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my-heart-beat-for-anime · 1 month ago

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Fighter and Mother / Cato H. x OC

Part ll. Part lll.

The night was cold and long. The house we call home is small and simple, but inside, there are seven of us—me and the six children fate has placed in my care. There isn’t much space, so we sleep together on a large bed made from a patchwork of old mattresses and blankets. We press close, not just for space but for warmth.

Mads, the youngest, is curled up against my chest, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of my nightgown. Beside me sleeps Sunny, twelve years old, the only one who might still remember what it was like to have parents of his own. His breathing is steady, but I know he never sleeps deeply. His body is tense, always ready to wake and take care of the others.

Lucila and Poppy, ten-year-old girls, sleep on the other side, entwined like two delicate branches. They are inseparable, each the other's anchor. Poppy murmurs something in her sleep and nestles closer to Lucila, who instinctively pulls her into a gentle embrace.

Lerus, seven, is sprawled across the bed, his light hair tousled, legs stretched out so far that one of them dangles off the edge. And little Zira, only five, is curled up near Lucila’s feet, clutching the rag doll I once stitched together from fabric scraps.

Something wakes me. At first, just a slight movement—Mads shifting in his sleep—then a soft whimper. I open my eyes. The room is still dim, the first morning light barely seeping through the cracks in the walls.

I know what day it is.

Reaping.

A familiar weight settles in my chest. It’s the same every year. The worst part is always the morning—that brief moment when everything still feels normal, when the children are still asleep, and the house is quiet. But then comes the moment when we have to face reality.

Mads stirs again and lets out a faint whine. I run my hand gently over his back and pull him closer. “Shh, little one, I’m here,” I whisper.

Beside me, Sunny shifts slightly. “Zinny? " His voice is quiet but alert.

“Lie down for a little longer,” I whisper back.

“It’s Reaping Day.”

I know he knows. But he says it anyway. Maybe to remind himself that it’s real, that we can’t escape it.

“I know,” I say.

There’s a pause. Then, I feel him inch closer, just a little. Like he used to when he was younger, when nightmares woke him in the middle of the night.

“It’ll be alright, Sunny,” I whisper. Though I’m not sure if I’m trying to comfort him or myself.

Before long, the house stirs. Poppy shifts and stretches, Lucila smacks her lips in her sleep. Lerus rolls onto his side, pulling half the blanket with him, making Zira grumble in protest.

“Stop that,” she mutters, still half-asleep.

“I’m awake,” Poppy announces, sitting up. She rubs her eyes and yawns. Lucila follows suit.

“Good morning,” I say softly.

But no one responds with the usual morning cheer. Everyone knows what today is.

I rise first. Mads is still clinging to me, so I lift him into my arms, stroking his back. “Let’s make some tea,” I suggest.

Lucila stretches. “We still have a little chamomile,” she muses.

Poppy glances at the shelf where we keep the herbs they gathered from the Meadow. “We could mix it with mint.”

The children move into their small morning tasks. Sunny rekindles the fire in the hearth while I heat water in our old pot. Lerus helps bring the cups, though his hands are still clumsy with sleep.

In these moments, we are just a normal family. We may not be bound by blood, but we are bound by something stronger. The older ones care for the younger ones, and I care for them all.

Breakfast is simple—a bit of stale bread, traded for a mended coat, and warm tea. We eat in silence. Mads sits on my lap, nibbling on a crust.

Then comes the time to dress.

Our clothes aren’t luxurious like the ones children from wealthier families wear, but they are clean and carefully mended. Every piece of fabric was once something else, but I’ve tried to make them beautiful. Even though we are poor, each garment is embroidered with colorful threads to hide the seams and patches.

“You look beautiful,” I tell Lucila, smoothing down her sleeves. She smiles, but her eyes betray her nervousness.

Poppy adjusts her skirt. “We look like a rainbow,” she whispers.

“And that’s a good thing,” I reply.

Once everyone is ready, the hardest moment arrives.

We have to go to the square.

The sun was slowly rising over District Twelve as we stepped out of the house. The air was heavy, thick with unease that hung over the town like a suffocating fog. The walk to the square was short, but today, it felt endless. The children stayed close together, moving in silence.

By the time we arrived, the crowd was already forming. Peacekeepers stood at their posts, motionless like statues, ensuring that everyone took their designated places.

I knelt down beside Lucila, Poppy, Lerus, and Zira, gently brushing my hands over theirs. "You have to go there," I said, nodding toward the gathered spectators.

"I don’t want to," Poppy whispered.

"I know," I replied softly. "But you must. I’ll be right there, with Sunny. When it’s over, we’ll find each other. Alright?"

Lerus clung to Lucila’s hand, his eyes filled with worry. Zira only gave a small nod, her tiny fingers still gripping the fabric of my skirt.

Lucila took a deep breath and squeezed their hands. "We’ll go together."

I watched them as they disappeared into the crowd. Zira glanced back one last time before vanishing among the sea of people.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to Sunny. His jaw was clenched tight, but he gave me a small nod. Together, we walked toward the entrance of the designated area.

The Peacekeepers stopped us as soon as we reached them. We had to go through the registration process.

Without a word, Sunny extended his arm to have his blood drawn. I stood still, though I felt Mads shifting against my chest, letting out a quiet, unhappy whimper.

"You can’t take him inside," one of the Peacekeepers said.

Mads’ soft whimper turned into a distressed whine.

"If I put him down, he’ll cry loudly and cause a disturbance," I said calmly, though I was boiling inside. "I don’t want trouble. Just let him stay. I won’t put him down."

The Peacekeepers exchanged glances. One of them, an older man with a stern face, frowned slightly and shook his head but ultimately stepped aside.

"Fine. But no trouble."

I nodded.

Sunny glanced at me briefly, and then we stepped into the designated area. Around us, the other boys and girls from the district stood in their best—yet still humble—clothes. No one spoke. No one smiled.

Then Effie Trinket stepped onto the stage, and the bright, practiced smile she wore was like a slap in the face against the silence.

Effie Trinket stepped onto the stage, a false smile plastered on her lips. She spoke a few rehearsed phrases that no one was really listening to, and then she reached into the bowl.

"The female tribute for the 74th Hunger Games is…"

I felt as if the entire district held its breath.

"Zinnia Reid!"

For a moment, the world went silent. It was as if everything had stopped, and the only thing that existed was that name, spoken into the microphone. My name.

"Zinnia Reid!" Effie Trinket repeated, louder and clearer this time.

At first, nothing. Just silence as everyone in the crowd processed those two words.

And then—a scream.

"No!"

Lucila.

Then more voices.

"Zinny!" Poppy pushed through the crowd, shoving other children aside as she ran toward me. Lerus started sobbing, his tiny fists clutching at Lucila’s skirt. Zira just stood there, shaking, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

"This is a mistake!" someone from the adults shouted.

"She can't go! Who will take care of the children?" another voice called out.

The Peacekeepers started moving, slow but determined. I saw one of them step toward the children, ready to hold them back.

And then—Sunny.

Sunny, who never cried. Who was always the reasonable one, the calm one, older than he should have been. Sunny, who wrapped his arms around me, buried his face in my skirt, and sobbed.

"Don’t… don’t go… please…"

His shoulders shook, his fingers digging into the fabric.

I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding, but I knew I couldn't hesitate. If I did—if I let myself falter for even a second—there would be no coming back from it.

I knelt in front of him, placing my hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at me. His eyes were filled with tears, but beneath them, there was something else. Panic. Raw, pure panic.

"Sunny," I said as steadily as I could.

He shook his head. "No… don’t go, Zinny, please…"

"I have to."

"But—"

"Look at me," I interrupted, my voice firm. "Look at me, Sunny."

He swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto mine.

"You have to be strong," I said softly. "You have to take care of them. Do you understand?"

"I don’t want to…" His voice broke. "I don’t want you not to come back."

I took another deep breath, as if that could somehow hold back the pain ripping through my chest. I didn’t tell him I would come back. I couldn’t lie to him. Instead, I pressed Mads into his arms, and the little boy immediately squirmed and whimpered.

"Promise me," I said. "Promise me you’ll protect them."

Sunny was trembling. I could see the war inside him—the part of him that was still a child, wanting to say no, and the part of him that had never had a choice but to grow up too soon.

In the end, he pressed his lips together and nodded.

"Okay," he whispered. "I promise."

I ran my fingers through his hair one last time before rising to my feet.

Poppy grabbed my hand. "Mom…" Her voice was shaking.

I smiled at her, even though it hurt. "It’s going to be okay."

It wasn’t true. But maybe she needed to believe it.

I cupped her cheek gently, then turned away. One last glance at their faces—Zira, still silent, tears dripping down her chin; Lerus, clinging to Lucila; Sunny, standing there with Mads in his arms, looking as if he was breaking into a million pieces.

And then I walked toward the stage.

With every step, it felt like the world around me slowed. Every breath was heavier, every stare from the crowd burned into my skin.

When I reached the platform, I turned.

Lucila had fallen to her knees. Lerus was crying loudly. Zira had finally collapsed into Poppy’s arms. And Sunny… he just stood there, holding Mads tightly, looking like his entire world was being ripped apart.

I tried to stand tall. To be strong.

Because if I broke—who would be strong for them?

PART 2?

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7s3ven · 1 year ago

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hello! ur writing is so fun and rahhhh i heart it. idk if ur taking cato reqs but i love him bro its an issue. anyhow, childhood friend!tribute!reader and him coming to terms with the fact that both of them cant win. could be platonic or romantic whatever u like<3

I’m literally in love with Cato.

( master list )

DANCING WITH UR GHOST. cato hadley

IN WHICH… Cato Hadley and Y/N L/N accept there can only be one winner. The Capitol watches as one falls and the other leaves the arena with a furious heart, never quite moving on.

Warnings : not proof-read, a little bit of angst, some gore (it’s the hunger games)

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THG TAG LIST : No one rn 💀

—

It was a hot and sunny day when the Capitol chose to announce the tributes. Small beads of sweat rolled down Y/N’s forehead as she clasped her hands behind her back. The sun was relentlessly beating down on the large group of teenagers crowded in front of the stage, organised by age and all eagerly waiting.

Y/N wasn’t like the rest of her District. She had seen how the effects of the Hunger Games weighed down on the tributes. Haymitch had turned to drinking after the slaughter of his family. Y/N couldn’t imagine returning home to see the people you held dear gruesomely bloodied on the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cato. He stood out from the boys, being one of the tallest and towering over them. He had his jaw clenched and he was impatiently tapping his foot, waiting until he could leap onto the stage.

His head turned and they locked eyes. Y/N was the first to break into an amused smile and he returned it, his pale lips curving upwards.

Y/N paid no attention to the video playing on the screen in front of her. They showed it every year and she had practically memorised the voice lines by now. Her mind flashed back to yesterday, the day where Cato had suggested the unthinkable.

“What if we run away?” He questioned, making Y/N pause. She grasped the handle of her ax tightly as she spun around to face her childhood friend.

“What?” She needed to make sure that she had heard him right. It’s not like Y/N hadn’t thought of it before but for Cato Hadley of all people to ask was outrageous. He was Two’s greatest candidate. They were all counting on him.

“You heard me. What if we ran away? Away from all this and away from the games? I wouldn’t have to worry about being a peacekeeper. We could do it, you and me.”

Y/N has full faith in her axe skills and Cato’s strength but the idea was almost too crazy to pull off. She shook her head, “They’d find us.” She whispered. Y/N was glad nobody else was in the gym because this could be considered treason.

Y/N subtly shook her head. If only leaving District Two was that easy. They would surely notice if their strongest candidate and his axe-throwing friend went missing.

Her attention was caught by the lady, Kikoro, walking towards the microphone in a hideously bright yellow skirt. Beside her, Y/N heard Clove laugh.

Clove was a good friend of Cato’s and by default she was a friend of Y/N’s too. She was shorter than both of them but that didn’t stop her from snapping at people left and right. Her skills with throwing knives were amazing and Y/N often felt a little jealous. Surely the knives were lighter compared to lugging around a wooden stick with a blade attached to it.

“Now, I must warn you, there’s a new little rule. No volunteering this year.” Kikoro uttered into the microphone, her lips covered in yellow lipstick curling into an unsettling smile. She ignored the disappointed jeers from the teenagers as she reached into the first bowl. “Ladies first. It’s only polite.”

Everybody watched with bated breath as Kikoro unfolded the piece of paper painfully slow. Clove was practically shaking with excitement.

Kiroko cleared her throat before she leaned forward, glancing at the crumbled paper. “Y/N L/N.” She said.

Y/N clicked her tongue, thinking it was all a sick joke. She wasn’t scared shitless like the tributes in the paper districts were but she was disappointed. Why her and not somebody who actually wanted to compete?

Y/N begrudgingly stepped onto stage after being dragged by a peacekeeper. “Let go of me.” She hissed, yanking her arm out of the man’s grip.

“What’s your name, dear?” Kiroko asked, gesturing Y/N to step forward to the microphone. The H/C-nette stared at the Capitol citizen in confusion.

“You just said my name… Y/N L/N.”

Kikoro paused before she burst into a fit of light laughter. “Ah, sorry dear. I’m so used to volunteers. Next up, the boys.”

Y/N hoped her District partner would be someone useful who she could discard later. Someone strong but not too strong as to overpower her.

As Y/N rocked back and forth on her heels, she glanced over at Kikoro who was now unfolding the second paper. She read text written in black ink before grasping the microphone.

Hearing her own name getting called didn’t frighten Y/N but as Kikoro declared the male tribute, her heart dropped so fast that she may as well collapsed. It was the one person she wished hadn’t been chosen.

“Cato Hadley.”

The train ride was silent. Enobaria had tried talking to the pair but they never replied. Eventually, she gave up and went to a different compartment.

“We should’ve run away.” Y/N quietly muttered, suddenly regretting not putting the absurd plan into action. Across from her, Cato chuckled.

“Yeah…” He paused, refusing to believe that this was really happening. That he’d have to kill his best friend if he wanted to survive. He was brought back to the harsh reality as the train bumped along the tracks.

“You should’ve played dead… or something.” Y/N stirred the spoon around in her cup of coffee, having no intentions of actually tasting the bitter drink. She licked her dry lips. “What happens if we’re the last ones left?”

Cato didn’t have the courage to answer. He pushed his food around with his fork for a few moments before finally lifting his head. “May the best win.” He uttered.

Y/N glanced out the window, staring at the tall buildings of the Capitol in the distance. She took a deep breath as the train quickly approached the large city and their impending doom.

The days in the Capitol were limited. And they passed by fast. One minute Y/N was standing in front of the dummy targets, skilfully throwing axes as their heads then the next she was in front of a crowd in a glittery gold gown.

“You’re a fan favourite, Y/N. How does that make you feel?” Caesar, with his crazy blue hair and matching suit, said as he widely grinned.

“I guess I’m just that charming.” Y/N smiled as she leaned back in her seat, gracefully crossing one leg over the other.

“Our time is almost up but may I ask the question that everyone has been wondering? What on earth is going on between you and Cato?”

The Capitol had caught wind of the small stolen glances and borderline flirtatious kisses on the knuckles. Y/N shifted in her seat as she recalled the event before this very interview.

“You look…” Cato entered the room, practically starstruck as Y/N stood on a small platform. “Wow.” She frowned as she adjusted the tight bodice of her dress.

“Really? Because right now, I can’t really breathe.” Y/N let out a small laugh but she felt her corset suffocate her lungs.

“Does this look like a face that would lie to you?” Cato grasped Y/N’s hands and helped her off the platform. “I mean it. You look stunning… almost makes me wish we were getting ready for a ball instead of this.” Cato’s face was so close. Y/N couldn’t help but let her eyes dart to his lips.

“You look handsome too.” She playfully grinned as she straightened Cato’s tie. “Blue suits you.”

“We’re just friends.” Y/N repeated that overused phrase while the Capitol citizens groaned in frustration. “I don’t know what you want me to admit… Cato is handsome but I can’t imagine dating someone I’ve known since childhood… his face is getting a little annoying.”

Y/N’s cheeky remark earned her a few laughs.

“If given the chance, I probably would’ve liked to kiss him once, you know?” Y/N’s confidence grew and she forgot all about how Cato could hear her words through the small screen in the waiting room. She folded her arms over her chest just as the timer buzzed.

“Y/N L/N, everybody!” Caesar declared.

She stepped off the stage and back into the shadows, away from the piercing lights. Glimmer and Marvel had already returned to their rooms and Y/N was about to do the same before Cato came into view.

She saw him wave enthusiastically at the crowd but his eyes were on her. She shrank back, suddenly aware of what she had said during the interview.

Y/N scurried off before Caesar could even ask Cato one question. She stormed into the room assigned to District Two. Enobaria was sitting on the couch, clicking the TV remote buttons.

“Need help getting out of that dress?” The sharp-toothed woman asked. Y/N silently nodded.

“Thank you.” Y/N said, finally able to breathe properly again. She would never take oxygen for granted again.

Y/N was only dressed in a black singlet and shorts when Cato burst through her personal room door. “What was that?” He demanded, slamming the door behind him. “If given the chance? I’m giving you the damn chance, Y/N!”

Y/N let out a squeak of surprise when he grabbed her face and pulled her forward, swiftly kissing her like he had been waiting to do so for years. With how his hands trailed down to tightly grip her waist, Y/N wouldn’t be surprised if Cato had been dreaming of this moment.

Cato pulled away, resting his forehead on Y/N’s. “How’s that for a given chance?”

