#no grave / golden eye au

[whisperthelocalcrypticbastard]

Golden Eye Sam

him <3

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 13)

first chapter >> last chapter

-

You could just tell him. 

You consider it at least once a day, particularly in the mornings when John sits up on his side of the bed and hesitates briefly before rising to his feet and going downstairs to start breakfast. You can feel the way he wants to lean over and touch you, and the way he holds himself back. The way he pulls his hand back at the last second from where it hovers over your prone body.

He leaves you in bed with an ache in your stomach so deep that you swear it’ll swallow you whole. But you have no choice but to sigh and sit up as he shuffles around downstairs, the morning well on its way in. There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The atmosphere in the house is tense. You walk on eggshells around each other, unsure of how to bridge the divide. The eggs jump in the pan and brown at the edges, and outside the feather reed sways in the breeze. You’re weary of each other and yet hardly capable of being apart.

Maybe that’s just on your end. 

You’ve taken to watching him from afar in recent days. In the absence of his physical touch, which comes sparingly now, his hands always curled into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching out and touching you, you’ve resorted to the only thing left to you: the visual realm. That’s what you glut yourself on now, and while it doesn’t fill the hole in you, it soothes the ache. 

You watch him with the horses in the paddock, always confident and sure-footed with them. Suspenders straining against the muscle of his back and his shoulders, sweat running in rivulets down his back, the sun golden on his face. At dinner, he collapses into his chair, exhaustion written into every corner of his being, and you drag your eyes over the jut of his stomach, the layer of fat over his muscled core. Hairy forearms braced against the table while he eats (no manners, that one). 

Any thought of bolting in the night now seems unwise. Your previous aspirations of freedom seem foolhardy in the light of day. You give it some consideration. Say you had succeeded in escaping—now where would you be? Alone wandering the mountains, parched and starving? Drinking from the ravine? Eating poisonous berries and hawthorn leaves in desperation to have something in your belly? Or hogtied in some bandit’s tent, enduring a fate worse than starvation or death? 

You shudder to think of it. 

In the days since John brought you home, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Graves, nor anyone else in pursuit of a woman from back east. No bounty hunters, no officers of the law, no rogue agents. It’s as if they came, found nothing, and simply wandered on through.

You should’ve just waited them out. It’s clear now, what you should’ve done, but who can argue with the past? You’re sick of telling yourself that there might’ve been another way. It doesn’t change the way things are now. 

There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The routine is the same. You head into town every morning and try to say as few words to each other as possible. You glance at each other when the other isn’t looking. The glances grow longer with the days, the stubborn sun refusing to set until well into the evening hours, and your own eyes refusing to part from his form. When you catch him watching you in turn, his eyes are always heady, filled with something like longing.

Outside, the sky is cornflower blue; clouds bulge and drift away. 

Life returns to some degree of normalcy, despite the sense of something unresolved hovering in the air. John’s deputies come over again for supper, and with them they bring better table manners this time. At least Soap doesn’t belch at the dinner table and Kyle leaves his hat at the door. Simon is taciturn as always, but that comes now as a comfort.

The men play cards in the living room until even the fireflies go to sleep, until the night is a thin paste spread over the world, the sharp edge of the knife scraping over the craggy limestone peaks and ridges and spreading it evenly. You go to bed alone, the bedroom door cracked open enough to see the flicker of lamplight against the wall, their shadows weaving in and out of it. 

He must come to bed at some point because his side of the bed is warm when you wake up the next morning. You put your hand there to soak up his warmth until you can’t excuse lying in bed any longer. Breakfast is, again, quiet, but you feel the compulsion to break the silence bubbling up in your chest. You think if he stares at you even a moment longer, you’ll have no choice but to belt it out. 

The brittle morning is interrupted by the arrival of one of John’s deputies. When Simon rips open the door and barges into the house, you nearly scream, watching with wide eyes as he charges towards the back, looking for John. You flit over to the window to watch him go. He finds John out back mucking the stalls in the stable and there’s a brief moment of intense conversation before you watch as John throws the pitchfork against the wall and hurriedly shuts the stables up, following Simon back towards the house. 

It’s a flurry of motion after that, John throwing on his clothes haphazardly, not even bothering to properly button up his shirt. You unconsciously follow him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“John?” you ask, uncertainly. 

He doesn’t answer you right away. The tension creeps up the length of your back the longer he goes without responding, his mouth set in a flat line. 

“John?” you repeat, more force behind your words this time. “What’s wrong?” 

“Passenger train up east is about to be robbed,” John finally grunts out in reply, checking his rifle to see if it’s loaded. “Simon got word.”

“How’d he know before it even happened?” you ask, stuck on conversation because you unconsciously want to delay the inevitable. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, images of gunfire and bloodbaths searing the backs of your eyelids. 

“Informant. He’s got ‘em all over the county.”

Not once does he slow down or pause to take a breath. You follow him back downstairs and through the house, watching anxiously as he loads his gun and tightens the belt of bullets around his waist. He plucks his hat from where it sits hung up beside the door and then exits out of the house, you trailing along helplessly behind him. The porch creaks ominously under his feet as he makes his way down the stairs towards the horses, where Simon already has John’s other horse saddled up and ready to go.

“When will you—” You can’t finish it. It hangs uselessly in your mouth. He doesn’t answer you. 

You follow him to the horses but stumble to a halt when he reaches them first, taking over from Simon and fixing the straps in place. Simon gives you a curt nod when your eyes meet before turning to his horse and heaving himself up onto it briskly, obviously in a rush to get going. 

John turns to you when the straps are fixed in place and he has one foot in the stirrups, brows furrowed deep enough to accentuate all the lines in his forehead. He gestures warningly at you with a finger. “You stay here, you hear me?”

Your brows furrow, affronted at the command. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fancy havin’ to chase after you for a second time, but I will if you try anything funny while I’m gone.”

“Well, you just see here now—”

“You heard me, darlin’—”

“Price,” Simon growls, cutting him off, and it takes you by surprise to see his usual phlegmatic disposition traded in for something choleric. He’s never been one to talk back or act insubordinately, more of a guard dog than a deputy sometimes. His mouth is set in a hard line though, betraying the tension coiled in his bones. 

John nods and hauls himself up onto his horse.

“You be good while I’m gone,” John says, casting you one last parting glance.

You screw your lips into a scowl. “Don’t you dare die out there.”

That somehow gets a laugh out of him, as jagged as it is. It makes your stomach twist, the goodbye stagnant on your lips. You refuse to say it.

John’s horse whinnies when he pulls on the reins. He gives a sharp whistle, jolting it into motion, and you watch as he circles around and follows Simon down the path, their horses kicking up dust behind them. 

You stand there until their horses disappear over the horizon. Then you linger a little longer.

It dawns on you that John hadn’t said goodbye either. That has to count for something.

Still, you dwell on it over the next hour, hardly able to keep your breakfast down. Any lingering frustration melts away into dread the longer you think about John confronting a train full of armed robbers, his deputies accompanying him or not. The shotguns loaded and strapped to their backs told you enough about what they expected to encounter. The thought makes you shudder.

You try to distract yourself with chores, but that hardly helps. All you can think about when scrubbing the floors is whether someone will have to do the same on the train. You know how hard it is to clean up blood.  

Kate comes over later that morning while you’re still pinning the bed sheets and linens to the clothesline. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt elicits your attention first, and when you look down the dirt path leading into town, you see her riding towards you on horseback. A dapple grey gelding, bigger than Buttercup but leaner than the horse that John had chased you down on.

“Morning!” she shouts, still far enough away for it to be necessary. Your hand goes up slowly in a wave, half-shielding your eyes from the sun.

She comes up the path quickly, dismounting before her horse has even come to a standstill. It speaks to an element of comfort on a horse that you haven't acquired yet. Jealousy licks a hot tongue up your innards. 

“Morning,” you greet tentatively. “Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you, but don’t you have a store to run?”

Kate shrugs her shoulders, sauntering up the walkway. “Folks chip in when they have to—I’ve got plenty of people in town willing to watch the shop for me. Besides, what’s the point of owning a business if you can’t take a day off every now and then?”

You frown, looking at Kate a bit suspiciously. “Did he tell you to come babysit me?” 

You don’t specify who, but it’s obvious enough.

Her lips flatten. “I offered.”

All that does is stoke the flames of your ire. “They seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t think John would have time to stop by and ask you to watch his wayward wife.” 

“John didn’t do anything. Simon mentioned that he was coming here to get your man.”

“My man,” you mumble a bit sardonically. Still, her words make you let go of some of your anger. “So he didn’t ask you to come?”

Kate shakes her head, lips finally curling up into a half-grin. “No, ma’am. Thought I’d just get Miles to mind the shop and come give you some company.”

Your frown keeps getting deeper. “Don’t ma’am me, Kate. And I don’t need your company if you’ve just come to make fun of me.”

“Hand to heart—I came only to make sure you were alright.” Her smile grows directly inverse to your frown. “Give me a minute to put the horses in the paddock and I’ll be right back.”

You could almost kiss her for that though. You’d been dreading the thought of having to bring Buttercup out into the paddock on your own, but the thought of leaving her in the stables all day had also felt immeasurably cruel. Since getting lost with her in the mountains, you haven’t felt confident enough to be around her on your own. At least Kate’s presence takes some of that stress away. 

Not all of it though. Stress eats away at you as the day goes on. You can’t seem to go long without returning to the thought of John being shot or stabbed by one of the bandits on the train. Your mind keeps turning to the image of him lying lifeless on the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his chest, eyes glazed over and far away. 

You chew on your nails until they tear. Kate smacks your hands when she notices.

It’s well past dark by the time John comes home. You notice his arrival first as a flicker of light when you happen to glance out the window. You’d long ago pulled up a chair to settle down beside the window and wait, Kate in a chair on the other side of the room near the oil lamp, flicking through her book, and with the waiting had come a knot in your chest tighter than a fist. A cancerous lump metastasising in your belly, spreading out into every corner of you. 

And then someone riding up the path towards the house holds up a lamp that swings with the rhythm of their approach. Your heart all but stops in your chest, fingers halting in the middle of knitting. It beats a furious frenzy now, alert again, alive in your chest. The needles clatter to the floor when you rise to your feet, dashing over to the door to swing it wide open.

“I suppose he’s—” Kate says, but you don’t hear the rest, already gathering up your skirt to hustle down the porch steps and meet him halfway, heart lodged in your throat. 

When he notices you hurrying out the door and down the path towards him, John brings his horse to a standstill. 

Shadows engulf his form until you get close enough for the lamplight to slash across John’s face, illuminating the deep, sunken troughs under his eyes. He looks exhausted. The top button of his shirt is missing, perhaps ripped out in whatever altercation he’d gone to stop. Your eyes flit over him, looking for any sign of blood or injury, and you find it along the grooves of his knuckles, the skin there torn and bloodied. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his hands in gauze before coming home. 

John smiles down at you. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

That’s almost enough to make you sway on your feet, lightheaded. You hadn’t realized the toll his sudden absence had taken on you, or the worry that’d been festering in your belly, but as it drains out of you, it almost brings you to your knees. 

“Are you well?” you ask, throat tight. 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he shifts his weight and swings his leg over his horse to dismount, eyes on you the whole time. You can hardly pull your eyes off him, not even for a second. His horse, well-trained enough to not wander off without its rider astride it, huffs out a breath but otherwise remains in place while John walks towards you. 

Your heart jumps in your chest when he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and drops a firm kiss to the center of your forehead, the heat of his kiss suffusing through you. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck lift. Your arms erupt in gooseflesh.

“Never better,” he says when he pulls back. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead when he speaks. It makes everything from your collarbone up go hot.

You hear the door open again. “Hi John,” Kate calls from the door.

“Hi Laswell,” John calls back to her, but his eyes never leave yours.

A heavy silence pregnant with meaning passes. You’re not sure what to read into it, but reading’s never been your strong suit. 

“I’ll see myself out then,” Kate says. “Leave you two lovebirds to it.” Her words make you bristle, but even that isn’t enough to pull your eyes off your husband. 

“Don’t look so put out—Soap’s just down the path waiting to take you home,” John scoffs. Sure enough, when you peek around him, you notice the slight flicker of light that burns at about the height of a man sitting astride a horse.

Kate rolls her eyes. “So chivalry’s not dead. Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

You don’t hear her go around the side of the house, but she must because she comes back a few minutes later with her horse, lead in hand. Her goodbye goes unnoticed by you or John, barely audible over the sound of the crickets in the bushes. You come back to yourself only when her horse takes off down the path towards Soap, and by then your voice is too faint, the words evaporating off your tongue. 

The moment finally bursts when John shifts his weight and winces. You frown. “You’re hurt.”

He huffs. “Just a sore rib. Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes flick down to his bloodied knuckles. “Your hands need tending to anyway. We should get inside.”

John nods. “I’ll put Chiron away and then come in.”

“Chiron?”

“This boy here.” His horse chuffs when John pats his neck lightly, smoothing a hand down the length. It slots into your mind—another piece of this place assimilated into your being. Another name you’ll never be able to shake. 

You hurry back inside while he takes Chiron around the side of the house towards the stables, the lamp still swinging from his hand. It’s how you track him from the window. It’s too late now for them, but you remember staring off into the distance earlier, watching the fireflies flicker in and out of view, gold will-o-wisps hovering over the fields. Now it’s quiet, and nothing outside moves. Even the moon hides behind dark clouds. 

You wait by the window until you see John come out of the stables, headed back towards the house. Only then do you exhale. 

He sits at a chair in the living room and spreads his legs, forcing you to step between them to get close enough to treat him. You bandage his torn knuckles under the light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room. John doesn’t so much as flinch when you clean them, gently inspecting the wounds to remove any debris that might’ve gotten in. He’s a good patient; hardly makes a sound as you wrap the gauze around his knuckles. 

“Do you want me to call the doctor in the morning?” you ask, then start a bit at the sound of your own voice, inexplicably loud in the relative silence of the room. 

John shakes his head. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t anything too serious.”

You frown. “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk it getting infected—”

He turns his hands over in your loose hold, curling his fingers around yours. You blink at the stark contrast between his and your hands. His fingers are thicker than yours, swollen at the joints, and the skin of his palms is calloused, rough to the touch. You’ve felt them over every part of you—loose at your waist, gripping the nape of your neck, prying your thighs apart. Holding your hand. Sunk deep into your quim. 

You can recall the feel of his touch from memory now. 

“It’s not that bad, darlin’,” he rasps, dragging his thumb back and forth over your fingers. “Y’did a good job fixin’ me up. You’re a good little nurse.”

“I’m no substitute for proper medical care,” you snip, still frowning. 

“Ah, if I die, I die.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, abruptly incensed, and the joking twist of his lips unfurls at that, the creases around his eyes smoothing out. He looks at you like there’s something new writ large on your face.

There’s a tremble in your lower lip and a tremor in your hands that you hadn’t noticed until now. Once you notice it, it’s impossible to shake; your lip wobbles when you have to pinch back your tears. A stubborn one nearly leaks out until you sniff and blink it away. 

“Now where’s this all coming from?” John asks, voice pitched low and intimate, just for the two of you. 

His voice laps over your bones like bourbon on the rocks, glistening amber in the setting sun. Except it’s dark now and there’s not a drink in the world that could dilute the emotions welling up in you. You’d be a blubbery drunk anyway; you’ve always been something of a sad sack. 

“I thought you might come back hurt,” you whisper. “And you did.” 

His thumb strokes over your unblemished knuckles and he lifts your hands to his mouth to kiss the very same spot he just brushed. “I’m sorry to make you worry, darlin’. I meant nothing by my words. We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

The bur of his beard tickles the back of your hand. His acquiescence brings some of your candor back. “Well, only if you want to.”

“Don’t get smart with me, wife—”

He stops short when you giggle, his eyes widening infinitesimally. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s not something you can help though. The joy spills up from you unbidden. 

John sighs. “We’ve been making a right mess of things, haven’t we?”

You go to say something, but all that comes out is a soft hum of agreement. 

It’s in front of you again. An opportunity to tell him everything, to make things right. To land in the soft sediment of truth and come out unscathed and better for it. All you need do is open your mouth and say it; say that there was a man back east that tried something untoward and you did what you had to in order to protect yourself. You think on some level John would understand that. 

Again you open your mouth. Again nothing comes out.

There’s love and then there’s thinness, words preserved in amber. He takes your whole world in his hands and you want to say, is it safe here? Can I call this a home?

There's love and then there's a heaving mass of recollection. It is an ancient thought: to love and be loved in verity, in one's own sphere of understanding. You don’t yet know if that’s possible for you, but you’re starting to think that maybe here is something close to that. Something gentle like wildflowers springing up from beside train tracks, the sprawling emptiness of the plains on either side. 

Still, it is not enough to make you tell the truth. Maybe now the consequences are different. You think less of a jail cell and more of being deprived of this man that holds your hands tenderly and looks up at you with such clear affection. 

If love has a way of speaking, it is marbles in the mouth; it masticates its own words. It chokes them back out of fear, out of longing to keep things right. 

So instead, you ask, “Can we just put it behind us and move on?”

John lifts a hand and slides it around the back of your neck, drawing you in for a kiss that makes your heart melt in your chest, caramel-rich. You moan into his mouth when his tongue traces over your lips, hands dropping to sink into the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to you.

When he pulls back, the folds around his eyes are crinkled, lips pulled up into a fond smile. “Already forgotten.” 

You exhale. This is reconciliation. It comes home limping and bruised, but it comes home to you. 

[beansprean]

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And they lived happily ever after? LOL

Izzyguana AU part 5! (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Aerial shot of the hill where Izzy's grave is marked, a hill sweeping steeply downward behind it toward a small bay where the ocean laps hungrily at the shore. It is dark and raining hard in thin diagonal strikes. 1b. Close up of Izzy's grave marker from below as it is pelted by rain. Behind, thick clouds roll past, rumbling with distant thunder. 1c. Repeat. A loud clap of thunder hits just as a flash of lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating a gloved hand that suddenly punches, palm up, out of the dirt.

2a. series of POV panels on a dark background, showing the ramshackle porch of Stede and Ed's home. The wooden slat door is closed, but there is a gap in the wood above the doorknob where golden light is shining through, juxtaposing the cold blues and purples of the storm outside. There is a shuffling sound of uneven footsteps. 2b. Repeat, closer to the door now, the panel tilted as if the POV is tipping back and forth as it climbs the stairs. The footsteps are louder. 2c. Repeat, closer, now past the stairs, footsteps louder still. 2d. Repeat. Closer. A final thump. The shadow of a head and shoulders falls across the door. 2e. Repeat. The door creaks open, letting out a burst of warm light. 2f. Repeat. The door opens fully, blinding the panel with light.

3a. Inside the house, lit up in warm candlelight, there is a ramshackle wooden table holding a pair of oranges, a bottle of rum, and a pair of silver coins on the close end. On the far end, a lumpy, unfrosted cake on a plate with a single lit candle in the center. At the head of the table in front of the cake sits the iguana in a handmade high chair, a party hat of wrapped palm leaves strapped to its head. Stede and Ed are standing at the table on either side of it with matching party hats. All three look towards the viewer as the door is opened. Ed, wearing a purple tee and green lavalava, has a cup in his right hand and his left hand is frozen mid-cheer. He stares at the newcomer with his jaw dropped and eyes wide with shock. Stede, wearing his teal blouse and brown leather pants, is similarly frozen, leaning into the table on his left hand and holding up a cup in his right as he stares toward the door. A handmade banner stretched behind them reads 'Happy Rebirthday Izzy'. 3b. Reverse shot, chest up of the real human Izzy standing at the door, arm extended to hold it open. He is covered in mud and soaked by the rain, hair falling down into his eyes, and is wearing the cream shirt he died in, now made loose and transparent by the rain but still bearing a faint bloodstain on the chest. Izzy stares forward at the scene in abject horror and confusion, lip curled back from his teeth. 3c. Repeat of 3a, this time with human Izzy and the head of the table. Another candle has been added to the cake, the banner has been changed to read 'Happy Rebirthday Izzys', and a third orange has appeared on the table. The iguana side-eyes Izzy, hissing suspiciously. Stede has resumed his cheer, raising his cup with his right hand and reaching around the iguana's chair to place his left on human Izzy's shoulder. Ed is laughing happily, leaning his forehead into human Izzy's temple and cupping his head with his left hand. Izzy sits frozen and frowning in shock and bewilderment, eye twitching, Ed's party hat now on his head. Izzy thinks to himself, "...Is it too late to crawl back into my grave?" /end ID

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Fem!Reader, Mentor!Price, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH II ·

➤ THE GAMES

When you wake, your cheek is still pressed to Konig’s chest. Your lips have settled in a dot of your own drool that stains a spot on his shirt a shade darker. Your head raises to face the knock on the door, and Konig’s head follows in suit. You’re not sure if he was already awake or not, but your eyes meet, both of you already dawning that unsure stare.

You know what this knock means.

This is your call to death.

You take a dry swallow, body already shaking with fear.

You and Konig give each other one last squeeze before you pull away to roll out of bed to answer the door.

It’s Price, wearing a matching solemn expression, his brow creased in sympathy at your face drained of color and jaw that trembles.

He nods at you, and wordlessly embraces you, your face buried in his chest as his arms wrap around your shoulders.

“You’ll be alright, Pluck,” He whispers, giving you a squeeze before he pulls away. He looks over your shoulder and sees Konig, slouching off the edge of your bed, staring at the floor.

Price refrains from giving you that knowing, smug grin. He nods again, licks his lips, and the three of you still, staring off into nothing. Mourning in your last few moments.

At breakfast, Ruby has the sense to ease on the chatter, the four of you eating in a grave silence.

Neither you or Konig have much of an appetite. In fact, every bite you force down threatens to make a reappearance, but you have to. You have to eat and drink as much as you can hold because if you can survive the day, you will soon be starving.

No words are exchanged.

Wordlessly you and Konig are chaperoned down to the ground floor, led by Capitol guards to the hovercraft launch pad.

You are strapped into your seat, where you are given a tracker, implanted deep into your inner forearm with a thick, hollow needle. You don’t hold back your wince as it’s driven into your flesh.

There’s a lump in your throat that won’t go away. As you gnaw at your painted nails, your hand jitters in front of your face. You wonder if forcing down breakfast was a bad idea, because it’s swirling around your insides, stomach churning as you sit with nothing to distract yourself. In a futile attempt to soothe yourself, your thumb rubs over the smooth, golden front of Konig’s token.

When the hovercraft’s windows go black, you can’t help the sharp inhale you draw in.

You can’t bear to look at Konig as you’re separated in the catacombs deep beneath the arena.

Mauve’s waiting for you at your launch room. She looks a little pale today, her usually uninterested demeanor wavering.

Pressed to the far wall and immediately catching your attention is an open, crystal tube circling a metal platform that will soon deliver you to the arena. The sight of it widens your eyes, as if you were staring down an opponent in the arena. Your breakfast sloshes around in your gut, fists clenching at your sides.

Mauve sighs and hands you a pair of black pants with a matching tactical belt. The pants are wind resistant, a swishy material on the outside and a thin layer of wool on the inside.

You nod slow, jaw slack and shaking, breaths audible. Dizzy and unsteady, you almost trip as you step into your pants, catching yourself with a hop.

Mauve helps you into the most supportive sports bra you’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing, and a black shirt, reminiscent of the one you wore for training. Your arms fumble to make it through the holes of the fabric. Once on she takes a black jacket off a hanger and opens it for you. You make a half turn on unsteady feet, slipping one arm after another through the sleeves. She pulls it up onto your shoulders, brushing your hair from the back of your neck as she smooths the hood along your shoulders.

Your rattling fingers fumble for the zipper and fail to connect either side of the jacket. Mauve gently takes it for you, zipping up to your middle. You try to whisper her a thank you but it just comes out a breathy squeak.

The jacket was made for you, you can tell. The almost silken, water resistant material perfectly confirming to the curves of body, comfortably hugging you. Similar to the pants, another layer of wool lines the inside. At the absence of pockets, you slip Konig’s token into your bra for safe keeping.

“Look,” Mauve says, annoyed as ever, “I try not to get attached. But you,” She sighs, lowering her voice, “You make it hard.”

Your face loosens for just a moment.

Maybe you had pegged Mauve wrong. You hadn’t considered that she may be avoidant and uninterested to just her tribute. You assumed that’s all she ever was. But maybe outside of here, away from the kid she has to watch die every year, maybe she is nicer. Open and loving and supportive. It makes you think that if someone had tried to judge your entire personality based on how you’ve acted since the reaping, maybe they’d peg you wrong too.

“Thank you, Mauve,” Your words are nothing but a shaky whisper.

“Mhm,” She hums, “Now win.”

You scan her face, your entire body trembling in fear.

An even, robotic voice comes over the speaker and announces that the launch will begin in thirty seconds.

You choke on the lump in your throat, a hiccup leaving at your futile attempt to swallow.

Your feet are made of lead as they approach the launch pad, careful, shuffled steps up to the tube.

“Hey,” Mauve says.

When she looks at you, she gives you a single, slow nod.

“You’ve got it.”

With full blown eyes, you return her gesture, and the glass encloses you with a zip.

Immediately your palms are pressed to the glass, your instincts clawing to free yourself from this cage.

Mauve gives you one final nod.

Your entire body jumps when the platform begins to raise, and you watch Mauve until she disappears, ascending into darkness.

-

The first thing you notice as your tube breaks into open is the freezing air. Almost immediately your trembling intensifies, each shallow breath turning to steam that billows in front of your face. You are blinded, nothing but bright white as you jerk your head around. For ten seconds your vision struggles to readjust, twitching as you force yourself to orient to a shine powerful enough to bring tears to your eyes.

Once your eyes adjust to the sun, your focus is pulled to the cornucopia, centered equal distance from each of the tributes’s platforms. All twenty-four of you, in a circle, a minute away from a bloody slaughter.

Sixty Seconds.

The pure white snow that surrounds your feet reflects a brutal full sun.

You follow one of the tributes gaze, the boy from District Three, you think. He’s staring off into the distance, into the sandy landscape just to the left of you.

Desert.

Sand that stretches for what looks like miles, massive dunes that billow along the lifeless sea of orange. A mirage of heat radiating off the piles of sand, dotted with the occasional dead brush.

To your right, behind the story-tall cornucopia, the desert landscape seems to come to a grinding halt. As if a line had been drawn vertically down the horizon. The yellow, hazy sky that hangs over the desert abruptly turns to a blanket of crystal blue sky filled with fluffy, brilliant white clouds. Just next to the split, contrasting against the brilliant blue sky, is the border of a hedge maze. Thick, massive walls of foliage reaching well over the size of a redwood tree, pink flowers that look almost like cherry blossoms intertwined with the deep green walls running along the perimeter of its quadrant. From here you can see at least a dozen openings in its massive walls, leading into it’s chambers.

Forty-Five Seconds.

The arena is divided in four, with the mouth of the cornucopia in the exact spot where each of the landscapes meet,  six tribute platforms in each quandrant.  Surrounding yours, and the closest five other tribute’s platforms, is snow. Blinding white, the desert’s sun reflecting off its pure coat that comes to a perfect right angle pointed at the cornucopia. When you look behind you, you see the snow stretches along the entire quadrant, eventually obscured by a forest of pine trees. The sky above the pines is a solid, weak grey, flurries dotting the air.

When you look over your left shoulder, you find the snow and pine forest comes to a dead halt, another split in the sky and landscape. It’s picked up by a forest of red maple and ginkgo trees - vibrant crimson and yellow leaves that camouflages just a few feet beyond the treeline. The leaves’ colors immediately remind you of fall, and then it clicks.

Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall.

Cute, Capitol.

Thirty Seconds.

The desert was a death sentence. No water, no food, and heat that would collapse the strongest tributes in a matter of hours.

Snow was out of the question, too. With Price’s instructions to avoid the cornucopia, there’s no way you’d have the proper supplies to survive such a climate. Even just standing in the corner, with the desert quadrant being just a few yards away, you and the five tributes surrounded by snow are shivering from more than just fear, noses and cheeks turning red from the chill air. Staying close to snow would be important, through, as it’s the only source of water you’ve got eyes on from your platform.

The sight of the hedge maze is enough to make your stomach churn. A feeling in your gut that was hard to ignore, even with the rationalization of ideal temperature and concealment. It was too risky. An enclosed space like that, no way to tell what dangers and traps the gamemakers have hidden inside. Too easily cornered into hand-to-hand combat.

The fall forest - that’s your best bet. Dense trees to hide in. Survivable temperature and bordering the snow quadrant.

Fifteen Seconds.

With your arms crossed over your chest in a desperate attempt to keep warm, you do one last quick scan of the four jarring landscapes, just to ensure you’re making the right choice. You find the mouth of the cornucopia again, a pile of goodies spilling out in the exact spot all four quadrants meet. You see weapons made of the finest quality metal, shelter materials, full armor and gear designed with the extreme temperatures in mind. It’s no use eyeing them up, you’d never survive in a dash to the cornucopia. Your eyes flick down to the items scattered around your feet, the lesser value supplies sprinkled further away from the cornucopia. They stick out well in the snow, nestled into the top layer of ice. Just from your spot you can see an empty water bottle, a carabiner, a flashlight. A multitool the size of your index finger, a set of rubber soles - you think to attach to your shoes - and a pair of black, coarse gloves.

You follow the items that trickle into the hedge maze quadrant, and there you find Konig, about seven tributes to your right.

He’s hard to miss among the other tributes, and he’s looking right at you. Catching his stare, you share one last look of hesitance.

You realize you haven’t taken a breath in an uncomfortable amount of time, gulping one deep breath of sharp icy wind while you look to Konig with parted blue lips and eyes pooled with terror.

One last reassuring glance between two tributes that are both just as lost and just as unsure and just as deathly afraid.

When the gong goes off, your brain goes blank. The plan you’d so carefully crafted over the longest minute of your life untangles the moment twenty-three tributes race off their platforms. Half in a full sprint to the mouth of the cornucopia, the others scattering in a full dash to the quadrants.

No one dares rush into the desert, many going out of their way and stumbling through sand to escape the heat that coated them in layer of sweat. The tributes assigned to that quadrant had already removed their jackets and secured them to their waists to escape the dry heat of the sun. A handful of tributes rush for the hedge maze, less offput by its unknown in the interest of full concealment. Two male tributes, one who had snatched the shoe attachments, flashlight, and gloves, dare to brace the snow, running side-by-side and whizzing right past you as they disappear into pine trees. The rest of the tributes make a dash to the fall quandrant, quickly disappearing behind the coverage of yellow and red leaves.

You were still glued to your platform, giving everyone else a massive head start. Frozen in your place, sucked right back into that blackhole of dread and fear you experienced on reaping day.

There’s one thought that tears through the fog, and it’s Price’s voice.

What the hell are you doing, kid?! Get out of there!

It’s his voice that gives you the courage to step off your platform, daring a few feet forward to risk grabbing the canteen and carabiner with one hand, the multitool in the other. The metal wet with melted snow freezes your palms with a harsh bite.

When you look up to make sure no one’s targeting you, the color drains from your face at the sight of the boy from District One thrusting a sword into a boy’s neck. His blood sprays nearly a foot in front of him, coating his killer in a cup of deep red blood. The boy from district one smiles, his grin coated in the blood of his kill.

About ten yards from you, in the fall quadrant, the girl from District Four wrestles the scrawny girl from District Ten to the ground for a 3-inch long knife that was stabbed into the dirt. She managed to overpower her, pinning her down with a straddle before driving the knife into her stomach. She removes the blade several times, plunging it back into Ten - repeatedly slashing her guts and sending blood flying. Ten keeps her grip on the knife that punctures her, face frozen in shock.

The girl from District One, now back to back with her bloody companion, is successfully using a spear to skewer anyone in her reach.

Your head snaps to a figure rushing towards you. The boy from eleven, you think, has his eyes locked on you, running full speed in your direction. At his side is a scythe, its metal gleaming as it catches the bright desert sun with each of his strides. You stand straight from your half-ducked position, having been stuck in your squat after grabbing your meager supplies. The snow crunches under your boots as you make a few shaky steps backwards, palms rising instinctively to brace yourself. You’re still locked in fear, lower lip stammering and unable to get out even a plea for mercy.

Suddenly he’s stopped in his tracks, his legs and upper half folded forward by strong arms and hands clasped tightly around his ribs. You watch with a gaped mouth and blown eyes as he rises a foot-and-a-half off the ground. His limbs flail as he tries to swing the scythe behind him to defend against his assailant. It’s quick, Eleven’s tilted to the side and he’s thrown brutally into the ground. For a moment his body is a blur, and then his head catches on a raised platform. His skull hits the metal with a heavy thunk, followed by the distinct and unmistakable sound of his neck breaking.

When you’re finished eyeing the boy from eleven, dead the moment he hit the platform, your eyes dart to the culprit.

Konig.

He’s peels the scythe from the dead tribute’s hand, looking over his shoulder for any approaching tributes.

As soon as he meets your scared eyes, he starts in a full sprint to you, weapon at his side.

A breathy squeak turns to steam in the frozen air as you stumble backwards. Your heel catches on your own platform, seat hitting the snow and legs sprawled out on the chilled metal.

It’s the betrayal that shocks you back to your body.

Konig is trying to kill you.

Your feet kick desperately at the smooth platform as you turn over in the snow. Stiff, frozen limbs quickly scramble to get yourself up and into a sprint. You keep your few supplies pinned tightly to your chest as you fight against the snow swallowing your boots with each step. You break into full speed when you’re in the fall quadrant, the freezing air turning to a much more bearable temperature the moment your foot harshly hit the dirt littered with yellow petals.

Finally! You hear Price in your head. You can even picture him, leaned towards the screen, hand coming off his knee with an annoyed wave.

Each time your foot slams against the dirt it sends a shock up your legs, still defrosting from the harsh bite of the winter quadrant. The adrenaline pumps through you with each pulse that pounds against your temple, breath as sharp as crystals with each inhale.

Branches grab hold of you as soon as you break through the trees, peeling up the first few layers of exposed skin. With each snap and break of the branches, the searing, white hot image of the boy from eleven flashes in front of your eyes. His eyes that had gone lifeless the moment he crashed into that platform, a small bounce of his head off the metal pillow before he landed limply in his final resting place.

You stay right on the border of the winter quadrant, just to the right of the snow-capped pine trees.

