfortably hard metal chair when I was told I was being interviewed by a Hydra professional?”

“Well see no one wants to bother arguing with you. Everyone we’ve asked either suddenly needs to get lunch at nine in the morning or their fish needs bathing. So you’ll have to wait a while longer.”

“If I have to wait one more minute I’m not giving information to anyone.” Just then a door finally opens.

“Good morning.” The man says. “I’m agent Ross. It’s nice to meet you.” He holds his hand out to you after he crosses the table to shake your hand and you politely shake his hand. “And your name is?”

“Nice try.”

“Well I’d feel a lot better if I knew I wasn’t talking to a criminal. Or if I knew I was.”

“You’re not.” You pause and watch as he takes the seat across from you. “For the most part.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Back to the subject of why I’m here.”

“I haven’t even gotten there.”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t seem very threatened or uncomfortable considering you’re in a building full of Avengers and secret agents that aren’t governed by the US.”

“No, I’m pretty uncomfortable… At least physically.” You shift on your chair, your ass going numb. “Mentally I learnt from the best.” You look towards the blacked out window, you knew Nick Fury would be standing behind there with his arms crossed, eyes slightly squinted, and head slightly tilted.

“So it seems you know Fury pretty well?” Ross begins to go through his folders.

“Hey if we were just gonna talk about me, we could’ve just sat on my really comfortable cheap couch in my dorm and I could’ve ordered McDonalds.”

“You know, I think you’d get along really well with Mr. Stark.”

“I’ll pass.” You say quickly upon hearing his name.

“Oh? Did we finally find a sensitive subject?” He asks rhetorically.

“Another question about me and I’m not saying anything else. I’m running out of patience.”

“Right.” He says, pulling a pen out of his tit pocket and flipping his notebook to an empty page. “So, what exactly were you doing interacting with the Winter Soldier?”

“He came to my dorm really early in the morning and he was all bloody and gross so I patched him up, and let him shower, then he was on his way.”

“And why was he wounded?” He scribbles in his notebook.

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“None of my business.”

“A man with a muzzle on his face comes knocking at your door at three in the morning while you’re studying for your exams and he’s covered in blood and smells absolutely disgusting, also would be good to mention that he was carrying illegal weapons, multiple daggers, and there was a huge gun on his back, but you don’t question it or report it?”

“Would you question the embodiment of a felony?”

“No.” He admits. “But I would definitely report it the next day.”

“And who is gonna think reported it the next day when he finds out it was reported?” You cross one leg over the other. “Is he gonna think that the cult or whatever illegal makeup Hydra considers themselves reported him to the police, or is he gonna think it was the young little college girl that more than likely would never be able to overpower him and would probably obey simple laws and morals because she goes to medical school and stays up until three in the morning studying wounds.” Ross doesn’t respond, he only asks the next question.

“Have you seen him since that night?”

“Haven’t seen the man since the shooting.”

“Now here comes the big question.” He clicks his pen and closes his notebook. “Why didn’t he shoot you?”

“Would you shoot the person who stitched you up at three in the morning?”

“Well that depends. Am I also a brainwashed murder who can’t think for himself because everything I do is commanded by whomever currently has control over my brain and my current command was to kill every living being who falls into my eye sight? Or am I just me?” He asks, folding his hands and lending over the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Well if you actually payed the slightest attention to the news, you would know that the Winter Soldier has absolutely no control over his actions.” He slides a folder over to you, you open it and the Winter Soldier's face was on the first page with his name printed above it. “His name is James Buchanan Barnes. His friends, or the people who would call him a friend, call him Bucky, but were going to call him Barnes for the sake of time.” He leans back in his chair, locking his fingers together and placing his hands on his stomach. “Now. When he’s not being brainwashed into the Winter Soldier which was a personality created from a vial which makes him pretty damn hard to kill, he’s just a normal dude. He doesn’t remember who he’s killed, what he said, where he's been. When he visited your dorm that night, he was Barnes, just a normal dude aside from the life threatening injuries. But during the shooting he was the Winter Soldier.” He told you dumbly, watching your hands as you slid the folder back over to him. “So it’s not possible that he remembered you. Even if he did remember you, he had some pretty strict instructions to kill anyone he sees. Which should’ve included you, and your friend.”

“What’re you getting at?”

“We don’t currently know who’s controlling him, but you’re the only civilian who we know has been around the Winter Soldier in the past week.”

“Oh you pathetic mother-” You groan. “Really? You guys think I’m the one who’s controlling him?”

“It’s the only reasonable explanation.” He says, giving you a look that said it wasn’t his idea to bring you in, he knew it wasn’t you. “I mean, you took care of his wounds, managed to unlock a muzzle on his face that required a very complicated key or an extremely skilled thief or lockpicker, then while in public he not only did not shoot you but also listened when you didn’t want him to shoot your friend.” He sits up.

“Pretty big coincidence huh?” Was all you had to say. “I don’t know what to say to that other than I have no fucking idea what’s going on. But you should really consider looking into the anonymous tips you were given. I’m curious about whos behind them.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” You question, sitting back, slouching as you twiddle your thumbs. “Only one person knows my real name of my entire friend group, and he would never tell anyone.”

“Thank you.” Ross stands up, collecting his folders.

“I’m sorry what? Thank me for what?”

“Well you have a very small friend group. About seven people to be exact, two of which your genuinely close to, and both are male, one of which is an avenger so we know it’s not him, so that leaves us with-”

“Edward Leeds.” Phil Coulson walks up to the chubby kid who turned around to the sound of his name. “Phil Coulson, I work with S.H.I.E.L.D, and I’m here to question you about one of your friends.”

“Oh uh, okay which friend?” He crosses his arms. “Also you can just call me Ned. Wait you said S.H.I.E.L.D? Like THE S.H.I.E.L.D? Like the Strategic Homeland Intervention-”

“Yes. S.H.I.E.L.D. Now about your friend.”

“Yea what’s their name?”

“That’s the thing, we don’t remember her name. But here's a picture of her.” He pulls out his phone, and a live video of you shows on the screen, still sitting uncomfortably on the most useless chair on the planet.

“Oh that’s Clover.”

“Her real name preferably.”

“Clover.”

“You’re a very loyal friend Mr. Leeds.”

“Like I said, Ned is okay.”

“Yes but Mr. Leeds is less friendly and it makes you uncomfortable, so I’m going to use that. Now I’m going to ask for your friends real name one more time or I’m going to have to bring you into the interrogation room, same as hers and we have legal authority to torture you since the information could be vital to save thousands or even millions of lives.”

“No.”

“Her name is Jasper.” You smirk as Ned, who was sitting upright next you, his eyes not leaving the numerous torture devices, finally says, and it still isn’t the truth.

“What a friend Ned.” You say, your arms crossed as you try your hardest to look betrayed, even though it was yet another fake name, just one that was actually in the government's database.

“Full name preferably.”

“Jasper Rosefield.” He says.

“Well Ms. Jasper.” Agent Ross says. “Now we definitely know you’re hiding something.”

[thesweetnessofspring]

Trick or Treat!!!

Prompt: Katniss and Peeta trying to have their first Halloween post-rebellion.

(Could be moodboars, drabble, headcanons, etc..) 🧡🖤🧡

I don't think Panem (or at least D12) have Halloween, but I have a little something for Everlark in their first autumn post-rebellion.

First, some music for ya:

Our bedroom has gotten colder these past few weeks, but we don't shut the window. Peeta emanates enough heat to keep us warm under our blankets. When my nose gets cold, I bury my head into his neck and warm up right against his skin.

This morning, my nose buried between his neck and our pillow, I'm between the place of a rare pleasant dream and the grounded reality of Peeta's arms around me. And something in me is so grateful for him, I give him a kiss on his collarbone.

He stirs under me and asks in his deep, groggy morning voice, "Katniss?"

I hadn't thought of him feeling the kiss and I wonder if I should be self-conscious of what I just did. We've been sharing a bed since the start of summer, but we hadn't kissed one another yet. A lot holding each other, hands wiping away tears, but nothing to give way to what we had been that night on the beach.

I pull back and hope not to talk about it. Even hope that maybe he'll question if it was his own pleasant dream.

"I have a surprise for you," I say. "But you have to get up and get dressed."

"What's the surprise?" he asks.

"That's not how surprises work," I say as I pull back the covers and sit up. "Get dressed. Sturdy shoes and warm."

He doesn't ask any more questions as he goes to the closet to pick out his clothes while I go to the bathroom to change into mine. From there, I go to the kitchen and prepare two thermoses of hot tea, one with a spoonful of sugar and one unsweetened. I'd prepared both of our bags the night before and give Peeta his.

Outside, our hands automatically find one another as we walk in the dark autumn morning. The rest of the district continues to sleep, the skeletons of buildings in the middle of their construction waiting for the workers to return.

We walk past the Seam, past the meadow, and past the apple trees we'd spent last week gathering to make apple fritters. The palest sunbeams filter through the forest's trees, dark pines and autumnal oak.

Peeta's grip tightens. "You're bringing me in here?"

"It's safe," I say. "I'll make sure you stay safe."

"It's not that," he says. "I guess I've always thought of this as your place. Yours and...his."

"It's anyone's who wants it to be theirs now," I say. "And I want to show it to you."

He acquiesces and follows me into the forest. I keep an eye on him. Even without a fence or Peacekeepers enforcing the perimeter, few people have braved the woods. Yet Peeta takes it all in with round, awed eyes. Sometimes I can sense he wants to stop and pause, but I keep us moving until we reach the rock ledge looking out to the crests of mountains and the spine of the valley below. The sun has illuminated the land with morning honey light, filtering through a distant mist. It is a dappled mixture of deep green pine trees, yellow-leaved birches, orange-leaved oaks.

I've seen it every fall for years, so instead I take in Peeta's face as he faces a scenery entirely new to him. Yesterday he'd been admiring a single leaf from the oak tree at the entrance of Victors Village and I knew then he had to see this place of unimaginable, untouched beauty, blooming with the season's colors. And he doesn't disappoint. A long puff of a cloud emerges from his lips parted in wonder and the corners of his mouth peak up.

"This is beautiful," he says.

"I put your travelling paints in your backpack," I say. "In case you want to paint it."

"I most definitely do."

I get out the food I'd packed in my bag while Peeta prepares his watercolors and paper and gets to working. I've divided up the breakfast of raisin bread, candied pecans, and apples onto two plates but I've finished all of mine before Peeta looks up from his colors to nibble on his own. I sip my tea and simply watch the sun rise over the ridges and Peeta's hands dabble color onto his paper.

When he's finished he sets it aside to dry a little as he finishes his breakfast and sits back.

"I'd seen these colors on the mountains around us, but I could never imagine what it'd be like to look down on them," Peeta says.

"There's still a lot of beauty for us to see," I say.

"I don't know what I could possibly show you," he says.

I think of what I can't put into words. Hope. Light. Warmth. The beauty Peeta gives me every day is so much more precious than this view, even if it's all I have to offer him in return.

Instead, I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek so he knows this isn't a dream.

[andiwriteordie]

andi !! for my valentine’s day gift this year i am humbly requesting will helping teacher! mike decorate his classroom for valentine’s day <3 (+ bonus points if this is pre-relationship and they spend the whole time flirting before one of them works up the nerve to ask the other if they have any plans,,, slides this slowly across the table)

suni suni suni teacher!mike is so personal to me so thank you SO much for this. also will being flirty and mike getting flustered is also everything to me, so have some of that too.

—

3: abc, 123 (baby, you and me).

Mike Wheeler’s a pretty damn good teacher.

Alright, look. Here’s the thing: Mike knows he’s a damn good teacher. There’s a reason why he’s one of Principal Tennyson’s favorite teachers, despite the fact that he’s only been at Hawkins Elementary for about four years now. Being a kindergarten teacher is not for the faint of heart, especially when Mike teaches in a school district full of rich, snooty parents who think their kids deserve special treatment on a constant basis. 

But hey, somehow, Mike has managed to get through the last few years with very minimal complaints from said rich, snooty parents, and even better, he’s also managed to make genuine connections with his kids.

So, yeah. Mike’s a damn good teacher, and he’s not afraid to remind his boss of that when it comes time for his annual comp review.

But there is one thing that Mike absolutely sucks at in the realm of teaching.

Decorating his fucking classroom.

Ugh. Okay, so when you’re in college and preparing to be an elementary school teacher, they literally teach you how to make the cute bulletin boards and decorations and stuff, right? Yeah, well, Mike hated every single one of those presentations. Absolutely hated them. His worst grades in college were the stupid bulletin boards he had to make. 

The content was fine. The aesthetic? Yeah, not so much.

And unfortunately, some things never change, and even though Mike has been a teacher for the last four years of his life, he still can’t for the life of him figure out how to create an aesthetically pleasing classroom by himself for the life of him. For the longest time, his best friend, Max, would come over and help him kind of make the classroom look pretty. Max is no artist either though, even if she’s a little better at making things look nice than Mike is.