The sun in the arena felt different. Its heat was blistering and Y/N felt her body burning up underneath her heavy jacket. She wanted to discard the warm piece of clothing but it would come in handy at night.

The Careers had already made their allies clear. Y/N glanced at Cato who was already staring at her as usual.

To Y/N’s left was Glimmer, who was impatiently tapping her foot as the countdown began. Y/N stared at the decreasing numbers until it reached five and she had no choice but to get ready to run.

This was no mere dream, it was a reality that Y/N wish she didn’t exist in, for Cato’s sake.

To no one’s surprise, Cato was the first to react as the countdown finished. He leaped off his podium, immediately making a run for a silver sword. Some tributes turned tail and ran but those who joined the mess in the middle were gruesomely stabbed by Cato.

Y/N grasped a pack of throwing knives, tossing the sharp objects at anything that moved. She managed to cut Katniss’ cheek and the ravenette was not pleased about that. The District Twelve girl shot an arrow Y/N’s way but she ducked and avoided it.

“Y/N, here!” Cato tossed a fancy looking axe her way. She easily caught it, swinging it at a foolish boy who thought he could beat her.

The bloodbath didn’t last long thanks to Cato. He either killed or drove off any of the remaining tributes. “I’m feeling pretty good about this.” He grinned down at Y/N as they waltzed around the Cornucopia. He twirled his heavy sword in his hand.

“You’re in a good mood.” Y/N muttered. The hunger for bloodshed had clouded Cato’s mind, causing him to forget that Y/N would have to die in order for him to emerge victorious. She said nothing about it, though, not wanting to spoil his cheerful mood.

“I’ll be in a better mood after this.” Cato chuckled to himself as he pecked Y/N’s lips. He held her close, burying his face in her neck.

Y/N stood still, awaiting the moment where they would be forced to turn on each other. Out of the pair, Y/N had always been the rational realist.

Glimmer was dead, filled with toxin after Katniss sabotaged the Careers’ camp.

Marvel was next. Katniss skewered him like a kebab with her arrow. He died on the forest floor, joining Glimmer in Katniss’ kill count.

And then there were two. Y/N had narrowly avoided being bashed in the head with a stone by Thresh. The side of her head was still bleeding, the crimson liquid staining the green grass below.

Y/N groaned as she collapsed beside Cato, leaning against the large tree trunk. “Who’s left?” She rasped. She had heard a canon go off but she had no idea who it was.

“The boy from Eleven, the pair from two, and us.” Cato replied, his shoulder brushing against Y/N’s. He pulled out a small tin bottle, handing it over to Y/N. She gratefully took a large gulp of cold water. “Don’t worry, we’ll get home.” He whispered, “You and me forever.” After Y/N’s near death experience, Cato realized that the Capitol had played him as a fool. But he was happy about the announcement that said two victors could win if they originated from the same District.

Y/N leaned her head on Cato’s shoulder and closed her eyes, deeply sighing. She didn’t know when she dozed off or how long she was asleep but she cracked open one eye to see Cato hurriedly shaking her.

Night time, the Careers’ prime time to hunt, had already past. When Y/N’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, she furrowed her eyebrows. She was in a cave yet she remembered falling asleep on the forest floor. And Cato was covered in bites and gruesome grazes and blood. So much blood.

“Cato…” Y/N breathed, quickly leaning forward, “What happened to you?”

“I killed Katniss and Peeta… and the mutts killed Thresh. It’s you and me left, Y/N.” His sounded sounded so weak and he sluggishly cupped her face, panting heavily. For once, he was covered in his own blood rather than the blood of his victims.

“You drugged me…” Y/N’s heart fell to her stomach as she realized what had happened. Cato had slipped sleeping pills into the water and while she was knocked out, he put her in a cave and went to hunt down the three other tributes. She furrowed her brows. “How could you? Cato… you could’ve died.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah… I know. That was kind of the point. While you were asleep, they revoked the two victors rule. There can only be one again.”

That was enough for tears to well up in Y/N’s eyes. “Don’t leave me… please.” She cried as she held Cato, her childhood friend and her first true crush. His blood stained her muddy clothes but she didn’t care. “Please…” She trailed off as Cato wheezed.

“The mutts did a good job on me.” He muttered, finding it harder to stay awake. Y/N’s eyes widened.

“No. Cato. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here!” She immediately noticed how his pulse slowed down. “Stay awake, Cato! I can fix this! Please.”

Y/N had already come to terms that there could only be one victor but she had yet to accept that fact that she had to lose Cato to walk out.

“You can’t give up now… we came this far. We can sort something out.” Y/N uttered as she shook Cato in a fruitless attempt to convince him.

“I love you, Y/N.” He grasped her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I always have. Ever since we became friends. Ever since you were the first to find the courage to talk to me. I don’t know what I would have done with you.”

Y/N laughed as a sob bubbled up in her throat. “I love you too. If only your name wasn’t called. I could’ve won the games and come back to you.” She shakily sighed as she leaned down to kiss Cato’s cold lips. She placed her hand on his neck and when she felt no pulse, she pulled back in a panic.

“Cato?” She shook him once. Then again. “Cato?!” She repeated, this time louder. “No… no… no! Don’t leave me here! Cato!”

She screamed so loud that the sound echoed around the forest, scaring the birds and causing them to flee.

“Cato!”

Y/N walked out of the arena a free woman. Not quite since Snow would still have full control over her but she liked to think she was free to a certain extent.

The Capitol workers had tried to discard of the necklace she held so tightly in her left hand but she refused to let them take it away. It was the only remaining memory she had of Cato.

Anger swirled around in her heart like a monster, threatening to burst free and reign terror over anyone that came in contact with her.

Only now was Y/N realising why the victors never looked genuinely happy despite having everything they wanted. It was because Snow tore their deepest desires away, always holding it near but never within their reach.

Enobaria had wanted to be a mother.

Gloss wanted a peaceful life with his sister.

Cashmere wanted nothing more than to take care of the children in District One.

Brutus craved freedom from Snow’s cruel clutches.

And poor Y/N dreamt of becoming a bride but as she watched the light drift from Cato’s eyes, her wish was swept away with it.

Now, Snow had nothing to take away from her because the person she loved the most was already gone.

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blueberrypancakesworld · 1 year ago

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You are ours - Career Tributes - Yandere

warning : yandere behavior, obsession, flirting

Summary : The tributes from the first and second districts had further advantages. It was only fair that they looked for a pretty thing before the big day when they still had time. Above all, they loved to treat their love in their own special way.

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Cato : The champion and one of the best sprouts that came from the best districts. The blond warrior loved weapons and the glory he imagined. When he saw her, the pretty little bird, an inhabitant of the Capitol and yet one of the poorer ones who flitted back and forth between the rich as a servant, he could not take his bright eyes off her. A word with his "mentor" later and she was his at least until the games began. ,,You're here for me, beauty, you know that, right?" he asked as she joined him in the training arena. He saw her nod slightly, saw exactly how the warmth closed on her cheeks. ,,You didn't get much attention, did you, sweetie?" he asked, coming closer to her, the sword he had been practicing with minutes before still in his hand. She knew about the danger, knew that she was replaceable, knew that he had no consequences. But he knew she was his only one for the moment. His pretty little bird. The smell of sweat and metal with leather enveloped him. But he didn't touch her and when he did he played with the strands of her hair, loving to see her full of shame. He complimented her, sometimes more suggestively, sometimes less, and flirted with her. No matter where his little bird flew, her hunter was always like a shadow behind her. Just waiting to strike again.

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Clove : Had also seen the servant, her little mouse always uncertain and yet silent before she quickly disappeared. The girl was here to win with or without Cato but in the time until the Hunger Games she could use it to have some fun. She would call her mouse to her, she would stand over her for the time she was here. Clove smirked as she saw the unexpected and fearful reaction. As the blade of the knife passed over her cheek. ,,Little mouse... what's wrong? Does the cat have your tongue?" she asked with a grin and giggled when she saw the slight shake of the other's head. Clove loved watching them, seeing the reactions. Focusing on her as her little mouse had to come to her again and again. She loved teasing the pretty servant with her weapons, looks and gestures. Whether it was a gentle touch with her fingers, the cold metal of the knife on her arm or a hug so cold and possessive that Clove could feel her heart beating fast. The mouse knew she couldn't escape the cat and Clove's grin only widened. Oh yes, the girl would still have fun with her mouse, every reaction only spurred her on even more.

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Glimmer : Glimmer had an eye for beauty. She herself w as the prettiest of all the tributes. They knew that, the Capitol knew that, and the servant seemed to know that too, glancing at the blonde from time to time and disappearing into the crowd like a butterfly. "Little butterfly, you pretty one, come here. Kneel down here, I want to do something," she ordered her one day, using her charm even though it wasn't necessary. She saw how uncertain the employee looked for a moment before she sat down on the cushion between Glimmer's legs. Looking straight ahead, she flinched when Glimmer started to do her hair. It was always like this, the blonde loved to do the other's hair, do each other's nails and give her a kiss on the cheek. It was like she enjoyed the company. In the beauty of herself and her butterfly. And more and more often, her lips sought out her partner. She loved it when they cuddled, regardless of whether her butterfly wanted to fly away or not. Glimmer always had her pretty fingers at the ready to spear her if she left. They still had plenty of time for more fun.

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Marvel : His eyes had seen the pretty bunny. ,,Are you shy, little bunny?" he asked himself, mumbling as his gaze met hers. Had watched closely as she disappeared into the crowd of nobles. Had seen her fear as he threw the spear perfectly at the target. It was like a chase between them, his pretty, scared little bunny just waiting for the eagle that was always above her, always watching her no matter how many times she tried to run away. One word from her and he knew she would come to him. But the one thing he knew would drive her mad was his gaze. Unlike the other three, he loved to watch her, to see what reactions he elicited and did. To see his little ass realize that there was so much more going on in his mind. ,,You must have come to me willingly pretty bunny" he said and put the spear down but held it firmly showing her that he was ready to strike at any second. She had understood that it was better to stay in his field of vision than to run away and get killed. The satisfied smile on his lips widened when he saw the slight nod. Oh, he would enjoy this hunt to the end. When he had had his fill of her reactions and emotions before he would strike at his pretty bunny.

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

#the hunger games #hunger games movies #cato hunger games #clove hunger games #glimmer hunger games #marvel hunger games #cato x reader #clove x reader #glimmer x reader #marvel x reader

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nickeverdeen · 5 months ago

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Could I request SFW and NSFW headcanons for Glimmer from the first Hunger Games Movie? She was so pretty I got sad when she died 🥲

Glimmer SFW and NSFW hcs

Glimmer knows how to use her charm to her advantage, both in and out of the arena, whether it’s winning allies or disarming potential threats with a smile

She’s meticulous about her looks, seeing her beauty as both a weapon and armor

She spends time perfecting her hair even in stressful situations

Despite her Career mindset, Glimmer has moments of genuine kindness, especially toward those she cares about or people she sees as underdogs

She’s more strategic than people give her credit for, often analyzing situations to figure out the best way to achieve her goals

If she forms a bond with someone, she’s fiercely loyal and protective, even if it puts her at risk

She dreams of a life beyond the Games, one where she can live peacefully and maybe even find love without the Capitol’s interference

Glimmer has a taste for the finer things in life and enjoys indulging in Capitol luxuries like decadent food and extravagant clothing

When she cares about someone, she listens intently, offering support and practical advice

She loves to tease those she’s close to, showing a more lighthearted side when she feels comfortable

Glimmer is a natural leader who doesn’t shy away from taking control when others hesitate

Glimmer is fully aware of her physical appeal and loves teasing her partner, enjoying the power it gives her

She has a dominant streak, often taking the lead, but she keeps it playful rather than overly serious

Glimmer’s kisses are intense and passionate, often leaving her partner breathless and wanting more

She knows how to set the mood with lingering touches, sultry glances, and whispered words

Glimmer loves the build-up, enjoying every moment of foreplay and savoring her partner’s reactions

She’s open to trying new things, as long as there’s trust and mutual interest

She’s not shy about showing off her body, using it to express her confidence and desire

Glimmer enjoys being complimented and thrives on knowing she’s driving her partner wild

When things heat up, Glimmer is all in, bringing a fiery intensity to every encounter

She loves leaving marks, whether it’s playful bites or scratches down her partner’s back

Glimmer loves exploring her partner’s body, taking her time to learn their every sensitive spot

Despite her intensity, she’s attentive afterward, ensuring her partner feels cared for and comfortable

She’s not against a bit of risk, enjoying the idea of sneaking moments of intimacy where they might get caught

Even in the bedroom, Glimmer doesn’t take herself too seriously, making jokes or laughing if something goes awry to keep things light and fun

#request #headcanons #glimmer thg #glimmer the hunger games #glimmer x reader #thg #the hunger games

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xetlynn · 8 months ago

Text

The Hunger Games- Protecter: Chapter Five, Tracker Jackers

(Peeta X Reader)

[Four] [Five] [Six]

I woke up when the sun rose in the fake sky made by the Capitol. I untie myself from the tree, getting all my stuff together before throwing the backpack over my shoulders.

I carefully slide down the tree, accidentally slipping and scraping my leg. "Shit." I murmur to myself, I gently lift my pants up to see if it's bleeding.

Luckily it barely broke skin. I dust myself off and head over to my snares. I check the first one, the Careers messed with it. That's when I grow disappointed. Hoping that doesn't mean they did it to all of them. I move to the next one and to the heavens or whoever. There's a squirrel. Quite a skinny one but it's a squirrel nonetheless.

I carefully get it out of the makeshift noose for tinier animals. Then moving to the next one. That one seemed to have just missed something. At least I got something out of the three. I take the wire from the last one. Taking it apart and putting it in my backpack. I make sure I hear nothing around. Leaving the dead squirrel on the ground so I can climb up a tree and see if there's anything around.

I don't hear or see any movement so I get back down. Huffing from the climbing. Hating every second of it.

I skin the animal, then move onto starting the tiniest fire possible. Knowing I'm going to have to be fast with cooking the squirrel. I get a thin stick, tying the limbs of the squirrel onto it. Holding it over there fire. A little closer than I normally would.

Every little noise in the woods has me on the edge of my feet. Ready to be on the move. I even made a little thing of dirt to hurriedly cover the fire.

My backpack was on my back and everything. I watch the squirrel, it didn't take long to cook, even if it wasn't fully finished it was enough to be slightly enjoyable. I cover the fire knowing I should get moving so I don't get caught by anybody.

I take out a fabric that was in the bag, ripping apart the squirrel and leaving out the part I'm going to eat so I have some for later. I also hold onto the knife in my empty hand. Not wanting to be completely defenseless.

Every noise has me paranoid. The sounds of animals freaking me out. I feel like something's watching me, besides the cameras of course. It's weird.

Walking for hours now I feel like I'm getting to a point of dehydration. I need to find a body of water soon. That's kind of the point of this but I also know if I find a body of water that means other tributes most likely are going to as well. Bumping into them. It's a good thing I have my canister.

Not having water though is really getting to me. My head is beginning to feel dizzy. I need to lay down. Maybe a nap will be good. It's had to have been hours of walking at this point. I lay down up against a tree.

I think about where Peeta is at this point. If he's still helping the Careers search for me. I think about Prim, Katniss, my dad, aunt, and Gale watching me be so weak needing to lay down. I think about how disappointed they probably are or are going to be with me. I finally pass out, knife in hand. Clutching it tightly even in my sleep.

I smell fire... reminding me of the fires we had in the little backyard we had. Gale, Katniss and I telling stories after my dad and Katniss's mom got the two little ones to sleep. The stuff about school. Distracting ourselves from how bad everything truly was.

Gale knew about my thing for Peeta. I never told Katniss. She would've thought it was silly. She never really had time to think about stuff like that. I admired her for her stern ways. How much she protected Primrose and my little Zay the way she did. I made things more fun, it irritated her sometimes but I know it helped.

The smell of the fire got worse, the warmth growing in front of me. I slowly stir as I wake up. I see the orange flames coming towards me. I let out a yelp, getting up. "Shit, shit!" I shout, immediately running the opposite direction of the fire.

As I run I glance behind me and it's like the fire is rolling forward. I look ahead of me and a tree appears. I trip as I moved out of the way. I fall to the ground. The fire slices against my arm, a deep burn. Along with my torso due to the way I fell, not as bad as my arm though. I scream in pain but I cover my mouth. Getting back up. The adrenaline covering bits of the pain in my arm.

I see ahead that there's a body of water. I run in as fast as I can. I feel relief at first from the coolness but then hiss in pain when it stings. Tears form in the corners of my eyes but I blink them away. I turn around and see the Fire begin to disappear. I quickly take my bag out, filling my canister with the water.

I sigh out. But I couldn't relax for long when I hear a voice. "There she is! There she is!" I hear the boy from District 1 shout. I shove my canister in the bag. Throwing it back over my shoulders. I get up and run out of the water as the careers fight over who is going to kill me.

"She's mine!" I hear the girl from district 1 yell. "Not if I get her first!" Cato disagrees. I run as fast as I can. My torso rubbing against the fabric. My arm as well and I want to cry. My calves burn as I run.

"Mine!" Glimmer laughs, almost grabbing my bag. "Where you gonna go?" Cato asks me. I get out of their eyesight for a split second as I make a certain turn. "There shit is!"

"Yeah!" Glimmer cheers. I find a tree similar to the one I climbed in the beginning. It was the easiest. I can't slip up. I have to be swift. "Here we go! Where you going, huh?" Cato asks. He's right on my trail, ahead of the others.

"Get her, Cato!"

