#i know that some of them are already mentors

[liondrakes]

Following up on this, it’s like taking the travel situation on transgender people and asking us why we would “condone” this erasure. I am transmasculine and genderqueer; I want to have access to testosterone and secure a legal name change in the future, yet I’m faced with the reality that pursuing my truth will also put me in more danger than I’m already in.

That’s not even taking into account the millions of trans people who’ve already reached that point in their journey. Now, they’re currently faced with the possibility of being trapped in this fascist pitfall of a country as it continues to persecute us.

There’s also thousands of trans youth who’re at risk in their cities, thanks to politicians who essentially want their teachers and mentors to snitch if they so much as indicate transitioning in any way. What of them when they reach adulthood, knowing what their older peers are facing now?

We aren’t okay with anything. We’re faced with the reality that we’re being targeted in our own home. Right out the woodwork, millions of Americans went to social media airing out their frustrations, their fears, and the necessity to organize with each other in these times. Not to mention, plenty more were laying into others for voting people into office who want to destroy any quality of life for us so long as they secure a profit.

It’s short-sighted, to say the least. Mutual aid groups, communal archivists and activists, COVID-conscious guides, and more have been criticizing our system and working towards sharing what resources they can for years now. Hell, disability rights activists are among the most vocal of us!!!

The problem is that 1. many of them are drowned out by political panic and 2. being some of the most vulnerable of us, they are shut down by folks who didn’t take these circumstances nearly as seriously as they should’ve.

I need folks to actually look into what people are trying to do before making the assumption that we’re rolling over and taking our oppression in stride.

This shit costs 200rs... 2.1 $ or something... Why the fuck Americans are okay with this...

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

finite eternity

Professor Reed Richards x f!reader | wc: 1 k | ao3 | mdni, fluff

summary: after getting your phd you return to your former professor to thank him. he says some nice things and you get a "you're coming" guarantee. coming to dinner that is.

warnings: legal age gap (reader's mid/end 20, Reed is however deliciously middle aged), a little angsty, a few possible double entendres (or maybe not? you get to decide), a little pining, finger under the chin (twice), the poor attempt of science metaphors, and if you like: there's definitely some threesome things happening AFTER this fic

a/n: I need Reed Richards. and a smart man with grey hair at a blackboard? hell yeah. telling me he's proud of me? hell yeah. inviting me home to have dinner with him and his perfect wife? HELL YEAH. thanks to my perfect wife @guiltyasdave for the quick beta and the squealing<3

The big doors open silently and you slip into the lecture hall. The one you've spent so many hours in, learning, despairing, making friends. Falling in love even. You haven't been here for two years and everything has changed and everything is somehow still the same.

Quietly you take the steps down, careful to not startle Professor Richards who is writing on the blackboard. The quiet, smooth rasp of the chalk against the dark surface sounds so familiar that it gives you butterflies. Or maybe it’s him, still him.

A smile crosses your face when you read the formulas on the board, you know them well, you wrote your thesis about them. When you reach the first row and you pull down one of the seats a loud creak disturbs the peaceful and dignified aura of wisdom and science. Reed turns around, already a charming smile on his lips to shoo some eager students back out of the room.

“Sorry, lecture doesn’t start until…-” And his smile turns genuine, his eyes crinkle and his head tilts down so he can give you that one look from under his lashes. “You? What, did you forget to start your assignment on time again?”

Your own smile grows and the butterflies are still in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it was Reed all along. The old banter, it flares up so easily between the two of you like there hasn't been a two year break.

Your elbows propped up on the table in front of you, your chin resting on your folded hands, just like you spent half of the lectures in this hall. Nothing has changed.

“I can assure you, there are no due assignments anymore, Professor-”

“Reed, please,” he interrupts you and puts the chalk away. “You’re one of us now, please call me Reed.”

He wipes his fingers clean before walking over to you and sitting down on the fixed table next to you.

“You've heard about it?�� You feel so proud in this moment, being one of them, one of the smart scientists, and it feels like you've worked your ass off just for this: the doctor title and the privilege to call your first mentor Reed.

“Of course I have. I’ve watched you. Your successes. Congratulations!” He holds out his hand, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and giving you free sight to his forearms. He is still so incredibly toned. You take his hand and when his warm palm swallows yours in a firm shake your breath hitches just the slightest bit. Nothing has changed.

“Thank you. For everything, Reed. Without your support I wouldn't have been able to-”

He shakes his head, interrupting you again. You're not even mad. “None of that. You did it all yourself, all the hard work. All the hours you stayed awake at night, working through papers… All I did was giving you a little nudge every now and then.”

You remember the little nudges. The encouraging notes you sometimes found. Or when he squeezed your arm, his thumb rubbing over your shirt. Your eyes flick from his smile to his eyes and then you take in his whole face. There's more grey in his hair now. A few more wrinkles. But the soft waves in his hair are still there. He still holds your hand, even has placed his other one on top.

You look at each other for a moment and the moment stretches into a small eternity that just belongs to you and him. He probably knows a formula to describe this phenomenon.

“I'm proud of you,” he says quietly and heat crawls up your neck when he squeezes your hand, his thumb caressing the skin over your knuckles.

“Thank you, Reed,” you whisper and feel shy all of a sudden.

Just as shy as that one evening, when he helped you with something, you can't even remember what it was. But you sat in his office, slumped over your notes, frustration gnawing at you like you gnawed at the end of your pencil. Until he was next to you and nudged your chin up to make you look at him.

He didn’t say anything at that moment, there was just silence and his finger under your chin and the scent of books and tea and his aftershave and his tongue running along his lips. Another of those finite eternities. “You’ll be doing great,” he said and made time start running again. Slowly running, like his thumb along your bottom lip. For just the fraction of a second. As if it had never happened…

“You look all grown up. Like the woman I always knew you were.” He squeezes your hand again and you blink. You are back again, in the lecture hall in which Professor Richards made you fall in love with science. Back in the front row, with Reed saying things you'll stash away for later.

“Come over for dinner. Sue loves getting to know my science spawns.” He leans closer, his smile morphing into a mischievous smirk. “Especially the pretty ones. Pretty smart ones.”

You hesitate, at loss for words with Reed being so close that his gravitational pull draws you closer. Your mouth opens and closes again when he tugs on your hands, making your orbit a little smaller.

“Just say yes. It will be grand. Now, that we're all adults. All grown up,” he whispers and his voice, sweet and rich, says so much more than the words mean. “I know you want to, I know that face…”

He tips your chin up with the simple touch of his finger and you can't hide your excitement anymore. You roll your eyes and scoff out a little chuckle.

“Fine. I’m coming.”

“Oh, I know you will!” He gets up again, the pad of his finger still under your chin. “Sue and I will make sure of it.”

Maybe some things have changed.

whoopsie, no smut in this. i still hope you like it, let me know <3

find my general masterlist here

divider: @/saradika-graphics

[demigodsanswer]

What's the new au???

It's another modern/non-demigod au, with Tattoo Artist! Annabeth, who is also a single mom working hard to coparent her five year-old. The story starts when she meets her friend/mentor's cousin, who's only just moved back the New York City after getting Ph.D. out in California.

Here's a bit of the draft. Not sure if this will ever actually be something I finish though.

~

There were already a few people lined up on the sidewalk when Annabeth stepped through the door. Sundays were walk-in days at Electric Tattoo, but it was first come, first serve. She still had half an hour before she needed to serve anyone though. 

Electric was a basic street shop that boasted artists who could probably work somewhere more impressive, but didn’t have the energy to deal with the Instagram of it all. Annabeth herself had a decent following, and her books were usually full, but she still appreciated the spontaneity of a walk-in. And Sunday’s were good money. Sophia spent the day with her father, and Annabeth spent the day sticking needles in strangers. 

She’d built a pretty robust portfolio in the last few years; she could do just about anything. Geographic tattoos and linework were her favorite though; it was the closest she got to using the architecture degree she finished mostly out of spite in the end. But she’d always like the drafting process, even if she couldn't stand her internships or the industry in the end. 

At least, as a tattoo artist, she got to stab the shitty men she dealt with with needles. 

“I booked your six o’clock spot already,” Thalia said to her before anything else. 

“Good morning,” Annabeth said back. “Who is it?” 

“My cousin. I’d do it, but you know how I feel about doing family,” Thalia said. Annabeth didn’t know why she phrased it like that, but she wasn’t in the mood to tease her about it. “I’ve told you about him, I think? Percy? Lived out in Berkeley?” 

Annabeth shrugged. “Probably, but I don’t remember,” she said as she walked over to their shitty coffee maker -- the machine and the coffee it produced were sub-par, but it would do. 

“You’ll like him,” Thalia promised. 

“Last time you set me up with someone you thought I’d really like, I didn’t fall in love, and I got pregnant,” Annabeth reminded her. 

“I told you to abort the little crotch goblin,” Thalia teased. 

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “That crotch goblin is your goddaughter.” 

“And I love her very much,” Thalia promised. 

Thalia had been her mentor through her tattoo apprenticeship, and then, a fast friend. And for all of her jokes, she was a reliable aunt and baby sitter for Annabeth’s now-five year-old. 

Really, Annabeth needed the distraction of a Sunday walk-in day. Sophia spent Saturdays with her father, slept at his house, and didn’t get dropped off to her again until six thirty Sunday night. It wasn’t even a full forty-eight hours, but Annabeth spent just about every Saturday night missing her, whether she stayed home or went out. 

She wiped down her station, got her ink, tools, and stencils ready. And then she checked her phone again. Nothing from Luke. Not that she was worried. He was a good and responsible father. But she appreciated a photo here and there, an update. 

Annabeth decided to just text him instead: “I have a 6pm, bring her to electric” 

Luke just thumbs up reacted. 

Things between them had never been particularly romantic. A few okay dates, and some decent sex had really been the extent of it. Until Sophia made herself known to Annabeth a few weeks later. 

Annabeth knew she didn’t exactly look like a mom, with arms and legs covered in tattoos, a piercing in her eyebrow, and an undercut (really, her hair was simply too thick to deal with in its entirety), but she had always wanted a baby. And this one was hers. She didn’t expect Luke to want to coparent or be around at all. He made things easier -- financially especially -- but … 

Well, there wasn’t really a but. That was what annoyed her so deeply. They could be the perfect family. Mom and Dad just didn’t love each other. Luke had proposed to her when she told him. But Annabeth had just laughed and turned him down. It was more stable for Sophia this way. The less time they spent together, the less likely they were to hate each other in the end. 

But Annabeth still looked forward to six thirty. 

~ 

Thankfully, no one asked her to tattoo any genitals today. Closest she got was some side boob -- laurel wreaths, one on each tit. They came out pretty nice. She might have stolen the idea for herself if her tits still sat up like her client’s did. Breastfeeding had left her flatter than she was used to. But at least she could usually go braless these days. 

Annabeth cleared off her bench, disinfecting the surfaces and the equipment as Thalia’s voice got louder and closer to her. 

“I can have Hazel re-pierce your ear, if you want,” Thalia offered, tugging on some man’s ear. 

“Ow,” he complained. Annabeth stood still and looked at him. He must have been the cousin. Percy, she remembered. He looked more like Thalia than her brother did -- dark hair, strong jaw, just a few inches taller than her, and devastating green eyes. 

“This is Annabeth,” Thalia said, gesturing towards her. Annabeth gave a small wave. “She’ll be ruining your arm today.” 

Annabeth laughed, insulted. “You taught me. If you think my work is that bad, it’s your fault.” 

“It’s not about your work,” Thalia promised. “This idiot,” she pointed to the man, “lost a bet and now gets whatever dumb tattoo my brother picks out.” 

“I’m hoping he’s kind to me,” Percy said. 

Annabeth forced a smile and looked at Thalia. “I really don’t want to give you a tattoo you don’t want,” she said. 

“Bets a bet,” Thalia said. 

“It’s really no worries,” Percy said. 

“Is it your first tattoo?” Annabeth asked. 

“Nope,” he promised her. Then he rolled up his tee shirt sleeve to reveal his shoulder. It was covered in dark linework of waves, with a ship on the sea. The lines were incredibly clean, but for a moment, Annabeth panicked. It was shaded in with reds and purples that for a moment made her think it was painfully infected. 

It didn’t take long for her to realize it wasn’t infected at all. It was a very well-healed image of --

“The wine dark sea?” She guessed. 

“Yeah!” Percy said. “Thalia told me you were smart.” 

“She went to Harvard,” Thalia offered for her. 

“Smart enough not to bet on a tattoo,” Annabeth said to him. Well, anymore. 

Thalia walked back to her station, leaving Annabeth and Percy relatively alone. Frank had a man on his bench next to her, but they weren’t talking.  

“It’s really okay,” Percy promised her. “I knew I was going to lose.” 

“What was the bet?” She asked, inviting Percy to sit on the bench while they waited for Jason to make up his mind. 

“I’m working on my first book, he just finished his dissertation. Race to the finish. He was way ahead of me, though, just needed a final push to finish before his funding ran out. So, I figured I could sacrifice my forearm to keep him on track,” Percy explained. 