But then, this past December, Max just had to accept a new job and move across the country to be closer to the guy she’s been dating for a year or so now. Ugh. Traitor.

So, that’s exactly how Mike finds himself here, on fucking February 1st, at approximately 8 PM at night, desperately trying to redecorate his classroom for Valentine’s Day. 

In Mike’s defense, Valentine’s Day isn’t for another two weeks, thank you very much. But all the other teachers in the school have already decorated for Valentine’s Day, and if Mike gets one more stupid, passive aggressive comment from stupid fucking Brenda or her evil twin, Tammy, he’s gonna end up losing his job.

Ugh.

“Are you kidding me?” Mike groans, and he falls backwards onto the floor, letting the stupid pink construction paper heart fall onto his head. It’s rather ironic that he’s a kindergarten teacher and responsible for teaching twenty-five kids how to color inside the lines and cut paper properly and other stuff like that, since Mike didn’t even go to kindergarten and can’t cut in a straight line for shit.

The woes of being an “academically gifted” child.

Mike sighs heavily, and he closes his eyes, lying on the floor and questioning every single moment in his life that led him to this moment. Maybe he’s being overdramatic, but Mike doesn’t really care. Right now, he’s hungry, tired, and ready to go home. 

Teaching shouldn’t be this hard. Seriously. How is it that Mike can deal with little Riley Jones throwing up all over his brand new pair of shoes or Kimmy Harris screaming at the top of her lungs and picking a fight for the first month of this year, but somehow Mike can’t decorate his stupid fucking classroom? Why on God’s green earth is so bad at making things look nice—

“Mike?”

Mike flinches sharply, and he startles, sitting up quickly at sudden intrusion. Much to his surprise, Will Byers, of all people, is standing in his doorway, an amused (and admittedly adorable) smile on his face.

…

Okay, so look.

Here’s the thing.

Will Byers… is the new art teacher at Hawkins Elementary. Their old art teacher, Sandy, had retired at the end of the year, and though Will had been hired pretty early on into the school year, he’s only just started working at the school. 

And um… well… you see… Will is really, really good-looking.

Like really good-looking.

Quite possibly the most gorgeous and also the kindest person Mike has ever met in his life. 

For starters, Will has the prettiest eyes—a warm shade of hazel that looks green in certain lighting, Mike has noticed. His smile is pretty too—soft and sweet and perfect for his personality. He’s got fluffy, brown hair, and maybe Mike shouldn’t think this about his coworker for God’s sake, but he thinks he’d really like to run his hands through Will’s hair and pull him close and kiss him stupid and—

Ahem.

Um, yeah. So, that’s… that’s Will Byers. He’s great, and Mike has been meaning to get to know him more—not even necessarily in a romantic way. The two of them are some of the only male teachers at Hawkins Elementary, and they’re among the youngest here at this school. It makes sense that they’d become friends. 

Life’s just been absolutely crazy these past few weeks, so Mike unfortunately hasn’t gotten around to that.

“Will!” Mike exclaims, and he winces at the way his voice comes out as a little, panicked squeak. Warmth rises to Mike’s cheeks, and he offers a sheepish smile to his coworker. “Hey, um… what’re you still doing here?”

The smile on Will’s face grows, and he shrugs. “I could ask you the same thing,” he points out; then, his eyes flicker to the construction paper surrounding Mike. “I’m guessing you’re decorating your classroom though?”

“Ugh.” Mike scrunches his nose, picking up a few of the sad little paper hearts and letting them fall dramatically back onto the ground. “I’m trying to, at least. It’s going great, if you can’t tell.” 

A soft laugh escapes Will’s lips, and oh God, Mike’s heart does a little somersault. Will walks into Mike’s classroom, sitting down across from Mike, and he offers a smile. “Not a fan of arts and crafts, huh?” he guesses.

“Not all of us can be artists, Byers,” Mike replies easily, and a crooked grin forms on Will��s face. “I like every other part of teaching, but decorating my classroom? It makes me wonder why I didn’t just stick with being a Business major like my dad wanted.”

Again, Will just laughs, reaching for some of the construction paper on the ground. “I don’t know you very well yet,” he admits, “but you definitely don’t seem like the kind of person who’d enjoy working in business.”

A couple things stand out about Will’s response:

He says business the way that Mike’s kindergarteners say things like… homework or broccoli or other things that they hate, and Mike can’t help but grin. He’s liking Will more and more with each second that passes.

… Yet.

Will definitely said “yet,” and okay, Mike probably shouldn’t read too much into this, but also, he can’t help himself. His heart may or may not be pounding inside his chest, and his cheeks may or may not be burning up right now, and he may or may not be trying to stop smiling like a total idiot.

“I would’ve hated business,” Mike agrees, and he leans against his desk, scrunching his nose again at the mess of decorations sitting on the floor. “But at least businessmen don’t stay late at their jobs trying to decorate their offices for a stupid Hallmark holiday.”

“No, they just stay late at their jobs to crunch numbers and avoid their wives and children,” Will deadpans, and Mike just snorts. 

“Way to describe my dad in a nutshell,” Mike deadpans in return.

That playful grin returns to Will’s face, and he looks pleased at his ability to make Mike laugh. “Are you really planning on staying here until you have your entire classroom finished?” Will asks incredulously.

Mike winces, looking around at his classroom—which, admittedly… is about 10% decorated for Valentine’s Day. “Maybe,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… I’ll probably end up coming back tomorrow and Sunday, but I wanted to finish as much of it as I can tonight.”

Will purses his lips, and he looks around the room again, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’re gonna need some help,” he decides, finally turning to Mike and smiling brightly. “And luckily for you… I’m pretty good at arts and crafts.”

Another playful smile—which most definitely makes Mike’s heart skip a beat and his stomach do a silly little somersault. “You don’t have to,” Mike reassures, though he really likes the idea of spending the entire weekend with Will Byers. “I’d feel bad making you help me out—”

“You could always make it up to me,” Will blurts out, and Mike just blinks.

For a moment, the two of the stare back at each other, and Mike watches as a rosy (and adorable) blush forms on Will’s face. He seems to register the fact that he just said that aloud, and Mike doesn’t really know Will Byers that well yet… 

But he gets the feeling that Will might just be as interested in Mike as Mike is in Will.

A slow smile forms on Mike’s own face. His cheeks are burning right now, and not for the first time, he feels like a kid with a kindergarten crush. “I could,” Mike says softly, meeting Will’s eyes. “What’d you have in mind?”

Though Will’s face most definitely gets redder, he smiles at Mike again, his eyes going soft. “Dinner, maybe,” he suggests, still playful and soft. “A movie, if you’re interested.”

The inside of Mike’s head feels like the movie Inside Out, with all of his emotions running around in a panicked, flustered mess, and okay, look, maybe it’s embarrassing to admit at the ancient age of twenty-four (almost twenty-five) years old, but Mike’s not sure he’s ever felt this giddy and excited around someone.

There’s just something about Will Byers—something incredibly special that makes Mike feel like this… this could be something real.

“I’m definitely interested,” Mike says with a smile of his own, and he gestures to the Valentine’s Day themed decorations around them. “Getting a headstart on Valentine’s Day, huh?”

“Something like that,” Will laughs, and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Then, he sets the construction paper in his hands down and stands up. “Come on. Let’s grab dinner, then we can come back and knock out a couple of your bulletin boards.”

He holds his hand out to Mike, and Mike’s heart—stupid organ that it is—feels all fluttery again. He can’t help but smile again, and he takes Will’s hand, letting the other man help him up. 

“Dinner sounds like a good idea,” Mike agrees softly, feeling all too aware of how Will’s hand lingers in his for longer than it needs to. “You’re the best, you know that, right?”

An amused look forms on Will’s face as the two of them walk out of the classroom, and he glances back at Mike. “You don’t know me that well yet,” he says, a bit teasing.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re about to change that,” Mike retorts, just as playful, and Will just smiles.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, “it’s a really good thing.”

For a moment, Will’s eyes linger on Mike’s own, and warmth rises to Mike’s cheeks again. The two of them stay there, out in the hallways of Hawkins Elementary, for what feels like a little eternity; then finally, Will clears his throat and glances away.

“I’m kinda craving pizza,” he suggests. “You cool with that?”

“Pizza sounds great,” Mike agrees, and Will smiles again, walking down the hallway. “I can drive us. I know a good place.”

“Perfect,” Will says softly, and he glances back at Mike one more time, a softness in his eyes.

The words go unspoken, but somehow, they don’t go unsaid.

It’s a date.

[optiwashere]

Shadowheart/Nocturne, B9. The angst.

Ah, back to my comfort zone with these two. Thanks (?) for asking for this one 💜 Also, I know this is supposed to be hurt/comfort but it wound up being just raw angst, or even hurt/no comfort...

You can send a prompt from this list + a ship or platonic pair, and I'll write a ficlet!

---

B9. Convinced that their past makes them irredeemable, Character A struggles with Character B's affections

The letters came in every tenday, and each day Nocturne stared at them in the hopes that she could will away their existence with a thought.

It had been some time since she'd managed to slip away from the new Sharran enclave in Athkatla where she had fled after the disaster in Baldur's Gate, but it was only a matter of time until her former brethren came for her. Eventually she'd earn the ire of her former goddess in one way or another. Reading the letters would be the first step to admitting the old roots of her great sin.

Letting Shadowheart leave all those years ago after destroying the cloister in Baldur's Gate was the beginning of the end in hindsight. She even remembered saying that she'd understand Shadowheart's flaunting of the Dark Lady's gifts. It wasn't a conscience or goodness of her heart or any other foolishness that took her from Shar. No, it was much simpler than that.

As simple as the plain letters that arrived every tenday from a mysterious sender. Each of the missives smelled faintly of a vague, old citrus scent that had worn thin over days of travel, and each of them lay unopened in a little box at the foot of Nocturne's cot in a cheap room in the River District.

She stared at the most recent letter.

The envelope was like all the rest. It was addressed to nobody with only a single indication of its sender, a wilted petal of a night orchid clinging to the back by a thin film of adhesive.

Opening the letters would be opening herself back up to a friend, a lover, a confidante, and Nocturne wondered what she would find in the letters. With each addition to her pile of unopened papers, the curiosity grew but so too did the dread, even fear, of what they contained.

What in them would I deserve?

The question came and went every day. If she'd been brave enough to leave in the first place, to leave when Shadowheart offered her a place in their camp so long ago, then maybe things would have turned out all right. Maybe she wouldn't be so scared of paper and ink.

Maybe she could have found comfort in the arms of the woman a world away from her. A myriad maybes haunted her thoughts most nights, many of them about that same woman.

She sighed to herself, alone in a cheap room in the River District.

As Nocturne set the most recent envelope in the little box at the foot of her cot, she knew that her dreams of comfort were nothing more than fantasy. Maybe they could have been reality if she'd been brave enough back then, all those years ago.

Maybe, maybe, maybe...

[clatoera]

Always Remember We're Burned For Better Chapter 20: We Will Never Go Back to That Bloodshed

Well everyone...we made it. It has taken nearly nine months but here we are. We are at the end of ARWBFB (save for the Epilogue). This has been one of my biggest undertakings and I am so so so proud of it. You guys have followed me through two board exams, applications, and so so so many different speciality rotations during this journey. You have been incredibly patient but also incredibly supportive. I NEVER could have finished it without you guys. I wanted to get this up sooner or at least on the 13th. I failed at both of those, but I hope you will understand when you see that this chapter is the longest by a significant amount. I am so proud of this fic, and I hope you all decide that it was worth giving your time to sharing with me.

The chapter title comes from The Great War. A fun fact would be that this line actually loops back to "we will never go back to that bloodshed, crimson clover" with Crimson Clover being the title of chapter one. It's come full circle (save for the epilogue).

This chapter is designed like Chapter 4 was. Each segment is divided by a lyric that encapsulates the vibes. It is not as happy, but it is the start of happily ever after.

AO3

Masterpost

As always..this is for everyone who has helped me and loved me and supported this story. I cannot even tag everyone but I will try. A LARGE portion of this goes to @ohhowwehavefallen who has talked about MOST things that happen in this chapter with me in depth and has enabled me (VSC immortalized forever with this one, so is Cato buying the academy). @kentwells who actually helped me make major decisions regarding the sequel, which affected the way Marvel and Glimmer ended here. Thank you for putting up with me. @dukeysquid and @mackcoleslaw for the constant constant support. @clarascrabarmy who talks me off the ledge and is my go to night reader (and night validator that im crazy). @mollywog who has tolerated this fic for 9 months. @crookedlyniceperson who comes in with the memes EVERY single time. @cyansadnessI dont even get to talk to you much any more but you were an OG reader and I am giving you kisses for your love. There are so many more who I am afraid I may have missed (and I know I have missed) but i'm emotional and hormonal and crying as I type this.

This is, and always has been, for you guys who have given me your support and love. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I never would have finished without the love and support of every single person who has read this.