"Where do you think you're going?" Cato questions as I begin to climb up the tree. Moving as fast as possible given my state. "Where you going, Girl on Fire?" He questions once again as I reach a higher branch. Girl on Fire is so ironic now. It's a little funny as I feel the burns on my body.

"We got her!" Glimmer grins. I catch my breath but still climb higher. "Miss Everdeen, I'm gonna get you!" Cato shakes his head.

"That's not gonna help you up there, [Name]." Glimmer informs me. "Where are you going?" Cato asks one of the other Careers. I see someone trying to climb after me but they're not fast enough. "Going to get her man!" It was the boy from district one. "You are so done." Cato shoves the boy down and climbs himself. "Look at her scurry."

"He's gonna get you, [Name]."

I ignore them, doing what I'm trying to do to survive. I hear all of them cheer but at this point I am blocking it out. Sweat trickling down my forehead.

I'm still slightly wet from being in the water just moments ago. I focus on that instead of the other tributes below me. My foot slips for a moment and I almost lose all footing I head. I grip onto the thick branch, my feet dangling, almost in reach to Cato but he falls before he can even do anything.

I lift myself up and get onto a good stable branch. "I'll do it myself." Glimmer states, getting the bow and arrow ready. She doesn't know what she's doing and I become confident in the fact that I might make it through this. She misses me, the arrow barely even reaching me.

"Give me that." Cato snatches it from the blonde girl. "Get her." She mutters. "Come on, come on, come on!" District one boy shouts.

I wait for impact but nothing comes as well. He also misses me. I laugh at the sight, I probably shouldn't but I'm about to die so what does it matter. "Might as well throw that sword!" I smirk down at them.

I hear curses that follow, they all look aggravated. "Let's just wait her out. She's gotta come down at some point, it's either that or starve to death. We'll just kill her then." I hear Peeta tell them, I stiffen up. He had to be the voice of reason in that moment. I had to hear him say that.

"Okay. Somebody make a fire." Cato orders... After that I ignore the words that leave their mouths. I watch them intently though, their every move throughout the night. Trying to plan some sort of escape even though it's futile. There was no way I was going to make it out of this.

I tie myself on the tree, taking out my bag. I begin to feel the burn on my skin once again. I take the jacket off, shoving it into my bag. I then pull out the canister of water before finally checking out the burns on my arm and torso. My arm is all blistered, since the adrenaline left it's getting hard to lift my arm now. I frown.

I pour water on my burns, hissing. I drink some of the water, closing the canister and putting it back away. I lean back, looking up at the sky as if that would help me at all.

Hours pass, the Careers are sleeping, Glimmer was supposed to keep watch but she slipped into slumber as well.

I could definitely sneak past but with the burns I feel like I can barely move. My torso stinging with every breath I take. My arm can barely even move forward.

I hear a sound coming from the sky and I look up. It looks like the sky is opening up somehow and a little thing is coming through. I furrow my eyebrows. It gets closer and I realize what it is.

It's a gift from a sponsor. It lands right by me in another branch. I reach over and grab it. Opening the small container it has an ointment inside. I open it, immediately using it on my burns.

I remember when Aunt Claire would make an ointment of her own. I know not to lather so much on the burns. It soothes the pain almost instantly. I say a thank you out to the world, meaning it for Haymitch before I fall asleep.

Holding a knife in hand, my bag containing everything in the other.

In the morning I hear a small noise. I glance downward and see the Careers are still asleep directly below me. I then look around the woods, I then spot a little figure in the trees beside me.

I squint my eyes and notice it's the little girl from District 11. Rue. I remember her following me around. I give her a small smile and wave to her. Her face stays stern, she points over to the Tracker Jackers nest that I didn't even realize was there. Just like the other tree.

I'm surprised I didn't hear the buzzing last night. She signals down at the Careers. My eyes widen at what she's motioning for me to do. I think about it, staring at the nest then back down to the sleeping bodies. If I drop it...

Peeta will also get stung. I have a chance of also getting stung and I know what's going to happen. I press my lips together knowing this is my only shot of getting away from them. I look back to the small girl and give a short nod. I wave her to go away so she doesn't get stung. I take a breath.

I also notice how I don't feel any pain on my arm or torso from the burns. I lift my shirt to see the burn practically healed. I then check my arm and it's the same thing.

I close my eyes in relief. This ointment must be from the Capitol, real good stuff. There's no way something from the districts could give these results this fast.

Shaking my head, I look to see if Rue was still there but she wasn't. She was already gone. I huff, untying myself from the tree and putting the rope in my back. Putting my knife in between my teeth, I bite down.

I begin to climb over to the nest. Once I get to it I know I have to be swift with it. I can't take forever. These bugs don't like when anyone messes with their nest. I take the knife from my mouth and begin to cut at the nest. Quickly sawing the little knife back and forth. I feel a sting on my hand and I wince, still going.

I feel another on my arm near the burn but I keep going until finally it falls to the ground landing right on the Careers. They scream and run away. I watch as Glimmer is unable to run, multiple bugs stinging her. I get down and fall from the tree.

My eyes feel heavy and the world is dizzy. I see a figure in front of me but I look back and see Glimmer's corpse. Her body puffed up, swollen from the stings. Ooze coming out of her. I freak out but I see the Bow and arrows. Quickly I take it from her.

"Run! Run! Run!" I hear from behind me. I turn, dazed. I see Peeta standing there and I don't know if I'm hallucinating it or not. "[Name], go! Get out of here!" He shouts at me, pointing forward.

I shake my head, trying to look at him clearer. I start to walk toward him. "What are you doing? Go!" He yells at me, I then see movement behind him and my eyes widen. "Peeta..." I mutter but I know I need to run. I turn and move my feet. Trying to get faster and faster but all I do is repeatedly run into trees. Using them to keep me up.

It felt like the ground was sinking in, taking me with it. Everything was moving. I couldn't go any further but I had to force myself. Not knowing if the Careers were behind me or not.

I fall to the ground and see bugs everywhere. I scream out, or at least I think I did. I get back up and continue to run until I fall back down and I knew there was no getting up this time.

I see a house, my old house. Before living with Aunt Claire. I hear my mother's screams, her begging to be saved.

Then I see my little brother in my dad's arms. Tears streaming down his face.

"Dad?" I yell out. He disappears and then I see Katniss yelling at her mother to get up. To say something. I grab her arm but she vanishes. "Get out of here! What are you doing!" I hear Katniss's voice at first but then I hear Peeta's just like before.

I hear a bunch of talking. Katniss, Aunt Claire, Prim's scream, Zayden, my dad, Gale, and Peeta. Then it all stops and it's black.

I wake up to the sun beating on me. I hum, but then I freak out. I look down at my bug stings and there's leaves covering them. I sit up, I look over to see my bag right beside me instead of on my back.

I hear a small twig snap and I lift my head up to see Rue hiding behind a tree, watching me. "Rue? It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you." I assure her, standing up. She backs away for a moment. I notice I have my bag in my hand. Not even realizing I picked it up.

"Sorry, here." I drop it, putting my hands up so she knows I'm not going to do anything. "I have some food in my bag." I tell her.

"Come here, we can eat." I point over to a log. I can tell she's still a tiny bit wary so I bend down. Taking the knife from the ground next to the bag and toss it over to her. "See, you can trust me." I tell her with a small smile. I hate that she's in here. It breaks my heart knowing she's just as young as Primrose. She picks the knife up and comes over to me.

"What kind of food do you have?" She asks me in a quiet tone. I break out into a bigger smile. "Squirrel and some food bar from the Capitol that was in this bag." I then lift the bag up and we go sit down at the log.

I hand her a big piece of the squirrel and then half of the food bar. Both of us eating in silence before I look back down at the leaves on my bug stings. "You do this?" I ask. I've seen this before from Aunt Claire. Rue nods her head.

I forget what the leaf is called but I know my Aunt uses the herbs, boiling them into a medicinal elixir. "I chewed them up, something the people do in 11 when we're in the woods. I don't know the name but I remembered what they looked like." She informs me. "I replaced them a few times." She tells.

"A few times? How long was I out?" I tilt my head, taking another bite of the food bar. "A couple days." She says simply, also taking another bite of her food. I notice how hunger she is. "Here." I hand the rest of the squirrel. "Are you sure?" She looks up at me. I only nod my head.

"Thank you." I suddenly say. "What happened while I was out?" I ask as she continues to eat.

"The girl from 1 and the boy from 10."

"And the boy from my district?" I nervously bring up, anxious about her reply. "He's okay, I think he's down by the river. Is all of that true?" I let my shoulders relax to her response. But then I get confused. "What?"

"You and him?" I only laugh. "So where are Cato and the others?" I change the subject.

"They got all their supplies down by the lake. It's piled up in this great big pyramid." She says, finishing her food. She wipes her hands on her pants.

"Sounds tempting, just out in the open?" I tilt my head with a small smirk already planning something. And it looks like she already has as well.

Masterlist

P.M. M.L.

Taglist: lmk if you want to be added!

@lizzymizzy-blogg

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rafayelxsylusho · 3 months ago

Text

How would the LADS men react to you faking an org@sm part 3

Xavier x reader

TW: SMUT SMUT SMUT ⭐⭐⭐

JEALOUSY JEALOUSY

You have a new hunting partner, you agreed to train with him today and he was waiting for you outside your building so you decided to fake it.

You knew Xavier and he was not acting normally, he was never this possessive. You guys had been at it for almost an hour and he just kept edging you and denying you the pleasure you craved, it was like he wanted to keep you there all day just to himself.

Xavier's smirk grows wider, a glimmer of amusement and something darker, more knowing, flashing in his deep blue eyes. He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, and watching you through half-lidded lids with a look that's almost lazily indulgent, as if he was letting you have this little moment of pretense.

"Is that all you've got, love?" he murmurs, voice a low, husky rumble. "I thought we did better than such obvious tricks and games."

"Come now," he purrs, leaning in until you feel his breath ghosting over your ear, the scruff of his chin rasping lightly against your cheek. "You can do better than that. Give me a real show."

"Xavier, I have to go, can we talk about this later? I'm running late, I'm so sorry".

As you try to slip away and dress as quickly as you can Xavier's grip tightens on your wrist like a vice. In one swift, fluid motion, he yanks you back towards him and then he is pushing you flush against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The chill seeps through your naked skin, pebbling your flesh with goosebumps.

He crowds into your space, one hand braced on the glass beside your head, the other still gripping your wrist, pinning your arm above you. His tall, leanly muscular frame looms over you, surrounding you, trapping you between his hard body and the unyielding window.

His eyes, dark and intense, search yours, boring into you with an almost feral intensity. A lock of sun-kissed blond hair falls across his brow as he leans down, until you're nearly nose to nose. You can see every flicker of emotion in those piercing blue depths - the hunger, the possessiveness, the dark promise of retribution.

"Going somewhere?" he murmurs, voice a low, dangerous rumble. His breath is hot against your lips, mingling with yours in the scant space between your mouths. "Without giving me my proper goodbye?"

His grip on your wrist tightens fractionally, a silent warning. The hand on the glass flexes, fingers curling into the window, as if he's barely holding himself back from grabbing you, from dragging you back onto the bed and pinning you beneath him until he's wrenched every last drop of pleasure from your willing, wanton body.

"Be a good girl," he growls softly, dangerously, "and stay. I'm not done with you yet." His lips curve into a wicked, carnal smirk. "Not by a long shot."

His grip on your wrist tightens, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises. He leans in closer, jealousy and a possessive fury burning in his eyes.

"Ahh, I see," he says, voice dripping with mocking understanding. "The new hunting partner is already here, hmm? And you're in such a hurry to go to him."

He reaches up with his free hand to brush a strand of hair from your face, a surprisingly gentle gesture that belies the anger simmering just beneath the surface. His fingertips linger on your cheek, tracing the curve of your jawline.

Xavier's gaze flicks to the window, following your own to the man sitting on the bench outside. His eyes narrow, jaw clenching as he takes in the sight. After a long, tense moment, he turns back to you, a dark scowl etched onto his handsome face.

"Yes, that's him," he confirms, voice tight and clipped with barely restrained annoyance and jealousy. "Quite the eager little thing, isn't he? Practically bouncing in his seat, waiting for you."

He shifts even closer, pinning you harder against the glass, using his height and strength to loom over you in a blatant display of dominance. His blue eyes blaze with a fierce light as they rove over your naked form, lingering on every curve and dip, as if committing it to memory.

"Spread. Your. Legs." he commands, enunciating each word slowly, darkly. His grip on your wrist tightens fractionally, fingers digging into your skin with a delicious, painful pressure.

At the same time, his other hand trails down your side, over the curve of your hip, to grip your thigh possessively. He squeezes, his long fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises behind.

"Now," he growls, voice a low, dominating rumble, "be a good girl and do as you're told. Show me that sweet cunt of yours, the one that belongs to me."

His hand on your thigh starts to slide upward, his touch bold and intimate. He's not asking permission, he's demanding compliance. The air between your bodies feels charged with a dangerous, erotic energy, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Oh, I'm going to fuck you so hard and so deep," he promises, voice a low, sinful purr. "I'm going to pound this tight little cunt of yours until you're screaming my name, until you forget all about your precious new partner out there."

His hand on your thigh slides higher, his fingers brushing maddeningly close to your aching sex. He teases along your inner thigh, his touch feather-light and taunting.

"And when you're out there, trying to focus on your training, trying to hold your gun right...I want you to feel every single thrust, every hard, deep stroke. I want you to remember how I stretched you out, how I made this greedy little hole mine."

He punctuates his words with a sharp nip to your lower lip, a warning and a promise all in one. His grip on your wrist tightens,his hips pressing urgently against your ass letting you feel the thick, hard outline of his arousal.

"I'll fuck you so hard, you'll be feeling it for days," he growls, a dark smirk playing about his kiss-swollen lips. "And every ache, every delicious twinge...you'll know it was me. You'll know that this cunt belongs to me, no matter who you're with."

Xavier doesn't hesitate, he surges forward, driving his thick, hard cock deep into your aching, dripping cunt with one brutal thrust. The breath is driven from your lungs as he hilts himself fully inside you.

"Fuck!" he snarls, head thrown back in pleasure, eyes squeezing shut as your scorching, velvety walls grip him like a vice. "So fucking wet and warm"

He gives you no time to adjust, no gentle start. He sets a punishing, relentless pace from the very beginning, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room as he takes you hard and fast, just like he promised.

One hand grips your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, while the other finds your throat, pulling your head back to bare your neck to his hungry mouth. He bites down hard on the tender skin there, marking you, claiming you.

Xavier continues his relentless assault, each powerful thrust driving your body forward and slamming your face and tits against the cold, unyielding glass of the window. The shock of the chill on your sensitive skin contrasts deliciously with the scorching heat of his body pinning you from behind.

"Fuck, the way your ass bounces with every thrust...it's obscene," he growls. His fingers find your nipple, pinching and rolling the hardened peak between them, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

He leans over you, caging you in completely, his chest pressed to your back, his hips driving up and into yours with brutal precision. His hot breath falls across your shoulder and neck, his teeth finding your skin, biting down hard enough to leave vivid marks.

"That's it, scream for me," he demands, voice a sinful rumble, "Let the whole damn city know who's ruining this pussy!"

To emphasize his point, he snakes a hand around your hip, finding your clit, and rubs the sensitive nub in tight, furious circles. His fingers are slick and wet, coated in your dripping arousal, and he uses it to his advantage, stroking and teasing and pushing you closer to the edge.

"I'm going to fucking ruin you," he promises darkly, hips never slowing, never pausing in their relentless, punishing rhythm. "And then I'm going to send you out there, a fucking mess, to make you remember who you belong to."

Xavier's breath comes fast and hot against the back of your neck as he pounds into you, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room. He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, his voice a low, possessive growl.

"Oh, how I wish this window was made of clear glass," he rasps, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep thrust. "I want the whole world to see you like this - bent over, tits pressed against the window, your cunt stretched wide around my cock as I fuck you just...like...this...."

"I want them to see your face, flushed and fucked stupid, your mouth open in a silent scream. I want them to watch your body jolt and shake with every thrust, to see your tits bounce and sway as I ruin your greedy hole."

He rolls his hips, grinding his pelvis against your ass, letting you feel every thick inch of him buried deep inside you. His fingers flex around your throat, not quite squeezing, but close.

"And I want them to know, without a doubt, that this cunt belongs to me. That no matter who you're with, no matter what you do...you'll always be mine"

He bites down on your shoulder, sucking a dark bruise into your skin, marking you as his. His hips start to move again, faster, harder, determined to make good on his promise to ruin you completely. The sound of your arousal, dripping and squelching with every thrust, fills the air, mixing with your breathy moans and his dark, sinful growls.

He pistons his hips forward, slamming into you with enough force to rattle the window in its frame. The glass rattles and shakes with each brutal thrust, a testament to the ferocity of his desire, to the primal, animalistic way he's taking you.

And then he slams into you with one final, brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis hard against your ass. At the same time, his fingers tighten around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes widen and your lungs burn for air.

"Scream for me," he demands, voice a low, dark rumble, "Scream my fucking name, let the whole world know who makes you feel this way!"

Your scream tears from your throat, raw and primal, echoing through the room and bouncing off the window. "XAVIER!" You wail, your voice breaking on his name as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your cunt clenches and spasms around his thick cock, your walls rippling and grasping, trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you.

He groans, a low, guttural sound, his hips jerking and stuttering as your muscles squeeze him like a velvet vice. "Fuck, yes!" he snarls, fingers digging into your hip and your throat as he grinds into you, his cock pulsing and throbbing hard inside your fluttering sheath.