Annabeth asked a few more questions and Percy offered answers. He and his cousin were both classicists, he was Greek, Jason was Roman. Jason was at NYU, Percy had been out at UCLA, but then did a postdoc at UC Berkeley. But he’d finally gotten a job at Hunter College. He’d only just moved last week. 

“Are you from California?” Annabeth asked. Jason had finally made up his mind, they’d gotten the paperwork signed, and now Annabeth was applying the stencil. SPQR. Easy enough.  

“No, no, from New York, although,” he pointed to the New York Yankees logo she’d tattooed on herself just above the knee, “a Mets fan.” 

“I really don’t have strong allegiances. I just did this to piss off my Bostonian family more,” Annabeth said.  

“Rebellious,” Percy teased. “Thalia told me you’re from San Francisco?” 

Annabeth nodded. “Well, sort of. The family is from Boston, but my dad is also a professor. I grew up near West Point, then we moved to Berkeley when I was thirteen.” She pulled the stencil paper away. It looked straight. “There, check out if you like the placement.” 

Percy examined it in the mirror, twisting his arm in different positions to make sure he liked it. 

“Yeah, looks great!” He said, laying back down. “So, wait, your dad teaches at Berkeley?” 

Annabeth nodded. “History department. Twentieth century military stuff, though, you probably wouldn’t have --” 

“Is your dad Fred Chase?” 

Annabeth pressed her lips together to hold back a sigh before saying, “the one and only.” 

“He’s a …” Percy paused, studying her face to see what he should say about him, “very boring man,” Percy said. Annabeth laughed. 

“Yeah, yeah, all research, no fun,” Annabeth confirmed. 

Percy was looking at her in a new way, like he was trying to piece something together. “You’re his only daughter?” 

“Yep,” Annabeth confirmed. His eyes glanced at her chest, and Annabeth knew he figured it out. Her daughter’s name, the first three letters at least, poked through the V neck of her black tee shirt. “He’s mentioned me?” She asked. 

“Oh yeah. I mean, I haven’t talked to him a lot, but I mentioned I was from New York. He said he had a daughter and grandkid in the city.” 

Annabeth nodded. “Sophia.” 

“Where is Sophia today?” Percy asked. 

“With her father,” Annabeth said, trying to communicate through tone that Sophia’s father was not someone Annabeth was romantically attached to. “He’ll bring her around later,” and then for good measure, “he gets her on weekends.” 

Percy nodded, and then got comfortable, offering her his arm. “He gets her all weekend? Nights too?” 

Annabeth turned on the tattoo gun and picked up some ink. “Yeah, why?” 

“Just … if you’re single --” the needle made contact and shut him up. 

“You’ll still need to pay for the tattoo even if you ask me out,” she said with a teasing smile. 

Percy relaxed a bit as he got used to the sensation. Annabeth had it on good authority that she was a very gentle tattooer, actually. Men were just babies. 

“Yeah, I assumed,” Percy assured her. “Do you date? I mean, are you single?” 

“Am single, and I guess I date.” Truth be told, she didn’t date often. But she wasn’t opposed. Her arrangement with Luke would easily allow for a date here and there, she just … hadn’t dated much. Even before Sophia. Thirty in one month, she wasn’t exactly itching to join dating apps. 

“Cool,” Percy said as she finished the first pass on the S. “Are you free next weekend?” 

Annabeth smiled. “Let me finish this tattoo and then you can decide if you ever want to see me again,” she said. 

~ 

As always, her linework was clean, and the tattoo sat straight on his forearm. 

“How much?” Percy asked, after it was sanitized and wrapped. 

“One hundred,” Annabeth said. It should have been closer to $120, but she’d give him a friends and family discount. Percy handed her his card. 

Annabeth turned to the register. 

“So your daughter --” Percy started. Annabeth didn’t look up from what she was doing, worried about what he might say or what her face might reveal. “She’s what? Five?” 

“Yeah, she turned five in April.” 

“Blonde?” 

“So, so blonde,” Annabeth said with a faint smile. 

“Big fan of Beauty and the Beast?” 

Annabeth looked at him. “Did my dad talk about her that much or are you psychic?” She asked. 

Percy just pointed to the window. Six thirty. 

Luke was holding their daughter as Sophia waved her arms around, trying to get Annabeth’s attention. She was in a new Belle dress up dress. Annabeth had to appreciate that Luke doted on their daughter, but it was hard not to resent him. He got to be the fun gift-giving weekend parent, while Annabeth was stuck with the bath time, nap time, daycare, chores parent. Sophia was starting Kindergarten in the fall. Soon Annabeth would be the homework parent too. 

But her building resentments fled her for a moment. She put Percy’s card down and walked quickly towards the front door. Thalia had locked it at six after the last clients had come in for the day. 

“Hello beautiful,” Annabeth said as Luke handed Sophia over. She was starting to get too big to be picked up, but Annabeth was still doing her best. “I’m just finishing up,” she said to both of them, letting them inside. 

Percy and Luke seemed to recognize each other, and offered some warm words. 

“It’s been a while,” Percy said, glancing at Sophia, then back at Luke. 

“What? They don’t have Facebook out in California?” Luke asked him, as if to say this wasn’t a secret. 

“You know I don’t bother with all that,” Percy said. But Annabeth thought he looked a bit guilty and apologetic for missing … all of this. 

“Can I see your tattoo?” Sophia said, pulling on Percy’s shorts leg. Percy squatted down to her height and held out his arm. Sophia stared at it for a second before announcing: “That’s not a word!” 

Percy just laughed as Annabeth told her daughter to be polite, before adding, “really good reading, though.” Sophia beamed. 

“It’s Latin,” Percy explained, offering her the meaning in Latin then English. Sophia seemed genuinely inspired by the new information, and Annabeth wondered if she’d, despite it all, birthed a tiny scholar. 

When he finished his explanation, though, there was a long awkward silence between the three adults as Sophia ran off to find Hazel. 

Percy started to excuse himself, realizing that he was the odd man out now. He signed his name on the receipt, leaving Annabeth a more than generous tip. She watched him try to shield the receipt from Luke as he wrote his phone number for her. She hoped this wasn’t some bro code nonsense. Legally, Luke had partial custody of their daughter; he did not have authority over her Saturday nights. 

“See you next Saturday?” Annabeth asked as Percy started to leave. 

He looked sheepishly at her, but his smile betrayed him. “Yeah, let me know what works?” He said before leaving her alone with Luke. 

“You’re going out with him?” Luke asked as he handed over Sophia’s bag. 

“Maybe,” Annabeth said, tucking the receipt into her pocket. 

“I mean, I’m fine with it. It just … he’s a college professor,” Luke said. 

“What, you think I’m not smart enough for a college professor?” 

“No, I think your dad is a college professor,” Luke said. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” she warned. “How was she this weekend?”

“Great,” Luke said. “She read a bunch of books to me, we watched Beauty and the Beast twice, and we went to the park. No accidents, no injuries, no melt downs.” 

That was her girl. She was a bit injury-prone, as she inherited some of Annabeth’s impulsive fearlessness, but otherwise she was a smart, well-behaved girl. She was more than Annabeth thought she deserved. 

“Great, and the dress?” Annabeth asked. 

“Couldn’t help it. It was too cute,” Luke said. “It makes her happy.” 

“I’m not mad about it,” Annabeth promised. “Thank you. It’s sweet. I’ll be in touch about next week. Her Pre-K graduation is on Thursday, don’t forget,” Annabeth said. 

“Don’t worry, we also practiced singing ‘God Bless America,’” Luke said. The Pre-K kids were all singing that during the ceremony. 

“Well, I still need to clean up here. Feel free to hang out, or take off, whatever,” Annabeth said. 

Luke said hi to Thalia, goodbye to Sophia, and goodbye to Annabeth and was gone within a few minutes. “I need to talk to you about something this week,” Luke said. “An idea I had. A surprise for Sophie.” 

Annabeth nodded. “Alright, call me whenever,” she said, waving him off. 

“Tell Percy I said hello,” were his last words to her before leaving the shop. 

Annabeth found Sophia in the back with Hazel, who was marking where Sophia would get her ears pierced with a marker. Annabeth told her she had to be seven to get her ears pierced, but she still insisted on getting the little purple dots on her ears every time she saw Hazel. 

“Ready to go, nugget?” Annabeth asked. Sophia nodded and got Hazel’s help getting out of the big chair. “Say thank you,” Annabeth reminded her. 

~

Bay Ridge was decently close to the shop, and not too far from Park Slope where Luke lived, but it was still a long way on the R train. Sophia spent the entire ride asking Annabeth a series of ear-piercing related questions that Annabeth answered honestly, logically, and with as little audible annoyance as she could manage. 

But three stops from home, Annabeth suggested they play the quiet game. Her daughter was as competitive as she was smart, and stayed quiet the rest of the ride. 

Annabeth’s first words were: “Come on,” when the subway pulled into their stop, and Sophia’s first words were a boastful: “Ha! I win!” 

“Princesses don’t brag,” Annabeth said, taking her hand. That might have been a lie. She had no idea what princesses did or didn’t do. 

When they finally got back home, Annabeth popped some chicken nuggets in the airfryer, got some steam-in-bag veggies out of the freezer, and wrestled a tiny human out of her new princess dress. 

“Come on, you don’t want to get food on it,” Annabeth said as Sophia pouted. 

After many chicken nuggets, and a reluctant forkful of vegetables came the bath. Then the bedtime story. Then tucking her in. And kissing her goodnight. 

“Love you to the moon and back, sweetie,” Annabeth told her. 

“Can I wear my Belle dress to school tomorrow?” Sophia asked. 

“No, but I promise you can put it on as soon as you get home, okay?” Annabeth offered. 

“Okay.” 

“Good night,” Annabeth said. 

“Night night,” Sophia offered back. 

Annabeth shut her door. It was only nine. A bit late for her bedtime, but Sophia wanted a few extra chapters of The Hobbit, and Annabeth did love that book. 

Annabeth unpacked her weekend bag. Sophia’s favorite toys had already come out of it, and her favorite blanket. All that was left were the dirty clothes. One outfit was shoved in a plastic bag, covered in brown goo. Annabeth groaned. 

“For fucks sake, Luke --” He’d told her no accidents. Sophia had never even had a poopy accident before. She barely had accidents at all. How long had he ignored her for her to --  

Mud, it was mud, she realized when she opened the bag. Sophia had somehow gotten covered in mud. She took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. 

Annabeth took out her phone and texted him anyway. 

Annabeth 

You could have told me about the muddy clothes 

Luke

Shit, sorry, I forgot. 

Happened this morning. 

She jumped off the swings and landed in a puddle 

I keep telling her not to do that

She typed out: no reason to leave it for me to clean but deleted it, in no mood to start a fight. 

Annabeth

I know, I keep telling her too. 

Maybe we take swings away from her until she stops next time

Luke

I don’t want to be the bad guy 

Annabeth

You think I do? I’m proposing a united effort here. I just need to know you’ll back me up. 

Luke 

Alright, I will. 

She just went to the bathroom and dropped the dirty clothes in the shower and started to rinse them out. Her apartment had a washer and dryer, one of two blessings in her life (Sophia, of course, the first one), but she didn’t need it getting covered in Brooklyn mud. She let that wash down the drain. 

With the clothes rinsed she started the wash, stripping off her own clothes from the day to throw in with them. 

Her hand slipped into her pockets, checking to make sure she didn’t wash another pair of headphones. She found Percy's receipt. She smiled. She typed the phone number into her contacts, before putting the receipt in her bag. The shop would actually need that to charge him and make sure she got her tip. 

Annabeth

Hey, it’s Annabeth

He’d texted back by the time she got out of the shower. 

Percy

Hey! 

Annabeth

I’ll be honest, I was hoping for a better pick up line 

Percy

Shit, okay hold on let me think of one 

How about: you are an SPQ-T?  

Annabeth 

It’ll do 

They didn’t talk much. She asked about his tattoo; he confirmed their dinner plans. He asked about Sophia, if she had a good weekend, that sort of thing. 

Percy

She’s adorable. Looks just like you

Except blank 

Annabeth laughed. 

Annabeth

She’s constantly in trouble at school for drawing on her arms and her friends’ arms. 

Percy

She’ll be a great artist one day I’m sure 

Annabeth

Her dream career is artist princess mommy

That’s exactly what she’ll tell you if you ask

Percy

Not a bad collection of jobs 

Annabeth finally asked the question she did need an answer for before anything else went forward. 

Annabeth 

Do you like kids? 

Percy

I love kids 

Can’t wait for my own honestly 

Annabeth

So you’re alright with me having a kid? 

Percy

Yeah for sure

It’s not like she’s going anywhere anyway. Wouldn’t have asked you out if it wasn’t okay. 

Annabeth 

Were you and Luke close growing up? 

Percy

Eh, he was always Thalia’s friend. He mostly tried to pressure me into stealing candy and shit. 

Us going out wouldn’t be weird to me

Is it weird for him?