When your hearing comes back to you, previously deafened by an unrelenting replay of a broken neck, the first thing you hear is your heavy breaths, followed by the screams of tributes behind you. They’re quieter now that you’ve made distance from the bloodbath, but there’s no mistaking the raw desperation in their cries of pain and pleas for mercy. You can’t help but flinch at the particularly cutting shrieks.

You run until your legs hurt, until your face and hands are covered in scratches, until your lungs beg for respite, and then you run some more.

You’re thinking about all the tributes that ran into the fall quadrant. Most of the ones that didn’t make a dash to the cornucopia ran into the quadrant you occupy. Your focus had been elsewhere, but you think around six or seven tributes made a run for it as soon as the gong sounded. More may even follow after they’ve grabbed supplies from the cornucopia.

This doesn’t sit right with you, all of these tributes in such a condensed area, almost all of them bigger and stronger than you. They’ll surely stay close to the border of the snow district as well, drawn in to the water supply. It’s frustrating that these tributes had the same plan as you, but you don’t have much of a choice without proper supplies to survive the extreme climates.

Maybe the hedge maze was the right move after all. To your knowledge, only a handful of tributes were daring enough to head to the spring quadrant, and at the very least the hedge maze should provide decent cover. There may even be supplies hidden deep within it chambers.

This in mind, you don’t break your strides, heading deeper into the fall quadrant.

You don’t stop until your stomach threatens to retch, dropping to your knees in exhaustion. If a tribute were to run into you now, they’d surely have no trouble ending your life.

When you finally catch your breath, successfully spitting away the nausea and rubbing away the cramp in your arm from the deadly grip on your items, you’re surprised you’re still alive. That another tribute hasn’t found you and turned your throat inside out.

You’re eager to get away from the snow border, knowing that the tributes will be lingering close by. You’re thankful you risked the water bottle, even if it meant the vivid memories of so many brutal slaughters. You’re sure it will give you an advantage, able to move deeper into the fall quadrant without having to stay close to scoop up handfuls of snow.

When your legs permit you, you stand with a wobble, inching yourself toward the pine trees. You kneel down in the dirt littered with brilliant yellow ginkgo petals, and scoop handfuls of snow up to your mouth, letting it melt into a very refreshing swallow of ice cold water. You don’t even try to mute your noises of satisfaction and relief. Once you’ve quenched the unbearable thirst brought up from running, you uncap your bottle and begin to stuff snow into its small opening.

You can’t get the image, the sound, of the boy’s broken neck out of your mind. It’s stopped playing on a loop, but it now intrusively rips through your thoughts without warning, folding your whole body forward into a cringe.

You’d known Konig was strong. You’d watched him in training, lifting weights you could hardly roll.

It was nothing in comparison to watching him pick up that boy from eleven with ease. He lifted that boy, who was by no means small nor weak, spun him around, and threw him like he was a ragdoll.

You really thought that Konig would have the decency not to try and kill you immediately. Just yesterday you were friendly, sharing both a bed and your intimate thoughts. Moments before the  gong you were benefiting from each other’s reassurance. Shouldn’t there have been a cool-down period? You didn’t realize that not agreeing to be his ally meant you were agreeing to be enemies.

It was naive of you to assume you’d be on neutral ground in the arena, you realize.

‘I would kill if I need to.’

You hear Konig’s words intertwined with the repeated sound of Eleven’s neck cracking.

Just a lie, something to keep your guard down.

He killed that boy not out of self-defense or necessity, but because he could. He was running right towards you, ready to pick you off too, just because he could.

He didn’t even have the decency to let someone else pick you off before he broke your assailant’s neck.

Konig specifically wanted to be the one to kill you.

You’re running over every moment you’ve ever shared with him, now tainted with the cruel truth. He had been tricking you all along, luring you into ease and comfort with his presence just so that he could draw you in to kill you.

You’d been right all along.

When your canteen is full, you wipe off the outside of the bottle with your jacket and use the carabiner to clip the bottle and multi-tool onto its rung. You fasten it into your belt loop, but your plan immediately falls apart when the multi-tool starts to bang against the metal of the water bottle with each movement, making far too much noise for your liking. You remove the multi-tool with the faintest annoyed grunt, and take the opportunity to shuffle through its insides. Your fingers are stiff from the cold snow, but nails manage to pry out the sheathed pieces of metal.

Inside you find a blade, about an inch long. The blade is sharp but thin, and would offer little use for self-defense, but will surely be helpful in terms of survival. There’s a second blade, one with a serrated edge, its jagged teeth varying sizes. The multi-tool also shields a corkscrew, a small pair of pliers, a file, and the tiniest pair of scissors you’ve ever seen.

Instead of putting it back on its rung, you stuff the multi-tool into your sports bra, raising goosebumps on your flesh as your body works to warm up the metal.

You begin at a walk further into the fall quadrant, away from the snow and slightly diagonal as you rub your freezing hands together to warm them up.

There’s not much sign of other tributes, but you be sure to head the opposite direction at the slightest rustling of leaves.

You walk at a steady pace now, one you think you can maintain as you dredge deeper into the forest.

You need to figure out a source for food. You weren’t lucky enough to get your hands on any rope or wire, so snares were out of the question. There’s no other vegetation besides ginkgo trees and red maples as far as you can see, but you can’t see very far past the low hanging branches and petals.

You don’t know much about ginkgo trees, so you have no clue if they bear edibility.

There are the last of the maple seeds that occasionally flutter to the ground with their mesmerizing dance.

You can work with maple seeds.

Something for your stomach to at least chew on, even if it meant malnourishment. The bark is also edible, you remember.

And sap! If you can figure out how to harvest it, you’ll get a sweet treat in reward.

There’s something about the trees that seem artificial, though. The colors are a little too bright, the branches a little too flourished with leaves. Not even the petals littered on the ground have a hint of rotted brown on them.

Even with the unease the trees invoke, you risk gathering maple seeds from the forest floor.

You’re not sure how far you’ve traveled, It feels like miles.

The boom of the cannon makes you flinch.

The bloodbath must be over, and they are now firing the cannon that signifies a tribute’s death.

You pause your walking to count on your fingers as the booms fire one after another.

Nine fires. Nine tributes dead.

For a moment, you are enraged. Nine children dead as punishment for crimes that took place well before their creation.

And then you hear Price again, reminding you to use that rage as fuel to survive.

Don’t think about it.

You let out a deep breath, starting up at a steady pace.

Another thought makes you stop.

Nine of you dead.

Is Konig still alive?

To your dismay, there is a pang in your chest that vibrates through your whole body, bleeding a strong emotion you can’t quite pinpoint throughout your entire being.

You… don’t want him to be dead.

He just tried to kill you, and even so the thought of him not making it through the bloodbath is twisting your guts in knots.

‘You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back?’

Shut up, Price! Shut up! Shut up!

Your feet kick up a few fallen leaves as you force yourself to keep moving.

He can’t be dead, you decide. Even if he had been hanging around the bloodbath with a pack of careers itching to use their weapons on him.

He’s not dead.

You need to tell yourself this, because you can’t afford to feel emotional, even if the emotion you feel is knotted up and begging to be unraveled.

He’s not dead.

Your legs are burning, feeling heavy and unsteady at the same time. Your bends to scoop up maple seeds slow, relishing in the breaks from walking a little too long.

As you walk you peel some of the maple seeds, hoping they can give you some energy to keep going. You’re doubtful, though.

You wince at the break of bitter seeds against your tongue. They’d taste sweeter cooked, but you’re working with what you have.

When you’re really at your limit, you plop down in front of a particularly large maple, thick trunk and camouflaged in a cluster of low-hanging ginkgo branches.

You eat a few more maple seeds, replacing them with the ones in your reach. You take a swig of your water, now melted and cool to wash down their taste.

You wonder how often you’ve been shown on screen, and when? At any moment you could be broadcasted live to every person in Panem.

Surely you wouldn’t get too much coverage, usually after the bloodbath they’ll be busy dissecting all the deaths that occurred all at once, but they will occasionally cut to you to show you’re still alive.

You freeze when you hear the rustling. This is no blow of the wind. This disturbance is animal, this is human, and both of those options mean danger.

You don’t so much as breathe, deathly still at once. From outside the coverage of the ginkgos, you see the flash of a large boot as it walks briskly through the foliage.

They walk like they’re not even afraid of danger, not stealthy in the least bit. Crunching leaves, snapping branches.

Long after they’re out of earshot, you let out a drawn out exhale. If you had killer instincts and a weapon, the tribute would have died by your hand. All you’d have to do is slink out silently behind them and do it before they even knew what hit them.

They’re lucky you’re docile.

Surely you were being featured then. Two tributes in such close proximity, they were probably gearing up for a fight.

So sorry to disappoint.

When the cannon goes off, you flinch again.

Okay, maybe you weren’t being televised.

It’s annoying how your first thought is of Konig. With each tribute that falls the odds of his survival dwindles.

You tell yourself you only care about his survival because it would be best for your district, best for your loved ones. Extra food parcels for every citizen in reward for giving the Capitol a victor.

You really hope he’s still alive.

Fourteen left. Thirteen not including you.

You rest against your maple until dusk, and decide this is a good enough place to set camp as any other.

You already know you’re not going to sleep tonight, but you hope you can at least get some rest.

With the fading light of day you slide out of your ginkgo hide out, and while making as much noise as you dare you begin to saw off some ginkgo branches, supporting them on their undersides to minimize the shake of the twigs and leaves. Only the sound of scratching wood and vibration of branch could draw any nearby tributes closer. You stop every few push and pull of the blade to check for signs of danger. It’s slow going for such an inadequate sawing tool.

By time the sun goes down, when the generously bright moon rises, you’ve successfully cut four decent sized branches dense with leaves. You arrange them around the trunk of your maple tree to conceal your resting body from the rest of the woods.

The cluster of trees does a good job concealing you, but the extra branches should ensure your black clothes don’t stick out against the ginkgo leaves and fill any gaps in the bottom of the branches. For good measure, you scoop up a decent pile of leaves, making sure to kick over nearby leaves to conceal the disruption, and sprinkle the bright yellow petals over your lower half in hopes of blending in with the dirt. You keep yourself propped up against the trunk of your tree, settling your legs in breaks of the tree roots.

You keep your supplies secured tightly to you, just in case you have to make a dash.

You disturb some of your ginkgo petals when the blare of the anthem starts. Over the defeaning music you poke your head into a clearing in the trees. Partially obscured through full branches you can see the Capitol emblem projected into the sky. They’re about to display the faces of the fallen shortly, and you will be able to figure out by elimination which tributes remain.

They appear in order of district, so when the girl from three projects in the sky, you know the careers from one and two are alive. No surprise there.

Her headshot is followed by her companion from three, both from District Five, the girl from District Six.

The girl from District Seven, the one you saw laughing on her chariot with the boy from her district. He’s still alive, though.

You hold your breath once her headshot disappears, bracing yourself to soon see Konig’s face in the sky.

The next face is the girl from ten.

For the first time in the arena, a smile creeps on your face, breathy and toothless. The wave of relief that washes over you is immediate and flooding.

Konig’s alive.

The warm feeling is cut short when you see the face of the boy from eleven hanging over you in the sky, and when you look at his picture, all you can see is his lifeless eyes. His limp bounce off the platform, the crack of his neck.

Konig’s alive.

And killing.

You wonder how many more lives he’s taken today.

Both the girl & boy from District Twelve flash in the sky, the anthem ends on a flare, and the forest seems unbearably quiet in its absence.

As you settle back into your nook, you try to figure out who’s left.

Both from District One & Two.

Both from District Four.

The boy from six, the boy from seven, and both from eight.

You remember Price’s warning about the boy from eight. About how something ‘ain’t right with that boy.’

You & Konig.

The boy from ten.

The girl from eleven.

That’s it, you think.

The air of a crisp fall day has turned to a harsh chill. Your breath turns to steam in the cool air, and a steady shiver twitches your body. You zip your jacket all the way up and tie your hood tightly around your face. In a desperate bid you even draw the branches closer to you, hoping for insulation.

You pull your arms out of their sleeves, tucking them close to your chest and rubbing them together for warmth. When this offers little respite, you pull your knees into your jacket as well, smushing your hands between thighs and chest. Your lower jaw chatters involuntarily, and you can’t help but wish you’d risked the bloodbath for a blanket, probable death be damned.

You close your eyes and long for the Capitol showers, hot and steamy and enveloping your whole body in a steamy warmth.

You think about the warmth you felt last night, how cozy it was to be pressed up to Konig’s body and leeching the heat that radiated from his skin.

Yesterday feels like a lifetime ago. How did Konig manage to cuddle up to you one night, and the very next day be hellbent on slaughtering you?   

He must have hated you from the beginning. Hedging his bets, pretending this whole time. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself fall for the gentle giant routine he was peddling.

You got no rest. You experienced every bone-chilling moment of the night, shaking against the unforgiving bark of the maple tree. The closest thing you got to respite was a haze in between sleep and wake, a near dreamlike state where you felt slightly disconnected from the world around you.

It never lasted long though, snapping your head at every rustle of leaves or break of branch. Occasionally the sound of Eleven’s neck cracking will tear through you, and you’re having trouble distinguishing if it’s a hallucination or not.

You wonder how the boys who ran off into the snow quadrant are doing. It may have been their strategy to run from the cornucopia through the snow knowing it’s likely no tribute would follow them. They probably slipped into one of the other quadrants by now. You can’t imagine it’s survivable in the night of winter.

You wonder how all of the other tributes are doing, actually. Did they rest through the night, or did they use this time to be productive?

The career pack will be hunting, no doubt.

You wonder if the boy from seven is mourning his companion. You weren’t actually sure they were friends, but that moment of connection on the chariot seemed so genuine, you couldn’t help but think of them as friends.

Maybe you just look into things too much.

Maybe you just read too far into smiles and stares and never doubt well-intentions.

Maybe you need to grow up and stop being such an emotional, sensitive, needy parasite and find some self-preservation!

The tributes from District Seven probably hated each other, really.

Both of them pretending to let the other’s guard down.

He was probably the one who killed her.

Lured her in security with a genuine smile and a charming laugh just so he could get an easy target to impress the sponsors.

You take a deep inhale to wipe your thoughts clean. You don’t need to be think about the tributes from District Seven. You didn’t even know their names.

But maybe he does miss her.

Maybe her death did mean something to him.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but you are eager to give your mind actual problems to chew on. Channeling the anger, and all that. You rise slowly, using the trunk of the tree to help sore, numb legs to a stand.

You take a moment to stretch and rub out your achy muscles while you plan for your day.

Your water bottle is about half-full. You tried to ration as much as you could but you covered a lot of ground yesterday and wore yourself to exhaustion.

Okay, snow day. No worries. No running today unless necessary.

Maybe you’ll even get a look deeper into the pine forest and find some berries you recognize.

The thought of a fresh winterberry bursting in your mouth makes your stomach grumble. You begrudgingly finish off the rest of your maple seeds. You’ll replace them on your walk today, but you’re hoping you won’t need to.

Water and food, that’s all you need to worry about today.

And also not dying.

After popping stiff joints, you get moving in a leisurely walk. Instead of your diagonal route towards the desert, you do the same to the snow quadrant. Simultaneously getting where you need to be while tucking yourself further away from the cornucopia. Unlike yesterday, you’re taking care to move stealthily through the trees, avoiding disturbing foliage or heavy treads. The ginkgo petals and packed chill dirt don’t leave behind much footprint, but that’s also true for any tribute taking refuge in this quadrant.

It happens so fast, you don’t even have time to silence the scream that leaves you.   Yanked off the ground in an instant, kicking and flailing and instinctively crying out.

The pain in your ankles is shooting and immediate. With every thrash and struggle a restraint tightens around the tops of your boots.

For a moment, you thought you were dead. That another tribute had attacked from behind and you were about to succumb to your snapped neck, a slit throat, or a skewered abdomen.

After a painful three seconds pass you reorient yourself, and find that you are in fact, alone.

When you look up, you can see the ground is a five foot drop away.

Your legs had been jerked from underneath you, your body forced upside down, and yanked in the air by your ankles.

You’d walked right into someone’s trap, and you’re as good as dead.

Blood is rushing to your head and exacerbating your panic, thrashing desperately in the air to break free from the brutal hold of the rope.

Panic quickly turns to fury as you realize that someone has gotten the best of you. That someone had outsmarted you, had humiliated you, had strung you up dangling and helpless for every eye in Panem to see.

Mostly you’re upset at yourself, because the instinctual cry for help that left your lips was twisted into the letters of Konig’s name.

How pathetic. Calling for another tribute you were not allied with, a tribute who tried to kill you just yesterday.

‘Get your head in the fucking game.’

Face sweating and pulse pumping ruthlessly against your temple, you pinch your eyes shut and force yourself to stop fighting the hold of the rope, and find some fucking sense.

You take two deep breaths through flared nostrils before you thoughtfully survey your surroundings.

You’re strung with thick rope by your ankles along an especially study branch of maple. Five feet off the ground is a fall that would not fair well for you.

You need to get upside-right.

You look up to the knot wrapped tightly around your screaming and tender ankles. Your core was no where near strong enough to bring yourself up to the knot, but it doesn’t keep you from trashing anyway.

Think, think, think!

The world is spinning, the leaves and trunks of the trees swaying and blurring as you dangle in midair. Your view is curtained by your jacket, folded over itself and around the back of your head. You can’t hear a thing over the rushing blood in your ears.

You’re running out of time. You’re going to pass out soon, and that’s only if the tribute who set this trap isn’t running full speed in the direction of your initial scream.

Your fingers fumble for your belt, sliding it off with a whiz.

You force deep breaths, holding an end of the belt in each hand. You curl your core slightly and make a loose loop with the nylon.

You need to get it snagged to the soles of your shoes so you can hoist yourself high enough to undo the snare, or at least get the blood to drain from your face. With one choked breath you try to force yourself high enough to loop the bottoms of your boots, but you miss and end up falling back down and thrashing against the ropes.

Your breaths are heavy and your head is tight and pounding.

With grit teeth and a raw grunt, you fling yourself up, sliding the belt further up your legs.

You just barely graze the tips of your soles before the belt slips off and sends you back down fully horizontal, now with a swing.

The pain is unbearable, your entire body being supported by a tight rashy rope on your ankles. You’re getting dizzy and light-headed, surely close to an embarrassing end.

‘C’mon, Plucky.’

You begin to use your body weight to swing with the rope instead of against it, waiting until you’re at the peak of its swing before you flail your upper half up. Veins bulge from your forehead as you catch the width of the belt on your shoes.

Your biceps immediately strain to support your upper half, clenching your teeth as you pull yourself up by your own shoes.

You can’t help the grunts leaving as you struggle to get your head above your neck.

You take a break to catch a few breaths, the ends of the belt looped around either palm that support your upper half.

“Okay, c’mon,” you grunt under your breath. You grab both ends of the belt with one hand, jerking yourself upwards to get your other palm just above it.

Slowly, painfully, you climb.

One hand over the other, pulling yourself further up the rope.

Your arms are shaking, ankles begging for mercy, but you are just able to grasp your hand around the rope just around the end of the knot, so any weight on your upper half is now supported by the rope attatched to the branch, and not your ankles.

With your last bit of strength you hold the rope with one hand, and yank at the snare with the other, searching for the release loop with fumbling hands.

For a moment the world is a blur. Your back takes the brunt of the impact, vision blinded by a pure white light.

Every last wisp of air has been knocked from your lungs. A ripple of shooting, crackling, crunchy pain spreads from your chest and in every direction.

The groan that leaves you is entirely involuntary, breathless and guttural.

When you dare to take a breath, it goes in wheezing and spiked.

You find your ankles or ribs aren’t broken, merely rattled and swollen. One, shaking, weak arm shoots up in the air and gives a shaky thumbs up, before it collapses back onto the cool dirt.

Atta’ girl.

You’re not sure how long you lay, flat on your back, unable to find strength to move.

It’s not enough time for you to regain the ability to run when you hear the rusting of nearby branches.

You close your eyes and mutter obscenities just under your shallow breath. You did all of that work for absolutely nothing.

You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, alerting half the forest of your location, and someone’s come to answer.

You can barely lift your head to see the assailant bursting through the trees.

The boy from eight.

The tribute Price warned you about during the replay of the reaping. The one with the look so unsettling it made your stomach twist.

If you had any breath left in you, you’d laugh, but all you can manage is a faint huff through your nose. You couldn’t put up a good fight at your best, and now that you’re injured, you don’t stand a chance.

Those sinister eyes lock onto you and at once your stomach twists in knots. You wish you could ask him to make it quick.

“Where is she?!” His voice is booming just as it is demanding, he does not seem to care about attracting anyone else’s attention.

Your eyes widen at his voice, just as angry as he looks.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out of your shaking body.

He stomps closer to you, putting either of his boots on either side of your ribs in the dirt. He towers over you like this, staring down at you like the pitiful prey you are. He bends at the core and grabs you by the front of your shirt with both hands, pulling you off the ground and inches from his face. He gives you a harsh shake, rolling your head on your neck.

“Where is she?!” He’s not stealthy in the slightest, his words booming throughout the forest as he spits in your face.

You try to form a word but it just comes out a hitched breath with a lace of a word in it.

“Wh-“

“Willow! The girl from my district!”

He gives you another shake, rattling your sore muscles and jerking your head around on your neck.

When he stills you, you shake your head as quickly as you can manage.

“You lying?!” His face is inches from yours, you can feel the heat of his breath.

“No,” Your voice is a wisp, each strain followed by a crunchy, labored breath.

He studies your face, nothing but fear and pain in your features. The boy from eight scoffs before he throws you against the ground by no means gently. He disappears into the forest with a jog, leaving you dumbfounded on the forest floor to catch what little breath he stole.

When he’s out of sight, your head lays back into the dirt. You force yourself up sooner than you would have liked in case he comes back and changes his mind, or someone else comes looking for the commotion.

You use your multitool to cut off lengths of rope from the snare, a reward for your triumph, and loop it in big circles you drape across a shoulder and your waist like a sash.

After replacing your belt, and even giving it a thankful kiss for saving you from an embarrassing ending, you begin to limp through the forest. You no longer travel diagonally, heading straight for the snow, eager to get your injuries on ice. It’s strenuous, each step a reminder of your swollen, sore ankles. Every stride shoots a sharp pain through them, you can feel your heartbeat throbbing around the swollen flesh.

You take a generous amount of breaks to rest.

During one break, your back flush with the dirt and your legs elevated and propped against a maple, you think of the boy from eight, who had spared your life moments before.

He didn’t seem the type to not kill unless it’s self defense. He volunteered, he had the look of a career, eager for bloodshed. Almost worse than a career. The careers are arrogant, cheerful in attitude. Like they’re happy to be here. The boy from eight did not seem anything other but rage-filled. Disturbed, but not in the way that gets you sponsors. Disturbed like a boy who’s truly lost his mind and yearns for bloodshed.

He’s looking for the girl from his district, though. Maybe you and Price had pegged him wrong. Clearly he wasn’t eager to kill you, he had you on a silver platter, and he chose to grant you mercy.

You’re trying to reframe what little you know about the boy from eight. You wonder if he had actually volunteered to protect the girl from his district. Maybe the seething, gut-twisting anger he radiated was directed at the Capitol for taking a friend away from him. Maybe he’s just determined to protect a girl he loves from a country that does not hesitate to take everything from you.

Adversary or not, you hope he reunites with her. You wish they can spend some time together before the inevitable happens.

The trip to the snow quadrant takes twice as long as it did yesterday, due to your small, limping strides and generous breaks for rest.

Once to the border, where the red maples and ginkgos bleed into pine trees, you take off your boots and socks, and let your sore, swollen ankles rest in the snow. You finish what’s left in your water bottle before stuffing snow to its brim. You scoop a few into your mouth until you’re quenched.

Your whole body flinches at the boom, shaking away what remained of your freezing handful as you look around for trouble.

Another tribute down. Thirteen tributes left.

You should probably get moving. You’re a sitting duck hanging out next to the only source of water near the fall quadrant, but the ice numbs the inflamed pain in your ankles.

Whatever , you think. You’re not going to win anyway. Might as well be comfortable.

You nestle back into the dirt, resting your ankles across the border and in the snow.

The lack of sleep, the exhaustion from traveling, the injury, the lack of food in your belly, it’s all catching up to you.

Your eyes have dark bags underneath them, stomach growling and cramping from hunger. Your body yearns for rest, and your mind aches for a break from fear.

Closing your eyes in a dangerous game, but you can’t help yourself. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth and you nestle into the even ground.

When you wake up, you’re already laughing.

It’s uncontrollable, a painful spasm of your muscles, stomach pushing out laughs that are beyond too loud. They’re raw, real, from deep inside your abdomen, tensing your core in a painful contortion.

You can’t stop it, it won’t stop. You put a hand over your mouth, but your hands and arms are spasming just as much as your gut.

The inhales for breath are few and far between, each one a gasp for air that doesn’t stay in your lungs for long. They’re forced only after the billowing laugher has stolen every exhausted breath of air.

It hurts. Every inch of muscle is screaming, twitching uncontrollably as boisterous, hysterical cackles leave you.

You jam a fist into your mouth, but your knuckles slam into your teeth and hinders your ability to wheeze for air.

The fog is dense. It’s clear, this is the gamemakers doing. A cruel trap designed to draw tributes together and keep the games interesting.

You can’t see more than a few feet in front of your face, your stinging, burning eyes bouncing around and blurring your vision with their jittering.

Your knees knock together as you attempt a run, tripping over both tree roots and legs that fail you. Branches grab hold of you as you stumble through the forest, smashing into tree trunks and knocking yourself to the ground.

You can’t get up.

You’ve lost complete control of your limbs, your voice, your breathing.

The laughs still flow, core begging for respite as they burn from overexertion.

The hallucinations hit like a ton of bricks, intense and sudden.

The sky turns to a starless, inky black void.

The bright cheery leaves of the trees melt like hot wax, transforming into a black, tar-like ooze that drips to the ground and coats the petal-covered dirt. The ooze transitions quickly from a drizzle to a heavy pour, swallowing your whole body, your twitching limbs, and lapping up your sides until it pools over your front. It sloshes up your neck, sealing your mouth, choking you but not at all stifling the howling laughter. It fills your nostrils and yanks on your hair with its sticky, heavy weight. It stops once you’re entirely covered, leaving you paralyzed with just your eyes peeking out from the heavy ooze. The tar sloshes and threatens to spill into your eyes with every involuntary twitch.

The tar is so heavy, your body has to work twice as hard to breathe and expel the laughter.

The ooze floods your eye sockets, and when it all dissipates with a whoosh, you’re still laughing, but you’re you’ve been transported back to the bloodbath.

The sword feels natural in your hands, as if it was just an extension of your arm. The boy racing for supplies only has less than a second to act, and he fumbles it, his eyes only having the opportunity to widen before you thrust the sword square in the center of his throat. Its blade is so sharp, it slices through him like butter, not a lick of recoil. The stream of blood launches at you immediately. You’re choking on it, gurgling a mouthful of warm metal as you stare down District One, who gives a proud, toothy grin as your hands instinctively reach for the blade, slicing your palms open on its sharp edges. Your neck slides from the sword before you collapse to your knees. When your face hits the ground, your arms are wrapped around the bent waist of the girl from District Ten. You don’t hesitate to shove her on the ground, hands shooting out for the knife in her grip. With her hands still clasped around its handle, you thrust the blade into her gut, swinging your arm and mechanically driving the blade into her stomach over and over and over again.

The intrusive piercing plunges through your core stuns you, pinned to the ground and unable to swat away the hands cupped over yours. She’s crushing your knuckles as your limp arms are controlled like a marionette, forcing you to drive a blade into your soft stomach as the knife rhythmically punctures you with little resistance.

You deliver the final blow, your hands wrapped tightly to your spear, the plunge of it sending reverb through the staff and straight up your arms. Each skewer through flesh and fat and muscle shreds your insides until your intestines are completely minced.

And then you see yourself.

Crouched over and grasping your few supplies, eyes blown with fear and frozen in your place, lower lip trembling and body shivering in the ice cold wind.

Your feet slam against the ground with each stride, locked on to your own cowering figure, wielding a scythe at your side.

Your breath is stolen from your crushed lungs when you fold around your sternum, stopped by a strong grip. Your limbs flail, legs kicking and arms swinging as you fight back. When you are launched at the ground with tremendous force, the sound of your bones deafening you with a snap is the last thing you hear before you’re staring down the corpse of Eleven, a heap in front of heavy boots, your large hands reaching to pry the scythe from stiff fingers.

There you are.

You start in a dash, watching yourself trip over your platform before your seat hits the snow.

The snow swallows and frosts your hands as your scramble to your feet and fumble for a run.

You don’t lose him this time. As you tear through the trees, you can hear him tailing you, snapping branches of his own as heavy boots move easily through the woods. You can’t hear any over the pump of blood in your ears and the harsh snap of a neck breaking.

A rough shove knocks you to the ground, your chin slamming on dirt and splitting open. Blood immediately pours from the wound, dripping down your neck and splattering on yellow petals in brilliant red drops of blood.

Konig climbs on your back, sitting on your legs as his hand threads through your hair, yanking the back of your scalp to pull you to your knees in one jerk.

His hiss is devoid of comfort, nothing but loathing in that horrifying voice.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

You can’t beg for mercy, cackling through each brutal kill, chest trembling on each wheezing laugh underneath Konig’s power.

His arm snakes around your body and pulls the scythe to your throat. With one swipe his blade slices your neck, leaving behind a clean, deep gash. The blood gurgles in your throat, flooding your mouth with the hot taste of metal. As you lie bleeding out on the ground, you have no choice but to stare into the eyes of the boy from Eleven, resting limply next to you.

For hours, days maybe, you are paralyzed in this position, front pressed to the chill dirt as your cheek rests in a pool of your own blood. For each grueling moment your stare is fixated right into Eleven’s lifeless eyes, his neck bent in impossible angles. Eventually his head begins to rotate, making full circles on a still body, catching your gaze on each rotation.

You can’t blink, you can’t look away, laughing in his lifeless, spinning face.

You’re sure that you’ve died, and you will forever be trapped in this never-ending hell, in this graveyard of Konig’s victims.

You wake with a start, shouting Konig’s name on your first coarse breath before you can stop yourself.

“I hear her! I hear her!” Someone shouts, and footsteps confidently break into a run through the forest.

You scramble to a sit as you survey your surroundings. Your head pounds and muscles moan at each movement.

“Ni-iiine! Where you at Nine?!”

Another wheezing, coughing breath leaves you as you stand, wobbling on your feet as you make an unsteady jog away from the taunting voice.

“Ni-iiiine!” Titan, you think, calls in a sing-song.

Your muscles are useless, made of jelly and folding with every step.

You can’t keep it up, so you do the best you can. Hiding in a dense patch of ginkgos behind the base of a tree trunk thick enough to conceal your body.

You try and hold your noisy breaths, hoping the careers can’t hear your heartbeat rattling against its ribcage.

“Where’s your boy toy District Nine?!”

There’s close, so close. Surely they can hear and smell your fear.

“We just want to talk!”

Your hollow stomach twists, pressing yourself further into the coarse bark.

“Yeah, we won’t hurt you,” The voices are closer now, faux kindness dripping from their words.

The hairs on the back of your neck are on end, arms coated in goose flesh as your fingernails dig into the gaps of the bark.

No one should be this cheerful in the arena.

It’s not human.

“Where’d she go?”

“Really, we won’t hurt you!” Someone calls in an unnaturally high-pitched tone.

“Yeah, no hard feeling about before, honest!”

You force your heaving breaths through your nostrils, pinching your eyes closed as you focus to keep still and silent.

“If you don’t want to come out and play it’s fine! We just have a few questions.”

“Yeah - we just want to know where your little friend’s at, that’s all!”

“You hungry Nine? We’ve got food if you’re good!”

Your stomach actually growls at the mention of food, loud enough you’re sure they can hear it. You bite down on your knuckles to keep quiet.

They want to know where Konig is - that’s clear enough. Whether it’s to ally with him or to eliminate the ultimate threat, you don’t know.

You’re not sure how many cannons, if any, have fired since you’ve been drugged by the gas, but if the careers are this confident he must still be alive.

It’s spreads a singular burst of warm, cozy relief through your chest at the thought that he’s still alive.

You can hear them split up, branches scraping as they fan out in the vicinity of your voice.

By some miracle, you go undetected.

They’re convinced you ran further into the woods, and they regroup to head deeper into the forest.

You wait an unbearable amount of time until they’re out of earshot before daring to leave your hiding spot, moving as quickly as your body will allow in the opposite direction.

You’re not at all graceful, an infant fawn learning to use its legs, slamming into trees trunks and ripping through branches as you crash through the woods. A shooting pain fires up your legs with each cry of your ankles.

When the trees suddenly come to a jarring stop, you take a few steps backwards and crouch down, keeping yourself camouflaged in the tree line.

You’ve stumbled upon a large, open, perfectly rectangular plowed dirt field. What’s sitting in the ruts of the dirt rows makes you salivate.

A plot of corn stalks, cobs of corn fanned out in their ripe husks. Flawless pumpkins and squash looking too clean and vibrant to be resting in a dirt patch.

The sight of these beautiful fall vegetables has your stomach lurching at the idea of something to chew on. You haven’t had anything of real substance since being in the arena, and who knows how long you’ve gone without food while drugged.

Your heart does not trust these vegetables. Like the trees that look almost artificial, they are too perfect.

On the other hand, the maple seeds are not cutting it.

You do one last scan of the perimeter, peering deep into the trees to see if you can make out any figures, and before you can stop yourself - weak, clumsy legs attempt a dash straight for the stalks of corn. You quickly shed as many husks as you can from the hold of their stalks and hold them close to your chest with a tight forearm. With the other hand you wrap around the stem of a squash and haul your goodies back to the safety of the tree line. You don’t stop until your knees give out, dropping to the ground in a defeated heap.

You catch your breath before running your fingers over the grain of the husks and the waxy sheen on the outside of your squash.

They could be poisonous. A trap, laid out for the gamemakers that lures in anyone hungry or lacking willpower.

Your stomach is growling, cramping in a beg for food. You feel almost nauseous as your stomach chokes on itself, threatening to retch what little it holds.

They look delicious.