Thank you.

How evergreen, our group of friends

The kitchen, despite the literal war that had raged on outside in District One, was quite literally untouched. Untouched, as in, no one had ever used it even prior to the games or the war that should have resolved the house itself to rubble. 

They had quickly discovered that despite varying levels of damage to the districts, the Victors Villages were left nearly untouched. Call it symbolism, call it fate, call it making a point, but this was not a fact any of the surviving victors were going to debate or question. 

For now they were all just going to be thankful to even have a place to live, especially one that wasn’t an underground bunker in a district that resented them. 

It’s Clove, who is opening and shutting every single cabinet in the bright white kitchen. The golden handles and marble countertops are pristine– perfect and completely new. Every drawer is completely stocked with spices and the same sorts of things her own home had come with, but it is evident that these cabinets had remained untouched from their initial stocking. There was no dusting of cinnamon around the pores of the bottle, no slight film of salt from pouring over a steaming pot. They were still perfectly alphabetized, perfectly aligned in the spice drawer, as if the kitchen itself was taken right out of a capitol home decor magazine. 

Funnily enough, though the kitchen was clearly new, it was so…Glimmer. Or at least the Glimmer she had been forced to become.  

Gorgeous white marble countertops, shimmering golden metal for every door handle and knob on every drawer. The utensils were a beautiful gold, and even the appliances were designed to blend right in with the shining and glamorous surroundings. 

In one drawer, she found incredibly sharp knives with mother of pearl handles, in another were soft baby pink pans. It was very much designed for the fifteen year old teenage girl who had won the house as part of her victor’s spoils.

Somehow, even without the Capitol’s influence, Clove still believes Glimmer would have turned out a golden, pink-loving girl. Or at least, it’s comforting to imagine it that way. 

Clove curls her fingers around the shimmering handle of one of the paring knives, bringing it to eye level to inspect it. The blade is alarmingly sharp for one designed to dice vegetables or carve into fruits, further supporting Clove’s suspicion that it had never been used prior to well, right now. She weighs it in her hand, feeling the way it settles in her palm. Her other hand comes to run over the couple of inches of metal, evaluating the quality. It was top of the line in terms of cooking, of course, nothing but the best for any victor, but it may even serve well in terms of slicing through-

She drops the knife, flinching only a little at the realization of how the metal colliding with the marble will dull the beautiful little blade. It startles her, not the sound of the metal on rock, no that any District Two girl could sleep through like a lullaby, but by the harsh realization of her own thoughts. She would likely never slice through anything but food again, there would be no more blood spitting on her from pulsing arteries, no more tendons severed. 

Clove would probably never kill anyone else ever again. The thought is both disconcerting and comforting, leaving Clove alarmed and settled.

“Are you okay?” A soft, sleepy voice asks from around the entrance to the kitchen. When Clove looks up she sees Glimmer, rubbing at her eyes with her long cream colored sleeves. She shuffles into the kitchen in fluffy white slippers, a sweater that reaches halfway down her legs, and exceptionally messy loose braids that tell Clove that yeah she probably did just wake up.

“Good morning, Princess.” Clove scoffs, gently grabbing the dropped knife and twisting it nimbly between her fingers. “It’s four in the afternoon, Glimmer. Did you have a busy night?” 

“I was with Cash and Gloss all night, we’re trying to figure out what to do about our parents.” Glimmer sits herself at the island continuing to rub at her eye with the heel of her hand, exhaustion written all across her pretty face. “I didn’t come back until this morning.” 

Clove flinches at her own insensitivity– while she was well used to being, well, alone. An orphan. On her own. Whatever, it was..new for the others. Cato’s family was still in the wind, but Glimmer and her siblings, as well as Marvel, were new to the world of being parentless. “God, Glimmer, I’m sorry–”

At least Glimmer had Cashmere and Gloss, the same could not be said for Marvel, who was the only surviving member of his entire family. Clove could easily relate to that, because even if anyone survived, they were dead to her long ago. 

Glimmer just nods her head, acknowledging but not verbally accepting the apology her friend offers. 

Nothing had been necessarily right between the four of them since the vote. Cato and Clove, they were perfectly fine, of course. Marvel however had lost any progress he had made with Glimmer, and Cato nor Clove had yet to fully return to her good graces. It wasn’t even like any of them could blame her for being mad. She had been right. 

“Thanks for letting us stay with you.” She decides, instead filling the space between them with gentle words of appreciation. “Like..literally in your house with you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, you know that.. It’s nice not to be alone.” Glimmer sighs, resting her chin on her hand and looking across the island to Clove, who is still twisting a knife in her hand. “I don’t know if i’m quite ready to be alone yet.”

They weren’t necessarily far from anyone. Marvel spent the days over here with them, Brutus was in one of the empty houses, Cash and Gloss each in their own and then Enobaria was– “Is Enobaria staying across the street in the empty one or down the road–”

Glimmer cocks an eyebrow, the littlest smirk making an appearance on her face. “She’s staying with my sister.”

“Oh!” Clove looks nearly taken aback as she opens another drawer, absently sorting through the perfect, unused cutting boards and kitchen aids to distract herself from the awkward tension between her and her host. “I didn’t know they were even friends.”

“Girl..” Glimmer giggles, leaning in closer on the island, nearly pressing her upper body into the marble. “You know Enobaria and Cashmere are..” She makes a gesture with her middle and pointer finger that Clove can’t interpret, and the confused look on her freckled face must convey that to the blonde girl.  “Right?”

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Do I need to spell it out for you, Clove? They’re fucking. They’re a thing.”

“What! No, I mean just because they’re staying together doesn’t mean–” The heat in Clove’s cheeks at the realization leaves her flustered, and flustered is not a look Clove wears well. 

“Well that's what everyone thinks about the four of us.” Glimmer teases, before bringing her hand out infront of her to inspect the remnants of her nails. “Seriously. They’ve been a thing for like…god Cash won sixty-four? So… ten…ish years? Probably? I dunno. But it’s not a secret. I’m shocked you couldn’t tell.”

“Well I didn’t see them together much, okay? And noone thinks that the four of us are all fucking, Glimmer. That’s crazy Capitol type shit.” Clove defends, desperately looking through the drawers for a change of topic. Maybe she could understand why Enobaria got so irritated when ever she and Cato got caught–

Yep. Okay. Makes sense!

“Sure they don’t Clove, you don’t see the looks people give us?”

Clove digs through the drawers, finding the still boxed mixer and the perfect white plates, nothing seeming even a little out of place. She is flustered and the heat in her neck and face won’t even allow her to respond to such comments. 

“For fucks sake, Glimmer, have you used anything in this kitchen.”

“Drawer closest to the refrigerator has two little plates and two forks. We used to …uh…we would eat a lot of cake.” Glimmer finds herself grabbing at the skin around her nail with her teeth, tugging at the cuticles until they ripped off. She couldn’t resist the urge to constantly be picking at and degrading something about her body, and right now her nails were all she had access to.  “Other than that, not really.”

“How did you survive, Glimmer? Seriously?” Clove rests a hand on the back of her hip, strumming along the top of her hip while also trying to massage out some of the pain of her lower back that never seemed to go away. 

“Well, everything I ate was precooked and preweighed, I had to keep a certain look you know?” Glimmer shrugs, kicking her feet just a little at the height of the chair, twisting just ever so slightly to keep herself comfortable. “I wasn’t really allowed to go beyond that. Cooking was never important.”

“You’re gonna have to learn to make something Glimmer, especially if you ever have kids–” Clove teases, but the biting response of Glimmer wipes the smile right off of her face. 

“I told you in the Capitol I'm not doing that. I’m never doing that. I don’t want to.” Glimmer snaps before she pushes herself out of the chair so she can make a quick escape if the conversation goes any further south. 

“You used to, I’m sorry, Glimmer. That's who I knew you as. The girl who wanted to settle into her life and be someone’s mother. And for what it’s worth, Glim Glam, I think you’d have been good at it.” Clove puts a hand up in defense, before she awkwardly goes back to going through the remaining cabinets, stopping prior to the refrigerator and pantry.

 She pauses, and turns to face her friend. She gives a heavy sigh, bracing herself on the counter behind her, when she begins.

 “I’m sorry. I am. About the vote. You were right, and as soon as you pulled me into that room– I knew you were right. About his sister and about our friends’ kids and everything. I just wanted to feel like some wrong was made right, Glimmer. It wasn’t going to be me back in the games, and I wanted them to feel what it was like. But then you mentioned Cora, and god knows if she’s alive, but if she is she couldn’t ever go to the games. Or Finnick’s kids, or yours or– I don’t know. All of a sudden it wasn’t just like..nameless kid tributes. It was people we knew. It was kids we knew. It was little girls who looked like you and little red heads in four and! It was kids we love or will love and– you were right. And I’m sorry.”

There is a stunned silence for a few seconds that feels like years to Clove, as Glimmer looks at her with the look of a doe caught in the lights of a car. 

“....thank you.” Glimmer whispers in response, but something palpable has finally shifted between them. Whatever permafrost had threatened to take hold on the boundaries of their friendship started to melt away in that moment. Maybe not a heat wave, but a start. “I…thank you, Clove.”

Clove gives Glimmer another once over as they stand staring at each other. The months of this war had taken a toll on Clove of course, evidenced by the aches in her body and the scars along her skin. Her scars would fade, as her bruises had, and even the pain isn’t visible. On the outside Clove still looked almost exactly like she always had. 

On Glimmer though, the changes were blatant. The golden glow of her skin was long gone, replaced by pale, nearly gray undertones. That long platinum hair was longer than ever, but now revealed multiple inches of a honey blonde natural color that had been hidden since before she even won the games. Even the actual structure of her face and body had changed. Any capitol enhancement had long since grown out or metabolized away, leaving Glimmer with deep collar bones and sinking skin on her cheeks. 

She looked exhausted but she also looked starved. She looked sick. 

“Glimmer…you look hungry.” Clove gives her a look that must be riddled with pity, for the blonde looks away and at her hands instead. “Will you please let me make you something? I know there probably isn’t much in here but I can send the boys out…” B

Before Glimmer can argue or decline, Clove swings the door open to what she expected to be a barren refrigerator and is taken back by the fully stocked fridge that awaits her. 

Well. Full. And Stocked. Maybe not with actual kitchen staples or ingredients for meals, but definitely full. 

“What in the fuck–”

“Marvel does that sometimes. And Cato’s been talking nonstop about your cooking for literal months. They went yesterday, I think. I..don’t think either of them knew what they were doing but they’ve got the spirit. They mean well.,” Glimmer explains, not bothering to put up a fight with Clove and deny her this opportunity. Even if she didn’t eat it– Cato and Marvel sure fucking would.  This was their new Hunger Games.

“Good intentions…that's why there’s seventeen tomatoes?” Clove raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile gracing her face as she surveys the fridge. Sure it was a little..odd.. Seventeen tomatoes, three bags of flour, at least fifty eggs, a dozen heads of garlic… odd but good intentioned nonetheless. “I’m going to guess they wanted pasta?”

“That sounds right. I think I heard Cato saying something about that, but they lost me when I heard them trying to remember if onions and garlic are the same thing.” Glimmer shrugs, but finds herself going back to sit at the island, no longer on the verge of running out of the kitchen at any moment. 

Clove starts grabbing armfuls of the tomatoes to transfer them to the countertop, feeling the soft flesh of one under her fingertips. She probably wouldn’t even need the chef’s knife, but damn if she wasn’t going to take the opportunity to use it. “Do you have a big- you know what, nevermind.”  

She decides against asking for a stock pot, knowing fully well Glimmer would have no idea what she was talking about. Instead, she rummages through the cabinets until she does in fact find a blush pink soup pot practically bigger than Clove herself.  She immediately sets herself to gently slicing the skin off of the tomatoes, delighting in the way the acidic juice dripped down over her fingers.

“You should give him a chance, Glimmer, he’s a good guy.” Clove suggests, tossing each individual skinned tomato into the giant pink pot one at a time. 

“I’m not the one not interested, Clove, you know that.” Glimmer reminds her bitterly, reaching forward to attempt to grab a tomato, dropping it when the acid in the juice burns the raw skin around her nails. “He doesn’t want me.”

“Now that isn’t true and you know it. You two seemed fine and then the vote happened and you shut him down again.” Clove points out, turning to the cabinet behind her to grab her selection of the endless array of unused spices. “Which, I get it, you were hurt–”

“He can’t just make my trauma a personal vendetta, Clove. He can’t advocate for slaughtering babies in an arena under the name of defending me and the things that happened to me.” Glimmer hops off the chair once again, this time letting herself scope out the refrigerator and whatever the hell the boys had come up with to fill it with. 

“It happened to him, too, Glimmer. Maybe not as much as it did to you. But it happened to him, too.” Clove collects salt and sugar and various other jars of spices she currently can’t name but knows for some reason she needs to add them. “Glim. Sometimes we care more about avenging the people we love, rather than actually doing what's right. The things that are done to people you love..sometimes that's just worse.” 