Annabeth

He hasn’t really said anything about it 

Percy

Is it weird for you?

Annabeth

No

Percy

Good, that’s all that matters to me 😁

[prushka92]

DFAOG AU (Don't forget about our goal) general info!

I've made some lil concrpts for the AU! I hope you will enjoy it✨ I only made Shuanshuan, Yi and 2 ocs for this properly by now but i will fo more surely! Like i really wanna finish Kuafu (if you have ideas lemme know!). But talking about AU itself...

But talking about the plot or something i already have some things.

Yi returned to Penglai along with Shuanshuan, the apemen and Kuafu to keep on searching for the antidote to Tianhou. In this version, Shuanshuan has no clones (as some theories say), he is in the middle child in the normal ending. Despite his young age, he helps Yi in working with the medicine, as he had previously studied with him.

Yi also continues to kill apemen in order to maintain the functionality of the biological supercomputer for soulscapes. The apemen believe in the gods, in the 9 Sols, living a lie, being isolated from the outside world as well. Yi rarely selects the apemen kids he likes who are intelligent and inquisitive, and teaches them, becoming their mentor. When Shuanshuan grows up, it is he who is already engaged in teaching the "chosen ones."

Kuafu helps Yi in finding a cure for Tianhou, and also replaces him when he leaves for soulscape for 5 years. Yi and Kuafu sleep for 5 years, and then they work for the same amount, replacing each other in order to continue working and support the rest of lifes on the New Kunlun.

Goumang is also here, but her fate is not so bright tho. She survived after Yi's fight with her and when they returned to Penglai Yi offered fer team working, Goumang agreed. However after not so much time she became the Yi's test subject. They just were not meant working together because of events in the game. As a result, she became quite apathetic, considering Yi to be just a crazy maniac. In her eyes, he's just a madman, obsessed with the idea of healing and saving everyone, even though there's no hope of salvation anymore. Goumang can be said to be coming to Tao, as she has already accepted her fate, realizing the deplorability of the whole situation. Her small joy is Shuanshuan and a student Huanhe whom Goumang taught biology and agronomy for a while before turning out to be a lab rat. The children visit her periodically to feed and talk to her.

In addition to Shuanshuan's help Yi with his work, he continues to explore the completely new world of Penglai and the culture of solarians. Yi teaches him martial arts (Shuanshuan has no plans to use these skills for their intended purpose), science and history. Shuan's training is assisted by Abacus Ruyi, which Yi restored after arriving at Penglai. He devotes the boy more to art, and when Yi leaves for soulscape, he takes over almost entirely the training, as well as conducts the tests prescribed by Yi for the antidote and research, helping in the development of a cure for the virus. Kuafu spends most of his waking years maintaining the New Kunlun and looking after Shuanshuan, also giving him knowledge, but this time in the field of engineering.

Over time, Shuanshuan began to wonder: "Is there even a cure?"Are our efforts in finding a solution not in vain?" "How right is it to exploit my people in order to save them?" and many others. On the basis of these questions, he began to develop and take root a different worldview, and later learns from Abacus Ruyi about the philosophy of Tao and becomes imbued with it.

How many students does Yi have in total?

Four: two boys and two girls, including Shuanshuan himself, and he is the oldest of them. If we list them by seniority, it turns out like this: Shuanshuan, Huanhe, Heiluyan, Zhujin.

What happened to Shennong?

Unfortunately, he died in a fight with Eigong when she broke into the pavillon of the Seasons.

How does Yi relate to the rest of his students?

He basically values them as much as Shuanshuan, although it's a little difficult to say that he perceives them as his family. But he does get involved in their education and upbringing, given that these are orphaned children whose parents died in a slaughterhouse or for some other reason.

Will they find a cure?

Unfortunately, there is no cure for Tianhou in this au. It would just ruin everything really, so no matter how cruel it sounds, the dozens of years they spend searching for it will be in vain.

Does the new Abacus Ruyi remember the events that took place in the game itself?

Yes and no. He'll just know what happened from the stories of Yi, Kuafu, and Shuanshuan, but the new Ruyi is just as sentimental as his predecessor.

In fact, in this universe, Yi also comes to the Tao, just like in the game, only much longer, which, in fact, I would like to see! I wish Yi had more interactions with Shuanshuan and Kuafu, because I didn't have enough of that in the game (not because the game couldn't handle it, but just because I love that kind of thing)

I will add more info by time! I really hope you all like it :]

[shaded-or-shades]

Meet FungusClan, a definitely normal clan with no issues whatsoever.

(Based off @exocynraku’s clan generator)

(If I’m being honest, I just saw Frightstar and went “yea, I’m using it” but then I noticed more interesting things.)

(1. So. Many. Red. Cats. 3 apprentices out of 6 are red. 2. All ‘queens’ are male. Trans cats and malewives go hard. 3. Sootkit and Sootlick. And Sootkit looks like potential Sootsplash.)

More information about cats under the cut.

Frightstar (she/her, leader)

Frightstar was always a leader. Nobody remembers her as anything else but a leader. The first memory about Frightstar anyone remembers saying goodbye to her as she went to get nine lives and greeting her once she came back. Nobody remembers her as deputy, warrior, apprentice or even a kit. Undeniably, she’s a good leader: other clans never attacked FungusClan when she was a leader, however also clans around FungusClan closed their eyes countless times when some foolish FungusClan apprentices crossed the border and hunted on other territories, which raised suspicions from all clans, but leaders always shrug it off: “Those are just apprentices.”

Elders love to gossip about what possibly could’ve been Frightstar’s previous names: ones say that her parents were cruel for naming their kit Frightkit, but others say leader changed her name when she became a warrior.

Antwood (she/her, deputy)

Ant was always strict and orderly, believing that her ways were the best. She may not be very compassionate or social, but she’s a good tactician and knows disturbingly a lot about her clanmates, even if they never spoke to her. Originally, her sternness began when she was a kitten, and even though a lot of cats shrugged it off as her just being bossy or “just a phase”, it never ended.

Mauvebee (she/her, main medicine cat)

Mauve is a very kind and generous medicine cat, feel free to ask her for anything! She may be blind, but her paws hold skill which no other medicine cat before her could achieve. She received her full name Mauvebee because she always seems to have sixth sense on where to find bees and get honey. Even though she’s amazing tracker, she still has trouble getting the honey out of hives due to her blindness and quite often needs a seeing cat to help her.

Peanuthare (he/him, medicine cat)

Peanut used to be a very calm and polite cat, however, once apprenticed to Mauve, he visibly became more anxious. After all, who wouldn’t be terrified when your mentor brings you to look at corpses as your first outing as an apprentice? But Mauve, despite her sweet as honey words and encouragements seemed to be a little too exited that now she didn’t needed to wait whenever a warrior was free to go out, she had her very own apprentice to go on adventures with! However for some reason, Peanut always returned with a scratch and bristled fur.

Stonewing (he/him, senior warrior)

He’s a very calm cat who always seems to seek solitude and peace, quite often wandering away into foggy gorges or sneaking away to look at stars. After countless attempts, his clanmates discovered that it’s impossible to cheer him up, so they just let him sneak away, because in these moments, he looks a little happier.

Ponderingseed (she/her, warrior)

Ponderingseed, despite philosophical name, loves simple things and pranking cats. Her most famous prank is leaving seeds in nests to look if they’re going to sprout. She’s formerly a loner, but she refuses to talk about what happened to her before she joined FungusClan.

Earlyfrost (she/her[AMAB], warrior)

Earlyfrost is a quite interesting cat, because despite having a white coat and having a lot of disadvantage when hunting, she was loved by FungusClan, because cats born with completely white coats are usually seen as good omens, a StarClan’s way of blessing the clan and telling them about upcoming events, which are usually new-leafs full of prey. Despite already being a blessing, Early has her eyes on certain scary she-cat who doesn’t seem to notice her..

Wildyowler (they/he[AMAB], warrior)

No cat knows much about Wildy, but he’s a generally nice cat who loves doing chores around camp, but loves even more to go on border patrols. They’re suspiciously close to some of the loners they meet, which a lot of cats think as normal because Wildy was a loner too.

Martenbound (she/her, warrior)

Marten, despite white pelt decided to build her reputation around her masterful hunting skills, and not imaginary holiness of her fur. She sometimes loves to wear pelts of her most impressive catches. A lot of cats consider her as a candidate to be next deputy, but Marten doesn’t have a heart to admit to her clan that she doesn’t believe in StarClan.

Pansybushel (he/him, warrior)

Pansy is a loving tom who quite often helps medicine cats in herb garden, sometimes even trying to grow his own plants in there. He quite often gifts his clanmates flowers, but he has no romantic feelings towards anyone.

Yarrowpaw (she/her, warrior apprentice)

She’s a very angsty kitty, who’s constantly unhappy and bitter. She’s quite unhappy that her name is Yarrow and not something cooler. However, she loves her mentor Ponderingseed, even if Yarrowpaw thinks she’s childish. In fact, Pondering quite often calls her Yewpaw, which is the only nickname Yarrow is fond of.

Ploverpaw (he/him, warrior apprentice)

He’s a very energetic, impulsive and lively apprentice, incapable of sitting still for long time or doing one task for too long. Which is why his mentor is Pansy, who tries to teach him patience, because it’s not only about waiting, but also knowing when to strike.

Murmurpaw (she/her, warrior apprentice)

Murmur is a quite secretive and mysterious apprentice who has a beautiful voice and love for perfection. Her mentor is Antwood, and despite Murmur formerly being an outsider, she quite often manages to impress her mentor with her dedication and determination, even if Murmurpaw’s favorite task is watching over kittens. She’s an incredible singer and has a knack for creating trinkets for kits to play with.

Driftpaw (he/him, warrior apprentice)

Driftpaw is incredibly fast cat, so if you don’t want to accidentally get knocked over, move out of his way! Drift may be obnoxious and bratty, but he has best intentions in his heart. His mentor is Stonewing, and he’s struggling a little because Drift is too fast of a learner.

Primrosepaw (she/her, warrior apprentice)

Primrose is a quiet sweetheart who prefers sitting on tall trees and looking how clouds pass by, sometimes terrifying her clanmates because she climbs very high up. Her mentor, Wildyowler is trying to get her to socialize more, but they might not be quite successful.

Hummingpaw (she/her, warrior apprentice)

Humming is a bit of a scary apprentice who unnerves a lot of cats. Humming’s birth was a good omen to the clan, she began changing a lot, so she was given Earlyfrost as a mentor. Despite both of them being white, they cannot relate to each other, being quite distant and never talking much.

Hailflicker (he/him, den dad)

Hailflicker was a permanent caretaker for a very long time, and being surrounded by kits all the time is taking a toll on him, with him quite often being too emotionally drained to do other activities or get out of his nest. He currently cares for Fablekit, Leopardkit and Stumpkit.

Spidersky (he/him[AFAM], queen)

Spidersky is a quite stern dad, believing that discipline is the only way to make kits behave, and is very frustrated when his demands aren’t immediately met. He currently cares for Milkweedkit, Blueberrykit and Sootkit.

Sootlick (he/him, elder)

Sootlick was never the same after his mates, Rabbitspeck died when giving birth to their son, Peanuthare. He claims that he started to see things from his injured eye, but whenever he tries to talk about things he saw, it ends in “go back to nest grandpa”, because he always says he’s seeing spirits, but not StarClan, and that his mate is among them.

Bearrise (she/her, elder)

Bearrise loves to tell youth about her golden days: that she earned her warrior name by fighting a bear at dawn, and as proof, she took smallest tooth from its jaws; or how she-cats were always falling in love with her due to her incredible strength. However, some cats suspect something because the tooth she has looks more like a fang, it’s too small to be bear’s tooth and it’s too curled to be a cat’s or wolf’s fang.

Silvertwist (he/him, elder)

Silver is kind elder, his warmth never fading away; even if you wake him up in the middle of the night asking to tell a story, he’ll gladly tell it. However, he lived for quite a long time, and it’s starting to unnerve cats how his pelt has no grey hairs.

Bumbleomen (they/them[AFAB], elder)

Bumble is the number 1 StarClan believer, thinking that stars are trying to speak to them in most mundane things, like a clanmates changing routine or new plant sprouting by the borders(they’re wrong). They’re the oldest elder, so sometimes Mauvebee doesn’t even bother curing him, knowing that most likely it’ll be just a waste of herbs.

[skz143me]

Jealous idols

In which Bang Chans girlfriend gets jealous of how much time he’s spending with BLACKPINK’s, Lisa

Bang Chan x reader

DISCLAIMER: no hate to any of the idols, this fic was written in pure fiction!!

Bang Chan was the biggest green flag Y/N had ever met. When she had first auditioned for Stray Kids, she didn’t have much hope of getting in. Most of the mentors said she didn’t speak enough Korean, or that a girl didn’t fit into the place of a boy directed group.

When she met Chan, all of that changed.

He was the sweetest person ever. He coached her and comforted her. He was everything she needed.

When Skz finally debuted, Y/N ended up being one of the most biased members by STAY.