If you had to die - which is no doubt certain - you think you’d rather have it be at the hand of a vegetable than a bloodthirsty tribute.

You unwrap your corn, revealing uniform, mustard-yellow rows of kernels.

Fuck.

Your thumb glides along the glossy, bumped ridges of the kernels as you make one last attempt talk yourself out of it.

You can’t do it.

You bury your face dead center in the cob of corn, sweet juice bursting from the kernels and dripping down your chin. You roll your eyes at the taste of the ripe corn, not bothering to thoroughly chew before you swallow.

The relief is immediate - euphoric even. Your stomach almost instantly relaxes, the nausea and cramps dissipating at once. The moans that leave you are downright erotic.

You inhale the entire cob against better judgement, tossing the remains at the root of a maple, and wait.

You don’t feel ill, and you don’t feel poisoned. In fact, you feel better than you’ve felt in days.

After brief consideration, you shed another corn from its husk and inhale the whole thing.

When the cannon fires - your first thought is that it’s you. That the poison has killed you, and your brain is making its last fires before it catches up to a heart that stopped beating.

Moments pass, you even check your pulse for good measure, and it’s clear it’s not you.

Unfortunately, your next thought is of Konig.

No.

You cannot think of him.

It’s only a matter of time now.

After rest, you use knots you learned to tie in training to sloppily secure the corn with your rope and return the looped sash around your waist.

The gourd is tricky, but by using extra rope length and a generous amount of time you manage to weave a rope hanger to secure the squash at your waist.

The extra weight is noticeable, so you don’t plan on traveling far. Pushing yourself just far enough to make comfortable distance away from the field. You’ll eat some squash tomorrow before traveling to lighten the load.

At one point the anthem plays, and you keep your exhausted eyes open long enough to see the boy from District One.

This comes as a shock. A girl from District Nine should not outlive a career from District One.

One’s face is followed by the boy from District Ten, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Konig’s still alive as far as you know. The career’s taunts seemed to confirm this.

The face of the girl from eleven flashes and then the sky goes dark.

At maximum there are eleven tributes left. Maybe less if you missed deaths while you were paralyzed.

The arms of sleep are not difficult to fall into. Your body and mind is completely worn out, and you’re still feeling a sluggishness from the fog.

You have one last thought as you succumb to the sore exhaustion.

Eleventh place isn’t so bad.

Sleep is nothing short of horrific. The nightmares are worse than the bone chilling fall air.

The nightmares - reliving the bloodbath. Cycling through every haunting memory, taking on the tribute’s perspectives one after another.

Staring into Eleven’s eyes.

But it always seems to come back to Konig.

You fight him all night - a choreographed dance of playing out every death resurfaced by the hallucination, taking turns between being slaughtered and doing the slaughtering.

Those signature hooded eyes switch between ravenous and blood thirsty to pleading and petrified without transition.

Sometimes he’s the one lying limp on that metal platform, neck twisted and bouncing off his final resting place, sometimes it’s you. Often when you look up, it is not Konig standing over his own corpse, but you.

You must wake up twenty times throughout the night, stifling your apologetic cries and begging pleads all leaving you in shouts of Konig’s name.

How humiliating.

How you call out for him time, and time, and time again. The audience watching you cry for his aid at every sticky situation you get yourself into. How he has proven himself to be not worthy of your comfort, but you’re stupid enough to let him worm his way into your heart anyway. To care about him enough that the very thought of him turning on you, the thought of you turning on him, is frightening enough to startle you from a nightmare.

The sound of a cannon wakes you with finality, and you shoot up in the chill early dawn air.

When the anonymous threat you anticipate doesn’t come, you make slow movements as you get ready for the day.

You break into the squash, slicing into the rind with your multitool and biting into sloppily cut chunks of the bitter gourd. You wash it all down with half a bottle of water, and survey your bruised ankles.

They’re still swollen, and the lack of hydration and surplus of poisonous fog hasn’t helped. Red, inflamed veins streak pink bruises that fade into a dark purple.

Maybe you’ll just sit under this tree and wait for death. You have corn, this bitter gourd, and a half a bottle of water - surely that’s enough to hold you over until somebody finds you, right?

But they don’t come.

The number of tributes must be dwinding, more than you thought.

For the first time, you’re thinking Price had a point. Maybe you could hunker down and wait it out until the end.

Not that you’d stand a chance in the finale.

You’d have to face the career pack, and if your suspicions are correct and Konig is alive, the possibility you’ll have to face him grows with every fallen tribute.

You wonder if anyone’s betting on you.

You curiously comb over the possible tributes that remain.

The girl from one.

Both from two.

Both from four.

Boy from six. Boy from seven.

Both from eight.

You.

And Konig.

Probably not. Certainly you have the longest odds of anyone left.

You wonder if Price is proud of you for making it this far, struggling your way forward with each step.

Surely this is the best he could have hoped for, both his tributes alive in the second half.

You wonder what Konig thinks of you still being alive.

Is he impressed? Surely he didn’t think a weakling such as yourself would make it this far.

Is he relieved that you’re still alive, and confused about why, just as yourself?

Maybe he’s dreading the possibility of having to be the one to kill you.

Maybe he’s happy you’re alive.

Maybe he’s eager to be the one who watches the life drain from your eyes.

It’s confusing - why you think about him so much. Why you hope he’s okay. Why you want him to want you to still be alive. Why you dream of him. Why you call out his name instinctually before you’ve even regained consciousness.

All after he tried to kill you.

You find a scrap of motivation in the late afternoon, spending the entire morning with your head lulling against the trunk of a large ginkgo, finishing off two more cobs of corn, and hoping whoever finds you makes it quick.

Back to the snow today.

You need something to do to keep your mind off him.

You tie up the remaining half of the gourd, sling your rope of corn over your shoulder, and head for the snow quadrant. You don’t think you’re far off, the fog having paralyzed you and prevented you from going far. It didn’t take you long to find the field after ditching the careers, but you’ve been disoriented and you’re not confident you know the way.

You head in what you think is the right direction.

You take your time, taking lights steps through the forest, more careful than you have been not to leave tracks. Extra cautious to listen for danger.

You have the sense that your death is approaching. An ominous feeling of finality deep in your gut that grows with each step. Surely the next tribute you encounter will be your death.

You know you’re walking slow, but it’s taking much longer than it should to get to the snow quadrant. You’re less sure you’re going the right way.

You walk until dusk, your steps slow as the day stretches on, ankles throbbing with each step. The tree roots give the terrain an unevenness that contort your feet awkwardly with each step, and the weight of your vegetables aren’t helping.

You’re daydreaming about Capitol dishes. What you wouldn’t give to sink your teeth into the crust of a warm loaf of bread, inhale an entire cut of the finest steak, swallow a heading scoop of potatoes, finish off two servings - No! Three servings of hot stew!

And why not admit it?

A glass of whiskey doesn’t sound too bad right now.

You realize you’re in trouble when you see the unmistakable landscape of orange sand.

You’re swallow the harsh reality that you’ve completely gone in the wrong direction just as you hear it.

It’s faint, far in the distance, the sounds of a dying animal.

Against better judgement, and with a tented brow, you near closer, and are surprised to find the snow quadrant, both the desert and the vast snow visible through the gaps in the trees.

You have unintentionally trekked the entire way back to the cornucopia.

When you reach the tree line, you peer with squint eyes through the gaps in the trees, focusing in the direction of the low, guttural moans of a maimed creature.

It’s the boy from District Eight. He’s posted at the cornucopia, wielding a thick, slightly curved blade. Out of thick logs of wood and rope, he has constructed a pulley. Strung up by its arms is an animal, slightly swaying on the end of its restraint. The animal has been skinned head to toe, but is still alive, the red muscle stitched with small white pockets of fat, rising and falling with each muted moan.

No.

That is no animal.

That is a person.

You can tell it’s a girl, but there’s no way to identify the tribute, entirely unrecognizable and coated in blood.

The sight has you stumbling backwards, your heel catching on a tree root and landing harshly on the dirt. A squeak leaves your lips without thought, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth. The boy heard it, because his head swivels in your direction. He can’t see you, but you catch him scanning in your section of the forest. You roll over in the dirt and make an ungraceful dash into the trees, your vegetables banging against your torso with each stride.

After making sufficient distance, you duck behind a tree, pressing your back against the trunk as you stop to catch your breath. Your hands find your knees, doubling over and gagging as you process the horrific sight. Each of your gasps for air are skewered with guttural croaks, your face drained of color.

Killing each other, that is the name of the game. You cannot blame the tributes for that. But what you just saw was uncalled for, barbaric, cruel. Dragging out her excruciating pain and suffering, and for what? A show?

When you realize what you have to do, your heart twists and a curse leaves your lips.

You look up to the sky, and speak, much louder than you should, “Give me something,” You say, voice raw, scratchy, and desperate, “Give me something to put her out of her misery.”

“Please,” Whispered like a desperate prayer.

Your head ducks between your knees again, dry heaving towards the dirt.

Just when you think your plea has been ignored, you see it. The parachute takes its time as it descends from the sky, landing gracefully in the dirt at your feet.

You open the large metal canister attached to the parachute as if it’s an explosive. Careful fingers reveal a long hollow tube and two darts, tied in a neat bundle with a patterned, textile ribbon.

You blink, face blank as you undo the knot with shallow breath and roll the darts between your fingers.

Engraved onto the bulbous tip that secures the sharp needles is the number ‘8’ in beautiful, elegant writing.

One for her, one for him.

She must be the girl from eight, the girl who stood as far apart as she could from the boy on the chariot. The girl who prompted the boy to lunge forward and volunteer, the girl the boy had his tunnel-vision set on seeking out.

You grasp your hands tightly around the darts, take a deep breath, and head toward the tree line.

This is risky, so risky, but you know you cannot let this girl suffer. Every moment she is alive, moaning miserably and dangling in the air, your insides will be knotted with guilt. This girl, that you don’t even know, will haunt you for the rest of your short life if you do not free her from her pain. You have nothing to lose. Even if you end up just like her, you’ll know you tried.

You will have to kill the boy who spared your life. How is that going to play with the audience? A cruel, heartless girl with no mercy, who refuses to treat others how she has been treated.

Through a particularly thick cluster of trees, you crouch down and observe the scene.

The boy from eight has moved on from searching for the source of the disruption you made, now casually peeling an orange as if there’s not a skinned-alive human dangling and groaning in pain a few feet away. Each of her low, maimed cries twists your insides a little tighter.

You’re not sure how you’re going to pull this off.

You could wait for him to leave, but each moment you don’t act that girl will suffer.

You could go right for him. From here, you don’t see him armed with a long range weapon, only his medium-sized blade, while you can get him from a distance.

If you don’t miss.

You could lure him into the trees, hide yourself in the thick foliage. You might be able to get away with missing if you can camouflage yourself.

This seems like your best bet.

You tuck yourself further into the trees, load the dart gun, and take a deep breath. Hopping from one foot to the other as you work up the courage, you let out a whoop, as loud as you dare.

You wait, eyes pinched in a brace and body shaking against the tree bark. When the trees don’t rustle, you let out another yell, louder than before.

Your eyes pinch shut for a moment, mumbling unintelligibly under your breath.

It’s the third whoop that draws him into the trees. You can hear him, he must be only twenty feet away.

You get a glimpse of him through the trees, the flash of a blade pushing branches out of the way or the black of his clothes moving slowly into the forest.

When he passes you, you slink through the trees, tailing him with silent feet, side stepping branches and exposed tree roots. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, your skin pulsing with each pump of your heart.

You get as close to him as you dare before you place the tube to your lips.

Your face tightens, you take a deep inhale-

But you can’t do it.

You can’t kill this boy.

He deserves it, more than deserves it. But you can’t do it.

Your eyes flit behind you.

Without little thought, your feet break into a run towards the cornucopia, sore ankles making a beeline for the girl. With one hand you hold the dart gun, the other on your rope sash to keep the vegetables from banging against you.

From this close, each wheezing breath and raspy moan that leaves her clenches your teeth a little tighter. It’s like she’s using her breaths to scoop out your heart bit by bit.

You can see the wrinkle of her exposed muscles, the bones of her fingers, her eyes coated in her own blood.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper to her, maybe you yelled it, you’re not sure. Tears well in your eyeline and blur your vision.

You do not hesitant to take the spare dart in your hand and thrust it right into her side.

“I’m sorry!” You hiccup, the tears flowing relentlessly down your cheeks, “I’m sorry!”

She lets out three final rattling breaths before she succumbs to the poison, her chest stilling.

You let out a sob, turning away from her lifeless body.

You flinch when her cannon fires, another choked sob leaving you. She’s gone but you can still hear her moans of pain in your ears.

The tree branches are disturbed, your head whipping in the direction of the fall forest.

Your weak ankles break into a run, wobbling as you get up to speed. You look over your shoulder, vision blurred with tears, but see no one.

Excited voices, more than one, are approaching.

You’re coming to the conclusion just as the careers break through the pine trees and confirm your suspicion.

Out of the fucking frying pan.

Your strides double in speed, feet running along the border of the spring and desert quadrants.

“There she is!” They call, just as they did when they heard you yelling out for Konig in the forest.

The careers seem to glide over the snow, not the slightest bit hindered by the terrain as they chase you.

The boy from eight breaks through the trees, you know because he’s yelling in the same voice that screamed at you while searching for the girl he wanted to skin. Booming and frothed in rage.

You can’t make out what he’s saying, deafened by your own crystallized breaths and the blood pumping in your ears.

When you dare look over your shoulder, both the careers and the boy from eight are merging at the cornucopia, the boy from eight raising his blade and running straight for the pack of careers with fervor.

For a moment, the three remaining careers and Eight redirected their attention to the new threat. You hear the sound of metal clashing, indecipherable screaming.

It’s the girl from one, you think, who orders one of them to follow you as you run along the border of the hedge maze.

You do not want to duck into the hedge maze, but you are injured, lacking concealment, and being chased by a trained killer.

Maybe this would be a good time to die.

Let it be done by someone who knows how to land a fatal blow in one strike, a quick death.

A cannon fires, but you don’t slow, feet slamming ruthlessly against the ground. Your ankles beg for respite, and your body isn’t in the best condition, every muscle croaking out their ache with each jostle.

If it’s the cannon for the boy from eight, the careers will have no problem catching up to you.

Each breath is painful, and between your own wheezes you can hear the footsteps drawing closer.

You really did give it your best shot.

You hope Price knows that. You hope he’s proud of you, proud of you for not giving up.

You did better than you thought you would. Surprised yourself, surprised the nation, by making it this far.

It’s quick, so quick, the arms snagging you by the waist and forcing you to exhale the rest of a broken breath. At once you’re slammed into the sand, stunned at the sharp pain that explodes in your ribs, losing grip of your final dart.

The arid environment, the scalding sand, it doubles the beads of sweat that pull from your pores.

There’s little to do about Titan, the monstrous boy from District Two, pinning you to the ground with minimal effort.

It’s laughably weak, but you still swing at him, your shoulders digging further into the boiling sand with each swing. Frustrated but exhausted grunts leave you with each swipe at him. He doesn’t bother to restrain your hands, he swallows each swing without so much as a flinch.

He puts his knife to your throat - not yet pressing against your flesh, but enough to threaten you into keeping your upper half pinned to the gritty sand. The heel of his palm digs into your collarbones hard enough it’ll surely bruise.

Your nails scratch at his massive arms as you bury your head further into the stand, squirming away from him as instinctual squeaks of prey leave your throat.

“Sh, sh, sh,” Titan coos, trying to place a finger to your lips but pulling away when you snap your teeth at him, “We’re not gon’na kill you.”

He gives you a smile, exposing his menacing canines.

“Yet.”

He laughs at his own stupid joke, throwing his head back, the cool steel of the blade brushing against the crook of your neck as he laughs.

He finishes on a deep inhale, giving you a wicked smile.

“I think you know what we want, yeah? So tell us where he is, and we’ll let you go! It’s that simple!”

“Just kill me!”

He snorts before throwing his head back in another laugh.

“Adorable,” He says with a sigh, “You’ve really got the stuff, don’t you Nine?”

Titan swivels his head, “He can’t be far, right? I know you don’t like to stray.”

He gives another laugh.

“Or are you having a fight?” He laughs again, and you grunt in annoyance, “Trouble in paradise, hm?”

Just get it over with.

“Why don’t you yell for him?” He asks.

“Fuck you!” You grunt.

Titan’s smile falls. This Titan - a cold faced Titan - is much more nervewracking than an irreverent one.

Titan’s eyes have gone absent, his lips bored. His knuckles scrape down your chest as his hold tightens around the handle of the blade.

Your face is plastered with regret, lips parting to rectify but it’s too late.

His other hand springs to wrap around your throat, cutting off your breath without hesitance.

Your legs kick underneath him, but your strength is no match for the powerful boy planted firmly on your front.

His eyes have unfocused, he’s not even staring at you - he’s staring through you.

Before, at least he was human, even if he was insane. Now his features are entirely devoid of emotion, of empathy.

His hand relaxes, but his grasp remains firmly around your throat. Immediately you’re choking in breaths, coughing on the air you gasp desperately for.

Titan’s stare is still icy, but his teeth grit, and his light requests turn to threatening demands, “Call for him.”

You’re still trying to catch your breath, eyes blown in fear and lips parted around fearful huffs.

“Call for him!” He yells, emphasizing his sentence by squeezing your windpipe for just a moment, to remind you he can, and jostles you by the neck.

You won’t.

You won’t succumb to this lunatic’s demands. You will not give him the satisfaction.

He may kill you.

Your life, he can have. That is the name of the game.

Your dignity, he may not.

That is something that only you are entitled to tarnish.

He presses the knife further into your skin, slicing through just hard enough for blood to bead on your flesh, “Call for him or I’ll make you!”

When he yells, his shout tears from the back of his throat, the words ripped from low in his gut. His whole body jerks with his words, his spit flying from his lips and splattering on your face.

It’s his spit - momentarily stunning you as you wince away from the spray - that activates something in you. It forces your thoughts back into the body that was reacting solely on fear, and at the same time gives you an idea.

You do not hesitate.

With a deep pinch of your eyes and an animalistic grunt muffled by tightly pursed lips, you fling two fist fulls of sand in the direction of his face.

Immediately he flings himself back, his hands retracting from you as forearms move to wipe the gritty sand further into his eyes. He scrambles to his feet and fumbles backwards away from the pain that follows him.

Titan’s spitting in between his cries as he tries to rid his mouth of the sand.

You keep your face pinched tightly even after the sand stops raining back down onto your face, blindly kicking away from him, rolling over on the scalding ground and rising to your feet.

You shake your head, stumbling blindly through the desert as you clear off your hands to brush clean your face.

The rough grains feel like sandpaper against your skin as you rub away both sand and his spit with your shirt.

You open your eyes, blinking rapidly to test your vision and find it unscathed before making a rush back for the spring quadrant, shoes swallowed and kicking up puffs of sand with every step.

Titan’s folded in a heap on his knees, grunting in pain and trying to rub out his eyes. He curses you with every breath.

You scoop up your final dart and its tube, and for a moment, you consider driving it right into Titan’s flesh, but your feet are already scrambling away from his foaming threats and grit wails of pain with no desire to look back. You’re still powered on adrenaline, snap decisions made with little room for consideration.

It feels like you’ve been running for miles, but it couldn’t have been far. When your ankles give out, you’re sent stumbling onto the plush grass of the spring quadrant.

You have no strength to attempt getting to your feet, so you lay face first in the grass in the position you collapsed in.

You go over all of it in your mind as you catch your breath and try to pry the ghost of Titan’s fingers from your throat.

You already knew the careers had wanted to know where Konig was, but Titan demanded you to use your voice to lure him to your aid. In fact, Titan refrained from killing you so he could use you to draw Konig in. He had you on a silver platter, blade to your throat, and he let you slip through his fingers because he wanted to use you to get to Konig.

You assumed your brush with the careers in the forest was their shot in the dark, the best lead they had to find their white whale. But this run-in with Titan has given more than enough credit to their taunts in the forest.

The careers think that you and Konig are allies.

Why else would they think your voice would lure Konig in?

The only other possibility is that Titan thinks that Konig hates you enough to come running at the opportunity to be the one to end your life.

But that doesn’t make sense, because Titan suggested the reason you weren’t together in that moment was because you were having an argument.

‘Trouble in paradise’ as Titan said, which implied there was an established partnership between you and Konig in the first place.

Price, you think.

It was Price.

Price saved you back there, not you.

He didn’t assign Konig as your chaperone in training because he actually thought you were trouble, he did it for the same reason he put you in matching outfits for the interview, the same reason he ensured Konig was caught off guard by being asked about you in front of the entire country.

Price wanted the tributes to think that you and Konig cared for each other. That you were something more than just two tributes from the same district.

Because Price knew that if he could make everyone believe you and the strongest tribute were friendly, the other tributes would keep you alive as leverage against the ultimate threat in the arena.

Konig didn’t have a weakness, so Price made you his weakness.

Titan could have easily ended you, then and there. But he didn’t, because he thought that with you at his fingertips, he held the key to taking down his toughest opponent.

But of course, that’s a mislead, tipping the advantage back to Price’s golden boy.

And you unknowingly laid the groundwork for it - didn’t you?

Holding Konig’s hand at the opening ceremony, him accepting yours without hesitance.

Is that when Price got the idea?

It’s genius.

It directs the heat off of his star tribute’s back and onto yours, and simultaneously gives the other tributes a reason to keep you, the bait, alive. It gave you the opportunity to make an escape from Titan, which of course, Price knew you would.

Because you fight dirty, you fight smarter, and the careers only know how to fight right . They are trained to kill, not keep alive. And everyone knows, especially Price, that as long as it is not a fight to the death - it will be a fight that you win.

Why didn’t you think of it?

Price has manipulated the others into keeping both of his tributes alive, all without your knowledge.

Of course Price couldn’t tell you that was the plan, you would have never accepted it. Konig needed to be blindsided on that stage, and you would have fought Price tooth and nail at the implications. At the very suggestion that you are ‘bait.’ That you and Konig cared for each other enough to come running into trouble to save each other.

The plan only works if both tributes stay alive, which is something you would have never agreed to. Tethering your life to Konig like that, so blatantly relying on him when the entire time you’ve been trying so hard not to do so. Surely even Konig would have put up even a bit of a fight at being assigned a weakness.

Konig is not only overshadowing you, but Price has stitched your fingers to his coattails.

It’s an impossible arrangement.

If Konig dies, you have no worth to the other tributes. If you die, the size of the target on his back doubles.

And if you both manage to pull it off until the end - well, what happens then?

The plan both ensures your survival and destines you to die at the same time. No matter how you work it through in your head, Konig always comes out on top.

You almost don’t even notice the parachute that lands by your head. You barely have the energy to lift your head from the dirt, cheek still nestled into the grass as you pry open the container.

It’s a single, modest dinner roll wrapped in ribbon. You roll onto your back and hold the gift in front of your face, using the bread to block out the sun. The ribbon is beautiful, a neatly trimmed scrap of patterned textile that matches the one that tied the blow darts to their tube. It’s knotted into a perfect, perky bow on the roll’s apex.

You carefully undo the ribbon and rest it on your core as you inspect the loaf. Underneath the bow lies the number ‘8’, branded with slightly darkened crust.

It is a gift, but not from Price. The ribbon, the bread’s branding - this is a gift from the people of District Eight. If the ribbon is anything to go by, then the darts were a gift from them as well.

The bread is a thank you for putting that girl out of her misery. For risking your life to put her pain first. For eradicating the boy from eight, one way or another.

You hold the loaf just under your nose, taking a deep inhale. It’s still warm, you can feel the heat radiating on your lips.

“Thank you,” You whisper to the wind, to District Eight, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You eat half of it right there in the dirt, in the wide open air, not even muting your groans of pleasure as you take bites into something hearty for the first time in the arena.

The bread isn’t the rich Capitol bread, it’s district bread. Inferior in every way, but it is the most delicious loaf of bread you’ve ever tasted in your life.

You wash it down with what’s left of your canteen, which isn’t much.

You’re going to have to get back to the snow soon, and unless you want to go the long way around, you’ll have to cut across the cornucopia again.

Your head drops back into the grass in defeat.

You’re debating whether or not you should give up, whether or not to just lay out here in the open and wait for someone to come along and kill you.

Because you know what the alternative is.

It’s nightfall when you finally move from the dirt, moved by your own thirst.

When you stand, the ribbon you’d placed on your chest flutters to the ground. You stare at it with deep breath before bending over to pluck it from the grass. You’re not sure why you want to keep this reminder of the girl from eight, but you can’t stand to discard it. You loop the ribbon around your wrist and sloppily tie it into a bracelet.

You shake all the sand you can off yourself, fix your poor, knotted hair, and make your way back to the cornucopia. You need to get back to the fall quadrant, back to the precious snow and camouflage.

You don’t have much of a plan other than haul ass as you approach the edge of the hedge maze and break into the open air of the cornucopia.

You’re not sure if it’s the darkness, the dwindling number of tributes, or a mixture of both, but you manage to go undetected as you make the clearance.

Good. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.

You dig yourself far into the forest just in case, getting lost in thick branches on every side before you stop to fill your canteen.

You find a place to settle in for the night, already aching for warmth of the spring quadrant. You briefly consider risking sleeping in the open air just so you don’t have to freeze on the chilled dirt of a cool fall night, but you barely manage to fight the urge.

You find a thick patch of trees to hide in, doing your best to camouflage yourself as you settle in for rest.

The anthem plays, but you don’t bother getting up to watch the faces in the sky. You don’t want to see the girl from eight, you don’t want to put a face to the girl turned to butcher meat.

You’ve lost track of how many tributes are left, but you know the pool is shrinking.

And for the first time, you’re thinking maybe you could actually win. It’s a thought that you immediately reject, but it creeps its way back in through the image of the careers and Konig simultaneously receiving life-threatening injuries, and maybe a lucky shot with a blow dart for whoever remains. Maybe the gamemakers will somewhat tilt the scales in your favor, some rigged trap that wipes out the heavy hitters.

Rest does not come easy, but you manage to sneak in a few hours of sleep over the course of the night, in between nightmares and the shutter of your own teeth.

The morning is quiet. You have no plan, sitting at the trunk of a tree and resting. You finish off a good chunk of your vegetables, only a few husks of corn remaining.

You haven’t heard a cannon since the boy from District Eight. Things have quieted on the field, which is bad news for you. If the audience gets bored, the gamemakers will make it interesting. Soon, when the tributes get sparse, they will begin to force you together, manipulating you into confrontations.

The exhaustion has fully caught up to you. You spend the entire day resting by your tree, occasionally getting up to stretch your sore limbs. You elevate your ankles, nurse your water. For a moment, you even forget you’re in the arena. It’s like you’re having a solitary picnic in the forest on a day off in District Nine.

It is hard to ignore how lonely you are.

You are aching for human touch, or even just a conversation that doesn’t revolve around fearing for your life.

And there he is again, worming his way into your brain like an infestation of parasites, memories of his comfort multiplying on an infested mattress of loneliness.

For the first time since you’ve been in the arena, you reach into your sports bra and retrieve the golden locket that’s made its home against the flesh of your chest.

You smooth your fingers over the front, staring down at the shimmer of the gold. It’s warm from the heat of your skin. You flip it in your fingers, fidgeting with it. Nails pry the locket open just to close it again with a satisfying snap.

You should probably get rid of it. Why would you want to carry around a trinket from someone who tried to kill you?

You should throw it into the forest, just get rid of it.

Konig did borrow it from Ruby, though. It needs to get back to her.

You tuck it away.

There’s really no other way to describe how you spend the rest of the day other than fooling around. You make a crown out of some leaves, undo the thread of your rope and braid it - you even grab an extra handful of snow on your water run so you can make tiny snow-people in your hideout.

It’s as you’re working the multitool into some bark of a maple tree, trying to figure out how to get sap, when you hear it.

It sounds like a wave, or wind, or both? You can’t see or feel anything, blinded by leaves, but just the sound alone is enough to prep yourself to run if needed. It’s coming from the desert quadrant, you’re sure.

There’s a vibration that shoots through your boots, the sound of scraping and grinding. The ground is shaking beneath you, the world now turning to a vibrating blur. Its rumbles intensify until you lose your balance, knocked onto your front to support yourself as your body is roughly tossed around.

You hear the sound of trees uprooting, snapping, the sound of danger approaching. With the instincts of a scared animal, you sprint away from the roar of the trees crashing to the ground.

Running seems impossible on the dirt that jostles you around and makes the tree branches harder to navigate.

With each break of the branches and crack of the trees uprooting, the image of the boy from eleven sears in front of your eyes and robs you of precious breath.

After a small tumble you get back to your feet, tripping over tree roots and scraping yourself on branches.

The rumbling grind of shifting ground draws closer, and you risk a jerk of your head to see chunks of earth and entire trees being swallowed into a glowing pit of lava below a fifty foot drop.

A squeak leaves you as you force yourself forward, flinging yourself through the forest. When you clear the trees, your eyes lock onto the cornucopia, desperate for safe ground.

Your attention is shifted to the left, where the desert quadrant is nothing but a raging dust storm. It’s the sound you heard earlier, gusting winds pulling up an orange fog of sand you can’t see a foot beyond.

When your feet find the soft grass of the spring quadrant, you risk looking over your shoulder to survey the chaos.

The fall quadrant has completely deteriorated, leaving nothing but a gaping hole filled with hot lava. The tops of trees are swallowed up by the mesmorizing orange pool, once colorful petals now erupted in glorious flame.

The thunderous disruption of ground does not just come behind you, because the sound of a forest being destroyed does not stop when the last piece of the dirt littered with ginkgo petals slips away into inferno.

The pine trees are being wrung out, the sound of bark snapping and pine trees uprooting. You can see the snow being shaken off the their snow-capped peaks as they are jerked around under extreme force.

When you hear the shrieks your attention is immediately stolen by the boys who had run into the snow district during the bloodbath clearing the tree line. Your body immediately tenses at the sight of them, but you can’t take your eyes off the ten-foot wave of snow at the boys heels. In an instant they are swallowed by a wall of snow that does not even brake at the two boys who have disappeared in its stomach.

As the avalanche draws closer, you make a run for the hedge maze until you hear an unearthly impact that reverberates like glass being struck. You look over your shoulder and slow when you see that the avalanche has been stopped at the quadrant’s border, not daring to spill into spring’s grass or the abyss of molten rock.

It piles up against the quadrant border, a perfect right angle wedge of a snow. It doesn’t stop until the pine trees are completed swallowed and the snow easily covers three stories above your head.

Those two boys are dead for sure, you think, but there’s no way you would have been able to hear the cannons over the snow.

From your left, you catch a figure emerging from the raging dust storm.

You turn on your heels to run, hesitating when you realize your only choice is the hedge maze. This, this is where the gamemakers wants the final tributes to go.

This is the finale.

You swivel your head to the figure behind you, heading right for you. He’s covered head to toe and obscured by a haze of sand, but there’s no mistaking a figure that large. It’s Konig, and the sight of him rushing towards you makes you push through the gut-turning fear of the looming hedges.

You’re in a full sprint into an entrance, legs already begging for you to give it a rest, lungs fighting against each stride, but you don’t slow.

You clip your shoulder on the entrance and hiss with pain, hand immediately springing up to rub out your shoulder. As you run, you pull your hand away to find your palm coated in bright red blood.

Your arm stays firmly pressed to your upper arm, futilely trying to staunch the flow as you push forward, careful not to brush against the hedge’s walls.

The ground starts to rumble again, vibrating under your feet but with much less intensity than the fall quadrant. It’s still enough to throw you off balance, a hand springing out to find support but only slicing open your palm on the hedge’s defenses. Your hand, now dripping with blood, pulls to your chest as you fall to your knees from the shaking earth.

This is it.

You are surely going to die in this awful hedge maze. The maze that offput you so before will be your final resting place.

It takes you a moment to realize the walls are sinking into the ground. Its leaves and pink blossoms being swallowed up by the dirt. You squint up to see the tops of the mazes revealing more and more sky as they descend.

You bring yourself to shaky feet, surveilling the descent of the walls.

Your heart pounds at the possibilities that will soon be revealed to you. Surely what lies behind these walls will be your death.

When the walls have descended to your height, you shakily get to your feet, peering over to find only more hedge.

The walls disappear, the tops coated with a layer of grass that melds perfectly to the ground and leaves no evidence of their existence, and the earth stops shaking beneath you.

Only four walls remain in an equal square with no exits, trapping you alone in a large grass field. You take a moment to survey your wounds, peeling your hand off your shoulder. Your shoulder was flayed, inflamed four-inch slashes burning along your upper bicep. Oozing, thick red blood drains freely from the raised flesh, staining your jacket and coating your hands in its warmth. The slices on your palms were serated, whatever having sliced it carving out extra flesh as the ground jolted you around.

With your good hand you reapply pressure to your shoulder in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood as you inspect one of the remaining hedge walls.

They were barbed. What seemed like inviting leaves and cherry blossoms are actually spikes and petals of razor sharp blades.

Once you’ve made the discovery you make distance from the walls, looking around for the horror they clearly wanted you to face.

For a moment your eyes are searching the hedges, waiting for impossible beasts to slink from the wall’s blades. Capitol mutts bred designed with psychological and physical damage in mind.

You get the opportunity to catch your breath, checking on your wounds in between scans for threat.

A flinch tears through you when the ground rumbles again.

Through the disorientation of the trembling dirt, you make out that only one wall is descending, and it was not one that leads to open air, but one that lead to another chamber within the maze.

At the massive hedges sink lower, you can see the area leading to it has also shed its complex chambers, revealing a similar square pen of hedges.

Whatever awaits for you on the other side, you’re about to be ensnared with it in a rectangular prison with no chance to escape except to bury yourself through the hedge’s razor sharp blossoms.

You reach to prime your blow dart, but your hands come up empty. Frantic hands pull the rope from your torso and scramble through the loop of rope, but it’s gone.

It’s gone.

Surely lost to the lava, knocked free from your shoddy knots during the earthquake.

The dread is instantaneous, flooding you from head to toe with a nauseating heat. Your only shot, you just let your only shot drain through your fingers.

Fuck.

When the wall is three feet from the ground, you can see a singular tribute on the other side, bent over in a similar position to support themselves on the ground that thrusts you about.

As soon as the tops of the maze sinks into the ground and disappears, the tribute is already tearing through the grass and in a beeline straight towards you.