“You don’t know what it’s like, Clove. To be seen as the girl who fucks everyone. Whether I wanted to or not. And trust me, I didn’t want to. And no matter how hard I try, for the rest of my life, that is how everyone is going to see me. Do you know what the best part of all this is, Clove? That I never have to be seen in public ever again.” She filters through the fruit– half a dozen containers of strawberries, a single mango, an entire box of blueberries– before letting herself grab a single blueberry for a snack. 

“We don’t see you that way, you know? Not me, not Cato, and god Glimmer you know Marvel doesn’t either.”  Clove assures, using the palm of her hand to measure out the various herbs and spices she’s tossing in. There’s no recipe– she’s just doing what feels right. Such is the theme for all aspects of their lives right now.  “And you never have to do that again. Hell, never have sex again at all for all I care, obviously I do but–”

“Yeah, Clove, I know. We share a wall. The wall your bed is on.” 

“Oh! Right! Well.. anyway!” Clove fakes a grimace and mouths ‘sorry’ before she places a lid on her creation. “Come on. Let's go find the boys, then I'll show you how to make the pasta.”

“I think they’re laying in the yard.” Glimmer waves off, before grabbing another handful of berries to pop into her mouth.

“They’re…laying in the yard?” Clove raises a dark eyebrow, confusion mapped across her face. “Are they dogs?”

“Something about missing grass and fresh air in Thirteen, I don’t know, I could hear them through the window.” Glimmer shakes her head, but stands in the doorway of the refrigerator. “Do you need anything out of here?”

“They’re fucking weird.” Clove clears off a workspace to knead and roll out the pasta, recognizing that this is probably the first time these counters have been used for anything ever. “uh yeah I need eggs and flour… Honestly, I usually make Cato come do this part because I like to watch his hands knead the dough but…let them…become one with nature or whatever they’re out there doing.”

“Why do you need flowers in noodles? I didn’t think you could eat those?” Glimmer cocks her head, holding out the cardboard carton of a dozen eggs to her, but pausing with a perplexed look on her face as she searches the refrigerator for a bouquet of some sort. “I can go check the garden–”

“What? No Glimmer, Flour not flowers.” Clove wipes her hands on the side of her shirt– Cato’s shirt, actually–, and comes next to her friend to point at the various bags on the bottom shelf. “It’s like..it’s white powder, I can’t explain it. It makes bread. Noodles. Cookies… pizza. It makes all the good stuff you probably don’t eat. But we are going to change that.” 

There are a few moments of  silence, as Clove measures things. It’s nearly peaceful, with the only sounds coming from the dough being flopping and kneaded into the marble. 

Silent, that is, until Glimmer finally breaks. 

“Thank you for staying with me.” Glimmer manages to get out, when tears Clove didn’t even know were coming just start pouring out of her friend. “I-i’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, I don’t want to be alone yet.”

Clove pauses her hand folding, brushing her flour covered hands on her shirt before she rests her elbows on the counter, leaning in to truly hear her friend. “Glimmer, you aren’t going to be alone forever.”

“But I am! Yeah, Cash and Gloss are here but..they aren’t here. My parents are gone. You and Cato are going to go home, I don’t want to be alone yet.” Glimmer sobs, furiously wiping at her eyes with her sleeves, Mascara from god knows when smearing along them. “Noone wants a girl that everyone has had, at least not for more than a night, Clove! I’m alone and when i’m alone I just..I swear it’s like someone’s going to come in and they’re going to touch me and they’re going to hurt me and–”

“You’re scared.” Clove realizes, and her heart completely and utterly shatters for the girl. She sees her not as the twenty something girl in front of her, but instead a scared fifteen year old victor she never got to grow out of being. “It’s okay to be scared, but no one's going to hurt you anymore.” She nearly reaches for her hand, she nearly reaches to do anything to comfort her, but something tells her that sudden touch is the furthest thing from what Glimmer needs right now. 

“Someone is always ready to hurt me, Clove. It’s all anyone wants out of me. Noone wants me but they all want me. I just think about all the things they’ve done to me, Clove. How many times they’ve shot me up with something or gave me a handful of pills and just told me to swallow them. Who knows what they’ve done to me…” Glimmer cries, hot tears tracking down her face and onto the fabric of her sleeves. They speckle her sweater, soaking into the cream colored fabric and turning it dark. The levee has broken within Glimmer, and the rushing waves of grief cannot be stopped. “When I won..my sister and brother used to sleep down here. So when I wake up screaming they could come up to me. And then in the Capitol I was NEVER alone and as soon as I was…Cash would come in. She’d hold me, tell me how sorry she was that she let me become a victor, that she didn’t stop me from trying to go to the games. And then, god, once I had Marvel, he practically moved in and he slept me and I actually felt safe. I could sleep. Even back when we were just friends…he’d let me sleep in his room in the Capitol, he was never touchy or pushy or anything. He just let me sleep and sometimes he’d hold me and it was the best sleep I had since I won.”  Glimmer wipes at the tears  again, ignoring how messy she had to look right now. It was her own kitchen and really what did she have left to lose? Glimmer rambles on,  “And you two are here and so I try to sleep and it isnt working as well as it used to and in thirteen I was so afraid every time I heard someone was in the hall that they were going to come in and —“

“When was the last time you slept, Glimmer? Actually slept?” Clove eases, sliding her a dish towel to use to clear the tears from her eyes. “You have to be exhausted.”

“Probably the games, funny enough. Weird that I felt safe enough there but- it is what it is. I tried in Thirteen! And here! it’s just…I can still feel their hands on my skin a-and feel them breathing on my neck and hear their voices and the sound of their feet coming to get me. If I fall asleep they’re there taunting me and grabbing me and-and-and!“ Glimmer  continues to recount her nightmares and real life horrors, her breath catching in her throat and coming out in heaving, panicked, desperate gasps. “I just don’t see what the point of all this was. I don’t have anyone and I’m terrified in my own house and my parents are gone and what did I survive it all for if I’m going to be alone?” 

“You aren’t going to be alone. You aren’t, and you can stay with someone or something but, God Glimmer. Out of all of us, all of the things we have gone through, you Glimmer deserve a happy ending. You deserve to feel safe and loved and god, Glimmer, you deserve to be happy.” Clove finally grabs at her arm, gently squeezing her forearm. “You are safe, Glimmer. And no one gets to hurt you ever again. I promise, Glimmer. You are going to be happy.”

Glimmer…does not learn how to make pasta that day. 

Ten minutes of egg and flour stuck to her fingers is enough to send her back to the verge of tears and back to a safe distance away where she instead watches only. 

Once the dough is chilling and the sauce is stewing, they retreat to the living area, sprawled out on the baby pink couches. 

They sit in comfortable silence while the sauce cooks, Glimmer curled up on the foot of the couch, Clove outstretched on the other end with a book of District One history spread out in her lap. 

It’s peaceful. Comfortable. Safe. 

When Clove notices the Glimmer has fallen asleep, she grabs the fur  throw blanket from the back of the couch and tosses it over her friend. Never in her life had she planned to care for some random victor girl from District One, with enough trauma and abuse in her short life for all of them combined, but here she was. War, she supposed, changed the way you see the world. 

She doesn’t even need to call the boys in for dinner like a mother calling for her kids to come in at sundown, because like the bloodhounds men tend to be, they all but run through the glass back door like the children they never got to be once the smell of dinner reaches the outdoors. 

“Clove? Clove, are you cooking? Do I smell food?” Marvel slips in the door first, literally just edging Cato out to get in before him. “Holy mother of god, that's food. I can SMELL the spice, there's salt in it isn’t there. You’re a fucking saint.”

“You’re a moron.” Cato rolls his eyes, but pushes Marvel out of the way just so he can beat him to the island. “…there is salt and stuff right?”

“You’re also a moron.” It’s Clove’s turn to roll her eyes instead, as she fishes a single pasta noodle out of the water to try it. “If i remember correctly you did talk about my cooking every day for weeks…”

“Months.” Glimmer chimes in as she makes her appearance. It’s only been a couple of hours since she fell asleep on the couch but even the brief nap has her looking noticeably better and more rested. “Every day for months.”

Clove catches Glimmer (but not Cato) off guard with how fast she moves when she reaches out to grab Marvel’s wrist as he goes to dip a spoon into the sauce. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Clove, I'm serious,this is the best moment I've had in months, let me have this. I need something good in my life.” Marvel half pleads, and the tired tone in his voice paired with the exhaustion behind his eyes is all that it takes before Clove is releasing his wrist and turning away. 

“Do NOT go in twice, I will cut off your fingers.” She threatens and has to nearly slap Cato’s fingers away from the pasta noodles where they are cooling. “You two are like fucking children.”

“Oh my god.” Comes from Marvel, but it sounds somewhere between a cry and a gasp. “Clove this is the best thing i’ve had-maybe ever. Maybe that's the war trauma but-” Ignoring her threats he risks it for another dip, and then steps immediately a few steps out of her reach. “Can you stay here? Seriously, can we keep you? Cato you can stay too, if that helps.” 

Marvel slides to the other side of the island, safely out of reach of all three of them as he debates just dipping a coffee cup and drinking the sauce. “For fucks sake, Cato, kiss her. Or Glimmer, you do it. I don’t care. One of you..just..appreciate her.”

“I’ll still kill you.” Cato warns, but he is slightly distracted by the handfuls of fresh pasta he is dropping into his mouth. “Clove is very appreciated, thank you very themuch.”

“.....are you crying?” Glimmer leans onto the counter, propping her chin in her hand as she outright smirks at her once boyfriend. There's the spark of light behind her eyes that Snow had snuffed out long ago starting to glow just a little again. 

“No!” Marvel defends himself indignantly, but they all hear the sniffle and the stifled“......maybe a little.”

I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want just not home

Two months after their initial arrival in One, at the end of the second great war, after months of Clove feeding them, many tears from Glimmer at their goodbye, and promises of continued communication under the new mechanisms and options– phones communications, along with travel between districts, were allowed once again– Clove, Cato, Brutus, and Enobaria were on their train home. 

Maybe it was irony, or maybe it was fate, but they take the incredibly short trip home on the same train they had come to the Capitol on in their prior games. Neither had ever noticed how the high speed trains went from One to Two in under half an hour, but then again, why would they have paid attention when they were young invincible victors with the entire world at their fingertips?

Still, even a twenty seven minute train ride feels like absolute eternity when you do not know what waits for you on the other end. 

She is sitting as she always has on these trips– curled up with her back against his chest, settled between his legs, head resting on his shoulder. Her fingers snake up to where his arm is resting on the back of the couch, and she laces her fingers in with his. 

Clove sighs as her eyes flutter shut, choosing not to watch the passage of destroyed buildings, burned farms, and mass civilian graves.  There was a time in her life where no amount of bloodshed or the loss of life made her bat an eye— it was what they were trained for— but now…something about it made her stomach turn. 

“It doesn’t feel like we’re going home.” Cato mumbles into the crown of her head, sliding his other hand firmly around her waist and holding her tighter to him. “It doesn’t feel like we even have one.”

“I don’t think we do.” Clove twists in his arms just a little so that she can see his face and languidly brings her free hand up to graze along his jawline. “I mean, we have a house, but I don’t think anyone will want to see us. Exiled to Victor’s Village ..” Her nails scratch along the planes of his skin gently, as she cranes her neck back to really look at him. 

She has spent over half of her life looking at him, learning with him, and ultimately the last six loving him. Looking at him now, though, it’s almost like seeing him through new eyes. 

Scars that the capitol would never take from him along his arms from retraining, golden blonde hair that had grown out enough it reached nearly to his eyelashes, the brightest sky blue eyes that harbored exhaustion far beyond that of a twenty one year old man. 

And yet. It almost felt new to look at this man right now, in the same position on the same train they had been in time and time again. 

It was new to see him in a world without The Hunger Games. 

In a world where they would not wake up day to day to train the next class of tribute children, a world where they would not mentor victor and victor to parade home with pride to their district. A world where they would not raise their own children to volunteer for the games, where they would sacrifice them with a smile on their faces for the glory of being the parents of their own victor child, or pretend it did not shatter them to lose that same glorified baby to the games because they wouldn’t want to raise anything less than ideal little victors. 

There was a version of them, somewhere, that dedicates the rest of their lives to the Hunger Games. 

This is not that version of them. Not anymore. 

Maybe it is because she knows what the life of a victor truly holds now. She learned in the confessions of Finnick, in the strangled screams of Glimmer in the middle of the night. She learned in the stories of Johanna, in the depravity of Haymitch. She learned in the desperation of Katniss, the destruction of Peeta. She learned of it in the loss of her mother. 

She learns of a different life of a Victor, now. In the disapproving, but secretly adoring, looks from Enobaria when Cato carries her across a room. In the appreciative murmurs of Brutus, when he has pancakes with chocolate chips before him. In the updates on Annie’s growing family, in Marvel’s silly, stupid, but nonetheless endearing jokes. 