Eventually, Y/N pursued a romantic relationship with Chan, and the two were happier than ever.

They had been together for about a year, with barely any problems, and it was great.

Y/N had been friends with Lisa for a while now. They bonded at a red carpet, after both being voted two of the most successful female idols in the industry. Y/N knew that Chan would hang out with Lisa sometimes, and at first, she didn’t mind it at all. But, eventually, things got a bit out of hand.

It seemed as if Chan was with her everyday, whether it was posting videos on social media, or just hanging out. Chan had even attended Lisa’s concert. Despite them both insisting it was just a deep friendship, Y/N wasnt very convinced. So, she decided to talk to her boyfriend about it.

Chan walked into the house, seemingly exhausted from a long day at the studio. The other members were already asleep, so Y/N took this as the perfect moment to share her concerns with Chan.

“Hey, Chris?” He turned his head, his tired eyes meeting hers.

“Yeah?” He said, sounding genuinely concerned in what her next words would be.

“Did you hang out with Lisa today?” She asked, keeping her voice as nonchalant as possible.

Chan pored himself a glass of water and nodded. “Yeah, we met up. Why, baby?” His eyes were back on Y/N.

“Chris..I’m just going to be honest with you”, Y/N felt her hands shake a bit, some anxiety overwhelming her. “I’m a bit concerned about how much time you’ve been spending with Lisa.”

He looks up at her, looking confused and a bit shocked. “Wait, why?”

She took a breath and spoke again, “I just feel like you’re spending a lot more time with her than me, and well, I don’t know I guess I’m jealous.”

Chans lips turned into a frown. “Y/N, Lisa is just a friend. I mean, we’ve known each other longer than I’ve known you. So please, can we not talk about this.”

Y/N is hurt by his words, so she gently nods and walks away. She feels her cheeks heat up, tears pricking at her eyes. She doesn’t know what to do, so she goes to her one safe space. Her best friend.

Y/N walks into the room and flops onto the bed, not bothering to say anything.

“Um, hello to you too?” Felix says, in a half chuckle. “What’s going on?”

Y/N sits up and rubs her eyes. “Chans mad because I told him he was spending to much time with Lisa”.

Felix nods slowly, trying his best to come up with something encouraging to say. “Want me to talk to him?”

Y/N shakes her head, “No. I don’t want him to get anymore upset than he already is.”

A few moments later, Y/N hears her phone buzz. She takes it out of her pocket and sees a new text from Lisa.

LALISA <3

Hey Y/N, Chris told me what happened and I just wanted to let you know I’m so sorry for making you feel like that. You’re a great person and I’m always going to try and be there for you. I want you to know, you can always come to me and tell me things like that. I’m so glad I know now so I can help respect your boundaries. I hope we’re okay. Anyways, I’ll see you tomorrow at brunch pretty girl 💗🖤

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the message. Felix saw this and smiled to himself.

So she had resolved things with Lisa, which took a huge weight off her back. But she still needed to fix things with Chris-

Another buzz from her phone interrupts her train of thought. She looks at her phone again to see a message pop up from Chris.

Channie 🐺🤍

Baby, I’m so so so so so sorry for making you feel sad 😔

I love you so much and I want to show you I any way I can. I’m always going to be there for you. I love you. 💗

You smiled again. Maybe this would work out after all.

[ammyamarant]

Kamen Rider Gavv ep 1 thoughts

Just going to watch one episode right now because I need to finish Kabuto and I need to Know what Kabuto has up its sleeve. But, the tl;dr of Gavv: Cute show, I can see how traumatized this poor kid will get by the end

Gavv ep 1

okay so I’m already reminded of W. Wonder if there will be a mentor figure that dies like Soukichi does in the first fucking five minutes of W

oh neat doors. I’ve seen Labyrinth too.

jfc how old is this kid he looks baby

yeet out of a plane and the tinkly “oh this is the world mom is from” music lmao

lbr considering the environment you just escaped from and the way you were happy to be freefalling because you were where your mom is from, I think needing some food is understating it.

"what do you have? Do you eat it?" has the same energy as my "what is gender? do you eat it?" joke

WHAT IS YOUR BODY MADE OF

Karakida I want your jacket. Give

Ah you have no communication skills. Understood

"This isn't a monster case" "So what is it?" "Woman fucking killed her own husband and shh keep your fucking voice down"

"today's harvest" and it looks like bloody organs. Hey I've seen 12 Hour Shift too.

oh you've never been allowed actual food have you

oh goddamn it I can hear Apollo aiming the dodgeball already

my dude. you got a tummy ache then gave birth to something. human women would kill for that to be their normal gestation cycle.

mm, cgi is kinda……………………

"hey now I've been fed actual food and have real energy I can make minions" yeah I mean that makes sense. People get all kinds of bodily processes back once they've been properly fed. Usually takes a while for their body to recover but hey you ain't human so I get it

this kid is so sweet and kind giving obvious main character (yeah I know it's shouma) a place to stay and some sweets to eat.

oh right the street drugs WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT HENTAI ASS THING

oh it's just a mouth. Wicked teeth.

Shouma is such a sweetheart

Also ye, I can see why Shouma is enchanted by sweets if his mom never let him have any of the family drugs.

excuse me I need to figure out a way to get into this world and beat down this addict before he hurts this kid

Shouma I would like a full rundown of what you can do because was that super speed and running perpendicular on a vertical surface? My dude? Answers?

Mm, sick monster design

Yeah, the monster and the kid both being like "hey what the fuck" to Shouma is fucking hilarious.

oh fucking ow

your mom turned into a bloody organ thing. Are we sure this isn't just a horror movie?

I feel like these minion things showing up saying "eat gummy!" shouldn't feel as threatening as they do.

OH GOD THE CRYING EYES. I'M HOWLING

"oh with the other one" lmao

I wonder what this show is like on edibles because the bright colours are fun and I had a blast watching Ex-Aid baked. Tho I'd consider that a little too on the nose considering the street drug metaphor of those dark candies

little dudes go somewhere safe that isn't under the fighting feet!

oh interesting so if he gets a lot of battle damage he can repair it by using another minion. Very neat. Wish more "battle damage" was repairable that easily. Looking at you, 3rd Birthday.

oh calling both of them monsters and Shouma just taking it is heartbreaking.

I'm definitely feeling the difference between Takaiwa and whoever the suit actor for Gavv is, but it's more "huh, that's a different way of doing the stunts" than anything bad. I do miss Takaiwa but that's mostly because he's a fucking legend. This guy's doing great, tho.

did… they repurpose the build driver for this?

takaiwa usually stood upright, even for meek characters like Ryotaro, while it seems like this guy's default stance is hunched over. iiiiiiiiiiiiiinteresting. Says a lot about Shouma in this form

okay I was about to say this Rider Kick is lame, but nah, it's pretty good.

Shouma you are sunshine and joy wrapped in ptsd. That's not even a joke I know you're fucking riddled with ptsd from just your memories of your mother alone

Shouma you are not Eiji stop being a hobo

Cute show.

[defectivevillain]

of circumstance

pairing: Finnick Odair/Reader

The reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you after you finish your interview with Caesar Flickerman. You continue walking quickly, forcing your mentor to quicken his pace. “I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless.

word count: 10.5k | ao3 version | dystopia playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood/violence, suicidal ideation, helplessness/hopelessness, survivor's guilt

author's notes: This is Finnick/Reader focused. Finnick is the District 4 mentor and the reader is an adult tribute. I’m weak for charismatic & popular characters being met with people who don’t fall at their feet or treat them differently. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, if you will.

The reader’s race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. The other tribute is female, but feel free to ignore that “one male tribute & one female tribute” bullshit if you choose.

There will be some canon divergent and non-compliant details. For example, I forgot tributes are literally children… And I didn’t realize that until I already had 14 pages of this written… So just pretend this Games has adults, for some reason. Also, Annie doesn’t exist, because I said so.

enjoy <3

You’re one of two tributes chosen to represent District 4 in the Hunger Games. The Capitol tries to play it off as an honor… a chance to do your district and home proud. But you’re not that deluded, and you recognize the Games for what they are: a sickening bloodsport performed for the highest echelons of Panem’s society. Selfishly speaking, you don’t want any part in that. Of course, the universe has other plans for you—as your name is pulled from the Reaping bowl. 

Now, you’re sitting on a train speeding down the rails through the Panem countryside, to the facility where you will train in preparation for the Games. The other District 4 tribute sits across from you, clearly just as distressed as you are. Neither of you have bothered to speak to one another, too busy attempting to piece together what little remains of your futures. 

The sound of footsteps reaches your ears and you look up to find a man with bronze hair, tanned skin, and vibrant green eyes. He looks familiar, but it isn’t until he introduces himself that you can place the feeling. “Finnick Odair,” he states, his eyes flitting from the other tribute to you as he evidently scrutinizes both of you. “I’ll be your mentor for the Games.”

The other tribute warms up to him rather easily, introducing herself and speaking with Finnick about his experience at the Games. You’re content to watch from the sidelines, trying to gather information on both of them. It’s unfortunate, but you don’t think the other tribute will be anything more than an enemy to you. You don’t intend to make an alliance with her, so you don’t really see the point in pretending as if this week at the Capitol will be even mildly enjoyable. You’re already dreading the training, interviews, style consultations… 

As if sensing your negative thoughts, Finnick turns towards you. “And you are?” He hums. You want to believe that he doesn’t know who you are, but since he’s the District 4 mentor, you suspect he was watching the broadcast of the Reaping. Something ticks in your jaw and you mutter your name, if only to placate him. 

Finnick stares at you for a long moment. You stare back. “Not very talkative, hm?” He eventually hums. 

“Just thinking about my impending doom.” You say wryly. You hide your shaking hands in your pockets and stare ahead at the darkened windows, watching as the passing mountains blur around you. Finnick blinks at you in surprise, before laughing. He doesn’t seem to realize you’re being serious. After all, being a tribute in the Hunger Games is practically a death sentence. There can only be one victor, amongst twenty four tributes. Your chances at survival are increasingly low. 

Finnick continues on, unaware of how quickly your thoughts are spiraling. He explains the process leading up to the Games themselves and provides you with a general idea of the schedule for the next week. The other tribute is quick to ask him questions about his strategy and how he survived, while you just sit there in silence. You can’t help but think that most of Finnick’s advice won’t be particularly relevant. 

Some of the guidance he provides is helpful, you have to admit. Yet you can’t help but be reminded by the stark differences between your perspectives. Finnick is almost endlessly optimistic, speaking in hypotheticals and asking the two of you what you will do with your winnings. Meanwhile, you’re unable to suppress the voices in your mind, reminding you of how the odds are decidedly not in your favor. 

You keep those thoughts to yourself for the first few days. But there’s only so much you can hold back. Delusion and unfounded optimism seems to be the other tribute’s ways of coping, while yours seem to be uncomfortable dread and grief in hindsight. You can only fake appearances for so long—you’re fighting against increasingly large waves, and you will soon fall under the surface. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the Tribute Parade unscathed. The stylist chose clothing that’s a bit gaudy, but you’re just grateful you weren’t sent out there wearing anything scandalous. In the days after the Tribute Parade, all the tributes take part in mandatory training sessions—involving everything from archery to camouflage and fire-starting. You’re not particularly talented at anything; although by the end, you feel confident enough to wield a knife correctly and distinguish between poisonous and nontoxic berries. Of course, those skills will mean jack shit if you don’t play your cards right. Plus, there’s no telling what the arena will look like. There have been tough years when the arena was a desert or a snow-covered forest. You can only hope you won’t be dropped into something like that. 

The training days pass rather quickly, leaving you only two days before the Games begin. Each tribute now has to appear in front of the Capitol (and all the Districts watching through a broadcast). The thought makes your stomach stew in unease and disgust. You hate how the Games are treated as nothing more than entertainment. Your death will be broadcast for the whole world to see. Your survival will be gambled and bet on. It’s disgusting, and you hate that you’re forced to be a participant. 

You soon find yourself standing backstage, watching the District 1-3 tributes interview with Caesar Flickerman. Finnick stands at your side, a relentless presence despite the unapproachable aura you’re trying to exude. You don’t want to talk to him—don’t want to pretend that everything is okay. Your mentor doesn’t seem to care, as he tries to give you advice on how to succeed in the interview. “Just be charming,” he suggests. Then a mischievous smirk rises on his lips. “I know that’s going to be hard for you.” He taunts. 

You just scoff at him. Being charming to the Capitol citizens—who are practically the reason you’re here—is the least of your priorities. That sentiment must be apparent on your face, because your mentor just sighs.  “It’s only thirty minutes,” he tries to reassure you. 

That’s not the point, you think to yourself. You decide to keep quiet, if only to appease Finnick. Yet he seems to sense that you’re a bit frustrated, because he shoots you a sympathetic smile before you’re accosted by your stylist and forced to change into a needlessly extravagant outfit. 

Your fellow District 4 tribute has her interview and she does rather well. You’re happy for her, but nervous for yourself. You know you’re not the best at speaking in large groups—let alone in front of the entire country. You can’t get rid of your anxiety. You’ve had no media training, aside from those brief remarks from Finnick. 