His other hand finds your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub almost cruelly as he works you through your high, pushing you to take even more. Your scream turns into a wordless, keening wail, your body shaking and shuddering as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves.

As the waves of your intense orgasm start to ebb, Xavier suddenly pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty and aching. Before you can miss the fullness of him, he's spinning you around, flipping you to face him. His hands grip your shoulders tightly, fingers digging into your skin, and with a swift, almost rough motion, he pushes you down to your knees.

You find yourself staring up at him, your chest heaving, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, your hair a wild mess around your face. Your lips are parted slightly, still letting out the occasional gasping breath. He looms over you, tall and powerful, his eyes blazing down at you with a dark, possessive heat.

Without a word, he takes your chin in his hand, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he tilts your head back, forcing you to maintain eye contact. His other hand wraps around the thick, throbbing length of his cock, stroking it slowly, teasingly, a wicked grin playing about his kiss-swollen lips.

"Look at you, so thoroughly fucked out, so desperate for more," he murmurs, his voice a low, sinful rumble.

Xavier's grip on his throbbing cock tightens, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent as he feels your hot little tongue lapping at the sensitive head. The sensation is too much, too intense, and with a guttural groan, he yanks his hips back.

Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from the swollen tip, painting your heaving chest and face in broad, messy strokes. He grunts and growls, head thrown back in ecstasy as he marks you, claims you, paints you with his seed.

He pumps his length through the final spurts, ensuring every last drop of his hot cum is spent on your well-fucked body. As the waves of his climax start to subside, he looks down at you, a dark, grin spreading across his face.

Xavier leans down, his face softening into a tender expression as he gently cups your cheek. With his thumb, he carefully wipes away the remnants of his release from your lips and chin, his touch surprisingly gentle compared to moments before.

"Such a good girl" he murmurs, a note of pride in his voice. "I want you to keep this mark on your chest, a reminder of who you belong to, even as you go about your day."

He stands up to his full height, looking down at you with a mix of satisfaction and possessive heat in his eyes.

"Now, go on and finish your training. But don't take too long...I'll be waiting to help you get cleaned up properly when you return.

With a final, heated look and a playful wink, he turns and strides out of the room, leaving you kneeling there, chest marked with his claim, heart still racing from your intense encounter. The promise of more to come hangs heavy in the air, filling you with anticipation and a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

#lads x you #lads smut #lads x reader #lads xavier #lads #lnds x you #lnds #love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x you #xavier x y/n #lnds x reader #lnds xavier

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missarchive · 4 months ago

Text

in love and war - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? district 3 spencer reid x cold district 7 fem!reader

category: slow burn, star-crossed lovers, ANGST!!!

content warnings: typical hunger games violence and gore. reader is basically johanna mason. suicide. major character death!!!

word count: around 7k

a/n: second post! please please please leave a comment, or send me some asks. i love feedback!!

The Capitol’s anthem blared over the dusty square of District 7, its piercing, triumphant notes slicing through the oppressive silence that had settled over the crowd. The sound was sharp and artificial, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s control over every aspect of their lives. The crowd, a sea of tired faces etched with lines of hard labor, stood motionless. Not even the wind dared to stir the suffocating stillness.

You stood in the center of it all, your chin high, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your hands were curled into fists at your sides, the nails biting into your palms, but you welcomed the sting—it was a tether, a reminder to hold your ground. Fear churned in your chest like a storm, but you refused to let it show. Not here, where the Capitol’s eyes bore into every detail. Not now, when weakness could feel like surrender.

The escort—a garish figure swathed in layers of shimmering emerald fabric that glimmered like scales—stepped forward. Her unnaturally bright smile stretched wide, her too-pale face powdered to an unsettling perfection. She carried an air of frivolous delight that clashed violently with the grim reality of the moment.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper, each one carrying a name, a fate. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as she unfolded the slip, the paper crackling like thunder in the silence.

“Y/N L/N.” She called, her voice almost sing-song, as though your name were a punchline in some grotesque joke.

Your stomach dropped. It was as if the ground beneath you had vanished, and for one dizzying second, you felt weightless. Around you, the crowd shifted, parting like a tide. The faces you’d known all your life turned down, their gazes fixed on the ground. No one met your eyes—not out of malice, but out of helplessness. They couldn’t bear to see the fear that mirrored their own.

Your body moved on its own, each step measured and deliberate, a march toward your fate. You straightened your spine, forcing a calm you didn’t feel, willing yourself not to stumble. Not here, not in front of them. The Capitol would take your life, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

The stage loomed closer, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun. The escort’s sugary smile widened as you ascended the steps, her eyes glittering with a disturbing mix of glee and detachment. The weight of her gaze, coupled with the cameras trained on you, made your skin crawl. The icy dread clawing up your spine felt almost unbearable, but you pushed it down, burying it beneath a mask of resolve.

You took your place beside the male tribute. A boy your age, his face pale and drawn, with eyes that darted nervously over the crowd before finally settling on the ground. You’d seen him before—briefly, in passing. Maybe at the lumberyard or the market. You tried to recall his name, but your mind, heavy with the gravity of your fate, couldn’t hold onto the thought.

The Capitol had chosen its players, and now the game would begin.

The train to the Capitol hurtled forward through a blur of dense forests and barren plains, but inside, it was eerily silent. The only sound was the relentless chatter of the escort, her voice a cloying melody of superficial pleasantries and Capitol propaganda. She spoke of fashion, of glory, of the grand spectacle awaiting you, her words as empty as the smiles she had worn during the reaping. You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the window.

Outside, the world rushed by in muted greens and browns, a stark contrast to the gleaming metallic interior of the train. The plush seats and gilded fixtures exuded a nauseating opulence that mocked everything you had ever known. The Capitol’s promise of luxury was a cruel jest, a reminder of their excess against the backdrop of your district’s suffering.

Yet, when the meals came, you ate. The richly spiced meats, the delicate pastries that melted on your tongue, the sparkling drinks that fizzed against your lips—it all tasted of betrayal, but you swallowed it anyway. Every bite, every sip, felt like succumbing to the Capitol’s siren call. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, designed to dull the edge of fear, to make you forget, even for a moment, what awaited you.

But the arena loomed in your mind, a shadowy specter that refused to be ignored. The thought of it gnawed at you, relentless and unyielding, like a ravenous beast caged just beneath your consciousness. Blood. Death. Survival. The knowledge of what you would have to do, of the lives you would have to take, coiled around your thoughts like barbed wire.

You forced yourself to push it all down—the guilt, the sorrow, the horror. You had no choice. Survival demanded that you bury your humanity, and the Capitol was counting on it.

At the front of the carriage, a small holographic display flickered to life, its cool blue glow casting faint shadows on the polished walls. The screen showed the reaping ceremonies from the other districts, each one a carefully orchestrated tableau of misery.

Districts 1 and 2 were first. Volunteers stepped forward with practiced bravado, their faces alight with the twisted pride of those who saw the Games as an honor. Their confidence, their hunger for glory, was a stark contrast to the quiet dread that settled over you like a shroud.

Then the broadcast shifted to District 3. The boy’s name was announced, and the camera panned to him.

“Spencer Reid.”

He was tall and lanky, his frame awkwardly angular as he stepped forward. The camera lingered on him, capturing every flicker of unease. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his movements hesitant, as if he could somehow shrink himself into nothingness. His face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights, his lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

He climbed the stage slowly, his shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for the weight of the Capitol’s gaze. Among the other reaped tributes—many of them brimming with bravado or resignation—he looked out of place, a fragile figure thrust into a world of brutality.

But when the camera zoomed in on his face, you saw something unexpected. Beneath the surface of his fear, hidden in the depths of his wide, intelligent eyes, was a spark of defiance. It wasn’t loud or overt—it wasn’t a rebel’s roar or a warrior’s fury. It was quiet, subtle, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.

You stared at the hologram, transfixed. Spencer Reid didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a killer. But there was something about him—a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten.

The hologram flickered to the next district, but his image lingered in your mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t yet fit. In the Capitol’s cruel game, you knew better than to hope. But for the first time since your name had been called, you felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite name.

The training center was a swirling chaos of noise and motion, a cacophony of clashing weapons, shouted instructions, and the low hum of tributes murmuring strategies. Each station buzzed with activity as tributes from every district worked with single-minded determination, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for threats and opportunities alike. The air was charged with tension, a palpable reminder that everyone here was both a potential ally and a likely enemy.

You gravitated toward the weapons station, your steps purposeful despite the oppressive atmosphere. Your fingers closed around the handle of an axe, the smooth wood familiar against your calloused palms. The weight of it settled in your grip, solid and unyielding. It was a grim comfort, a connection to the forests of District 7, where axes were tools before they were weapons. Here, though, it was a tool for survival, one you knew you would have to wield with deadly precision.

Across the room, Spencer stood at the survival skills station, a stark contrast to the hardened tributes around him. He lingered near a trainer demonstrating knot-tying techniques, his posture slightly hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. His slight frame and nervous energy drew attention, a handful of tributes sparing amused or derisive glances in his direction.

Yet, he absorbed everything with a quiet intensity. His eyes flickered over the trainer’s hands, cataloging each movement, every knot and technique. His sharp mind seemed to analyze and store every detail, not missing a beat. But he wasn’t just watching the trainer—he was studying the other tributes, too. The arrogance in their stances, the overconfidence in their eyes, the way they dismissed him without a second thought. Spencer noted it all, filing it away, hoping that these observations would one day give him the edge he so desperately needed.

You first noticed him during a combat demonstration. The trainer had called for volunteers, and to your surprise, Spencer stepped forward, his thin fingers hesitantly wrapping around a wooden staff. The moment was over almost as soon as it began. A career tribute from District 2—a towering boy with broad shoulders and a predator’s grin—disarmed him with ease, knocking Spencer to the ground with a swift, calculated strike.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, his glasses askew, his hands fumbling to adjust them. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the careers’ laughter. Their mocking echoes rang through the training hall, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s engineered hierarchy.

Yet, he didn’t slink away. Instead, he stepped back, watching the careers’ movements closely. He reached for the notebook tucked under his arm, flipping it open and furiously scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Each failure seemed to fuel his focus, his mind dissecting every detail, breaking down what went wrong and how he could do better next time.

Something about him caught your attention. Maybe it was his stubborn determination to keep trying despite the odds stacked against him. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, but his gaze stayed steady, as if he could out-think the inevitability of the Games. Or maybe it was because he reminded you of someone—a faint, long-buried memory of someone who had needed protecting once, and how it had torn at you when you couldn’t.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you said bluntly, stepping into his path as he left the station.

Spencer startled, nearly dropping his notebook. His knuckles turned white as he clutched it tighter, holding it like a lifeline. “I… I know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet but remarkably steady. His hazel eyes met yours, nervous but resolute. “But there’s not much I can do about that… Unless you have a suggestion?”

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a beat. He wasn’t cocky like the careers or resigned like so many others. He was clever, you could see that, and he had a spark of something most tributes didn’t: hope, no matter how faint.

“Stick with me in the arena,” you said, your tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “You focus on keeping us alive. I’ll handle the killing.”

He hesitated, his sharp mind clearly running calculations, weighing the risk and reward of your offer. “Why?” he asked finally, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re going to be dead weight otherwise,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms. “And I don’t want to fight your ghost on top of everyone else’s.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair point,” he said softly, nodding.

You turned away, heading back toward the weapons station. Over your shoulder, you added, “Don’t make me regret it, Reid.”

He didn’t reply, but when you glanced back, you saw him adjust his glasses, straighten his posture, and follow.

The arena was a sprawling expanse of forest, its towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their gnarled branches intertwining to form a suffocating canopy. The dense undergrowth was a labyrinth of roots and thorns, each step a gamble against the hidden dangers lurking beneath. The air was heavy, saturated with the earthy scent of pine, damp moss, and the faint metallic tang of decay. Overhead, the sky was a hazy gray, muted and ominous, as though even the sun refused to bear witness to the bloodshed below.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant boom of a cannon—a haunting reminder that lives were being snuffed out one by one. The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the very land recoiled from the Capitol’s violence.

You and Spencer had been separated during the chaos of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Amid the screams and the clash of weapons, you had fought your way to an axe, its familiar weight a small comfort in the madness. Spencer, ever the strategist, had snatched a small pack and disappeared into the tree line, avoiding direct confrontation. It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial slaughter had subsided and the forest had swallowed the remaining tributes, that you found him.

He was crouched low among the undergrowth, his shoulders hunched as he worked with trembling hands to set a rudimentary snare. The cord slipped in his grip, and he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, his frustration evident. Despite the tension in his frame, there was an odd focus in his movements, a determination to make himself useful even here, where everything was designed to kill.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” you said, stepping into view. Your voice broke the stillness like a crack of lightning, and he flinched violently, his hand jerking the snare out of place. His wide eyes darted to you, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. But then recognition settled in, and his body relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he exhaled shakily.

Even so, you could see the doubt lingering in his expression, the silent question of whether you would keep your word. Whether you would protect him—or if the promise was as fragile as the alliances so many others had already shattered.

“I’m better at traps,” he said defensively, gesturing to the mangled snare. His voice wavered, but there was a thread of defiance woven through his words. “Not much use if I’m dead, though.”

You sighed, letting your gaze sweep over the dense forest. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle of leaves a prelude to attack. The arena’s oppressive atmosphere bore down on you, the Capitol’s eyes undoubtedly watching, waiting for a misstep.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”

He hesitated, glancing at the ruined snare before looking back at you. For a moment, you thought he might protest, insist on finishing what he’d started. But then he nodded, pushing himself to his feet and clutching the pack tightly.

As the two of you moved deeper into the forest, the unspoken understanding between you solidified. The arena was no place for trust, but in that moment, you both understood what was necessary. Spencer’s sharp mind and your strength would keep you alive—for now. Together, you were a tenuous partnership, forged in the fire of desperation, bound by the fragile hope of survival.

Days passed in a blur of relentless survival, the forest around you becoming both your sanctuary and your prison. Spencer’s quick thinking kept you ahead of the others, his mind proving sharper than any blade. He devised traps with a precision that belied the trembling of his hands. One night, a tripwire he rigged sent a sharpened branch hurtling toward a career tribute, the impact punctuated by the sharp, deafening boom of a cannon. You froze, listening as the sound echoed through the trees, a grim acknowledgment of another life taken.

But for all his brilliance, Spencer’s lack of combat skills was glaringly obvious. The fragility of your alliance was brutally highlighted when a career tribute ambushed your camp at dawn. You had been sharpening your axe when the attack came—a blur of movement and the glint of a blade in the weak morning light. Spencer had scrambled back, his hands flying up in instinctive defense, but it was you who stood between him and death.

The fight was savage and merciless. Your axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision, each swing driven by adrenaline and the primal need to survive. Blood sprayed across your face, warm and sticky, as you buried the blade deep into the career’s chest. The sickening crunch of bone gave way to silence, broken only by your ragged breathing.

You stood over the lifeless body, the axe slipping from your trembling hands, its handle slick with blood that dripped in slow, viscous trails down your arms. The metallic scent was overpowering, mingling with the damp earth beneath your feet. Spencer emerged from behind a tree, his face ashen and his glasses askew. He stared at the carnage with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling, pitched higher than usual.

You wiped a streak of blood from your eyes with the back of your hand, spitting a glob of your own onto the ground. “Fine,” you said shortly, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. “Let’s keep moving.”

The nights were the worst. The Capitol’s mutts prowled the forest, their distorted howls piercing the stillness and sending chills racing down your spine. The Gamemakers seemed to delight in tormenting the tributes, their traps and horrors pushing all of you to the brink. Spencer stayed close during those long, restless hours, his sharp mind constantly working to outthink the Capitol’s cruelty. But the strain of it all was evident. The sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger, the constant threat of death—it wore on both of you.

Sleep came in fleeting moments, and when it did, it brought no peace. Nightmares plagued you, images of blood-soaked battlefields and the cold, lifeless faces of those you had killed. You would wake with a start, your hand instinctively reaching for the axe by your side. Spencer, ever vigilant, would glance up from his notebook, offering a weak, wordless reassurance.

One night, as the oppressive silence stretched between you, he broke it. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was hunched over his notebook again, the pen in his hand tapping rhythmically against its edge. “I know I’m just a liability. If you leave… you’d have a better chance.”

His words hit you harder than they should have, stirring an ache in your chest that you didn’t want to acknowledge. You scoffed, forcing a veneer of indifference. “Don’t be stupid,” you said, glancing down at the axe lying between your legs. The wood was stained a deep crimson, a grim testament to your survival. “You’d be dead in a minute.”

“Probably,” he admitted, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly fragile. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to you—to have to carry my weight.”

You leaned forward, your eyes locking with his. His vulnerability was laid bare, and for a fleeting moment, you saw past the fear to the resolve underneath. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” you said, your voice firm. “Survival does. And you’re not dying on my watch, Reid.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, unspoken promises threading through the tension. Spencer didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you, a quiet gratitude shining in his eyes. In the brutal reality of the arena, fairness was a luxury no one could afford. But in that moment, you knew you’d fight to keep him alive, even if it meant sacrificing a part of yourself.

The Gamemakers were growing impatient, their orchestrations more desperate and cruel. Walls of fire erupted in the forest, their heat searing and relentless, driving you and Spencer forward. Rivers swelled and burst their banks, churning torrents swallowing the land and leaving no room for retreat. The Capitol’s games were designed for spectacle, and now, they demanded a climactic confrontation.