Above all else she learns of it in the love of Cato, who saw her at the lowest shell of herself, and loved her even still. 

Cato raises an eyebrow at her, shaking her just a little. “You’re thinking of something.” It’s his turn to bring a hand to her face, unwinding from her waist so he can tilt her chin up to meet his eyes more properly. “The corners of your lips twitch when you’re thinking too hard.”

Clove smiles gently, allowing the corners of her mouth to come to a soft grin. “I was just thinking about the last time we were on this particular train. On our way to the Quell. I didn’t think we’d be on our way back like this.”

“I also thought we were only leaving that arena in pine boxes. I didn’t think I’d be coming home. I never thought we’d come home together alive. ”  He nods, looking past her rather than at her as he recollects the feelings and emotions of that day, leaving their district for what they expected to be the last time. Their days were numbered, or so they had every reason to believe. 

For the first time, maybe in the entirety of their short lives, that was no longer the case. 

Clove stretches both her arms out to wrap them behind his neck, relaxing fully and truly into his arms. “Is it crazy to say it feels like we won?”

The station is barren and silent when the train stops. There is no great crowd to welcome home the newest victor this time, no officials to celebrate them. 

And yet, when the four of them are back on the train platform,  surrounded by the rubble of what was once the greatest district in the country, there has never been a sweeter homecoming. 

My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now i’m covered in you

The walk home is harrowing. Two months of cleanup had barely touched the majority of the evidence of the violence, especially along the bases of the mountain, where the various villages had to stack their dead. Slowly but surely they had been transported back to their towns to properly be buried under the traditions of each of the different villages.

That, of course, was just for the bodies that had even been recovered. 

Nearly half of District Two’s population was unaccounted for, and reconstruction efforts had only barely begun to move the piles of rocks that represent the rubble of what was once towering buildings and neighborhoods full of homes. 

The true carnage of the war, the gravity of the loss in this district alone was yet to be understood and tallied. Cato cannot say a word on the walk home, as every time he thinks about the bodies of his parents and sister rotting away under the ash of two, his throat feels like it is going to close on him. Clove by extension says nothing either, only threading her arm around his, holding that same arm with her other hand. There are no words to negate the pain of loss, to ease the ache of the unknown. 

The gate to Victor’s Village is somehow perfectly intact, and from what they can see beyond, so are the pristine lines of ornate houses. A layer of ash covers the ground like fallen snow, and the air feels unseasonably cold up here. It is as if the ghosts of the victors, the families, all of the dead haunt these gates, encasing them in a blanket of melancholy as a reminder that they are the survivors yet again. 

The chill especially wraps around Clove, sending an ache deep to her joints, a reminder that while she is a survivor, she was a victim, too. They have survived but they do not come home unscathed, they do not come home the victors they left as. 

There are lights on in the two houses across the street from their own, and the reminder of life of their mentors is one of the only calming thoughts they can cling to.The rest of the houses sit empty, stale air circulating through them with no victors left to call them home. There is no evidence that there was once life in these houses, no shoes on the porch, no watering cans in the yards. Just like that what was once the fullest victors village has become a ghost town. 

The decision to come back had not been an easy one. District One was in a far better condition, and frankly, none of them were quite ready for life on their own after so much time relying on each other for company and sanity during the war. They didn’t even really have motivation to come back– what did they have waiting behind for them. Eventually the announcement came – much to the dismay of many many many citizens– that the surviving Victors would continue to receive monthly stipends (albeit not near as much as pre-war days) as reparation for the torture and violence inflicted on them at the hands of the prior government  ever since their victory. It made it easier to know that upon their return they weren’t going to have to assimilate into societal roles (and for Glimmer, the real relief came that she would never have to work in retail in one). 

Ultimately, the decision to come back was their own. This place, despite the horrors, the violence, the brutality…it was their home. Maybe it was those things that made it home. 

They stand in the charred grass at the very edge of their yard, Clove with her head resting against his body, Cato running his hand over her arm in an attempt to warm her body to ward off the ghosts of pain that the cold brings on. He rests his head on top of hers as they look at the grandiosity of the home they left behind, still frozen in time, as a relic of the time they were eighteen and in love, feeling invincible. 

“Hey…babe?” Cato wrinkles his brows together, lifting his head from atop hers. “Do you have a key?”

Well of course they didn’t have a key– it wasn’t like they had considered leaving one under the doormat on their way to their certain deaths. 

“Fuck.” Clove laughs against his arm, burying her face in the dark wool of his coat. Her laugh is contagious to him, and he’s shaking his head with a laugh not too long after her. Out of all the obstacles that should have kept them from ever crossing the threshold of their home again, they had not thought to anticipate a key being one. 

She flashes him a playful smirk, raising her eyebrows teasingly. “Are we going to break into our own house?”

Sure, Cato could probably just go through the front door. Of course with the current state of Two, that door would not be replaced because a couple of kids broke into their own house. 

“We left the bedroom window unlocked.” Cato reminds her, catching her off guard as he grabs her by the waist and throws her over his shoulder. “I mean.. I hope we left the window unlocked.”

Clove nearly shrieks as she ends up in the air, his hands giving taunting pinches on the very top of her thighs as he fully carries her to the back yard. The grass is overgrown in some places, burnt in others, Clove notices as she stares at the ground from her place on his shoulder.

Cato surprises Clove again when he flips her from his shoulder to his arms, one hand under her knees and the other under her shoulders as he cradles her against him. “Okay. You’re going in.”  

It’s not even surprising how easily he lifts her to a standing position on his hands, how he can push her towards the bedroom window with such ease. All that to say, Clove's short arms and legs do not make it any easier, with her fingertips barely able to reach the window screen to pry it off. When she does she sends it flying down behind her, and only from the groan she hears from Cato can she tell it hit him. It is using all the dexterity of her little fingers that she is able to slide the window up and open.

“Got it!” Clove calls down to him, and lightly twists her ankle in his palm. “You gotta throw me a little.”

“I can’t throw you through the window–” Cato scoffs, shaking his head adamantly. “No way in hell.”

“Cato I can’t reach, You need to just give me a little boost-”

“A little boost i’m already holding you above my head–” 

“Cato! A little toss!” Clove insists, jolting her foot with a little annoyance. “I’m serious, we need to get in–”

“Fine! But if you bust your face open don’t blame me.” Cato grumbles, and grabs her by the bottom of her shoes. “Okay, ready?”

Clove nods, already bracing her hands on either side of the window. When he gives her the little bit of a toss (more than a little, considering the strength he doesn’t even realize he exerts sometimes), Clove is able to flip in through the window. 

All Cato can hear is a slight scream from his wife as she tumbles into the house.

“Clove…babe…you alright?” Cato calls up, an edge of panic infiltrating his cool tone.  “Baby…”

Clove appears in the window, resting her elbows on the window ledge as she smiles down at him with a coy smirk. “You look like you’re here to beg me to sneak out.”

“If I remember correctly it was me who had the house first..” Cato responds to her smirk with his own, running a hand over the side of his hair. “Will you let me in? I didn’t throw you through the window just so I could still break down the door.”

“Patience, patience, Cato.” Clove teases, but the smile on her face could keep Cato going for the rest of his life. “I’m coming, meet you out front.”

Cato beats her to the front door. Patience has never been his strength, and frankly, it’s fucking cold and she is taking a weirdly long amount of time before she comes down. “Clove open the door, I'm not playing around.” 

When the door does swing open to Clove, somehow already changed into one of his shirts and one of his shirts only, she greets him with a dark smirk, looking up at him from thick lashes. “Welcome home.”

The thin layer of dust that covers every surface in their house is a problem for another time.

Later…after.. Clove sits between his legs in the bath, the water as hot as they can possibly get it, soothing every ache in the crooks of her spine. His fingers trace imaginary shapes over the back of her hand, her head against his chest and shoulder. Hot water had been one of the biggest losses in Thirteen. Clove had imagined this particular moment for months. So much so that it was the first- well…second– thing they did once they were back in their home. 

Their names were still carved into the bedpost, their laundry still in pre-sorted piles on the bathroom floor.  Clove’s skin yearns for the softness of the clean sheets they had left behind (though maybe they were not so clean with the dust and ash layer on every surface). In the morning, Clove will treat herself to tea with the rest of the honey in the cabinet above the sink and to the left. 

“You know, I think Enobaria had the spare key.” Cato realizes with his lips on Clove’s neck, and he deserves the light smack to the side of his head once he says it.

“I do not want to think about Enobaria right now, thank you very much.” Clove mumbles, tilting her neck so he can have more more more as she feels his other hand wrapping around her waist and sliding lower. 

“We made it home, sweetheart.” Cato kisses into the skin of her neck, pulling her somehow even closer. “We’re home.”

“We are home.” Clove repeats, but the emphasis she places changes the meaning of the statement. Yes, they are home. But they are home. 

He is hers and she is his. 

They are home. 

And If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still around. 

Home is not as idyllic as they may have remembered, but it was home. 

The thunderstorms that once lulled her to sleep, jolted her awake with a racing heart. The sound of rain no longer rain, but too identical to the distant sound of bombs in their homeland.  When she ends up sitting on the porch in the middle of the night, forcing herself to face it, she is always joined by a heavy blanket being draped around her shoulders, and Cato sitting wordlessly beside her. What they don’t know is that in a district not too far away, another girl screams herself awake from nightmares of the past, and is joined by the innocent affection of a man who slides into bed next to her only to sleep, who holds her only with the intention to comfort her while expecting nothing in return. 

The cold hurts more than she imagined it would. It is not just the recollection of nearly freezing to death that frightens her anymore, it is the pain in her body. Their home is somehow always chilly, her wrists and shoulders and back always aching fiercely. Cato knows her, he has her entire life, and is always adamant to add another blanket to the bed or turn up the heat even when it leaves him himself sweating. 

Brutus and Enobaria still let themselves in multiple days a week for breakfast.

A few weeks into their return, a knock on their front door long before breakfast startles them both. He’s sitting at the kitchen island admiring the concentration on her face as she carves into something she will undoubtedly transform into something fantastic in an hour or so. 

“Who comes to see us?” Clove raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from her task before her. “Enobaria and Brutus have never knocked, and you know Glimmer and Marvel couldn’t be awake this early..”

“They’ll leave.” Cato shrugs, reaching out a hand to nab some of the intricately carved strawberries Clove had already finished with. “Ignore it.”

The knocking only increases in frequency and volume, and Cato rolls his eyes as he pushes himself away. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Clove can’t wipe away the smirk that rises as she watches him walk away, all shirtless with sweatpants slung so low on his hips that it wouldn’t take much effort from her when he comes back to–

She hears the door swing open but does not hear him scare anyone off with a threat, nor does she hear anything at all. “Babe?” Clove calls out behind him, wiping off the blade of her knife with a towel before she lays it down on her cutting board. “Cato?” She calls again, quickly covering the distance from the kitchen to the front door. Cato isn’t even in the doorway, and Clove doesn’t know why that makes her heart race.

Once she makes it to the door, to see what is waiting on the porch, her heart fully stops. 

Wrapped around Cato’s torso are the long baby limbs of his baby sister, little arms clinging around his neck, long blonde curls covering where her face is absolutely buried in his neck. He’s got both arms around the girl, one hand holding her head to his shoulder.  Immediately to his left, with her hand on his arm, is his mother. War was unkind to her, as the woman Clove once looked up to and yearned to emulate in some ways looked more fragile than ever. 

“Hi Clove, Honey.”  Cato’s mother greets her with an exhausted, bone tired smile. There is a lack of light in those blue eyes, a sorrow Clove hopes never to imagine. 

Clove furrows her eyebrows, tilting her head just a little and it is enough of a question for the older woman to perceive it.  

His mother takes in a sharp breath and shakes her head very quickly in the negative and it is all Clove needs to see to know that this is it, this is all that remains of Cato’s family. A mother and a sister.  

“I missed you, so so much kiddo.” Cato whispers to the girl, gently running his hand over the back of her head over and over again. 

Clove steps forward and gently places a hand on the taller woman’s arm, ever so slightly squeezing. “I’m so sorry.” 

The blonde woman presses her lip together and nods, taking her arm off of her son and instead wrapping them around Clove in a hug. “I’m glad to see you again. I don’t think he would have survived it without you.” 

“I wouldn’t have either.” Clove admits, allowing herself to squeeze a little tighter to the woman, analyzing her change in body structure. 

“He’s been gone a long time.” His mother informs them both, patting Clove’s cheek gently before she goes back to wrap her son and little daughter in her arms. 

“Where have you been?” Cato gets out, his voice nearly cracking as he looks down on his mother. “Where did you go?”

“We’ve just been on the move, huh baby?” His mom brushes Cora’s little arm, pulling her attention from where she is hiding in her brother’s arms. “We have just moved constantly, no one could catch us if they didn’t know where we were.”