Dread, revulsion, and shame are coursing through you as you walk up to the steps and greet Caesar, before sitting down across from him. His questions start off rather innocuous, as if he senses that you’re nervous. But the subject of the conversation soon becomes your thoughts on the Games. And despite your knowledge that these interviews are important for securing sponsors, you can’t quite filter your thoughts well enough. 

When Caesar asks you about your thoughts on victory, you lose any credibility you built. “Do I think I’m going to win?” You repeat the question, something ugly building in your throat. You feel like you’re going to throw up. He nods and you feel the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Probably not. The odds are slim.” You see Finnick frowning out of the corner of your eye. But all you can focus on is the ugly stewing feeling in your chest and the bright spotlight that almost seems to sear in your skin. 

“The odds are ever in your favor,” Caesar says, attempting to remain optimistic as he shares a smile with the audience. 

Your brows furrow. “I don’t think they are.” You mutter. Your hands are shaking furiously at your sides, just barely hidden by the arms of the armchair you’re sitting in. Caesar seemingly doesn’t expect your negative answer, because he blinks for a moment before quickly diverting the audience’s attention. 

“You have quite a popular mentor, though!” The camera pans over to Finnick and he smiles, causing raucous applause. Frustration courses through your blood. It’s just so easy for him, isn’t it? Caesar continues on, immune to your internal conflict. “He’s a crowd favorite, I’d say.”

“Sure,” you acquiesce, if only to please the audience. “But he’s not the one in the arena.” Not to mention, there are tributes who have spent their entire lives training for this very moment. The Careers were born for this very moment. You, on the other hand, are nothing more than an unprepared victim. 

“You heard it here first, folks,” Caesar smiles at the camera awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension that seems to fizzle in the air between you. He turns towards you and plasters on a brighter smile. “Thank you for your participation; I believe that’s all the time we have.” 

You murmur a word of gratitude and practically storm off the set, shoving your hands in your pockets and striding to the backstage area. You’re walking so fast that you don’t notice Finnick attempting to beckon your attention, until he’s falling in step next to you. 

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you. You continue walking quickly, forcing him to speed up to quicken his pace. 

“I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless. 

“Don’t say that,” Finnick chastises you. The two of you have consistently clashed on how you’re supposed to present yourself. While you don’t particularly care enough to maintain pretense, Finnick has been adamant that you appear charismatic to gain the Capitol’s approval and boost their interest. 

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” You frown, confused by the troubled expression on his face. Finnick isn’t new to this song and dance: he’s lost tributes before. You’re not sure why this time would be any different; if anything, you’re just preparing him for what’s to come. 

Finnick is silent for a moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he seems to grit his teeth. “You won’t get any sponsorships by acting so macabre.” He eventually says after several seconds. Somehow, you get the feeling that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. You grit your teeth. 

“Sponsorships only prolong the inevitable.” You murmur, stepping into the quarters allocated to District 4. Finnick closes the door behind the two of you, and you can see the moment he truly processes the gravity of your remark. 

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” He snaps furiously. The juxtaposition between his public persona and what you see now is… startling. Suddenly emotions are warring across Finnick’s face, and he looks genuinely frustrated. “Why do I even fucking bother?! I’ve had difficult tributes before, but none were so morbid!” 

“It’s not morbid to acknowledge the hopelessness of this situation.” You try to defend yourself. “I can only do so much! I’ll try my fucking best, but there’s a good chance it just won’t be enough. There’s no use in pretending otherwise.” 

“Right, because why would you try to capitalize on the time you do have left?” Finnick hisses sarcastically. There’s a stark silence drawn across the needlessly luxurious living space. The ornate silverware remains neglected on the dining table. “Why would you try to actually change that, when you can just roll over and accept your fate?” 

You storm off to your bedroom, not intent on fighting a losing battle any longer. For whatever reason, Finnick is intent on ignoring the realities of the situation. That’s his prerogative, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. But you don’t have the luxury to pretend as if your survival is guaranteed. That notion is what will keep you alive in the arena. Because if you’re not wary or paranoid, you’re complacent. 

That night, things between you and Finnick are tense, to say the least. He doesn’t offer any more advice on being charismatic and approachable , as if he senses it’s a lost cause. In return, you’ve stopped making such “morbid” remarks. The two of you barely even speak to one another. You go to meals and pretend everything is fine, despite the voice in the back of your head berating you for pushing away your only ally. 

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Because Finnick may be an ally in terms of sponsorships, but he won’t be in the arena with you. You’ll be entirely alone. If anything, it’s better to get used to that feeling now. Right? 

From the moment you wake the next morning, though, your heart is thrumming quickly. It’s the day you’ve been dreading: when you’ll be loaded into a glass capsule and transported to an unknown arena, where you’ll spend your remaining days fighting for your life and survival. For a long moment, you contemplate staying under the covers. It’s an illusion of choice, a fleeting glimpse at power. But you know you can’t do that. The Capitol and the Gamekeepers don’t care how much or little you desire to be a participant. They will force you to be a tribute in these Games, regardless of how much you may try to fight it. That’s your fate, after all.

There’s a knock on your door. You blink away traces of sleep and get to your feet, walking over to the door and opening it to find Finnick standing there. He looks sheepish for a moment, before resolve passes over his face and he nods at you. “Ready?” He asks. 

“No,” you admit in a huff. Finnick frowns in sympathy and you’re forced to remember that he just may be the only person who truly understands how you feel right now. The tense argument from yesterday seems to fade into obscurity, as you both seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Together, the two of you make your way to the train—which takes you to the Launch Room. Your heart is steadily thudding in your chest, your hands unable to stop restlessly fidgeting.

When you arrive, you’re dressed in black clothing—a small number 4 emblazoned on the left side of your chest. You try to scrutinize the fabric to get a hint of what’s to come, but it’s frustratingly nondescript. Finnick senses what you’re doing, evidently remembering when he was in your position. 

A monotone, pre-recorded message explains that you have five minutes until you’ll step on the pedestal and rise into the arena. Five minutes of normalcy, until your life will change forever. You take a shuddering breath, feeling your hands trembling at your sides. You can feel Finnick’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you pretend not to notice. This moment right here, shared between the two of you, will be the last fleeting glimpse you’ll have at privacy—before millions of people watch your every move in the arena. 

Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. You drag your eyes towards him, despite every nerve in your body wanting to shrivel up into a ball on the floor. His grip is strong, anchoring you to this horrid reality. 

There is nothing to say. No condolences, no apologies, no words of affirmation, no motivating speech. Instead, there is only the grating hum of the fluorescent lights above and the measured breaths of your mentor, interspersed with your significantly less collected breaths. Your eyes meet and before you can attempt to break the silence, Finnick is pulling you into a hug. His hand rises to cradle your head and you hesitantly embrace him back, knowing this is likely the last human contact you will have. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there—all you know is that, at some point, the automated voice announces you have one minute to get on the pod. Finnick releases his grip after several seconds, looking torn for a split second before maintaining a calm façade. You step over to the pod and helplessly look up, seeing nothing but darkness. 

The countdown is beginning. In ten seconds, your pod will rise to the arena. You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, your heart thundering in your chest and roaring in your ears. Finnick locks eyes with you. “You’re not alone,” he says, his gaze intense. “Remember that.”

The most you can manage is a silent nod, before the pod is careening upwards and transporting you to the arena. You feel tears building in your eyes and a burning sensation at the back of your throat and you quickly wipe them away, summoning some composure for the arena. You will not show the other tributes your distress. 

The pod finally shudders to a stop and the pedestal beneath your feet rises. The harsh sunlight burns into your eyes and you blink dazedly. It takes a moment for your vision to clear, revealing the tributes arranged in a circle around a massive rock formation crawling through the air and evidently digging deep into the ground below. There’s the mouth of a cave right in front of you, and you can see two or three tributes on each side of you. It appears this formation is a lot more spread out than the ones in the past. This arena must be huge. That doesn’t necessarily help the nerves stewing in your chest. 

You then realize that the cornucopia isn’t right in front of you, like you expected. In every Games, the cornucopia is located right in the middle of the tributes. Frowning, you drag your eyes up, up, up, and your ears start ringing at what you find. The cornucopia isn’t just far away—it’s also pretty high up, dangling precariously on the rock formation that stretches into the sky. You estimate it would take nearly an hour to get all the way up there; plus, falling would promise an instant death. The more you look at the cornucopia, the less convinced you are that you should even run for it. 

The mouth of the cave in front of you looks increasingly enticing. As the countdown continues, you try to plan your first move. The cornucopia doesn’t feel like a practical option, which leaves you with no choice but to go for the cave in front of you. The darkness will help you—if you’re quiet enough, you can avoid confrontation. You glance behind you to make sure you didn’t miss anything, only to find impossibly high rock walls enclosing the tributes in the elaborate rock formation and attached cave system. It seems the entrance to the cave is your only real option. 

When the countdown reaches ten, you hear a loud explosion and your chest starts to hurt. One of the tributes must’ve left their platform too early and triggered the mine system beneath it. The unmistakable sound of a cannon firing confirms your suspicions. Your stomach churns at the thought, but the ensuing countdown quickly recaptures your attention. Five… four… three… two… one. 

Let the Games begin. 

You sprint for the opening of the cave and nearly sigh in relief as the cool darkness gives you a reprieve from the boiling hot sun. You’re immediately sure that what you’ve just entered is far more than a single cave, but instead an interconnected system of hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of caverns. You can just barely make out your surroundings, and you immediately decide to go as far in as possible. There’s nothing back at the pedestals that would make the starting area worth returning to, so you can only hope this cave system has pockets of sunlight and air above ground. You have to think that’s the case, unless the Gamemakers want everyone to die of suffocation. 

A backpack on the ground immediately catches your eye. You quickly grab it and duck down a corner, your hands practically shaking as you open it to find water, a few nutrient blocks, and a flashlight. It’s not much, but it’s certainly a helpful start. You throw the backpack on and are about to keep going when you hear footsteps in the distance. Immediately, you freeze and hold a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing. 

The footsteps draw ever closer and, for a horrible moment, you think you’ll be spotted. But the tribute seems to turn down another path, taking them further into the cave and away from you. You’re not sure how long you stand there paralyzed, before shaking yourself out of it with the realization that you need to keep looking for supplies. 

One thing’s for sure: you need a weapon to defend yourself with. It takes you a painfully long time to look at the stalactites above and rip one from the ceiling. You look for the sharpest one before reaching out and giving it a harsh tug, freeing it from its confines. You look down at it in your hand, testing the point of the fashioned weapon and confirming that it’s rather sharp. You suppose this will have to do for now. 

As you continue exploring, you find supplies scattered about—water bottles; bits of food, just barely big enough to count as a snack; and some sort of jacket, tucked behind a pillar of rock. You fold it and place it in your bag, suspecting it’ll get cold at night. You’ve been walking for hours and haven’t come across sunlight or a water source, which concerns you. Moreover, you’re suspicious of the cave’s oxygen supply—your head has already started to pound, which isn’t a good sign.

You sleep fitfully that night, unable to let your guard down enough to truly rest. Every minute noise sinks into your mind. You’re constantly torn from slumber by the slightest of sensations: a brief chill, a rock crumbling down the wall. It’s torturous. You know you need rest if you want to survive, but you can’t quite seem to suppress your paranoia. You’re a quiet sleeper, fortunately—but still. Nothing can rid you of the knowledge that there are nearly twenty other tributes scattered throughout this cave system, willing to do whatever it takes to survive. 

You slowly manage to build a routine as the days pass. You spend most of the day moving, descending deeper into the cave and searching for supplies. Each night, the Capitol broadcast seems to buzz and hum through the rocky walls. You suspect there to be holograms painted over the night sky, but you haven’t gotten a breath of fresh air since the Games first started. A few tributes die each night. You’re not sure if you should feel grateful for your survival or envious that they escaped from this whole mess. 

This year’s Hunger Games is different from the others: you can tell that much. The arena was designed for long periods of solitude. This will take much longer than the other years. You will be here for several days—maybe even weeks. Why is the Capitol suddenly so patient? Why are the Gamemakers so insistent on broadcasting your every waking moment, regardless of how boring or mundane it may seem? 

You quickly learn that you’ve grown complacent in your solitude, as you catch a flicker of movement across your vision. You’re not alone anymore, it seems. Before you can even begin to contemplate your next move, you’re being roughly thrown to the ground. You hiss and kick at the other tribute, but the other tribute is big and brutish—they’re quick to throw you back down, their hands gripping your throat and tearing the breath from your chest. You’re writhing in their grip, attempting to knee them in the gut or scratch at their eyes or do something-  

But your vision is sputtering and morphing around you. You can’t even see the tribute’s face, but you can still sense the anger and righteous fear pushing them to rip your life away from you. You don’t have much longer. Your hands fall from their wrists and you desperately explore the ground around you. For a moment, you genuinely think you aren’t going to make it—and you’re forced to accept your demise at the hands of this faceless assailant. 