It’s the girl from District One.

“Nine!” She yells in a war cry so daunting it makes your gut instinctively twist.

In her hand she wields her spear, coated in layers of blood. From the old, crusted brown of week-old kills to the deep red at its silver tip, freshly drained from minute-old wounds.

Your breath catches, eyes wide.

You were surely going to die, another blood stain to decorate her spear.

You’d never seen so much rage coming from one person. Not even the boy from eleven or Konig, both moments from killing you, didn’t wear an expression with this degree of loathing.

A sickening, animalistic wail rips from the back of her throat as she raised her spear, not breaking her lengthy strides.

“He killed him!’ Her froths carry when she’s close enough, “He killed him!”

You’re not sure who ‘He’ or ‘Him’ is, but you know you’re about the take the blunt of her vengeance.

‘Just don’t let anyone in there use it against you, okay?’

Your brows pinch, you take one breath to steady yourself, and you brace.

When she’s only a few yards away, she launches her spear at you, another pained cry shrilling throughout her grunt. When you make a dive out of the way, you can hear the spear whiz right by your ear and disturb tufts of your hair. You’re sure it nicked you, but when your hand comes up to your ear to confirm you’re not sure if the blood on your hands is from the wound inflicted from the hedges or her.

You rush for the spear that lodges in the dirt three feet from you. You’re quick but she beats you to it, and you have no choice but to cling onto the blood-stained handle with your injured hands and hope that she can’t make enough distance to pierce you with it.

“He killed him!” She repeats, words so savage she’s spitting in your face.

The spear lays horizontally between your chests, erratically jerking in the space between you as you grapple for it.

She’s all muscle, arms toned and her face doesn’t look any more hollowed than it did when she stepped into the arena. It’s easy to see she’s overpowering you, flinging you around as she yanks on the spear in your firm grip.

“He killed him! He killed him!” These words punctuate each torque of the blood-stained handle, a vicious replay spewing from her mouth on repeat until it turns into a brutal harmonization. With each pull you wince as the tainted wood forces against your sliced hands.

It’s the neck snapping of the boy from eleven, and with each yank that pulls you forward you see Konig snapping the boy’s neck.

“He killed him!” Yank, snap! “He killed him!” Yank, snap! “He killed him!” Yank, snap!

From here you can see the tears streaming down her face.

It must be the look of bewilderment, or maybe pity, that flashes across your face, because as soon as you notice her tears her face relaxes for just a moment, like she’s waking up from a dream. She cuts off her repeated cries with another vicious grunt, tightening her grip onto the spear’s staff, and runs full force at you.

The weight of her pulling the spear closer suddenly disappears, knocking you off balance. The handle catches on your collarbones and sends you both crashing to the ground.

You don’t let go of the spear as she moves to straddle you, sliding down your thighs and planting herself firmly on your stomach. White knuckles contrast the blood you’re adding to her collections of stains, mutilated palms fighting for the spear.

With one hand she forces the staff of the spear into your sternum hard, and with the other she swings at you, connecting her fist to the side of your jaw with enough force to make you see a blinding white.

When you return, hands still clasped firmly around the spear, she’s digging into her waistband for something that will surely end your life.

You trash violently under her before you find some fucking sense and use your good hand to reach through the hem of your collar, into your sports bra, and retrieve your multi-tool.

Pluck and a multi-tool, that’s all you have.

You were most certainly going to die.

You manage to flip out the first tool your blood-covered fingernail found as she reveals a six-inch long silver blade.

“He killed mine, I kill his!” Her scream is guttural, her words through hysterical tears barely registering when she swings using both hands to thrust the blade down into your skull.

With a swing of your arm you block the knife, slicing a deep, lengthy gash into your forearm as your other hand jams the inch-long corkscrew straight into her eye.

The shriek of pain is unlike any other you’ve ever heard. It completely swallows your cry from the deep gash on your arm elicited. The feeling, the sound, of her eyeball squelching as the corkscrew pierced is still shooting up your arms, making your body cringe more than the nasty gash she left behind. Immediately her tensed body folds in on itself, her fingers shooting up to thread through the multi-tool and coating her hands with the steady stream of blood.

With all you have, a grunt escaping from deep in your diaphragm, you work yourself free from her restraint while she’s distracted by her wounds.

You retrieve her spear, now stained heavily with the same blood that spews from the gashes along your shoulder, arm, and hand, coating you in dark red sleeves of dripping blood. The girl swings at you, but not yet used to her loss of depth perception and debilitating pain, misjudges how far away you are.

You take a moment to let yourself wallow in your pain, to shake the feeling of skewering the girl’s eye that still shed tears as you back away from her haunting wails.

She’s foaming obscenities at you, trying to come to her feet but dropping to her knees as the jostling of the multi-tools shoots pain through her with another haunting wail of agony.

When she reaches up to yank the multitool from her eye, you prime yourself with the spear, pointing it in the direction of a howl so piercing it deafens you. Her blood covered eye is still threaded onto the corkscrew when she pops it free, ripping out a chunk of her shredded optic nerve with it.

You have to close your eyes, your heart sinking as you wince in sympathy at her pain.

You can’t bring yourself to end her like this. Now would be the time, it would be the smart thing to do. You’re perfectly justified, you know that. She attacked you, she tried to end your life, and you are completely in the clear morally and legally.

Through her sharp sobs you can hear Price’s voice. He’s screaming at you through the screen, he’s giving you permission, he is telling you to use that pluck to give her spear one last poetic stain.

But you can’t do it.

Her maimed wails are drawing nothing but pity, knowing you are the one who is responsible for her pain, even if she had just tried to wedge a knife through your skull.

“Nine!” She shrieks a yell of vengeance and pain from her mouth coated in the blood that pours from her eye socket.

“Nine!”

She shakily gets to her feet, her hands already swiping for you, blindly swinging the multi-tool still stabbed through her own eye even though you’ve trailed your blood at least twenty yards away.

“Stay away!” You yell as your slices palm screams under a tightened grip on her spear.

“Nine!” She cries, her feet picking up into an unsteady jog toward the sound of your voice.

You back away, keeping the spear firmly pointed in her direction.

The girl from one, blinded by her injuries, tears, and rage, does not slow when she runs full force into her own spear, the entire silver tip disappearing into the flesh just under her rib cage.

The wooden, round end of the spear thrusts into your gut with a breathtaking amount of force. Your eyes were already closed when she coughs a warm, sticky spray of blood onto your face.

She’s choking on her own blood, the last haunting sounds of life gurgling from the back of her throat.

You don’t let go of your grip on the staff until the girl from one goes limp, her body dropping to the ground and pulling her spear from your blood-covered hands. Even when the cannon’s boom fires to signify her death, you can’t open your eyes, can’t bear to see the girl from District One’s lifeless body. Your tears begin to streak the fresh blood on your face.

“I’m sorry!” You scream in the direction of her body, “I’m sorry!”

Your pleading cries become hysterical, your words repeating as foaming as the girl from one’s as she charged at you with the same spear that killed her. The feeling of her squishing eye still shoots up the bones of your arms and down your spine.

Your eyes finally snap open at the encore of the ground shaking.

You try and move away from the girl from one, her body bouncing up and down like a rag doll - and suddenly you’re staring at the Eleven’s lifeless body bouncing off the metal platform.

You’re knocked to your limbs, blood draining freely down your arms and painting the grass with generous red streaks as the earth quakes.

The large hedge wall is descending, and as it is swallowed into the ground you can see what remains of the hedge maze, entirely stripped of its inner walls and chambers. Over the top of the descending wall you can see another large, rectangular pen of equal size that will soon form a square of the hedge’s outer most borders with no exits in sight.

When the wall has fully descended, you rise to shaky feet and find two tributes rising from the ground that finally settles. Two more tributes lie dead in heaps on the grass at the far end of the maze.

The tribute on the right is The Mountain, no mistaking that size, but he’s covered from head to toe in gear. Thick gloves. A pair of green cargo pants. Black guards on his joints and forearms. A holster sits at his upper thigh, carrying some sort of blade. He wears a thick black vest on his front that spills over with supplies.

The most haunting is the mask, a nearly uniform black fabric that drapes over his neck and bunches around his vest, pinned in place underneath a tactical helmet. It reminds you of an executioner.

He doesn’t even look human . Any comfort you had found from him before the games, any scraps that remained after he snapped that boys neck and raced to kill you, has completely disintegrated.

The mask has two circular cutouts above two faint streaks of color and reveal the only part of him exposed to light, those eyes that have shared so many reassuring glances with you - and they’re staring in your direction.

You hear him shout something at you, your name, you think, that harsh voice carrying all the way from across the hedge maze. His hands find his head before he starts in a jog to you, slowing when he sees the body of the girl from one, imbedded on a spear and lying limp in the grass.

He looks back to you, and then his head whips in the direction of the other tribute to find a knife flying in his direction. He throws himself to the ground in a dodge, and the boy from two takes his opportunity to advance on Konig in a full sprint, already reaching into his jacket pocket for a replacement weapon.

Konig rolls forward before getting to his feet, making a run for you.

You’re frozen again, eyes flicking between both of the imminent threats before you, trying to figure out who you should focus on first.

You start in a run towards the girl from one’s body, not slowing, but wincing as you pull the spear from her abdomen without looking down. You run a few more yards before whipping around, slightly crouched as you extend the spear in the direction of Konig and the boy from District Two. Titan, the boy with canines that come to perfect, razor sharp points.

Konig fumbles when he meets your eyes, the fear and the determination in them as you point your weapon at him. He slows, his eyes momentarily finding the tip of the spear, and then the body of the girl from one before he turns to look for Titan. He retrieves a large knife, it’s not the scythe you saw him wielding at the bloodbath, but it’s similar. A long, silver blade that almost constitutes a sword raised in warning at Titan.

Titan slows, and sidesteps to survey you both. The body of the girl from District One lays limp in the center of a three-way standoff, with two boys who very much dominate you in size and strength on either side.

Titan gives a cruel laugh, showing off his razor sharp canines. The knife he had retrieved from his jacket falls to his side, as if he’s not even worried about either of you atttacking.

“Where you been District Nine?!” He yells almost teasingly from his spot, clearly directed at you. You tighten your grip on your spear with your blood-soaked palms, brows furrowing.

“I’ve been looking for you!” Titan follows up in an almost sing-song tune.

He laughs at your confused face, the way your eyes uneasily flick from Konig to Titan.

Titan takes two slow yet confident steps in your direction, and both you and Konig prime your weapons with a flinch.

Titan laughs again, bending his core - as if you treating him like a rabid lion was just so hilarious it steals the breath from him.

“You two, wow. What a pair!”

You and Konig share an unsure glance before returning your careful eyes to Titan.

He points at Konig with his knife, “You I expected. It was always you, right?” He sloppily points the blade in your direction.

“You I didn’t expect!”

He laughs again, taking a few more slow steps toward you, “We knew what you were, though!” He shakes his head, “We knew you were important. Just didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

“It’s a good thing you did,” A cruel smile unwinds across his face, canines fully exposed, “I hate admitting this, but I don’t think I’d be able to do it without you.”

He finishes by taking a few more steps towards you, and Konig follows his lead this time, both of them closing in on you.

You have to stop taking steps away when the end of your spear brushes against razor sharp leaves.

“Back up!” You spit, thrusting the tip of the spear in the air in Titan’s direction as a warning. He holds his hands up, the knife held with just a few of fingers as he displays his palms.

“Easy now, Plucky,” He says with a condescending smirk, “I wouldn’t want to end up like your friend here.”

Titan doesn’t drop his smile in the slightest when his boot steps on the corpse of the girl from one, a symphony of ribs snapping under his boot.

You suck in a breath at the noise, the boy from eleven blinding you with his lifeless eyes. Your whole body cringes, eyes pinching closed and stomach threatening the retch.

Snap, bounce, dead.

The boy from two’s boots break into a sprint towards you, followed shortly by the sound of Konig’s footsteps, and all you can see is Eleven’s lifeless eyes as you swing your spear blindly through the guts of the girl from District One.

You hear Konig’s harsh voice shout.

The spear’s handle scrapes painfully against your flayed palm as it’s ripped from your grasp, a pair of brute arms trapping around you as you flail your limbs, scratching and clawing at faceless muscle.

You’re quickly jerked so that the assailant is behind you, pressing your back to his chest. A sturdy forearm wraps across your collarbones, the other digging firmly into your lower stomach.

When you’re firmly pinned, you can see Konig, frozen in place and staring right at you through his hood as you thrash in Titan’s arms.

You can feel the vibrations of his words on your back you when he speaks, his lips tickling your ear as he coos into it, “Oh, it’s okay, Funny Girl. You don’t need to fight it.”

Your head trashes violently against his sternum, spitting grunts leaving your raw throat as your bloody, injured hands scratch at his forearms.

“I said don’t fight it!”

You flinch at the volume of Titan’s voice, no longer playful and teasing, booming his direct order in your ear as he shakes you in his grip.

His arm slides up from your chest to wrap around your neck, nestling you between a bulging forearm and bicep. He gives you a warning squeeze, cutting off your air just to show you he can.

“Behave!” He hisses in your ear.

Your hand comes up to grab onto Titan’s crushing arms, futilely pawing at him in an effort to give yourself more breathing room.

All you can do is stare wide-eyed at a faceless Konig, his blade primed as you wriggle in Titan’s grip.

Titan lifts your feet off the ground by your neck, drawing half of an inhuman squeak from you before your windpipe is fully constricted.

“Now drop it!” Titan yells.

Your legs kick in the air as you search for ground, fingernails scratching at Titan’s arm and leaving streaks of your own blood behind. Eyes wide with terror and mouth gaping for air that can’t be inhaled.

“Drop it or I kill her!”

Konig lets his weapon fall to the ground, slowly raising his arms to show his empty palms to Titan.

Titan laughs, letting you dangle and struggle for air a little while longer until he sets your feet back on the ground. He takes his arm off your neck and puts his palm to your forehead, pinning your head against his chest.

Immediately you’re pulling in breaths, choking on the air you’d been fighting for with everything you have.

Titan’s just giddy with excitement, even doing a shuffle with his feet to release some of his energy.

“Do you see this, Funny Girl?” Titan whispers, his lips pressed against the grooves of your ear as you cough for air, “See how you reduce a mountain to a molehill?”

You jerk your head away from him, squirming in his grasp, but he applies more pressure to your forehead.

“This is just perfect! This is rich,” Titan laughs before he continues, “You know only one of you can leave, right?” He throws his head back in a laugh, forcing your body to turn slightly to the right.

His voice drops, each word coming to a point that digs at Konig, “And yet you’d still sacrifice yourself to save a girl that never had a chance.”

Konig must have some sort of plan you don’t fully understand, because none of his actions are rational.

“Don’t be shy, Konig. Come on down!” He says with an over-the-top voice.

Titan laughs again as Konig takes careful steps closer, palms still displayed in surrender.

Titan presses his lips back to your ear and speaks excitedly through clenched teeth.

“I am so glad you made it this far.”

He gives your body a shake before he leans down to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek from behind.

You wince in disgust, giving a few more earnest thrashes against his arms.

It fills you with fury, actually.

This brute can have you restrained, manhandle you and steal your breath - that’s part of the game, you can’t blame him for that.

But to tease you like a cat does his prey?

To kiss you?

You’re over Titan, you decide.

“Oh, what’s the matter, Funny Girl?” He says in mock sympathy, removing the hand from your neck to cup your jaw, fingers creating indents on your face as he smears your own blood with his fingertips. He tilts both your body and your chin to force you to look at him.

“Don’t be upset,” He coos, ignoring your grit teeth and glaring eyes, “Some people were just born to serve me, to die for me.” His voice falls to a dangerous growl, his fingernails digging painfully into your cheeks, “Get over it.”

His eyes flick to Konig, who’s approaching too fast for his liking, “Woah, woah, woah there, lover boy.”

Titan’s arms switch positions, the one across your stomach rising to skim his knife across your front, the other letting go of your face to secure your waist to him. He presses the blade up to your throat, grazing the metal against the crook of your neck in a clear threat.

You tilt your chin up to get away from the blade, looking down your nose at Konig, who freezes.

“Did you not like that?” He asks Konig, applying more pressure on the blade to your neck, not yet breaking skin, but pulling a fearful squeak from you as the cool steel creases your flesh.

He lowers his voice to a purr, “Do you not like it when I touch your things?”

Titan takes his hand off your waist, knowing the knife on your throat will keep you firmly in place. He brings his other hand back up to your jaw, pinching your cheeks and shaking your head teasingly at Konig.

You and Konig have no choice but to lock eyes, his gear offering little comfort as you pull down on Titan’s arm. You can’t read much behind that half-lidded cold stare and black hood.

“Just do it!” You yell at Konig, “What are you waiting for?! Just kill us both!”

“Oh, I’m going to,” Titan presses his fingers tighter into your face in the assumption you were addressing him.

He shakes your head again and lowers his voice, pressing his lips back into your ear.

“But I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life,” He says, “I’m going to take my time.”

“Do it Konig! Kill us both!” You yell, furrowing your brows and thrashing against Titan.

“Do it Konig!” Titan mocks. He puts his mouth back to your ear again, “Let’s see if he can do it.”

He pulls away to shout to Konig, keeping your face firmly in his hold, “Do it! Kill us both!”

Konig stays still in his spot, not reaching for his weapon, just flitting his eyes between you and Titan.

“What are you doing?!” You scream, “Do it!”

“Stupid girl,” Titan grits in your ear, “Don’t you know he can’t?”

You elbow him hard, and he makes a low guttural noise, briefly letting go of your face. You go to push free from his knife but his hand quickly snatches a head full of your hair.

You let out a yelp as he jerks your head backwards, his knife briefly jutting out in the direction of Konig, who used your distraction as a chance to near closer. He’s close now, but when Titan notices this he takes a few steps backwards, dragging you back by your hair with him.

Titan laughs at Konig, giving you a harsh yank on your scalp. “Trying to save her?”

The hand with the knife pulls back and snakes around your neck again, threatening to squeeze the life from you.

“Kill us! Don’t let him win!” You get out.

“I am so sick-” Titan cuts off his statement the same moment he cuts off your air, lifting you off the ground.

“Tell her!” He booms, “Tell her why you can’t do it!”

Konig’s hands lower, eyes widening as he watches you claw at his arms, blood still gushing from your wounds.

“Tell her or she dies! Tell her!” He jerks you around by your neck, body swaying like a rag doll.

Your nails dig into Titan hard enough to draw blood, your legs kick his with the soles of your boots, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tell her!” He shouts, his spit dotting your cheek. He makes a show of tightening his grip on you.

You’re vision is getting spotty, the swings of your fists slowing against unmatched strength.

“Last chance!” He says.

Konig sees the life fading from you, and breaks into a sprint, full force in your direction.

If you could speak, you’d tell him ‘finally.’

You close your eyes and brace for death, listening to the sound of Konig’s boots rapidly approaching and the blood pumping in your ears.

You take the brunt of his impact, your face and already injured arms on the receiving end of the supplies tucked in his chunky vest.

The three of you lose balance, toppling backwards until Titan regains his footing, and then you’re smushed in between two monstrous boys, waiting for one of them to take the win.

It happens so fast, and for most of it you had your eyes closed, but as soon as Titan releases his grip on your neck you’re roughly flung to the side where you drop to your hands and knees, coughing and wheezing as you try to catch your breath.

There’s the sound of impact after impact, and when you have the strength to lift your head, your heart stops.

Titan never regained his footing.

Konig had shoved you both backwards where the razor sharp hedge walls had imbedded themselves so far into Titan they’re supporting his weight. His knife lays unreachable at his feet, blood pouring generously and coating the leaves under his back in thick, dark red trickles.

Konig isn’t letting him slide off, one hand pressing firmly into his chest so the blades in the hedge walls work their way further into him.

Titan’s eyes are wide with shock, his head being forced to the side with each blow Konig lands to his face.

You jolt at the sight and fumble back into the grass as you crawl backwards from the altercation, eyes locked onto the scene you can’t bring yourself to look away from.

Konig lands a hit to Titan’s jaw, and blood sprays from his mouth. You hear a crack, Titan’s cheekbone shattering you think, and you finally pinch your eyes shut as the Eleven’s neck breaks behind your eyelids.

He’s delivering blow after blow, almost mechanically. One after another in beats so rhythmic you can anticipate and wince for the next strike before it even lands.

At least with the boy from eleven he made it quick and painless. Dead before he even knew what hit him.

This is overkill.

It’s twisting your gut, nausea boiling under your skin and bile creeping up the back of your throat.

You’re not sure why he doesn’t just grab the knife and finish him off.

You can’t think of a worse end. Beaten to death, feeling your skull steadily cave in, each punch pushing you closer and closer to death while jostled against a thousand blades.

When Konig is finally done with him, Titan is unrecognizable. Face mashed in, skull caved, beaten to a bloody pulp. His teeth chipped and broken, probably having swallowed his defining canines after Konig knocked them down his throat.

The boom of the cannon makes you flinch.

When Konig turns around and takes a couple steps back, he doesn’t look at you right away. He stares off into the distance at a far hedge wall. You can see the gear in his vest rising and falling with his heavy breaths. Filtering out whatever emotion must come with killing a man with your own fists, surely.

Titan’s body begins to slide forward, what’s left of his head pressed limply to his chest. He reaches a tipping point and his upper half drops, the rest of the blades on his lower back brutally ripping through his flesh as he collapses in a lifeless pile on the grass.

When Konig’s cold, deadly eyes find yours, you can’t help but start, letting out the squeak of a prey. You can’t move, lips parted, eyes blown in disbelief.

“Wait, please!” Your bloody palms shoot out defensively.

“You can have it!” You shout through a raw throat, voice desperate. You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but to no avail. Your voice lowers, “You can have the win, but please.”

Your words spill out one after another in a jumbled mess, “I just don’t want to die fighting, and afraid, and - “ You cut yourself off, your voice dropping to nothing but shallow breath, “Please.”

He’s silent, the half-lidded eyes through his black hood revealing nothing to you, still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Let’s just talk, before you do it, please. I - I don’t have any weapons,” You keep your arms up, your whole body shaking.

You pinch your eyes shut when it elicits no reaction, your voice shooting back up to raw and desperate, “Konig, please! Just let me prepare myself!”

“Please,” Your final beg finishes with a whimper, sight still cut off with a tight pinch.

And then you hear his boots take off in a full sprint, and you know that this is it.

He wants you to die scared and fighting.

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH II ·

[pixelchills]

My Dear Daffodil Refsheets for Sun, Moon & Solar!

Some written info under the cut:

Sunrise:

Just as in the original AU, Sunrise is sweet, kind, impatient, and somewhat naive Animutant with a golden heart. Curious, yet easily scared. Packed with anxiety. Sun was created to help Solar in Fazbear's original location; he was crafted not to be better than Solar but to balance him and his personality. While Solar is very independent, flamboyant and rebellious, Sunrise is quite codependent on Solar, awkward and anxious, made to be a people pleaser. Sun works as the secondary attendant in the original Superstar Daycare, but he becomes the main caretaker of the Daycare when the locations merge. While Sun still grieves after his love for Moondrop, he is happy to live and work with Solar, who becomes his safety like a family. He is unsure of his feelings towards Solar, partially because Solar keeps giving him mixed messages. Sun and Moon share similar wardrobes in their respective colours and patterns. Sun likes wearing funky socks.

Moondrop:

Same as Sun, Moon's personality is very similar to the original AU. When the locations merge, he still has his original blue eyes, since the fight with El Chip hasn't happened yet. I don't want to spoil too much about Moon, so I'll leave it here.

Solar:

Tall and lanky, self-destructive chaotic Solar is what he has shown so far to be: smart, depressed, annoying, and quick to switch between his emotions. He is unpredictable at first, but Sunrise's arrival sets his life back on track. Sometimes little backsteps happen, but Solar's obsessive nature seems to be going so strong he'd crawl back from the grave just because of it. Originally he was the main attendant in the Daycare, but when the locations merge, he is given another occupation. After Solar gets to know Sunrise, he takes him under his wing, taking care of him like he was originally supposed to take care of the kids in the daycare. Solar is very over-protective of Sun, and is ready to cross boundaries and even break the law to make sure his little flower is safe. Partially it's because he thinks Sun's flaws (anxiety, naiveness) are his fault. But mostly it's because just like Sun, deep down Solar has a big heart that just needs to love someone. Solar dresses somewhat smartly after hours, but on his free time he is most often seen in sweatpants and loose jumpers. He also has a habit of stealing Moon's clothes. He dislikes shoes and socks and only wears open slippers when working.

[nyctoaerah]

𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

“𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐔𝐒

╰┈➤𝐒𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒: You found yourself stripped of your immortality, a punishment for daring to flout the edicts laid down by your father. Your transgressions? Two-fold. First, the grave sin of disobedience, and Secondly, the cardinal offense of falling irrevocably in love with your Lady in waiting. In your father’s eyes, the sanctity of your divinity was tarnished by a same-gender relationship, a concept that he vehemently repudiated as aberrant and abhorrent. Such unforgivable love, he pontificated, dulled your goddess-like essence. Thus he used his powers and casted you adrift into a parallel universe suffused with curses and sorcerers whose love aren't really the healthy type of love, a punishment to show you that ‘Love’ isn’t all about sunshine and rainbows.

╰┈➤𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Homophobia, Gore, Abuse, Mentions of Abortion, Slow Burn Yandere, Love Percentage Au.

╰┈➤𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Yandere! Jjk x Fem! Isekai’d! Goddess Reader.

╰┈➤𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Shoko Ieri, Yuki Tsukumo, Kento Nanami, Utahime Iori, Choso, Toji Fushiguro, Sukuna Ryomen.

╰┈➤𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: the jjk stuff will start at chapter two, since chapter one is just more like a prologue or something, and chapter one is more like an explanation of the reader’s backstory and how she ended up in the jjk world. Make sure to read the info at the end!! Hearts and Reblogs are greatly appreciated<3. Also posted on Quotev and Wattpad.

╰┈➤𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 7161 words.

╰┈➤𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

╰┈➤𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

LEISURELY AND GRACEFULLY STROLLING along the intricately designed and curving hallways of your grand fortress, the melodic echo of each step you took resonated harmoniously in the peaceful atmosphere, while the  touch of your heels met the gleaming crystal ground beneath you, causing your very own image to disperse and reflect through the pristine transparency of the exquisite material.  

The  chandelier hanging above emitted a light gleam, resembling the vibrant shade of crimson red, while the light bathed the corridors in a delicate crimson glow, illuminating the exquisitely detailed drawings adorning the fortress walls, and suspended in mid-air was a red colored crystals, floating on the air, their movements seemingly autonomous.  

As you took each step, your hair swayed and bounced in synchrony, its lustrous strands reflecting beams of the crimson light of the chandeliers. The delicate pearls and intricate jewelry that adorned your figure jiggled with every move you make, However, as you strode forward, your attention was suddenly drawn when a voice spoke.

“Lady [Name],”

A soft and melodic voice, seemingly hollow yet penetrating, reached your ears.The words flowed from their lips with a delicate sweetness. You turned and spun around, the tinkling sound of your jewelry resonating through the momentary silence. 

Meeting the gaze of the caller, whose eyes resembled the  depths of the ocean, the caller’s eyes reflected adoration, their pupils dilated, and so did your own.

And your solemn expression transformed into a beam.

“Ataraxia!”

“Mhm, it’s me, princess,”

Ataraxia offered a subtle nod and  bowed before you. A smile graced her succulent lips, Her sleek black tresses cascaded down her neck as she lowered her head, revealing the intricate crystal blue and golden jewelry that adorned her neck and collarbone.

Your excitement over seeing her was palpable, evident by the rapid clicking of your heels against the crystalline ground. It almost seemed as though the force of your footsteps could shatter the delicate surface, yet somehow it held strong. Without hesitation, you enveloped her in a tight embrace, drawing your bodies close together.

As the warmth of your hug enveloped her, ataraxia couldn't help but release a soft, joyful giggle. She couldn't help but wonder why you were particularly affectionate today, as you weren't usually so physically demonstrative. Typically, you were filled with boundless energy, though your quirks occasionally teetered on the edge of eccentricity.

However, she understood that being unconventional and weird  was simply a part of who you were—and she loved you for who you are. It didn't bother her, especially considering the fact that you had lived a sheltered life within your own empire, with minimal interaction aside from the servants and your father. 

“Missed you so much, ‘raxia, haven’t seen you in days..” you murmured, burying your nose into the delicate nook of her neck, your warm breath ghosting over her skin.

Ataraxia reciprocated your sentiment, her voice just above a whisper, “I missed you more.”

Her azure eyes darted around the area, on the lookout for any prying eyes. The relief that washed over her when she realized they were alone was almost palpable. 

“We should probably find a more private place, yeah?” Ataraxia gently suggested, pulling away slightly from your embrace, head tilting to the side inquisitively and pretty ocean blue eyes observing the confused look on your face.

“It’s improper for us to show such affection in public, where prying eyes are everywhere.” She explained gently.

“We musn’t indulge in it, do you not agree, sinta?”

Ataraxia inquired, observing the subtle movement of your eyebrow and the way your smile abruptly transitioned into a frown. 

“Right..” you acknowledged, releasing a sigh filled with disappointment. 

She raised one eyebrow in curiosity at your reaction, her  fingertips firmly holding onto your chin as she observed the subtle movement of your hyoid bone with every breath you exhaled.  

“Are you mad?”

She queried gently, the hues of her bright blue eyes delving into the depths of your own [E/c] orbs in search of a response, pondering if her words had caused you offense. Releasing your chin, she shifted closer to you, leaning in as her lips hovered just above yours.

“Don’t be.” Her words were barely audible as you released a sigh, moving your face closer to the curve of her neck, taking in the fragrant aroma of jasmine that surrounded her like a cloak.  

“I’m not, don’t fret,” you assured,.

Upon hearing your reassurance that you are not upset, she visibly relaxed, you could see the faint movement of the muscles on her neck relax from its previous tense state, and it made you smile as you pulled away.

“I’ll never get mad at you, you’re my world after all... My soul.” You said with a closed eyed smile.

“I know, but i can’t shake this nagging doubt that perhaps you are  teetering on the precipice of anger...” Ataraxia revealed, her lips contorting into a  pout that stirred a quizzical arch of your eyebrow, followed by a chuckle that bubbled up from within your throat, finding her cute.

“Not mad, m’love. ‘just realized that you’re right” you murmured tenderly, taking her hand and pressing a reverent kiss upon it.

“Are you certain, love? I harbor no desire for a rift to fester between us,”

With a decisive nod, you assured her,

“Beyond doubt, my dear.”

A warm smile enveloped your features as you tenderly placed a hand upon her shoulder, guiding her with deliberate care towards the shared sanctuary of your quarters.

Throughout the whole walk, you were silent as the realization of ataraxia’s words set in—that displaying affection in public was not an option for several reasons. 

Firstly, your father held homophobia and despised homosexuality. Secondly, your relationship with Ataraxia remained clandestine. Thirdly, homosexuality was considered a significant taboo in your world, as men were presumed solely for women, and vice versa. The idea of men loving men or women loving women romantically was shunned and a taboo.

And yet, that was precisely what you were engaged in—a same gender relationship. Furthermore, there was the final obstacle of being in a relationship with a servant. 

Ataraxia, much like yourself, was a goddess, but her family had assigned her as your lady-in-waiting. From the time you were on the brink of adolescence, Ataraxia had been faithfully by your side. Despite the societal constraints, both of you had developed a deep affection for one another.

Because How could you not? You cherished the way Ataraxia provided guidance on various matters, the way she imparted knowledge, the way she described the world beyond your secluded existence dictated by your father's iron fist, her personality is pleasant and Her physical appearance was an added bonus, as she was undeniably beautiful. 

Conversely, Ataraxia adored your lively spirit, a stark contrast to her own calm demeanor. However, as they say, opposites do really attract. In addition to that, the contrast between you and other members of royalty is remarkable. They communicate in a regal manner, exuding power and elegance, while you express yourself with a delicate, sweet, and casual tone, yet you still manage to uphold an air of grace, thus you stand apart from them as someone who remains untainted, despite being influenced by your own father's manipulation and brainwashing during your upbringing.

But therein lay the predicament. Regardless of the depths of your love for one another, being together was an impossibility as long as the absurd laws outlawing homosexuality lingered and your tyrannical father reigned.

If it were ever discovered that the two of you engaged in a romantic relationship, severe consequences awaited. While you were willing to take the risk, Ataraxia hesitated. She feared that her family would suffer the wrath of your father alongside you, and you couldn't blame her for feeling that way. After all, your father was known for his merciless nature.

Your father, he who rules the universe, Aionarch, held the esteemed title of the ruler of all gods, and the god of eternity, reigning over both the realm of the living and the deceased. As a primordial god and the creator of the world, he was extremely powerful and was immensely respected and fear, and under normal circumstances, you would have taken great pride in being his offspring, but Alas, his despicable personality and tyranny had tarnished any sense of admiration you could have harbored for him.

As a goddess and his child, you inherited certain powers from him, such as the ability to shape-shift and communicate with animals and the dead. However, your primary abilities consisted of pyrokinesis and cryokinesis.

Nevertheless, you had yet to fully master your cryokinetic powers, leaving you reliant on your pyrokinetic abilities, which proved to be relatively simple to wield. Regrettably, you had only primarily employed these powers for mundane tasks, such as culinary preparations, and never in a battle, because your father would get mad in seeing your precious and delicate skin get ‘tarnished’, or as he claims.

Although you possessed a retinue of servants, your father, Aionarch, insisted on teaching you the culinary arts, proper etiquette, and other artsy stuff, deeming them necessary for a goddess like yourself, solely because of your gender. This notion infuriated you, as his misogynistic, homophobic, manipulative, and overall abusive behavior had become all too familiar. 

Throughout your entire existence, you had been confined within your father's realm, only interacting with him, the other divine servants, who comprised both goddesses and gods, fairies, arcanittes, cheirovile, and a small number of demigod slaves.

As the gods forbade any interaction with humans, as they considered such relationships repugnant, since mortals could never be on par with divine beings, thus, only divine beings could reproduce with each other, and Consequently, anyone who dared to engage in a romantic relationship with a human faced severe punishment and their offspring, if any, were promptly reduced to the status of slaves—The demigods.

