#no fanfare just death just like sleeping

[rowanisawriter]

imagine being pickled lol it would probably not even have any effect on me at all. i might enjoy it tbh . In fact

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Our Song and Dance⁶

Pairing: Finnick Odair x reader, Katniss Everdeen x platonic!reader Summary: You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end. Warnings: mentions of torture, mentions of forced prostitution, exploitation of minors, suicidal thoughts, war, violence, murder, mind games, religious references, very complicated relationships, complex mental health issues, death, and grief Words: 12.8K

Masterlist | Series Soundtrack

a/n: ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for! (greatest showman reference, not excluding my enbys y'all). here it is! this is the end! just for clarity, anything in present tense means r is thinking (as always), and there's an additional a/n at the bottom. love u guys!!

When you were younger, you dreamed of being a storyteller. This wasn't your first time dwelling on that fact, but now you wondered if it'd be the last.

There was a saying your mother used to say, before your father died and she went mad. You reap what you sow. It was ironic how backwards it was in your life. First you were reaped, which then subsequently sowed the domino pieces to your fake life, all falling down to lead up to this moment.

Yes, backwards it was.

You'd barely gotten a wink of sleep before faraway booms were waking you up. You didn't flinch this time; you could tell they weren't close, but Finnick's hand on your shoulder still tightened, like he was reminding you that he was there if you so needed it.

"Mortal shells," Gale informed you, looking up at the basement's ceiling. "It's not ours. Peacekeepers must be shellin' the rebels outside of the city."

It surely didn't sound like it. Cressida must've came to the same conclusion because she soon piped up, "That's not outside the city."

Inside, then. They were inside the city. 

That meant it was show time.

You separated yourself from Finnick without a word, going to prepare. In his mind, you must've just been so focused that you couldn't speak to him. In yours, it was that you were so unfocused that you wouldn't.

For the last eight years of your life, you'd been spinning stories with Finnick like there'd be no tomorrow, and now that was about to become a reality. That's why you couldn't speak to him. This was the last chapter, the last dance before the song came to a stop.

So you got ready, screwing arrowheads onto their shafts and strapping yourself with guns, moving slowly as if you were frozen in time with knowledge no one else had. 

This was the end of your story.

This was the end of the song.

Music beat loudly in your ears, but it was quieted by the sound of beeping. Your eyes were drawn to a black box on the table in the corner, similar to the one you once watched Finnick from, now projecting a mandatory viewing. There was no fanfare this time, as if Snow was now realizing that there was no need to sugarcoat what was happening.

The rebels had already invaded the Capitol. If its citizen's didn't know the severity of the situation before, they sure did now.

Finnick lightly snorted behind you as Snow's face came onscreen, making you resist the urge to swat him and laugh. You wouldn't have been laughing at Snow, though—you were much too angry for that—just at the boy who still found the courage to laugh in such terrible times.

You'd miss that.

Snow began speaking right away. "To all Capitol citizens more than a half mile outside the city circle, I am announcing a mandatory evacuation." Your brows knitted together. What? A quick glance at Katniss told you that she was just as confused. "Come to my home," he beckoned. "I am promising you shelter and sanctuary. All refugees... come to my home. There, you will be provided with food, medicine, safety for your children... and you will have my solemn oath to protect you until my dying breath."

Cressida made a sarcastic quip that you didn't hear, like your head was underwater.

This doesn't feel right.

"Our enemy is not like us," he continued. "They do not share our values. They have never known our comfort and our sophistication."

Somewhere in all the muffledness you heard Finnick mutter, "No shit," but it barely registered. Your eyes were trained on the image as if it'd unravel and reveal something to you. You didn't know what there even was to reveal—everything was laid out in the open now.

So then why do I feel like something's hiding in plain sight?

"And they despise us for it. Make no mistake." Snow's voice was filled with certainty and a spite so sharp it could cut through flesh.  "They are not coming to liberate us. They are coming to destroy our way of life. They are coming... to bury us." He put emphasis on his last words before the stream ended, his image cutting out with a flash.

What an interesting choice of words he used. Bury them. The people in 4 had been buried underneath rubble, so much so that you couldn't bury your own mother.

Katniss cut off your thoughts. "Is he still in the mansion?" You turned toward her, seeing her eyes already on you. 

You had to clear your throat before you replied, "Yeah." You'd been in that God-awful room enough times to recognize it, even in your dreams.

She nodded absentmindedly. "Okay, where's that?"

Pointing to a map she pulled out, Cressida answered, "About five blocks away. We're right here, off the avenues." She pointed to another far-off spot. "Mansion's here."

You crossed your arms. That was a long distance. "What about the pods?" you questioned.

Cressida motioned to another part of the map. "Well, they'll probably deactivate the pods around here for the residents' safety." 

"That could work." Katniss looked up at you, that same fire shining in her eyes that reminded you of her nickname. "We could get close enough."

That was the problem. You could get close enough—you could really do it.

But that felt too easy.

You didn't voice your doubts; Gale did. "Every Peacekeeper's gonna be waiting."

"Next to our faces on every billboard," Cressida cut in.

You shrugged. "Well, Snow's offering shelter to all the refugees." You could feel everyone's eyes dart to you, but you kept yours on Katniss. She understood your message right away. This was your shot. 

You had to take it.

The two of you were in agreement and that's all that mattered. Nobody was going to stop you.

Katniss got up, and then after grabbing the last of your weapons, you were heading upstairs.

One shot. You had one shot.

The extravagancy of Tigris' shop was lost upon you as you threw on a large coat, listening to Cressida's directions. There would be thousands of refugees; all you had to do was join them and keep your head low.

She wished you good luck, and then you found yourself hugging this girl you'd barely known for more than a few days. But she gave you trust when you needed it, and you wouldn't ever forget it.

You knew you weren't gonna see any of these people ever again, so you might as well say goodbye.

You were halfway through thanking Tigris when Peeta's voice suddenly sounded. "Katniss, let me come with you, okay?" You saw her face fall out of the corner of your eye.

He wasn't asking; he was begging.

"I can be a good distraction. They- they know my face—"

She firmly cut him off. "No, I'm not losing you again."

"What if Peacekeepers are searching the houses?" Gale spoke up. Whether it was out of spite or concern, you couldn't tell. "And if he's captured—"

He barely got to finish his sentence before Peeta was hurriedly interrupting him. "Then give me a nightlock pill, okay? I'm not going back."

You inhaled a sharp breath. Unconsciously, your hand went to the side pocket you'd tucked your pill in. Peeta's words had reignited a fear in you that you thought you'd expelled, bringing back memories you didn't want to have at that specific moment.

Please- please, I don't want to play anymore.

You didn't know you had closed your eyes until you reopened them to Gale handing Peeta his nightlock pill. Katniss went to unlock his cuffs, and that's when you looked away, getting the feeling you were intruding on something private.

Instead your eyes went to the very person you were avoiding. You met Finnick's blue eyes easily. Pretty blue eyes the colour of the ocean, your favourite colour.

Your favourite person.

A smile crept onto your face without your knowing. This was exactly why you were supposed to be avoiding him, but as you watched your best friend with the boy she loved, disregarding everything just to say goodbye, you couldn't help but want to do the same. You knew you already said goodbye to him, but you were already running out of time; why waste what little of it you had left?

One last time, you told yourself, just one last time to drown in his ocean.

You made your way over to him across the room, and before you could even get a word out, he said, "I want to come with you, too." You opened your mouth to protest— "But I'm not gonna ask you to."

You furrowed your brows. "Wha—"

Finnick lazily draped an arm over your shoulder, yet at the same time there was nothing lazy about the action at all. That, coupled with him brushing strands of hair out of your face, made you go silent. He was quiet, too, just staring at you.

The way he was looking at you reminded you of the way he examined his surroundings in the Quell, trying to remember where everything was.

It was like he was trying to commit your face to memory.

After a moment, he explained, "I know you won't let me." Of course, you wouldn't.

You weren't gonna let him watch you die.

You sighed, "I'm sorry—" 

With his voice as soft as silk, he chided, "Don't be sorry." His lips quirked upward while he caressed your hair. "Just come back to me in one piece so we can have that talk?"

You tried your best to reciprocate his smile. "I will." Liar.

Terrified that he'd see through your façade, you pulled him in, wounding your arms around him tightly. He held you just as tight. Only when your face was no longer in his view did you screw your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry.

You'd stay like this forever if you could.

But you couldn't.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat, which meant your time was up. You had to go now.

Slowly, you unwrapped your arms from Finnick's body, wanting to hold onto him for as long you could. By the time you fully let go, you felt like something was missing. And there was.

Finnick Odair would always hold your heart in his hands.

You flashed him one last smile before you turned around. You wouldn't say you loved him before you left, and perhaps you'd regret that, but if you heard him say it back, you didn't know if you'd have the willpower to leave.

Déjà vu crashed into you like a tidal wave. You lived this moment before, saying goodbye then turning your back and walking away.

I'll see you at midnight?

Yeah, I'll see you at midnight.

You didn't see him at midnight. But you came back. It wasn't the same you that came back, but you did, eventually.

You came back before.

This time, you wouldn't.

You and Katniss set off, finding the crowd immediately. It was a sea of people, impossible to miss. You joined them easily; if you were tentative, you'd get caught, so you had to march with them like you belonged.

There were dozens of Peacekeepers lining the sides of the path. When you glanced up, you found even more on the balconies of buildings, which quickly made you duck your head back down.

If you so much as removed your hood, they could identify you. And you refused to die before Snow did first.

The two of you were silent as you moved forward. There was that feeling in your chest again, the feeling that you were supposed to be saying something, but if anybody recognized your voice, you'd both be as good as dead. Katniss must've felt that pressure, too, but she didn't speak up about it, either.

On a whim, you glanced up ahead of you. You immediately regretted it when a child's eyes locked on yours.

Shit.

She was clutching onto a woman's shoulder—her mother's, you assumed. You prayed that she was too young to recognize you or too tired to make the connection, but then her head lifted up and you knew it didn't matter. 

She recognized you.

You glanced away from the kid before looking back. Her gaze didn't move but neither did her mouth.

She recognized you, but she wasn't going to say anything.

You were about to breathe a sigh of relief before Katniss tapped your arm, motioning ahead. Your eyes travelled to where she was gesturing, and you could've sworn your heart stopped.

Peacekeepers. 

They were checking people. You wouldn't get past them and you both knew it, so you swiftly turned around without another word. Except they were behind you, too, sweeping through the crowd.

Fuck.

You turned forward again, your heart and your mind racing in tandem to find a way out of this. You don't know what you could've possibly come up with.

You don't even think you were breathing.

Your fingers were inching their way to the gun on your hip just as a hand went to your shoulder. But before either of you could do anything, a loud boom sounded, sending you to the ground.

People were shouting everywhere all at once, mixing in with the music so you couldn't hear a thing. Your ears rang but you could still hear someone bellow, "It's the rebels!"

You glanced backward, and their yell was proven correct. A mob of rebels marched forward in a line, shooting at every guard in white they saw.

Another explosion reverberated through the battlefield, making you cup your ears. You couldn't hold back the pained cry that left you.

You looked forward, your eyes finding the same little girl from earlier, her yellow coat now tainted with dirt. She was kneeling above her mother's body, screaming. Tears sparked in your eyes.

That girl's mother was dead.

But you couldn't end up like her.

Quickly, you gathered your bearing, ushering Katniss up. "Come on!" She was stagnant, but as soon as you pulled her up, she was back from wherever she'd gone to. And then the two of you were running.

You jumped behind a barricade, only stopping momentarily. There was a Peacekeeper lying on the ground in front of you. Good, you thought. You could use his gun.

You untangled the rifle from his hands, kicking him down when he started moving. Then you were running forward again.

You ran like never before, stopping only to check that Katniss was still with you. Explosions went off on your way, shaking the ground. Some were too close, but you kept running.

Whether it was your sheer will or the adrenaline pumping through your body, you couldn't stop, not when you were so close. The gate was in your view now. You pushed through the crowd, not caring if your hood fell off in the process. There was too much chaos for anyone to notice.

The people were restless, a robotic voice trying and failing to pacify them. You were so busy climbing up a tank, trying to get a better a look at the palace, that you barely caught it. The gates will open momentarily, it was saying. The children will be received first. Stay calm. Bring your children forward.

That... that didn't sound right.

No, it did. It did sound right. It was right to bring the children forward first.

And that's exactly why it sounded wrong.

President Snow had never cared about children—why would he start now? It was puzzling; it didn't make any sense. But you couldn't make sense of it. You're forgetting why you're here, Y/N.

You shook your head, trying to bring yourself back to your objectives and not watch as the Peacekeepers lifted children from their parents' arms, but then something else caught your attention.

Whirring.

Your eyes shot to the sky where there was a lone hovercraft flying, Panem's emblem painted onto the wings. Not one of yours.

The hovercraft flew by. You don't know what you could've possibly expected, but you certainly didn't expect for it to drop parachutes in its wake.

"Gifts from the Capitol!" someone cheered.

The pit in your stomach returned, no matter how hard you'd just tried to get rid of it. The parachutes fell like they were in slow motion. You couldn't tell if they were truly moving so slowly or if was just you.

The world seemed to stop. The dance seemed to stop. And then everything clicked.

But you were too late.

Your eyes widened. "No—"

BOOM.

You were thrown through the air, landing somewhere hard. The wind was knocked out of you. At first, you were choking on nothing until you finally gained the ability to wheeze. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

This time, you couldn't hear anything. No screams, no more shooting. No more music at all.

The music came to a screeching halt. The record didn't skip. It just stopped.

It occurred to you then that the fucking needle must've just scratched the vinyl, because the music restarted. But it wasn't the same.

You shot upward, coughing your lungs away and waving dust out of your face. You stumbled as you got up—that was a misstep. 

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing— 

Katniss. 

Where's Katniss?

Frantically, your eyes darted everywhere. She wasn't beside you. She wasn't in front of you. You spun around, dancing, and she wasn't behind you either.

You wanted to scream her name, but you didn't. She's fine, you reassured yourself. She had to be fine—she was right next to you when the bombs went off. You just had to find her.

Your eyes scanned the scene in front of you, just now really looking at it. Bodies littered the ground, medics and Peacekeepers alike rushing to the wounded. So many wounded. You'd never seen so many bodies in one place.

You looked for a woman in a blue cloak among them. You didn't find her. But you did find someone else that was oddly familiar.

A blonde. A young blonde in a medic's uniform.

You know, I used to be jealous of you.

Jealous of me?

No, that couldn't be—

You have a family that really loves you, that beautiful sister of yours.

You blinked as if it'd make her disappear, but when you opened your eyes, she was still there, not a figment of your imagination at all. She was there.

And then she wasn't.

You had just opened your mouth, but the words died in your throat. "Prim—"

It all happened faster than you could register it.

You saw the flames first. Light travelled faster than sound. Then you heard it—the explosion. And then you felt it. You felt it more forcefully than any of the other ones, shockwaves rippling through your body.

And then you felt nothing.

The last time you awoke in the Capitol, you could feel that something bad was about to happen to you. Dread flowed through your veins like it was blood, infecting every part of you. It was as if a dark cloud hung over your head, a voice in your ear telling you to keep your eyes closed for as long as you could, to enjoy the rest while you still had it.

This time, your eyes fluttered open on their own accord. Your eyelids weren't as heavy. Your body wasn't as sore. But there was a still a weight on your chest.

The dread was still there.

Then the memories flooded back to you.

Bombs. And Primrose Everdeen.

No. You had to have been hallucinating.

With that thought, you blinked, suddenly becoming aware of your surroundings. The lights were fluorescent, but they weren't blinding like typical hospital lights—and there was an incessant beeping noise, but it wasn't very loud. You gathered that this wasn't a hospital room; it was more like a triage centre.

There was a shuffling to your right that you directed your attention to. It was a blonde woman tending to a sleeping brunette's wounds. You blinked again, and then you realized that brunette was Katniss. 

You let out a sigh of relief. She was okay.

Your eyes then immediately flickered to the other presence in the room. Haymitch stood between yours and Katniss' beds. He was already looking at you.

You didn't greet him; the two of you were past that. "Is it—"

"Yes." He seemed to understand without any explanation. Your eyes fell shut for a moment then, taking it in, and he let you.

The war was over.

You won.

But this didn't feel like winning.

When you opened your eyes, Haymitch seemed to already know what you were thinking. That's what you liked about him: no nonsense, no bullshit, no trying to sugarcoat something that was so clearly sour. Just straight to the point.

"It was over after the Capitol dropped those bombs to defend the Palace. Rebels took it right after." He paused, eyes glossing over with a look you knew all too well. "Everybody felt it—Peacekeepers, Palace guards... kids. It was, uh... it was over after that."

You could remember that. The children reaching up in the air, trying to grab what they thought were gifts from their beloved Capitol. Bombs exploded in their faces. You wondered if they were strong enough to kill on impact.

You hoped they were.

Children crying for their parents. Parents crying for their children. All of the sounds melded together eventually.

But you won. You won, didn't you?

Didn't you?

He changed topics. You think it was too hard for him to talk about, too, and that was almost absurd. You never thought you'd see the day that Haymitch Abernathy shied away from anything, yet here you were.

"Your injuries are minor," he told you. "Damage is superficial. You got off unscathed." Did you? "They wanted to take you right to the Palace, but I figured you'd want to change your own clothes." 

He said it casually, but the implication was there. That made you crack a smile, or at least the best smile you could give. "Thanks, H."

He nodded in acknowledgement but otherwise didn't mention it. The victors didn't talk about those sorts of things, not up until recently. You knew what happened to him, to his family, his girlfriend. And he always knew what was happening to you, but it was never spoken out loud. The things that happened in the dark were never meant to be brought under the spotlight.

So Finnick brought out the sun. And now, every secret, every body, and every monster under the bed was out in the open for everyone to see. 

You just never thought the sun would burn so much.

Your gaze travelled over to the blonde woman, still at work, applying some type of ointment to Katniss' neck. She hadn't said a word.

You suddenly realized that you were staring at Carine Everdeen.

You looked back to Haymitch, then Carine, then back at him, a question lying silently in your eyes. You opened your mouth, but you didn't need to. Haymitch just nodded, a solemn countenance overtaking his face. At his confirmation, you felt yourself physically deflate.

You weren't hallucinating.

Prim was dead.

You sat there with that information for a bit, unknowing of what to do with it. Katniss' innocent little sister was dead, caught in the crossfire of a fight she should've never had to live through. 

Katniss only ever volunteered to spare her sister.

And now she was dead, anyway.

She deserved to be acknowledged. You didn't know what to say, but she deserved the effort. Prim deserved the world.

Your voice was just barely above a whisper, hoarse from either the lack of use or remorse, perhaps both. "Mrs. Everdeen?"

Her hands paused mid-movement. She slowly turned around to look at you. Only, she wasn't looking at you. She wasn't really there.

You could count the number of times you spoke to Carine on one hand. It'd only ever been in passing, a hello here and there. She wasn't close with Katniss, therefore, she wasn't close with you. But right now, it didn't matter how close you were at all.