Then, your hand finds the sharpened stalactite you fashioned on the first day… and you strike. Your makeshift knife finds their neck and you stab them, finally throwing their grip as they scream in pain and release you. You quickly scramble to embrace air greeting your lungs, maneuvering into a sort of kneeling position as you suck in air. Your hand shakes around your weapon as you try to fight off the dizziness threatening to send you toppling. 

But, of course, because things are never easy, you recognize the tribute moving out of the corner of your eye. Against all odds, they survived that deadly blow. Their hand is pressed to their neck and they’re glaring at you furiously. Pure fear runs through your bones, prickling down your skin as you try to come to terms with the situation you’re in. It’s either you or them. Only one of you will survive. 

You stumble to your feet and just barely throw yourself to the side as they barrel at you. The tribute only whips around and reaches out, punching you in the face and sending you staggering. Their movements are sluggish—and as they reach out again, you manage to yank them forward with your free hand and bury your stalactite into their neck once more. They yowl and kick a leg out as they fall, tripping you and sending you to ground with them. Their free hand finds a blunt stalactite and they strike at you, puncturing skin and digging into your ribs. You just barely hide a scream, letting out a frustrated and helpless sound as your arm reels back and you stab them yet again. A third time, a fourth, a fifth. Until they stop heaving, until their form falls limp. Until all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own labored breaths.

Your hands are shaking as you mechanically bend down and dig through their pack, looking for anything that could be useful. You take their rations and the bundled up jacket they had, stuffing it into your own backpack before pushing yourself to your feet unsteadily. Your hand finds your aching side and blood drips across your skin, confirming your suspicions that they had inflicted a sizable wound.

You stare down at the tribute, an undignified sound crawling from your lips when you hear the distant sound of a cannon. They’re dead now—and you were the one to kill them. You swallow hard as you look down at them, your neck aching from their attempts to strangle you. They tried to kill you. You shouldn’t pity them. But… you would’ve done the same. 

This tribute has a family—or friends—waiting for them back home, you’re sure. And that family just saw you snuff the life from their eyes. That district just watched as their neighbor, friend, met their end in this dark and dank cave system. 

You’re not sure what compels you to do it, but you bend down and close their eyes. It’s a small mercy, hardly worth anything given the fact that the entire Capitol just witnessed their death. There is nothing resembling dignity in these Games. And yet… you feel compelled to give them this small gesture, this tiny allowance. 

Then you’re thrown back into reality as pain ripples through your side, dripping up your back and across your ribs. You need to get moving now. You tear your eyes away from the victim—your victim—and start to walk away. The effort is painful and slower than usual. Your free hand finds the wall of the cave system and you brace yourself as you walk, your breaths still not nearly as calm as you want them to be. You’re not sure how you get yourself to keep moving. You almost just want to sink down to the ground and give up right there. None of this is worth it. You’re not sure you even want to live anymore.  

You don’t know how long you traverse the cave system. You just know that, at some point, your legs start to wobble under you and you have to accept that you need to rest. There’s a stretch of winding tunnels now, and you follow one of them until you find a corner with enough rocks and stalagmites to keep you hidden. You’re trembling as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, your body giving out as you lean against the wall and finally stop moving. Your heart is still racing; your head is pounding and pulsing; and your throat is very dry. But the pain is ushering in a whole new sense of exhaustion and fatigue; and soon, a tear slips down your face as you finally surrender to unconsciousness. 

Unsurprisingly, when you wake to the Capitol broadcast, you find that the pain has barely gone away. You’re going to have to treat the wound to ensure it doesn't get infected. The dead tribute’s name is announced as you’re digging through your backpack to find the alcohol wipes you swiped off of their corpse. You finally convince yourself to look down at your wound, and you suck in a startled breath at just how bad it looks. There’s blood everywhere, coloring the surrounding fabric of your shirt and staining a murky crimson across your hands. It takes you a few moments to convince yourself to bring the wipe down to your skin, and you have to put the collar of your shirt in your mouth to stifle your pained screams. The alcohol wipe is a necessary evil, but damn it, it’s causing some of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced. Your vision is greying as you wipe at your wound. 

It takes you a long time to finish cleaning the wound, as you’re forced to take intermittent breaks to keep yourself from passing out. When you’re finally done, you’re left feeling… helpless. You’ve cleaned the wound. Now what? You don’t have any other supplies save for bandages. Is this really the best you can do? 

A fluttering sound breaks you out of your thoughts. A short distance away, there’s a parcel with a parachute attached to it. It’s stuck between a few stalagmites, the parachute occasionally fluttering as it evidently settles. You stare at the parcel for a long moment, half-convinced you’re seeing things. Eventually, you manage to push yourself up and walk over to it. This must be a sponsor gift. 

But how in the hell did it get here? Usually the gifts fall through the air with parachutes. But this one almost appears as if someone placed it here. You frown and look up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find a conveniently placed hole. But there’s only rock. You reach down to grab the parcel, realizing you need to focus on treating your wound. Upon closer examination, it appears to be a metal capsule. With quivering hands, you hesitantly peel it open to find a tube of ointment. After a moment’s contemplation, you press the ointment to your wound, wincing at the cool temperature before leaning your head back at the relief it gives you. Thanks, Finnick, you think to yourself. His last words to you ring in your ears: “You’re not alone. Remember that.” That reassures you far more than you’d like it to. 

You idly wonder what he’s doing now. Well, he’s getting you sponsorships, apparently. Finnick is probably watching the broadcast just as everyone else. Perhaps he’s even attending parties and social events, if only to give you a fighting chance. You feel uncharacteristically thankful for his efforts. And the air in the caves must be getting to your head, because you swear you almost miss him. You shake off the thought. 

The next few days, against all odds, are unremarkable. You explore the cave system and routinely treat your wound, slowly returning to your normal pace. You manage to find a cave with a water source in it, which proves to be a lifesaver. After some more exploration, you find a water treatment device and return to the cave to get yourself some drinkable water. Aside from that, you mostly spend the time divvying up your resources and exploring the surrounding tunnels. You develop a marking system of sorts, notching the walls that you pass by. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t do something so loud and risky—but more tributes have been dying each night, leaving you with less competitors. More importantly, you can’t lose your way back to the small spring you found. You will not die of malnourishment or dehydration—you refuse. 

As you slowly recuperate, you think back to your time at the Capitol preparing for the Games. You wonder how Finnick will react when you inevitably die. The odds are still against you, after all. He got you a good chunk of the way through the Games, though. There are, what, seven or eight tributes left aside from you? That’s a lot better than you thought you’d do. Four of those tributes are the Careers, and you can only hope you never run into them. Hopefully, they’ll begin to fracture as time passes. 

You’re finally starting to feel better, though. Your side barely hurts anymore—that ointment must be pretty powerful. You have some scarring along your ribs, but you’re not particularly bothered by that. You’re just thankful that Finnick got you what you needed. If you make it out of here alive, you’ll thank him, you think. Maybe. 

A few more days pass and you’re soon one of four tributes remaining. And it seems the Gamemakers are growing impatient, because you can hear the walls shifting and collapsing around you as the arena begins to shift and shrink. They’re forcing you all towards the center of the cave system for a final conflict, you suspect. 

You don’t want to fight, as selfish and naive as it may sound. Your plan is a bit different: just hide in the shadows until they eliminate themselves. Is it cowardly? Sure. But you don’t want to participate in the bloodbath unless you absolutely have to. Finnick’s voice echoes in your mind: Don’t engage. Stay alive at all costs.  

You hear a commotion and immediately realize there are at least two tributes in the tunnel ahead. Something like clarity passes over you as you hear them fighting. You feel like a bystander, an observer—which just reminds you of how many people are watching across the Capitol and Districts. And you are nothing more than entertainment to them: a deer encircled by hungry lions. They are waiting for your demise with salivating maws. 

You’re so frustrated. You think of the Capitol citizens, cozied up in their sharp buildings of glass and metal… draped in fine, bright fabrics… eating decadent bites of food and discussing your fates as if you’re horses in some sort of race. It makes you sick to your stomach. You don’t want to participate in this at all—don’t want to give them the satisfaction of a good show. 

But that’s the dilemma: you have to participate if you want to survive. Giving up won’t give you your life back. It won’t bring back all of the tributes who died. You’ve made it this far—there’s no choice but to keep going. With that in mind, you slowly sneak down the tunnel, peeking around the corners as you continue.

You soon find yourself hiding near the mouth of the tunnel, which opens up into a large enclosed clearing of rock. There are two tributes fighting, and a third attempting to enter the fray. You frown and try to give yourself a moment to think. You stand no chance of surviving if you have to fight more than one person: you know your limits. That single fight with that tribute from before is proof of that—you barely even survived. If you get stuck in a hand-to-hand fight, you’re screwed. 

You need to find a way around that, then. The tributes are too distracted right now to notice you lurking near the mouth of the cave, which gives you just a little time to think. It’s not nearly enough, but you’ll have to make it work.

There has to be some way for you to hurt them at a distance like this. You don’t have a bow and arrow or any long-distance weapon, but there’s got to be something you can do. You frown at the pressure building in your temples, a dull ache radiating down your face and sliding through your cheekbones. Maybe you weren’t as healed as you thought you were, because that dizziness and vertigo from earlier is returning. You bring your shirt collar to your mouth, uncomfortable with the thickness that almost seems to permeate the air. 

The other tributes seem too busy to notice, but you can tell by their labored breathing that they’re also affected. The pieces of this particular puzzle suddenly slam together. It’s a cave system—there’s natural gas. The Gamemakers purposely led you all into an area that was volatile and ready to collapse at any moment, to ensure that the Games would have a swift end. 

You explore the walls of the cave system, suddenly coming to an idea. If you can find a way to sway the uneasy structure of this space even more, then the ceiling will cave in. You can already see the telltale signs of stress: the cracks spreading through the walls, the small chunks of rock occasionally falling from the ceiling. If you can just find a weak spot, you can eliminate your opponents from here. 

The ground is practically shaking. The Gamemakers must be having fun with this, you think wryly. You feel that familiar fury rising in your chest again, but you refocus your thoughts and survey the area around you.

In your distraction, you forget to keep yourself hidden—and one of the tributes sees you. Shit, they’re running at you now. You manage to duck to the side and run past them before they can hit you, looking around at the rock walls for a sizable crack or unsteady area. Unfortunately, the other tribute is faster than you expect, and they’re soon shoving you to the ground and reeling their arm back to stab you in the head. You manage to block the blow but the knife grows through your hand. You scream and try to shove them off, but they only tug their grip down and exert force to send the knife even closer to your skin. The blade is almost kissing the skin between your eyebrows. It takes all of your effort to keep them from sinking the knife into you, and with a harsh tug, they manage to slice down your face. It’s a shallow cut but it stings and burns in the dense air. 

You can’t even contemplate your next move before the tribute’s grip is slackening and the knife is slipping from their hands. Suddenly the energy and resistance seems to leave their body and they fall onto you, their eyes almost empty as a knife protrudes from the back of their head. You look up to find another tribute standing over you, and quickly shove the corpse off of you and scramble to your feet. You glance around the space once more, realizing that it’s just the two of you now. 

“I need to win.” The tribute says, breaking through the tense silence. He’s standing a little unsteadily and there’s blood splattered across his skin, but you get the feeling it isn’t his. He looks largely unharmed. That’s not good. 

“I do too.” You say, if only to keep him talking as you study the cave walls. There’s a crack here, a crevice there… You’re about to give up on the ceiling collapse idea when you suddenly find a large rift on the edge of the wall near one of the branching tunnels. 

Everything seems to freeze as you catalogue your next steps in your head. The other tribute is clearly losing patience, as he starts for you. You take action and whip around, running away from him and heading towards the fissure. The stalactite in your hand should be enough to upend the cave system, if you strike at the weak area hard enough.  

Every muscle in your body is burning as you sprint towards the far tunnel, the other tribute hot on your heels. You lunge forward, using all of your momentum to pull your arm back and digging your sharpened stalactite into the wall of the cave. You rip it out and yank at the crack a few more times, before turning around and just barely dodging the other tribute’s assault. The ground beneath your feet is almost roaring now and you race for the tunnel, picking at the interior wall near the space for good measure. The tribute is running for you, and for an awful moment, you think he’s going to make it to the tunnel and survive to kill you. 

But then the ceiling caves in, and rocks of all sizes rain down on him. You suck in a startled breath as you hear his pained scream, knowing he’s being crushed under the debris. The other tributes must be dead too, as the cannon fires three times in short succession. For what feels like far too long, you’re just standing there, warm blood trickling down your face as you stare at the pile of boulders currently blocking off the mouth of the tunnel. You’re breathing hard and wavering on your feet, your headache insistent. 

May I present… the winner of the Hunger Games.