“Is home…” Cato starts, unable to force the rest of the words out into the world. 

“Gone. long gone.” His mother explains, as Cora raises her head and latches eyes with Clove. 

“You can stay in my house.” Clove immediately offers out, waving slightly at Cora. “Hi, sunshine.”

Immediately Cora lifts her little blonde head and practically wriggles out of Cato’s arms, nearly running into her once she has her little feet on the ground. With his arms free Cato wraps his arms fully around his mother in a hug, and Clove can see the way he melts into his mother;s arms like a little boy

Clove initially wants to kneel to Cora’s level, to become eye to eye with her. However, this six year old child is nearly to her shoulder’s already, and Clove is taken back by how tall this little girl has become. “You’ve gotten so big!”

“I’m as tall as you!” She cheers, and this bright angel of a child wraps her arms around her sister in law. “I missed you, Clove.”

“We missed you too, Cora Jade.” Clove promises, leaning down just a little to kiss the top of her head. “I think you’re going to stay in the house next to us for a little while!” She can no longer scoop her up, with how tall and gangly she has become in the last year. Clove tries anyway, scooping Cato’s sister to sit on her hip despite the fact they are nearly the same size. Cora immediately relaxes against her, and somehow, some way, Clove feels like something deep inside her relaxes with relief, too. 

And though I can’t recall your face, I’ve still got love for you 

For kids who had been trained to kill, who have taken lives, they were more surrounded by death than ever before. They hadn’t expected the influx of funeral services and war memorials they would be expected to attend. 

His father had of course been the most painful, with the heart broken sobs of his baby sister, asking when she’d see her daddy again. It was devastating for Cato, too, who had to learn how to be an adult man in a world without games without his father to guide him. The loss had hit him harder than he dared to admit. 

At the end of what felt like the tenth funeral service they felt obligated to attend, this one of an old classmate and her younger sister, while Cato played nice with another ex-classmate Clove found herself wandering to a part of the cemetery that she had never allowed herself to cross into. 

It was sacred ground, really, treated with utmost respect. Perfect lines of simple limestone grave markers stretched in perfect lines of 25, save for the last row. No tribute came home to be buried from seventy five. The victors, they were in a separate area even still, with lavish, over the top headstones. But here, in a well maintained corner of the District Two cemetery, rest every single tribute who did not make it to victor status. 

The boy from her games did not even have solid grass on top of his grave plot yet, and the ceaseless bombing did nothing to aid in that process. The girl from Cato’s games is a little further grown over, with a thin but respectable layer of fresh grass that grows in all directions. She can remember some of the others, mildly. The boy who lost against Glimmer, the girl who Johanna took out. 

It is not her own peers, though, that interests Clove. 

She weaves through years and years of games, of either single or double headstones from every single Hunger Games, from 75 to 62, and finally to the one she had avoided the entirety of her life. 

Six feet below her feet was the remaining body of Sevina Kentwell, being the closest Clove has been to her mother in nearly eighteen years. 

It is a simple marker, like all of the others. With the name of the tribute, the date of their birth, and what place they came in their games.  Somehow, seeing first runner up, though she had known it the entirety of her life, manages to rip her heart from her chest, coating the white limestone with the spray of hot, wet blood. 

Or at least it’s how it feels. 

There is no mention of the life Sevina had prior to the games. No mention of the daughter she left behind, how she was a mother who loved deeply and to the last day of her life, how she was the daughter of a cruel woman who only became that way after the loss of her child. 

Clove does not know when exactly she ends up on her knees, kneeling before the stone that is no taller than her in this position. 

It is when she notices the little symbol on every stone– some knives, some stars, some hearts– that she realizes there is some small personalization that makes these tributes people. Children. 

Clove’s right hand reaches out, shaking just enough that she notices, as she traces her pointer finger over the etching of her mother’s name. It is then, as she reaches the I, that she realizes the dot over the initial is a clover. 

The weight of a war, of physical torture, of two Hunger Games, the destruction of her home, and a loveless, empty childhood hits her. If she were not already on her knees she would have fallen to them, as it feels like she is the one who just had the breath slammed out of her against that cornucopia. 

The death of her grandmother meant next to nothing. She had openly spoken out against Clove after her appearance in Two, proudly sharing the narrative that she was a traitor and that her daughter died because of this mistake of a child. Yes, she raised Clove and turned her into a victor with her cold demeanor and cruelty, and for that Clove had no choice but to be thankful, but still, she did not feel a great loss at the news of her death by rebels in Two. 

She thought nothing of the news that her father and his entire new family also died in the roles of loyalists. He had been dead to her long before the war. 

The entirety of her family would die with Clove. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in sixty years, but there would be no one left to remember any of them after her inevitable death. 

Maybe that was the gift she could give to the ghost of her mother– the erasure of the people who treated them so cruelly. 

That of course meant the erasure of Sevina Kentwell and Clove herself, as well. 

While Clove had spent the entirety of her life to become a victor, to carve her place in history, right now the idea of slipping into anonymity and living a mundane enough life to not be remembered didn’t sound like the worst ending in the world. 

Sevina Kentwell died nearly eighteen years ago, but somehow it hits Clove like it is the first time all over again. This feeling– the elephant on her chest, the choking, gagging sobs that she could not control, the tears that felt like burning salt on her cheeks– may as well have been from the little girl whose mother never came back for her. 

She felt an overwhelming need to speak out loud– to the air, to the universe, to whatever could hear her– that she couldn’t really explain. It felt silly, to just speak into thin air, and yet she doesn’t have it in there to stop herself. 

Clove wipes her tears on the back of her sleeves, rocking back to sit on her heels. She pushes her hair behind her ears, before she crosses her arm over her chest, tucking her hands along her hips on opposite sides of her body. 

“I’ve always kind of wondered what was so wrong with me as a baby, if I was so unlovable of a little girl that it was just..so easy to leave me. Grandma always told me thats the case…that I’ve been fucked up since I was born and that it was easy to leave a crazy little girl. That the risk of dying was better than having to spend eighteen years with me. I believed it, too.” Clove leans her head back, squeezing evergreen eyes closed and taking a deep, shaky breath to the sky, desperate for cool morning air to fill her lungs and quench the burning that ravages the back of her throat.  “I can’t remember what you look like. I’ve seen pictures but I can’t remember. I don’t remember the sound of your voice, or what it was like to be held by my mother.”

“I want to be angry and I want to blame you for everything that is just so fucked up about me, but I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t have been sent to training if you were a victor, huh?” Clove sniffles heavily, the skin of her face burning from the continued assault of tears that just cannot cease to flow. “And then I wouldn’t be a Victor..And then I never would have met Cato.” 

She isn’t quite sure she can believe it, though it is rational. If she had not needed to win the games herself, she never would have been sent to training to become a victor, and by extension would have never crossed paths with Cato. 

There is another part of herself though, the far less rational part, the part that let her fall for her training partner, that believes in any universe, in any version of reality, some way somehow, they would always find each other (though that she would never say out loud). 

“I married him, you know. I’ve never said it out loud.. I’ve never told anyone about it.” Clove whispers to the universe, words barely falling past her lips. “But I did. I guess I wasn’t so terrible and unlovable after all, or maybe I was, and he’s a little terrible and fucked up too. We’re made for each other in that way. He’s…the love of my life.”  She finds that her right hand is twisting at her left ring finger, the empty digit lacking any physical or public reminder of such love. It didn’t matter. They knew. “Enobaria took really really good care of me, too.  Like she had promised you. I don’t know if I would have survived without her. Both literally as a baby, but also in the games.” 

She exhales shakily. Her breathing is weighty and consuming, as she feels her throat tightening with the burning feeling of exhaustion. “I wish I had a mom these days, not that you’d know what a world without the games is like anyway…but it would be nice. To have a mom for the rest of my life….Whatever it looks like.”

Clove rests her body weight on her hands in front of her, steadying herself as she catches her breath and regains her composure. She raises her left hand again, branching herself on her mother’s headstone so she can push herself to a standing position. She brushes off the grass on her knees, smoothing down the skirt of her formal black dress. Digging the heels of her hand to stop the tears, she is unconcerned with the fact her makeup is certainly smeared around her eyes. Clove takes a shaking, stabilizing breath, gently reaching down to pat the top of the rock. 

“I miss my mom. I miss you, and I don’t even know you but I know that I love you.” Clove brushes her deep hair behind her shoulders, standing up straight like the victor she will forever be. She is all that is left of, and all that there will ever be, of the woman who eternally rests deep under her feet. “I owe you, quite literally, for my life. In all senses of it. So uh..thank you. For ruining your life to give me mine.” 

Clove takes one final shaky breath, craning her neck to the sky to stop the flow of tears. She wipes at her cheeks quickly, before shoving her hands in the pocket of her coat. Clove weaves back through the tribute corner, and before she even reaches the little gate she sees Cato leaning against one of the metal posts, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in the pockets of his own coat.

As soon as she’s within reach his arm is around her shoulders, using his hand to smooth down the hair at the top of her head before he kisses the crown of her hair gently and swiftly. Of course he can see the tracks of tears, the pink tint under the field of freckles, but he doesn’t comment on it. This was a private moment for her. 

“Ready to go home?” He pulls her in closer to his side, body heat warming her against the cool, rainy air. 

“I think we have one more stop to make.”

Everything you lose is a step you take

The only thing left of the academy which they met, trained, and ultimately, became themselves is a set of chipped marble stairs. The grand archway is reduced to piles of rubble, the long stretch of the building that was once home rests in various piles of rocks and decay. 

Their classmates were mostly dead, either after being forced into roles as peacekeeper soldiers or victims of various bombings. There were no more dorms that they had once snuck around, no more rooms full of knives or spears or dummies to use as target practice. There were no more closets to sneak off too or bad showers with cold water and low water pressure. 

All that was left of their childhood were the very steps they sat on now. 

Cato sits beside Clove, hand in hand. 

“I thought we’d spend the rest of our lives in this building.” Clove admits, brushing the hand that is not interlaced with his over the remnants of the grand staircase. “I imagined we’d be the most successful mentors, well, ever.” 

“Spend our lives in the building? I thought we’d own it. Rename it to the Kentwell-Hadley Training Academy, then we could claim every District Two victor forever. It would be like our legacy.” Cato teases, but the longing edge in his voice tells Clove that no, that is not entirely a joke.  He clears his throat, shifting so his chin was sitting on top of the crown of her head instead. “Do you ever think about the day we met?”

“Yeah, you broke my collarbone.” Clove smirks, craning her neck so she can look him in the eyes. They would never be back in the place they met, in the place she realized she loved this arrogant, temperamental boy. This, right here, was as close as it would get. “I thought we were going to hate each other forever…that we’d go out killing each other in the most violent, showy way we could. 

“And you stabbed me!” Cato indignantly nudges her with his shoulder, but brings his other hand up to cradle her face in his. I never thought, in a million years, we’d be lucky enough to be right here, Clove.”

“Alive?” Clove teases, but takes the opportunity to lean in and press her forehead to his. “On the rubble of the academy?” As much as she teases, she knows what he means. He means hand in hand, far from the enemies they were the day they met. He means the love they share.

“Together. I never thought we’d get to be together.” Cato admits, leaning in somehow closer still, so that their noses also could touch. “All this shit Clove, and the only constant in my entire life, from the time we were actual children, has been you. It has always been you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting rid of me any time soon.” She promises, wrapping her arm around his neck so that she can pull her upper body flush to his as she finally finally finally connects her lips with his. Clove melts in his arms as he fully wraps his arms around her and holds her as close as he humanly can to him. When she pulls back, resting her nose against his once again, she laughs. “What do we do now with the rest of our lives?”

“I could say each other–” Cato taunts, but laughs as he gives the slightest shrug before she can refute him. “I don’t really know. We’ll figure it out, like we always do.”

“Together?” Clove teases, leaning back so she can fully lock eyes, green with blue, as a coy little smile creeps onto her face. “I love you. More than I loved the games.”

“Aren’t I special.” Cato soaks her in. Wet dark curls framing her face, freckles like constellations across her nose.  If he got to see this for the rest of his life.. He’d die happy. Hopefully not for many many many years, but happy nonetheless.“I love you too. More than anything.”

“You just have to one up me..” Clove rolls her eyes playfully, but she does not actually move from her place in his arms. “You know, if you want to actually get married again, you do have to ask again.”

“Are you going to say yes?” He pinches her hip playfully, causing her to squirm in his arms which he uses as the opportunity to grab her even tighter. 

“Depends on the day.” She warns, but grabs his face in both her hands immediately after. She can see it all in his eyes. The nine year olds they once were, the twenty one year olds they are now. Their entire past lies crumbled beneath them, but with her arms around his shoulders and his around her hips the entirety of their future rests in their arms. 

All the uncertainty of this new world, it didn’t matter. The future, whatever it would be, would be okay.  Whatever their future held, would be just fine, so long as it held them. 

Cato and Clove.