Somehow, everyone felt so faraway.

You swallowed. "I'm so sorry."

She was silent, but you could see every word she wasn't speaking in her eyes. Sadness, regret, anger, devastation. Grief. For a second, you could see her come back, but she was gone just as quickly as she reappeared.

"Me, too."

The ride from the triage centre to the Palace was all a blur. Somewhere in between everything, you got dressed into your own clothes, not the ones from 13. You briefly wondered how they got ahold of them.

Katniss was still there, sleeping. Maybe she woke up by now. You just needed to get out of there. Haymitch had told you that Finnick was en route, and you asked him to help you get out before he got there, to just tell him that they'd taken you to the Palace right away like they originally planned.

You didn't know why you did that, but you just knew you couldn't talk to him. Not yet.

They gave you a random room then left you there after you asked them to. You were sure they weren't supposed to do that, probably on Coin's orders, but the glare you sent them must've been real bad because they went scurrying out like mice.

You exhaled when they closed the door, finally alone. For a second, you felt like you could breathe again. And then you caught a glimpse of the bed and it was back to feeling like you were suffocating.

Crimson red sheets, gold accents. A ginormous velvet head board. A huge comforter that would likely warm you up— God, you were still so cold.

But you'd lied on a bed just like that before. And you were just as cold then, even with the warm body lying right next to you.

You cupped your mouth, knees buckling, but your other trembling hand grasped onto the chair right in front of you. You held onto that crest for dear life, simultaneously holding back a sob.

Calm down, Y/N. Just stop.

You were trying— you were fucking trying. But then your eyes zeroed in on items on the table in front of you. They blended in with the rest of the extravagant decor of this room, but once you saw them, it was all you could see.

A crown.

And a vase of fucking roses. 

You screamed, letting go of the chair and throwing the vase the ground, not caring if any of the shards hit you. The crown was next. Then you were tumbling down to the ground, too.

The dam in your eyes broke, tears flooding down your cheeks with no sign of stopping. Sobs wracked through your body.

It hurt. It fucking hurt. Not your legs. Not your back. Not your ears. Your heart. You clawed at your chest relentlessly, pleading for the pain to go away.

"Please," you cried. "Please make it stop." You don't know who you were crying to. You hadn't prayed in ages— you didn't even know what you believed in anymore. All you knew was that you were on your knees, begging for any God to listen.

But nobody answered.

You might've sat on the floor of that room for hours—you truly didn't know. You cried until you didn't have tears anymore, until you were numb. You just sat there after that, staring at the ground, at the crown you threw.

So much power that a single object had over you. It was a mask. A contract. A lie. A trick painted in gold. Your legacy.

It was your fucking poison.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, they said. 

They didn't know the half of it.

After a while, you got sick of staring at it, forcing yourself up and immediately turning to the door. You were exhausted, sure, and you'd sleep eventually, but not on that bed.

You turned the knob on the door and shut it behind you, knowing it was unlikely that you'd return to it. You made your way through the Palace like it was second nature; you knew this place well. Dozens of parties and faux appearances would do that to you.

The Palace only held poor memories for you. Here, your life as a marionette began, and you hadn't known anything different since. What person would want to stay in a place like that, a place that symbolized the moment their life changed forever?

Getting reaped might've been when your life went downhill, but your life became Snow's the second you stepped into his home.

You found yourself pulling the French doors to the backyard open, wanting to feel a cold that didn't come from your own body. The ground was covered in a blanket of white that crunched beneath your feet. Only a thin jacket protected you from the air sharply licking your skin, but you welcomed the feeling.

You didn't know what you were doing, but when you saw two men guarding the Rose Garden, you couldn't help but be pulled to it, like you still had strings attached to your limbs.

You were just reaching the doors when one of the guards stepped in front of them, his hand out. "Sorry, Princess. Can't let you pass."

His statement caused you to intake a deep breath, whether it was from the actual statement itself or the name that so happened to spill from his lips. You had half a mind to argue with him—you weren't sure if you were in your right mind at all—until a familiar voice ordered, "Let her in." 

You turned your head, seeing Paylor stood on the steps you had just walked down.

If you were in a better state of mind, you might've smiled.

"On my authority. She has a right to anything behind that door."

You didn't smile, but you settled for a nod. You weren't sure if your eyes translated correctly, but when she nodded back, you knew she received your message.

You weren't just thanking her for this.

Without another thought, you turned back to the garden. The guards opened the glass doors for you, letting you in. Immediately, your nostrils were flooded with the rich scent of earth. Green plants and bushes were everywhere, the most vibrant colour of green you'd ever seen in your life. You wondered if light hit differently in the Capitol, allowing people to see colours you didn't have back home.

Then you thought back to how people here had ignored the black tendrils engulfing the city for so long, and you realized that: yes, light must have hit differently here. It was impossible to ignore the darkness otherwise.

White roses were everywhere. It made you sick, but you stopped the bile from rising. There were so many. You used to wonder why Snow seemed so obsessed with flowers, why he wore them on his person at all times, but you supposed it was no secret anymore.

Help cover the scent of blood from sores in his mouth that will never heal.

Your eyes were trained on one of the roses when a voice cut through your daze. "That's a nice one."

Instantly, every part of your body stiffened, but you ignored every instinct screaming at you to spin around. You refused to give him the satisfaction.

"The colours are lovely, of course. But nothing says perfection like white." 

Your jaw locked, and you made good effort to relax it before you turned around. Seeing him there with that smile on his face nearly made you crumble, but you stood tall, echoing, "Ironic, isn't it? How a man so tainted tries to fool the world with an illusion of purity."

His grin only widened. "I was hoping you would find your way here. I knew you would." You wanted to slap the grin off his face and strangle him until the smugness in his voice disappeared. Your hands clenched by your sides, and judging by the way his eyes twinkled, he saw. 

He sat down on a ledge, musing, "You always were my greatest achievement."

The words were being spat from your mouth before you could stop them. "I am not your anything."

He tilted his head just ever so slightly, staring at you with pools of condescension as if telling you that wasn't true. It wasn't true, and he knew you knew it.

"I have a feeling your visit will be brief, so let's not waste our time, shall we?" You hated the way the word our rolled off his tongue, but you didn't show it on your face.

Snow cut himself off with a cough, bringing his handkerchief to his mouth. When he lowered it, it was spotted in blood. "Please offer my condolences to Ms. Everdeen about her sister." He tutted to himself. "So wasteful. So unnecessary."

You scoffed a humourless chuckle. "Really?"

"Why, yes, dear," he replied, shaking his head for effect. "Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes."

A scowl crawled onto your face. "What the hell are you on about? You released those parachutes."

"You really think I gave the order?" He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes peering into your soul. You didn't once look away. "We both know I'm not above killing children. But I am not wasteful." He stressed the word like it was disgraceful to him. "I take life for... specific reasons. And there was no reason for me to destroy a pen full of Capitol children— none at all—"

He was cut off by another cough. It did little to disturb you; you were already disgusted from the moment he began talking. Every word he spoke was careful and calculated. Listening to him explain his rhyme and reason wasn't something you were interested in. What reason could he possibly have for what he'd done?

He took the lives of everyone he met. Every person you cared about had fallen victim to his schemes. Katniss. Johanna. Peeta. Finnick. He took your mother's life— he took your life.

There was nothing he could say to ever make you understand his perspective.

Once he stopped coughing and looked back up at you, the smile was right back on his face like it never left. "I must concede, it was a masterful move on Coin's part," he admitted. The second he uttered Coin's name, you tensed even more than you thought possible. Humour laced through his voice. "The idea that I was bombing our own helpless children to hold back the rebels... it turned the last of my guards against me. There was no resistance left inside the Capitol or the mansion." He leaned forward again, like he was letting you in on a little secret. "Do you know it aired live? There's a... particular savvy in that, isn't there?"

You were afraid that, if he kept talking, you wouldn't be able to hold back the bile in your throat. He's crazy. This was Coriolanus Snow, a man who rose to the top by knocking down anything or anyone that stood in his way. You couldn't trust a word that came out of his mouth.

Yet you were still compelled to listen to him.

The moment you met Coin flashed behind your eyes as you blinked. You felt the sensation of shaking her hand all over again. Every encounter you ever had with her ran through your mind.

You thought back to when you were in 2 and her and Commander Lyme disagreed.

You've been underground a long time, Madam Coin. This isn't like the rest of Panem. Support for the Capitol runs deep here.

Then there is no sacrifice too great.

Snow pulled you out of your trance. "I'm sure she wasn't gunning for that Everdeen girl, but... these things happen in war." It was as if he could see the gears in your head spinning out of control.

Spinning, spinning, spinning— 

"My failure was in being so slow to grasp Coin's plan," he proclaimed. "She let the Capitol and the districts destroy one another, then she stepped in to take power with 13's arsenal. Oh, make no mistake." He chuckled. "She intends to take my place now."

Your skin was crawling. You felt the urge to rip it off.

Something about his smile became more harrowing, like he was placing down his final piece on the chess board. "But I've been watching you. And you watching me." You dug your nails into your skin. "I'm afraid we've both been played for fools."

No. 

No.

"You're lying." You didn't even sound convincing to yourself.

He tutted once more. "Y/N, my dear, I may have done many things, but have I ever once lied to you?"

You were gonna be sick. You turned around before he could see the tears gathering in your eyes.

This was over.

You went for the door, but just as you were about to knock on it and alert the guards, Snow stopped you in your tracks. "I see so much of myself in you, Y/N."

You felt your lips tremble, but not a single tear raced down your cheek. You didn't allow it.

Slowly, you turned around, your voice quiet but firm. "I am nothing like you," you avowed—to him and to yourself.

You didn't spend another second wasting your time looking at him, going to knock on the door as he broke into a fit of coughing. That coughing transformed into laughter.

Snow laughed maniacally as you left the garden and didn't stop. You could hear him laughing as you powered through his backyard, echoing in the empty space.

And even when you were back inside the Palace, his laugh still followed you.

You found a random hallway in the mansion, the first one that didn't remind you of anything, and you immediately went to the wall closest to you, leaning your forehead against it and inhaling a shaky breath.

Get your shit together, you scolded.

You already broke down once today. You didn't deserve another breakdown— no, you couldn't afford another breakdown. You needed time to think.

Did you believe Snow? Was this just his last way of fucking with you before he died, trying to get the last laugh by absolving himself of the blame? He had to know that he'd reached the end of the line, that he'd be dying at your hands.

He lost, and you won. The war was over—all that was left to do was kill him.

Katniss' voice suddenly rang through your head. This isn't right, she'd said, mourning the possibility of innocent life being lost before it even happened. You remembered your response to that, too.

It's fire catching, Everdeen.

A shiver ran through your body. Was this what fire catching looked like? Children dying. Hundreds of people with their lives forever altered—hundreds of people injured or killed by those bombs going off. Fire caught onto them.

This didn't feel like a win. Mulling over Snow's accusations in your head, it all made sense. There were no victors in an arena. You deluded yourself into thinking this was anything other than a game while Coin was playing her winning card.

You remembered what it was like in the arena, surviving off of ruthlessness, uncaring of what'd happen to anyone else as long as it meant you got to win.

But this wasn't meant to be a game. 

I see so much of myself in you, Y/N.

You didn't want to be like that anymore. You didn't want to play anymore.

"Y/N?"

You turned around, being met with the Girl on Fire standing across from you on the other side of the hallway. That was the name Caesar gave her from her first Tribute Parade, but you no longer found it appropriate.

The Girl on Fire was the girl who volunteered in place of her sister.

The woman that stood in front of you now had her sister killed by the very thing that once defined her.

You made it a point to never call her that again.

Katniss Everdeen was her name. She was The Mockingjay. And somehow, she became your best friend. So then and there, as you stared at one another, you knew that you had to tell her what Snow said, regardless of what you believed.

Softly, you told her, "We have to talk."

Yet no matter how soft your voice was, you don't think anything could have ever softened the blow.

Katniss took you to her room, and there, you told her everything. When you were done explaining, she looked so empty but so full of so many emotions at the same time. 

Do you believe it? she asked you.

I don't know, you responded. I don't know.

You sat there with her and gave her time to absorb it, not saying another word. The two of you sat there in silence until Gale came and fetched you, saying that Coin wanted to speak with you both.

You got up and left the room but closed the door on your way out. She wanted to talk to him—she needed to. 

You were there waiting for her when she was done, and you pretended you didn't watch Gale leave the room with tears in his eyes. 

Side by side, you walked to Snow's cabinet room with you leading the way. No one told you it'd be there, but you had a strong suspicion that that'd be Coin's choice. When you found two armed guards in front of the double doors, you were proven correct—and you didn't know why that unnverved you so much.

About 20 feet away from the doors, you held your arm out in front of Katniss, effectively stopping her. You had sat in silence with her for who knew how long, but now was one of those moments when you felt like you had to say something, and you were gonna take it before you got within earshot of those guards.

You stepped in front of her slightly so you could look at her, and for a moment, you lost your footing. It wasn't like you saw Katniss anything other than indifferent often, but this look struck you to the core. 

Perhaps it was the thin line of her lips. Maybe it was the emptiness in her eyes, no emotion in sight. Or maybe it was how you felt like you were staring into a mirror.

But she deserved so much better than being you.

Katniss Everdeen deserved the justice you never had.

You didn't know how to say all of this, nor did you know if she was in the headspace to listen, so you made sure she was looking at you when you spoke. "Do what you have to do," you whispered.

She stared at you for a few seconds, empty, but in all the darkness of her eyes you could see a faint light shine. Clarity.

She understood.

She gave you a small nod, and then you were moving out of the way, finishing your walk to the conference room. You might've been vague, but you knew your point was received. Whatever she wanted to do from this point forward, you'd stand by it.

The ball was in her court now.

The men in front of the doors gave you short nods of acknowledgement before stoically opening the doors. When they did, you weren't met only with Coin. This was a room full of victors.

And even though you suspected they hadn't been chatty before you entered, they were now radio silent.

Your eyes immediately locked with Finnick's, and you would've exhaled if you weren't under the microscope. He's okay. He's okay, and you knew that already, Y/N. You knew he was okay, but being told that wasn't the same as seeing him in person.

You didn't think you'd get to see those blue eyes again.

But you were.

Finnick flashed you a soft smile. It wasn't his classic Finnick smile, the one he'd throw at cameras and crowds. He was visibly exhausted, but he still found it in himself to smile at you.

It was the least you could do to smile back, even if it wasn't as dazzling as his.

"What's this?" the brunette beside you questioned, knocking you out of your trance. Her voice was cold and detached, but you noticed something now that wasn't there before. Deep underneath that ice was red, hot anger.

From Coin's response, you doubted she caught it. "The remaining victors." She gestured to the table. "Won't you join us?" Behind her, Johanna held out her arms, too, a mocking smile on her face that would've made you laugh if you weren't so tired.

You followed Katniss' lead, taking the last two seats at the table while also taking a cursory glance of the room. Beetee, Enobaria, Haymitch, Johanna, Finnick, Peeta, and Annie. You frowned. She was supposed to be on her honeymoon, not back in the Capitol—probably never back in the Capitol. But she glanced at you and you smiled, anyway.

"I have invited you all here for several reasons, but first, I have an announcement." Both Coin's words and her tone of made you look back at her, but then something else caught your attention.

Even under the glare of all the chandeliers in the room, you could still see the glint in her eye.

"I have taken the burden and the honour of declaring myself interim President of Panem." 

Oh, you could've laughed. Even though there wasn't a single thing funny about it.

You settled for narrowing your eyes; meanwhile, Haymitch scoffed. "Interim? Exactly how long is that interim?"

Coin's hands remained clasped on the table, and she didn't flinch. "We have no way of knowing for certain. But it's clear that the people are far too emotional right now to make a rational decision." Her voice was calm and collected, if not condescending. "We'll plan an election when the time is right."

You hummed, and even though she undoubtedly heard you, she ignored it.

"But I have called you here for a far more important vote." She finally look her hands off the table, leaning back. "A symbolic vote." 

Everyone in this room is a symbol in some way, you thought, but you held your tongue. Symbols didn't mean much to people who had been turned into nothing more than just that, but the thought must've escaped her.

"This afternoon, we will execute Snow. Hundreds of his accomplices also await their deaths. Capitol officials, Peacekeepers, torturers, Gamemakers. But the danger is, once we begin, the rebels will not stop calling for retribution." Dread crept into your stomach. Whatever she was going to propose, you wouldn't like it. "Thirst for blood is a difficult urge to satisfy. So... I offer an alternative plan. Majority of five may approve it— no one may abstain." She gave you a pointed glance. "The proposal is this. In lieu of these barbaric executions, we hold a symbolic Hunger Games."

Somehow, the room got quieter.

You fought to keep your face impassive—though, you were unknowing if you succeeded. You could only hope that the years of pretending paid off.

In lieu? What the hell did that mean? She wanted to spare a horde of evil people in exchange for the lives of innocents? That didn't make any sense.

But then you realized, powerful people. It'd be sparing powerful people. 

Johanna broke the silence with a laugh. It bounced off the decorated walls like rubber. "You wanna have another Hunger Games with— the Capitol's children?"

Peeta monotoned, "You're joking."

"Not in the slightest," Coin responded.

You glanced at Katniss. She was mute, just staring staring straight at Coin. They all might've thought she was in shock, grieving, but you knew the truth.

It was all falling into place for her.

Finnick let out a scoff. "Is this Plutarch's idea?"

If you didn't know any better, you would've thought the look on Coin's face was offense and not pride. "It was mine." There was another scoff in the room, probably from Haymitch that time. "It balances the need for revenge... with the least loss of human life."

The least loss of valuable of human life.

"You may cast your votes—"

"No," Peeta cut her off immediately, voting first. "No, obviously not. This is crazy."

"I think it's more than fair," Jo chimed in. "Snow's got a granddaugter. I say yes." You didn't judge her for that answer, even if you didn't agree with it. All of you had felt pain at the hands of the Capitol, but you couldn't possibly imagine condemning anyone else to the same fate.

Capitol children or not, they were still children. They weren't symbols; they were human. And you refused to join any line of thinking that said otherwise.

"So do I," Enobaria said, her red lips curving into a smile that made you remember when those lips were once coated in blood. "Let them have a taste of it."

"You guys, this way of thinking is what started these uprisings." Peeta's voice was incredulous.

Annie spoke up. "I vote no. With Peeta." Despite the decision in her tone, she cast a worried glance your way right after. Why haven't you said anything? her eyes read.

You looked away from them.

"No," Beetee voted. "We need to stop viewing each other as enemies." 

Finally, the voice you were waiting for sparked. "You have to be kidding me right now." Finnick had a baffled smile on his face, and you had a feeling he was going to start saying a few choice words.

And you didn't know why just yet, but you couldn't let him.

Before he could get his vote in, you blurted, "Yes." His head immediately snapped to yours, and you felt instant regret when his eyes met yours. In the swirls of all the blue, you could see betrayal.

The bile that you worked so hard to suppress earlier was back rising, but you wouldn't let it leave. He had to understand. You had to make him understand. 