You empathized deeply with these unfortunate slaves, as a single misstep could result in unimaginable torment. They were not treated as individuals but rather as subhuman creatures, subjected to degrading treatment and regarded as mere training dummies, an object at that. An object that is to be degraded and to be destroyed.

You vividly recalled your father urging you not to extend pity to these individuals, asserting that they deserved the divine punishment, for disobeying the ridiculous rules he had made, thus, he insists that they brought forth the misfortune that has bestowed upon them.

Divine punishment, or as people calls it.

Divine punishment was the worst punishment anyone could ever suffer. According to him, anyone who dared to defy him would suffer his wrath and endure divine retribution. 

Another thing, is that divine punishment was not the typical disciplinary measure—where people would go to jail or get whipped 30 times. it was absolutely more brutal than that.

Every single day, those condemned to such a fate endured relentless torture, both day and night, for all eternity. Moreover, anyone who extended a helping hand to those subjected to divine punishment would inevitably share the same fate.

And the punishment, wasn't very pleasant, and you know it too well.

Because you had experienced it too, albeit, a less worse than the others, because you had attempted to alleviate the suffering of one of these tormented souls. Fortunately, your father's retribution towards you was not as severe as that inflicted upon the other nefar.

Nonetheless, the dreadful experience left behind a permanent scar on your back, each stroke of the whip searing through your flesh and delving into your inner muscles, striking your spine repeatedly till it shatters and your divine powers would work to heal the wounds and prevent you from dying, but albeit, it was all useless, because they wouldn't stop until Aionarch had deemed that you had been disciplined enough.

It gets even worse than that. Not only were they subjecting you to painful whippings, but they were also adding fucking salts into your wounds. These salts would seep into your open flesh, penetrating deep into your inner muscles, causing them to contract and intensify your pain.

The irritation they caused your muscles was unbearable, inflicting excruciating pain upon you. Furthermore, they haphazardly sliced off two of your fingers and thrusted a sword infused with acid into your skull. They even twisted it, resulting in a sickening squelching sound that merged with the painful thwacks of the whip striking your  back. 

However, amidst this horrifying ordeal, there was a slight glimmer of mercy. Fortunately, the torment inflicted upon you lasted only for a duration of two hours. This was due to the benevolent intervention of your father, who, in his somewhat twisted display of kindness, believed that you had been adequately disciplined. Consequently, he saw fit for you to embody the qualities of a true goddess rather than resemble a pitiful princess who defies her father's commands.  

However, it may come as a surprise to many individuals as to why you would assist one of those individuals who had endured the consequences of divine punishment, ultimately resulting in your own torture. 

The individual you extended your help to happened to be Xeranthi, your biological mother. 

Similar to you, your mother possessed the abilities of a goddess and could manipulate both flowers and light. Xeranthi, just like you, was a victim of aionarch. Despite her tragic circumstances, Xeranthi exuded a sense of sweetness, gentleness, and care towards others.

Her inherently cheerful and lively nature captivated the hearts of numerous individuals who admired her exceptional beauty and heavenly demeanor. Moreover, her pleasant personality added to her allure and charm. She had been living a blissful life, filled with contentment and satisfaction, until aionarch abruptly entered the scene, shattering her tranquility as he forcefully snatched her away from her freedom, coercing her into an unwilling marriage.

After aionarch had taken advantage of her, she eventually ended up having you, and she held a profound hatred towards you because you were never intended to exist. You were the unwanted consequence of her pain and suffering; you embodied the repercussions. It was unsettling for Xeranthi to see that you inherited your father’s [E/c] eyes and even his features, which evoked a shiver of unease within her. 

The expectation was for her to despise you, but how could she? The moment you entered the world and locked eyes with her, your innocent and doe-like gaze instantly melted her heart. The way you giggled and radiated sweetness towards her was something she didn't experience with aionarch, and it brought her immense joy. Xeranthi was grateful that you didn't grow up to resemble aionarch; she found solace in the fact that you were different.  

Xeranthi made a brave attempt to protect you from the harm caused by your father. She desperately sought to remove you from that dangerous environment when you were about sixteen years old. Being your loving mother, Xeranthi could not bear to witness you enduring the same suffering she went through.

Tragically, her plan was foiled and she faced severe consequences, as she was accused of kidnapping the cherished daughter of aionarch, which was you.

This divine punishment was imposed upon her due to her audacious act, and you tried to help her but ended up getting harmed too.

Suddenly, Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a thunderous, resonant voice that belonged to aionarch, causing your stomach to instantly sink with trepidation. The chamber, otherwise deserted, seemed to reverberate with your father's commanding tone, making your heart race and threaten to burst from your ribcage.

“Fair maiden, come to my chambers. We shall discuss matters of utmost importance. Do not dawdle, for my patience is dwindling”

Ataraxia's face displayed concern as her brows knitted together, and you could see the tension in her clenched jaw, a clear sign that she was worried for your wellbeing.

“Have you done something wrong?” she asked, her concern evident. You shook your head in response, assuring her that you were innocent. 

“No”

”Do you think he knows?” she asked with a breathy voice, her worried eyes searching yours as she grasped your hand in hers, seeking comfort and support. Trying to dispel her fears, you spoke,

“I highly doubt it,” you replied, trying to ease her concerns

“Perhaps he wants me to do something or maybe i fucked up another etiquette lessons again ”

Frustration laced your words as you almost snarled, punctuating your frustration with vulgar language.

“He’s so fucking—”

Ataraxia gasped at your choice of words, immediately tightening her grip on your hand, her pointed nails inadvertently pressing pressure and piercing your flesh to abruptly halt your speech.

“Please refrain from using such vulgar language! It is improper,” she chastised you, causing you to wince as your wounded hand began to heal naturally, your anger still simmering beneath the surface.

“You and your overly strict morals,” you grumbled, Criticizing her for her perceived excessive moral standards and observing as your skin regenerated and the blood disappeared.    

“It's not strict; it's simply adhering to basic societal norms,” Ataraxia retorted, releasing your hand.    

“Whatever,” you muttered dismissively.    

"You will face consequences for your behavior. Acting un-princess-like is unacceptable," Ataraxia murmured, prompting you to raise an eyebrow. 

“Is 'un-princess-like' even a word?” you pondered, realizing that you had never come across it before.   

“Whether it's a real word or not, you will be punished,” Ataraxia brushed off your question, causing you to groan. 

“Punishment here, punishment there, punishment everywhere,” you grumbled, feeling overwhelmed by the constant discipline, because this is seemingly like an endless cycle of retribution. 

“Yes, exactly,” Ataraxia agreed.    

“I'll be fine,” you muttered, noticing the tension in her body language. Leaning closer to her, you pressed your lips against hers in a tender kiss. 

“Promise me,” Ataraxia pulled away from the kiss and gazed into your eyes, seeking reassurance. 

“I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, i take an oath by my father's name.” you vowed, placing your index finger over your heart and making a cross-like motion.    

“But then, if i don't come back unscathed, that wouldn't be a problem, for i would die for you.”

You said with a smile.

“You’re making it sound like you’re gonna die...” Ataraxia murmured, feeling a sense of foreboding creeping over her.

She surely hoped that you’ll be okay.

After all, she knows how cruel aionarch is.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As you entered your father's chambers, a wave of coldness washed over you, causing the breath you're exhaling through your mouth to visibly frost in the air and come out as puff of breaths.

The red lights overhead flickered intermittently, casting an eerie crimson glow throughout the room. With cautious steps, you walked on the crystal floor, the sound of your heels clicking on the ground echoing in the otherwise silent chamber. As each footfall connected with the crystal, it began to emit a soft, illuminating glow, mirroring the radiance of the chandeliers. Shadows twisted and danced on the walls as you continued forward. 

With a mixture of reverence and trepidation, you knelt down on one knee, dipping your head low as a sign of respect.

“Dearest ethereal Father,” you whispered, the words barely audible in the stillness of the room. It felt as if the entire atmosphere held its breath, waiting for your next move. 

“I have come as you beckoned,” you spoke, maintaining your lowered position and avoiding raising your head. The delicate fabric of your dress brushed against the floor, its threads resembling the softness of fine wool.

“Rise, fair daughter.” commanded your father, his voice deep and resonant, carrying an air of authority that never failed to send shivers down your spine. Slowly, you stood up, straightening your posture with great care. You lifted your chin high and puffed out your chest, mindful not to display any sign of weakness or disobedience. Back then, your father had chastised you for slouching, claiming it was unbecoming of a goddess like yourself. The memory lingered in your mind, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon you and you couldn't help but feel bitter.

Such expectations on you was placed upon your shoulders ever since you were a child.

“Thank you, father,” you responded, feeling a twinge of discomfort in your voice. At this moment, all you wished for was to be safely nestled in the arms of ataraxia, far away from the intense presence of your father. But alas, you remained in aionarch's chambers, bound by duty and obligation. 

“Did I grant you permission to speak?”

You were overcome with a sense of dread as a chilling sensation coursed through your veins, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. This unsettling feeling made your hand involuntarily twitch, and in response, you clenched your fists tightly, causing your nails to dig into the soft flesh of your palms. 

“No, you did not, i apologize” you mutter, the words escaping your trembling lips, you quickly lowered your head in a submissive gesture, attempting to apologize for your foolishness, because that's what Aionarch liked—Submission and control.

“Please find it in your heart to forgive your poor daughter's indiscretion,”

You fought the urge to wince, the words just felt so fake coming out of your mouth.

Your heart raced in your chest, and your throat felt constricted as your father finally revealed himself before you. His imposing figure towered over you with an astonishing height of 370 cm, a mere glimpse of his human form or whatever. In contrast, you stood at a mere 7'9 feet tall, making you feel incredibly small and insignificant. 

His hair, was heterochromic colored, the other one was white as freshly fallen snow and the other one was as black as an obsidian, it flowed down his broad shoulders like a cascading waterfall. It had a softness akin to the finest wool, and intricate carvings in the form of letters adorned his face. Some of these carvings bore the words "eternal" and "death," among others. His eyes shared the same [E/c] shade as yours, but his sclera were as black as the endless void. His skin was pale and delicate like a lily, accentuated his succulent lips and well-shaped nose and Overall, his physical appearance was undeniably attractive.

His long, slender fingers gently combed through your [H/c] hair and a shiver ran down your spine, sending a tingling and an unpleasant sensation in your body. His fingers effortlessly weaved through your locks, leaving a trail that felt as smooth as fine sand. Despite feeling discomforted by his touch, you kept your head bowed low, acquiescing to whatever he wants to do, but admist it all, you knew that there was a patronizing quality to his touch that unsettled you to your core.

“Tell me, my dearest daughter,” Aionarch whispered, his voice as cool and calming as the night breeze by the sea.

“What do i hate the most?”

His question made you shift uneasily, even as you maintained your low posture. It struck you as odd that he would ask such a question when he already knew the answer himself. 

“Disobedience and disloyalty,” you answered with a tightly pressed line of lips, aware of the consequences your response might bring. 

But still, curiosity sparks within you—why is he asking you that?

“Very well, my dear,” Aionarch murmured approvingly, his voice dripping with satisfaction. 

“And what did you do? haisayu?” he suddenly inquired, causing a sickening feeling to churn in your stomach. The intensity of his presence grew, and it felt as though he controlled your very breath, taking away your autonomy. It was as if his penetrating gaze could pierce through your flesh and bone, causing the wind to howl loudly and the ground to shake in response. It was clear that he was enraged, but the reason remained unknown to you. 

Your brows drew together.

It was a vague question coming from your father, however, a feeling of foreboding formed a pit in your stomach.

What have you done?

“What have I done...?” you repeated, perplexed, only to let out a choked yelp as his fingers tightened their grip on your hair. His sharp, black nails dug into your scalp, causing pain to shoot through your head as he forced your gaze upward, meeting his intense stare. 

“You have disobeyed,” he growled, his teeth grinding together in the dim light. The pressure of his fingers against your skull intensified, causing the pain to escalate without piercing through. As blood trickled down your face, you could feel his fury boiling over.

“You dare have the temerity to use my name in an oath?” Aionarch exclaimed, his grip on your head tightening, his sharp nails penetrating your skin, causing more blood to trickle down your face. 

“And to compound your audacity, you have committed a forbidden sin. You have allowed yourself to become infatuated with a servant, no less, and a woman at that!” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. When you had sworn your oath in his name, he had overheard it and began piecing together the puzzle, realizing the romantic relationship you had with your lady-in-waiting—Ataraxia. 

“How dare you love that woman?” he snarled, his anger palpable. 

Your eyes widened in realization and your heart sank to the pit of your stomach as you comprehended your grave error. You had indeed taken an oath for Ataraxia, using Aionarch's name. 

Undoubtedly, this was the gravest mistake of your life. You had truly fucked up, and the weight of that realization sent a shiver of fear down your spine.

Make a move. Something whispered in you.

Don’t be scared of him. All the whispers insisted, and you slowly found yourself getting agitated.

Why are you so scared of him? Fight back. You told yourself, trying to stop yourself from shaking.

Stop shaking. Damn it  You grit your teeth.

Fight back.

He thinks that your love with ataraxia is nothing but a nuisance

You felt your fingers curl instinctively into your palms, the bones of your knuckles pressing harshly against your strained skin until it became bloodless. The heat of his grip sank deeper, an branding iron searing your flesh. 

You wanted to retaliate, your body just wouldn’t move.

You searched internally for memories, recollections, anything within that could fuel your want for vendetta. But none came, no ember of indignation could be fanned into flame. 

That was, until a single word passed his lips—a phrase so caustic it ignited a fuse that had run its entire length within you.

“I suppose that i should just get rid of that woman, so that your puppy love will finally dissipate. Such audacity you have.... how dare you?”

How dare he judge your love, your heart, as if it were a mere plaything to be discarded at his whim?

You took a deep breath, staring back at him defiantly.

“I dare to love because love knows no bounds, father,” 

“Yes, i dare, i do love her, very much so,” You declared, causing him to halt in his tracks, his gaze fixated on you with a mix of shock and revulsion. His fingers remained firmly entrenched in your skull, a lingering reminder of his hold over you.  

“And it’s not puppy love it’s true love— Ack!”

You yelped when his fingers dug deeper.

“You forget your place, daughter. You are bound by the laws of our kind, and your dalliance with a woman is a betrayal of everything we stand for.”

A hiss of pain escapes your lips as you scowled.

“And what of your dalliances, father? Are they not equally condemned by your own laws?” you shot back.

“Do not force my hand, [Name].” He warned.  His fingers penetrated your skull, reaching deep into your brain, specifically targeting your cerebrum. With a firm grip, his fingers curled upwards towards your frontal lobe and you winced—he was probably searching for your memories.

“What has that woman fed my daughter?”

Aionarch muttered curses under his breath as he  tried to search your brain for any recollection of the witchcraft that ataraxia may have used on you.   However, all he could see were images of laughter, giggles, kissing, and just straight up a cliche love story.

This sight caused him to recoil in shock and disgust, as he never expected to witness his daughter engaging in such actions with another woman.  His teeth clenched, his eyes widened, and his blood boiled with anger at the disturbing scene before him. 

 

Despite his intense feelings of rage, the only thing that prevented Aionarch from killing you right here and then in that moment was the fact that you were his own flesh and blood and his only child. He struggled to control his impulses, torn between his paternal instincts and his moral beliefs. 

 

In response to Aionarch practically twisting some parts of your brain you clenched your own teeth and glared back defiantly.

“Have you satisfied your curiosity now?” you spat.

“This is pure love, father.” you asserted, refusing to apologize for your feelings or actions.  Your words only served to further enrage Aionarch, who struggled to come to terms with the reality of the situation.  

“And father, do stop the hate on homosexuality. There is absolutely nothing wrong with loving the same gender,” you firmly stated. However, this declaration triggered a strong reaction from Aionarch, testing his patience to its limits. In an instant, your head violently exploded, causing your skull to shatter into pieces and your brains to be scattered on the ground. The ground beneath Aionarch became tainted with the ichor color of your flowing blood. 

Filled with anger and frustration, Aionarch’s words escaped his mouth like a venomous serpent.

“How dare you, you insolent brat, challenge me with your disobedience?” he spat out with an intense rage burning in his eyes. 

Despite the horrific ordeal you had just experienced, your body began to regenerate. As this process unfolded, your eyes transformed from their usual [E/c] hue to a  shade of fiery red. Your teeth clenched tightly smeared with blood, and determination etched across your face as your head slowly but surely regenerated itself, healing from the violent outburst. 

“Loving someone of the same gender is perfectly acceptable,” you proclaimed.

“Loving that abhorrent and wretched goddess, is absolutely repulsive.” Aionarch uttered with disdain towards you, causing you to slowly lift your head in a tremulous manner. Anger filled your wide eyes, and the tension caused a blood vessel in your eye to pop, leaving a gold trail and tainting the whites with an eerie hue of ichor. 

“She’s not.”

“Don’t you fucking dare call my ataraxia wretched.” You seethed, your divine powers manifesting as the room’s temperature surged, as if engulfed in a raging inferno. In an instant, the very room was consumed by flames, with all objects in Aionarch’s chambers reduced to ashes but neither of you were affected nor perturbed by the scorching heat. 

“I love ataraxia with all of my being, and not even you, could change that.” As you raised your hand, a blazing fireball materialized and swiftly hurled towards him.

“You and your disgusting puppy love.” 

With ease, Aionarch evaded the attack effortlessly. Meanwhile, your scythe began to take shape in the air, crafted entirely of fire, its burning flames dancing. Firmly gripping the weapon, you charged towards Aionarch, who simultaneously summoned his halberd.

“You’re really trying to anger me, huh?”

“I’m only fighting you for her.” you spat.

“Besides, you’re already angry.”

“Such a funny little girl you are, haisayu.”

The clash of your scythe’s blade against his halberd reverberated through the air, showcasing his superiority in strength with a simple exertion of pressure.

Refusing to succumb to the overwhelming force, you valiantly pushed forward, releasing your grip on the scythe’s handle with one hand and launching fireballs at him using your free hand, Your muscles strained against the relentless pressure, the sounds of crackling flames and clashing metal echoing through the air.

Without any concern for his clothes catching fire, he  charged forward. In a swift motion, his hand swooped towards you, but you crouched down, however, he brought the blade southwards too, slashing your shoulder, causing you to emit a pained hiss and stumble backward.

It hurts.

His attack burns.

you instinctively evaded when he aimed directly for your heel—the area you knew was your weakest point. 

Reacting swiftly, you made a counter attack and tried to slash at his stomach, but he managed to evade the attack. Undeterred, you continued your assault, each swing of your weapon leaving a trail of blazing fire. 

“You’re really serious on insisting in being with that wretched woman...”

“I admire your dedication. Very well, daughter. Since you had taken an oath that you would die for her, then death shall you suffer.”

Suddenly, he raised his hand and conjured a massive sphere composed of eerie shadows, resembling dangerous spikes. Your eyes widened. What the hell are those?

In an instant, the shadowy projectiles began to fall from above, relentlessly targeting their intended victims. Unfortunately, one of these malevolent spikes found its mark, plunging into your head. It seemed as if the spike possessed a life of its own, resembling a leech as it descended deeper. 

To prevent the shadowy intruder from reaching your  weakest spot, you made a decisive choice and severed your own head.

Your head exploded in an instant one it was severed and you continued the fight using your body, relying on your regenerative abilities to regrow your severed head. With your fists clenched, an immense ring of fire erupted and surged towards the direction of Aionarch. Observing this unexpected move, a subtle furrow appeared on his brow, marking the first sign of his reaction in this battle.

“I see, so you have mastered your pyrokinesis.”

Aionarch lifted his halberd to block the attack.

However, the circular blaze abruptly transformed into a crescent-shaped assault, catching Aionarch off guard, and he narrowly evaded the attack.

“I have,” You answered, coughing up ichor, Exploiting his momentary vulnerability, you pressed forward, striking at him. But he jumped out of harm's way, frustrating your attempts. Undeterred, you launched a series of attacks, but with a swift kick, he sent you hurtling through the air, crashing violently into the wall. The impact was so forceful that it left a conspicuous dent in its wake.  

As you let out a painful groan, drops of ichor blood cascaded onto your face. Slowly, you managed to rise to your feet, but without warning, a strange sensation enveloped your entire body, rendering you completely immobile. It felt as though invisible strings had been attached to you, preventing any movement. 

“What the—”

Desperately, you attempted to use your fire to burn away the unseen restraints, but to no avail. The relentless grip of the strings refused to loosen. 

Aionarch, his voice filled with a mix of acknowledgment and disdain, remarked,

“You have undeniably grown stronger, evident from what I see.”

However, any sense of forgiveness was absent from his next words, delivered with a sneering tone.

“But do not mistake this for absolution. Your disobedience and futile attempt to challenge me will be met with divine retribution.”

In that moment, an excruciating pain surged through your body, causing your organs to rupture and spilling your ichor blood, marking your bones with its stain. Coughing up this blood, you watched helplessly as it tainted the ground beneath you.  

“How foolish of you to think that you could kill me, you really do amuse me, haisayu.”

you watched as his hand rose, summoning a multitude of dark shadows that snaked their way towards you, ensnaring you in their tight grip. The tendrils of darkness then began to sink their teeth into your delicate skin, causing you to grunt and grit your teeth in pain. The excruciating pain coursing through your body from your internal organs being torn apart was already unbearable, but the slow devouring of your flesh by these parasitic shadows only intensified your suffering.

As if that wasn't enough, he conjured sharp needles in his hand and hurled them towards you, leaving you helpless to evade their assault. The needles found their mark, penetrating your vulnerable body with an added venomous sting. 

“You’ve done a great job trying to anger me, and you have succeed. Good job.”

he says snarkily, a crooked smirk made its way to your lips.

“It’s my pleasure to achieve something that most people didn’t managed to do so.”

You were playing with fire, and you knew it, but you don’t regret anything, you don’t regret fighting for ataraxia.

Aionarch fixed you with an icy stare, his irises contracting into narrow slits as he considered your folly. Amusement curled his lips at your brazen insolence, though beneath simmered calculation as he pondered a retribution befitting your arrogance.

Upon souring your memories, he discerned your quixotic view of love as all sunshine and rainbows, an exempt from the muck and mire of reality. A sibilant sigh escaped him then, ivory lashes shutting and veiling his eyes.

“You’re about to find out what it’s like to survive without your ataraxia” Aionarch murmured, his wicked words sending a chill down your spine. Instantly, a surge of fear washed over you, causing your face to lose its color and drain of life. 

 “Let’s see if you can survive as a non divine entity on another world where humans are preyed on.”

Defying the torment and defiling your pain, you mustered every ounce of strength to retort,

“Don’t you dare...” Despite the searing agony racking your body, your voice resonated with a fierce determination. However, your defiance was met with a cruel response from the malevolent being before you, as your hand was brutally severed by the ravenous shadows, and it refused to regenerate because of the venom inside you.

“IF YOU DARE TOUCH ATARAXIA, I’M GONNA ​​​​​KIll​​​​​ YOU!”

Your outburst were mixed with other voices, as if it's not you speaking, which made a laugh to bubble on Aionarch's throat.

“What a funny excuse of a daughter i have,”

“Death won’t suffice as your punishment, i suppose...”

He smirked.

“Since you think that love is such a very beautiful thing... let us see how you like it to receive too much love..”

With a grin spreading across his face, Aionarch raised his hand once again, causing your eyes to widen in terror. A circular formation of vibrant yellow light materialized and hurtled towards you, engulfing your entire being within its luminous embrace.  

You suddenly become ensnared with the swirling yellow light that your father had conjured. You felt the light constricting around you, threatening to suffocate you.

And suddenly, you found yourself completely immersed in an endless sea of vibrant and dazzling yellow shades, each one radiating and shimmering before your very eyes, almost as bright as the intense ultraviolet rays emitted by the scorching sun.

The intense golden radiance fiercely impacted your skin tone, resulting in your flesh blazing with an indistinguishable fire, as if it were being consumed by an invisible inferno.

Simultaneously, the luminosity clung to you, pulsating around your physique like a relentless parasite, greedily devouring every ounce of your life force. Your glowing complexion broke open as a result of the burns, resulting in a forceful surge of blood that flowed out intensively. This spectacle filled the air with a fascinating combination of unpleasant yet strangely captivating smell, which could only be connected to the heavenly essence of your richly ichor flow of blood. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𑁍ࠬܓ━━𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

AIONARCH

𝟎𝟎𝟏.His name means controller of eternity.

𝟎𝟎𝟐.Aionarch is the god of eternity, life, death, rebirth, darkness, light and many more.

𝟎𝟎𝟑. He is the progenitor of the universe and he’s super possessive of Xeranthi and [Name].

𝟎𝟎𝟒.He’s homophobic and misogynistic. Since he's the first being to ever exist, he’s the ruler of the world and everyone bows before him.

 𝟎𝟎𝟓.He also has access to the multiverse and overall an OP character. He had a sibling though, a twin sister.

𝟎𝟎𝟔. In the fight, aionarch was just playing with [Name], because in reality, [Name] could never land a hit on him, no matter what the situation is.

XERANTHI

𝟎𝟎𝟏.Her name means withered flower.

𝟎𝟎𝟐.Xeranthi is the goddess of flowers and light, and she’s actually aionarch’s grandchild, aionarch’s twin sister bore some children, and has tons of them that reproduced and bam, there’s Xeranthi. cause yk? Almost all of mythology gods had incest on them, like greek, where hera and zeus are siblings or in norse, like literally, incest is normal if it’s in the gods.

ATARAXIA

𝟎𝟎𝟏.Her name means a state of serene calmness.

 𝟎𝟎𝟐.Ataraxia is [Name]’s lover, and she’s the goddess of rivers and ice! She’s also [Name]’s lady in waiting.

𝟎𝟎𝟑. She was the one who managed to knock some sense in [Name]’s brain, since [Name] was brainwashed by aionarch back then.

𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒:

𝟎𝟎𝟏.Cryokinesis.

𝟎𝟎𝟐.Pyrokinesis

𝟎𝟎𝟑.Shapeshifting

𝟎𝟎𝟒.Mimicry

𝟎𝟎𝟓.Achilles’ Heel.

𝐅𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓:

𝟎𝟎𝟏.The reader’s strongest ability is mimicry and shapeshift, as she has the capability to replicate virtually anything; with mastery of this ability, she could imitate absolutely anything. If she were to transform into another individual and had already mastered her mimicry, she would acquire that person's abilities.  

𝟎𝟎𝟐.   [Name] had a twin present during xeranthi’s gestation, yet xeranthi, in her typical fashion, ripped the twin out of her womb. Unbeknownst to xeranthi, [Name] was still in her womb and was born unintentionally.  

𝟎𝟎𝟑.   Ataraxia created life likes ice replicates of [Name], which are capable of performing tasks such as household chores under her control. [Name] has them situated in her room, where she diligently trains them to attack aionarch, mirroring the way Xeranthi taught her vines to do the same.  

𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐒.

𝟎𝟎𝟏.Sinta

It’s a Filipino word that means darling/love.

𝟎𝟎𝟐. Haisayu

It means beloved daughter, it’s a patronizing term.

[celenawrites]

After Hours: CH1 — Another Work Day

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Chapter Summary -

Just another day at work with your unique team.

Read on AO3? | Masterlist | Navigation

As you put up the final poster of your missing dog near a park, you ruefully recall how this wretched week had begun. 

You were two months clean of your no-good, chauvinist manwhore of an ex when you decided to leave your beloved golden retriever behind at your empty one-room apartment as you set off for a long commute to work. Granted, your life has become lonelier than usual with the remnants of your estranged partner scattered around the space - like his red toothbrush in the bathroom stand, the ukulele still hung up on your cream walls, or the crystal ashtray he used whenever he decided to smoke a cigar and set off the smoke alarms in the small (you prefer to call it ‘cozy’, despite his many protests) living room, forcing you to open up the windows and air out your room, hoping that the neighbors don’t lodge a complaint against you in the RWA.

But you have set up a routine, which is not perfect by any means - yet you make do with it. It also helps that your dog Butters is just an absolute ray of sunshine, always up for a walk and playing fetch to cheer you up whenever you get off work. After a long day of work, playing with him was all you had been looking forward to - until you noticed your ajar door and felt your world come to a standstill. Fearing the worst, you burst inside and frantically check around for any stolen valuables you may have to report to the police. So much for a chill night after work. 

Luckily, it had seemed no one had broken in and you had just forgotten to lock your doors in your hurry to catch the morning train. But the silence and the lack of your furry friends sets off alarm bells in your head. You quickly call out his name, hoping to catch a glimpse of that golden fur, but to no avail. Frantic, you rush out of your apartment as you yell for your companion. When you fail to locate him anywhere in your block, you resort to asking your neighbors in case any one of them had spotted him throughout the day. Some of them are peeved at you disturbing them, but they’re quick to pity your dejected figure, tears welling up in your eyes as the day catches up to your weary body. 

With aching legs, you make your way to the park you often frequented with Butters and in the plethora of crowd of people and pets alike, you attempt to search for your dear doggo and it is all in vain. With defeat weighing you down, you quickly dial for the police and lodge a report for your missing friend. Noting down your case number and the names of the staff in-charge, you sluggishly go back home and prepare a half-hearted dinner of heated frozen pizza, which you eat with virtually no appetite to satiate and go to sleep on the hard couch with swollen eyes and a migraine blooming between your temples as the empty bedroom still haunted you with not-so-fond memories. 

A week has passed since then, with no plausible leads to Butter’s whereabouts. The cops have even suggested you give up and get a replacement for him, which just made you all the more angrier at their blatant apathy. With each passing day, you lose your hopes of ever reuniting with your beloved fur baby; but you hope for Butters to be alright, wherever he is. 

Whoever has him, please take care of my baby, you silently wish as you stare at the blank screensaver on your desktop, activated due to your prolonged inactivity. Snapping out of your thoughts, you quickly press on the spacebar thrice until the Excel spreadsheets are visible again. Sighing at the banal tasks assigned to you, you quickly check your phone for any texts. Family and friends and classmates you occasionally stay in touch with;they all have texted you something or the other - a greeting, a link, a meme. And then there’s your ex, who has left you ‘on seen’ after you texted him to come and grab his box of belongings two weeks after your breakup. Whether it is because he is in denial over you growing a spine and breaking up with him when you caught him cheating, or because he believes that you would come crawling back to him and beg him to grace your life with his presence(which is a tempting thought that you frequently entertain, especially during lonely nights when you crave rough hands to caress you into a lull), you do not know and you don’t have enough fucks in order to find out either. 

“How’s my bonnie doin’?” a familiar Scottish voice asks, and you whip up your head to find Mactavish standing in front of your desk, all sunshines and smiles and mohawks as he greets you. 

“Hey Johnny, I’ve been better”, you rub the sleep from your eyes as you look at him with a slow smile of yours. John ‘Soap’ Mactavish was the first coworker you had befriended when you decided to join the tech security company One-Four-One. Director Laswell had asked him to give you a tour of the place and help you set up your work devices and he had taken on that responsibility with a toothy grin and a loud pat on your back, promising to show all there is to be seen and help you out whenever you find yourself stuck. With his easy going attitude and helping nature, it didn’t take you long until you found yourself looking forward to attending office, if only to spend some time with your coworker-slash-friend. 

“Worried about Butters, huh?” he somberly asks you, gently rubbing your upper arm in sympathy. 

“Yeah, I am just worried about him. I hope he’s okay”, your nose prickles with the fresh onset of unshed tears in your eyes and you bury your face in your hands as you try to take deep breaths and calm yourself down. Crying at the workplace never really ends well for you. 

“I know, lass. But I also know that Butters is a smart boy, he’d take care of himself just fine till he comes back home, yeah? So don’t you worry”, he consoles you, picking up your empty mug as he leaves you to collect yourself. 

“I’ll get you a new brew, and we can talk for a bit, okay? Be right back.” 

And then he leaves the common floor, hopefully going to the break room to get some new coffee brewing for the morning.

Seeing your distraught state, Kyle Garrick, the temp hire, gets up from his desk and drops off some raisin cookies at your desk to go along with your cup of oncoming java. When you protest, he winks at you and asks you to save the treat for yourself - all the more exasperated with Johnny and his grubby hands that are always eager to snatch away his snacks. That makes you laugh a little, and he smiles at you as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

Feeling a little lighter, you decide to work on the neglected spreadsheets just a tad bit longer till Johnny comes back, each hand holding a cup of coffee and a grin on his face that tells you he has some much needed gossip to keep your mind off from your constant worries. 

It is an hour before lunch break when Joseph, the new intern, approaches you at your desk. 

“Hello-”

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”, he whines out, and you are reminded once again that he’s still a college student, despite his monstrous height and unusually deep voice. 

“You don’t have to”, you reply, your eyes barely leaving the screen as you typed away and responded to him, “I can tell you have come here to bribe me into doing your work again, and my answer is no. I am too busy to deal with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything, I swear! I already did the work!” he claims, and you turn to face him with an arched eyebrow and a speculative expression on your face that gives away that you’re having a hard time believing him. 

Joseph is a nice enough guy - he always greets you and is kind enough to use his height to pull down things for you that are kept on the too-high cabinets, and he is intelligent enough to keep up with almost all the technical jargon being passed around by some of your haughty teammates during daily meetings and project discussions, as well as suggest some truly out-of-the-box innovative ideas that has transformed how the team worked for the better. But he’s a terrible procrastinator, often finding himself finishing tasks at the eleventh hour; while prolonging tasks until the last minute does lead to him coming up with amusing and original ideas, it leaves room for him to commit quite a few silly mistakes and errors that one might overlook on an initial run, unless a senior staff member is asked to review it. 

And ever since Laswell went on leave and appointed Price as the acting Director in her stead, you have been swamped with towers of paperwork and meetings while also managing meetings, work sprints and other team issues - basically acting as Price’s right hand as he tries his best to manage the team without letting it implode on itself. Add in your messy personal life and you are already tired enough to sleep at your desk by the time the day is over and hope to never move. (Price has at times found you slumped up against your keyboard, softly snoring with dark eyebags as he noted how you probably needed a much-needed break from it all, despite knowing very well that your absence in the office for more than a day would probably cause unending chaos he won’t be able to manage on his own.)