“Always and forever, Cato. It’s you and me, always and forever.”

I had the time of my life with you. 

[atelierlili]

Roses are Red Chapter 3

"I think it's about time Panem moves on from Katniss Everdeen.”My eyes narrow, I grip my fork tightly in my hand. "So what do you suggest?"

A scandal spreads like wildfire. Peeta is caught in the flames.

A Bachelor Au.

Katniss told me about the kiss in the woods. She mentioned it in that spiel about President Snow showing up at her house. Snow had his eyes on her at all times. 

But hearing it is different than seeing. 

My vision quickly blurs as I process what I’m seeing, as if my mind was trying to protect me from seeing it. But it was too late, that image will be seared into my brain forever.

From behind me, Effie gasps and rushes over to rip the controller away from me. The holo turns off with a little click.

I can tell Effie’s brain is working overtime because she’s completely lost for words. 

Effie isn’t stupid. Vapid and arrogant? Yes. She is a capitolite. But she isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have been able to get to where she is today if she wasn’t good at her job. 

She’s been trying to hide it. But I know that she knows that something is wrong about Katniss’ death. Victor's houses don’t magically explode with two families in it. Say what you want about the Capitol, but they wouldn’t let their toys die because of faulty wiring and gas. Not by accident. Katniss Everdeen’s body should have been equally as unsalvageable as the rest, regardless of the magic that is capitol medicine. 

But Effie is a good member of the Capitol. She knows better than to ask questions or look too closely. She was never taught how to. It would do no one any good. Instead she directs all her attention to me. I’m manageable. I am safe. 

“W-why don’t we have dinner from the hotel today?,” Effie offers with a strained voice. “I hear they serve the most wonderful lamb chops and sherry ice cream here.” 

I forget what I say, but I decline her offer and retreat back into my room. I take off my prosthetic and climb into bed, staring at the ceiling and all the colourful lights from the city that bleed through the window. 

I don’t care what the Capitol will think of the news, don’t care about the districts, or my own image for that matter. President Snow should be the only person who had the vid, so it's only right to assume he leaked it. Was he trying to punish me or Katniss with it? My feelings aside, we were never lovers to begin with. I only hope Katniss is far away and safe. I hope she never hears about this breaking out. She’s a private person. Having someone violate her privacy like this would destroy her.

Then I close my eyes and wait for my nightmares to take me. 

We stopped going out for dinner after the scandal broke out. 

Effie is a sweetheart and pretends that eating from the hotel’s menu is all the rage now. 

“They say wisdom, maturity and grace can only be found when alone with oneself,” she says. “Of course, it’s alright to bend the rules to allow a single companion for company.” 

It’s utter nonsense, but I love her for it. I know she’s trying to use these fake capitol trends for my sake. Haymitch went back home the day after the scandal broke out. He's still here in a way. I hear Effie yell at him over the phone every evening when I shower. Effie, despite being an open book, never fails to put all her heart into her next project. Even if that project is trying to heal whatever damage she thinks the scandal has done to me. 

It doesn’t affect me as much as I thought it would. I spend my days painting. When I paint I can ignore the rest of the world. I’m sure at this rate I can open a new exhibit by next year. I paint the photos in the book Cynthia Nightshade gave me. I paint a large blooming meadow and a big beautiful sky. I painted a pair of birds. One sits on the wooden fence looking out into the meadow, the other flys high into the sky, surely to disappear beyond the horizon. 

Which is why I know something is wrong when Effie says I’m going out to eat tonight. 

Still, I smile and hope to ease her fettering nerves. “What are we eating tonight, Effie?” 

She's strangling her satin galaxy gloves with her hands, but she tries to give me her best smile. “Oh, Peeta. My apologies. President Snow has invited you to dine with him at the Pavillion. It is the most esteemed restaurant in Panem, Peeta. You typically have to reserve months in advance- unless you are the President, of course! I hear the service is to die for!”

I’m sure it is. Maybe the President wishes to finally collect on his promise to make me pay for duping the capitol during the 74th games. 

My prep team and Portia arrive an hour later to prepare me for dinner. Portia must have given them a warning because they are quiet the entire time, letting the recent scandal hang in the air unattended.

Portia gives me a striking blue blazer that matches the shade of my eyes. The shoulder pads are covered in glinted crystals that shimmer when the light hits them. 

“You’re still dazzling, Peeta,” Portia says, kissing my cheek. “Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

It makes me smile. Because she's right. Even after everything that has happened to me so far…I am still me. That is more than I can ask for. 

A hired driver takes me to the Pavilion. At the sight of its large glass domed exterior, I pause. I think I've seen this place before.

It's not until I am ushered inside by a server, that I am sure. This was the greenhouse that was in Cynthia Nightshade's photobook. I recognized the flowers and the detailing on the gazebos that are scattered around the area. 

I am led to the VIP section behind the large hedge wall, passing the rows and rows of flower bushes, marble statues and stone fountains. There I find President Snow sitting at a modest round table. Beside him is a familiar looking man. 

"Welcome, Peeta Mellark. Glad you see you have accepted my invitation," President Snow says with an amused look. "I believe you've met Plutarch Heavensbee before." 

My eyes turn to the middle aged man with a round belly and purple suit. I remember him. He danced with Katniss at the party. He was a Gamemaker a few years ago. The man gives me a smile that rubs me the wrong way. 

"Yes, we met at the party at your estate," I say.  

"Wonderful, then there is no need for introductions," Snow says with a twisted smile. "Have a seat, Mr. Mellark. We have much to discuss." 

I obey and take the seat closest to me. The servers begin to bring out dishes. I will never understand capitol cuisine. While there is an overabundance of food, they plate the smallest amount on the largest plates they can find. It's insulting, really. This artistic display of fake food scarcity. I'm sure it tastes as amazing as it looks. Too bad I have barely an appetite tonight. 

President Snow chuckles to himself. He must have found something I did funny. Maybe he thinks my hesitation is funny. I highly doubt he'd poison my food, but I wouldn't rule it out.

Plutarch thinks nothing of it. He's already cutting into his meal as he begins to talk. "Now, Peeta, I am sure you've seen the vid of Katniss. It's spreading like wildfire on social media." 

I swallow deeply. I roll a ball of what I think is a beat around my plate with a fork. "I don't pay attention to that stuff, but I saw it on the evening news." 

"Right. We don't expect you to know how capitol social media works anyway," Plutarch laughs to himself. "Anyway, since the vid surfaced, there has been an outpouring of support for you. You have the nation's heart, you know. And you being all cooped up in your room is making everyone absolutely sick with worry." 

"I know," I say plainly, "I've gotten more gifts since the scandal." 

My eyes turn to President Snow, who watches me over the rim of his wine glass. Was this his plan all along? By releasing the vid, he's effectively turned the narrative on its head, hasn't he. Katniss and Peeta are no longer star crossed lovers, but the cheater and the poor stupid love-sick puppy. Is that all it's going to take to end this rebellion? 

"I'm sure you have!" Plutarch agrees, "which is exactly why we're here today." 

I cock a brow, "we are?" 

"Yes," Snow grins, "I think it's about time Panem moves on from Katniss Everdeen. 

My eyes narrow, I grip my fork tightly in my hand. "So what do you suggest?" 

Plutarch answers, his eyes bright. I feel something akin to dread in my stomach. 

"A TV-show with you as the star. What better way to give Peeta Mellark his happy ending than finding his one true love?"  

Chapter 4 >>

[mad-doodle-disease]

out with ye ruined olde, in with the ruined new

they spent all day and most of the night walking. every single second was spent either trudging forward or protecting themselves from an infected cog or toon. it was grueling for timmy riddle, horrifically normalized to prester, and physically painful for winston. despite the pain wrecking through the skelecog's rusted joints, winston quickly went back to their usual "chipper" self, talkative and chatty and now just oh so curious. it was initially a bit endearing, but quickly got grating. you can only listen to a faulty skelecog glitchily ask you questions about a world that has since gone up in flames so many times. when winston asked where "the sickness" came from, prester realized something.

he hadn't seen doodles at all lately. he saw tons of them during the start of the end times, but lately it felt like they didn't even exist anymore. had they gone extinct? that quickly? prester didn't care much for toon life, which doodles fell under, but the thought a species could be wiped out in a little over 3 weeks was terrifying. if the doodles could be wiped out that quickly what chance did anyone have?

they had to get out of ye olde toontowne, there was nothing for any of them left here. they didn't care where they went, they all just wanted to leave. timmy had spent his entire life in yott, so he had no preference. winston only had fuzzy memories of places other than yott or, in particular, the dungeon, those memories mostly being from sellbot hq or the now impossible-to-reach cog nation. prester had no preference.

they had soon found themselves in a new district. a much more modern seeming area, prester recognized it as the central oil district, or, as timmy would call it "toontown central". prester remembered that this place was apparently the place the infection started... for the womb of such a disease, they didn't see a lot of "life". only stationary corpses, curled up like wilted flowers.

prester virgil: hmmph, "silly street". such an infantile name, but i would not expect better from your ilk, timmy.

timmy just grit his teeth and boar it. oh, he wanted to turn this fucking lawbot bitch into a spoon or something so badly, but he had his wand confiscated by the yott elders before the infection started and never managed to get it back. winston whined, their metal joints getting somehow even more creaky than they originally were.

winston byrd: m-my fee-e-et hurttt... can we-e-e rest soon-oon? prester virgil: absolutely not. this place is hotbed of illness, we would be mauled post haste. timmy riddle: i don't know, this place seems like a ghost town to me... sounds to me like you just don't want to rest.

timmy leaned in examining prester a bit more closely. his eyes looked forcibly widened, like he was making a conscious effort to both stay awake and look awake. each blink, he swayed a bit to the side, as if powering off for a second before quickly turning back on. it was a bit eerie, how lifelike a robot could be.

timmy riddle: ...or maybe you just don't want to admit you need to rest. prester virgil: you dare accuse me of being exhausted? mooncalves! besides, we lack a safe space to rest, we are not just going to lay down in the middle of the road and resemble the cadavers that surround us!

timmy blinked for a second, walking over to a nearby building. "toontown cinerama. now playing 'night of the living dipped'. timmy took a second to acknowledge the irony, he never got to watch the film but it sounded like a zombie apocalypse thing... and they were currently experiencing something similar. timmy checked the door only to realize it was locked, so he settled with busting a window open with his elbow instead. he crawled through, bits of shattered glass cutting him up a bit, before unlocking and opening the door from the inside.

timmy riddle: found a safe space.

prester groaned, knowing that even he would not be able to resist the temptation of a good nights rest after countless sleepless nights. watching as winston rather quickly ran inside the abandoned theater, he begrudgingly followed suit.

winston byrd: a-a-a theater! a the-e-eater! its been s-so long since ive bee-en to a theater... o-or watched a-a movie o-o-or... a-anything fun! timmy riddle: dont you cogs hate fun or whatever? what kind of movies do you guys even watch? 2 hours on uninterrupted footage of a guy filing his taxes? winston byrd: i-i-i dont remember... i-i-i-i-i-i- prester virgil: im going to... rest my eyes for a bit... a simple cat nap, only a cat nap...

with that, prester limply fell forwards, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. this startled winston, who immediately assumed he had died and ran over to check on him. timmy did so too, although with less panic in his step.

winston byrd: pre-e-ester!? p-prester!! timmy riddle: relax, he just passed out. hes going to be fine... sadly.

winston worryingly picked up prester's hat, which fell off him due to the fall. they examined it for a second, really enjoying the feeling of the brim between their fingers, before placing it back on his head. timmy sat down in a chair, leaning back and tipping the brim of his own hat over his eyes.

timmy riddle: you should sleep too, or whatever you cogs do. you look like a mess, but then again you always look like a mess sooo...

timmy chuckled a bit, before falling asleep himself, leaving winston the only one still conscious. winston, being made incredibly curious from their newfound freedom, instead opted to explore the place. they found a couple blankets, a pillow, and some stale popcorn.

they returned to the entrance, draping two of the blankets over prester and timmy, leaving the last one for themself. they also gave prester the pillow cause that fall looked like it really hurt his head.

winston ate the stale popcorn, every last bit, not caring about the taste or how out of date it was. they then curled up on the floor, quickly falling asleep as they were used to sleeping on a floor. they were just happy to have a blanket and that the floor was carpeted for once.

that popcorn was the best damn popcorn they ever ate.

NEXT

[thxrnking]

Sign Me Up - A Night Children AU One Shot

Tag List: @sparklingdiva678 @libralelia @punsandquips @phoenixriaartemis @sunsetpixels @anja-the-sane-sibling @caitlynnrosespn @anonymous-gremlin @aaamethyst-topazzz

Shoutout to @mightnightmooon for being my injury consultant making sure I don't accidentally kill Pat :3

Summary - When Swan Soldiers attack his apartment building, Pat Quinn doesn't have much time to get as many people out as he can. If he makes it out himself, what kind of life is waiting for him?