You kept your eyes on his, no matter how sick it made you feel, pleading to him silently. His own words echoed through your head.

Please just trust me.

Trust you to do what?

I just need you to trust me, Y/N, please. Trust me.

You did. You trusted him, even when you didn't understand it at all, and now you were just begging him to return the favour.

You closed your for a brief second. Please just trust me, Finnick.

"Yes." Your eyes flew wide open to see him already looking at you. He maintained your stare before looking back to Coin. "You've got my yes, too."

He said yes. But really, he was saying so much more than that.

I trust you.

Coin nodded, disclosing, "It's down to Katniss and Haymitch." Majority of five. Only one of them had to say yes for her plan to take off, and you already knew which one of them it'd be.

Coin's eyes narrowed while Katniss remained expressionless, and in that moment, it was clear that The Hunger Games wasn't the one Coin was proposing. It was this, and President Coin was the Gamemaker and engineer behind it all. This was a game of cat and mouse.

Only Coin wasn't the cat.

After a beat of silence, Katniss finally spoke. "I get to kill Snow," she dictated.

A few pairs of eyes flitted to you, but you only focused on one of them. Coin glanced at you, and when you didn't object, she obliged, "Of course."

The room was back to silence, but your mind was anything but. What you heard were strings, brass, percussion, and a whole orchestra of instruments. A cacophony of noise and voices singing about a necklace of hope, only getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder—

And then the beat dropped.

"Then I vote yes." That's five. For the first time since you entered the room, there was a crack in Katniss' voice. "For Prim."

That was nearly a warning, but if Coin caught the edge to her voice, she didn't say anything about it. You think she was so consumed by satisfaction that she wouldn't have been able to notice, anyway.

She turned her attention to Haymitch if not just to stay true to her words. No one may abstain. "Haymitch?"

Katniss and Haymitch shared a gaze for a few seconds, and then he looked to you, and to Finnick, before he was looking back to Coin. He didn't agree with this, but he still lied, "I'm with the, uh, Mockingjay."

Coin nodded, poorly stifling a smile. You wondered how anyone could smile at the news of a slaughter. "That carries the vote. Excellent. We'll announce The Games tonight after the execution."

And that was it. She got what she wanted. She won.

But as you glanced at Katniss to see the emptiness returning to her eyes, you had a feeling that wouldn't last very long.

Stylists brought you to your room and did your hair for you, taking the locks and forming them into the braided updo that the people had grown to love. It was a crown—that's why they liked it so much. You would've preferred to leave your hair as it was, but you compromised that you'd do the hair if they didn't make you wear that ridiculous costume.

Cinna was an impeccable designer, but if you could go forever without wearing that suit, it'd still be too soon.

On your way into your room, the stylists ignored the broken glass on the floor, stepping over it and sending each other looks that they thought were discreet. They weren't.

When they saw the crown lying on the floor, too, they didn't dare ask you to wear it.

They left soon after little small talk, though you didn't think they blamed you. You looked like shit before they got to fixing you up, making you look like you'd actually slept. 

Your lips were no longer pale, coated in lipstick that didn't look like lipstick. You supposed the "natural" element was part of the Princess façade. They did something that made your cheeks look less hollow and more rosy, and they concealed the bags under your eyes pretty nicely.

Now, you looked like the Princess.

But she doesn't exist, a voice reminded you. She's not you.

You tilted your head at the woman in the mirror. She wasn't your reflection; she was a mirage. You didn't see yourself in any of it, but you didn't see yourself before they added all the glamour, either. 

Who are you, Y/N?

You swore to yourself you'd find out.

After slipping on your coat, you left the room, promising never to see it again. You were walking to the front when you saw a woman in five inch heels and silvers tassles exiting a room, a big blonde wig on her head with sharp silver ticks pinned into it that looked like they could stab her if she fell the wrong way.

She glanced to the side and saw you before you could greet her, beating you to it. "Oh, Y/N!" A big grin came to her face as she marched her way over to you, heels clicking against the floor adamantly. You think she would've skipped if she could've. 

Her arms wrapped themselves around your frame before you could even think about protesting. "How lovely it is to see you!" she exclaimed.

Your humour trumped your discomfort, making you laugh and reciprocate the hug. "Hi, Effie." When she pulled away, you were quick to cut to the chase, knowing she'd talk your ear off for ages if you gave her the chance. You nodded to the doors she walked out of. "Is Katniss in there?"

"Oh, yes— yes, dear!" She ushered you to the doors. "Go right ahead!"

"Thank you." Effie uttered something along the lines of 'no problem' before opening the doors and practically closing them within the same breath.

The smile that was on your face promptly dropped when you saw Katniss, looking no better than earlier, but you made quick work to bring it back. "Hey, Everdeen." You tried to make your voice light, but the heaviness in the air didn't dissipate.

She turned to you after just a second too long, almost like she hadn't heard you. A grimace crossed her face, but you could tell it was her attempt at a smile.

You stood there for a bit, keeping your hands at your sides. There wasn't much more to say—this was it. After this, you didn't know what'd happen. What would life even be like without being crushed by the Capitol's thumb? Would you go home? Did you even have one?

You didn't know how any of this would play out, but you did know that whatever ending Katniss wrote, it would likely end in the two of you separating. You'd both go home, and you'd no longer see the girl you got so used to. Realistically, you'd only been in close quarters for a month, but before that, you were isolated. Katniss helped you get acclimated with the revolution and gave you hope for a better world, and now you'd be going into it without her.

She wouldn't be at your side anymore, but you wanted her to know that you'd be standing behind her regardless.

In two strides, you were embracing her in your arms before you could think better of it. She froze, stiffening, and you were just about to let go and apologize when she engulfed you with the exact same fervour.

Your lips curved upward, and that time, it wasn't forced.

Eventually, you pulled back, resting your hands on her forearms. Her eyes didn't look so empty anymore. 

You wanted to thank her for everything she'd done for you without knowing it, for saving your life in more ways than one. You wanted to tell her you loved her.

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off before you could even try. "I know." She nodded, the slighest quirk of her lips visible. "I know." Pause. "Me, too."

She knew. You didn't need to say it, and neither did she. 

Things weren't okay—they probably wouldn't be for a while, but in that moment, you knew they'd get better one day, even if you wouldn't be around each other to see it.

You nodded back at her, and you squeezed her arms one last time, whispering, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Katniss."

And then you were letting her, walking away and leaving her alone while you still could. If you'd stayed any longer, you don't know if you would've left.

There was nothing left unsaid, and those were the best kinds of endings. But it was an ending, and that left you with bittersweet feelings you couldn't name.

Deep down, you knew you probably wouldn't see her again, and perhaps that was why you didn't meet the cars waiting for you at the front. If that was the last you saw her, you wanted that to be your last encounter.

And, so, your last memory of Katniss Everdeen was in that room.

The word revolution, in the least words possible, meant change. That's what'd been happening for months now, if not years, and your reality was on the cusp of being turned on its head.

Yes, things changed.

And yet some things never did.

West of the city, there was a big lake; you found yourself there when you were supposed to be watching Snow's execution. A certain part of you was disappointed that you wouldn't get to watch him die; it was all you wanted ever since you got to 13, your sole motivation for staying alive.

But the other part of you was relieved. He would die, yes, but he wouldn't see you again before he did. He wouldn't get another chance to exercise his power over you ever again. So instead of being there, you were here, watching the water.

It reminded you of home. Back in your days at the Capitol, you didn't get do much sight-seeing of the city. You'd be brought in for a day or two, really only for the nights, and then you'd be sent back by morning. But once you met Finnick, he started walking around with you, and some nights you'd end up here.

You'd stare at the lake together in silence. Back then, the water was as close to freedom as you'd ever get. You supposed that was one of the things that did change.

You were free now.

What does that mean?

You pondered over that question for a while. For so long, you dreamed of even just tasting freedom; the thought was unattainable for so long, but now it was in your hands and you didn't know what you'd do.

The war was over.

But it wasn't.

The fight was over for you, but that didn't mean it was over for anyone else. Homes were destroyed. People were dead, and even more people were left here just to grieve. The nation was broken.

What did that make you if you just went home and left things like this? Maybe you'd done enough. Maybe you should just go home and retire the crown, finally get the rest you'd been longing for. But you didn't want that.

Who are you, Y/N?

Maybe you could be more than Panem's Princess.

"Y/N."

You were startled by the call of your name, spinning around. When you were met with eyes that matched the water behind you, you were calmed down.

"Finnick." A smile graced his face, eliciting one from you like it was contagious. "Hi."

"Hi." So many words to say, and yet that was the only one that either of you said. 

He walked up to you, turning his gaze to the lake, and just like old times, you did the same. Just like old times, the two of you stared out at the water without saying a thing. Just like old times, for a little while, you were just Y/N, and he was just Finnick.

And just like old times, all of that came to an end eventually.

"You weren't at the execution," he said at one point.

"No," you replied. "I wasn't."

"But you already know what happened." It was set up like a question, but it wasn't.

You turned to see him already looking at you. His eyes weren't angry; they were just curious. You quirked one side of your lips upward. "I had a feeling." Judging by his statement, your feeling was correct. Your lips quickly drooped downward. "Is—"

He nodded before you could finish. "Katniss is alright." A breath of relief left you. "Paylor's gonna pardon her eventually. She'll probably be taking over." That confirmed it.

Coin was dead. And Snow was, too.

When you got your bearings, you shrugged. "I'd vote for her." You might've said it just to bring some humour to the conversation, but it wasn't a joke. You had no doubts that Commander Paylor would lead the nation with courage.

Finnick chuckled, agreeing, but as soon as he stopped, the light disappeared, reminding you of the weight of the conversation you were about to have. You didn't think you'd even be alive to have it, but you were, and now there was no avoiding it. 

He must've seen the shift in your demeanour. "Y/N—"

"I love you," you breathed, cutting him off. If you were gonna have this talk, then that was the way you needed to start it. "I love you, and I have loved you for years. I'm so happy that I get to say it out loud now, because I never thought I'd get to, but Finnick, I—" the quivering of your lips made you stop. Realization dawned on his face, and that made tears come to your eyes. "I don't think love is enough."

He stepped closer to you, grabbing your hands. You let him. "Y/N—"

A tear raced down your cheek. "I don't know who I am when I'm not pretending. I lost myself trying to love you," you confessed, more tears falling down your face, but in the blur, you could see tears in his eyes, too. "I need to find myself again. I'm not— I'm not in the right headspace for a relationship right now, and it wouldn't be fair to you to jump right into one like everything's okay." Your voice shook. "It wouldn't be fair to either of us."

You were just about to pull your hands away when he squeezed them tighter. "No, I can— I can wait."

Your chest tightened as you held back a sob. He was so frantically trying to hold onto you when he shouldn't have been. You shook your head. "No, you don't understand. I need to stay here— I need time—"

"I can give you time!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking, simultaneously cracking your heart. "I can stay here— I can wait. Y/N, I will wait forever for you if you need me to."

This time, the sob did leave you, and there was nothing you could do stop it. "You shouldn't have to! You should just go be happy—"

"I can't be happy without you," he argued, stepping even closer to you like his every action was begging you to see his perspective. 

At his interruption, more sobs fell from your lips, and he promptly pulled you into his chest. Instinctually, your arms wrapped around his torso, and his hands went to your head, caressing your hair as you cried.

You cried, and cried, and cried, and he held you all through it, letting you soak his shirt with your tears. He held onto you tightly, and not just physically, either.

Finnick Odair would never let you go.

Never again.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, you calmed down. You don't remember when you did or what happened after that, but eventually, your eyes were fluttering open to a white ceiling. Your hands grasped at your surroundings, feeling linen scrunch beneath your fingertips.

You glanced to the side where a big window was, light shining in from the moon. You furrowed your brows. How long were you out—and where were you?

Slowly, you stood up, soreness hitting your body immediately. You held back a hiss. Sleep must've given the bruises time to marinate; you decided to ignore it.

You walked through what was clearly a bedroom and opened the door. It opened into a hallway; noise was coming from the left, so that's where you went.

You didn't know what exactly you were expecting when you reached the end of the hall, but it certainly wasn't Finnick in front of a stove, frying something out of view. 

"Finnick?"

He turned around, eyes widening. "Oh, hey— let me just—" your brows raised as he turned back to the stove, picking up the pan and dropping its contents onto two plates on the counter. Eggs. You blinked, and memories flashed underneath your eyelids of scenes just like this one.

You didn't think you'd ever see him cooking again.

When you opened your eyes, he was back to facing you, a sheepish smile on his face that looked just a touch out of place. "Sorry, I was cooking us some food." He gestured behind him then added, "Since you can't."

You scoffed, almost like you hadn't just been bawling your eyes out, almost like you were back at home and everything was still fine. "Okay, first of all, screw you—" he let out a chuckle, "second of all, thank you. And third of all, where the hell are we right now?" Your eyes scanned the area; this wasn't a hotel room. It was an apartment. "Last I remember, we were at the lake."

"This used to be Cressida's old place," he explained. "Said we could crash here as long as we wanted. She doesn't really wanna be here either way."

"Oh." We. We could crash here, he said. You were brought back to reality. "Finnick—"

"Let's eat," he cut you off, an easygoing smile on his face. Easygoing, but not easy. You could see the nerves churning behind his expression, so with a sigh, you nodded, letting him lead you to the dinner table and pull out your chair.

You told yourself you did it for him. But really, you wanted to prolong this for a little while longer, too.

He put your plate and cutlery in front of you. You wondered how he managed to procure eggs that weren't expired, but you didn't ask him aloud. You just picked up your fork and started eating.

Whether it was your hunger or your desire to hold onto this, you stayed silent as you ate. You even caught Finnick eating slower than usual; he wanted to hold onto this, too. He was determined to do so.

You and Finnick did what you did best: you pretended. You pretended that you didn't just lose it and cry yourself to the point of passing out. You pretended that you didn't have to talk after this. You pretended that you were still living in the life you had before the Quell, eating dinner every night just like this. And in remembering those dinners, you pretended that you weren't pretending then, too.

But you couldn't pretend forever.

You finished your food first and waited for Finnick to finish his. He took his time, and you let him. You let him twiddle with his fork when he was done, and then you let him take your plates and wash them afterwards. And once they were on the drying rack and he had no more excuses, you stood up from your chair with reality ready to spill from your lips.

"Finnick—"

He took no more than second to get to you. "Please, just— hold on." 

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. "We can't avoid this forever."

"I know." Despite the shake in his voice, there was undeniable resolution in it. "And if... if what you said is really what you want, I'll give it to you." Out of sheer surprise, your eyes opened. The face you loved so much looked pained, but he still gave you a smile. This time, you could tell it wasn't real; it was purely for your sake. "There are countless things I need to apologize to you for, and I'd spend the rest of my life making it all up to you if you let me, but I'd do anything for you. So if what you want is for me to walk out that door right now, I'll do it." He swallowed, like he was scared out of his mind. "I just want to ask you one thing first."

The rational side of your mind screamed at you not to entertain it, to say no and get him to leave while you could both still bear it. He was willing to give you an out—that's what you wanted.

Was that what you wanted?

No, what you wanted was to feel better, and sometimes, Finnick did that, but other times, he did the exact opposite. Most times, the rational you corrected. Most times, he made you feel worse. But the happiness he gave you in those few times overrode everything else.

The other version of you, the one that remembered the good just as equally as the bad, nodded and gave him the greenlight.

He enveloped your hands in his, and the warmth made you realize just how cold you were. "Dance with me," he pleaded. "Dance with me and then decide."

No. Don't do it—

Transfixed by the way he was staring at you, you found yourself agreeing and ignoring your inner voice. "One dance," you told him.

The smile on his face became a grin. Real. This time, it was real. "That's all I'll ask," he promised. You took his word for it.

One last dance. 

He led you to the open area between the kitchen and the living room, keeping your hands in his hold and pulling you closer. You rested your head on his, listening to his heart rattle against his ribcage. God, you missed that sound. 

You missed this.

Finnick swayed you slowly to the music, nothing external or tangible, but the music you were dancing to was more real than any song you'd ever heard.

You realized now that the rational you was right. Finnick set his trap, and you lied in it. Because now that you remembered what this felt like, how could you willingly give it up? How could you ever leave?

The song might've been filled with heightening moments, and there might've been times when you just wanted to throw the damn record player into the wall, but it was your song. 

And this was your dance.

Minutes passed before you pulled away. Finnick's hands immediately tightened on yours, and you squeezed them right back. You were pulling away, but the song wasn't over.

It wouldn't be over for a long time.

You warned him, "It's gonna be a lot of work, Finnick."

"I'm okay with that."

"We had a life back home— you had a life. I wouldn't be blaming you if you wanted to go back to it." 

He was shaking his head before you were even done speaking, eyes earnestly poring into yours. "I'll build any life so long as it's with you."

You searched his eyes for any sign of doubt or lying but found none. When you were sure that you believed what he was saying, that he believed what he was saying, you released the smile you were holding back.

"Okay."

His eyes widened. "Okay?"

An involuntary giggle left you. "Yeah. Okay—" without warning, he picked you up and was twirling you around, making you squeal. "Finnick!"

Your laughs resounded throughout the apartment, and when he put you down, it was just to engulf you in his arms again. You wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to kiss you, but you'd have to work your way back up to that.

And eventually, you would.

No, your song wasn't over.

It was just restarting.

In district 12, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood inside their home. They started to live together after some time had passed, and while they weren't a couple at that moment, they were still together. That was more than enough for the both of them.

Katniss chopped up vegetables for the dinner they'd be having later with Haymitch while Peeta read her a letter, addressed to them both. They didn't get mail often, not in 12, so they didn't know entirely what was happening with everyone else, but this letter informed them of all that they'd missed.

You'll be happy to hear that Katniss' mother has been training new medical units in the Capitol. Thanks to her, we'll be able to heal many more people at a much faster rate.

Gale has been promoted to a captain in district 2 to help keep order and security. He's doing well there.

Johanna has gone back to district 7 where she is taking the healing process one day at a time. She'll take as much time as she needs.

Annie and Julian are back in 4, along with Mags. They spend every day loving their son the way we all should've been loved, and it's a beautiful sight to see.

I am in the Capitol. I run a centre for children all over Panem who have lost their parents. One of the children has been staying with me personally for a while; she reminds me of you, Katniss. I'm thinking of adopting her.

Finnick has been here with me. We're happy together. One day, not any time soon, but some day, I'm gonna marry him, and the two of you better be there for the wedding.

We've all suffered so much. But we owe it to the memories of everyone we've lost to do our best with these lives. 

I hope you're both finding some peace.

As Peeta read the last lines, Katniss smiled for the first time in a long time.