“I have finished the report. I just need you to go over it once to make sure I haven’t messed up anywhere, else Simon would tear me a new one!”, he pleads with you, and you recall that his uncle, Simon Riley, is one of the founding members and is responsible for overlooking the interns they had hired and tracking their progress. You also remember how the behemoth of a man had almost made you pee your pants when Johnny first introduced him to you, all in his brooding glory. 

You have half a mind to reject his request on that basis alone, afraid to attract his attention onto you. But then Jo looks at you with his puppy brown eyes(a complete opposite from his uncle’s brilliant blue eyes) and furrowed brows, his lips downturned as he looks at you with pure hope and you find yourself sighing as you finally acquiesce, “Fine, just mail it to me before you leave for lunch, and I will send you the finished file before the deadline.”

He fistbumps the air and promises to you, “I will pay for your coffee! And a snack too! For a week! You’re the best!”, before he leaves you to your own devices. 

You sigh out in exasperation, leaning back into your ergonomic chair and feeling your back stretch in discomfort. You swear Joseph might give you a few gray hairs by the time his training period is done for good.  

You check your drawers for spare snacks, well aware that you’d have to skip lunch if you want to complete your pending work and help Joseph out with his report. 

Skipping lunch proves counter intuitive when you find yourself in the common break room and groan at the empty coffee jug, half-heartedly making a fresh batch for yourself and for your forgetful colleagues as well. While you wait for the java to slowly percolate and drip down into the empty pot through the freshly-changed filters, you look inside the freezer in hopes of finding some frozen food you can microwave, or at least find a spare ice cream for you to munch on. 

Unsuccessful in your search, you instead nibble away at the granola bar you found stuffed inside one of the spare drawers, when one of your coworkers decides to join you in the break room. You pause as you see Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the cyber sec guy, enter the room and stand a few feet away from you as he eyes the whirring coffee machine with interest. You find it hard to even exist in his larger than life presence, as his giant stature almost compels you to hunch your shoulders and curl in on yourself - a poor attempt to hide away from his intimidating figure, like a doe-eyed prey trying to shy away from an apex predator, and futilely hoping for it to forget about you if you try your best to blend into your bland, uninteresting surroundings. 

You always feel odd whenever you interact with Riley. Mostly, you do not know what to feel about him. He’s silent and deadly, and the horror stories you have heard from the fresh batch of interns about his anger and his need for perfection has cemented his image as a strong and fearsome, unapproachable figure into your mind just fine. Standing at 6’2 with broad shoulders and veiny arms visible thanks to his summer tees and thick thighs that bulge whenever he wears those tight black jeans that only makes you all the more curious-

The ‘mindless’ rambling aside, his appearance is enough to put the fear of God into you. Add his rough and not-so-friendly demeanor along with his deep voice, and you have got one very attractive asshole who you can never approach no matter how much you’re compelled to make a move on him. You almost thank him for it, because mixing pleasure with business will only ever land you in trouble, if you’re being honest with yourself. 

He nods at you and you are forced to acknowledge him with a calm greeting, as your fingers silently drum against the marble island of the kitchen. 

“Didn’t have lunch?” he asked you with his gravelly voice, and you wonder how many girls have swooned (and possibly gotten their panties wet) when he addressed them so casually. You’re pretty sure he can read a grocery list and make a girl wetter than the Atlantic just fine. 

You shake your head, “Had some catchin’ up to do, sir.”

His eyes appear darker than usual, despite being his softest feature yet, “Skipping meals won’t do you any good, you know. Better to eat a proper meal than whatever you’re having right now.”

“I know”, you tell him, well aware that whatever excuse you use here would just land you in hot waters with the weirdly overprotective man anyway. You’d rather not get lectured by the man today. 

Whether it is because he might make you cry, or turn you on - you do not know and are not eager to find out either. 

The ceasing of the brew trickling into the glass pot allows you to divert your attention to the caffeine concoction you have just created. Pouring some of the hot liquid into your cup, you see someone push their mug beside it. Looking up, you see Simon standing beside you with an amused look on his face. You blink at him in confusion, and he gently shakes his glass, begging for some much-needed coffee. 

He explains himself, “Had some of the early morning brew, tasted like dogshit.”

You laugh at his sudden crassness, finding it too funny to clarify that the morning brew was made by his beloved friend, Johnny. Mactavish would’ve chewed him out for that if he was there, but he’s having one of those few days wherein his meetings made it hard for his schedule to sync up with Simon’s. 

Taking a slow sip out of white mug, he replies with a wry smile, “Yours always tasted better anyway.”

And then, he exits the scene and leaves you in a puddle of pure confusion, with one question looping in your mind - When has he ever tasted your coffee?

You’re thankful Simon has already left and cannot witness your flustered state at his sudden remark. 

Author's Note -

Happy breaking out of writer's block to me!

Finally able to write and post something after a month of inactivity and contemplating about abandoning this blog all together. Glad I persevered through it though.

I came up with this after reading a dozen or so fanfics throughout the week while worrying about landing a job where I am interning. Very original, I know. I also think this would be a relatively shorter series, given how it is more lighter than some of my other works and WIP materials.

Also, I am hoping to stick to a schedule in order to hold myself more accountable and write more consistently. So expect new updates every 2nd and 4th Sunday/Monday :>

Until then, have a great week ahead. I have to sleep if I want to wake up on time and start work. ;-;

[tarjapearce]

Iridiscent

PirateAU! Miguel x Mermaid! Reader

Thanks to @sarapaprikas-blog for the idea ❤️✨. Been loving to experience with different AU'S lately ✨. Hope you like!

Warnings: Mild angst and historical figure mentions, implied mysticism ~

Prologue ✨

Pt. 2

As far as history was told, the sea had been the biggest grave in the world. Countless men, nations and civilizations perished under the might of the ever infinite sea. Not many dared to venture, after all, the stories of countless ships sunk under behemoth waves reached through all dry land known.

But that didn't stop the greatest empires to expand and colonize newly discovered lands thanks to years of observation. Many thought of the sea a living being, a being that could be tamed or at least controlled enough to small civilizations to be born in lands people only dreamed of.

However, as the sea earned it's title of a living creature, the mysticism around it grew. Many believed the sea was a she, and bringing a woman on board only made her jealous. A common belief among outcasts and pirates. Something that was debunked as the golden age of piracy advanced.

But even so, the word spread around was that the sea favored female pirates better than men. Lagertha, Mary Read, Anne Bonnie, Zheng Shi, Grace O'Malley, to name a few of the most iconic pirates that against all, conquered, navigated, commanded and plundered at their contempt.

Many believed that they had done a pact with the devil himself, but others strongly believed that there were creatures below that left no trace once the women settled for a target. Mermaids.

Creatures often described as the beauty of death itself embodied. Beautiful women luring men to their inevitable deaths. Something, that some men longed for, and feared by others. The rumor was that if you caught a mermaid alive, the creature was bound to grant you a wish.

But for Miguel, they were nothing but myths and lies. A once young and naive self had ventured in the sea to find one, so he could cure his daughter once the land medics had abandoned all hope. And so he did, once his little girl had closed her twinkling innocent eyes, full of dreams, forever.

He was a changed man after that. He didn't allow his men to talk about such nonsensical things in his ship, Reina Gabriela, and poor of the man that was caught red handed. Reason had gotten him where he was, a feared outlaw among the Spaniards and English folk alike. Not by his overall intimidating looks, but the ruthless and cunning of his attacks.

The Red Eyed Demon, they called him.

------

Miguel had settled the route towards an island that promised a proper restock of his resources. He would let his men unwind, he'd probably spend the night away with a well prepared courtesan. The type of woman that knew how to entertain him beyond the physical ways, once they were on land.

By sunset, he would be landing. The island itself wasn't a problem, the inhabitants of it were. At least for him, full of highly superstitious people, that were always showering him in foul smelling concoctions, lung itching fumes and heavy charms of protection to "cleanse the spirit of anything that could drag you and your ship down".

Isla del Sol, or Sunny Island as many called it, was like a secret hideway-paradise for Pirates that stopped by to rest. Opposite from what the Spaniards and English believed, the Island was run under the command of a council of five.

A retired English commander that did better as a pirate than a law enforcer named Edward, A Spaniard pirate well versed in the arts of administration named Xavier, A jamaican man which eloquence only rivaled the Queen's erudites themselves named Toussaint, An asian woman trained in the arts of killing and weaponry named Sheng Hyun, and a white haired chaman whose wisdom was often seeked by the rest.

So far the island had worked and thrived under their command. They had even asked Miguel to join them, because of his strategic and cunning mind. But of course, he refused. A man like him wasn't easily bound to bureaucratics, even though, ironically he had strict rules in his ship.

His men were loyal, after all, Miguel took proper care of his crew. Well fed, healthy, well armed, and now, well rested. Reina Gabriela approached the docks and soon the men worked. Some put the extended sails away, others put the weaponry in their place, others cleaned and so on. Everyone had a role aboard, and Miguel made sure for them to accomplish it.

He threw a small pouch of gold to a nearby man to watch over his ship as he was out. The island felt like another city, but difference was, that inside land there were no guards, no laws that didn't benefit them. And if anyone caused a ruckus, Sheng Hyun was sent to deal with it, personally.

His men scattered around, except for the quarter master, the cook, weaponry master, Navy Engineer and doctor. They discussed briefly the upgrades for the ship, new dishes to the menu, and new places to get weapons, medicines and sturdier woods from. He dismissed them once everyone had their list, then he was alone.

His feet took him nearby the merchants as they exposed their goods to everyone passing by. Guards uniforms, royal weapons and wax seals perfect for an unsuspecting ruse, medicines, a new type of powder that was a bit more waterproof, Chinese explosives, sedating darts, portraits of naked royal women, some gemstones, and of course, luck charms and talismans.

He scoffed as his eyes rolled at the various trinkets. He had to admit that whoever came with these ideas had found a gold mine that relied in people's blind faith, probably would shake their hand if he ever knew who it was. One trinket stood out from the rest.

It was an iridescent pearl, a quarter size of his palm, along some black and pearly scales protuding ontop. There was no chain around it to be worn, the merchant noticed him staring at the trinket and smiled.

"Good if y'wanna catch a mermaid. They love shiny things."

Miguel looked at him with an eyebrow quirked and a skeptical look.

"You seem confident enough to sell these... crafts."

"Ah, another nonbeliever. Tis'fine mate. I've dealt with so many like you before. Mostly of the non believing part roots from something denied to you in the past. Am'i'rite?"

Miguel's jaw clenched softly at the boldness of the man. He looked like the typical merchant with shady business on the side.

"Leave this man alone, Joseph." The chaman of the council spoke behind Miguel as she took the pearl in her old, wrinkled hands.

"Come" He motioned Miguel to follow. Despite being a highly spiritual woman, the council's chaman did not pressure him into believing, but rather spoke to him sometimes in riddles. Riddles that he grew tired of eventually. He followed.

"A surprise to find you watching these sort of trinkets, Miguel."

"Hard to not when they get stranger and colorful each time I come here."

The elder lady hooked her arm on his as she supported on Miguel, that secured her as he walked next to her.

"I'd be grateful if you wouldn't speak about anything mystic tonight."

"Wasn't my intention, boy. But I must say, you've got quite the eye for these things. It's a real pearl, if you wish to sell it."

Miguel kept walking, being led by the chaman.

"Or I could gift it to a mermaid" Miguel chuckled and the lady looked at him with curious eyes.

"Well, to do such thing, you'd have to find one first."

"I won't, cause they're not real."

The chaman smiled smugly at him.

"What would you do if your homeland got infested with rotting bodies, blood and so many other unpleasant things continuously?"

"I'd look for a new home." he humored, but the lady only nodded in approval.

"And what kind of home you'd look for?"

"One that wasn't near the cities or civilization. Probably a secret manantial or even a virgin island"

The lady smiled

"Congratulations, Miguel. You now have the first lead into finding a mermaid."

"You can't expect me to believe such things."

"No lo espero, pero sé que tu curiosidad por dichas criaturas ha aumentado. ¿Qué es lo deseas tener?" (I don't, but I know for sure that your curiosity for such creatures have peaked your interest. What is it you long for?)

Miguel looked down at the lady, wistfully and she rubbed his arm comfortingly. Like a grandma would.

"My dear. Mystical creatures can only do so much, Miguel. Sadly, bringing back the dead isn't something they can do."

"No sabes de lo que hablas. No me conoces" (You don't know what you are talking about. You don't know me)

He seethed the last words as his grip abandoned the lady. His body tensed when the chaman reached out again to take his large hand.

"Loss is part of our lives, Miguel" Her wrinkled hands put the pearl in his hand, hers covered his warmly, pushing the trinket further in his hands, "And we all move on eventually. Life is full of wonders, and who knows, maybe what you find ahead in your path is exactly what you need"

He nearly growled as another riddle was added to the list.

"Te dije que te dejaras de-" (Thought I told you to quit the-)

His mouth gaped slightly, the lady was gone. He was left alone with the pearl in his hand, "Acertijos..." (Riddles...) he sighed and stared at the pearl, to then tuck it back on his pocket.

What was he longed for?

[littlefreya]

Summary: Whatever madness drove this woman to board a pirate’s ship of her own free will was beyond comprehension. Yet there she was, in velvet and silk, marching toward certain danger and the sinful desires of the monstrous Captain August ‘Blackbeard’ Walker.

Pairing: AU! Pirate August Walker x OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+. No smut, but sexual themes are mentioned, as well as dark themes - he is a pirate. Possible historical inaccuracy. This is not the real Blackbeard. Mentions of kidnapping.

A/N: Not beta’d. Many thanks to @agniavateira @luna-aestas and @wolvesandhoundshowltogether for the support, and thanks to @geralts-yenn because this story started as a 15-minute challenge, and I ended up writing a whole shot. There might be a part 2, and this might turn into a series. We will see after my anxiety runs its course :D

Thanks for reading, and please reblog and comment if you enjoyed :)

Neptune's Snare

The soggy wooden platform creaked beneath her feet as she climbed onto the main deck. Each step eliciting s husky wail - a sorrowful hymn to the lost maidens of the sea - those who would never return, those devoured by the sinful desires of monstrous captain August ‘Blackbeard’ Walker. 

Whatever madness drove women to go there willingly was beyond comprehension. No more than a tomb, the ship alone looked like a carnivorous maw; black iron spikes stood firmly at the bow, and the sheer size of it was enough to strike fear at the heart of even the bravest sailor.

Yet, there she was, draped in a black velvet cloak and an ivory corset dress, willingly marching toward grave danger. 

Dozens of ragged men welcomed her onboard, filthy scoundrels, all drenched in an exotic mixture of sweat and alcohol. Hungry, their eyes gnawed at her tender flesh, but none would dare touch her. If August’s crew knew one thing, it’s that some fates are much, much more worse than death. 

It didn’t stop them from taunting. Suckling their lips, they followed the girl on her march toward the captain’s cabin. Cheer and chortle in their voice as they imagined the obscenities their captain was about to perform on this naive girl. 

“Pity, he never let us look…” whined one of the pirates while the other bood.

“Aye, you mad to come ‘er tonight. The cap’n hasn’t had his fill in weeks, lass. He would sure pillage each of you’ holes tonight.”

“He gonna paint her full of his sea foam!”

The entire ship roared with their laughter. The girl, however, kept a blank face and, without spending any minute longer, opened the door to the captain's cabin.                                                                                                                                                

Bright, golden luminance blinded Lizette’s sight as she entered the cabin. The walls were plated by ornaments made of gold, reflecting the sparkle of the hundred candles that burnt at the decorated candelabras and crystal chandelier. Fine works of art hung from each wall, and on a vast lacquered table stood a plethora of delicacies that made Lizette’s belly gurgle. 

She stared at the table momentarily, almost fooled by the obvious seduction. In complete opposite to the murky exterior of the ship, the captain’s chamber was a room fit for kings, sputtering style, elegance and riches. Perhaps this was how he lured them. The poor naive girls truly believed he would give them a better life. But Blackbeard was no king, nor was he a gentleman. He was the deadliest man the world has ever known - a serpent, nightshade - all he could give a woman was death. 

“Take off your cowl.”  

A deep voice called from behind, dark and mysterious as the ocean. It struck like an icy shard through her spine, making her shoulders jerk and stiffen. It was odd to know someone by hundred of myths and stories spun around them and have men mimic their voice in an attempt to portray them but never know what they truly sounded like. 

As it turned out, August sounds like a man one doesn’t refuse. 

Obedient, Lizette pulled the cowl from her head - slow as she would unwrap a much-anticipated present. Her gaze kept to the floor still, continuing to play the coy virgin the Captain wanted her to be, though if she had to be honest - she was terrified of whatever hideous monster she would soon have to face. 

There must have been a reason why the women who came here never left. Lizette was willing to bet every dime in her pocket that August was the most gruesome, repulsive creature, and the only way for him to keep people from knowing was by murdering each woman he bedded!    

“Shy, aren’t we?” Blackbeard murmured with a dry chuckle and began to circle her, observing his bounty from side to side.

“I quite enjoy shy,” he chuckled once more, his voice almost a groan. 

She forced herself not to flinch too much. She could sense his glare upon her, stripping her garment by garment, weighing what he earned tonight and considering all the ways in which he would pillage her body. It made her feel like she was one of the delicacies that rested on his table rather than a person. 

After gyrating around her and inspecting each crease of her body, August finally returned to his starting spot behind her and, in a low, delighted groan, demanded, “Turn around.” 

Doing as he commanded, she turned to him, still keeping her glance plastered to the floor, her breathing now shallow as the air in the room grew magically stuffy. She could spot his blurry silhouette from the corner of her eye; a tall and fit man, rather broad. It seemed that he was doing a loose white cotton shirt and dark trousers, and from his waistband - a gleam of silver winked back. 

“Are you a mute?” 

Another chill shot through her as he spoke. Absentminded, she swallowed. “No…”  embarrassingly, her voice cracked; she took a deep breath and reprimanded, “No, sir. Just nervous.”

“Captain,” he corrected. 

Lizette nodded but did not repeat him. She couldn’t. Words died on her tongue as the Captain made a bold step toward her, drawing dangerously near. He paused for a shy second, fingers laced together, contemplating, before he reached a fist beneath her chin and, in a ceremonious tenderness, lifted her chin.  

The air drained from her completely. Her lips parted in a mixture of fear and astonishment. 

It couldn’t be.

Perhaps she had the wrong man?

Grey, ocean-eyes peered at her through a face that women and men would damn themselves for. No! Even angels would. His jaw was sharp and profound, statuesque like cut marble - dashed with dark stubble and a thick raven-black moustache. His lips, though chafed from the salty sea breeze, were plumped and shaped to be kissed, and while some of his curls were streaked with silver, he still had a healthy mane of hair on his head. 

‘He could have been a decent man,’ she thought, ‘and yet he chose this?!’

There was an obscure attractive melancholy to his looks - almost tragic. 

August took another moment to study her face, a frown slowly forming on his ridged brow. “You look familiar…”

“I work the docks,” she answered almost immediately.

His stare deepened, eyes dropping to her cleavage momentarily before returning to pierce back into the back of her skull, “Skin too soft. Too shy to be a prostitute.” 

His fingers wrapped around her chin, caging it between his thumb and his index in a tight grip, making it hurt. He tilted his head, daring her to come up with another lie.  

“The tavern,” Lizette answered, firm and steadfast. She did not flinch from his touch, even though every instinct begged her to.

“And you came to me. Why?”

“What girl wouldn’t give everything for a night with the notorious Captain Blackbeard? The living legend… the king of pirates.” She softened her eyes as much as possible and offered a shy pout to reconcile him. 

August chewed on the inside of his cheek; storm clouds gathered on his pale eyes as he contemplated. They both knew she was flattering him to gain his trust and save her pretty little neck. It wasn’t a situation he hadn’t encountered in the past. They both also knew that he was stronger, bigger and armed and could snap said pretty little neck in less than a split second. 

“Are you a virgin?” He proceeded. 

She nodded, her throat clenching. 

August lingered on her response and, after what felt like an eternity, offered a small grin and pinched her chin sweetly as if to praise her before moving a step closer. Lizette smiled back nervously. She could sense his rum-drenched breath on her face. The scent was so pungent it made her moan invulnerably. 

Or perhaps it was the anxiety that was eating into her heart. 

“Ever sucked a cock, pet?” 

His question was answered by a small click that echoed through the quarter and the press of hard, cold metal against the bare parts of his chest. 

Not stepping back, he slowly, almost theatrically, spread his arms into a gesture of defeat while peering at the girl. No rage nor fear painted his face, and as he spoke, there was neither surprise in his voice. 

“Heh. So you ARE a whore.”

Lizette held the pistol determined, not saying a word.

“What is it that I do, pet?” 

Offering a sly grin, the pirate pressed against the barrel; the oceans in his glare darkened. As Lizette stared back, she could have sworn the many shades of blue in his sights shifted and swayed like angry waves. Quickly brushing the thought away, she cocked the gun in a warning, her little thumb grazing the trigger.

But to August, it was clear that the girl had never killed anyone before, and the longer she stalled, the more shaky her hand became. Taunting, he moved further into the barrel, which forced her to take a step back. 

“Do not move closer!” She finally spoke. 

August brushed her warning away, moving forward instead. He had been so nimble in his movement, fluid, like a sea creature himself. Only now she realised that his hands were no longer in the air. 

“Was it your dear mother?” He suggested. “Father? Sister?” He paused and offered a vicious smirk, “Ah… I see, A lover. Well, to that, I surely deserve to die. Go ahead, pet, pull the trigger.” 

His slender, heavily ringed fingers reached to envelop the barrel, holding the pistol steady for the girl. Every breath he took pressed the metal harder against his sternum. Lizette could sense his heartbeat pulsating through the barrel, the thrum of his blood nearly mingling with her own. No longer steady, her digit quivered around the trigger and in her throat, she felt the strenuous hold of anger, guilt and hatred. 

“You have taken everything from me!” She simply answered. 

Soon her sight became blurry, and wetness gathered beneath her eyes.  

‘Do it, do it now.’ 

Another click sounded in the room. Louder than the cocking of a gun. 

Lizette’s eyes flared in shock, and before she could pull the trigger, August had carefully veered the gun from his chest and, in a tenderness that was accustomed to lovers, snatched it from her hand. His other hand laid still on her neck, fastening the iron collar he granted her.

“Good girl,” he teased and then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the forehead of the girl who was too struck by her own misfortune and stupidity to react. 

With the pistol safely placed in his waistband, the pirate stepped back, face alighted, eyes sparkling with starlight cascade, like a child who had just earned a new toy.  He clasped his hands together, ecstatic; thick silver rings chiming as they collided.

 “I haven’t taken everything from you, pet. but I am going to…”

With one last slanted grin, the pirate turned on his heels and marched toward the door, not bothering to bid farewell as he left and locked the door behind him.

Panicked, Lizette reached her hands to the iron collar, desperately trying to pry it off her neck despite knowing there was no logic in pulling at the heavy metal. 

“Please!” Tears trickled down her cheeks and chin, “no! No! No! Please!”

Through the open window, she could hear the captain's voice barking orders, commanding his men to lift anchor and set sail. 

****

Chapter Two

[djljpanda]

(you have made a grave mistake accepting the self aware au /j)

With the crk self aware au, I've always thought that different places would think you were a different entity.

I HC that the baker is a more recent thing, some bizarre entity that appeared, seemingly leading Gingerbraves kingdom, advising battles all from the shadows. People would undeniably have questions.

(I'm going through a bunch of locations, so sorry if this is a long read lolol, you can stop here and get the point--)

The Modern Vanilla Kingdom are kind of confused, but overall wouldn't push forward with finding out what MC is, they've been friendly so far, so they don't try and pry or come up with theories. Overall, they're in agreement you're some kind of fae.

Hollyberry Kingdom would have the most range in opinions, some would think you're a witch, knowing their obsession with dragons they might coin MC as some really powerful dragon, overall, all the opinions of the other locations bleeds into here.

The Dark Cacao Kingdom would undeniably think MC is some Deity of War or Battle. You've advised way too many fight not to be- heck! They saw it with their own eyes!!

(Dragon Valley probably agree ^^^)

Although not much is known about Golden Cheese and her Kingdom yet, they probably think you're a deity of wealth, seeing as Gingerbraves kingdom always has an extreme surplus of resources and wealth.

Creme Republic has some differing opinions based on religious beliefs. Paladins will be quick to call you a celestial, while some of the lower city, influenced by the Pastry Order, might seem you a witch, there are probably others that suspect you're some extraterrestrial that, through the ways of dimensional magic, is able to contact and interact with their world. Many of this final belief what to run experiments on the land Gingerbraves kingdom falls on, after all, it's got to be some kind of epicenter for your magic!!

(this final belief is probably in Parfaedia too)

I don't know City of Wizards lore well, but they might thing at long last one of their creators have returned, but I could see them agreeing with Parfaedia too.

+(Also bad at Tearcrown lore, so on your own with that one)

It's been such a long time I've talked abt the self aware au lmao, feel free to build on this- if at all, however you want, If I come back, can I come back as Hydrogen Anon? (If you have anons)

Cheers!

You are so creative. I like the idea of how no one really knows what Mc is and it's not like they're gonna tell them any time soon.

And how they all have their own theories is awesome. And how they just recently popped up during the era of Gingerbrave I can see why some would be curious and scared.

Like how we have the four horsemen here, I can see how some may think that it's a sign of the end.

I would love to build more on this concept because I love the self aware Au.

Thank you for sharing this with me Hydrogen Anon (yes I do accept anons), I hope I can see more about you in the future. Cheers!

[whisperthelocalcrypticbastard]

Don't worry about the axe

[wangxianficfinder]

I'm in the mood for...

Aug 8th

~*~

1. Could you recommend me a list of the saddest fanfics of mdzs?

I need a trigger to uplift my reading slump. Thanks^^

🔒 salt to the sea by starmins (M, 31k, WangXian, WWX & JYL, Modern AU, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note, Canonical Character Death)

Across the street to another life by danegen (M, 99k, WangXian, Modern, unleashed au, Family Fluff, Set in America, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Addiction, Crime, Amnesia, Ableist Language, another fridged mother, POV Alternating, past wwx/ofc, past wwx/omc, Medium parent YZY, A-Yuan is wwx’s biological son, Musicians, Happy Ending)

grave goods by luckymarrow (E, 28k, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, mortician!wwx, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Marriage Proposal, abrupt tonal shifts, Tragicomedy, Comedy, Romance, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Adoption, Implied/Referenced Abuse, for lan parents, it’s not described and is all backstory, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Married WangXian, brief daddy kink, the barest hint of consensual non-consent, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, BDSM)

Meet Me At The Corner After Dark by Omen1991 (M, 21k, WangXian, Modern, Ghosts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Character Death, but he's already dead, Injury, Concerns about self-harm, no actual self-harm, Panic Attacks, Office, Tears, Sad with a Happy Ending, Reincarnation, kind of, mild romance, POV LWJ, Ghost WWX, Neurodivergent LWJ, Amnesiac WWX, Siblings who love each other, Autism, Autistic LWJ, Translation Available)

to the act of making noise by words-writ-in-starlight (WordsWritInStarlight) (G, 19k, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & WWX, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Father-Son Relationship, inquiry, LSZ is the best of boys and I will not hear debate, Music, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, [Podfic] to the act of making noise by Ceewelsh, flamingwell, kisahawklin, Rionaa) This is basically Lan Yuan growing up with Inquiry as a lullaby (and seeing LWJs grief through his eyes). It has a happy ending, but I couldn't get through this without a box of tissues. If you want the emotions dialed up even more, listen to the podfic version with music

ius in bello by Lise (T, 2k, JC & JYL & WWX, Canon Divergence, Tearjerker, Sad Ending, Heavy Angst, Grief/Mourning, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Not A Fix-It, POV JC, [Podfic] ius in bello by flamingwell) WWX doesn't survive Qiongqi Path, told from Jiang Cheng's perspective

dormiveglia (in between sleeping and waking) by comforting_monachopsis (M, 13k, WangXian, XuanLi, Diary/Journal, Golden Core Reveal, Canonical Child Abuse, Canonical Character Death, YLLZ WWX, Oblivious WWX, Protective WWX, WWX Needs a Hug, Grief/Mourning, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Sort Of, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Thirteen Years of WWX’s Death, Dead WWX, Angst and Tragedy) where wwx doesn't come back but left a journal behind and everyone has to live with it

~*~

2. itmf wangxian dating in cloud recesses study arc?

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 828k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement)

Just Say Yes Series by edenwolfie (T/M, 338k, WangXian, Matchmaking, Pining, Getting Together, Canon Divergence, POV Alternating, Fluff, First Kiss, Declarations Of Love, Humor, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Good Uncle LQR, Engagement, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It)

it’s just (aah) a little crush (crush!) by sweetlolixo (T, 9k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Romance, Fluff, Pining LWJ, Humor, Courting Rituals, Teen Wangxian)

🔒 in the shadow of moonlit flowers by Reverie (cl410) (T, 56k, WangXian, LXC/NMJ, cloud recesses, NHS & LWJ friendship, developing relationship, LWJ pov, minor injuries, autistic LWJ, implied/referenced child abuse, aka YZY warning, genius WWX, light angst, hurt/comfort, WWX protection squad)

💖 Hoards and treasures by apathyinreverie (T, 21k, WangXian, Siblings, Family, not particularly Jiang friendly, YZY Bashing, slightly darker Gusu Lans, LXC being the best brother, Some manipulation, But with the best of intentions, and not between wangxian, Dragon LWJ, Fox WWX, Smitten LWJ, Fluff, perfect happiness, adorable WWX, Romance, Some worldbuilding, courting)

30 Days of Secret Marriage at Cloud Recesses by starandrea (T, 43k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Bunnies, Gusu Lan Forehead Ribbon, Accidental Marriage, Coming Out, Falling In Love, supportive family, Fluff, Happy Ending, the whole story is happy)

A Wedding of Choice by scifigeek14 (T, 17k, WangXian, Everyone Lives, Marriage Proposal, Episode Related Canon Divergence, POV Third Person Limited)

You Are My Euphoria by orphan_account (M, 17k, wangxian, canon divergence, fluff, making out, 5+1, pining)

loveliness by orphan_account (T, 1k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Pining, Teen Romance, Getting Together)

~*~

3. ITMF any fics where there is a focus or moment where wwx knows lwj can and will spoil the hell out of him and give him money for anything. kind of like the "it's not my money anyway" moment in the drama. preferably set in canon time period, but won't say no to a modern au if it has a good plot! thank you!!

~*~

4. I was wondering if anyone was aware of any fics that are dark!LWJ but the relationship between him and WWX isn't toxic or dubcon? Something like a mafia, a/b/o, or emperor au, but without the more non-con like elements that are often found in those fics. I would love to read more dark!LWJ, but the tag is full of the more toxic stuff that I personally can't handle (no judgement here, I wish I could lol), so any help is much appreciated! (ITMF ask)

🔒🧡 Rule Number One: Never get attached. by KizuKatana (E, 130k, WangXian, Modern AU, A/B/O, Criminal underworld AU, Fluff and angst, Crime boss LWJ, Rouge criminal genius WWX, Explicit Sex)

Crown Jewel of the Hoard by xFourLeafCloverx (E, 29k, WIP, WangXian, Dark WangXian, Organized Crime, Gun Violence, Consensual Non-Consent, Omegaverse, Shifters, bunxian, dragonji, killing as foreplay and postplay, LWJ is So Whipped, Intersex Omegas, Disfigurement, Blood and Gore, Sugar Daddy LWJ, Jiang Family Bashing, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering) Got mafia and wangxian being together without one of them being forced into it

~*~

5. itmf deaf or hoh wei wuxian please

misunderstood 'verse by sysrae (M, 7k, WangXian, Modern, College/University, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, getting hit by cars, Past Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Abusive YZY, Caring LWJ, Injured WWX, partial hearing loss, the real OTP is everyone x therapy)

~*~

6. ITMF fics where Lan Zhan and/or Wei Ying smoke/get high (not drunk) can be weed or harder drugs, also okay if it's just Lan Zhan feeding Wei Ying drugs. @thehappyyellow

a constant satellite of your blazing sun (i obey your law of gravity) by Ariaste (M, 26k, JGY/LXC, WangXian, JGY & WWx, Madam LAN/QHJ, Modern, Slice of Life, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Flashbacks, HOAverse, Marijuana, Nice Lan Boys Marry Gremlins, (bass boosted) NICE LAN BOYS MARRY GREMLINS, OC(s), (sort of), OC Death(s), (but like it's already in canon so you know about it already)) this is part of the HOA series, but does feature wwx and lwj (among others) getting high. Not entirely sure if it can be read as a standalone, but the entire series is hilarious and absolutely worth checking out.

2am on a saturday by detectorist (E, 11k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, Recreational Drug Use, (no sex happens while drunk/high!), Humour, Pining, Getting Together, Blow Jobs, it's about the yearning, somehow a harmonica gets involved, the lz/mm/jzx best friends agenda)

~*~

7. Itmf the juniors being protective of WWX?

Rotten Work by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 63k, WangXian, WWX & JL, Post-Canon, Protective WWX, Protective JL, Yunmeng Bros Reconciliation, Reluctant Matchmaker JL)

🔒 The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (T, 19k, WangXian, In-Universe RPF, Romance Novel, LJY’s sense of justice, OYZZ’s sense of romance, Featuring a surprise appearance by WWX’s oft-absent sense of shame, Look the ducklings just want their sort-of dads to be happy okay?, And it’s not like WWX or LWJ are doing a good job of ensuring their own happiness, LJY rejects canon reality and substitutes his own, highly relatable actually, Post-Canon Fix-It, primarily drama-canon with cameos from novel-canon, Podfic Available, Russian Translation Available)

🧡 the stone-filled sea by yukla (T, 9k, WangXian, LSZ & WWX, Post-Canon, senior wei defense squad, a study of the way prejudice and injustice and anger trickle down from generation to generation)

bespoke by cafecliche (G, 3k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Fluff, LSZ is a very good boy, which is specifically a tag for the fic but also just true in general, mostly novel-compliant but could easily be CQL-compliant too)

~*~

8. hello! for the next itmf, i would love to see fics where wwx does empathy with lxc and/or lqr and find out how mistreated he is. could be during his youth or post-sunshot, either one. thank you!