The Capitol broadcast echoes through the walls of the cave, nearly ringing in your ears. It takes you several moments to come to terms with what you just heard: …you won. Your adrenaline is quickly fading at the confirmation that you’ve survived. Your vision is spiraling as you lean against the wall. Exhaustion and relief are quickly winning the battle against your fear and dread, making your balance uneasy as you struggle to keep conscious. You don’t want to be vulnerable. But your body doesn’t care—and you’re soon falling to the ground, your vision fading to black as you try to come to terms with your survival. 

From there, you catch glimpses through bleary eyes. The rocks are crumbling and shattering around you, breaking away to reveal the blinding sun. You’re picked up by some sort of helicopter, with medics waiting for you. There’s a pricking sensation on your arm. Some shouting. And then… nothing. 

You wake to aches and pains all across your body. There’s an oxygen mask fixed to your face, an IV dripping at your side, and bandages across your arms. You’re reclined on what feels like a hospital bed, in a space that is blindingly white. You try to shift and sit up a bit, the movement hurting far more than it should. A tired exhale leaves your lips and, somehow, that seems to be enough to inform the person at your bedside of your consciousness. 

“Don’t do that to me ever again.” A familiar voice says. You squint as your vision slowly starts to adjust to the brightness of the room, revealing a presence at your bedside. Finnick is sitting next to you, his hands shaking as he studiously wipes the blood from your fingers. In an impromptu move, you clasp his hand weakly. The strength of his returning grip is nearly enough to bruise, as if he needs the physical reminder of your presence. 

Your mentor looks… well. As close to horrible as a person like him can look. Finnick just appears so horribly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messier than usual and his gaze shoots about the room impatiently. His entire body seems to thrum in restlessness. 

“You look tired.” You frown. Your voice is a bit raspy—likely from neglect. How long have you been unconscious? 

Finnick stares at you in complete disbelief. “Me?” He asks incredulously. “Look at you.” He scoffs, the strength of his grip on your hand betraying his concern. 

He’s right, of course. You’re so incredibly exhausted. It takes every ounce of energy you have to keep your eyes open and meet his gaze. Finnick scrutinizes your form, taking in the dirt and blood scattered across your skin. “Thanks.” You remember to respond sarcastically. 

Finnick rolls his eyes, interlacing your fingers. “That was smart.” He says a few moments later, his eye contact firm and unrelenting. “Collapsing the caves. Reckless, but smart.” There seems to be something unspoken in the gleam of his eyes and the rapt attention with which he studies you, scrutinizing your form and searching for injuries. 

“Thanks.” You manage to choke out, when you realize he’s waiting for a response. 

“It was quite the ending.” Finnick admits, a strained smile on his face. It’s like he’s trying to poke fun at the situation, but can’t quite bear to do it. You understand the feeling. “Very dramatic.” He nods. He looks weirdly fidgety and restless now. 

“That’s what I was going for,” you huff wryly. Both of you know that’s not the truth. Finnick recognizes that—recognizes that you despise the Capitol’s commodification of life and survival. He shakes his head. You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry. He’s quick to press a glass of water into your hand and you drink it, the liquid soothing your throat. “I didn’t want to fight.” You eventually say, after the silence starts to drag on for too long. 

“I don’t blame you.” Finnick nods. “Your fight with the District 6 tribute was…” 

“Rough.” You supplement. You bring a tired hand up to rub your face. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a second there.” You don’t quite notice the distressed expression that passes over Finnick’s face as you continue. “But thanks for the ointment.”

“No need to thank me.” Finnick says easily. “I’m glad it helped.” 

You just nod in agreement. It’s growing more and more difficult for you to keep yourself awake. You feel incredibly stiff and dazed—you must be on a few painkillers. When you blink, Finnick’s face blurs and the walls almost seem to curve towards him. You blink again, wetting your dry eyes.  

Finnick’s hand is still on yours. When you notice and look at his hand, he still doesn’t remove it. Instead he briefly squeezes your hand. Your eyes are drawn to your joined hands and you realize there’s still blood under your fingernails. It sickens you. “You should rest,” Finnick suggests, successfully distracting you from the blood on your hands (both literal and metaphorical). “I’ll be here.” 

“You don’t have to be,” you hum, leaning back against the pillow again. Finnick’s hand is still on yours. You must’ve given him quite the scare. You would attempt to reassure him if you weren’t so fatigued. And you’re sure you don’t paint a great picture now: somewhat malnourished, bruised and scratched up, vulnerable. The thought discomfits you. 

Finnick doesn’t budge. You don’t have the energy to say anything more, instead surrendering to the exhaustion creeping into the edges of your vision. 

It takes a few days for you to return to anything resembling normal strength. For a while there, you’re relegated to bland meals—bananas, rice—as you regain your stamina. The medications you’re on must be helping, in addition to the attentive medical care you’ve received since the end of the Games. But slowly but surely, you start to recuperate. You can soon walk around the room, albeit slowly. When you’re feeling a bit stir-crazy, Finnick will stop by and walk around the facility with you. He’s never quite far from you, which you secretly appreciate. You’d never admit it, but his presence is comforting. 

Unfortunately, once you’re healed, you’re forced to participate in the “victory tour”: where the victor visits every District and undergoes several interviews with Caesar Flickerman. The entire thing bothers you. You don’t want to visit the Districts who lost tributes—don’t want to have to look the parents of your victims in the eyes. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. The Capitol is painting you out to be some kind of hero. But you’re only a survivor.

Fortunately, you’re not alone—as Finnick accompanies you on the tour. He’s pretty popular with the Capitol population, and since he was your mentor, he shares a part of your victory. Supposedly. You won’t deny that the ointment he got for you likely saved your life. It’s helpful to have someone else there with you, someone who understands the unfortunate mix of survivor’s guilt, dread, and frustration running through you. 

Throughout your tour, you have many taxing individual interviews—and a few joint ones with Finnick. Finnick is his typically charismatic self, albeit with a withdrawn sense of uncharacteristic quiet. It’s not until he’s faced with the question of how he felt watching the Games… that his façade begins to crack. 

“I could hardly sleep,” Finnick admits. “I- I didn’t want to think about what could happen if I wasn’t watching.” You raise your brows from your position backstage, squinting at him on stage. He’s a pretty good actor—he looks genuinely unnerved. But it’s got to be an act, right? There’s no way he actually felt worried for you. You’re taken back to the look on his face when you first woke—the relief flickering in his eyes, the way his hand found yours and never let go. 

Caesar Flickerman nods in sympathy. “And the final battle…” He says, breaking you from your thoughts. You tune back into the conversation. 

Finnick shakes his head for a moment in a wordless gesture. “I felt like I was going to throw up.” The only tangible sign of his torment is the tightness with which he’s clenching his fists—a gesture that is only visible from where you’re standing backstage. 

Thankfully, Caesar soon moves onto lighter subjects. You watch as the conversation slowly wraps up. When Finnick walks off stage, he seems lost in his thoughts. You can’t tell if you should approach him or not, and by the time you attempt to make a decision, he’s already retreating. 

After a few more minutes of contemplation, you decide to check up on him. It’s not like Finnick to walk off without any warning or explanation. He’s a seasoned professional when it comes to these interviews, after all. Typically he can go through them with ease. But something about this one seemed to bother him. “Finnick?” You ask as you knock on his dressing room door. 

The door falls open and Finnick’s standing on the other side. “What are you doing here?” He blinks. 

“Checking on you,” you decide to answer truthfully, studying him. He looks a little frazzled. “Are you alright?”

A plethora of emotions flicker across Finnick’s face, none of them remaining long enough for you to identify them. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” You question lightly. “That was unlike you.” Finnick’s gaze snaps up to you and he almost looks offended. You quickly try to elaborate. “I just mean… you’re usually pretty private on camera.” A muscle works in his jaw and you watch as his gaze flits about your form, before settling on your eyes. 

“You concealed it well,” you say helplessly, trying to reassure him. You just know him well enough to know when he’s suppressing his emotions. “The audience didn’t notice that you seemed…” You just trail off, not quite sure what to say. 

Finnick gets up silently, inexplicably breaking the distance between you until he’s standing rather close. His gaze flits about your face, before settling on the jagged scar carving a path through the side of your face. It’s a testament to your trust in Finnick that you don’t flinch when he reaches out and runs a finger along your cheek. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“The medics offered to heal it,” you choke out, desperate to dissipate the tension settling in the air. “But I wanted the reminder.” You don’t want to forget how you felt during the Games. You don’t want to forget the Capitol’s brutality and manipulations. You will never forget that bone-deep desperation.

There’s a whisper of a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re far more suited to this than I am.” Finnick remarks. His gaze explores your face for a long moment, his finger running down the length of the scar and ending near your jaw. 

You frown at the statement. “That’s not true.”

“You are,” Finnick continues. “You’re honest. You didn’t conform to the Capitol’s pressures, and you have the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not a fair comparison to make,” you say, catching on to what he’s trying to say. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“I’ve spent this entire time pretending,” Finnick states, his hand slipping from your face. “Pretending to be this- this heartthrob,” he breaks off, his voice dripping with venom as he recounts the title the Capitol has given him. “Pretending to be unaffected by the Games and the suffering they inflict.”

“I was jealous of you,” Finnick continues, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fist. “Envious that you could acknowledge the truth, and still keep fighting. That you could stand firm and unrelenting… That you could scorn the Capitol’s citizens and still force them to pay attention to you.” 

You’re surprised at the admission. There’s nothing for him to be jealous of. And, more importantly… “You were just a kid, Finnick,” you remind him. “Don’t fault yourself for that.” 

Finnick just shakes his head, looking tortured. He takes a deep breath and continues. “As I grew to know you, I realized it was more than jealousy,” he says, averting his eyes briefly. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I knew it would be selfish. It would be a distraction.” You stare at him in silence, patiently waiting for him to continue. Truthfully, you really have no idea what he’s going to say next. But whatever it is, it seems to be troubling him greatly. “I-” 

Whatever he means to say falls to silence, as Caesar Flickerman bursts through the door with perfectly unfortunate timing. You immediately step away from Finnick, but Caesar is perceptive. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.” You shoot a helpless glance at Finnick, who looks irritated for a moment. Caesar continues speaking, although his eyes keep shooting between the two of you with interest. “The audience is just ravenous, and I was wondering if the two of you would be willing to come out together for a quick final interview.” His eyes are glittering and there’s a warm smile on his face. Despite his manners, it’s clear Finnick and you have no choice in the matter. 

The two of you soon find yourselves back to the stage, where you’re both seated on matching armchairs. Finnick looks entirely at ease—or, at least, to the untrained eye. But you’d venture to think he’s a bit frustrated from being interrupted. Admittedly, you’re a bit irritated too—if only because whatever Finnick had to say seemed important to him. 

It’s immediately clear that this last interview is solely for the audience. And while you’d done a rather excellent job at avoiding gossip and rumors during your interviews before the Games, you now find yourself faced with rather uncomfortable personal questions. Caesar is relentless, as if scrambling for some sort of secret that will capture the citizens’ attention. In particular, he seems particularly interested in your romantic pursuits. The Capitol always seems to want a love story. You will never give them one. 

“Surely you have someone to go home to,” he continues to press you, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You can’t help but be annoyed with him, despite knowing that he’s just doing his job. This dogged persistence is uncharacteristic of him—he’s usually a bit more subtle. “We’re just dying to know. An eligible young victor such as yourself has suitors lined up around the block, surely!” He shares a smile with the audience and cheers resound. 

Before you can respond, there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance over to find Finnick standing up and promptly walking off the set. You stare after him in perplexment, a bit worried for his sudden departure. You thought you caught a pained expression on his face, but that could’ve just been your imagination. 

The crowd seems disappointed that Finnick left, but their whispers are effectively silenced by Caesar. “Oh, I’m afraid I pushed the lad too hard,” the host says with a click of his tongue. He shares a conspiring smile with the audience. “Terribly sorry.” 

“Finnick isn’t feeling well,” you immediately fib, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any speculation about the cause of his departure. 

“I’m sure,” Caesar responds with a wink. You blink at him, wondering what he knows that you don’t. You’re about to elaborate—conjure up a story about Finnick being sick—when Caesar continues. “Regardless, that’s all the time we have. Thank you!” He chirps. Finally, you’re dismissed and you can go backstage. 

You don’t see Finnick for the rest of the day. He’s uncharacteristically quiet at dinner, and once you’re all released to enjoy your evenings, you find yourself looking for your mentor. He’s been acting a bit strangely, ever since that interview earlier today.

Your first inclination is to look in his room, but he isn’t there. He isn’t standing on the balcony outside or sitting in the common area. After checking the usual areas and coming up with nothing, you realize you’ve been neglecting one easy answer: the training room. Finnick could be working with his trident, letting off some steam. 

The first thing that strikes you upon entering the space is its unsettling resemblance to the training grounds from the beginning of the Games. You hear the harsh sound of fists colliding against something and frown, exploring the area before your eyes land on Finnick in the corner. He’s going at the punching bag rather fiercely. For a moment, you’re just stuck staring—both impressed with his forms and concerned by his focus.