Sincerely,

Y/N

Taglist: @avoxrising @mxacegrey @littleshadow17 @lovelyteenagebeard @nasyanastya @catastrxblues @zodiyack @zulpix-blog @mushroomelephant @muggies @lantsovheiress @hobiebrowns-wife @notplutos @faeriepigeons @hnslchw @unholyhuntress @aclmagic @gloryekaterina @ayme301 @lem0ns77 @kisskittenn @onlyangel-444 @moonagedaydream505 @spderm4nnnn @satellitespeirs @glitzcute @iammirrorball @corpsebasil @forever-sleepy-sloth @omwtkydttfym @divinelovers @maggiecc @i-am-a-simp1 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @nelliereadsstuff @how2besalty @dreaminglandsworld @eilaharmonia @catvader101 @lexa138 @h0neylemon @dakotali @hermionelove @theseerbetweenus @whosscruffylooking @yourdailymemedelivery @emma-andrea1 @s1lngwns @meenyminymoes-blog @roxi-reid @rattertatter @sunnybunnyy2 @just-levyy @amaranth-writing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @joshhutchersonisdaddy @my-name-is-baby @hehehe13356 @quazsz @chloecharms23 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @thehairington86 @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @ment1tavoid @hereliesme @tayrae515 @mottergirl99 @blackdxggr @giverosespls @erindiggory @feyretopia @bibliosaurus @sleila @soursonnets @blackoutdays13 @lovelyteenagebeard @nj01 @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @marimba375 @willow-g-1 @blahablah2 @inatimate-icarus @shoebillcuicui @scoliobean @awritingtree @h-------n @yoonki-bored @miserablebl00d @iloubr @fairytales007 @beannnnnnnn @dominicfikexoxo @aclmagic @helaenaluvr @ravenmedows @bigdolldoeeyesgirl to all taglist members, tell me if you want to be added to my finnick taglist overall! thank you for reading my fic, and thank you for enjoying it enough to even ask to be on the taglist.

additional a/n: see what i did there at the end—our song and DANCE ;) you guys, this is it. the song is over (for us at least). i'm in a mix of like pride and sadness. this has quite literally taken a year to finish. it's one of my fav things i've written to date, and at one point, it was the only thing i was writing. to those of you that have stuck around to the end, thank you. i really hope u enjoyed the series and its ending! i'm thinking of writing little blurbs for this and whatnot if ur interested, all revolving around their journey. eventually, i'll post a list of canons ab y/n and where i think she ends up. once again, thank you all so much for your support. reading your comments has never failed to make me smile. i love you!! have a great day.

[yuri-is-online]

Can we hear your thoughts on Leona! Yutu?

Since Leona died fighting the Phantom, Yutu obviously wouldn't have met him, and I'm wondering about your ideas between what Leona became after NRC, how the loss of Yuu affected him, Leona's death, and Yutu's opinion of him before and after meeting him. I had an errant idea of Leona having Died a Hero's Death and then when Yutu meets him it's like, "THIS is the guy my parent was willing to spend the rest of their life with???"

Anyway yeah. As a Leona Simp, I would much appreciate anything you write.

Does he like cats... you know I have always sort of seen Leona has having a petty rivalry with Grim because he thinks he should be the King Cat, so the image of Leona! Yutu lying in a field with a bunch of cats is sort of a perfect contrast. I like it: Leona! Yutu absolutely loves cats and they love him.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, for context on the fyuuture kid au can be found here and here. You can find even more stuff for it on my masterlist under the series section.

Leona and and his position in the kingdom's line of succession... Based off my understanding of what we see in the Tashmina event I think the Savanna would prioritize protecting their royal family over a lot, something that pissed Leona off. He went to fight the King of Beast's phantom because he saw it as a problem he made and that he needed to take responsibility for sure, but also because he had no faith in his brother to do anything meaningful about it. I want to say that his brother wanted to enshrine Leona as a hero for his sacrifice, but that this decision was very unpopular with his advisors so he was buried in the Elephant Graveyard without much fanfare. He is an extremely popular figure with the hyenas, as is Ruggie. They see him as restoring the Kingdom's honor in a way by defeating the false king, something no other country in the apocalypse can claim, but things are still rough since they can't rely on tourism anymore and the blot has been making the weather really unpredictable, leading to bad harvests and starving people.

If Yuu was Leona's... losing them wouldn't have a noticeable affect on him but it was a massively crushing blow. We know he hates his unique magic because turning things to sand is a curse in the Savanna, but did it really have to be his own family this time? The family he got in spite of himself, the one fucking person who chose him no matter how much he snapped at them and tried to convince them to see him for what he was; a worthless dead end that would only hurt them. And what's worse is he knows that whoever took them had his brother's cooperation.

"Couldn't let me have this one fucking thing could you?" He's laughing as he says it and not even the irritation in his sister in law's eyes makes him back down. "Stuff it. I ain't stupid enough for whatever line you got fed and I don't care about your justifications. You're gonna have to live with this one on your own, Falena. Just like I have to."

He refuses to talk to his other family after that. No matter who is asking or making demands, taking Yuu and Yutu away from him is just one step too far. His brother probably thought that Yuu would be allowed to come home and that's why he let them go, but that's not exactly an excuse Leona would be willing to accept from anyone, let alone the supposed leader of a state. He almost feels relived when the blot phantoms start wreaking things, Leona might just want to sleep until you come to wake him up again but fighting things gives him an excuse to get his mind off things. Dying is a relief, he doesn't have to deal with Idia's whining or living without you any longer than he already has. His only regret is that he had to take Ruggie with him.

I really love this fanart and head cannon fima11 had of Leona's hair being light when he was born, and the color getting darker as he grows, so the idea of something similar happening with Leona! Yutu when he's born is really sweet. Leona's hair sort of resembles a mane, it'd be cute if Leona! Yutu's did the same. And genetics are already so weird I don't think any earth doctors would like too much of it.

Leona! Yutu is a sleepy boy. His hobby is napping and his favorite place in the whole wide world is his bed. He has a bad habit of laying face first in his pillows because he snores pretty loudly and he doesn't want to wake anyone up, which sort of makes him look like he has passed out as opposed to just settled down for a good snooze.

Because he is being raised by a single parent in the human world and not a bunch of gossipy servants hired by emotionally neglectful royalty, Yutu is significantly less entitled than Leona is. He has good sense with his money and can work hard, he just has a bit of a problem with resting bitch face that leaves people thinking he is rude. And to be fair? If someone is testing his patience then he really can be. Apple didn't fall far from the tree, Yutu is absolutely brutal when people test his patience.

Yuu's memories of Leona don't exactly help with his perceived behavior problems, they recall Leona's catty personality and how rude he could be, but that he was so remarkably clever and so very strong, that they were in awe of him sometimes. I think they would mention that he struggled with depression due to a difficult upbringing and feel a need to make sure Yutu felt appreciated and like he could do anything he set his mind to, no matter who he was born as. Yutu just takes that to mean that being a bitch runs in the family and he fully intends to ride that excuse to the bank.

It's a nice thought but Yutu feels a bit conflicted by it. He has no doubt that Yuu will always love and support him, but other people? Yuu might be able to ignore what their neighbors say about them but Yutu can hear them loud and clear. They think Yuu's amnesia is an act, and that he's a weirdo freak. Not to mention they don't have any money so even if he wanted to be a doctor or something like that going to school would be a bit of a pain, even with his grades. He finds school to be boring, and even when he gets bullied by one of the coaches in to taking up a sport because of how strong he is it doesn't help much.

I could see him being very into space and astronomy because he feels like he doesn't belong in your world. He knows a lot of downright stupid stuff about UFO sightings and aliens even though he doesn't believe in them. He is SO DISAPPOINTED when Twisted Wonderland turns out to have no conspiracy theories to talk about, can't think the moon landing was faked if you never had one after all. If the world wasn't literally ending he would be pushing for the Sunset Savanna to win the space race, c'mon guys it is in our name everything the light touches totally expands to the stars-

Like the other beastmen Yutus he maintains his instincts, even in your world. He is extremely territorial about his things and especially your home. Like Cater! Yutu, he has strong feelings of nostalgia for your world, but unlike him it has nothing to do with the monsters or hardships. Lions just tend to stay in the same place for a long time so moving to entirely different world and ecosystem makes him feel weird, even if he prefers his beastfolk body to his human one.

Gets put in Savanaclaw by the mirror. He might like space but his preferred type of argument is rearranging someone's dental work before asking them to explain themselves. He'd be terrible at defending a thesis.

Leona! Yutu's place in the Sunset Savanna hierarchy is tricky. I think, as Yutu is his brother's child, Falena would want some sort of relationship with him as he does clearly love his brother. What makes that hard is that as far as the government is concerned, Leona is dead and that's the end of his part of the family line. Acknowledging that he had a son could further destabilize the already tense political situation in the Savanna since Leona's sacrifice is already a point of conflict between the royal family and a portion of their people. While Crewel has no problem telling Yutu about his father since he has a right to know, the fact that he is technically a prince is completely hidden from him for a long time.

We haven't really played with this idea yet, but I sort of like Leona having a ghost that hangs around his grave sometimes. Idia arranges for Yutu to go there on a day he thinks he'll be hanging around and while Yutu doesn't get to talk to his father he does get to see him and the look of pride in his eyes when the grumpy lion realizes who he is. Leona gets to pass on and be with Yuu while Yutu gets a lesson from his cousin about the concept of the great Kings living on in the sky and how the past lives on in him. Because while Cheka understand his dad's concerns like hell is he not going to meet his favorite cousin. His enthusiasm is really exhausting to Yutu, he appreciates the fact that someone has nice things to say about his dad but he isn't too sure how much he trusts this guy.

Oh right one more thing, I don't want to say each of the Savanaclaw boys would pass their magic on to their Yutu's so if we ever get around to Jack he won't, but Leona should pass on King's Roar to his kid. Causing a drought might be considered a curse but I want to say Leona! Yutu wears it with pride. He loves his roar and that despite all the effort put in to erasing Leona from existence he still lives in him. His head is fit to wear the crown, no matter what anyone says.

Leona clocks what Yutu is the instant he steps out of the portal. It's all in the kid's scent and what runes he used to make the jump. He takes some time to think about what it could mean and comes to a few conclusions. Firstly, if he has a kid with you then he will always have some sort of relationship with you, no not in the yandere possessive way (mostly), he just knows enough about himself and his wants to know that having a kid would not be something he did by accident. If he did that at some point in the future it would be because you were going to stay with him forever and he actually believed that. Something that clearly did not get to happen because of how protective Yutu is of his parent.

Yutu was a bit confused if he should go about interacting with his dad or even ask about him so you can imagine his surprise when he stops by Ramshackle to see Leona half asleep on the couch.

"Oh sorry Yuu isn't here-"

"I know." Leona doesn't even open his eyes, and is he seriously wearing his shoes on the couch? Yuu would kill him for that it's so unsanitary.

"Um. Ok I'll just leave you be the-"

"Why'd you travel back in time?" Oh Leona's eyes are open now and there is something about that stare that's nailing Yutu to his spot and tempting his tail between his legs. His dad must notice because he laughs and shakes his head. "Seriously? If that's all it takes to scare you shitless we really are fucked."

Leona doesn't outright say he knows he's his dad, but Yutu gathers that's probably the case from the difference in his attitude around him compared to everyone else. There's a degree of coldness and severity to Leona when he's giving orders that really isn't present when he's talking to him about overblots or his theories about who is responsible for the bad future. He's almost playful about it, like he is messing with a cub. Which Yutu supposes that he is but still, he doesn't like being treated like a kid. Something he very much regrets telling Leona because holy shit his dad is strong just like Yuu said he was.

I think Leona would make him play chess against him a lot. You can learn a lot about a person by playing chess with them, and since it's something Leona really likes to do he would enjoy sharing it with his son. I think he would also get a kick out of seeing Yutu get really competitive with him about it. Maybe there is some lion in this kid after all.

Leona also makes a subtle effort to teach him about how the court of the Sunset Savanna works. I think Leona would sort of enjoy the fact that his kid didn't grow up as royalty just because it meant he was free of the pressures that he had, but hate everything else he learned about Yutu's childhood. It inspires him to think a bit deeper about how he is going to address this when Yutu is born in this timeline, though he is admittedly lacking on solutions beyond refusing to die this time. He must have been really far gone to even consider making a heroic sacrifice that's not like him at all.

He does get the appeal of his father sort of? Sure he's lazy, but he is extremely intelligent and clearly a lot more knowledgeable about literally everything than Yutu thought he was. When they're working together he sees a very impressive person and reliable leader. When he sees Leona interact with you he has questions. Why do you let him pick fights with you so often? Yutu can tell he's making heart eyes at how you fight back but that's because he's a beatman himself so he can read his body language. And he's not crazy about how he orders you around because if his father is a Prince... wouldn't that mean by marrying him you would also be royalty? He is so confused...

Meanwhile Leona isn't rushing things just because he knows you return his feelings at some point. He wants you to choose to be with him of your own free will, wants the feeling that comes with knowing you did that and he is willing to play the game to get that. Every milestone he reaches is so much sweeter for knowing that he got you on his efforts alone, crappy attitude and all.

The reveal to Yuu, much like the reveal to Yutu is extremely mundane. Leona invites you to spend the night with him sometime after you get together and he asks you while you're curled up on his chest and he's holding you just a bit too tight (not because he's afraid you'll run, not at all) how you would feel if you could never go home.

"A little upset." Because you had resigned yourself to the possibility a long time ago now. There's a chance you're only in Twisted Wonderland because you died in your world anyway, might as well be grateful you're still kicking. "And if you stayed and things went bad here, would you still be alright with that?" You don't hesitate at all to his surprise. "I think I'd be safe if I was with you." Well he really hates to prove you wrong but you still deserve to know.

Leona is weirdly quiet in his anger. He roars sure, but that's to exert control. When he's mad he just gets smug and says a lot of hurtful stuff. He leaves the screaming to Yuu, and I could see a Yuu that got with Leona only to learn they didn't get to spend the rest of their life with him doing a lot of screaming. Preventing the apocalypse is a team effort now but first Yutu and Leona are getting scolded for not letting Yuu in on the secret sooner. Leona is down bad horrendous and Yutu wants to die, he hates making you mad.

If I had to make a list of characters I would trust to find a solution to an apocalypse, Leona would actually be pretty close to the top. He is going to bitch about it the entire way, but if he were given the facts before things went too sideways, I think he would be able to make a good plan to set them straight. And there is no way anyone is going to tell him that he managed to have something as precious to him as Yuu taken away from him and not have him do something about it. He'll swallow his pride and take his licks when he has to, but not on this. Never on this, whoever thought he'd just roll over and die is going to shatter in his hands and be like dust on the wind. He really hopes they have enough sense to be prepared....

[hildegardladyofbones]

Something I've yet to rant about is the inherent sadness and misery of post-tribunal disco elysium. Of course it will *feel* different each time depending on the outcome, but I think I had one of the worst one of all. Everyone fucking died, I didn't have a gun, and I failed all but two skills checks. One of them had a 97% success possibility, so it was almost impossible to fail *that one*. Safe to say it was a shit show. When Harry wakes up, Kim is tired. He is running on his last drop of fuel and he is *so* close to done, but he is Kim Kitsuragi, the entire RCM's finest, he doesn't give up. Still, the air in the post massacre streets of Martinaise feels thick with defeat. Everyone has fucked off, closed off. People are only left with a burning memory and the task to accept what happened, because there's nothing to be done now. The choices you've made snicker at you trying to accept the consequences now. You will never know if you made the right decision.

Not only that, but this game doesn't let you forget for a second, that Harry is severely wounded. When he sleeps in the flak tower it is mentioned multiple times that his wound is bleeding, the game makes a point to comment on how his pelvis hurts, how it's hard to run... and in the final cut scene, the Finale, Jean outright says that Harry is actively bleeding everywhere. This game doesn't let you forget what the character has been through, wounds don't heal when the health bar is full.

Harry has been a broken man from the beginning, not even the beginning of the game, but the post-tribunal gameplay doesn't play along to his madness anymore, it has given up on the fanfare. The tie stops talking and something within me compelled me to turn down on the out-of-pocket replies. It didn't feel appropriate anymore and honestly, it didn't feel like the same game anymore. All that is left is the death and misery present all around him, not contained to inside him anymore. Martinaise is a district that has had to go through the worst, but *it* has learned to cope. Now it just needs time to get back on its feet again. But Harry... Harry is down low, but he's still going. He's not going to take the time to get back on his feet until he's forced to, I think. This pitiful relentlessness only highlights how truly fucked everything in the moment is.

Disco elysium is truly a wonderful game for portraying this misery so bone-chillingly. It forces you to feel the last bit of hope they chased. The ending, the confrontation with his past, can only be described in a word I don't know the English translation for. I don't think it exists.

Õõvastav. The ending is exactly that. Harrowing is the closest word I could think of.

[witchofthesouls]

Listen after reading that Tarn with a cat post, I need someone taking him to the shelter and the fluff that ensues afterwards, that sounds down right adorable

Listen. Imagine if it was a reward from Megatron, and you're the poor minion stuck with the process.

You've done all you can. There's no more time to worry. There's no time to run. Klicks past by excruciatingly slow. Your chronometer shifts like a patient guard awaiting your slot to the execution chamber.

The bell dings, and your HUD blares out that the morning appointment arrived on time and is currently outside the double sealed doors.

You've managed to survive and thrive caring for finished and rejected lab experiments with metal-eating tendencies or known mechanical-hunters. The facility had successfully placed a few animals among a few members of High Command. Quietly and without fanfare.

Whatever pride in your skills and experience in this subject swelled with the Director's glowing recommendation and Lord Megatron's regard...

And promptly shriveled when the Decepticon Warlord personally communicated this new request, and you lost sleep over countless cycles on whether or not if this was a test and if you'll pass with success or die from failure.

You take a single vent to fortify yourself and let the mech inside.

The Commander of the Justice steps past the security and stands before the cleared front station, datapads in order, ominously looming over with a heavy field as you input everything into the systems. That soft-spoken melodious pur of his voice does little to the increasing anxiety ballooning across your circuitry as the rumors speak of his killer ability to talk mechs to death. You're just glad that he can't see your legs quivering behind the stand.

You're a little surprised that your voice didn't fritzed to static as you explain the visiting procedures, and your plating isn't clamping shut as he steps into your space to follow in the depths of the Pound. The halls devoid of anyone else. Officially, it's due to incoming stock from the Science Division. Unofficially, you're the sacrifice.

It's a well-entrenched habit, so the easy flow of information pours out of your mouth as each exhibit is inspected and passed over.

Canines. Reptiles. Avians. Felines.

It's not the intelligent malice within Maul's optics nor the elegant, powerful form of Nightcrawler that catches the mech's attention.

It's poor, little Visco.

There's not a lick of self-preservation in the experimented photovoltaikitten's head, and you absolutely know that because the animal squeezes out of its container to scuttle across the floor and flops over Commander Tarn's pede upon seeing the mech.

Visco makes the most pitiful meow you've heard in your relatively short life, and by the grace of Lord Megatron's patience, Visco isn't a purple smear on the floor.

Instead, you're treated to the bizarre sight of the terrifying leader of the D.J.D. making a round of the available stock in the aquatic section with a gooey companion clinging to his leg, mewling sadly every now and then.

In fact, the kitten is attempting to destabilize its body to its gooey sludge matter to mark the Commander, and you need to take action before the little idiot losses half its mass in a random vent or hidden data port.