It came in a clearing, a barren stretch of earth encircled by the towering trees that had once been your refuge. You and Spencer stood in the center, backs pressed together, the forest closing in around you. The air was electric with tension, heavy with the anticipation of violence. Your axe was clenched tightly in your hands, its familiar weight a lifeline in the chaos. Across the clearing, the last remaining tributes emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and eyes gleaming with a deadly determination.

The careers were relentless. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated, honed by years of brutal training. They were predators, and you were their prey—but you refused to be cornered.

The first blow came from the left, a flash of steel aimed at your head. You ducked, swinging your axe upward in a wide arc that sent the attacker sprawling. Before you could strike again, another career was upon you, their weapon slashing toward your side. Spencer’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Y/N, duck!”

You dropped to the ground just as a handful of crushed leaves sailed over your head. The air ignited in a blinding flash, the chemical reaction disorienting your attackers. Spencer had discovered the trick earlier, his sharp mind identifying the properties of the plants scattered through the arena. It bought you precious seconds, enough to regain your footing and strike.

Your axe moved with ruthless efficiency, the weight of it an extension of your will to survive. It cleaved through the air, connecting with flesh and bone in a sickening symphony of destruction. Blood sprayed across the clearing, warm and sticky, coating your hands and arms as you fought with everything you had.

Spencer, though less skilled in combat, was no less vital. His quick thinking and unorthodox tactics kept you alive, each small advantage tipping the scales in your favor. He ducked and dodged, his movements frantic but purposeful, throwing dirt in an attacker’s eyes or tripping them with a hastily arranged snare.

The clearing became a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and churned by desperate footsteps. The coppery scent hung thick in the air, mingling with the earth’s damp tang and the acrid smoke from the Gamemakers’ fires. The cacophony of screams, grunts, and clashing steel reverberated through the forest, a grotesque chorus that seemed to echo endlessly.

Finally, the chaos began to subside. One by one, the careers fell, their arrogance and brutality no match for your combined determination. The last tribute standing faced you with defiance in their eyes, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning. Your axe swung in a final, decisive arc, and the cannon’s resounding boom signaled the end.

As the clearing fell silent, you turned to Spencer. He stood hunched, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, his glasses smeared with dirt. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his eyes met yours with a flicker of relief. For a fleeting moment, the two of you simply stood there, surrounded by the carnage, the enormity of what you’d just survived sinking in.

But you knew this wasn’t the end.

The forest loomed like a living nightmare, shadows twisting and stretching as if they sought to devour what little light dared to filter through the canopy. Every sound, every faint rustle of leaves, clawed at Spencer’s already frayed nerves. His breaths came shallow and ragged, his legs protesting with searing pain as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Branches lashed at his arms and face, leaving thin, stinging cuts, but none of it registered.

All he could think about was you.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, his voice a raw echo of his mounting panic. The name reverberated through the forest only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic rhythm that matched the wild thrum of his thoughts.

You were out there. Alone.

And then, like a cruel omen, he saw it—a trail of blood.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as he stared at the crimson streaks spattered across the dirt. His mind involuntarily cataloged the details: arterial spray, not a steady drip—suggesting deep, possibly fatal wounds. The sight rooted him with dread, but the desperate need to find you propelled him forward.

“Please,” he whispered under his breath, a fragile prayer to an indifferent world. “Please, not you.”

The blood led him deeper into the forest, the undergrowth thickening as the trail veered toward a small clearing. Sunlight filtered hesitantly through the branches above, dappling the ground in patches of gold that felt out of place against the grim tableau ahead. At first, the clearing seemed empty, just another cruel trick of the arena.

Then he saw you.

Spencer stumbled forward, the sight of your crumpled body hitting him like a physical blow. You were slumped against a tree, your form unnaturally still, streaked with dirt and blood. The once vibrant color of your skin was replaced by a deathly pallor, your chest rising and falling so faintly that he nearly missed it.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, and he fell to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your battered frame as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

Your injuries were horrifying. Deep, angry gashes carved into your side, your clothes soaked with drying blood. Bruises bloomed across your face, dark and angry, nearly obscuring your features. Your lips were cracked and dry, the faintest tremble the only sign of life.

“Please, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he pressed his fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. The moment he felt the faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips, a sob broke free from his chest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, tears spilling freely down his face. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

But the relief was fleeting. The blood around you was too much, the wounds too deep. A surge of helplessness clawed at him, and his hands hovered, unsure where to start. His mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish, drowned in panic and fear.

“Y/N, wake up,” he pleaded, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed against the streaks of blood and dirt marring your skin. “Please, I need you to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped your lips, the soft sound pulling him from the edge of despair. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion and pain. Finally, your eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, but alive.

“Spencer?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and weak, but it was enough.

“I’m here,” he choked out, his tears falling unchecked. “I’m here, Y/N. I thought I’d lost you.”

Your gaze slowly sharpened, focusing on him through the haze of pain. “What… happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I failed you.”

You weakly lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his. He caught it immediately, holding it tightly as though letting go would mean losing you again. “You couldn’t have known,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

“Don’t say that,” he snapped, his fear spilling out as frustration. “Don’t act like it’s okay. It’s not—I can’t—” His voice faltered, cracking under the weight of his emotions. He looked away, his shoulders trembling.

“Spencer.” Your voice, though faint, cut through the storm inside him.

He turned back to you, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours. Even in your battered state, there was a flicker of strength in your gaze, a reminder of why he couldn’t fall apart.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me going, Y/N. You’re the only thing that matters.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, mingling with the blood and grime. Despite the pain, you managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said softly.

Spencer leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, careful of your injuries. “Promise me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” you whispered back, though your voice wavered with exhaustion.

For a moment, the horrors of the arena receded, leaving only the two of you in the fragile stillness of the clearing. Spencer clung to that moment, to the fragile hope that it could last. But deep down, he knew the arena’s cruelty wouldn’t allow it.

Spencer cradled you against him, his arms encircling your fragile, battered body like a shield against the arena’s relentless cruelty. Each of your shallow breaths, brushing faintly against his neck, felt like a fragile thread tethering him to hope. The world around you seemed to pause, the usual cacophony of the arena muted to nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the haunting, distant growls of the Capitol’s muttations.

His heart pounded as he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light filtering through the trees illuminated the anguish and resolve in his expression. His eyes, filled with a fierce determination, searched yours as though he could absorb your pain and bear it for you.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and trembling with conviction. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever again.”

One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the grime and blood streaked across your skin. Despite the searing pain coursing through your injuries, you leaned into his touch, craving the connection and comfort he offered. The way he looked at you, with a mix of tenderness and desperation, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just survival that drove him—it was you.

“Spencer,” you murmured, your voice raw but steady enough to convey the depth of your feelings. “You saved me.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was tinged with sadness. “You saved me first,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The horrors of the arena melted away, leaving only the two of you in a fragile bubble of shared understanding. Without hesitation, Spencer leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, and a plea all at once. Every unspoken word of fear, gratitude, and love found its voice in that fleeting moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, the quiet mingling of your breaths grounding you both. Spencer’s voice was raw when he spoke again, the vulnerability in his words laying his heart bare. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession slipping free like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining with his as though they were meant to fit together. “I love you too,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice making the moment feel almost sacred.

Though the kiss and the confession hung between you like a protective shield, reality pressed back in. Spencer glanced around, his sharp mind already assessing the next steps. He helped you to your feet with painstaking care, his touch gentle but firm as he ensured you wouldn’t collapse. “We need to find shelter,” he said, his tone decisive. “You need rest, and I need to make sure you’re safe.”

Together, you stumbled through the dense underbrush, Spencer’s arm steadying you every step of the way. He moved with deliberate caution, his every thought focused on your survival. After what felt like an eternity, you came upon a hollow nestled beneath the sprawling roots of a massive tree. It wasn’t much—a dark, cramped space hidden from sight—but in the arena, it was a sanctuary.

Spencer guided you inside, his every movement a careful balance between urgency and gentleness. Once he was sure you were settled, he set to work, his trembling hands tending to your wounds with an almost reverent care. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, his focus never wavered.

The night descended upon the arena with a heavy, oppressive silence, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. Inside the hollow, you both finally allowed yourselves to rest. Spencer pulled you close, his arms wrapping protectively around you as though sheer will alone could keep the horrors at bay.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll keep watch.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt, a weak but determined gesture. “No,” you whispered, your voice resolute despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “We’ll keep watch together.”

But the adrenaline that had fuelled you both through the day ebbed away, replaced by an unbearable fatigue. Sleep claimed you both, drawing you into its embrace. In the warmth of Spencer’s arms, the terror of the arena faded, leaving behind the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the fragile hope that, for at least a few precious hours, you were safe.

The cannon echoed in the distance, signaling the death of the second-to-last tribute. Spencer’s heart sank as the reality settled over him. It was just the two of you now.

You turned to him, bloodied and exhausted, your eyes wide with the same realization. “Spencer…”

“There can only be one,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

The Capitol’s anthem blared overhead, and the cold voice of the announcer filled the air. “Congratulations to our final two tributes! Only one may claim victory—who will it be?”

The unspoken command hung heavy between you, suffocating in its finality.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t do it, Spencer. I won’t.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “But there’s no other way. They won’t let us both walk out of here.”

“Then we find a way to beat them!” you cried, desperation lacing your voice. “We’ll refuse. We’ll—”

Spencer grabbed your shoulders gently but firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N, listen to me. We’ve been lucky to make it this far, but there’s no beating them. Not like this.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t falter. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, we can survive this together. We’ll figure it out. We—”

“Y/N.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You have to live. I need you to live.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising as you saw something in his expression—a quiet determination, a resolve that shattered your heart. “Spencer, no. Don’t you dare.”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “You are everything good in this world,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You deserve to live. You deserve to go home.”

“I can’t go home without you!” you cried, your hands clutching his shirt as if holding him could anchor him here, with you.

Spencer leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss filled with all the love and sorrow he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Before you could react, he stepped back, his hands slipping from your grasp. Your heart dropped as he picked up the knife you’d discarded moments earlier.

“Spencer, don’t!” you screamed, scrambling toward him, but he shook his head.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I love you.”

And then, before you could stop him, he turned the blade on himself.

“NO!”

You caught him as he collapsed, cradling him in your arms. Blood soaked through your hands, and your sobs tore through the quiet of the arena. His breathing was shallow, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.

“I… couldn’t let it be you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You have to win. Promise me… promise me you’ll live.”

“Spencer, please,” you begged, clutching him tightly. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

But his eyes fluttered closed, and with one last ragged breath, the cannon boomed.

The hovercraft descended moments later, and you didn’t resist as they pried Spencer from your arms. His blood was on your hands, your clothes, and your soul, and yet you couldn’t muster the strength to fight them. The Capitol’s voice returned, dispassionate and final, declaring you the victor. The words echoed through the cold, metallic space around you, hollow and meaningless.

You were the last one standing. The survivor.

But at what cost?

The world blurred as the medical team swarmed you, their hands prodding and pulling, their antiseptic words promising you safety and care. None of it mattered. Your eyes stayed fixed on Spencer’s limp form as they wheeled him away, disappearing behind a sterile door. The emptiness he left behind was suffocating.

He had sacrificed himself so you could live.

The words repeated in your mind, a haunting mantra that clawed at your sanity. The memory of his final smile, soft and full of love even as his life slipped away, seared itself into your soul. You wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of it all, but you felt hollow. Numb.

The hovercraft docked, and the transition from the arena’s horrors to the Capitol’s opulence was jarring. Lavish rooms, bright lights, and hollow congratulations assaulted your senses. The Capitol citizens cheered your name, their voices clashing in an orchestra of sickening delight. You barely heard them.

Snow himself greeted you, his snake-like smile as unnerving as ever. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice laced with a false warmth. “You’re a symbol of strength, of survival. The Capitol admires your resilience.”

Your response was a vacant stare.

Days blurred into nights as you went through the motions. The Victory Tour loomed, a macabre parade meant to celebrate your survival while parading the Capitol’s power. But all you could think about was Spencer—the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had trembled when he said goodbye.

In the privacy of your room, you allowed yourself to grieve. The tears came in silent waves, unstoppable and all-consuming. You clutched the token he’d worn—a simple bracelet made of knotted twine—now yours to carry. It was the only piece of him you had left.

They called you a hero, but you felt like a thief. You had stolen his chance to live, even if he’d willingly handed it over.

On the day of your first public appearance, you stood before a crowd of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with mock sympathy and admiration. The weight of your loss bore down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its enormity.

“I survived the arena,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But survival isn’t victory. Not when it costs everything.”

The crowd applauded, oblivious to the truth in your words. But somewhere, deep within you, a spark ignited—a quiet, simmering rage.

Spencer had believed in you, even in his final moments. He had given you a chance to live, to fight for something more than just survival. And while the Capitol celebrated its spectacle, you made a promise to yourself.

You would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

You would remember him.

And one day, you would ensure that no one else would have to pay the price he had.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#spencer reid angst #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #criminal minds x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fanfiction #missarchive

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eudemonia13 · 6 months ago

Text

Light in the darkness

Solomon x Reader

Light angst. W.C. 1099 Solomon thinks about his adorable aprentice as they rest beside him.

He saw light in you, passed the glimmer of sunlight on your skin as you bathed in the warm rays of your home world, passed the brilliance of neon signs and late night artificial rainbows that painted your eyes a stunning palette of colour, shades he would chase in his dreams as his subconscious processed yet another memory of you.

An abstract keepsake that he would hold onto as long as he lived. When he had long forgotten the grassy fields, the taste of salt and sugar, when the last drop of his blood had dried. When the death of the world and the collapse of the sun had claimed the last slivers of light, he would remember you.

Tucked away with all the other parts of you he held dear. His thoughts were a kaleidoscope of you. The movements, the laughter, the rhythm of your heart beating. Everything stored away in the most precious archives of his mind.

No, he saw it there in the darkest nights of the Devildom.

Bright and soft as the dawn, light that emanated from you like the warmth from your skin as he rested in your arms. It enveloped him and cast the shadows in his mind into slumber.

He loved you, he loved you in ways that felt like sparks and fire. A firework, piercing the darkness with a violence that could only be human. So fleeting, and yet you burned yourself into the entire realm's consciousness like an afterimage, trails of fading sparks that still glowed as they rained from high. A fraction of time that outshone the dim embers of eternity.

He used to sparkle, he used to glow. And he still did, the hunger in the demon’s eyes told him as much. The subtle glances the angels passed behind his back when he was once allowed entry into the Celestial realm told him as much. There was still enough left in him to want, to covet and bide their time over as turn after turn of the games they played went on.

Solomon smiled, a reflex that had rooted into him and pulled the corners of his lips into an unreadable neutrality, a defence given to him by the slow erosion of millenia uncounted. Hard learned lessons like waves rolling the sharpest rocks into smooth, flawless stones, he had lost that earnest part of him to the oceans long ago.

What he felt, the vulnerability and timid honesty of his feelings even here when he was alone with his thoughts, was too intimidating to show without a mask. So he smiled to himself in the darkness of his room.

He used to sparkle, like you did now.

Still warm, still forgiving even as beings far beyond your reach played over you like a prize, like a bet. Like you weren’t human. Still bright, still shining.

He pulled you closer, tucking his head against your shoulder as you slept, chest falling in gentle crests, like waves rolling over him with every rise and fall. Time had no hold on him, not here. Not with you.

His dearest, his confidant, his…

What was he to you? Surely, he meant at least something to you. But in a room of flushed faces, of hands reaching out to you… How close was he to your light?

A Prince, strong and unmoving to the little problems that once battered him in his youth. He was safe, he was luxury and adventure and lightheartedness, still after everything in his long, long life. Passion and elegance… And knowing you would always come second to the inevitable need of his people.

A Demon, as capable, as beautiful and loyal as he was prideful. Having made his place in the Devildom from what was once scorn and misery, but now stood as one of the most powerful and respected Devildom Elite? Who offered you seduction, and complete ownership over his heart and soul? At least… So long as you could withstand his heart being locked behind the burden of pride, and obligations that could never be put off for more than a night before he would be buried by paperwork yet again.

And his brothers, demons of high regard all their own. But he hardly needed to slander any of them to highlight their glaringly obvious shortfalls.

An Angel, kind and devoted, cunning and artful in everything he does. He was warm, and soft like spring rain, dewy and beautiful and calming to even your soul itself. He would give every part of himself to you and not ask for anything more than your happiness. And yet he was forever shadowed by the choices he had made, and had not made, and the knowledge of what would come from those fateful decisions… But truly, what could he say against Simeon? That he was bad with technology and he was afraid of the terrifying and confusing future ahead of him? Solomon knew that what his friend offered you could hardly be painted as ‘bad’ in even the harshest light.

Was that cruel of him? To weave his words and sharpen his tongue against those he has come to think of as friends? Even in the seclusion of his mind, could he take that from you? Could he appear just a little bit better, here, where none could hear him?

Solomon, the wise. Solomon, the witty sorcerer. Solomon, protector of Humanity. Solomon, who loved you with all his heart. Who had protected you when you were nothing but a defenceless human thrown to the wolves of the Devildom that first year of the exchange program. Solomon, who had risked the fate of the human realm just so that you may not hate him for the awful choice that must be made. Who had put the fate of everything he had devoted his immortal life to protecting, into your hands knowing full well that you might not choose what he would.

Solomon, who looked at you and saw everything he loved, everything he had sworn to protect and cherish deep in his heart where nothing could take it from him again.

Solomon, who loved you knowing he would lose you too.