After a few seconds, you decide to approach him. “Hey, Finnick,” you greet him as you head over. You watch the relentless way he’s assaulting the punching bag and you’re unable to hold back a teasing remark. “What’d that punching bag ever do to you?” You say with a lopsided smile, trying to get rid of the tension settling in the air. 

Finnick quietly grabs it and straightens up, evidently finished with his workout. He doesn’t respond to the jab, or to your initial greeting. You scrutinize him for several moments, taking note of the tension drawing his shoulders together and the firm pull to his lips. “Are you okay?” You ask, concerned by the uncharacteristic silence. 

He takes a slow breath. “We need to talk,” Finnick then says, his heated gaze falling to you. He looks a little breathless and his hair is plastered to his forehead. “I didn’t get to finish what I was saying earlier.”

“Right,” you remember, looking at him expectantly. 

You watch as Finnick glances about the space, as if making sure there’s no one nearby to interrupt. “It’s been driving me crazy,” he admits breathlessly. He waits a moment to catch his breath. “I feel like I just need to get it out.” You patiently wait for him to continue, admittedly a bit worried by the sheer apprehension on his face. Finnick looks genuinely nervous. “To put it simply… I care about you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“I think Caesar picked up on it earlier,” Finnick says, something like frustration pulling his lips together. “He kept asking you those questions to get a reaction out of me. And it worked. Because… I want to be the one you return home to.” 

You’re staring at him in disbelief and bewilderment. What did he just say?

“You don’t believe me.” Finnick realizes with a frown. 

“I just don’t understand.” You clarify, squinting at him and studying his expression. He looks perfectly sincere. “Why me?” You nearly sputter. 

“What do you mean?” He squints at you, looking at you like you’re crazy.  

“I just mean…” You trail off, your eyes flitting about the room restlessly as you try to comprehend what you just heard. “I’m me. And you’re… you know, you.” Finnick is outgoing, charismatic, and popular. And you’re nothing of the sort.   

“I’m not following,” He frowns again. 

“I don’t think I’m the kind of person you’re looking for.” You settle for saying. The reality of the situation, from your eyes, is that Finnick is way out of your league. You thought that would be obvious. 

“Of course you’re the person I’m looking for.” Finnick asserts, squinting at you disbelievingly. “I’ve always wanted you.” Always?  He takes a step forward and the distance between you is slowly shrinking.

“Why do you think I reacted the way I did, after your first interview with Caesar?” Finnick continues. “Because I didn’t want to think about you dying. I couldn’t stomach it. I still can’t.” You’re staring at him with wide eyes, searching his face for a hint of dishonesty or amusement. But there’s nothing to be found. Still, Finnick notices your doubt. “Let me prove it to you.” He says. 

“You don’t need to prove anything,” you say with a shake of your head, realizing your mistake. “I trust you, I believe you. And… I care about you too.” You choke out, feeling restless and nervous as you admit your feelings. 

“You do?” It’s Finnick’s turn to be surprised. 

“Of course,” you blink at him. His cool green eyes find yours and you suddenly feel as if everything around you fades to black. You blink again and try to sort your thoughts into a more comprehensible statement. “When I was in the arena, I kept thinking about what you said to me. And it was… nice… to know I wasn’t alone. That someone was looking out for me.”

“I was hoping…” you choke out, feeling awkward and embarrassed and nervous all at once. “…that interaction, in the transport facility, wouldn’t be our last.” 

Finnick’s pulling you into a hug before you can say anything more, his grasp strong but comforting. “I hoped it wouldn’t be, either.” He admits quietly. You both remain there for a while, nearly tangled in each other’s holds. Two victims of the Capitol’s vicious entertainment, victims of circumstance—but victors nonetheless.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

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[averyreaderofmanybooks]

[memento-morri-writes]

I've been thinking a lot about how Rook's reunion with his former mentor, Zara, is going to go, and since I can't predict what the DM is going to have her do or say, I can only dwell on what I know is going to happen. Which happens to include taking off the illusion ring that's been hiding his injuries from her. So have a snippet of the description I have planned for that moment:

tw for description of (mostly healed) injuries

He hesitates, twisting a ring on his finger. Looking at it more closely, she can tell it’s very finely crafted, and must have been very expensive. A large emerald is set into the band. Rook sighs, and pulls the ring off his finger in one quick motion.  Immediately she’s struck by the difference in his appearance as the illusion melts away. He looks awful. His warm, healthy skin fades to a dull and sickly grey. There’s huge bags under his deeply sunken eyes, and his cheeks are hollowed, as though they have been carved out by an overeager sculptor. He looks like he’s recently risen from the grave.  While he was thin before, now she can see his ribs under the skin, and his collarbones are exaggeratedly pronounce. Thin white lines left by dozens upon dozens of recently healed cuts are scattered across his body. On top of that, faded bruises cover most of his visible skin, a mottled mosaic of purple and yellow. They’re clearly days, maybe weeks old, and she can only begin to imagine what they must have looked like when fresh. Bandages are barely visible under his shirt, wrapping around his back, hinting at even more injuries.

[seth-the-giggle-fish]

gah why is finding a mentor for this small business mentorship class so difficult?

[claitea]

a little personal project i'm slowly chipping away at, thought it would be fun to make it into a chart that i add a doodle to every time i finish a new character so i can track how i'm going with it!

by project i just mean i want an oc of each type. i'm not making a game or anything the positions listed are purely for fun HDJBFJFKE

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Issues with Writing a Self-Insert #1

In case y'all didn't know, I've been going through a reflective period recently, and I've noticed that fear of what others think has held me back in almost every single aspect of my life, and unfortunately fandom is no exception.

I remember when I was like 14 and I tried to write fanfiction for the first time (I don't remember even what fandom I was writing for). Unfortunately, I could barely type a single paragraph without immediately deleting all that I wrote and being overly critical of my lack of writing ability. Even at that age, in the privacy of my dorm room, I couldn't shake off the fear of failure (and I mean howw?? I wasn't the only 14 year old trying to write Wattpad fanfiction). I remember comparing myself to some of my peers who had an amazing talent for writing. For me, I didn't get jealous, but rather I got intimidated, so intimidated that instead of continuing on with something and being imperfect at it, I'd just drop the entire activity altogether.

Because of this habit, I missed out on a lot of potential opportunities for growth during this time. I guess I saw people who were amazing, assumed that they popped out of the womb like that or something, and just....gave up. If I could go back in time, I would tell young me to embrace the cringe, embrace the mess. So what if people laugh or look at you funny or immediately stop whispering to each other once they see you? It sucks, but you will find your people, and you will survive. Trying to be palatable to everyone just means that you stifle yourself.

Years later, I wanted to get back into fanfiction, but this time with very little creative writing experience. What held me back was the fear that someone would read something that I wrote and ridicule it for being something that only an angsty teen would write, except that I am no longer an angsty teen but an unfortunately angsty adult riddled with insecurity, and that reality would just make that hypothetical comment sting even more (that's another thing about me. I create hypothetical ways for people to roast me in order to talk myself out of doing stuff).

[queeniewithabeanie]

The Baby Bat and his Mentor

Dpxdc Prompt #13

"Train me."

"No."

Danny didn't know why or how this kid had found him, but he most certainly did not want to train him to become a vigilante and then die on the job.

"Train me."

"No."

The kid obviously had some sort of formal training in martial arts. There was a certain way the shadows clung to him that made him seem... experienced even though he most certainly was not. He was definitely determined enough to become a teenage vigilante if not given proper guidance.

"Train me."

"Fine! But we're doing it my way kid. What's your name?"

"I am Bruce Wayne."

"First rule of the job kid, when someone asks your name and you are presenting yourself in your vigilante identity you give them a vigilante name. You do not want overlap, keep the identities separate."

Even if Wes was the only one to figure it out, Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom had a lot of similarities he had to weed out as he realized how dangerous they were to his livelihood. The only reason he wasn't immediately found out by everyone including his parents was that Danny Phantom was dead and Danny Fenton was not.

Bruce would not have that same luxury and would need to thoroughly separate himself from his vigilante persona.

"Now again, what is your name?"

"..."

"Don't got all day kid."

"I am... Batman."

This was clearly an important moment for the kid, but it took everything Danny had to not laugh at him in that moment. The way he tried to growl out his codename would have been intimidating, if not for the voice crack accompanying it.

"Alright then Batsy, rule number two is no vigilante-ing 'til you're 20. Teenage vigilantes get killed and make dumb mistakes, I should know."

"Wha- No! I need to protect Gotham, I can't wait 4 more years to do that!"

It's the first time he had heard any lilt to his voice and it was clear that he felt strongly about this matter, but Danny wouldn't budge.

"Nope, you wait 'til the teen gets out of your age or I don't train you. And rule number three, which is kind of an extension of rule number one, don't give out any personal information in your vigilante identity. I know you're 16 now, and I wasn't even attempting to extract info from you."

The kid made a growling sound again, but it felt more like a puppy dog yip to Danny, actually reminded him of Cujo a bit.

"Fine..." He forced out, realizing that Danny was not going to move an inch and that Bruce did have a lot to learn from him. He'd already been taught three things he hadn't considered in the past five minutes.

"Good, training starts tomorrow Baby Bat, meet at Nasty Burger, come in civies."

Bonus! Bruce: tries to make dick, a nine year old, wait til he's 20 to go out into the streets of gotham like danny did to him Also Bruce: can't even get him to wait til he's ten Danny: i don't know where, but my bruce-is-doing-something-stupid-and-potentially-harmful-sense is tingling and i don't like it!

[betterhomesandhozie]

I want to go home I want my mommy

[timmydraker]

Tim calls a family meeting and everyone is assuming he’s got a big case he needs help with, which is alarming for someone who refuses to admit that some cases are beyond him.

So, everyone shows up at the cave only to be ordered upstairs by Alfred. For those who only showed up to make fun of Tim for needing help, this is confusing because case work ain’t allowed upstairs.

All do them figure out quickly that this means it’s not to do with Gotham or Ref Robin, but the man behind the mask.

Bruce and Dick were there first and because Damian is always with one of them, so is he.

Steph picks up Barbara and Cass, with Duke already at home and Jason showing up at the same time as Kate and Lucius.

When they all get into the lounge room used for when people are over, just two doors down from the actual family room, they all find themselves chatting casually as they stave off their own worries or confusion. Some of them try find out if anyone knows what’s going on, but when Alfred and Barbara reveal they have no idea, they give up and make a few guesses but no more.

When Tim finally comes in after Alfred received him, he looks tired.

It’s not usual for Tim to get distracted with work and not sleep for a while, but he will conk out for hours when he decides to and wake up alright.

The bags under his eyes, the redness within them, and the way he looks close to tucking himself into a ball…

Bruce is immediately leaning forward, opening his mouth to make sure his son is okay but Tim just raised a hand to silence him. “Just… just let me speak, okay? I need to do it now or I’m not going to be able to.”

Everyone gives him a nod or look of understanding, making him twitch a smile before inhaling deeply and psyching himself up.

“I have cancer.”

…

Nobody speaks as Tim exhales shakily.

Everyone is staring wide eyed at the young man before them, who just reached the legal drinking age, and trying to asses his physical form for an understanding of what he just said. They’re all trying to gain X-ray vision to see exactly what is hurting him all while trying to convince themselves they heard him wrong.

Tim closes his eyes and speaks automatically, leaning into facts like he always does when he’s freaking out, “I noticed I was getting by more tired and fatigued around last year. My doctor said I have a low white cell count but he wasn’t alarmed as it was still in the normal range. But a few months ago I started to note that bruises were taking far too long to heal and I was getting a lot of pain around my joints and bones.”

He inhaled again, shakier than before at the same time that Alfred sits himself down with a hand over his mouth.

“It’s stage 2 and because of my lack of a spleen it’s going to be a harder process for treatment but fortunately I own a medical company so there’s that at least.” He makes a sort of joking smile that falters immediately, falling into a pulled back frown that comes with someone whose about to sob as he adds, “But it’s also aggressive so I-I don’t know how-how to-fuck-“

Dick and Cass are immediately moving off the couches they are on and catch him as he finally crumbles into himself.

Bruce is next to follow, the stoic man openly crying for the first time in years.

Jason and Damian are in shock, both frozen in place as dread takes over their minds.

Steph is looking out the window, as if staring at some kind of his or deity and demanding an expiration as to why they have to hurt her loved ones so badly. She’s crying, but it’s silent which is all the more harrowing.

Lucius places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder to comfort the elder even as he himself itches to go comfort the young boy who helped him run the company when he was at his worst.

Kate leaves the room to go call Bette, needing her mentor because this is just something she can’t handle.

Duke is sobbing into his hands as he leans into Barbara’s lap. Barbara who is clinging to him like a lifeline as she feels her world shift once again, feeling so angry and confused at how one of them could be threatened like this. Of all the ways they could go out, was it really going to be cancer?

It was a harrowing experience for all of them to remember that they were human in more than just their flesh being able to bleed and be wounded, but for it to grow sick. For it to age and attack itself.

They were human at the end of the day and Tim…

In Metropolis, Clark Kent rushed into the bathroom at his work to throw up as he heard a conversation miles away.