"Sir, may I-" you fall silent as a large servo waves you off. The Commander simply plucks Visco up with two digits, and it dangles in the air. Those large green optics remain unblinking, limbs curled up by instinct as he grabbed the ruff.

Visco has yet to blink, staring back with pretty green optics. You remain steadfast that there's not a single thought in the kitten's head. The size of the luminous optics had taken most, if not all, of its processing power.

"And what is this one called?"

You can not tell him that you named the thing because of its deep love affair, scratch that, absolute addiction, over Visco -a wildly popular flavored engex beverage. The kitten has literally squeezed its entire body into a bottle to lick at the remaining drops. It doesn't need a full clamp down. Just the remains of your snack and the cap.

You bullscrap it with a half-truth.

"It's short for Viscosity, sir." You quietly inform him as Visco decided that Tarn is the greatest thing since the inception of the Empire.

You get a second surprise to feel the mech's own surprise when Visco decided to destabilize and land in a wet clump on the floor to dart away. You die a little inside when Visco drags back a homemade string toy and drops it right there, optics bright and begging for play with pitiful, low mewls.

Since the Commander didn't move, you bit the bullet and crouched down to pick up the toy and flick the string around so Visco could chase the carved bird around.

The moment drags on, dread sinking deep in your abdomen, and the mech doesn't give you any sign of discontent nor impatience.

Eventually, he kneels and politely asks, "May I?"

You numbly pass the toy to watch the Commander of the Justice Division play with a deemed failure of a reconnaissance project. Hands that crushed many sparks gently stroke along a purring ball of happy kitten.

Sweet Visco, the little gooey photovoltaikitten that was hoisted from neath death from the incinerator, loves to stuff inside your cubes, and can't jump to a nearby ledge to save its life, will be taken to a roving execution squad.

You stare blankly as Commander Tarn walks away with Visco in an actual containment unit that is specifically keyed to ensure the critter doesn't escape transport.

Even if your spark panged at gathering Visco's few items and quietly shelving away a small dream, you make sure the security measures are armed, the doors sealed, and immediately curled beneath the desk to stress-sob in relief.

[ashthewaterghoul]

You Gave Me Nothing Whatsoever But A Reason To Leave - A Dewdrop Ghoul One Shot

“If you would let us, we would like to restore your birthright and name, son.” Torrent said. He hadn’t called Dew his ‘son’ since months before his banishment. “You would supersede Eyre upon your father’s death.” Marina added. “I would follow you and your word, brother.” Eyre confirmed. Dew’s head spun and he spoke before he thought, “Fuck no.” The three gazes that had slowly been softening suddenly turned back to that familiar coldness again. “You dare speak to us like that?” Torrent snarled. Fuck it. Or, A really random one shot in which Dew goes back to Hell, and gets a lil catharsis while he's there.

Words: 3k

Rating: Gen

Tags: Dew gets to shout at people, angst and drama, bc Dew is a drama queen, banishments, dew is a runt, attempted nepotism, descriptions of dew's elemental transition, mentioned Ifrit, toxic family, dew needs a hug, mentioned royal!Rain, I'm struggling for tags here help.