And Solomon, the manipulative, the wolf in sheep's clothing, the untrustworthy sham of a sorcerer who used and conned anyone he could benefit from. Solomon, the human who had lost his humanity. Solomon, the liar. Solomon, the demon.

He wondered, silently. Wordlessly as his hands shook with the slightest tremble as he pulled you against him even tighter. His Light, his Truth… His Protector.

Who was he to you?

#obey me x reader #obey me nightbringer #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #solomon x reader #solomon x mc #obey me angst

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colouredbyd · 14 days ago

Text

The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: a wounded alliance begins to form. old memories resurface under the cover of night—constellations, names, and things left unsaid. the arena is changing, and the Capitol is already tightening its grip.

warnings: scenes of violence, characters death, graphic content, blood, emotional distress, violence, injury care, body horror (mild), themes of control and helplessness, mild language, intense fear, reflective of the brutal nature of the Hunger Games.

word count: 8.9k (totally didnt take 3 days to write)

authors note: i love this chapter so so much, ugh. ps. so many hidden easters in this chapter..

previous part next part series masterlist main masterlist

This is day two of the Games, and the Garden is changing.

The trees loom higher than they did yesterday—though maybe it’s not the trees that have grown. Maybe it’s me, shrinking by the hour, forgetting how to measure anything except the ache in my chest and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The canopy above is a patchwork of rust-colored leaves, their edges curled and blackened like they’ve been touched by fire. They drip something sticky onto the ground, sap or blood or something that smells too sweet to be natural. The earth beneath our feet shifts softly sometimes, like it's breathing. And in the corners of my vision, I keep catching flickers—ghosts of motion, glimmers of light that vanish when I try to focus. I turn my head and see nothing but bark. Stones that look like teeth. Vines that might’ve been ropes.

We don’t speak. There’s no need to. The silence between us is heavier than the air.

Regulus walks ahead, every step deliberate. That same quiet intensity he’s always carried—like he was carved from silence and taught how to move without making the world flinch. He reads the terrain with his eyes, his hands, the angle of his shoulders. Every few paces, his fingers lift to the back of his neck—light and quick, like a whisper he’s trying to chase away. I’ve seen him do it before. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I see how often. How unconscious. Like a tether—his mind checking a leash only he can feel.

He hasn’t spoken since last night. Neither have I. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t come out as a prayer or a scream.

Yesterday there were three cannons. Three faces in the sky.

Emmeline Vance from District 4. Mundungus Fletcher from 12. Hestia Jones from 8.

I didn’t know them—not really. I remembered their faces at the Reaping, the slight tremble in Hestia’s hands, the way Emmeline had kept her chin raised too high, defiant even when her voice cracked. But names blur quickly out here. Still, I forced myself to look. To hold their eyes as long as the sky would let me. It felt like the only thing I could offer—acknowledgement. A witness. Something human.

My heart clenched, waiting for a fourth. Bracing for the face I wouldn’t survive seeing. But it didn’t come.

No Regulus.

And the relief that washed over me was sharp and selfish and so full of guilt I could barely stand it. Because part of me still thinks that as long as he’s alive, I can be too. Like if I can just keep him breathing, I won't become one of those faces. A name no one knew well enough to mourn. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep walking.

I glance at Regulus again and wonder, not for the first time, what it’s cost him to survive all this. What corners of himself he’s had to cut away to keep going. What softness he’s buried. What screams he’s swallowed.

His profile is turned to the trees now, neck long and throat bruised with old scrapes. There’s a sliver of dried blood along his collarbone—too thin to worry about but too stark to ignore. His hands hang loose at his sides, stained from the last time we dug through mud for shelter. Hands that used to tremble in the Capitol’s glare. Hands that no longer do.

The Capitol doesn’t need to kill you with blades or bombs. It just waits. Patient, calculating. Watching as the days chip away at you until there’s nothing left but instinct and ash. Until the war lives in your bones and mercy is a myth you no longer afford. It doesn’t pull the trigger—it hands you the weapon, then teaches you how to aim at yourself.

It silences you slowly. Hollowing out the soft parts first—grief, love, hope—until only survival remains. It makes memory sharp. Makes kindness dangerous. It turns every name you loved into a weakness, every soft moment into something that could get you killed. That’s the Capitol’s real talent: it doesn’t need to kill you. It teaches you how to do it on your own.

And Regulus—he carries every one of those lessons behind his eyes. He walks like someone who’s memorized loss. Like the air itself cuts him, and still he keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. Maybe because he can’t. Maybe because looking means remembering. And remembering means bleeding all over again.

But I do. I always do.

Because someone has to. Someone has to hold onto what we were before they renamed us tributes and strung us up like symbols. Someone has to remember that we were people once. That we had birthdays and favorite songs. That we laughed. That kindness wasn’t a liability.

I wonder if he remembers that, too. Or if he buried hope with the rest of the dead.

We keep walking, the Garden thick around us, the silence breathing down our necks. And still, I say nothing.

But gods, I want to.

I want to call his name and watch it settle on his skin like something warm. I want to press my hand to the curve of his spine and remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.

I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Not here. Not in the Garden, where the trees eavesdrop and the wind keeps score. Here, tenderness is a trap.

He doesn’t need to tell me why he’s quiet. I already know.

The longer we’re still, the louder the Garden gets. The wind carries laughter sometimes, or the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to either of us. Once I swore I heard my mother singing. The exact lullaby she used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. The notes hung between the branches like fruit.

Because we both knew the truth: the arena isn’t just a place.

It’s a mind.

It watches. It learns. It carves open your past and feeds it back to you with blood on its fingers. It waits until you forget you’re a tribute, and then it strikes. Not with teeth or claws, but with memories. With softness. With the illusion of something kind, until it becomes the thing that kills you.

I walk beside him now, watching the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. Maybe rage. Maybe grief. Maybe something colder. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, to remind him I’m still here. That we’re not entirely gone yet. But I don’t.

I haven’t spoken since the camera shattered. I don’t think Regulus has either.

The Garden is quieter than it was yesterday. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… still. Like the calm that presses down on your chest right before a scream. Even the birds are gone, if they were ever real to begin with.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve blinked without seeing anything at all.

How many times I’ve heard my name, whispered low and sweet, threading through the trees like a secret—and turned to find nothing but bark and silence. The branches know my name now. They’ve learned how to say it with the same lilt my brother used to, the same pause my mother would make before pulling me into her arms.

I think I’m starting to forget what real sounds like. What true sounds like.

We were moving through a dense patch of undergrowth when something ahead caught the corner of my eye. It wasn’t a sound or a cry—just the faintest flicker of motion, too small to be a threat, too subtle to ignore. I stopped. My foot hovered above a root as my gaze dropped to the forest floor, sifting through the layers of leaves and dirt.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, half-swallowed by the roots of an overturned tree—limbs tangled like he’d fallen from the sky and the forest had tried to claim him before he hit the ground. His body was twisted awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other dragged out behind like he’d been running and never quite stopped. Dirt smudged his cheek, blood crusted at his temple, and his arm was curled protectively over his ribs, as if even unconscious, he was trying to shield something.

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

Then his fingers moved—just once. A faint tremble, barely there.

I stepped forward before I even realized it, breath catching in my throat.

“We can’t,” Regulus said. His voice was low.

I turned toward him, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the boy, sharp and gleaming like the blade he kept hidden at his side. I could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his breath had shortened, how his grip on me tightened just slightly as the boy coughed again.

“What if it’s a setup?” Regulus muttered. “What if someone left him there to draw us out? We’re in the Garden. Nothing’s real here. Not pain. Not mercy. Not dying.”

His hand was still on my arm. The contact sent little aftershocks skimming through my nerves, but it was the way he said dying that made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t afraid of it, just tired of watching it happen.

“I don’t think he’s pretending,” I said, softer now, but steady. “No one pretends to bleed like that.”

Regulus didn’t let go. He looked at me then, and for a moment, his expression faltered. Just enough for the mask to slip. Just enough for me to see what was beneath it—fear, maybe. Or something heavier.

“I can’t protect you if you walk into a trap.”

I swallowed hard. His fingers were still wrapped around my arm, thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist like he was trying to convince himself it was fine. That I was still breathing. That I was still warm. I could’ve told him I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, not from this, not now—but the words stayed in my throat.

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I’m not walking away.”

I moved toward the boy, lowering myself into a crouch until my knees met the damp, moss-covered earth. The scent of soil and something metallic filled my lungs as I leaned closer. His breathing was shallow and ragged, every rise of his chest uneven, as if each breath was a decision his body had to wrestle with. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, a deep maroon stain spreading across his side, dark and tacky. Most of it had dried, crusted in streaks where it had mingled with dirt and sweat, but fresh droplets still clung near the wound—bright enough to mean danger, slow enough to mean time was running out.

His body looked wrong somehow, too twisted to be resting, too still to be safe. One leg was curled beneath him in an unnatural position, the angle of it suggesting a break or worse. His arm had fallen across his ribs, bent awkwardly as if he'd collapsed mid-flight and never gotten the chance to move again. His face was pale beneath the grime, the sort of pallor that came with too many hours of pain left unattended. One eye was swollen shut, puffed and bruised, while the other remained barely open, glassy and confused. He blinked once, slowly, as if even that motion cost him something. His gaze didn’t quite find mine.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. There was something delicate about him, something unfinished, like he hadn’t been given enough time to grow into himself before being thrown into this place. His lips were cracked and flaking, the corners stained with blood and dust. I studied his features, searching for a name, a memory, anything to anchor him to the world outside this nightmare.

He must have been one of the quiet ones during the interviews—the kind of tribute whose voice got lost beneath the roar of louder stories. The kind no one truly noticed until their portrait appeared in the sky, accompanied by that mournful anthem. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like he belonged in the Games. But then again, none of us did.

The heat coming off him was feverish, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. It radiated from him in waves, pulsing with every weak breath, and I knew then that the wound had festered longer than it should have. His body was fighting a war it was already losing.

Behind me, I felt the shift of movement before I saw it—Regulus lowering himself into a crouch beside us. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and shadows. He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the boy with clinical precision, taking in the damage, calculating the risk. One hand hovered near his knife, fingers ghosting the hilt like a reflex, like his body didn’t quite know how to be still without the comfort of a blade in reach. But he didn’t draw it. He stayed where he was, close but guarded, alert but not hostile.

The suspicion had not entirely left his features, but it had softened. Not into trust—Regulus didn’t give that freely—but into something quieter, something cautious and heavy with restraint. It was enough. For now.

“His leg’s broken,” he said, scanning the injury like it was a riddle. “Might be his ribs too.”

He stared at the boy a moment longer, then reached into his pack without a word.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t believe in softness, not out loud. But he still acted on it, always in the quietest ways.

Regulus took most of the weight, one of the boy’s arms draped across his shoulder, the other hanging lifeless at his side. I stayed close, supporting from behind, one hand steady on his back, the other ready to grab him if he collapsed. He was light—too light—and every step made him wince. He didn’t say a word. Just stumbled and clung on.

Regulus led the way, his pace steady but quick, each step a careful rhythm, as though he was trying to stay two steps ahead of danger. His eyes flicked over his shoulder frequently, watching the boy who staggered just behind, trying to keep pace. I saw the way his jaw tightened with each stumble, the way his grip on his knife never fully relaxed. He was wary, cautious, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one. Not even someone in a condition like this boy’s.

The boy’s breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest like the prelude to something worse. He coughed, a wet, miserable sound that seemed to echo through the quiet woods, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. His voice was weak, barely a whisper, and when his head dropped forward, I felt a momentary surge of panic. For a moment, he looked like he might just collapse, crumple under his own weight, and we’d be left here with him, an easy target for whatever might be watching from the shadows.

I slowed my pace, moving closer to him, and whispered, my voice tight with worry. “We’re almost there,” I said, though it felt more like a promise to myself than to him. “Just hold on.”

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and he swayed as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with the effort of standing. I could feel Regulus watching us, his gaze sharp and calculating. He was already thinking two steps ahead, thinking about the next danger we might face. Even here, in this moment, we weren’t safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding through the underbrush, we emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to give us a breath, the weight of the forest lifting slightly, as if the earth itself had parted to let us pass. The ground beneath us was soft, covered in thick, spongy moss that swallowed the sound of our footsteps, offering a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the forest.

Regulus moved swiftly, lowering the boy to the ground, his movements more tender than I would have expected, more careful than he probably intended to show. I knelt beside the boy, brushing the damp curls from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. It was too much warmth, too much for someone so young, someone who had already been through so much.

His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one sounding like it took all the effort he had left. I could feel the weight of his fever in the tremors of his body, the way his skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the night. I gently pressed my fingers to his wrist, trying to find his pulse, but it was weak, barely there.

I didn’t know how long he could last like this. The wound he’d sustained was bad, worse than I had first thought, and there was nothing we could do for him right now except wait. Wait and watch, hoping it wasn’t too late.

The air around us seemed to hold its breath, the quiet of the forest pressing in from all sides. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what was happening here.

Regulus moved behind me, his presence a quiet shadow at my back. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his gaze on the boy, feel the tension in the way he stood, watchful and poised. He wasn’t ready to let go of the boy, not yet. I understood that—this was dangerous, and we couldn’t afford to trust anyone fully, not in the Garden.

But as I looked at the boy, his chest rising and falling too slowly, his body trembling with fever, I knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to last long unless we did something

I reached for the canteen with steady hands, though inside, I felt anything but calm. The metal was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the boy’s fevered body. I tilted it carefully toward his mouth, trying to find the balance between urgency and gentleness. “Can you drink?” I asked, my voice quiet, measured, like I was afraid the sound itself might scare him back into unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with dirt, glassy with pain and exhaustion. They looked too old for someone his age—haunted, like he had already seen too much. He blinked up at me slowly, uncomprehending, and his cracked lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Only a thin rasp of air, dry and broken. I tilted the canteen again, just enough to let a trickle of water touch his mouth.

He flinched slightly at first, then swallowed—a small, effortful motion that looked like it took everything out of him. A second later, he coughed, the sound low and grating, each breath catching in his throat like it was scraping against gravel. I steadied his shoulder, trying to keep him upright as his body shook. His skin was far too warm beneath my fingers, and his pulse fluttered weakly like a moth against glass.

Behind me, Regulus stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his frame half-shadowed by the last light filtering through the trees. His face was a mask—neutral, unreadable—but I knew better than to think he was at ease. His eyes didn’t leave the boy, not for a second. Every twitch of movement, every inhale, every subtle flicker in the boy’s expression was caught in his gaze. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing. Calculating. Always preparing for the moment things might turn.

The boy stirred a little more, his head turning slightly as his eyes squinted against the light. I leaned closer, my tone softening into something gentler, something I hoped he could anchor to. “Hey,” I murmured. “You’re okay. We found you in the woods. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

His gaze darted between us, unfocused and flickering. I saw the fear begin to rise in his eyes—not wild panic, not the kind that screamed or thrashed, but the quieter kind, the kind that sank its teeth in slowly. It was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and pain, but it was there, tightening his expression, making his breath catch as he tried to place where he was and who we were.

“We need to know your name,” I said, more gently now, as though coaxing it out of him could unravel some of the fear. “Just your name, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. His attention snapped to Regulus, narrowed in on him like he sensed something dangerous beneath the silence. I followed his gaze and saw what he did—Regulus hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but the stillness of his posture was deceptive. He was coiled beneath it, ready. There was a tension in his stance, like the entire forest could shift and he’d still be the first to react. Something in the boy recognized that. He wasn’t just looking at a stranger. He was looking at a threat.

Finally, after another strained pause, the boy swallowed and whispered, “Evan.”

His voice was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. The name hung between us for a moment, fragile and weightless. I turned to Regulus, catching his eyes for a brief second.

I looked back at the boy and nodded. “Okay, Evan,” I said softly, like his name was something sacred, something I didn’t want to break. “We’re going to help you. That wound—it needs care, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll take care of it, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver, but something inside it dimmed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me, like he’d already seen too much to think anything here could be safe. “There’s no such thing,” he murmured, his words barely audible, worn thin from pain. “Safe doesn’t exist here.”

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Regulus finally moved, crouching low beside us, his knees brushing the moss, and his shadow stretched long and dark over the clearing. His presence was grounding, solid, but it brought with it the weight of reality. This wasn’t just an act of kindness. It was a decision with consequences.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. “Are you alone?”

Evan’s head dipped in the faintest of nods. “I don’t know where my district partner is,” he said, voice rough. “We got separated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities. Regulus glanced at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker again. He was thinking. Calculating how this changed things. How long we could afford to care.

“When?” Regulus pressed.

“Since the bloodbath,” Evan said. “I tried to climb a tree after. I Thought I saw movement. I fell. Think I broke something.” He winced as he tried to shift. “Been there since. Two days, maybe.”

I reached for the first aid kit, pulling out a strip of clean cloth and the last of our antiseptic. The gash on his side had bled through his shirt. It was ragged and deep, but not too wide—if we kept it clean, he might have a chance.

“This’ll sting,” I warned, my voice low, almost apologetic as I prepared the antiseptic.

Evan didn’t flinch at my words. He just nodded, his fingers digging into the moss beneath him like it might anchor him to something solid, something real. The tremble of his hand was faint, almost imperceptible, but I saw it—saw the effort it took for him to hold himself still. His skin was already raw, burned with the fever he’d been running, and I knew this was going to make it worse.

I dabbed the cloth across his wound, and a sharp hiss escaped him, his breath a shallow, quick intake, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t pull away. He just endured it. The sound of his breath was the only thing I could hear, ragged and unsteady.