And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami (M, 139k, WangXian, XiChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ, BAMF JYL, Getting Together) I'm not sure if these are quite what the requester was looking for but Lan Xichen uses Empathy (and is traumatized by it) to see a past timeline

❤️ All will be well when the day is done by abCEE (T, 76k, LQR & WWX, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fix It, Not Jiang Family Friendly, JFM & YZY Bashing, YZY Bashing, Definitely not YZY centric, Fix it for our main characters, Time Travel, Butterfly Effect, Madam Lan Lives, No Sunshot Campaign, Artistic License, Unreliable Narrator, JC Bashing, non-yunmeng WWX, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Good Uncle LQR, OOC, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, WWX gets the love and care that he deserves from the very beginning, Mainly CQL but has elements of the novel as well, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiangs, verbal and physical (c/o Zidian) abuse from YZY) and Lan Qiren uses Empathy to learn who a sick child Wei Ying is and learns about Wei Ying's abuse in his past timeline

Rise of the Divine Oracle by BlakSalt (T, 291k, WangXian, Boy Love, Hurt/Comfort, Romance)

~*~

9. Does anyone have any Sizhui-centric fics where he learns about or pieces together his past with wwx and the wens before wwx comes back? 🥺 Like 'Would You Come Home?' By s6115, that was so good I need more fics with that concept. 😭 Please and thank you 🙏

~*~

10. Hi I wondering if you knew any fics similar to: A Corpse Called by Name by jaemyun👀 thank you so much for your hard work?

~*~

11. rogue cultivator wangji PLEASE

doesnt matter if its like post wwx's death or before the cloud recesses study arc i just have a NEED for rogue cultivator lwj if no one can find any i'll just write it myself i swear

🔒 And Miles To Go Before I Sleep by Glitterbombshell (T, 23k, WangXian, JC & LWJ, LSZ & LWJ, LXC & LWJ, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, LXC is not really a good brother in this sorry, Canon Divergence, rogue cultivator LWJ) This one is good & has an interesting impetus for LWJ leaving (the Jin find out LSZ is a Wen) but sadly hasn't been updated in almost 4 years. BTW please write a rogue cultivator!LWJ fic - this is an insanely underutilised trope considering the obvious story potential

~*~

12. Hey! I’m in the mood for any and all fic where Lan Zhan marries into the Jiang sect with Wèi Ying. Thanks! @shapeshifters-anon

The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (E, 66k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Blood, Respiratory Illness, Major Illness, Fever, Grief/Mourning, Burial Mounds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hunger and food scarcity, Surgery, Fix-It of Sorts)

~*~

13. Hey, I'm looking for (and really need) a good story where WWX has had enough and just becomes a villain (+100 to interest if he goes back in time and is evil from the beginning) (+10 if WWX is a genius and uses his inventions to manipulating, getting what he wants and/or establishing his position so that no one can hurt or take advantage of him).

e.g. after destroying his new home and killing all the Wen, WWX destroys the seal and goes back in time, but instead of trying to fix everything and make it better he says "f*ck it" and simply stops being a good boy. He will be the same as the rest of the world... or something like that :)

Just... WWX as a villain <3 @ethealia

~*~

14. Hello! I am looking for fics where Meng Yao / Jin Guangyao is wholly nice and good (and not secretly scheming and villainous and such). Any au or era, I just want to see him happy and safe and supported by friends. Thank you so much!

what builds a home by Stratisphyre (T, 45k, WangXian, MY & WWX, Canon Divergence, Adopted WWX, POV Multiple, warning for JGS behaving exactly as expected, child endangerment, Brother Feels, Minor Character Death, [Podfic] Cold read of "what builds a home" by Stratisphyre by KeriArentikaiPods (KeriArentikai))

Debts of a Child Part 2 by Hauntcats (M, 111k, WangXian, YZY Bashing, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Angst and Feels, lots of anger, JC Bashing, not Jiang friendly, Angst with a Happy Ending, Content warning for icky spiders in later chapters., hurt no comfort for Jiang siblings.)

a micro utopia born as the overture plays by tardigradeschool (T, 18k, wangxian, JGY/LXC, fix-it)

Meng Yao vs. the Board of the Homeowner's Association Series by Ariaste (M/T, 119k, WIP, XiYao, WangXian, Modern AU, Established Relationship, xiyao and wangxian are both already married, Family Feels, Domestic Fluff, Family Bonding, Slice of Life, Discussions of Past Trauma, wwx's canonical kinks, HOAverse)

结局难更改 (the ending is hard to change) Series by PorcupineGirl (G, 50k, WangXian, Time Travel, Modern with Magic, Modern Cultivators AU, Canon Divergence, Time Traveler WWX, discussion of canonical character deaths, conveniently localized fires, Discussion of Canonical Suicide Attempt, mostly happy but slightly bittersweet ending, Reincarnation, LWJ POV, Established Relationship, Aromantic JC) Not JGY centric, though.

Peony to Lotus series by Deriliarch (T, 65k, JYL/JGY, wangxian, canon divergence, arranged marriage, demisexual character, demiromantic character, fix-it, slice of life, angst)

~*~

15. ITMF Jiang disciples trying to actually get Wei Wuxian out of the Jiang sect or keep him safe from the main Jiang family for his own safety

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don't look here for bashing) There's a small scene where WWX decides to leave & a disciple helps him sneak away

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) This might count? WWX leaves the clan himself, but there's a scene later in the fic where JFM & YZY are on trial & the Jiang disciples rebel & testify against them over WWX's treatment

~*~

16. May I ask an ITMF for wwx having a pet/befriending/encountered avians like cranes, songbirds, crows, etc. please? I read a fic where wwx has an army of mischievous ravens and I'd like more recommendations if you have any!

A Long Road by Vathara (T, 187k, WangXian, Fluff and Angst, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Scheming NHS, Necromancy, Fire, Ghosts, Accidental Child Acquisition, is it an accident if the ghosts keep bringing them?)

We Meet at the Thousandth Step by Admiranda, Rynne (T, 316k, WangXian, CSSR/WCZ, Canon Divergence, No Sunshot Campaign, CSSR & WCZ Live, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Different First Meeting, Night Hunts, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Plot, Romance, Drama, Fluff, Strangers to married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Everyone Lives, Developing Relationship, Minor Violence, Case Fic, Mystery, Flirting, WWX’s Canon-Typical Flower Flirting, Arson, There Was Only One Bed, Getting Together, First Kiss, Meeting the Parents, Resolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Romantic Tension, WWX Is a Good Big Brother, New Relationship Bliss, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Blood and Injury, Yiling siblings, Married WangXian, Honeymoon, Wangxian’s Baby Fever) Wei Ying and Lan Zhan befriend and save a Zhenniao (a mythical bird) in chapters 41-44

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17. ITMF fics where Wei Wuxian is the Yiling Laozu but, like, he is established as such prior to or external to the events of canon? As in, WWX isn’t raised in Yunmeng and he doesn’t do the canon Gusu Lectures arc or Wen Indoctrination arc and such, instead he is already in Burial Mounds with a scary reputation. Usually this plot crops up in arranged marriage or war prize aus where Lan Wangji is given to the big bad Yiling Laozu to gain favor, kind of like in 山水盆景 (Shānshuǐ Pénjǐng) by meicairoubingfan where the Yiling Laozu is an immortal who the sects appeal to to intervene in the Sunshot Campaign conflict. Does this description make sense? Thank you!

what price is duty, what cost is love by thunderwear (G, 18k, wangxian, canon divergence, WWX was never adopted to Jiang, war prize, YLLZ WWX, pining, first kiss, first time, falling in love, angst w/ happy ending)

💖🔒 love, in fire and blood by cicer (E, 360k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, YLLZ WWX, Arranged Marriage, political scheming, Gratuitous Domesticity, Mutual Pining, EXTREME SLOWBURN, the inherent eroticism of the forehead ribbon, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, neither wwx nor lwj want to be Perceived, but sorry kids! it’s gonna happen!, rated E but the the NSFW stuff doesn’t begin until chapter 19!, bottom LWJ in chapter 20 and 27)

Old Foreshadows by protos_metazu_ison (M, 15k, WangXian, YLLZ WWX, BAMF WWX, War, Universe Alteration, Sunshot Campaign, Rated For Violence, Timeline What Timeline, Mojo's post)

🔒Fated Series by LtLJ (G, 31k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Post-Apocalypse, Magical Apocalypse, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Canon Diverted via Volcano, YLLZ WWX, Badass LWJ)

🔒hold me fast, fear me not by cicer (M, 16k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fairy Tale Elements, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Mpreg, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, YLLZ WWX, brief reference to abortificants, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, may be interpreted as noncon by some)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

[acaaai-t]

3 months and counting

[modern au! scaramouche x gn! reader]

cw: angst, hurt/no comfort, major character death, hints at suicide, probably unhealthy coping methods idk

The taste of bitter coffee and overly sweetened scent of dandelion tea lingered, lingered for a little longer than he liked.

Wilted flowers lay by a small vase of fresh ones. The pile of dead flowers seemed to grow bigger with each passing day.

The house was dim, with the only source of light being a weakly lit candle surrounded by empty dishes and untouched cutlery on the dining table. For a place that had felt so big not too long ago, it suddenly seemed to be so small.

Scaramouche hummed quietly to himself as he gently dusted at the debris that clung onto the picture frames. His touch was delicate as his fingers brush against the cold glass. The tune he has been singing echoed off the walls, traveling down the silent hallway.

How long has it been? He wonders.

Three days? A week? Two weeks? Scaramouche had long lost count.

Once he was sure that the picture frame was clean, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. In this empty house, the only thing that stood out most was the wall of what Scaramouche called ‘memories’. Golden frames surrounded photos of all kind, taken by you and hung by him.

He misses you.

On most days, Scaramouche would stay huddle in what once was a shared bedroom, buried deep beneath the blankets, scrolling through past messages. Dark circles heavily marked his under eyes, a stark contrast to his porcelain pale skin.

For the first month, he was a utter mess. Unable to process the tragic news of your sudden death.

It had just felt like yesterday, when the two of you were just out on a date, laughing and giggling.

The world was mocking him, taunting and laughing, watching the hallow shell of the man he once was as he stood there alone in the cemetery. Flowers previously placed by your grave was removed and tossed away, replaced by a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers.

The night you were buried under the willow tree, was the only night he had ever worked up the courage to sit by your grave, and wallow in the despair.

“I miss you,” the three words etched into his mind, quietly spoken into the empty void.

What about the plans you’ve made with him? The promises of a happy ending, a beautiful future.

Gone… all gone, far too soon.

“Will we get a cat too?” your voice was eager, full of hope.

Scaramouche smiled and pressed a small kiss to your temple. “Whatever you want.”

You giggled. “Let’s get a black cat then. I can see the resemblance between you and them.”

“Hey,” he whined.

You beamed up at him. “I love you.”

How he wished time could’ve stopped right there and then, allowing that precious moment to last for an eternity.

“I love you too.”

God, it was so fucking unfair. Why did you have to be the one to die?

It could’ve been anyone else, but you just had to be there at the wrong time.

He slumped down on the empty couch, cushions and throw blankets sitting in the same spot as before. Scaramouche didn’t dare touch anything. He was scared— terrified that if he even so as much move anything a centimeter away, he’ll lose the remaining parts of you that he had so desperately been trying to cling onto.

Scaramouche had already lost you once, he couldn’t lose you for a second time.

The soft golden glow of the ceiling lights flickered in and out for a brief moment, a sign that the electrical bill was long overdue. It was fortunate enough that the landlord took pity upon him and gave Scaramouche an extension to pay his bills.

3 months.

It’s been three whole months since the accident. Three months since he’s shut himself off from the outside world. Three months he spend crying and grieving, fantasizing scenarios of you and him. He knows it’ll never come true, but he can only hope.

Head barely above water, the bits of hope he has is all that’s supporting his weight, preventing him from drowning. Yet as the clock moves, he finds himself sinking lower and lower.

Two hollow knocks to his door startled him out of his trancelike state. “Who,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

When the answer was delivered with another two knocks, he spoke louder. “What.”

“Scaramouche,” the muffled voice of Childe floated through the thick wood. “Open the door.”

He scowled, body already moving before his mind had even processed Childe’s words. The door cracked open with a soft creak, a silver of the sunlight spilling into the dark house. Scaramouche squeezed his eyes closed, momentarily blinded by the light. It’s been so long since he’s seen the sun.

Childe’s shadow stepped in and blocked out the light. He gave Scaramouche a tired smile. “Archons you look like shit.”

Scaramouche said nothing and kept his silent gaze on him.

The ginger sighed. “I was hoping you’d come visit… them, with us.”

There were no names mentioned, yet Scaramouche almost instantly knew who Childe was referring to. He felt his body tense up.

“Look, I’m not trying to force you or anything, but we all miss them, and you too, ‘mouche… you haven’t talked with any of us in three month now.”

Guilt gnawed at his heart, eating away yet another piece.

He hadn’t meant to neglect his friends. None of the things he was doing was intentional.

“… I’m sorry,” he whispered, lowering his gaze, unable to keep eye contact with Childe. He fear that if he continued, tears would begin to formulate, and there’d be nothing to stop them from flowing.

“Mind if I come in?” Childe’s voice softened.

Scaramouche felt tears prickling at his eyes. Childe placed one hand on his shoulder, gently giving a pat— and that was what finally broke him. The water droplets fell uncontrollably, rolling down his cheeks. A pitiful sight to behold.

Childe pulled him into a hug and remained quiet. There wasn’t much he could say to comfort Scaramouche’s pain. Everyone was still grieving, him included.

His quiet sniffles slowly died down. Just this one time, he thought to himself, wiping away at a tear. It’s the least he can do.

“Let me get my things,” Scaramouche’s voice was hoarse. A pain-like expression was scrawled across his features as he pulled away from Childe and step back into the shadows of his home.

There wasn’t much he needed to do to get ready. He’d given up on life the moment he was given the news that you didn’t make it. Why he had been fighting for so long, he didn’t understand.

He threw on a simple black cardigan, it was a handmade gift from you to him. In your words, it took you a week and a half to make it— “i hope you’ll like it,” you said sheepishly.

Of course he’ll love it. Cherish it even till death.

He took in a deep breath and went to look for Childe. The medications stored in his pockets jangled against the hard plastic with each step he took.

The last strands of hope snapped, and he sunk. Bubbles floating to the surface as his darkened silhouette slowly disappeared under the void of water.

Tonight, he decided. Tonight, he’ll be able to see you again.

The lights sputtered out as Scaramouche flipped the switch. With the last bits of power it has, the lights illuminated the series of letter sprawled across the glass coffee table— each one address to someone dear to him.

Then it all went dark.

✩ ·┆ masterlist

notes—

— this was fun to write

© acaaai-t — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate

[lovesickeros]

☆ love; heretical and divine

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 0.8k

To love a God is heretical. It is an act of blasphemy– it is to drag them down from their throne of hollow gold, to topple the pedestal the worshipers uphold on their shoulders like lambs at the herders heel. It is the act of forcing them to their knees and ripping that beating heart of glorious gold and beautiful, cruel divinity from their chest, so pure it burns.

To love a God is to make them sin. To make them painfully, horribly human.

To love a God is to sin.

The love of a worshiper is no love at all, brilliant in its raw purity, untainted by sin. It is fear and obedience masked by adoration so overpowering it corrupts. It makes the lamb so unquestioning in it's faith it will never question the knife that cuts, the teeth that rip, the claws that tear. If the Creator deemed them unworthy of the very life crafted by their hands, then they must have committed a sin so grave there lay no salvation for their horrid soul.

But she is no worshiper– her lips speak of heresy as easily as she breathes, her words nothing but lies, cold and cruel like the ice that crawls along her skin like webs.

She loves a God like a lover should.

A damned sinner reaching longingly for the heavens.

She loves a God in the subtle brush of their lips, their muffled voices behind closed doors as they indulge in curiosity untamed. She is a sinner through and through, but she feels herself fall further with every brush of her hand across their cheeks, every touch she bestows upon them like a lover. She memorizes the imperfections of their body like memorizing a map– every scar, every mark, every line drawn on their body like a canvas, her touch the brush that stains the pristine white.

No devoted lamb shall ever see the painting they create in these stolen moments– it is for the eyes of a heretic so vile it makes them shudder, their body dirtied by the love of a woman so vile even their divinity is obscured by the ice.

The lambs may be satisfied with fleeting glimpses of gold and empty words from lips that guide them to the jaws of the wolves, but she is not. Her hands crave them like a starving hound, aching to touch that imperfect skin hidden by the veil of gold that obscures the painfully human body beneath. She longs to free them from the golden cage that binds them– to see their wings blot out the sky, their divinity tainted by sin and making them all the more beautiful for it.

It is a longing that leaves a festering wound that cannot heal, will not heal. Even if it could, she would not let it.

For as much as she tries, deny it as she may, she is no better then the blind lambs following the herder who holds a blade in their hand, glittering like gold in the sun, stained by dull red.

She is a fool, and what a fool they make of her with the touch of their hands against her skin– so cold it leaves frost on their fingertips. Yet they do not fear the cold, mapping out every inch of her imperfections, carved into her body by her own hands.

She has always been a heretic, cursing the divine until she could speak no more, but if divinity can be found in them – in this love that consumes, that burns her hands and her lips – then she is a Saint, praying at the altar until her throat bled.

But in the end, she has and will always be a cold woman with hands stained with blood. Until it is all she can taste, until it is all she can smell, until it is all she can feel. These hands of hers, heretical and divine, will bleed the God from their veins– she will become the wolf to their lamb until the rivers of Teyvat run gold with their ichor, until the gold bleeds into red, the taste of their divinity on her tongue.

Until she drags a God from their lofty throne and makes of them a monster.

There is no greater triumph to the heretic then to love a God into sin. To make a God sin to love.

To love is to be human, and they are no God.

Even if she must tear the gold from their very being until all that's left is something human. Even if Teyvat crumbles and decays, even if it begins over and over again..

She will do it again and again, until the gold can bleed no longer. Until her sins grow too great for Teyvat to contain.

To love a God is to devour, and be devoured. An endless cycle of sin that dulls the glow of gold into something new– something horrifying and divine, in it's own right. Something just as horrid as her, just as divinely corrupted by the sins she carries on her shoulders like a trophy, as gold as the sun and as cold as ice.

Divinity, carved into something human by love all consuming, until it all bleeds away and they begin their dance anew, for as many cycles as it takes.

An eternity, if she must, of dooming this world of theirs to fire and decay for a glimpse of the being snared by their golden shackles.

[angels-fantasy]

this is another collab event hosted by @queenpiranhadon :D i'm so happy to be apart of this, it was really fun to write and i hope you enjoy it. the dividers and banner are also made by @queenpiranhadon so tysm <33 pls send her and other writers apart of this event some love, i will link the event master list here.

Hawks/Keigo Takami x Reader

Tangled AU

Word Count: 8.3k :0000 crazy!!

Description: When you're locked inside of a tower for your whole life, the thing you wish for the most is freedom. Luckily on your 18th birthday, your tower is intruded by a charismatic man who's able to grant you that wish.

BY THE WAYYYY reader has long hair, ofc, but the color/texture is not described or anything!!

This story starts with the sun.

Once upon a time, a drop of sunlight fell from the sky, causing a magic, golden flower to grow. This flower had the ability to heal the sick and injured.

Centuries later, there was a nearby kingdom that rose and was ruled by a king and queen - who was about to have a baby, but fell ill. Extremely ill.

Since she was running out of time, the people began to look for a miracle, or in other words, the magic golden flower.

But there was an evil woman, one who hoarded the flower for its power. Only using it to keep herself looking youthful for hundreds of years.

Though one day when hiding the flower after using its powers, she made the grave mistake of running away and accidentally knocking over the flower's bush disguise.

This led to the kingdom's guards finding the flower and taking it to the queen to heal her.

Then, a healthy baby girl - a princess was born - with beautiful shiny hair.

To celebrate the baby's birth, the king and queen launched a flying lantern into the sky and so did the rest of the kingdom.

Everything was perfect in that moment, until it ended when the old, evil woman found the baby and attempted to cut off her magic hair, only to find that cutting it took away it's magical power.

Deciding it was the only way to have her flower back, she kidnapped the baby.

The kingdom searched for the princess, but had never found her, not knowing she was deep in the forest, locked away in a hidden tower. The evil woman had continued to raise the princess as her own.

...

13 years ago

"...Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine."

"What once was mine..."

After singing, you let out a sigh as your mother continued to brush your hair. "Mother, why can't I go outside?"

"Because Dear, the outside world is a dangerous place. It's full of cruel and selfish people. You must stay here, where you're safe." She answered.

"Do you understand, Flower?"

You hummed as you looked at the lit fireplace flicker in front of you, "Yes, Mother."

Later that night, you tiptoed down the stairs quietly and were especially careful when passing your mother's room.

Something you'd noticed was that each year on your birthday, there were floating lights that lit up the night sky.

Little did you know, they were from the king and queen, hoping that you - their lost princess - would return.

...

13 years later

"Hmm, I guess Nezu's not hiding out here..." You trailed off, pretending to walk away from where your mouse, Nezu, was hiding.

Hearing him snicker, you used your hair to grab him by his tail and pull him towards you. "Found you!" you exclaimed, causing him to squeak.

Letting him down gently, you continued, "Pretty sure that's twenty two for me. How 'bout twenty three out of forty-five?" you asked, causing him to frown.

Rolling your eyes at his sassiness you sat on the window sill, "Well what would you rather do?"

He smiled and used his tail to point outside towards the grass.

"Yeah, not happening." You said and picked him up. "I like it inside, and so do you!"

Nezu replied by sticking his tongue out at you and blowing a raspberry.

"Hey, it's not so bad here." You tried, "We wake up at 7:00 AM, do some cleaning, read a book or two, or three..."

Standing up from the window sill you held up Nezu to help him see all of your paintings that ran along the walls of the tower, "Sometimes I add a few more paintings to my gallery - if there's room somewhere!"

You continued, "Then I'll brush and brush and brush my hair..."

As you continued speaking, you realized how often you do the same things everyday.

"I wonder when my life will begin..." You thought out loud.

"Anyways - you know tomorrow is my birthday Nezu! That means the lights will be there, like they are every year."

You walked over to the mural of yourself looking out at the night sky filled with the lanterns, "I hope that Mother will let me out this year, now that I'm older."

...

Somewhere in the kingdom, a young man that went by the name of Hawks hopped from rooftop to rooftop, alongside two other men named Tomura Shigaraki and Dabi.

Standing at the top of a particular tower, Hawks looked out at the view and muttered "Wow... I could get used to this."

"Hawks, come on!" Shigaraki said while he and Dabi held open a trap door.

"Hold on... Alright, it's decided. I want a castle." Hawks said smugly.

Dabi gritted his teeth, "If we do this job, then you can buy your own damn castle." He then grabbed Hawks by the back of his vest and yanked him towards the trap door.

The two men tied a rope around Hawks and let him down slowly. As he was reaching out for the satchel, a guard sneezed.

"Hay fever?" He asked calmly, resting his elbow on the pedestal the satchel sat on.

The guard answered, "Yeah... Wait, huh?" When he looked back, Hawks and the satchel were already gone.

Looking up, he and the other guards saw the three men running away.

As they ran away Hawks asked, "Can't you see me with my own castle? I know I definitely can. We've seen so much and it's only 8:00 in the morning!"

He laughed, "This is a very big day, gentleworms." His words causing the other men to frown in irritation.

...

In your tower, you whispered to yourself while putting your painting supplies away. "This is it! This will be the day that I ask her. You hear me, Nezu?"

Immediately after you said that, you heard your mother's voice calling your name from outside the tower.

"Let down your hair!"

"Coming Mother!" You yelled and scrambled towards the window, making a large loop with your hair for your mother to use.

Once she was inside she sighed, "Oh, how you manage to do that every single day without fail! It must be exhausting."

You chuckled, "It's nothing."

She smiled and tapped your nose, "Then I don't know why it takes so long!" She laughed, "Oh I'm just teasing."

You laughed awkwardly but continued speaking, "So Mother, as you know tomorrow is a very big day-"

She cut you off, "Flower, I'm feeling a little run down. Would you sing for me Dear? Then we can talk."

"Oh, of course." You quickly grabbed a chair for her to sit in and a stool for yourself. Placing your hairbrush in her hands and your hair in her lap once she sat down, you began to sing very quickly.

"Flowergleamandglowletyourpowershine." Your hair then began to glow, making your mother look younger.

"MaketheclockreverseBringbackwhatoncewasmine"

"Wait!" Your mother said as you continued singing. "Flower!" She shouted once you stopped.

"So Mother, as I was saying, tomorrow is a big day and you didn't respond so I'm just going to tell you - it's my birthday!" You said and hugged her arm.

Your mother shook her head, "No, it can't be. Your birthday was last year."

"Well, here's the thing about birthdays...they happen every year!" You said with a sigh. Sitting down on the stool you said, "Since I'm turning eighteen I wanted to ask - I've been wanting this really bad for my birthday, actually a few birthdays now-"

"Oh Flower stop with the mumbling! You know how I feel about it, blah blah blah. It's very annoying, oh I'm just kidding you're adorable dear!" She cooed and pinched your cheek, walking away without hearing what you had to say.

You wrung your hands together and looked over at Nezu disappointedly, but he nodded his little head at you for encouragement.

You nodded back at him and faced your mother. "I want to see the floating lights!" You exclaimed.

She stopped walking, "What?"

"I was hoping you could take me to see the floating lights." You explained as you stood on a chair to reveal your painting of the lanterns.

"Oh, you mean the stars."

"No Mother, I've charted stars and they're always constant. But these, they appear every year on my birthday - only on my birthday!"

You looked at the painting longingly, "I just can't help but feel like they're meant for me..."

"I need to see them Mother, not just from my window but in person. I have to know what they are."

Your mother scoffed, "You want to go outside?" Shutting the window, she said "Why Dear, you're as fragile as a flower. You know why I keep you in this tower."

"I know, but-"

"That's right, to keep you safe and sound." She said and hugged your hair as she continued speaking.

"I always knew this day would come, that one day you'd want to leave the nest. Soon, but not yet! Just trust me pet, Mother knows best!"

Suddenly, the tower went dark. As you lit a candle, your mother continued speaking.

"Listen to your mother, it's a scary world out there. There are things like thugs, poison ivy, quicksand! Cannibals and snakes, the plague!"

"No!" You gasped.

"Yes! But also large bugs, men with pointy teeth. Now stop, no more, you'll just upset me!"

In fear of the darkness, you sat in the ground in front of the lit candle and hugged your knees.

"Darling here's what I suggest, skip the drama and stay with Mama! All I have is one request."

A light suddenly came down, shining on your mother who had her arms open for you. You stood up quickly and ran into her arms to hug her.

As she stroked your hair she asked, "Flower?"

"Yes?"

Pulling away and placing her hands on your shoulders, she said sternly, "Don't ever ask to leave this tower again."

You looked down sadly but accepted her words, "Yes, Mother." She sighed and lifted your chin up, "I love you very much."

You smiled, "I love you more."

"I love you most." She placed a kiss on your head, "Now don't forget it or you'll regret it, Mother knows best!"

As she walked away, you felt a pang of sadness hit you. Thought when she asked you to let your hair down again so she could leave, you did so without complaint.

"I'll see you later, Flower!" She yelled as she made her way down the tower.

"I'll be here." You said quietly, watching as she was able to walk outside of the tower freely.

...

Hawks and the two men continued running through the forest. When Hawks stopped against a tree to catch his breath, he looked up to see a wanted poster with his face and alias on it. Below that were posters with Dabi and Shigaraki's faces.

Ripping the poster of the tree he cried, "Oh, no. This is bad, very very bad." He turned the poster towards his partners, "They never get my eyebrows right!"

"Who gives a crap?" Dabi rasped.

"That's easy for you to say, you guys look great. Dabi, they even got your staples!"

Startled by the sound of a horse neighing, they continued running but ran into a dead end. Turning around, Hawks said "Okay, give me a boost and then I'll pull you two up."

The men looked at each other, then Shigaraki said, "Give us the satchel first."

Acting surprised, Hawks spoke sadly, "Wow, you don't trust me? Even after all we've been through?"

They looked at him with deadpanned faces.

"Ouch." He said but handed them the satchel and used them for a boost up.

Once he was at the top of the wall, Dabi held out a hand. "Now help us up, pretty boy."

Hawks smirked, "Sorry, but my hands are full." And held up the satchel he managed to get back.

He ran away as fast as he could, leaving Shigaraki and Dabi behind. He could hear them yell his name angrily, but he continued on anyways. As he ran, the guards were close on his tail.

Dodging their arrows, he gasped in shock and kept on running. He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere was better than a jail cell.

At one point, only one guard and his horse were behind him. As they chased him he grabbed onto a vine and swung himself around a large tree and behind the guard, kicking him off of the horse.

Hawks himself ended up landing on the horse after letting go of the vine, but the horse immediately stopped running and snorted at him.

"Come on, forward!" He shouted and kicked the side of the horse. The horse didn't listen, but the satchel in Hawks' hand caught his attention and he attempted to take it back with his teeth but failed.

"No! No, stop it." Hawks said, but the horse continued to try and bite the satchel, causing them to jump around. Eventually they ended up playing tug of war, but when the satchel was released from both of them it went flying and landed on a branch of a tree that was leaning over a cliff.

The horse and man glanced at each other before hastily moving to get the satchel back. Hawks had climbed down the tree and grabbed the satchel successfully while the horse stood on the trunk of it.

"Ahah!" He said, but his victory was ruined by the sound of cracking. Suddenly, the tree broke off from the cliff and he and the horse were sent downwards into another forest.

When Hawks landed, he hid behind a large rock to avoid the horse that was sniffing for him. Once the horse left, he leaned against a wall of vines but almost fell through it.

Hearing the horse's neigh, he quickly pulled back the vines and hid inside of the little cave it was covering.

He made his way through the small cave and ended up in a large, open area with a tall tower and a waterfall behind it.

Out of desperation, he made his way towards the tower and climbed up it by using arrows. Climbing inside quickly, he shut the window and panted. Grabbing the satchel, he opened it and sighed "Alone at last."

CLANG

You squealed and ran away after hitting the intruder with a frying pan. Hiding behind a mannequin, you peeked over it and looked at his unconscious form. Keeping the mannequin in front of you, you rolled it over slowly and made your way towards him.

Carefully, you used the frying pan to poke his head and move it over so you could see his face. His wild hair still covered his eyes, but you looked over at Nezu for help. He used his little hands to mimic fangs, reminding you about what Mother said.

You used the handle to lift his lip up, peeking at his teeth. "Oh..." You said when you realized his teeth were dull, just like yours.

Continuing to use the handle, you moved his hair out of his face and gasped softly at how handsome he was.

His blonde hair was messy, and he had bushy untamed eyebrows that matched. There was light stubble on his chin and he wore a striking red vest over his white button up, which was paired with khakis and black boots.

While you were admiring the stranger, his eye suddenly opened. Startled, you gasped and whacked him on the head again.

SInce he was unconscious you took it as an opportunity to tie him up with your hair and lock him away in your wardrobe. He was heavy and you couldn't figure out how to get him inside, so you dragged and threw his body around until it eventually made it inside.

Blocking the doors off with a chair, you said "Okay, okay. There's a person in my closet."

Looking at yourself in the mirror you laughed, "I've got a person in my closet!"

You pretended to dust off your shoulders and swung the frying pan around, "And Mother says I'm too weak, tell that to my frying pan-Ow!" You hissed, rubbing at the spot that your frying pan hit.

Then, something shining in the mirror caught your eye. It was coming from the satchel so you looked inside and pulled out a crown.

Looking at it in awe, you wondered what it was. Placing your arm through it didn't feel right, so you looked in the mirror and placed it on your head.

Now that felt right.

Your moment was ruined however, by your mother's voice calling for you to let down your hair. Quickly taking the crown off and hiding it in a pot, you went to fetch your mother who said she had a surprise for you.

"I do too, Mother!"

"I bet my surprise is bigger!"

You looked at the closet and whispered, "I seriously doubt it."

When your Mother was inside she told you she got parsnips and planned on making hazelnut soup for dinner.

"Well Mother, there's something I want to tell you."

"Oh dear, you know I hate leaving after a fight. Especially when I've done nothing wrong!"

Ignoring her words you continued on, "I've been thinking about what you said earlier-"

"You better not be talking about the stars."

"Floating lights." You corrected, "And yes, I'm getting to that-"

"I really thought we dropped this, Flower."

"No, Mother." You walked over to the closet, ready to prove yourself to your mother. "I'm just saying, you think I'm not strong enough to handle myself out there."

"Oh Darling, I know you're not strong enough.

"But if you just-"

"Flower, we're done talking about this."

"Trust me!"

"Flower."

"I know what I'm-"

"Flower!"

"Oh, come on!"

"Enough with the lights!" Your Mother yelled, "You are not leaving this tower! Ever!"

You flinched at the volume of her voice and slowly moved away from the closet, taking your hand off of the chair that was blocking it.

Your Mother sighed, "Ugh, great. Now I'm the bad guy."

You frowned and looked up at your painting of the lanterns. Getting an idea, you said "All I was going to say is that I know what I want for my birthday now."

"And what is that?"

"New paint." You said softly, "The paint from the white shells you once brought me."

"That is a very long trip, Dear. Almost three days' time!"

"I just thought it was a better idea than the...stars."

Your mother sighed and stood up to walk over to you. "Will you be alright on your own?"

Hugging her, you said "I know I'm safe as long as I'm here."

Later that evening, you packed a basket for her and sent her off, telling her you love her.

Once she was gone, you grabbed your frying pan again and moved the chair away from the closet and let the man fall out onto his face.

You tied him onto the chair with your hair and Nezu woke him up by biting the man's ear.

Hawks woke up with a shout, knocking the mouse off of his shoulder. He looked around confused and down at his hands, trying to move. Surprised at what was wrapped around him, he asked out loud, "Is this hair?"

From the corner you pointed the pan towards him and spoke shakily, "There's no point in struggling! I know why you're here and I'm not afraid of you."

"What?"

Keeping your guard up, you slowly walked towards him and revealed yourself. "Who are you? And how did you find me?"

"Ahhuh." He stammered.

You repeated yourself, but he just stared at you and cleared his throat. "I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you, but may I just say...hi." He smiled, very strangely.

You looked at him confused as he continued speaking.

"How are ya? You can call me Hawks. How's your day goin'? Hm?"