A/n: The idea for royal!Rain comes from these posts X X by hypnoneghoul and this post by skele-bunny. Title take from 'Granite' by Sleep Token.

~~~

    Why did he get stuck with this? Him, of all people, sent on a fucking messenger mission back down to Hell. Who in the Clergy decided ‘Oh, yes. Dewdrop, he’ll do great!’ It wasn’t like his behaviour record was clean, he certainly wasn’t a good delegate and, most importantly, he hated his home dimension.

    The Clergy was in an odd limbo as Copia ascended to be Frater Imperator and they were waiting for the new guy to arrive, and what would usually be a message sent via Ritual conducted by the Papa could no longer be carried out. So, the Clergy decided to send a Ghoul. Instantly, everyone thought it would go to one of the more mature Ghouls like Aether or Mountain. But it got passed to Dew.

    So, here he stood, on a pentagram ready to get sent home. At least he would be coming back, his bond to the Ministry wouldn’t be broken. That didn’t make it any less terrifying though. Dew was going to be isolated from his pack for the first time since his forced Elemental transition. And he hated that fact. He wasn’t allowed to take anyone with him as they needed their hands up here, but Dew knew better than to try and tempt the Clergy to anger by now, despite knowing Copia would never let anything bad happen to him.

    He stood in the pentagram, Copia along with other Clergy started to chant to open the portal and Dew just willed his body to not to wet himself. He truly was that scared. The magic started tingling along his skin as his soul was forced back down. He knew better than to fight the magic as well, and gave into it.

    It took a while to pop out on the other side, and Dew knew why. His first destination was one that he never wanted to return to and those meant to accept the summoning certainly didn’t want to see him either. When he emerged, he landed in a heap to no fanfare or welcome. His sort-of-fame from the Ghost project meant nothing down here. And especially here.

(Read below the cut or on ao3)

    “Dewdrop Aquariunt.” A voice he hoped to never hear again sneered, “They sent you then.”

    “I think you’ll find it’s Dewdrop Ignisriunt now.” He said, dusting himself off as he stood.

    “You act like that makes any real difference.” She commented.

    “Better than being a Homaestus.” Dew returned.

    The Ghoulette that comprised of his welcoming committee growled, “And you wonder why mother and father disowned you.”

    “They disowned me because I’m a runt. But who got summoned? Me, the embarrassment who was kicked from the family line or you, their dutiful and mindless servant?” Dew asked.

    She went to raise her claws but Dew cut in, “Ah-ah-ah!” He grabbed the bespelled Grucifix rosary around his neck and lifted it, “I’m under Ministry protection. You can’t hurt me without hurting our parents’ precious position in society.”

    She bared her fangs instead.

    “I’ve seen much scarier things than you since you left me, Eyrie-Fairy.” Like Sister Imperator naked that one time. Dew, the Fire Ghoul, still manages to shiver about it to this day.

    “Don’t call me that.” She sneered, walking off to lead Dew to more faces he didn’t want to see again.

    “Why? Reminds of a time you actually liked me?” Dew said as he followed.

    “Satanas, you are insufferable.” Eyre muttered.

    “Aww, Aether says the same thing.” Dew cooed.

    She grunted again before the two fell into silence as they walked along.

    Once upon a time, they had indeed been siblings, and happy at that. But as Dew grew, or rather didn’t grow, it became obvious that he was, in fact, a runt. Runts were a sign of weakness to the family line that Dew’s parents couldn’t dare show. They were the leaders of their pod of Water Ghouls, and held prominent positions for the race of Water Ghouls in general. When Dew was the ripe age of 8 and his gills still hadn’t opened, his parents disowned him. They removed any bond he had with his family and pod and named him Aquariunt, the Water Ghoul last name that showed shame. It was mostly given for a disownment, or sometimes for kits left orphaned and their line wasn’t known. It meant ‘Water’s Spawn’, showing that the Ghoul was not part of their birth line anymore. Now Dew was a Fire Ghoul, he was technically Ignisriunt, Fire’s Spawn, but in his mind, anything was better than his birth line of Homaestus. He wouldn’t dream of ever wanting to be that, ever again.

    He could get all his quips out with his former sister, but he knew it would be short lived. As soon as he was faced with his parents, he was sure he was going to fold in half with how much his shoulders would hunch in. It may have been years ago, but the words they said on that dreadful night still hurt. Dew had expected, had hoped they would just say the words for the Ritual and leave him. But they had said much more and much worse. He had a lot of physical scars by this point, but that emotional one was always one of the worst.

    Dew started seeing some more familiar sights of his old pod’s base camp, and the main tent he once called home. The scents of his parents grew stronger as he walked closer and closer, and Dew mentally pledged to claw out the eyes of whoever arranged this. He would have to go visit other leaders, other Elements, but being made to do this was just cruel.

    His once-sibling pulled the curtain to the main tent back and cleared her throat, “Torrent and Marina Homaestus, Chief and Chiefess of this pod.”

    Dew was expected to bow even when he was their son. Of course, he was expected to bow even lower now.

    “I present Dewdrop Ignisriunt of the Unholy Church Of Satanas.” Eyre finished, herself bowing to her parents before taking her place at their sides as she was the next Chiefess. As Dew was older, he would have been the next Chief if he wasn’t kicked out.

    “Dewdrop.” Torrent sneered, permitting Dew to rise up from his bow.

    “Chief.” Dew said, keeping his eyes downcast. He couldn’t call him ‘father’ anymore and wasn’t allowed to look him in the eye.

    “Ignisriunt, is it now?” Marina added.

    “It is indeed, Chiefess.” Dew confirmed.

    She chuffed a laugh and shook her head, “Still weak then.”

    Dew didn’t dare give her an answer. If anything, the fact that he was a runt and survived his brutal transformation attested more to his strength than weakness.

    “So, the Ministry sent you? Let’s get this done with.” Torrent said.

    Dew fished through his bag for the scrolls that Copia had sent with him. He would have to read them out to his sire and dam because Water Ghouls, even ones as prominent as the Homaestus line, couldn’t read or write. Water and paper don’t exactly mix, after all. Dew had learnt how to read after his summoning from Mountain and Aether, who’s Elements thrived on knowledge and making sure it was preserved for generations to come.

    As Dew read through the documents, he made sure his voice stayed strong and he focused on not messing up a single word. He was a creature of spite, probably why he survived being abandoned at just 7-years-old, and he would never want to add more fuel to the fire of hate his birth line had for him.

    The Chiefess stood at one point and started walking around Dewdrop and inspecting him, for lack of a better word. To be fair, he couldn’t blame her. Elemental transitions are unheard of and especially one as brutal as Water to Fire.

    She sat back down, and the Chief and Chiefess spoke their responses for the Clergy. It was rather routine for the leaders at this point. It was a formality that all the tribe leaders of any Element did to keep the relations with the humans. While rarely used, there are ways for Ghouls to forbid passage to Earth and for the humans to lose safe passage for their servants. It would then turn to brutal and painful summonings that the Ghouls may not even survive, or at least become very injured.

    It was also a way for the Ghouls below to register their interest in being summoned. It was never a guarantee, Dew himself never chose to be summoned, but it allowed the Clergy to pinpoint willing souls who would give into the summoning easier, and submit quicker to their new Master.

    Dew finished writing their responses, in English rather than Ghoulish so that the Clergy could read them, and left the notebook open so that the ink could dry.

    “The Clergy thanks the most powerful Chief Torrent and Chiefess Marina Homaestus for their time and cooperation.” It was a formality drilled into Dew, but the words felt like ash in his mouth.

    Dew kept his head bowed, waiting to be dismissed.

    “You’ve done well, Dewdrop.” Torrent said cooly.

    Did Dew’s ears just stop working? There is no way he just heard that…

    “S- sir?” Dew said, still bowed.

    “Look at me, Dewdrop.” Torrent asked. While Dew wasn’t supposed to look at him since been shunned, he couldn’t exactly deny the Chief.

    Dew had never forgotten that icy stare of his sire. It always managed to bore holes into him and make him feel even smaller than he already was.

    “You have done remarkably, given your unfortunate circumstance.” He went on.

    Dew wanted to say something about how part of that “circumstance” was his fault but bit his tongue.

    “Thank you, sir.” Dew mumbled, forced to meet his sire’s eyes but wanting to rip his own away so bad.

    “What exactly did they do to you to make you into a Fire Ghoul?” Marina asked, curiosity alight in her equally piercing gaze.

    “I- I wasn’t given a choice. One of my mates, Ifrit, he was the Fire Ghoul. There was a lot that happened in the Ministry, within the Clergy, and he was killed.” Dew had to take a deep breath so he didn’t cry at the memory, “The Clergy don’t like summoning Fire Ghouls because it’s too difficult and expensive, but Water Ghouls are easily replaced. So, they took me in my sleep, and I couldn’t fight back. They made a serum from Ifrit’s blood, forced me onto a pentagram, injected me in my gills and started chanting. Then I burned.”

    That was the easiest way to put it because Dew did burn, and he had the scars to prove it.

    “What changed? Physically. What did ‘burning’ entail?” Torrent questioned.

    Dew didn’t like talking about this part especially. It took him months to describe the sheer and utter torture to Aether, let alone anyone else. But Dew couldn’t deny the Chief. He’d never been able to go toe-to-toe with him.

    “My gills melted shut, both sets.” One hand pulled the neck of his Ministry uniform to show the burn-scars there, the other gestured to his clothed ribs where matching ones lay, “All my scales, webbing and fins burned off. My hair changed colour, my horns fogged up, one crumbled off. My hands darkened, I run a lot warmer now, and one of my eyes turned red.” He tapped his face, where the skin around the socket was slightly smoky, dusted by charcoal like his hands. His blue eye was surrounded by small scars from where his scales burned out.

    “It felt like the worst pain imaginable. I thought I was going to die; I wished for it. I kept passing out from pain and exhaustion and when I was awake, I was in agony. Twitching and writhing because I couldn’t flail around anymore. Breathing felt impossible, my throat had burned out and I couldn’t scream, my tail was fixed around my stomach. Just, everything was terrible. I was locked in a cell; I was deprived of water even to drink for a few weeks so that they could make sure the Fire took to me. Locked away from my mates, and another one was taken and killed in that time too. Their name was Zephyr. Terzo was killed as well, with his brothers and Mountain and Aether refused to leave my bedside after they found me. I was in a coma for weeks after that. But I survived.”

    “Fascinating.” Marina whispered. For the first time in Dew’s life, she looked at him with something that was almost pride.

    “Before and after, you were in the Clergy’s project, weren’t you?” Torrent asked.

    “Yes, sir. Still am.” Dew said, confused as he was pretty sure that no one down here had heard of Ghost.

    “We have heard stories from Ghouls returned to Hell. One called Alpha, another called Omega. The half-breed Delta visits a nearby pod sometimes with the Ghoulette Mist. One called Pebble also brings tales.” Marina said.

    Dew’s eyes widened at the names of his old friends. After sometime while he was asleep, following Ifrit and Terzo’s murder, the retired Ghouls had fled back to Hell save meeting the same fate. No one knew if they had survived as, usually, a Papa would oversee the portal opening and closing.

    “Th- they’re here? They made it?” Dew asked incredulously.

    “Indeed. Mist is very interesting to speak with.” Eyre said, silent up until now.

    Dew could definitely agree with that.

    “They tell stories of how beloved you were as a Water Ghoul. We know that His word had only spread more with this project, so I assume that love for you with it?” Mariana said.

    Dew smirked slightly, knowing he often sent fans a bit more than feral.

    “All things considered,” Torrent said, “we aren’t sure we properly estimated you, Dewdrop.”

    “Excuse me, sir?” Dew said.

    “This isn’t said easily, but we do believe we made a mistake by shunning you.” The Chief said.

    Dew’s eyes widened again, but this time in confusion.

    “You have proved to be strong and invaluable.” Mariana said.

    “If you would let us, we would like to restore your birthright and name, son.” Torrent said.

    He hadn’t called Dew his ‘son’ since months before his banishment.

    “You would supersede Eyre upon your father’s death.” Marina added.

    “I would follow you and your word, brother.” Eyre confirmed.

    Dew’s head spun and he spoke before he thought, “Fuck no.”

    The three gazes that had slowly been softening suddenly turned back to that familiar coldness again.

    “You dare speak to us like that?” Torrent snarled.

    Fuck it.

    “You dare to leave a kit to fend for himself? Hoping that some creature will kill him so you don’t have to?” Dew scoffed, “A Fire Ghoul? Leading a Water clan? That’s ridiculous, no one would follow me. Just because I’m traumatised by what I’ve been through makes you think I’m the son you always wanted doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. What you said, what you did to me hurt. Remind me, my dam and sire, what were your last words to me before you left me for dead?”

    The two stayed silent, their upper lips pealed back to bare their fangs.

    “Do you not remember? Because I do. I hear it every night in my nightmares. You shall henceforth be known as ‘Aquariunt’ and you shall know a fraction of the humiliation you brought on us. I would kill you myself if it wouldn’t bring me more shame than your presence already has, so you shall die a slow and painful death instead. An atonement for the mortal sin that is your meagre and wretched existence.”

    “What else do you do with the runt of the litter?” Marina spat.

    “Love me? Like it or not, you’re still the ones that made me. I’m your son.”

    “How could we love something so absurdly horrific?” Eyre sneered.

    “Do you want a list of those who have?” Dew raised his hand and counted across his fingers, “Terzo, Copia, Aether, Mountain, Ifrit, Zephyr, Omega, Alpha, Mist, Ivy, Pebble, Delta, Rain, Swiss, Cirrus, Cumulus, Aurora, Sunshine and Phantom.”

    “Fools then. The lot of them.” Torrent remarked.

    Dew knew they would change their tunes quickly. His parents didn’t have any sort of emotion other than their lust for power and status. They had heard stories, and when Dew had confirmed those stories, seen he had a skill that they didn’t – even one as basic as reading and writing – they saw an opportunity for some good old-fashioned nepotism and couldn’t resist. But as soon as Dew, the horrific little creature he was, rightly pointed out the gaping flaws in their logic and realised that they couldn’t puppet him, they went back to their tirade of tyranny against him.

    He knew something else that would make them change tunes as well though.

    “Even Rain? He’s a fool? Does that name not ring a bell?” Dew smiled.

    The realisation on his former family’s faces made him fail to stifle a giggle.

    “Rain is a fair and just Prince, but I’m sure he wouldn’t take too kindly to being called a fool by the two who have caused me, one of his mates, so much pain. Just as I’m sure he wouldn’t like his other mates, friends and his Papa being called fools too.” Dew said.

    It was often surprisingly forgettable that Rain was a Prince. Each Element had their own revered and respected Royal family, and Rain was part of the one for Water Ghouls. Rain never acted like you would expect for his station, and maybe that was because he was 3rd in line and likely to never inherit his mother’s throne, especially after Rain’s older siblings have had their own kits, but he was just like any other Ghoul. Other than the fact he had a lot more security around the Abbey and while on tour.

    “You wouldn’t dare.” Mariana muttered.

    “I get asked that question a lot. Most often the answer is I would indeed.” Dew said.

    He revelled in watching them squirm.

    “Anyway, for the Ministry, this has been a most productive visit. For me, quite cathartic, yes, buy otherwise entirely unpleasant.” Dew said, clapping his hands together, “Chief Torrent, Chiefess Marina, Heiress Eyre.” He bowed and showed himself out. And he flipped the three of them off on the way out, to visit the next pod of Water Ghouls.

    Maybe this trip wasn’t the worst idea after all…

irdk what this is but... thanks for reading :D

One shot master list can be found here

[yumecel]

the slowest death 💙

yandere!dabi/reader | 1.6k

summary: you didn’t even think the PLF would bother tracking you down. one member proves you wrong

character specifics: slightly ooc for fic purposes i suppose

reader specifics: gn reader

world specifics: probably a far longer gap from dabis video to the war arc than is canon? sorry for any inaccuracies of living under the PLF i wasnt paying attention

tws: stalking, mention of murder via burning, dabi being a creep

a/n: christening this blog with the man thats been driving me wild recently. im so rusty! please forgive me

——💙——

i promise i’m 18+, i promise i’m okay with seeing dark content, i know this will haunt me in the world to come should i lie [yes⬇️] [no↩️]

You can’t stop seeing him.

Skulking into street corners, under flickering lamps, your peripheral vision, all permeated with the silhouette of a man you only expect to see on screens. When you close your eyes, he persists as an afterimage. Blue eyes burn into yours.

You’ve been having trouble sleeping.

Sometimes you lock yourself in your bathroom to watch that video of him, Dabi- now confirmed as Touya Todoroki. You drag your laptop with you and you search up information about him, trying to keep track of his current movements to confirm your suspicions. It feels like there’s eyes everywhere. It feels like he’s everywhere.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him up close before. You think that’s why this is probably happening. Months prior, under the direction of the Paranormal Liberation Front, you’d used your quirk on him- you’d cupped his cheek gently and allowed the soothing water to roll over it, clearing away a minor burn that was nothing compared to the rest of his scars. You remember it vividly because he closed his eyes. That’s not the issue, many people do, but you almost couldn’t believe the expression of tranquility that crossed his face. On the screens, in leaked footage, Dabi often presents himself with a chilling calmness or a maniacal grin. The total relaxation of his features and the removal of defences was foreign. And when it happened, you’d observed closely. Every piercing, every staple, every mark. You just happen to like observing the effects of your quirk on other people, and Dabi was no exception. When it was over, he’d murmured something barely discernible as a “thanks” and walked off. You thought his back would be the last you’d see of him in person, save for a few brief appearances with other PLF members. But he kept coming back to you, minor burn after minor burn, cut, scrape, bruise. He hardly ever talked, but he was so bold. He laid his head in your lap and there was an unspoken understanding that taking advantage of this vulnerability would result in dire consequences for you. Dabi always ensured his absolute privacy before settling down, and you believe you became something of a refuge for him. But you didn’t think there was anything special about you save for convenience, and you certainly had more “regulars” than just him. Dabi didn’t appear to be particularly attached to you as a person so much as your quirk.

Your clientele eventually died, perhaps literally, perhaps they just stopped coming after finding another healer, leaving only Dabi asking for your services. To make money and a future, you had to move, and you did so quickly and without fanfare. You were planning to leave that chapter of your life behind entirely.

But Dabi keeps haunting you.

You think you’re wrong. You should be wrong. You don’t know if you’re wrong.

It’s true that you’re technically on the run from the PLF, but you didn’t believe they would be particularly keen to expend effort on tracking you down. You are after all, only a healer, and have no specific abilities to boost other quirks. Quirks that soothe others can be found everywhere and you doubt they’d struggle tracking down more like them, and there’s already an abundance of regular doctors at their fingertips. Your ability to both soothe and heal is something that can be replaced easily enough.

Put simply, the costs of capturing you far outweigh the costs of letting you run free. The PLF knows they manage secrecy fairly well. They have nothing to worry about.

So when Dabi started lurking around the edges of your vision, you thought-

“They’re going to make an example of me.”

That could be the only reason. Being killed by Dabi is complete overkill. Your quirk may involve water but you don’t stand a chance against quelling his flames. There would be no epic fight, and you’re fully aware that engaging with him would lead to your death within five minutes. That’s if he grants you the mercy of a quick death. There’s nothing holding him back from prolonging your suffering for hours, even days. You shudder every time you think about it, a million ways he could kill you flashing before your eyes.

He doesn’t kill you quite yet. He’s toying with you.

The inside of your shabby apartment starts looking substantially shabbier. He must be letting himself in regularly. Somehow, somehow he has obtained a key, and now he’s snooping around. You accept that death awaits… for the first week, at least. Perhaps he’ll find you have nothing of interest to the PLF and leave. All you do is keep living as normal, praying some great distraction for him will arise and this will pass. Every day, you show up to work- a small, urban spa where you’re free to offer your services of pain relief under the guise of massage, never disclosing openly that you’re using your quirk. It’s custom to do so if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, but clients generally know through word-of-mouth that quirks are used. The additional layer of protection was meant to shield you from the PLF, but it all seems useless now.

You can hear your phone buzz as you massage a client’s back. You try to pretend it never happened, and she seems undisturbed. You wonder what it could be, since after clearing your phone very few people have your new contact details. You manage to check it once the client shuffles out the door, thanking you airily.

It’s an email. The subject matter reads, “Hi Sweetheart!”

Spam.

But you still open it.

——————

Subject: Hi Sweetheart!

I really couldn’t resist digging around your laptop today. Imagine how flattered I felt when I saw all your previous searches had to do with me. Curious, are we? I can just imagine your scared little face as you scroll through videos of me, wondering when you’ll see me again. I guess what I found cute is that you have my confession video bookmarked. Did you save it for… personal reasons? You had plenty of time to look at me without a shirt on when you were working. I guess you can’t get enough of me.

But I can’t act like I wouldn’t do the same if you were someone I could just look up online- but I’m a good researcher without the internet. I tracked you down without a lot of effort. And I’ve been learning so much about you recently. So much that I’ve reached a dead end. There are things I need to know about you that wouldn’t be found on your laptop or in your apartment…

Maybe I’ll see you when you get home.

You know who I am.

——————

Feeling sick to your stomach, you scroll up, thumb trembling.

It’s sent from your own email address.

——💙——

You don’t have anywhere to go but your apartment, yet returning to it feels like such a stupid move. The police, let alone pro heroes, hardly go to that part of town. You stay an hour longer at the spa. You hope this will throw off Dabi, allowing you to dive in, grab your stuff, and equip yourself to leave forever. The passiveness that came with being a sitting duck has left your body. Confronted with death, you know it’s time to fight for survival.

Your phone buzzes again.

Another email.

——————

Subject: I won’t hurt you

You think I don’t know where you work? I can just as easily come to you and torch the place. I’m willing to play nice, so don’t insist on being difficult.

——————

A coworker remarks that you look sickly and insists you go home. You nod slowly, not saying much as you start to get ready to leave. When you stumble out of the door, the bell above you sounds like it’s ringing several rooms away. Nothing feels real.

Buzz.

——————

Subject: You can email me too

You know that right?

Still holing yourself up in that spa? Need me to walk you home? Coming home?

——————

You send one to yourself.

——————

Subject: Im on my way

[No body text]

——————

Buzz.

——————

Subject: Good.

[No body text]

——————

——💙——

You don’t bother putting your keys in the door. It opens regardless. With a dry mouth, you swallow, looking around and taking tentative steps further into your apartment.

He deliberately approaches from behind, which you were expecting, but you still yelp out when his warm presence meets your back, arms wrapping around you.

“No ‘Honey, I’m home’?” He snickers. You don’t struggle. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. When he holds you a little tighter, it’s like he pushes you over the edge.

“I’m sorry,” You begin. “I can come back. Are you going to kill me? Please don’t kill me. I can tell you anything you need. I don’t know what I can offer you, if, if you want to stay here, I can-“

He squeezes tighter, making a gentle shushing sound. Your body starts to feel like dead weight. You look down, eyeing the scars on his hands and counting staples in an attempt to ground yourself back in reality.

“It’s not about leaving the PLF, doll. Y’understand?”

You nod frantically, shoulders raising, even if you don’t fully understand. He loosens his hold on you on a little, before coming so close to your ear that you can feel his hot breath.

“It’s about leaving me.”

“Leaving you?” You say, voice barely managing to come out.

“You think I wouldn’t miss my favourite healer?” He croons.

“I…” You begin. “… everyone left. I couldn’t make money and I didn’t have prospects.”

“You’re welcome,” He says, inhaling slightly. “I took care of everyone else.”

“That’s…”

Ominous.

“But you just had to leave, right? Before I snapped you up for myself permanently? Before I got to know you better?”

“I’m- I’m not-“

“Shh, doll. I don’t want those hands on anyone but me from now on. Start packing your necessities and get ready to come home.”

He releases you, causing you to fall to your knees with a dull thud. You were at the mercy of the man behind you.

This, you realised, was the slowest death you could die.

[rbtlvr]

@intotheelliwoods made me feel things so i am returning the favor (goes with this comic, make sure you read that first)

read on ao3

warnings: super brief unreality, mention of family death

-

Sprout can’t sleep.

Again.

To be fair, that’s not exactly anything new – especially with the whole… apocalypse thing he hates thinking about. Having to be on guard all the time, ready for anything, just in case, kind of made it difficult to get a good night’s rest.

And even though he’s safe now (is he? Is he really? It doesn’t feel real. Maybe he is asleep and this is – a dream, a nightmare, he doesn’t know), old habits die hard. So. Can’t sleep.

He’s not sure why he does it, really. Maybe to see if there’s been any changes, considering he’s now technically in an entirely new timeline (or bifurcated time branch, as Donnie would say. Would’ve said). Maybe to see if he can even still access it. Maybe to find somewhere he can be alone, not have to see the faces of everyone he’s lost, not have to see his own face after what was, at that point, the worst day of his life. Whatever the reason, he sits up in bed, abandoning his failed attempts to at least get some rest. He crosses his legs. Closes his eyes.

Breathes in.

Then out.

He feels the shift, opens his eyes. Looks around, and –

The first thing he notices is that the white wall that represented the big guy’s place in the mindscape is gone.

The second thing he notices is that it’s been replaced with red.

His heart, only just having calmed down from the day he’s had, jolts into a panicked rhythm again in an instant. A thousand thoughts rush through his mind at once, too quickly for him to pin them down – why is that here why is the white gone does this mean little me is here too it has to it has to be him he’s going through what i did i can’t do this i can’t watch that i can’t go through it again i have to he must be so scared i have to help him –