I focused on the task, moving carefully. The world around us felt distant, like everything else had slowed down in that moment. The air was thick, heavy with the tension between us. Regulus remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Evan with a mix of watchfulness and something else—something unreadable. He handed me what I needed without a word, his movements precise and fluid, like he had already decided he would do what was necessary, whether he wanted to or not.

The silence stretched, a fragile thread that might snap at any moment, but it held. We worked in synchrony, each of us trapped in our own thoughts, the weight of what was happening pressing against us, unspoken but shared. The moment felt like it was balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something too complex to voice.

When I finished, I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on my pants, suddenly aware of how still the air had become, how heavy my own breath felt.“You need rest,” I said, trying to make the words sound like a command, but it came out more like a suggestion—a plea. His body was barely holding itself together, and I could see how exhausted he was. He needed sleep more than anything else.

Evan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting between us. I could see the questions in his eyes—too many to count, and none of them answered yet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt like they were stuck. I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that would make sense to him, or to me, for that matter. But before I could speak, Regulus answered, his tone low but firm, like he was stating a simple fact.

“We’re not sure we are.”

His words hung in the air, sharp, blunt. There was no malice in his voice—just the quiet honesty of someone who had learned the hard way not to promise things he wasn’t sure he could keep. I felt the weight of it, the honesty of it, even though part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to say that we were helping, that there was something between us that demanded it. But Regulus had said it. And in that moment, I couldn’t deny it.

I glanced at him sharply, but his face didn’t shift. There was no anger, no bitterness, just an unwavering calm.

Evan’s eyelids fluttered shut as if the effort of staying awake had finally become too much. His voice came in a soft rasp, as fragile as his breath. “Fair enough.”

The acceptance in his words struck me more deeply than I expected. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He was just... resigned. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or just the weight of everything that had happened, but in that moment, his voice was quiet, but there was a sort of strength in it too. The kind of strength that didn’t come from fighting back, but from accepting the world as it was—however hard that might be.

And as he lay there, silent, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I felt something shift. Something delicate, but undeniable. It wasn’t that I understood Evan, not fully. But in that moment, with his simple admission, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

I looked back at Regulus, catching the fleeting glance he gave me—brief, unreadable—but I could sense it. Whatever had brought us here, whatever decision had been made when we chose to help him, it wasn’t just about the boy on the ground. It was about us. And whatever was happening between us, unspoken but felt, was just beginning to unfold.

Regulus stood again and moved to the fire pit, kneeling to strike the flint. I stayed by Evan’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips moved soundlessly—like he was whispering something to himself in sleep. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer.

Across the clearing, sparks jumped from stone to kindling. The fire began to catch. Regulus didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension still radiating from him like heat.

He didn’t trust Evan. But he’d carried him here.

And something about that mattered more than either of us could admit.

It's been a few hours since Evan fell asleep. I tried to sleep. I really did, but I couldn't take my eyes off the horizon above me. The sky above isn’t real—too static, too perfect, as if someone painted it from memory and forgot that stars are supposed to flicker. The air smells like damp earth and something artificial beneath it, the Capitol’s idea of what a forest should be. It’s close but never quite right, like a lullaby sung off-key.

Beside me, Regulus lies just barely within reach. Our arms aren’t touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him radiating in the space between us. I can sense the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of the silence, the way the air stirs gently whenever he exhales. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s thick with the weight of unspoken things, of years that passed without permission, of names we don’t call each other anymore.

I don’t know when I started watching him instead of the sky.

The years haven’t changed the shape of him, not really. He’s still all edges and quiet restraint, still wears silence like armor. But in the dim blue light, with the trees casting soft shadows across his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy I used to know before the world asked him to become someone else.

( i highly recommend playing Space Song by Beach House here)

My gaze lifts to the stars, or the simulation of them, and a thought drifts through my mind before I can catch it.

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

The words slip out quieter than I expect, drifting into the dark like breath on glass. They hang there for a moment, fragile and unclaimed. My voice barely belongs to me—it sounds younger somehow, like it was pulled from another version of myself. I don’t even know if I meant to say it aloud. Maybe it’s just a memory trying to make itself real again.

But he hears. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. The rhythm of it is steady, but there’s something underneath it now—something old and aching. Then, after a pause that feels too full, he murmurs, “On my wrist.”

His voice is rough, like it had to scrape its way up from somewhere deep.

Another pause. Longer, softer.

“My arm. My collarbone, once,” he adds, as though he’s cataloging each place with care, brushing dust from the bones of the past. “You got bolder every year.”

A smile finds me, faint and slow and a little sad. It hurts to hold it, but I let it bloom anyway. “You always moved before the ink dried.”

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

“I didn’t scold,” I whisper, the corners of my voice tugged by something tender. “I just… hated when they stopped looking like stars.”

He turns his head, just enough that I can see the side of his face in the blue-dark hush. The sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, something raw and open that I recognize, even after all this time.

“They looked like stars to me,” he says. His voice is steady now, quieter than the night, but clearer somehow. “Always.”

I close my eyes for a second and let myself slip backward, into a different time.

I used to steal ink from the shops when no one was watching. A cracked bottle, a stolen brush, a piece of charcoal snapped in half and hidden beneath my coat. We’d sneak into our hideout—our haven in the woods behind the lumber mill, where the branches reached toward the sky like they were trying to remember it—and I’d press his hand flat against the floorboards, the skin of his wrist pale and waiting.

He was always so still for me. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for me—he let me paint on him like he was a blank space meant to be filled. Only for me.

Never for anyone else. Not for the world. Not for the Capitol. Not even for himself. But when I touched him, when I painted him, he became quiet in a way that felt like surrender, or maybe trust. He let me draw constellations on his skin like I was writing a language only the two of us could read.

He’d watch me with those storm-colored eyes—eyes that never gave anything away unless you knew where to look. Half-curious, half-somewhere-else. Eyes that carried entire winters in their silence.

I always began with Altair. The lead star. Three dots in a line—clean, sharp, deliberate. A shape with direction. Then I’d connect it to Vega, to Deneb, tracing faint arcs across his forearm, letting the brush kiss the contours of his bones. I’d mark Orion’s belt along his wrist. Sketch Canis Major where his veins ran faintly blue beneath the surface. Each stroke was careful, slow, reverent. A sky unfolding. A map no one else could see.

Sometimes, when I was finished, he’d flex his fingers slightly, and the stars would shimmer. Smudge. Shift. And I’d scowl like I didn’t expect it, even though I always did.

But other times, he’d just let them sit there—those tiny galaxies drawn down the pathways of his hands—like he knew they weren’t really stars. Like he knew they were promises.

And like he needed them anyway.

“I learned constellations just so I could give them to you,” I say now. “I didn’t have anything else. Not really. No money. No gifts. Just ink and time and my hands.”

“You gave me more than that,” he says quietly. “You gave me a map.”

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

“You said it would help me find my way back,” he continues, the words hesitant now, like he’s stepping over glass. “Even if I got lost. Even if I was taken away.”

I turn my head toward him. His profile is made of angles and shadows, but I see him. I see the boy he used to be beneath the man the Capitol sculpted. I see the softness he buried.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really leave.” I whisper.

He’s silent for a long time. Too long.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he says finally, and his voice cracks like something old breaking open again.

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush against his wrist, finding the place I used to start with. That delicate patch of skin beneath the bones, where his pulse beats like it remembers me. I press there, gently. My thumb moves in a slow, absent circle. My body remembers the motion of drawing.

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

“You were always so careful about it,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “So precise. You’d tilt your head when you worked, like you were trying to see the stars from a different angle. Bite the inside of your cheek when you were focused. You got ink on your nose half the time.”

A laugh escapes me, soft and slightly stunned by the memory. It catches in my throat, but it’s real—like it came from somewhere deep and untouched by the passing years. “And you never told me.”

His silence lingers for a moment, and then the faintest smile touches his lips, but it’s more in the way his eyes soften than anything else. “I liked watching you forget the world.”

The air feels thicker between us now, heavier with the weight of something unspoken, something raw. It’s an intimacy that feels familiar, but different, like we’re seeing each other in a light we haven’t allowed ourselves to look at in far too long.

I trace the memory of Altair now, just the lightest touch of my fingertip across his skin. No ink. No need for it. The shape is still there, imprinted beneath the surface, burned into both of us. A constellation we never erased. A story neither of us stopped carrying, no matter how much time has passed or how much we tried to forget.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent when he speaks. “Why Altair?”

I pause, my finger hovering for just a second longer. The air around us feels thick with the weight of his question, as if the answer means more than I ever realized. I exhale slowly before speaking, my words soft but sure. “It was the first star I learned. It means the flying bird in Arabic.”

He’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that feels like it could stretch on forever if we let it. I keep tracing, my finger moving along his skin like it’s the only thing tethering me to the past.

“You were so angry, back then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. “And quiet. Like you didn’t trust the world not to hurt you, so you stayed locked up tight. I think… I wanted to give you something gentle. Something that didn’t take. Something that didn’t demand anything.”

Regulus randomly flinched, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He pressed his palm there for a beat too long, like he was trying to smother a sudden sting.

“Something I could hold,” he says, the words fragile, like they might slip away if he doesn’t let them go now.

I nod, my throat tight, and keep tracing, my hand steady despite the trembling inside me. “Something you could follow.” I whisper back, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It’s the truth, and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

He shifts. His wrist turns under mine, his fingers brushing my palm. The contact is so slight, but it feels like gravity.

“That’s when you started calling me Starling,” I say softly, watching him through the dark.

But he shakes his head, slow and certain. “That’s when I understood why.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, like the words cost something to carry. “The first time you sang to me, I called you Starling. I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. But I didn’t understand the name then. Not really.” His voice drops lower now, like he’s peeling something open inside himself—something delicate, something hidden. “Not until you started tracing constellations on my arms with your fingers. Not until I saw how you looked at the night—like you could read it.”

I stay quiet. There’s something sacred about his voice right now. Like if I speak too soon, it’ll break the spell.

“You didn’t just look up at the stars,” he says. “You pulled them down. Wove them into songs. Hid them in your laugh. In the way you moved. I started calling you Starling because I thought it sounded small and beautiful. Something fragile, something soft.”

He pauses, and I feel it more than I hear it—that moment when something shifts in him.

“But then I saw you,” he continues, quieter now. “Really saw you. And I realized… you were never small.”

His voice hitches, just slightly, like the truth is scraping its way out of him.

“You made me feel like you were reachable,” he says. “And that terrified me.”

My breath stutters.

I want to tell him he was the only one I ever drew stars for—that no one else’s skin ever felt sacred enough to hold a sky. That I memorized the way his veins curved just so I could map the constellations with more care on his pale skin. That I sometimes woke up at night with ink-stained fingers, reaching out for a boy who was already fading into headlines and hollow eyes.

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But I remembered every single one.”

It happens so fast, I almost don’t have time to understand it. One moment, I’m lying there beside him, my fingers gliding over his skin, tracing the shapes of constellations that feel almost sacred—quiet, intimate. The moment is soft, and time feels still, a fleeting sense of peace that I cling to like a lifeline.

But then, without warning, everything shifts. It’s not like the breathless panic I’ve felt before, the kind you get when you're running, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. No, this is something entirely different.

This is fire. It burns through me, flooding my chest with heat so sharp it feels like it could tear me apart from the inside. It steals my breath in one agonizing, violent wave. My ribs feel like they’re closing in, the air choking on its way out, and I can’t do anything but gasp in frantic desperation.

A scream claws its way up my throat, raw and strangled, as if it wants to rip through me, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s twisted—broken.

It’s not even a scream anymore. It’s just agony, squeezing the air out of my lungs, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I claw at my throat, desperate for some relief, for just a single breath. But the fire inside only grows, the pain consuming everything until all I know is the burning in my chest. The stars I was tracing, the peace I felt only moments before, seem like distant memories now. The world tilts, spins, and I can’t find my footing. Everything goes dark at the edges of my vision.

Regulus is there, though—his hands on me, pulling me toward him, but even his voice feels far away. I hear his name, his frantic shouts, but they don’t make sense. It’s like I’m drowning in this fire, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. The world around me starts to blur, a thick haze of panic and pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is claw at my chest, trying to get air, trying to fight the fire that’s burning through me.

“Reg—” I try to say his name, but it comes out cracked and broken.

My fingers twitch, then seize. My whole body is shaking, twisting with something I can’t name. It feels like my insides are folding in on themselves, like they’re being turned to ash from the inside out.

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

And then I feel it. A cold pressure on my neck, Regulus’s hands—frantic, shaking as he tries to steady me. His fingers are everywhere, his voice breaking through the fog of panic, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for the suffocating burn that fills every inch of me. Every part of my body wants to scream again, but nothing comes out. Only the fire. Only the suffocating weight of it.

Regulus was on me in seconds. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice cracked. “Tell me where it hurts—tell me what’s happening—”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even find the air to scream. My throat burned. My vision blurred. It felt like something was crawling inside me, twisting up through my spine, dragging barbed wires through my veins. I hit the dirt, shaking.

“Reg—Regulus—” I choked out, barely managing the sound. “I—I can’t—”

He caught me before I collapsed fully, hands gripping my shoulders like he could hold my body together through force alone. “No, no, no—stay with me. Look at me. Breathe.” His voice was wild now, breaking in places. “Breathe, please. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

I dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing, nails digging into the dirt. My insides felt like they were tearing, every nerve lit up with flame. “Can’t—breathe,” I gasped. “It—it hurts—inside—”

“Where?” Regulus dropped beside me, eyes wild. “Where does it hurt? Starling—look at me.”

My hand flew to my ribs, fingers twitching violently. Regulus followed the motion, his hands already on me, searching, trying to stop the shaking. I could feel the panic building in him, in his breath, in the sharpness of his voice. “What is this? What did this?”

Evan stumbled out from behind the trees, his face pale, eyes wide with confusion. He looked between Regulus and me, his breath shallow and quick. "What’s going on?" His voice cracked, the panic seeping through with every word.

Regulus's voice was tight, his eyes frantic as they flicked over me. “She’s hurt.” His words were clipped, jagged. “She was fine—just a second ago—”

I tried to speak, to tell them I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat constricted, and I choked again, a violent, desperate gasp of air that scraped through me. The pain was crawling up my chest now, sharper, more intense with each passing second. It was a fire, biting at my insides, and it felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

Regulus was still watching me closely, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, in an instant, his gaze snapped down to my shirt. His eyes locked on the blood, barely visible at first, just a thin red line starting to stain the fabric beneath my ribs.

His breath hitched, and I heard him mutter, almost to himself, "A cut." Then, louder, with a growing urgency, “There. A thorn. A branch must’ve scratched her—”

I wanted to shake my head, to tell them it wasn’t that, that it wasn’t just a scratch, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The pain was suffocating, pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t escape.

Evan stepped closer, his expression stark with fear. “She barely moved,” he said, his voice trembling. His gaze flicked from me to Regulus, looking for answers.

Regulus's fingers brushed over my skin, just above the wound. I felt the slightest touch, and I screamed again, the sound tearing through me like a jagged, broken thing. The pain intensified, the fire spreading through my chest and down my limbs, as if the poison was winding its way through every part of me.

Regulus's face went pale, the reality of the situation sinking in. “It’s poisoned,” he said, his voice low, dark with the weight of the truth.

“Fast-acting. It must’ve been one of the plants.” His words were grim, carrying the knowledge of something far worse than a simple wound. The poison was already inside me, coursing through my veins, and I could feel it.

He moved quickly, grabbing cloth from the first-aid kit and pressing it against the wound, hard, as though trying to stop the poison from spreading. I barely registered the motion, my head swimming with the overwhelming sensation of burning, of being torn apart from the inside out.

“Stay with me,” Regulus’s voice cut through the haze, hoarse and desperate. His eyes were locked onto mine, his face drawn tight with fear, but his hands were steady, pressing the cloth harder against my side. “Look at me. Breathe, Starling. Please.”

The world started to fade. The edges of my vision blurred, the colors and shapes melting into a dull, dark haze. My limbs felt distant, almost foreign, as though I couldn’t feel them at all. There was ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that clawed at my mind, and I thought—I thought—I might lose myself in it.

Regulus’s hand gripped mine, his voice low but firm. “Stay with me, (Y/N), I need you to fight this. Please.”

I wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him it was too much, that I was already slipping away, but the words wouldn’t form.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to turn against us, I felt the ground shudder beneath us.

At first, it was just a tremor, a soft shake that could’ve been mistaken for a gust of wind, but then it intensified. The trees around us creaked and groaned, their trunks bending unnaturally as though they were being pulled by an invisible force. The leaves rustled, a low, eerie whisper carried by the wind.

The ground beneath our feet shifted again, a deep, unsettling rumble like the earth itself was alive and angry.

Regulus’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with panic. “The arena... it’s changing.”

The trees began to move. Not just sway in the wind, but move. Their branches twisted, reaching down like fingers grasping for something to hold, something to claim. The ground beneath us seemed to shift, warping and rippling in ways that defied logic. It was as if the earth itself was trying to consume us, to pull us deeper into its hungry depths.

Regulus pulled me up, his hands shaking as he dragged me to my feet. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Evan was already moving, his face a mixture of disbelief and terror. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

“There’s no time!” Regulus shouted, urgency flooding his voice as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes frantic. “The trees—look at the trees!”

I could barely keep up, each step feeling like a battle against the poison coursing through my veins, my limbs weak and unresponsive. But I could hear it—the snap of branches, the groan of the earth, the sudden, unnatural stillness that filled the air. Something was coming.