Pat Quinn Profile | Nell Quinn Profile | Night Children AU

Everyday there was a new story about an attack somewhere and about twenty more people gone missing. I remember when Cygnus shut its borders. The whole district was in a frenzy and some rich guy paid for increased patrols around Dancity to ‘discourage the rabble’ as they put it.

Sure, I knew about the Swan Empire but I really didn’t like thinking about it. I’m just some guy who sells books in the nice part of Pivet to pay for my crappy apartment in the bad part of Pivet. I didn’t like what was going on elsewhere but what good would I do worrying over it day in and day out?

It was my day off so I was in my apartment. A simple bedsit in the Pointe apartment block, south of Maneater Alley. It’s got a bit of a rough reputation but it’s affordable.

I don’t remember what I was doing but I know there were screams coming in through the window. Like I said, the area’s rough and screams aren’t exactly rare around here so I thought nothing of it. Nothing until there was this massive BWOOM that made the whole building shake.

The walls shook, the ground shook, pictures dropped from the wall, the mirror in my shower room fell. Hell, I even dropped to the floor from the force. Now that isn’t normal and after I scrambled to my feet, I ran for the door.

Several of my neighbours were out there too. Everyone felt it, not just me, and most of them were thinking we’d just had an earthquake. That didn’t sit right with me. I mean sure they can happen but in this part of Dancity? That’s when the shouting and screaming started again, but this time it was muffled. Like it was coming from downstairs; inside the building.

The lower floors of the Pointe are where you’ll find the larger rooms with better accessibility. Designed for the families and those with mobility restrictions. I think there might even be a few flatshares down there. Up on our floor, the fourth floor, you’ll find the single occupants. People who like their own space and a cheap place to stay without caring too much about loads of neighbours. Management told us this was so if we ever had to evacuate the whole building it would be quicker and safer for everyone. When we heard kids screaming, we figured evacuation was probably a good idea.

Obviously the main way in wasn’t an option. Whatever danger was coming for us would be coming that way. Lucky for us the fire exit is at the other end of our corridor, at the opposite end of the building. If we could be quick enough, we would probably get everyone out before they even got to us.

“Out! Everyone out!” I didn’t really bother being quiet, shouting as loud as I could.

No one needed telling twice, everyone heading straight for the door. Meanwhile I went the opposite direction, heading towards the entryway staircase. Someone needed to see how much time we had and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get someone else to risk it.

I hate our Gods-damned entryway staircase. It’s a multi-floor echo-chamber because they laid down that awful awful tile that reverberates every single sound that so much brushes over it. Walking up it on your own on a good day is bad enough, each step bouncing up and down and back and forth, coming at you from every angle and making you question your sanity. I jammed my hands against my ears as I shouldered open the door, knowing it would be so much worse.

The shouting and screams were so much louder and the reverb was Hell, I could feel it in my teeth. Even then, over it all was the steady thrum of multiple people marching as one. 

Marching meant one thing; Swan Soldiers. Our building was under attack from Night Swan, her Soldiers here to take prisoners or to recruit. Neither option sounded good. So an invading force was coming up the stairs, several people were still in the corridor, and thanks to the reverb, there was no way to figure out how long we had until they got here.

As I came back into the corridor, I saw that most people had made it out the exit while some stragglers were still on their way out after having finally given up banging on the still closed doors. Fuck.

On my way to the exit, I banged on each closed door myself. I didn’t want to waste time, banging only two or three times and shouting to get out before moving on. There was no answer at any of them and I really hoped it was because they weren’t home.

Finally, I made it to the end. The Soldiers hadn’t reached us yet, everyone else was out, and I’d just finished banging on the last door. I was thinking we’d made it when it happened. Two thirds of the way down the corridor a door opened and out of the apartment stepped a woman I didn’t know. Couldn’t tell you her name even now but I had a few choice names for her at that moment I can tell you.

Her hair was dishevelled and she was in her pyjamas. She looked rough, exhausted, and pissed. She started shouting about night shifts and irregular schedules but at that point I wasn’t listening. We didn’t have time and I was sprinting right at her.

Seeing me barrelling at her seemed to scare her out of her rant. The building shaking and her neighbours shouting and screaming as they ran for their lives didn’t ruffle her, but a strange young man running at her as fast as he could? Apparently that’s terrifying.

I screeched to a halt on the other side of her and just started physically herding her towards the exit. She tried and failed to argue with me because I just kept pushing her. Whether or not she liked it I was going to get her out that door. When I finally got her to the exit, I pushed her out, told her to run and slammed the door behind her.

This wasn’t the plan. I’d fully intended to be on the other side of that door when I closed it for the last time but I’d realised something while getting that woman out. The original plan wasn’t going to work.

We were running with seconds on our side here, not minutes. The Swan Soldiers would get up here, find our floor empty, and take all of 0.2 seconds to realise where we went. They’d immediately follow us, chase us down and all we would have done would be give them a little extra cardio. Ultimately, it would only delay the inevitable.

If anyone was going to have any hope of getting to true safety, someone needed to stay behind. To keep their focus on the floor for just a minute or two so the others could find somewhere safe. So that was my plan; distract them.

When they finally got to me I was nowhere near the exit, waiting for them halfway down the corridor. I’d seen Swan Soldiers on TV before but this was my first time in person. It was haunting, like looking at a picture of someone who died 20 years ago. Unnatural. Hollow.

As they marched in, I raised my hands in surrender. I figured they’d march straight up to me and take me into custody, after all I was an easy target. Probably their easiest take-down all night, but they kept their distance, merely stepping to the side and watching me with their formless faces.

They were waiting. For her.

I’d heard about the Night Children, everybody had. Still I didn’t want to believe it. All those powerful dancers, defeated by the Night Swan and now fighting by her side. It was unthinkable. Especially Brezziana.

I’ve known Brezz for years. I first saw her during a flash mob she did in Luz Solar Mall years ago. She was energetic, encouraging, exuding warmth and kindness that just made you want to join in. So I did. I made sure someone introduced us and I was right there with her at her next five flash mobs.

I wouldn’t say we were friends. I don’t have her number, couldn’t tell you where she lives, but we would always talk whenever we ran into each other. She’d ask about my family, I’d check in about her friends. We were close enough.

From between the Soldiers, Brezziana strode forward coming to a stop in front of them. What had been bright calming blue, and energetic orange was intertwined with toxic vine-like black feathers tracing up and down her body. Her hair puffs were gone, her purple curly hair half-pulled back and drawn into a messy singular bun. The pink heart, her signature motif, was broken in two.

Her eyes were aflame, burning with glee on top of a wide, emotionless smile that held no warmth. The Soldiers all looked to her, watching and waiting. She was their leader.

“Hello Pat. Mind if we come in?”

She remembered me. Her voice was ice cold, dripping with malice and my hands dropped as I stepped back. My heart sank, my chest felt hollow, and my whole body was numb.

It was true. The truth of the Night Children was stood right in front of me, ready to take me in or take me down. I knew I couldn’t let her, but I had no plan, I had no way out, and I had maybe five seconds before she came for me with no hope of outrunning her or her Soldiers.

My mind raced as I stepped back, desperately trying to think of something, anything. I glanced to the side peeking into a nearby apartment and saw something that gave me an idea. Not smart, not great, but if I did this right it’d leave me better off than I was three minutes before.

“Go ahead,” I said, mostly to distract her. The only thing I had on my side was the element of surprise and if it had any hope of working I needed them not to realise I was going to try something, “I was thinking of moving out anyway.”

Pausing only to give them a two-finger salute, I dashed into the apartment slamming the door shut behind me. Seconds was all I had but it was all I needed as I ran to the window, unbolted it, tore it open, and-

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“Wait!” Blake interrupts from the doorway.

The room is tiny, more of a converted storage closet. With the increasing raids occurring across Dancity in recent months, the Resistance outpost has had to make space for the countless people who barely made it out somehow. There’s just enough space in here for the cot Pat’s laid on, and the small stool on which Liv is sitting.

“You were toe-to-toe with one of the Night Children, essentially at her mercy, and the best idea you could come up with was to jump out of a fourth storey window?!”

“No. My idea was to jump to the second storey roof of the building next door, then keep running. I didn’t count on breaking my leg.” Pat chuckles gesturing to his left leg that was tightly bound to a splint. It had been in a cast up until last week, but the medic had confined Pat to remain on bedrest a little while longer, just to make sure the bone was fully healed.

Liv gently smiles at him, “Thank the gods we found you before the Soldiers did.”

“Shame you’re pretty much useless.” Blake mutters, not quite under their breath. They’re leant back against the doorframe, arms crossed and scowling. A common occurrence when they came to visit Pat.

As outpost leaders, it was a vital duty of both theirs and Liv’s to check in with those in their custody. Check on their care and make sure they’re safe. Still, Blake wished that Pat wasn’t on the list. There’s nothing wrong with him, though he is annoyingly upbeat, but the dumbass tends to talk. A lot.

“So you’ve said,” Pat snarks back, “many times. Yet I still managed to get those people to relative safety. So maybe I’m not completely useless.”

“Enough.” Liv stands, purposefully placing herself between them. There's a firm glare in her eye as she looks between the two, daring either of them to challenge her interruption.

“I’m just saying-” Pat tries but Liv silences him with a finger in his face as she pins her glare on him.

“You’re supposed to be resting, not picking fights. And Blake,” she turns on her partner, pinning him with the glare now, “Pat is here to recover not be recruited. So back off of him.”

Blake doesn’t meet her eye, his slipping off to the side as they wait for her to stop. She’s right of course, but it’s been a long while since things have Flowed in their favour. Resistance numbers are dropping everywhere. Members are constantly getting captured or scared away. If they’re going to have any chance of surviving in this war, never mind standing a chance at winning, something needs to change and soon.

Liv doesn’t stop staring and Blake gives up.

“Whatever,” they mutter, turning to head out the door. Liv gives a satisfied smile, turning to wave at Pat before she moves to follow after Blake.

“I know you lost your intel guy!” Pat blurts.

So this wasn’t how he’d intended to bring it up. He’d hoped he could ease into it but they were already leaving and he panicked. It works though, both Liv and Blake turning to stare at him in confusion.

“How the hell do you know that?” Blake demands, confusion quickly giving way to anger.

“Well, your secret meetings are maybe not quite as private as you think they are.” Pat can’t help but chuckle nervously.

Blake scowls and waves for Liv to follow them, making a mental note to increase the security around their meetings. Annoyed, Pat pushes himself up on the cot. Sitting up is impossible with his leg as it is but he still tries, holding himself up with his arms behind him as he yells after them.

“I want to help!” He can’t keep the anger from his voice at being so easily dismissed.

Weeks he’s been stuck here, completely alone apart from the occasional visit from Blake and Liv, and whoever brings him food each day. Healing may be important but the isolation has been driving Pat out of his mind. Forced to wait and see when he knows the war is still going on out there; that it’s getting worse.

“I know I’m less than useless in a fight, thanks for the constant reminders!” he calls after Blake bitterly, “But I’m fast, I can think on my feet, and I’ll blend in better than a couple of Eternians!”

He’d thought telling them about the day they found him, how he helped people, how he survived, his semi-connection to one of the freaking Night Children, would convince them he could be an asset but Blake’s already out of sight. They could be halfway down the corridor by now.

Blake refuses to listen. They don’t have time to listen to a Gloveless dumbass with no sense of self-preservation begging to join a fight he has no place in. It’s out of habit that he glances to the side expecting to see Liv walking beside him, only to realise she’s not there.

Blake stops, turning back to see Liv frozen in the doorway, a familiar look in her eye. They cautiously approach her.

“Tell me you’re not considering putting an inexperienced, unGloved citizen into the fight?”

Liv glances to them, her eyes sparkling as they often do when she’s figuring out a solution, “Not into the fight.”

“Liv,” Blake grits through his teeth, but Liv cuts him off.

“We need someone on intel.”

They do. The last three people had gone missing in action, presumed captured. No one honestly knows but it's not hard to make an educated guess. It’s almost impossible to find anyone dumb enough to be willing to take the risk but without intelligence on the Swan Army coming in, they were basically fighting blind.

Blake looks to the cot. Pat’s brow is furrowed in determination as he glares fiercely at them in the doorway.

“He won’t last two minutes if it comes to a fight.” Their voice is barely above a mutter, not wanting Pat to hear.

“Maybe we don’t need a fighter.” Liv quietly offers, “Maybe we need someone who can survive.”

Whatever else happened that day, Pat had survived. He’s reckless, impulsive, untrained, and unGloved but he knew when to run from a fight. He is fast, he can think on his feet, and especially without a Glove, he would draw a lot less attention than most.

Moments drag on until finally Blake gives a sigh of resignation.

“Fine,” he agrees reluctantly, “but only after the medic clears you.”

Pat’s lips draw wide in a bright smile as he fist-pumps in his excitement.

“You won’t regret this.”

Rolling their eyes, and shaking their head Blake turns to leave again.

“I already do.”