Before he can process what he’s doing, his fist – the real one – is crashing into the wall, a crack forming beneath the impact. It hurts, but it’s – it’s progress, he realizes. If it’ll get him through to the mini-him, keep the kid safe from the nightmares that plagued Sprout before he made it here – he’ll keep on hitting this wall til his knuckles are bruised and bleeding if that’s what it takes.

And then, in the span of about two seconds, the crack shrinks and disappears. No fanfare, nothing left behind, not even a scratch on the wall. It’s as if Sprout never made a mark to begin with.

And.

That’s –

Something rises in his throat, something that’s been there waiting to claw its way out ever since his little brother – his last family member – ever since Mikey shattered into pieces. It’s raw and agonizing and full of a thousand different emotions he’s been forcing himself to compartmentalize and push down all day. He’s had to, so he can help the younger versions of his family (it hurts so much seeing them again, they’re right here but he’ll never get them back and all he can see when he looks at them is a reminder of what he’s lost), the younger version of him (that’s him that’s him he’s so small so scared sprout has to protect him has to save him but what if he gets it wrong? what if he can’t be the person he himself needed all those years ago? what if he can’t be –), so he can be there for them like the big guy was for him (he’s gone he’s really gone and yes he’s been gone but now the white is gone too, he can’t come back anyway sprout knows that he knows but even if he could there’s nowhere for him to come back to anymore). 

He can’t hold it back any longer. The feeling of utter helplessness is just the match that lit the fuse, and now the bomb is going off whether he likes it or not.

Sprout screams.

The sound tears itself from his mouth and he packs into it all the hurtragefearguiltlossgrief that it can hold, rearing back and slamming his fist into the wall again. Like something different will happen this time. Like something different will ever happen. He has to save the kid – he has to – but he can’t, he can’t save anyone – nothing he does is (has been, will be) enough and he screams again at the unfairness of it all.

Once more, the crack vanishes without a trace, and Sprout – 

Sprout has never felt more helpless, more alone than he does right now.

He can’t do anything. The mini-him is right there on the other side of this wall, terrified, traumatized, and Sprout wants nothing more than to hug him tight and promise it’ll be okay because he knows it will – never mind that it wasn’t okay for Sprout. That’s why he’s here – to make sure things go differently this time.

(… Can he even do that much?)

The fight drains out of him, and he’s left with an ocean of heartache and helplessness. There’s no life preserver here, no one who needs to lean on him, no one he needs to keep it together for, nothing to justify pushing everything down anymore. On the other hand – there’s no one to keep up appearances for, no one who will judge him for breaking down or ask questions he can’t bring himself to answer.

The decision is made for him in the end, the tears overflowing and pouring down his face despite his attempts to hold them back, and Sprout finally stops trying because what is the point?

And there, utterly alone, small and scared just like that child he desperately wants to protect, Sprout allows himself to grieve.

[symphonybracket]

YouTube links: Tchaikovsky 6, Mahler 1

Comments:

Mahler 1

cmon there's evil frere jacque in this symphony it's the best thing ever

The beginning is so beautiful… and very reminiscent of the Star Trek intro!

It's SO MUCH. The first two movements are gorgeous. Putting minor key "are you sleeping brother john" and then klezmer wedding music in the middle of it is the funniest thing anyone's ever done AND THEN CYMBAL CRASH an absolute deluge of sound and the most epic f***ing music ever (Wagner can go eat his socks). You have to love it.

Tchaikovsky 6

Everyone bangs on about the 4th movement but it's the 3rd movement that really hits

tchaik 6 is what i would listen to if i had an hour to live

the 5/4 movement of the tchaik lives rent free in my mind and i think about it every day

It’s beyond gorgeous. The melodies soar, the orchestra swells, and you just need to lie down for a while after listening to it. It’s Romanticism at its zenith. You want to weep and sigh, and it’s impossible to listen to it without literally feeling something.

Symphony No. 6, titled “Pathétique”, was Tchaikovsky’s final symphony. It is an intensely emotional piece, and to many scholars demonstrates the emotional turmoil that characterized much of Tchaikovsky’s life. He died about a week after its premiere, a fact which leads many scholars to debate about whether the content of the piece itself reflects the possibility that he may have committed suicide. The title itself is often translated to mean “impassioned suffering”, although this was most likely a later addition by Modest and not actually part of Tchaikovsky’s vision. Given these facts, many scholars interpret this piece to be about death and suffering. However, this piece can also be seen to represent life and all its contrasting moments. This interpretation is more holistic and inclusive of all of the moments captured in this piece, and also serves to break down the common narrative of Tchaikovsky as a tragic figure.

More comments about Tchaikovsky 6 below the cut (length warning):

Scholarship surrounding Tchaikovsky’s music tends to focus heavily on the ways his confliction over his homoerotic desires appears in his writing. However, his personal letters reveal a much more balanced understanding of himself that goes beyond the common narrative. In one letter written to Modest describing a new relationship with another man, he writes: “I awoke today with a feeling of unknown happiness and with a complete absence of that emotional sobriety that used to make me repent in the morning for having gone too far the day before.” Many of the letters he wrote regarding his relationships demonstrate no shame and no anguish beyond what can be expected of a man living in a homophobic society. It is important to take this information into account when listening to a piece such as this one that has been discussed so frequently, and to understand it beyond the turmoil and strife that it is seen to represent. Like many of Tchaikovsky’s works, this symphony displays a range of human emotions. It is not only representative of tragedy and “impassioned suffering”; it is a depiction of what it is like to live. It is also interesting to note that this piece is used as a signifier of queer desire in the novel "Maurice" by E.M. Forster, a novel also notable for its radical portrayal of a queer man who gets a happy ending. Much to think about there.

The first movement begins with a lone bassoon soloist playing a plaintive minor melody, which later comes back in the strings. As the movement progresses, it grows in intensity and texture. More instruments are added, and the music becomes more frantic, building and building towards the dramatic trumpet fanfare. Throughout this piece, Tchaikovsky continues to make significant use of contrasting dynamics and melodies, reflecting the emotions he hopes to convey through the music. Dramatic, tumultuous sections are interspersed with pastoral woodwind melodies, and the angry brass fanfares give way to a quiet ending.

The second movement is reminiscent of a waltz, and uses the strings and woodwinds more than the brass to achieve its floating melodies. The dynamics ebb and flow to build tension, but this movement never reaches the same levels of anguish that the previous movement does. Tchaikovsky makes use of pizzicato in the strings to convey a lighter, more cheerful mood, and features the upper woodwinds prominently. He also repeats themes frequently, giving the audience something familiar to listen out for as the movement progresses.

The third movement begins with frantic energy in the strings and woodwinds. As more instruments join the rush of music, the underlying eight note accompaniment does not let up, continuing the vivacious beginning through the whole movement. Instruments pass the melodies between each other and engage in conversations across the orchestra. Like the first movement, the brass play a prominent role in creating dramatic climaxes in the music, as well as supporting the march-like conclusion. Conductor Myung-Whun Chung describes the deceptively dramatic ending as, “one of the greatest, most thrilling, but most empty of victories in musical history,” observing that this movement has the energetic finality of a final movement. The reversal of having the true finale be a slower movement represents a shift away from the “Beethovian model of light over darkness” common in most other symphonies of this time period.

As mentioned before, ending on a movement with a slow tempo was a significant shift away from the standard of the time. This innovation inspired many other future composers to use the same technique, most notably Mahler in his Ninth Symphony. The quiet beginning builds up towards a chaotic rush of fast runs throughout the orchestra, only to stop abruptly and continue in halting, cautious bursts of melody. The movement continues with this cycle of rushing up to a climax and backing away as the movement progresses. Tchaikovsky highlights the horns in this movement, giving them both angry, blaring notes which cut through the string melodies and the flowing, lyrical lines that are passed throughout the orchestra. As the piece ends, the instruments fall away until all that is left are steady repeated notes in the basses, bringing this lament of a movement to an understated close.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Calendar Girl: May

Series Masterlist: Calendar Girl Joel Miller Masterlist Author: @wordywarriorwrites​ Summary: The story of how Joel Miller falls in love again, told over a series of months. Series Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Language. Violence. Discussions of rape and consent. Alcohol consumption. Age-gap.

May

At the beginning of April, Wesley had been untouchable.

Then, people had seen you. They’d seen him. Two-and-two had been put together.

The whispers started soon after. The words manipulative and violent and dangerous had been used, and the experiences other women shared behind closed doors with each other had been far too similar to be chalked up as mere coincidence.

The boys who’d once idolized him ignored him. The girls who’d once dreamt of kissing him crossed the street to avoid him. People no longer wanted to share a table, a drink, or work duties with him, and he’d been taken off patrol because nobody wanted someone like that to have access to a firearm.

You hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made any accusations, but you’d been brave enough to show your face, and that had exposed him for the monster he truly was. By the end of April, the whole town had picked a side, and on a sunny, unsuspecting Sunday afternoon at the beginning of May, Wesley had been found dead.

A group of witnesses attested they’d seen him leave the bar earlier that morning, and that he’d appeared inebriated. Those who’d been on duty at the barn stated he’d saddled a stud and taken off on his own. When the horse returned sans rider several hours later, hooves covered in blood, they surmised Wesley must’ve either fallen off or been thrown and trampled.

His body had been found in the middle of a wide-open crop field. Too close to town to have been an ambush, but too far away for anyone to have seen what actually happened. The leaders tasked to investigate knew Wesley had been ostracized, but they hadn’t been made aware of any threats. They also hadn’t found any obvious signs of foul play, and as such, an accidental death declaration had been made.

With no family to claim him, and nobody willing to speak up against the findings, Wesley had been buried in the back of the town’s cemetery the very same evening without marker, mourners, or fanfare.

But Joel had attended. From the first shovel of dirt to the last, he watched. Watched until the bastard had been put six feet underground. He would’ve have pissed on the fucker’s grave, but instead, he walked over to your place, where he found you seated on the back porch swing, bottle of whiskey in hand and a bonfire blazing.

Flames had started to devour the legs on a pair of blue jeans. A bloodstained shirt, pillow, and what appeared to be an old, broken baseball bat were also being swallowed up by the fire. You scooted over to make room for him, and Joel purposefully ignored the gun next your thigh and the blood splatter still visible on your cheeks and hands. Once he sat down beside you, you offered him the bottle, and he accepted it with a nod of thanks.

“Anyone stop by to talk to you?” he wondered.

You shook your head, “Nope.”

He put the swing in motion with his boot, “Good.”

Joel was a man who understood vengeance. He’d delivered a reckoning to the cultists who’d taken Ellie, had massacred the Fireflies and doctors who’d wanted to dissect her, and he hadn’t lost one minute of sleep over it. You’d gotten justice – pure and true – and a dark part of him wished he’d seen it. An even darker part of him wanted to revive the asshole and kill him for you with his bare hands.

“Oh, I forgot – Carl stopped by,” you announced abruptly. “But that was, you know, before…”

Joel hummed and handed the bottle back to you, “What’d he want?”

“To move back in.”

The swing groaned and the fire popped. You passed the bottle back. He drank deep. Joel’s mind churned over this bit of news. He had no claim – a kiss was still just a kiss and all that. He considered you a friend and still longed for something more, but you had history with Carl, and that meant something.  

“I caught him in bed with her,” you stated bluntly. “And I should’ve been pissed, but I wasn’t.”

Joel quirked a brow, “Really?”

“I know how it sounds. But we’d been fighting for a long time, and when we stopped having sex, he just assumed I was sleeping with you. So, he fucked her. A tit-for-tat, I guess.”

“But you and I – we didn’t do anything.”

You laughed bitterly. Got to your feet. Paced the length of the porch as you owned up to what you believed to be a multitude of sins. Apparently, Joel’s arrival had made things clearer and more difficult at the same time. You’d chosen to spend time with him over Carl. You’d stopped trying to make your relationship work because no matter how absent and checked-out you’d been, he hadn’t actually cared until he believed you’d let someone else stick their cock in you.

“For months, I laid in bed next to him and thought about you,” you self-berated. “I’d touch myself and imagine you. I betrayed him first. Don’t you see?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you stormed toward the door, and it whacked against the side of the house when you threw it open. It wobbled on its hinges as it banged shut, and even with his shit hearing, the sound of drawers and cabinets being yanked open and slammed closed was clear. Joel followed you inside, and watched you bend over the sink and splash water on your face and neck. Eventually, you smacked the faucet off, hung your head, and gripped the lip of the basin with both hands.

“I told you I was raped in the QZ.”

Joel swallowed hard, “Yes, I remember.”

“I never told Carl.”

“Why?”

You snagged a towel off the counter. Wiped your face. Tossed the cloth aside before you turned around and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Because he never once made me feel safe,” you explained, breath hitched and words clipped. “You do. And he would’ve never killed Wesley – let alone helped me to do it myself.”

Shoulders up to your ears and ponytail askew, you angrily swiped at the tears that spilled from your eyes, and shook your head as if to rid yourself of the feelings and memories that had been stirred up.

Chest tight, Joel stepped forward, and opened his arms to you. You let out a sob and buried your face against his chest. He had a million things he wanted to say, but it all went unsaid because he knew you’d probably heard it all before. Joel didn’t patronize or placate you – he simply rested his cheek on top of your head, held you tight, and encouraged you to get it all out. When you finally settled, he cupped your face in his hands, and met your watery gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded, “Yes, please.”

He leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours. Kissed you until he felt you relax and come back to him. Kissed you and hoped you understood there was nothing to be ashamed of – that no matter what, he was on your side. Kissed you until you clung to his shirt and surrendered to him with wanton sound that sent a shot of heat to his gut. 

You asked him to take you to bed, and Joel understood all to well what you were after. You wanted to escape – to silence your conscience and drown yourself in something else for a little while. He didn’t blame you – hell, he wanted the same, exact thing you wanted, but the fear, the guilt, and the pall of death and regret that seemed to cling to you both like a shroud? He didn’t want that, and he sure as hell didn’t want a moment that you’d both been longing for to be haunted and overshadowed by the horrors of the past.

Joel met your eyes, “You know I’m dyin’ to get you naked, right?”

“Yeah,” you replied through a garbled laugh. “You’ve made that real clear.”

“Well, I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but I’m gonna keep my hands to myself today.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not the right time,” he murmured. “And because you’re hurtin’. You understand what I’m tryin’ to say, sweetheart?”

Furrowed brow. Parted lips. You looked keen to argue, but when he grasped your hands and flattened them against his chest, you immediately stilled. Realization dawned, and he made sure you only saw acceptance and understanding in his gaze when he unflinchingly pressed the tips of your bloodstained fingers to his lips.

“I want you. Fuck, sweetheart, I want you so bad it hurts,” he reiterated as he brushed the tears from your cheeks. “But not like this.”

“Soon, though?” you croaked.

He dipped his chin, “Soon. I promise.”

Next Chapter: June

[madsworld15]

New Fic Alert: lifeline of a promise in a shot glass (Brian/Justin AU)

PART FOUR of MANY

Synopsis: What if Justin never met Brian when he was 17, and because of this, his father convinces him to go to Dartmouth and follow a business path? Years later, Justin is 25 and works alongside Ted, who was his mentor as he studied for his CPA the year before, and lives a life of limited socialization due to crippling grief and anxiety caused by the death of his close friend 3 years prior. What happens when Ted pushes him into interacting with the family?

Part 1 can be found HERE. Part 2 can be found HERE. Part 3 can be found HERE.

“What would you know?” Brian finally quirked his eyebrow and assessed Justin. 

“I’m not a virgin, you know,” Justin smirked. He took a sip of his coke and shoved a fry in his mouth before he continued. “I had a boyfriend for a year in college.”

“Oh wow. A boyfriend in college. So much experience,” Brian teased as he sipped his coffee and gave Justin a piercing look.

“What do you want?” Justin wasn’t ready to break down that topic with Brian, whom he barely knew.

“You left Babylon without saying goodbye, and you turned me down. Let’s just say I was intrigued.” Brian shrugged.

“So you followed me? Wow, you really are a stalker.” Justin raised his eyebrow and continued to eat his fries, not breaking their eye contact.

“I had a hunch you might come here.” Brian shrugged. “Plus, I happened to see you walk in this direction after you left.”

“So, you followed me,” Justin reiterated.

“Not like a stalker,” Brian intoned, “But yes.”

“Sure,” Justin chuckled and then broke their eye contact in favor of truly focusing on his fries. A moment later, Brian’s hand snaked across the table and stole one of the golden brown potatoes of goodness right off his plate.

After they sat there in silence for a little while longer, Justin bit his lip before addressing the older man once more. He knew he might end up regretting what he was about to say, but it had been a very, very long time since he’d shared his bed with someone. And the prospect of enjoying Brian’s expertise thrilled him in a way he thought had died along with Jason.

“Look, I don’t want to go home alone tonight. You are welcome to join me if that interests you.” Justin whispered, giving Brian a seductive look to further imply what he wanted.

“You make a strong case, kid.” Brian leaned back and returned Justin’s gaze with a sultry one of his own.

“No, there will be no more of that.” Justin cut in. “I’m not a kid.”

“Fine,” Brian shrugged and stood up. He threw a few bills on the table and then looked back at Justin. “Well?”

Justin scrambled to his feet and threw a bill of his own down on the table. The two men left the diner without much more fanfare. As they walked the couple of blocks to Justin’s apartment, his nerves skyrocketed, and he debated whether or not he should bail before letting Brian up. In the end, they reached the front door of Justin’s building, and he pushed his anxiety down, reminding himself that Brian was Ted’s friend, allowing the two to proceed as planned.

Once inside his apartment, Justin stood in the kitchen while Brian looked around. It didn’t take long for the older man to whistle, showing his admiration at the setup.

“This is much nicer than I imagined for a 25-year-old first-year accountant,” Brian muttered in awe. He turned to face Justin fully once more, watching for his response.

“My dad pays for it.” Justin shrugged, “He would disown me the minute he finds out I’m gay, but he’s proud of me for getting into Dartmouth and going into business like him. I hate that he pays me money, but putting it toward my apartment helps me sleep at night.”

“I know a thing or two about shitty fathers,” Brian responded, stepping closer to Justin. “Before mine died, he resented my existence until he needed some money.” 

Brian’s voice was soft and kind as he continued, “So, good on you for taking him for all he’s worth while you can.”

“It’s not like he’ll ever bother to drive back here to Pittsburgh now that his business moved to Philadelphia. He barely pays my mom enough in child support for my kid sister. Never mind, he hasn’t seen her since the divorce ten years ago.” Justin continued, not sure why he was opening up so much about his father.

“You’re better off without him. Sounds to me like he doesn’t do anything for you anyway.” Brian shrugged and gently cupped Justin’s cheek ever so briefly. “So why give him the benefit of knowing this part of you that is reserved for people who matter?”

“Exactly. He didn’t even come to the hospital when I almost died. In fact, my mom said he didn’t even seem to care when she finally called him to let him know I would be fine.”

Brian didn’t respond. Instead he studied Justin, taking in all the information being given. Justin broke the awkward silence by taking a few steps forward, directly into Brian’s personal space. Their lips connected, and all thoughts of fathers were forgotten.

Justin’s lips made contact with Brian’s, and he immediately wanted more. His hands moved of their own accord, tangling themselves in Brian’s hair and gripping at his back with an urgency he hadn’t felt in years. The beautiful thing was Brian’s body seemed to be reacting in a similar fashion. The man had one hand gripping the back of Justin’s head, fingers tangled in strands of hair, while the other hand left fingerprint impressions on Justin’s hip. 

Justin directed Brian toward his bedroom, not once stopping to pull their lips apart. They kissed and moaned with desire every step of the way. Once Brian’s legs made contact with the bed, they both fell onto it. Only then did they separate their lips. Not because they weren’t interested in kissing but because they both desperately needed to get their clothes off. Justin ripped his shirt off without much thought of whether or not it was still a functional shirt in his haste to make skin-on-skin contact with the older, brunette man. Once their shirts and pants had made it to the floor, Brian pulled Justin back against his mouth, and their kissing resumed.

This time, Justin found himself kissing more than Brian’s mouth. He moved all along Brian’s body, trying to kiss every inch of it, committing each angle and plane to his memory forever. The only thing between him, Brian, and the first sex he’d had in years was their briefs. Justin brought his mouth back up to Brian’s, and they continued to let their tongues do the dance of desire. Brian’s hand made its way down to the elastic of Justin’s briefs, and that’s when something in his brain clicked completely. 

Justin was assaulted with the memories of sex with Jason. And how he’d always made him feel safe and loved beyond all measure. With these memories also came the image of Jason’s face smiling down from a large frame while Justin and Jason’s family sat in the church and mourned him. Suddenly, Brian’s touch on him was like fire. Justin couldn’t stop his body’s reaction. 

He pulled away from Brian, sat up, and curled his head into his lap as the tears started to come down in rivulets. He couldn’t stop the shit storm that was brewing, despite never wanting anyone else to see him this broken. A sob wracked its way out of his body, and Justin knew there was no hiding what was happening from the man in the bed next to him. Justin refused to pull his head from where it rested on his drawn-up thighs. He figured if he didn’t acknowledge Brian’s presence, the man would freak out and leave on his own.

However, the opposite happened. Brian reached out a hand and placed it gently on Justin’s back, between his shoulder blades. The older man didn’t say anything. Just sat there with Justin as he cried uncontrollably for the man he once loved and lost. Oddly enough, Brian’s lack of a reaction and refusal to leave Justin alone in his misery helped calm his grief. 

They both sat like that, in nothing but underwear, one man sobbing while the other provided a quiet comfort. Because Brian didn’t demand answers or even Justin’s attention, he found himself able to truly work through his moment of grief instead of pushing it down as soon as possible like he always did. Not since the day he’d woken up to find Jason had died had Justin allowed himself to fully feel every heartbreaking emotion, especially not in the presence of someone else. 

After what felt like years but was really only half an hour, Justin felt the ache in his chest taper off, taking the tears with it. He uncurled his body and stretched his legs out in front of him. Even with the movement, Brian’s hand remained steadfast on his back. Justin met his gaze and cleared his throat.

“Um. Uh. Thanks.” Justin mumbled, somewhat embarrassed. He didn’t really know what he should say.

“Why?” Brian’s voice was quiet and vulnerable. As if he didn’t believe anyone would be grateful for the bare minimum effort he put forth.

“For staying.” Justin shrugged, “For not judging me.”

“Clearly, you needed to feel all that.” Brian shrugged as well, his hand finally dropping from Justin’s back but not moving his body any other way. 

The two men’s knees rested against each other once Justin pulled his back up, cross-legged. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.” Brian sighed, giving Justin an out. He wanted so badly to take it, but in his heart, he knew he owed Brian something.

“You came here expecting sex and ended up watching me have a full-on breakdown. I feel you deserve to know something.” Justin wiped at his eyes to fully rid them of any remaining tears.

Brian gently placed a hand on Justin’s bare thigh, “Oddly enough, this isn’t the weirdest sexual encounter I’ve ever had.”

Justin chuckled, “Do I want to know?”

“It involved an undertaker and dead body role-playing.” Brian shrugged with a wicked grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

Justin broke eye contact and shuddered at the thought. “No, this time we’re talking ghosts instead of dead bodies.” 

Brian didn’t respond, and when Justin looked toward him once more, he saw Brian just staring at him. The older man was trying his best to mask the concern in his eyes, but Justin saw it nevertheless. He hastened to reassure that it was all himself, not Brian.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just my brain being unable to let sleeping dogs lie.” Justin reached out his hand and cupped Brian’s face, “Oddly enough, you’re the first guy in years I’ve even made it this far with.”

Brian nodded, but nothing in his body language told Justin he’d been thoroughly convinced. So, the young blond leaned forward and connected their lips once more. At first, the kiss was gentle and chaste, but it soon heated up once more. Brian closed his eyes and surrendered to Justin’s touch, but before they could try physical intimacy again, the older man pulled away.

“We don’t have to do this,” Brian muttered, his gaze raking over Justin’s face as if trying to find an ounce of hesitation in him.

Justin closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Brian’s, “No, I want to. Rip the bandaid off.”

With that last statement, Brian pulled away from Justin completely. The older man stood up and started to put his clothes back on. Justin tried to hide the hurt he felt at Brian’s rejection, but the moment tears welled up, he knew he wasn’t succeeding.

“Look,” Brian sighed and then came back to the bed, sitting on the edge, twisted slightly to face Justin. “Sex should never feel like ‘ripping the bandaid off.’ I would never do that to someone.”

A silence fell between them as Justin breathed heavily, trying to hold back the tears. Then, Brian’s hand found his chin and pulled his gaze back up.

“When you are ready, you won’t even have to think about it.” 