You grunted and brought the pan closer to his face, "Who else knows my location, Hawks?"

"Alright, I was strolling through the forest when - oh no. Where's my satchel?"

You crossed your arms, "I've hidden it somewhere you'll never find it."

He deadpanned, "It's in the pot over there huh?"

CLANG

Waking up in the same position a moment later again, he groaned.

"Now it's in a place you'll never find it!" You said.

As you continued interrogating him, you learned that he had no knowledge of your hair or its powers.

After a little talk with Nezu, you decided to offer the man you now know as Hawks, a deal.

Showing him your lantern painting you asked, "Do you know what these are?"

"You mean the lantern thing for the princess?" He asked.

"I knew they weren't stars!" You gasped, "Anyways, tomorrow evening they will light the night sky with these lanterns. I need you to act as my guide and take me to see these lanterns, then return me home safely. After that, I will return your satchel."

"Uh yeah, no can do. Unfortunately the kingdom isn't very fond of me so I can't take you anywhere."

Scowling, you pulled him towards you with your hair and spoke. "Something brought you here, Hawks, and now I'm deciding to trust you-"

"Horrible decision, really."

"But trust me when I say this, you cant tear this tower apart but you will never find your precious satchel without my help."

"So basically, I take you to see the lanterns, bring you back home, and you'll give me back my satchel?"

"Yup."

"I didn't want to have to do this but you leave me no choice... Here's the smolder."

Suddenly he was looking at you with a strange expression, one that made him look constipated.

Seeing that you had no reaction, he said "This is an off day for me, this doesn't normally happen. Fine! I'll take you to see the lanterns."

You smiled.

...

When finally leaving your tower, you used your hair to get down but right before you touched the ground you stopped and gasped.

Slowly letting your foot down onto the grass, you laughed at the cold and prickly feeling. Already feeling a sense of freedom, you ran out of the hidden area and all around the forest with Hawks and relished every moment of it that you could.

Though the whole time you were conflicted. There were moments you were so happy you left, but others where you regretted it and felt like a horrible daughter.

Hawks was with you through all of your mood swings, as part of the deal of course. But during one moment where you were crying, he sat down next to you and gave you his best words of advice.

"You seem a bit at war with yourself, but this is apart of growing up, y'know? A little rebellion, adventure, that's good."

"You think?"

"I know. You're overthinking this, trust me! It's time for you to spread your wings and fly."

His words made you feel a little better but you still felt disappointed in yourself. Pushing your negative emotions aside, you stood up and tried to focus on the positives.

There was a sudden rustling noise coming from the bushed and you wrapped your arms around Hawks, scared of what was coming.

Then, a little bunny came out of the bush.

"Careful, it can probably smell fear."

You laughed sheepishly, "Sorry, I thought it'd be a thug or something."

"Yeah...it's best we avoid those." Hawks thought, "Hey, you hungry? I know a great place for lunch!"

Deciding that you were a bit hungry, you followed his lead.

...

"It should be around here - ah! There it is, The Snuggly Duckling." Hawks said as he led you down a dirt path in the forest.

"The Snuggly Duckling?" You asked.

"Yep, great place. Don't worry, it's a good place. Perfect for you!"

When Hawks opened the door, the inside was a much different atmosphere than what you thought. Scary men sat at every table, staring you down.

You gasped and held out your frying pan in fear.

"Hey, you're lookin' a little green there." Hawks said, "Y'know maybe we should just get you back home-"

Suddenly a big, burly man shut the door and held up a wanted poster with Hawks' face on it. "Is this you?"

Before he could answer, another man with a mechanical arm spoke up. "Oh, it's him alright!"

He then told another man to go find some guards, causing a bunch of other men to drag Hawks around talking about how much money they should get from the prize.

You felt yourself begin to panic, was this really happening? Were you not going to see the lanterns you dreamed of seeing?

Determined to make your dream come true, you yelled out "Everyone shut up!" which caused the men to stop what they were doing and face you.

"Okay, I don't know where I'm going and I need him to take me to see the lanterns! It's been my dream to see them my entire life, haven't any of you ever had a dream?"

Suddenly the same man who told another to call the guards walked up to you and said "I have a dream..."

He then went on to explain his dream of becoming a magician to you and so did many other of the men. One of the men had said his dream was to have a love connection, which you thought was sweet.

Though the moment was ruined when a man busted through the door with guards behind him.

"Where is he? Where's Hawks?!"

Hawks quickly grabbed your hand and pulled you with him to hide behind the bar. Luckily, the man with a mechanical arm tapped Hawks' shoulder and eyed a lever with a duck on it. Taking the hint, Hawks pulled the lever down to reveal an underground tunnel.

The man winked, "Go, live your dreams!" and snapped his fingers to reveal a small, blue marble.

You both smiled at him and made your way into the tunnel, running as fast as you can.

A little ways in, you heard a heard of footsteps behind you and began to run even faster while holding all of your hair.

At the end of the tunnel you found yourself at the edge of a cliff with all of Hawks' enemies surrounding you. You threw him your frying pan and used your hair as a swing to get to the other cliff, leaving him alone with his enemies and your frying pan.

From the other side you watched as he dodged the guards swords and use the frying pan to do so. But the pan was knocked out of his hands (by a horse of all people), leaving him defenseless.

You threw your hair at him like a lasso and wrapped it around his hand.

"Hawks! Look out!" You said as he swung down with your hair.

Once he made it to the other side safely, the horse knocked down a tall wooden pillar to use as a walking beam to get to you. Doing this caused a leak in the dam, which made it slowly fall apart and cause a huge wave of water to come down.

You quickly swung to Hawks and began running away from the water. There was a small cave that you both ran into, barely making it inside after a large rock covered the opening.

The water began to seep through the cracks of the rock and the cave filled up with water.

"This is all my fault." You whimpered. "Mother was right... I never should've done this. I'm so sorry Hawks."

"Keigo."

You sniffled, "What?"

"Keigo Takami, that's my real name." He said quietly. "I guess someone might as well know."

You chuckled, "Well I have magic hair that glows when I sing."

"What?" He sputtered.

Getting an idea, you repeated yourself and began to sing quickly before the water filled up the cave. Now underwater, you could see everything with the light coming from your hair.

Keigo looked stunned, but kept his focus and began clearing the small rocks out of the exit that your hair led to.

Now out of the cave, the two of you climbed out of the water and onto land where you caught your breaths.

"We made it." You sighed.

"Your hair glows... Why does your hair glow?!"

"Keigo!" You yelled.

"What?!"

"It doesn't just glow."

Nezu looked up at Keigo and smiled with a nod.

"Why is he smiling at me?"

Later that night, you and Keigo sat together on a log in front of a campfire as you wrapped your hair around his hand that had gotten cut earlier.

Keigo laughed nervously, "You're being weirdly quiet about your magic hair."

You hummed, "Just don't freak out, okay?"

Before he could reply, you began to sing softly, causing your hair to glow once again.

He watched in awe as it shined brightly, listening to your voice sing so beautifully.

When the hair covering his hand began to glow, he could feel a difference in his hand.

When you finished singing, he unwrapped your hair from his hand and looked at his hand, trying to form a sentence.

"I told you not to freak out!"

"I'm not!" He defended, "I'm just, wondering about your magic hair! How long has it been doing that?"

"Um, forever I guess?" You shrugged. "Mother says people tried to cut my hair when I was a baby, they wanted the power for themselves."

Moving your hair behind your ear, you revealed a short, dull piece of hair. "But once it's cut, it loses its shine and power. So, it has to be protected. That's why nobody can know about me, and that's why I..."

"That's why you never left that tower." Hawks finished for you, "You're still gonna go back?"

You groaned and put your head in your hands, "I don't know... It's complicated."

After a moment, you sighed. "So, Keigo Takami?"

He laughed nervously, "Eh, it's not a big deal. I'll spare you the details of the sob story that is my life."

You gave him a look.

"Well alright." He shrugged, "When I was a kid there was this book about the best heroes, and one of them was named Endeavor."

"I loved that guy, he made me want to become a hero too. So, I started calling myself Hawks." He laughed, "I was convinced it'd make me the fastest man out there, and it did, in a way..." He said, thinking about his thievery.

"Dont tell anyone about this though, okay?"

You nodded and pretended to zip your lips shut, "Locked and in my pocket."

He smiled softly and stood up, "Well, I'm gonna go get more firewood."

As he was walking away you spoke up, "Y'know, I think I like Keigo Takami better than Hawks."

He smiled, "Thanks, you'd be the first."

You smiled back.

"Finally, I thought he'd never leave!"

You turned around, startled, "Mother?"

"How did you find me?" You asked as she hugged you.

"It was easy, I just followed the scent of complete betrayal." She said, making you cringe. "Now let's go home, dear."

"Mother please, I-I've been on this great journey and I've seen so much! I even met someone."

"Yes, the wanted thief! Now come on."

"Wait! Mother, I think he likes me..."

"Flower, this is why you should've never left. Why would he like you? You big dummy. Now come with mommy-"

"No." You said, finally standing up for yourself.

"No? Well, I guess you know best now huh? If he starts lying and hurting you, don't come crying because I won't say I told you so." She said, frowning heavily as she tossed you the satchel and made her way out of the forest, leaving you alone.

You watched as she walked away, wondering if you made the right choice as you looked at the crown inside of the satchel.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Keigo called, "You think I'll get super strength in my hand or something? 'Cause that would be awesome!" He said as he held firewood.

When he noticed your silence he asked, "You okay?"

You turned around after hiding away the satchel, "Oh yeah, just lost in thought."

As Keigo blabbered on about something, you looked in the direction of the satchel and thought to yourself, would he really lie to you?

...

The next morning you woke up to Keigo screaming while being dragged by a horse.

You ran over to him and grabbed onto his hands to pull him away, "Give me him!"

Finally yanking him back, you walked over to the horse. "Sit! Sit down, aww there you go! Good horse!"

Grabbing Keigo by the hand, you brought him to the horse (who you learned was named Maximus), "Now you two can be friends!" You said, making Maximus grunt and turn away.

"Aw come on, please? It's my birthday today!" You pleaded, making Maximus give in and shake Keigo's hand.

...

Walking into the kingdom felt magical, since everything and everyone was new to you! There were so many different people around and they all fascinated you.

Thought while walking around you found your hair to be annoying, so Keigo helped you carry it and found some little girls to help braid it all for you, which they did beautifully and added flowers into your hair.

"Keigo, this is so much fun! Thank you for being my guide." You said while dancing with him, making him smile at you.

"It's no problem, I'm glad you're having fun."

Later when the sunset, you both made your way to the docks and got on a small boat. Keigo had also thrown Maximus a bag of apples to snack on while he waited, which the horse appreciated.

As Keigo rowed the boat, you were looking down at the water when you saw the reflection of a lantern.

You gasped and scrambled to stand in the boat, rocking it side to side, and looked up at the sky to see the floating lanterns you'd always dreamed of.

Hearing a noise behind you, you turned around and saw Keigo holding two lanterns.

"I figured you'd want to light your own." He said sheepishly.

You smiled and sat down next to him, "Keigo... Thank you. Aren't the lights so beautiful? I knew they would be."

He nodded while looking at you, "Yeah, really beautiful."

"Oh! I have something for you too." You said and reached down to grab the satchel. "I was gonna give it to you sooner, but I was scared... But I'm not scared anymore! You get me?"

He pushed the satchel down lightly, "I'm starting to."

You smiled at each other, each of you taking a lantern and pushing it into the sky, watching as they danced around each other.

Looking over, you saw a lantern floating towards you so you leaned over the boat and pushed it up slightly.

Keigo admired you as you enjoyed the lanterns, happy he could contribute to the large smile on your face.

Gaining confidence, he leaned over and held your hand softly. Your face flushed slightly, and you took both of his hands in yours.

"Keigo, thank you so much for bringing me here." You said sincerely, making him smile bashfully.

"It's nothing, I'm just glad you're enjoying yourself."

You giggled at his smile and continued, "You've also helped me see the world in a different light, so thank you for that too."

Your words stunned him, and he didn't know what to say. But in that moment everything felt right, and it also felt like the right time to kiss you.

Beginning to lean in slowly, he held your face softly, making you realize what he was doing.

Your heart raced as you leaned in closer, thought right when your lips brushed against each other, Keigo pulled away.

He was looking behind you nervously, making you turn around and ask, "Is everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah." He chuckled nervously as he began to row the boat, "I just uh, have to go check on something."

You frowned but accepted his words silently, allowing him to row the boat back to shore.

When he got out of the boat he grabbed the satchel and turned to you. "I'm sorry, everything is fine I swear. There's just something I have to take care of."

You stayed silent and nodded, not looking him in the eyes.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, "I'll be right back." and left, leaving you alone.

You watched as he walked away, Nezu on your shoulder trying to comfort you. "I'll be alright." You said patting him.

...

As Keigo walked through the forest, he found Dabi and Shigaraki waiting for him.

"Hey! I've been looking everywhere for you guys." He said nervously.

"Uh, anyways - just wanted to say I shouldn't have dipped out on you guys - the crown is yours." He said and tossed the satchel with the crown inside over to their feet.

Just as he turned away, he bumped into Dabi who was frowning down at him.

"Holding out on us again, Hawks?" Shigaraki asked.

"What?"

Shigaraki stood up and walked over to Keigo, "We heard you found something better. We want her instead." He said, making Keigo panic inside.

...

After a while of waiting at the boat, you saw a figure in the distance and assumed it was Keigo.

"There you are! I was started to think you ran off with the crown and left me." You said laughing lightly.

Suddenly the figure split into two and two men were approaching you instead of Keigo. One of them had a lean build with long light blue, wavy hair. The other man was a bit taller and muscular, and wore tattered clothes. His hair was black and spiky, but his most striking features were the dark purple scars that littered his face and body, attached to regular skin with staples.

"Looks like he did leave you." The scarred one said.

"What?" You asked, confused. "No... He wouldn't."

The thinner one pointed out to the water where a large boat was, "See for yourself."

Looking out into the water you saw Keigo's figure on the boat, making you gasp.

Catching you off guard, the two men began to corner you but you ran away quickly, causing them to run after you.

As you were running, your hair got caught in a branch.

"No, no!" You cried, trying to pull your hair out.

Suddenly you heard your mother's voice calling your name, along with the sound of two men groaning in pain.

"Mother?" You whispered.

"Oh! There you are." She said, "Are you alright? I was so worried about you, Dear."

As you tried to form a sentence, your mother ushered you to follow her back home though you couldn't bring yourself to move.

You looked out onto the water where Keigo was, tears filling up your eyes. You had never felt so betrayed in your life. Maybe you should have listened to your mother. She was right, she always was. Keigo lied to and used you.

Turning to your mother, she saw the look on your face and held her arms out to you. You cried and ran into her arms to hug her tightly. "You were right." You cried, "About everything."

She hushed you, "I know Flower, now let's go home."

...

What felt like hours later, Keigo finally woke up and found himself tied to the wheel of a boat. He looked around anxiously, calling out your name.

"We found him!" A guard called out, hopping onto the boat. A group of guards untied him and led him off of the boat, making sure to handcuff him before taking him to his cell.

...

It was the next day and you were back at your tower. You sat silently on your bed as your mother plucked all of the flowers out of your hair.

"There, that's all of them." She said happily and threw out the flowers.

As she walked out of your bedroom, she turned to you and saw the look on your face and sighed. "I really did try to warn you, but you didn't listen."

"The world is a dark, cruel place. It destroys every ray of sunshine." She said sternly and shut the curtains behind her.

Once she was gone, you uncurled your hands to reveal a small purple cloth from the kingdom with the sun on it.

You sighed and lied on your back, looking up at your ceiling. Squinting your eyes, you noticed the sun on your ceiling, and looked back at the cloth, recognizing the resemblance between the two.

Gasping, you stood up and looked all around to see more suns you had subconsciously painted. Stumbling backwards, you realized it was you the entire time!

You were the lost princess.

...

In the kingdom, Keigo was being led to his death.

As he walked past other cells and prisoners, he saw Shigaraki and Dabi in their cell.

He felt himself grow angry by just seeing their faces, he shoved the guards down to knock them out.

He moved his hands from behind his back to the front and grabbed onto Shigaraki's shirt, pulling him towards him.

"How the hell did you find out about her?!" He yelled, "Tell me!"

Shigaraki stuttered, "It wasn't us! It-It was the old lady."

"Old lady?" Keigo mumbled before the guards got up and grabbed him once again.

"Wait, stop! You don't understand, she's in trouble!"

...

Back at your tower, you confronted your mother.

"I'm the lost princess..." You said quietly.

"What? Speak up Dear, you know I hate-"

"I'm the lost princess!" You said, "Did I mumble, Mother? Or should I even be calling you that?"

Your mother stood silently before replying, "Oh do you even hear yourself? Why would you say such ridiculous things!" She said walking towards you, but you pushed her away.

"It was you! You kidnapped me!"

She looked down at you, "I did it to protect you!"

"I spent my whole life locked away, hiding from people who would use me for my power when I should've been hiding from you!" You yelled as you stormed downstairs.

"Where will you go, hm? He won't be there for you. That criminal is to be hanged for his crimes." She said, making your breath hitch.

"But just listen to me. All of this is how it should be." She continued, ready to place a hand on your head before you grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

"No! You were wrong about the world - about me! I will never let you use my hair again!" You exclaimed, pushing her arm down and away from you, knocking her back into the mirror.

She frowned heavily, "You want me to be the bad guy? Then I will be the bad guy."

...

As the guards got to the door that led to Keigo's demise, the little peep hole slide open, revealing an old man. "What's the password?" He slurred, catching the guards by surprise when a bunch of the men from The Snuggly Ducking came barreling in.

The men and guards fought, giving Keigo an escape. There was even one man using a frying man, which made him laugh.

The men helped him out of the cuffs and led him outside where a hoard of guards were waiting for them.

The man with a mechanical arm stood next to Keigo, instructing him on how to stand."

"Okay, now knees apart!" He said.

"Knees apart." Keigo repeated, "Wait, knees apart-"

Suddenly a large man jumped down and onto the back of the wagon Keigo stood on, launching him high into the air.

He cringed as he flew down, not expecting to land on the back of Maximus.

"Hey! You brought the guys here?" Keigo asked Maximus, and the horse answered with a smug look.

"Thank you." Keigo said sincerely, "Now let's go!"

Maximus began galloping, running past the guards and jumped onto a roof, sliding down and landed onto a pathway within the kingdom.

"Woo hoo!" Keigo yelled as he and Maximus made their way to your tower.

When he got there, he called out your name, begging you to let down your hair.

It wasn't until a few seconds later that your hair fell down the side of the tower, lifting him up inside.

"Oh my, I never thought I'd see you again!" He cried as he stepped inside, gasping when he saw you tied up and your mouth taped shut.

Catching him off guard, your 'mother' used her dagger and stabbed him in the abdomen, causing him to fall onto his knees in pain.

All you could do was watch and cry out as you saw him groan in pain, blood staining his shirt and vest.

"Now look what you've done." She said. "But don't worry, our secret will die with him." Stepping over him, she walked towards you and unhooked your chain from the wall, yanking you towards her.

"As for us, you're going somewhere no one will ever find you!"

You yelled as loud as you could with your mouth taped shut, trying to crawl away from her grasp.

"Stop fighting me!" She yelled.

You were able to wiggle the tape down to your chin, finally allowing yourself to talk. "No! I'm not stopping! I will never stop trying to get away from you!" You panted while falling onto the floor and landing on your bottom.

"If you let me save him, I will go with you." You said, making Keigo groan.

"No, you can't do that."

You ignored his words and continued, "I'll never run, I'll never try to escape. Just let me heal him and you and I will be together, forever, just like you want!"

After convincing your 'mother' to let you heal Keigo, she put the chain that was previously on you, onto him. "Just incase you get any ideas about fallowing us." She said through gritted teeth, walking away.

You ran over to him and kneeled beside him, "Keigo!"

He coughed and groaned in pain, clutching his stomach where the wound was.

You removed his hand slowly, repeating reassuring words as you began to wrap your hair around him but he pushed your hands away.

"No, stop. I can't let you do this." He groaned out.

"But I can't let you die." You said softly, placing a hand on his cheek.

"But if I let you do this, then you die." He whispered with watery eyes.

Before you could respond, he said your name weakly and stroked your cheek with one hand, slowly bring it to your hair and gathering it all in his hand.

With the other hand, he held a shard of glass and sliced through your hair with all his remaining strength.

Gasping, you turned and watched as the rest of your hair turned dull and lost its shine.

Your 'mother' cried out in despair, holding onto your dead hair for dear life, yelling as she lost her youthfulness and grew old.

"No! What have you done?!" She screamed, running towards the shattered mirror to observe her reflection.

She cried in disbelief, pulling her hood over her head to hide her looks. As she stumbled around the room, she tripped over her own feet and tumbled out of the window backwards, falling to her death.

Disregarding that horrid woman's death, you turned to Keigo, who was struggling to stay awake.

You scrambled towards him and grabbed one of his hands to place on top of your head, "No, no Keigo stay with me!"

You desperately sang, trying to use your hair to heal him but nothing worked. You began to cry, growing angry that he had cut off the only thing that could heal him.

He grabbed your face weakly, cutting you off, and said softly, "I didn't get to tell you this before, but you were my new dream."

You smiled softly and held his hand, "And you were mine."

Watching as he took his last breath, you leaned against his body and sang once more.

"Heal what has been hurt. Change the fate's design. Save what has been lost. Bring back what once was mine."

"What once was mine..." You whimpered, letting your head fall against his and the tears roll down your face.

Though a lone tear managed to find its way onto his cheek, causing it to shine brightly. You sat up and watched as the light grew and beamed throughout the room. Wisps of light formed a flower, which gleamed beautifully.

When it all went away, you heard Keigo breathe from underneath you and call your name.

"Keigo!" You cried happily.

He chuckled. "Did I ever tell you I have a thing for girls with short hair?" He joked, making you gasp and throw your arms around him. He laughed loudly and wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you closely.

When you pulled away, you glanced at him for a second before pulling him towards you and finally placing a kiss on his lips.

...

Back in the kingdom, you and Keigo announced to the guards that you were the lost princess.

One of them alerted the king and queen of your presence and they ran to go see where you were waiting.

As you stood outside with Keigo nervously, the doors behind you suddenly opened and revealed your true parents.

Your mother slowly walked towards you, reaching a hand out slowly and placing a hand on your cheek in disbelief.

She then smiled softly at you, making you smile back. Taking that as an okay, she brought you into a tight hug. From over her shoulder, you made eye contact with your father who was crying, and allowed him to hug you as well.

Even though you hadn't been here in eighteen years, you knew that this is where you belonged.

This was your true home, and you were happy to live a happily ever after with Keigo.

Keigo was happy too. Happy to be the one to finally bring the lost princess home and marry her, living his happily ever after as well.

authors note

omgomgomg i hope this was okay :00 twas very fun writing it, pls go check out the other writers with this link !!

while writing this i was having a sleepover with my best friend and he kept asking what i was doing and i finally told him that i write fanfiction LOLLL it was so funny it felt like i was coming out to him but it went well and he helped me write some of this so everyone thank mr.panda! (•̀ᴗ•́)و

thank you again to @queenpiranhadon for letting me join :) 🩷

[the-midnight-blooms]

ꜱɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

pairing: husband!jeong yunho x wife!reader

AU: hanahaki au

word count: 2.4k

ATEEZ as angst tropes series:

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

masterlist

Trope: Unrequited Love

Dear Yunho,

I hope this letter find you well, whether you open it now or decades later when you sit at my grave. Perhaps you’ve married again, and another child sits in your arms- I'll never truly know how much I mean to you.

Whoever had said falling in love was a blessing had clearly never fallen in love with the wrong person in their life. Such an astute claim that was. Falling in love was one the worst things that could have ever happened to me, especially since the deadly case of Hanahaki was up for grabs.

I will not sugar-coat it, I love you as dearly as if you are mine. I love you as if I can have you. I love you as if I am entitled to you. I always have, and will until I am torn apart by this wretched illness.

Perhaps she had acted too resistant in the face of love. Acting like it was a sin for women on a dark path, yet at night she dreamed that in the dead of a void her lover would crawl to her and ensnare her in his arms. Pepper her with gentle kisses and unbroken stares. Perhaps that was the reason why Yunho had first been warded away from her, taking on many lovers. Always rushing back to her to tell her how perfect each woman was, how he cherished them, fixing onto their smile, their eyes, their beauty unparalleled. There was something about them that made his heart swoon and something about her that rebuked him.

“Then who will hold you at night, when you are so lonely that you cannot even comfort yourself?” He asked her one evening, sat under a great oak tree heads on each other shoulders; the action itself burning her heart- how she wished he wanted her the same way she wanted him. You. Will you not hold me? Will you not shield from the terrors of this world that I am so frightened against?

He had come to her in the torpidity of the night, finally, heart yearning as he realised that where he should have spoken aloud his lovers name, he said hers. Where his lover should have been soaring through his dreams, carrying his child, plastering kisses all over his face, running down the sand on the crust of the roaring sea; it was her.

"Yunho? What's wrong?" With watery eyes he stared down at her, body wracking with sobs.

"It's you. You're all I have ever wanted."

Who should I blame for being so devoted to you? I can’t blame myself, I’m sorry. It hurts too much and already the bronchi of my lungs have been replaced with the sturdy branches of a willow tree. Flowers now bloom on the membrane of cells, tissues all compressed between saccharine petals. You may laugh at my poetry but you adored it once. After all, once our souls were bound in holy matrimony, did I not gift you a poem every anniversary? Did you not read those words aloud me under the cover of the night, as if it was your soul speaking to me and not I?

An ecru, vintage radio sat perched upon the wooden worktop, in an equally old kitchen on the outskirts of the country. Just two miles below, down the grassy hilltop lead to the sea-the rush of the tides blanketing the sand, drawing it towards the deep. Delicate waves enveloped each other, producing a cacophony of sounds that drowned out the hum of the radio. The humidity of the kitchen suffocated her, as the flames of the oven whispered to the baked good blemishing it with a golden-brown that would soon prompt her to pull it from the rack. Wandering to the front porch, she followed her lover's figure saunter up the hill-his pace increasing as she opened her arms out for him. Swooping her up from the ground, he spun her around in the air-his tight grip central around her waist. A shriek escaped from her lips as he did so. Gently, he put her down, the couple laughing synchronously as she dragged him into the kitchen. Flopping down onto the chair, Yunho went straight to the radio-sitting on top of the worktop, fiddling with its button an array of tunes inbounding the pale kitchen walls. Settling upon a popular Latin song, he got off the countertop- beginning to sway his hips to the music. When his movements became much more faster and fluid, she could not help but erupt in a fit of laughter. He reached out for her hands, enamouring her hands within his.

"You know I can't dance." He laughed, recalling the memory where she almost tripped on her wedding dress in front of a crowd of people gawking at them during the first dance. Turning the dial, he rested his hands on her waist gazing down at her. Resting her chin on his chest she peered up at him with her own doe eyes. Remaining in each other arms as the world swept by, wind rushing in from the window lace curtain fluttering in the breeze. A sweet smell drove out from the oven, she hastily pried herself from his embrace grabbing the tea towel.

"What have you got in the oven?" he pondered, as she went to her knees opening the oven door. A small smirk formed on her lips. He looked over her shoulder. "Buns?" Holding back giggles, she composed herself before looking up at him with a deadpan face nodding dubiously.

"Interesting choice. I thought you were baking a cake. Never mind, these are nice." He rambled as she flipped over the buns onto the wire rack, leaving them to cool. "How long were they in the oven for?" He winced slightly as he tried to reach for one, sharply retracting his hand away as the hot surface lacerated his finger.

"About four-five weeks." He gave her a confused look, as she turned around meandering to the living room. Five weeks? He looked back at the buns. He knew croissants often took three days to make, but five weeks for buns? As if a switch had flicked in his head, he stuck his head in the living room doorway.

"We have a bun in the oven?" Nodding, he swept her off the floor like a bride, spinning her around in his arms as if she weighed nothing to him. "WE HAVE A BUN IN THE OVEN!"

You may have once told me you adored me, but you no longer do now.

She recalled staring down at the loose petal of a bright pink dicentra flower in her fingers, blood splattered across the crystal white sink in her bathroom. A strangling sensation fulfilled her throat, slumping onto the lid of the toilet seat. Beads of sweat formed across her forehead, the cogs in her brain stopping for a split second as fatigue gnawed at her. The pounding on the bathroom door startled her, shoving the pink petal in her pocket- she opened the tap using her fingers to scrub away the splatter of her blood that remained on the sink. Looking down she found her niece peering up at her with her wide eyes and an innocent face, her little lips lightly gaped as she took in her auntie's dishevelled state. Lifting up her niece in her arms, she pecked her chubby cheeks a giggle eructed from her as she walked into her bedroom. Yunho sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his work tie a sheepish smile of his face. Nari's short arms held out for her uncle, in a disinterested manner Yunho took her from his wife's hold, lazily entertaining his niece.

"You could at least pretend to be happy when you play with Nari." His wife taunted, late at night in a hushed tone as her niece fell into a deep slumber.

"She's not my child, I don't see why." A loud thud echoed in the room as he dropped his phone onto the night stand.

"Yunho." she snapped, eyebrows furrowed in anger. He never was like this, something had happened after her miscarriage. Like a lever had been pulled, refiguring his kind-hearted nature into a malicious monster. It struck her heart with fear, that now that she could not give him a child-he longer wanted her. "She is still a baby, how would you like it if someone did that to your child?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't have one, do I?" As if a blow had been struck against her, she rolled her body in the opposite direction, in the bed, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Why are you holding it against me? She wanted to say. A deep sigh escaped from his lips, he indolently patted his wife's shoulder as if it would compensate for the damage ensued by his apathy. Erupting in a harsh fit of coughs, a current of petals flew from her mouth blessing the earth beneath.

To ask me stop loving you is like asking for the earth to stop orbiting the sun. To ask me is to tell me to stop breathing. Oh my darling, my lover divine, I wish I could. No matter what I do, you won’t love me back. So I plead of you to acknowledge my suffering. To know that others may blame you for the way you taunted me. Because I never meant anything more to you than someone to fill your lonely nights when nobody else wanted you.

Over the subsequent months, her health had deteriorated significantly which had not gone unnoticed by her husband. Her eyes had sunken into its pockets, painted by dark circles highlighting the restless nights where the pain denied her sleep.

"You never told me what the doctor said." Nailing her eyes to the chopping board, the knife cut fluently down at the fruit sweeping it up in a plastic container. She hadn't told Yunho, it was Hanahaki. Neither could she forget the pitying look in the doctor's eyes when she revealed it to her. A married woman suffering from Hanahaki? Just how cruel could the world get?

"They're just running some blood tests. They haven't got back to me on the results, it's probably nothing. If it was important they would have called me." Yunho frowned, as he put his lunchbox in his bag. Walking with him to the foyer, he kissed her forehead before leaving to walk to his car parked on the drive way. The pain in her chest alleviated but not so much that she did not sink to knees when the car pulled out from the driveway heaving for air as she felt her lungs being pierced by the abrasive bark of a tree.

Where petals had drifted out of her mouth, flowers now bloomed. For one evening, Yunho came back home from work finding his wife draped over their shared bed- lips shrouded with petals. flowers at her neck. Concerned he shook her awake, with bleary eyes she sat up fingers pressing into her temples. Lifting up the petals with his slender fingers, he stared at her with a questioning look he only hoped she'd catch. Though no words had left her, she did not know what to say. He was not supposed to find out like this.

"I have Hanahaki disease, Yunho." she breathed out, her coarse voice prescient. An spectral silence befell amongst the couple, what else was there to say? The situation spoke for itself. "I just want to know, at what point in our lives did you stop loving me?"

“I didn’t know that I had fallen out of in love with you, because I still feel comfort when you’re there." He spoke slowly, a desperate attempt at piecing together the right words as he tried to come to terms with the fact he was the one who had caused her poor condition. "Sometimes I only feel myself entitled to breath when I look at you.” As if that was the cure, a declaration of love-those menial words that had put her in this position in the first place.

“Then why am I dying? Why is this disease tearing me apart? You’re killing me, Yunho.”

“Don’t say that.” He shook his head profusely, tears brimming at the front of his perfect eyes. "Don't say that, please." Her husband begged, pressing his palm to his lips to prevent the grievous dissonance of his sobbing.

“What else would you like me to say? That I am the disloyal one? And I am in love with another who cannot love me back? Be fucking realistic, I have been in love with you a lot longer than you have been in love with me.” Her body trembled with the cold, her own tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't try to hold back the distressing sound as he had. Leaning her head back on the headboard. "What about me disgusted you? What about me made me so unworthy of your love?"

"I wanted a child." Grabbing the pillow, she plundered it against his head as hard as she could. Lunging at him, the collar of his shirt balled up into fists, his slender body oscillating back and forth as she screamed out her soul.

"It's not my fault I cannot conceive! If you had known that before marriage would you have never married me? Would you have never loved me? Is that all a woman means to you? A machine to give birth, or an object to satisfy your desires?" Letting go off his shirt, she subsided into the silk pillows bawling to her heart's content. "Leave Yunho." His breath hitched in his throat. Soundlessly, he got up from the bed trudging towards the doorway, glistening pearls dropping from his porcelain face. He stopped, turning around with a pleading look.

"Leave and if you come back to me- tell me it is because you love me. So much so that it is the ailment to this disease.”

When you did not come back to tell me you loved me, it almost certified the fact that you really had fallen out of in love with me. Perhaps it is better to die than to live a life of solitude, for every day I live I can feel my heart rupturing at the mere sight of you. I wish you find someone to love as much as I love you.

So, one last time before the Angel of Death takes my breath away and draws my soul out of my body: I love you, Jeong Yunho. I love you so much that I have died in your name. I love you so much that if I was given a choice to relive this life again, I would. No matter the pain, no matter the heartache, I would live this life again. All for you.

Sincerely, Yours.

•••

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DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

A/N: i feel like yunho + unrequited love is such a fitting trope for him? Yunho doing the salsa literally came from me and @n0v4t33z talking about how his hips don't lie. ALSO AS A BRIT BUNS ARE CUPCAKES!! when i first heard about 'bun in the oven' i didn't know it was a teacake (burger bun), but i made it one for this fic.

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!