And with that, Brian walked across his apartment, opened the door, and left Justin alone with his feelings. 

Once the dust had settled, Justin laid down on his bed and curled in on himself to continue crying. His heart ached for Jason and how much he’d missed out on. The surprising thing, so shocking that it hit him like a ton of bricks, was that his heart also ached for Brian. Initially, he had simply invited Brian over to his place so that he could, as he’d told him, rip the bandaid off. But, dammit, if something hadn’t shifted during their brief time together. Now, he needed Brian’s presence like he needed air.

It wasn’t a feeling he’d experienced since before Jason died. In fact, Justin had been so turned off by the desire to have someone else in his life that he’d started to wonder if the bashing had broken something inside him completely. He truly thought that his heart was no longer able to love or desire someone else. And then Brian came along. And try as he might to ignore the man over the last few days, Justin had found himself disappointed at the man leaving him, rejecting his offer for sex.

The next morning, Justin was awoken by a pounding on his door. He threw his pillow over his head once he saw that it was only 9:30 in the morning on a Sunday. However, the pounding continued to the point that he begrudgingly got up to answer it. Flinging the door open with visible annoyance, Justin found his sister, Molly, and Daphne standing on his doorstep.

“Oh, goodie. The cheer squad is here.” Justin groused but let them into his apartment.

“Well, you never called me back, and Molly here said you never called your mom either. We were worried.” Daphne responded, not picking up on Justin’s annoyance in the slightest. Or if she did, she ignored it.

“What happened here?” Molly looked around the apartment and motioned to a chair that was knocked over and the pile of books that had fallen off the shelf.

Justin bit the corner of his lip as he remembered the scramble to get Brian to his bed last night. This also brought up the memory that Brian had left him before things had developed. 

“Nothing. I was drunk last night when I got home.” Justin shrugged. Based on the look Daphne gave him, she didn’t believe him, but because Molly accepted it, she kept her mouth shut.

“We thought maybe we could take you out for breakfast this morning.” Daphne cut in.

“No thanks.” Justin immediately shot her down, “I’ve had more than enough human interaction this week.” 

As if to make a statement, Justin went over to his coffee machine and set it up to make himself a big cup of coffee. The delectable substance was almost done brewing when the buzzer for the lobby door sounded. Justin dived to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi. I have a delivery for Justin Taylor.” The voice on the other end sounded a bit harried.

Justin pressed the button to unlock the door and let the man in. He turned around to face his best friend and sister. Both of whom were standing there staring at him as if he were some alien lifeform.

“What?” Justin threw up his hands.

“What is that all about?” Molly gestured toward the door to indicate the delivery.

Justin shrugged as a knock sounded on his door, “Probably something I ordered and forgot about.”

When he opened the door, he found the man had a bag of food in his hand. Justin looked from the bag and back to the man in confusion. He’d just woken up, so there was no way he’d ordered food for himself.

He tipped the delivery guy and closed his door. Just as Justin reached his kitchen to unpack the bag and discover what food was waiting for him, he found the receipt. 

Under special instructions were the words: “Sorry about last night. I didn’t want you to end up regretting it in the morning. - BK”

Justin licked his lips and tried desperately to hide the smile inching onto his face. As it did, he remembered something Ted once said about his friend Brian.

The most annoying thing about him is he’ll fuck up, know he’s fucked up, and refuse to apologize.

“He apologized,” Justin muttered under his breath.

“Who apologized?” Daphne’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he looked up. He’d forgotten that his sister and best friend were in the apartment with him.

“Just some guy. It’s nothing.” Justin shook his head and stepped away from the counter. “Look, I appreciate you guys checking on me. I’m fine.”

“Justin, you really shouldn’t be closing yourself off from others.” Molly reached out and lovingly gripped his bicep.

“I’m not. That food over there? It’s from a guy I’m interested in.” Justin motioned toward the delivery bag, “See, I’m not alone.”

Daphne wanted to ask something more about the mystery man, Justin could see it in her eyes, but he didn’t have the bandwidth to explain things at the present. So, instead, he ushered his sister and best friend back toward his door.

“Let’s make a plan to go out sometime this week. Have drinks, dance, enjoy life.” Justin threw at them as he pushed them out his door and closed it.

Once they were gone, Justin took a deep breath. He needed to talk this through with someone, but he didn’t really know who that could be. Then Ted’s voice entered his brain once more, the same as before.

The most annoying thing about him is he’ll fuck up, know he’s fucked up, and refuse to apologize.

Justin pulled out his phone and called his friend, inviting him over for a relaxing Sunday chat.

Tagging my discord pals @winderlylandchime @maryp50 @lostcol so they can continue to keep up with this story.

[paullicino]

The Coronation isn't Funny

Taken from my Patreon, last week.

The Coronation isn't funny.

I can’t deal with it. I can’t deal with the swords and the orb and the special custom screen they’ll anoint the important man behind. I don’t know why this is happening and why anybody likes it. I am at least half a world away, but still I can’t escape this institution because I will have to pledge allegiance to the new King of England as the final part of my Canadian naturalisation. No other person is mentioned in this pledge I will take, not Canada’s people as a whole, or its elected officials, not even the Prime Minister or their office. No, only the monarch.

I have to. It’s not even optional, like the proffered pledge being suggested by broadcasters and organisers back in my country of origin (who are giving the British public the chance to recite their allegiance to King Charles III, his heirs and successors). I can, at least, remove some amount of dignity from this and speak this pledge to the King of England in French. It is, after all, one of the official languages of Canada.

If that seems ridiculous to you, consider then that I first debated writing this entire thing as a farce, filling it with parody and invention. I could invent rituals and objects and people and titles, mix them in with some of their very real equivalents, and it might all be passably funny or passably believable. However, I learned a lesson several years ago: I invented some quotes (as well as some politicians) that referred to Donald Trump for a piece that attempted to satirise double standards and the vacillation that happens when those in office take a hypothetical position they are well aware they may have to change, only to then have people repeatedly and sincerely ask me if what I had written was real.

Pre-election, it had already become difficult to satirise or exaggerate Trump, a man who boasted about assaulting women and mocked a reporter with a disability, among so many other things. His behaviour was so monstrous and melodramatic that it was hard to find much that was funny by building upon that.

Similarly, it has also become too difficult to satirise the coming Coronation, which will involve lords with swords, pieces of what are alleged to be Christ’s cross, a magic stone, the King riding around in a genuine golden carriage and an archbishop who will simply present the orb. It turns out there are a few objects that are given and then taken back. Presented and then put down again. There is a special oil with a special formula. There will be salvoes and salutes fired by guns in London and Edinburgh and Belfast and Cardiff and at sea. There will be multiple flypasts. And did you know there is a special glove? But just one. Just one glove, which is put on for a little bit, before then being taken off again. That part sounds like something from a Michael Jackson performance. Someone will play something called the Weiner Fanfare and I swear to God I am not joking.

Some objects will be borne and some will be presented, each by a different person. Some will have both a separate person assigned to carry them and to present them. The sceptre with a dove (of course there’s more than one sceptre), for example, is carried by one person but presented by another. I don’t know why. I don’t know why members of the clergy will have to turn in each compass direction and hear the assembled audiences there shout back at them.

All this will happen tomorrow, eight hours away from me, and I’m very glad I will sleep through it. Maybe I will wake up to England, Great Britain, or the United Kingdom, or the Commonwealth finally getting past some of the extraordinary bullshit it’s been on for a while now, with so many people and services and institutions and organisations that will bend and bow in deference to one person. Seven months ago, the death of the previous monarch brought out a host of bizarre and undignified reactions that included a black and white Funko Pop image of the late Queen, a weird £349 limited edition royal bear and a sombre tweet from London’s Shrek Experience.

And then at least a quarter of a million people decided to spend up to twenty-four hours waiting in a line that reached sixteen kilometres in length in order to get a short glimpse of the Queen’s coffin. If (and this is a big if), on average, those people had spent just eight hours each queuing, that is already two million hours of people’s time, or two hundred and twenty eight years.

And I wonder if less of that time could’ve been spent in deference to a single monarch and more of it on things that would have benefited the wider society that the late monarch wasn’t really part of, but is instead elevated far above. Much as there will be millions of pounds spent on the coronation of this new monarch, who is already themselves spectacularly rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, that could perhaps be spent on resources or infrastructure or even just dinner for people in a country that now has over six thousand food banks and “independent food aid providers” serving two and a half million visitors from households who can’t afford to eat, part of the fifth of the nation that lives in poverty. That fifth includes about four million children.

I might be a party pooper if I suggest that at least two hundred and twenty eight years of useful time was lost lining up to pass by a dead person who never knew or thought about most of those visitors. Or that the estimated hundred million spent on the coronation could fund so many more useful things, especially after so much time and money and energy was also spent on lavish Golden, Diamond and then Platinum Jubilees events in succession, each busted out like clockwork to confer even more status. But police in England have been threatening or even arresting people for things as simple as statements of objection or holding up blank pieces of paper, so perhaps I shouldn’t do that. The monarchy is an institution and a tradition and an icon and living history and it brings people together.

In worship.

Tomorrow’s coronation is not funny because it is an act of worship and deference toward those with inherited money and status. It is a celebration of privilege. It further endorses a centuries old system of rulership that has been minimised or discontinued in so many other places. It will again place one family above the rest of a nation, simply because of birth and succession, and consume an enormous amount of time, energy, money and resources as it does so. And I don’t dislike it just because it is a display of pomp and ceremony that descends into the borderline comic, or because it is boring, or because it takes attention away from so many systemic inequalities or overlooks so much royal advantage and special treatment. I dislike it because it is a state sanctioned act of validation and sycophancy in a country that cannot move forward, and it serves only to help England disappear even further up its own arse like a scatological Ouroboros.

In Tom Clancy’s 1987 novel Patriot Games, a team of terrorists attempt to kidnap Charles and his then wife, Diana. At the climax of the story, Charles joins the fight against them and Clancy has the man who was famously flummoxed by the act of signing documents talk about flying fighter jets and dryly utter the line “I am adept with light weapons.” In reality, Charles crash-landed his plane seven years after this book was written, as part of a flight crew found negligent in their duties.

I ignored a lot of things around the Queen’s funeral and I have ignored a lot of things around this coronation. But I don’t want to be silent. I want to be angry about the unfairness in the world and I feel like I keep having to write about the scale of poverty and inequality, particularly in England, because it is being constantly erased, especially by bullshit like this. And I think what will happen tomorrow will be gross.

[dearmahiru-archive]

Aaah your snow white post made me so happy, especially since most people just shit on the princesses without actually thinking about like, their circumstances, or actually going through their stories ;w; I think one of the main reasons most people dislike snow white is because she was woken up with a kiss in the movie, which is definitely not how it went in the original. The prince wanted to care for the coffin snow white was in and care for her, so the dwarves let him have her coffin. Then he asked his servants to come take the coffin, and while carrying it, one of the servants tripped and fell, dislodging the poisoned piece from snow white's throat. So it really was because of the prince's love, rather than his kiss, which really endears the original story to me. Ahhh sorry for rambling (⁠・⁠–⁠・⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

no no it's okay!! im always delighted to see snow white love she's my favorite ever!!

and i can see why modern audiences are disgusted with the non-consensual kiss but there's so much more narrative going on with the kiss than the prince kissing a corpse!

snow white is the direct manifestation of her mother's wish. hair black as ebony, lips red as blood, skin white as snow. after the death of her parents, it's these kinds of wishes and dreams that keep snow white happy when forced into a scullery maid.

snow white had everything taken from her and all she wants is a nice true love! not a handsome or charming or dashing one, just a nice person to sweep her off her feet. and not one moment after does a nice prince serenade her with a song!

and yes modern audiences can grind and groan about how anti-feminist it is for your lead heroine's main desire to be finding a prince but he hardly shows up in the story. it's snow white's tale, not his, and he's appropriately given little fanfare outside of his six minutes. you can replace him with a sexy lamp and, apart from the kiss, very little about the story would need to be rewritten.

speaking of the kiss—it's so important! as i mentioned in my previous post, the entire story is about love saving snow white, so ofcourse the queen scoffs at the idea of true love's kiss. knowing how hopelessly naive snow white is, the disguised queen offers the apple to snow white and tells her to "make a wish and take a bite."

and for all snow white knows the wishing apple does work because, once again, she wishes for her prince and who comes to rescue her? and how do you just not crack a smile at love's first kiss playing in the background?

and away to his castle you'll go to be happy forever we know

and i do think there's ways to cut the kiss out entirely without sacrificing any story but i can really see the vision the artists were going for. it feels so much more cinematic for the main heroine to be woken up from sleeping death by a kiss from her beloved than the apple simply falling out of her mouth. there's just something so lovely about the entire forest celebrating snow white's revival and her getting whisked off to her happily ever after, y'know?

[mundrakan]

⭐️

I've been dying to talk about this passage from Window of Opportunity:

TW (MCD)

'Come back to me. Come back.' The prayers go unheard almost to the point of resignation. But he comes back then. And again. High on joy and adrenaline, he is unable to sleep, their encounter almost violent in ways it wasn't while hatred seemed still the dominant emotion. He comes back devastated, after watching destruction of another home, death of another friend or compatriot. He comes back bleeding and in pain, his hands shaking so badly he cannot take of his own clothes. He comes back smiling, carrying a gift, whispering a quiet thank you into the dark of the night, after they are done. He never stays long, leaves after a night or a day, restless like the tide, but comes back, unseen, unheard. Severus doubts even Dumbledore is aware how often Black is around. It's his way of saying 'I want you', for he would never voice it. His way of showing he cares, for he would never tell. Severus wouldn't want to hear it either. The way they are doing it, no feathers get ruffled, old grudges lie untended, abandoned, for as long as it lasts. War leaves little time to sort those out and it may not be worth it either. Because any day... Black comes back in silence, leaning against the door frame heavily, as he tries to stay upright, waiting for Severus to open. He almost falls into his arms and then into the armchair, no time to transfigure it first. Severus' hands come back wet and sticky, when he tries to rid him of his jacket. He wants to leave, wants to get Poppy, wants to do anything but watch, but before he can, Black's blood-covered hand comes up and curls into his collar. His face pales under the strain to speak, and Severus would want nothing but to shut him up, make him rest, heal him. But he cannot. Black doesn't bow to reason. “Trai...tor...” he grits out, stabbing Severus' anger and hatred back alive. How can he call him that after all they are through? How can he still think that? But it's only a moment, a terrifying, a deeply guilty one. Because Black doesn't blame him, doesn't shove him away, but pulls him closer with what strength he has left. “...is...” He swallows, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Pe... p...p... peter...” Severus nods. He got it, he has understood, now just... It takes him far too long to realize, to fully grasp that Black isn't breathing, that his eyes stare lifelessly. So silent, the bastard, not even a noise of warning, before he went. Severus feels pressure building in his throat, his eyes burning, as he runs his knuckles over the stubbled jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the shadows below Black's eyes. He closes them then, carefully, finding Black's face at ease for the first time since he knows him... a very long time indeed.

From all the death scenes I ever wrote it's the one I am most proud of, because it's not bombastic, nor milking tears, it just... happens. One moment Sirius is there and the next he isn't.

I wrote it like that both to illustrate the suddenness of death, especially in war, and to show how most deaths don't take effect immediately. You cannot even grasp them right away.

As it does for Severus, it did take a long time for me to deal with loss. As he cannot understand what is going on right away, so neither could I. This part is very personal, especially because it's not outright violent, because it's silent and understates what is going on.

It's like that when a person goes. There is no fanfare, no great proclamation. That doesn't make the hole, the emptiness they leave behind any smaller, any more bearable.

It's one of my favourite passages I have ever written, mostly because it doesn't hit hard right away, but stayed with me for a long time and still does today.

You want Director's cut too? Go to my inbox and ask away :D

[mylyricpages]

‘ORPHANS & PRIESTS’

Summer night is hot, Gina tries to sleep swears somewhere a radio is playing City’s heartbeat throbs through the heat sleepless souls with nerves already fraying From the rooftops to the factories from the ship yards and the missions There’s bargains and rumours angels aflame with lies and unholy visions

Sirens sound out, red and blue electrifying the night like a lightning strike And just like shrouded angels moonlit clouds shimmer bright in the sky In backstreets and alleyways the scene’s alive with night time whispers Hot heads with switchblades playing to the senoritas and sweet soul sisters

Down at the circus by the shore the rock and roll martyrs they still play with guitars slung low in ragged majesty, the undisputed lords of the bay staring down the night like John the Baptist with a fanfare for a last farewell rock and rock guardians making a grand last stand just for a story to tell

On the street corners the Romeos and the princes they strut and they preen They’re putting on a show, throwing out graffiti talk with a grin and a gleam And the heathens, they cross over the border, wide boys with broken trust Expectant eyes in nearby windows ready waiting for the night to combust

At the ocean the kings of the boardwalk gather, stripped down to the waist Holding court down at the pier summer slipping by with indecent haste Out on the strip hotrods and speedway tramps are revving up a quiet storm Well, it’s ride or die tonight, been facing death since the day they were born

And some are talking faith while others simply talk about fate You’re either the orphans or the priests and some of us arrive just a little too late And this town will give you a shot at the big time while it tries to break you You’re either the winners or the losers and some of us never get to make our name

Some of us, some of us just get to ride away into the night

ride away, ride away into the night

( James Ellis/ August 2024 )

[ithisatanytime]

Spiderman Opening Theme (High Quality)

in those short couple of decades the so called nuclear age, radioactivity was set to explain everything! roughly half of the jewish comic book heros becoming popular at the time owed their powers to this new mysterious force, radioactive spiders, gamma rays, beta rays, mr fantastic, the sun and the moon and the stars. we were on the brink of a nuclear age! of nuclear weapons unlike the world had ever seen before and a new exciting form of power, NUCLEAR POWER. so you use some specially prepared plutonium or uranium or some radioactive isotope and you put it in a pool of water and that generates steam which turns a turbine and then you got power baby and clean too! nuclear waste is NOTHING compared to coal waste and there are far fewer greenhouse emissions as its generating power from steam not burning carbon, so why havent we adopted nuclear power wholesale? why do we instead choose to dig metric fucktons of coal out of the earth and burn it when we could get the same for a fraction of the labor, and a fraction of the cost with almost NO greenhouse gas emissions? why isnt greta thunberg screaming from the roof tops about this? its not chernoble or the three mile island incident i mean we still HAVE nuclear power plants all over but just not nearly as many as we have coal burning power plants, and do you know why? because it fucking SUCKS! thats why, its horribly inefficient way to produce steam let alone power, and the powers that be know it and they are as reliant as the power grid as we are so they fucking dropped it, told some horror stories and dropped it dont think about it too much. you see i could get the average man getting bored of the nuclear hype, but not industry, they would quietly make them anyway without giving a shit if the average man was entertained and sleep on piles of fucking cash, but its shit, everything nuclear was exaggerated. many of these exaggerations i know if they had the ability they would go back and undo, and again parallels to the holocaust mythos where early on before the official narrative was cemented long after the supposed events took place some time in the mid fifties, before then there were all kinds of messy competing theories all about equally popular as far as hitlers favorite method of killing jews was, electrified floors was popular as was throwing them alive screaming into burning pits as eli wiesel relates in his supposed first hand account of the deathcamps, his book being the second most popular autobiographical account (its night btw) behind the diary of anne frank, neither book mentions ANYONE being gassed to death, and WEASELs account of people being thrown alive into the pits was challenged by fellow jews when they finally settled on gassing, but besides the big details were all those little details that made for excellent horror propaganda such as human lampshades and soap and babies sewn into soccer balls and men masturbated to death with machines and many other lies that were once accepted as factual but the jews would rather be left forgotten, i get that same sense when i think about the nuclear winter, the shadows permenantly etched into the concrete, the blinding flash, the thousand year uninhabitable zone due to fallout and all this shit some of which theyve already had to backpedal on considerably namely the nuclear winter and fallout stuff they have publicly recanted more or less to very little fanfare 

oh and ill go more into space later but i just want to briefly mention that growing up i was told that venus was not just uninhabitable but unexplorable, due not just to extremely high temperatures but due to its literal either hydrocholoric but more likely sulphuric acid atmosphere, come to find out russia during the space race, was sending ALL their shit to venus, and the only known images from venuses service come from several russian missions to venus... WHY? the narrative is america had set its sites on mars because they thought it might be habitable someday, and it makes sense, seeing as how its not coated by a thick atmosphere of fucking eight hundred degree sulfuric acid, what were they hoping to accomplish and it cant be a propaganda moral victory or else they would not have kept their achievement a secret. let me make it clear i was learning this information from someone much more knowledgeable about the topic than me as i never gave a shit about space it always seemed gay to me, but i would try because i considered myself a science nerd you know, but this guy believes in all of it, everything nasa says probably wants to work for them some day, point is this was not a conspiracy channel or video just someone relating the cool declassified images from “venus”. and he was conveying that these missions greatly challenged preconceived notions about the planet itself, and thats really what im getting at with this shit.  as a species we seemed to be advancing slowly at first but then we started accellerating and faster and faster, fire copper bronze iron steel steam electricity automobile, and then manned flight, the first manned controlled flight with a biplane, then just fifty years later, jets helicopters and most amazingly of all, space flight, we finally left our planet, and in the same way that fire revolutionized the life of the common man, and so to did jet engines revolutionize life for the common man in its commercial applications imagine how much more radically manned space flights to other celestial bodies will have changed life for the common man! except beyond what technology is supposedly only possible with the use of satellites in outer space, it hasnt really effected shit. there is as much time passed between now and the so called moon landing as there was time between the wright brothers first manned flight with their paper mache looking trash to the supposed first manned flight to the moon, do you see what im getting at? the same for the so called nuclear age, everyone and i mean EVERYONE has the sense that we have been moving backwards since about the time all these wild and revolutionary things were invented, things that seemed like magic, and then its like they were forgotten. i understand that we couldnt remain in a space craze or nuclear craze forever but even if the public moves on industery doesnt, and if a tool has a practical use than it will be adopted for its practicallity not its popularity but its as though knowledge of space exploration tech and nuclear tech were forgotten, for as much good as they do the common man. the craze is the invention, the actual invention a fabrication.

how has it been so long since anyone was even afraid of nuclear war the way they were during the cuban missile crisis, and how could such an incident happen when M.A.D. which is the sole reason that for ONE HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS no other country has used the nuke besides the first and last time on japan. i know the premise of the crisis but its a shakey premise because while cuba had missiles in striking distance of the US we had missiles in striking distance to them and our allies had missiles pointed at their allies over sees so you know... mutually assured destruction? i dont think they could MAKE americans actually afraid of nuclear war at this point and they dont even try hard, i know they try but they wont commit because even they can tell its just poinless. if nukes were at all real, btw, that would literally be all anyone was talking about twenty four seven 365, because we are currently on the “verge of world war three” but in reality no one is sweating it because deep down you just kind of know dont you and im already over explaining.