And then, we saw them.

Through the trees, coming toward us, two figures emerged.

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

Their weapons drawn, their faces grim. They didn’t see us at first. Their focus was elsewhere—on the shifting ground, the movement in the trees, the unsettling sounds of the arena alive with fury.

But then, they stepped too close.

Charity took another step forward, her eyes still scanning the shifting landscape, her footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees as the air grew thicker, heavier. The world felt off balance, like something had tipped and we were all about to fall into its chaos.

She didn’t notice it at first, the ground beneath her feet moving, the soil rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. She took another step—and then, with a sickening crack, the earth buckled beneath her.

Her foot sank into the ground like it was soft mud, but there was no give, no escape. She tried to pull it out, but the ground around her was shifting, curling around her ankle like a viper’s grip.

Charity’s scream rang out, but the earth didn’t let her escape. She tried to pull her leg free, but the ground twisted around her, thick roots and vines wrapping around her like serpents. Her hands scraped at the soil, but it was no use—the earth had claimed her.

Caradoc rushed forward, his face pale with fear, but before he could reach her, the ground opened wide beneath his feet. His body jerked as he fell, his hands flailing for something—anything—but the roots shot out like claws, dragging him under.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror, as the earth swallowed him whole. He struggled, his body convulsing, but the soil was stronger, crushing him until there was nothing left but an empty hole where he had been.

The arena stood still for a moment, as if savoring the silence it had created. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The echoes of their deaths reverberated in my chest, the horror of what the arena could do to us settling like a cold stone in my gut.

The forest was trying to eat us.

My breath came in short, ragged bursts against Regulus’s neck. I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

Regulus had me in his arms before I fully understood I couldn't walk. My legs had gone limp, a dull weight dragging behind the panic in my chest. I could feel my fingers twitching against his shoulder, but I couldn't lift them. The pain had shifted—no longer sharp, just heavy. Like something inside me was curling inward, fading.

“I’ve got you, love” Regulus murmured, voice close to my ear. I could feel the strain in it, the tightness, like he was fighting to keep it from cracking. “Just hold on. Please.”

The nickname made me want to cry.

Evan was ahead, hacking at a wall of thick vines that had grown impossibly fast, curling over the path we’d come from. The ground shook beneath us—roots bulging and splitting the earth, trees bending low like giants being pulled from the sky.

The Garden wasn’t just alive. It was hunting.

“Faster,” Evan called back, his voice wild with terror. “It’s closing!”

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, stopping just for a second. His eyes met mine, desperate. “Stay awake. Stay with me. Just a little longer, alright?”

I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell him I was trying. That I didn’t mean to be slipping. But my lips were too heavy.

“I don’t want to go.” I finally managed, my voice barely a breath.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said fiercely. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not like this.”

A branch snapped behind us. The ground moaned as if something deep beneath it had begun to stir.

Regulus turned and ran, gripping me tighter against his chest. I could feel the pounding of his heart, fast and wild. For a moment, I imagined I was the star again—drawn on his skin, clinging to the lines of his pulse.

Behind us, the trees twisted inward, forming a wall of writhing limbs and screaming bark. The last glimpse I caught was a blood-red moon above the canopy, blinking like an eye.

Evan screamed again—something about the path—but all I could hear now was Regulus’s breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Real.

The world was shaking. The earth howled. And through it all, Regulus ran.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was close my eyes and hope the forest didn't get there first.

They are watching us, always.

It is only day two, and already the Garden is trying to chew through our bones.

The Capitol has teeth.

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black #the hunger games #marauders hunger games #colouredbyd

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concretejunglefm · 2 months ago

Note

I need a one shot were Folio and Nick share reader pleaseee 🤭

this one is for you anon, but also @baddestomens because her icon is my favorite picture of them and they constantly keep staring at me, reminding me of this thot that we've discussed before 🫣 very self indulgent here.

Summary: Your boyfriends love nothing more than spoiling you and chasing you just to devour you in their own unique ways. Who knew that could even extend to when you’re on tour?

Pairing: Nicholas Ruffilo x f!reader x Nick Folio

CW: smut including mentions of multiple partners, primal play, oral (m receiving), double p (oral + v), unprotected sex (p in v), semi-public, squirting, dirty talk, slight dom!nicholas, slight dom!folio, edging, slight orgasm denial, humiliation kink, use of bondage for restraint, use of a wand, consent and use of safe words as a form of checking in, pet names where reader is referred to as rabbit/little rabbit.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“What brings you here?” you ask, not masking the surprise in your voice, as Nicholas approaches you and Folio on the stage.

Unlike Folio, who always arrives at the venue before a show to assist with the setup, Nicholas stays behind, either at the hotel or exploring a local area with the other guys.

Instead of answering you, he looks straight past you to Folio, sharing a knowing smile. Your head turns, glancing back at the drummer, and your eyes narrow as his own mischievous grin widens. “What?” he shrugs.

When you glance back at Nicholas, he’s stepping closer, a hand coming in at your side and gently gripping you by your hip. While he leans past you, he offers something to Folio—a glimmer of a small black object that you don’t really catch eyes on, too caught up in the comforting feeling of one of your boyfriends being close to you. The gentle yet possessive touch of his hand on your side is a soothing sensation.

“Do you remember the rules?” Nicholas asks, drawing your attention back to him. You notice the flicker of heat in his eyes, and it spreads throughout you.

“Of course she does. Don’t you, sweetheart?” Folio answers for you, chuckling softly and playfully as he moves away from his drum set and approaches you. He leans in close, his hand sliding across the small of your back, caging you in. Both of them act completely oblivious to the crew working around you.

“Darling, I need you to say yes.” Nicholas gently tilts your head in his direction with a finger beneath your chin, his thumb stretching out to caress the apple of your cheek.

“Yes,” you let out a breath, swallowing, and nodding. “I remember.” Your body thrums with excitement as two sets of eyes bore down on you—one warm brown and the other a cool grey. Both eyes share the same hunger and desire to devour you, yet each seeks the thrill of catching you first.

In your mind, you review the rules: a ten-second head start, your safe words (red, orange, green), and no leaving the premises.

With a quick nod of acknowledgment and your consent, Nicholas initiates the gradual countdown from ten. Simultaneously, your gaze flickers to Folio, who leans in closer, his fingers discreetly curling around the fabric of your shirt as he playfully teases against your ear. “Run, rabbit, run.”

With that, you make your head start, hearing the tearing of material from the grip Folio had on your shirt. You don’t mind; you know that the moment they catch you, it’ll be ripped off anyway.

Adrenaline courses through you, mixing with arousal as your heart thumps against your chest. You sprint for the doors leading into the main area of the venue. You hadn’t really considered where to go. Usually, these games are held in the privacy of your shared home. The further you venture, the closer you get to the woods that back onto your property, but never any further. You’re always close enough to home to be safe, and either of them can easily find you.

Your ten seconds are up because you can already hear the heavy footfall of Folio behind you. In these moments, he’s like a wild animal, already locked on you as a target and happily chasing you, cornering you where you can’t escape.

Nicholas, on the other hand, is more calculated. He sends his hound to chase you while he waits for you to be returned to him. Or, when you’re cornered in the house, he comes in to find you already pinned beneath Folio, his eagerness evident, but he always shows self-restraint, even when you’re begging for him to give into you.

Their own rules are simple: they share you.

This game is meant to be played together, giving them the chance to pull you apart as a team. You relish the opportunity to try and make one of them crack. In your mind, Folio is easier to do that to, especially since his way of keeping you in check and pinned involves using his body. Meanwhile, Nicholas always has something in his pocket that he can pull out and bind you with.

It comes swiftly and forcefully, almost knocking the breath out of you. You’re aware that he’s oblivious to his strength.

The moment Folio has you pinned to the wall, you catch a fleeting glimpse of an apologetic expression. Just as he’s about to open his mouth, you swiftly utter the word “green.”

His features soften, and you witness him reverting to his animalistic nature for when he’s tracking you down. “Poor little rabbit, couldn’t escape quickly enough.” A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he raises a hand to merely rest at your throat. A knee slides between your thighs as he effortlessly keeps you pinned to the wall.

Naturally, you squirm, but it’s not to escape him. You’ve dropped your hips, trying to grind yourself against him, hoping to relieve the growing ache between your thighs, especially now that he has you here.

Dropping your gaze to his hand, you watch as he retrieves the same small black object Nicholas had handed him earlier in the main hall. Realization dawns on you. It’s a walkie-talkie. “I’m right here, Nicky,” he says with a smug grin that seeps into his tone as he relays your current whereabouts to Nicholas.

Meanwhile, you continue to squirm against him, practically humping yourself against him. “God, you’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” All you can do in response is whine, your eyes fixed on him, pleading and hoping to break him.

Maybe this time, you’ll finally get lucky.

Slowly, you reach out towards his crotch, disregarding the boldness of the move. Folio’s quick, grasping your wrist with a click of his tongue. “I don’t think so.” He lifts your arm, reaching for your other and bringing them both together, pinning your wrists above your head. “But you don’t have to stop. You can get yourself off right here, right on me. I bet your panties are already soaked, in fact…” when his eyes flicker down between you, you see them widen, and that devilish grin stretches across his features. “Holy crap, forget your panties, you’ve soaked through your jeans!”

Now, you’re truly whining louder and attempting to move away, not because you desire it, but because you feel compelled to do so. Suddenly, an intense wave of shame and humiliation washes over you, and you can’t bear to look. You mentally scold yourself for choosing to wear light-colored jeans. You can already sense the wetness, but you refuse to acknowledge it or assess its extent.

“Please…” you manage to utter, which is met with a hearty laugh from Folio. The sound sends a shiver through you, knowing that he’s relishing in the taunting as much as you embraced it.

When Nicholas finally reaches you, it’s like a hunter finding their hound with a rabbit clutched tightly in its jaws. And that’s precisely how Folio has you now—his teeth bared against your neck, his nose pressed against the column as he inhales the scent of you, licking over the weaker points of your skin. All of this is in an effort to make you squirm more against him.

You feel the tight coil on your stomach, a telltale sign that release is within reach if you can only muster the strength to try. But Nicholas is quick to intervene before you can reach your breaking point before they’ve had their fill.

You’re forced to stand by and witness Nicholas’ praising Folio, and Folio leaning into every one. Even going so far as to torment you with a passionate kiss, one that leaves you whimpering desperately as you try to push forward and towards them, yearning for even a mere taste of either of them.

You’re denied it, and when they break away, it’s with Nicholas’ instruction that Folio begins to drag you away with them.

In the sanctuary of a greenroom, Folio releases you, and as you discreetly attempt to conceal the substantial, wet patch adorning the front of your jeans, Nicholas meticulously gathers his hair into a disheveled bun, serving as a clear indication of his intent regarding his plans for you.

“Hands away,” Nicholas instructs. You almost refuse out of humility, but you catch a glimpse of something dark and thrilling in his eyes.

It seems like he wants you to refuse, knowing it would only intensify his desire to force you to comply.

Slowly, you move your hands, revealing the damp patch of fabric that exposes your arousal. Nicholas’ breath catches in his throat, while a faint giggle of amusement escapes Folio’s lips.

A grin remains stretched across his face as he remarks, “I told you, she’s just a needy little thing when we play these games.”

“Is that right?” Nicholas asks, and you shift slightly under their gaze, feeling the heat spread to your cheeks and intensifying the one within your stomach.

His fingers come beneath your chin before he grips your jaw and tilts your head back slightly to meet his gaze. “I asked you a question,” he says, his tone carrying a hint of a test. It was a clear indication of the path he was heading down—the stricter, more dominant side of him slowly emerging.

“Yes,” you whisper, trying to suppress the trembling in your breath as anticipation builds up inside you.

“Yes, what?” he corrects you, his thumb gently tracing over your lips.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, watching his features soften with a silent acknowledgment of praise.

“Color?”

“Green,” you respond, maintaining eye contact with unwavering willingness to surrender to both of them.

There had been a chance to escape earlier, and a part of you regrets not considering it, especially now that you’re confined to a chair, your chest pressed against its back, your back arched, and rope binding your arms behind you, while your legs are aligned with the chair’s legs.

Helpless and vulnerable, you can’t deny the exhilaration that comes with being completely at the mercy of both Nicholas and Folio.

You especially believe you should have left the moment Nicholas pulled out the hitachi wand, one he has now strapped to your inner thigh, causing a low, rumbling vibrations that weakly torment against your clit, intensifying your arousal.

It makes you whimper, your head falling back and forth as you squirm, unable to escape, but that’s the exhilarating part. There’s nowhere to go; instead, you’re compelled to endure the pleasure they both yearn to inflict upon you.

While part of you wonders why and how Nicholas had time to bring all those items, you forget to ask now that your mind is clouded and completely consumed by your own lustful state.

“See, isn’t this better, little rabbit?” Folio grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him. You groan around the makeshift gag—the one item Nicholas had conveniently forgotten to include.

It was better, yet simultaneously torturous as you clenched around nothing, until soon you felt the familiar sensation of Nicholas’ fingers teasing against your entrance. Folio’s eyes locked onto yours as he watches you, muffled moans escaping at the sensation of your other lovers’ fingers plunging deeply into you, slow and methodical strokes, combined with the wand, only edging you closer to the release you’d been teetering on ever since you first started grinding against Folio.

“Not yet,” Folio warns, as if he’s studied every inch of your face intimately enough to discern when you’re close, when you’re on the brink of your release.

As he removes the gag, a gasp escapes your lips, accompanied by a loud moan. However, your mouth is soon filled with the thick of his cock as he swiftly replaces the gag that had silenced your moans.

“Shh, anyone could hear,” he whispers. Despite his words, you know he’s not genuinely concerned about the potential audience. There was a reason why you always found yourselves seeking solace in public spaces to steal a moment of intimacy between yourselves.

Nevertheless, you comply, deepening his cock in your mouth to muffle the ongoing sounds. You feel the pulsing rhythm of his cock throbbing and twitching within your throat, amplifying your own vibrations from your moans and providing him with additional stimulation.

“I think she’s ready,” Nicholas says from behind you, his fingers slipping from your cunt, causing you to moan around Folio’s cock. However, the drummers’ fingers diving into your hair and pulling it forcefully compels you to refocus on him. His hips steadily buck as he begins to slowly fuck your mouth.

At that very moment, Nicholas’ hand grasps your hip, and you hear the clasp of a belt unfastening, followed by the zip of a zipper. Before you can even react, you feel his tip pressing against your entrance.

With a gentle motion, he begins to inch himself inside you, feeling you stretch around him, your moans deepening in your throat with every thrust of Folio's hips.

Fluttering your eyes up, you fixate on him, watching his face flush with pleasure as he uses you in one way while Nicholas fills you to the hilt and holds steady for you to adjust to him.

It’s only a moment he holds for, before the grip on your hips tightens as he draws back, feeling every inch of him when he does, only to choke around Folio’s cock at the unexpected snap of his hips driving him forward, thrusting himself deeply into you.

You want to cry out, but the pressure of Folio against the back of your throat prevents you. His hand steadies your head, and you resort to muffled sounds, drooling around his cock as Nicholas repeatedly slams his hips against you.

The chair is the only thing that keeps you steady as you feel yourself being pulled apart by the combined pleasure from both men working on either end of you, pulling you higher. You feel like nothing more than a toy, a mere object for their pleasure, and yet, in this moment, you’ve never felt more desired.

The harmonious blend of their own moans and confidently loud dirty talk fills the air. Folio repeatedly praises your mouth, while Nicholas’ backhanded praise sends your head spinning and moaning louder around Folio’s cock. “I knew you’d take it well, given how wet you were, but I didn’t anticipate it to be this easy.”

Between them and the sensation of the wand, you feel the impending climax, the coil in your stomach tightening until you barreled over the edge. Your body trembles with a white-hot heat ripping through you, the overstimulation leading you to squirt all over the chair and Nicholas.

It doesn’t stop him from pounding into you, feeling more squirting out around him. “Such a desperate little thing, look at you squirting all over my cock.”

Even if your mouth weren’t full, you don’t think you could say anything beyond the whines you’re making now, which are currently being muffled by Folio.

“Fuck, you should feel the way she’s squeezing around me right now. It’s as if she already wants more.” Nicholas hisses between his moans.

“Yeah? You should add a finger and see how much she can actually take.” Your eyes flicker back to Folio, catching the mischievous grin he’s watching you with.

“Maybe you should slide in beside me. I’m sure she’d really enjoy that.” You squeeze around Nicholas once more. “Oh, she already loves the sound of it.”

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @I-love-the-smell-of-you-blood @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @concretenoah @bluehairpunklol

#anon ask 💕#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens smut #nicholas ruffilo smut #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nick folio smut #nick folio fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo x f!reader #nick folio x f!reader #nick ruffilo x f!reader x nick folio #concretejunglefm fics #bad omens poly

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liyliths · 2 months ago

Text

.˚𓅆࿐ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 an aot au / inspired by the hunger games

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

series summary: survive. that's all you've known you're entire life - to survive. survive district 12, survive the reaping, and survive the capitol. but when you're reaped for the 98th annual hunger games alongside levi ackerman, will you seize the opportunity of rebellion when it arises? the mockingjay is singing, dear reader, please choose wisely.

"I don’t sleep," Levi finally mutters. You scoff. "Ha, funny." He pushes off the railing. "Fine then, I’m going back to my room." "Wait," you say instinctively, your free hand catching his wrist before he can leave. "Don’t go." Levi closes his eyes, considering for just a moment before sighing, pulling his hand from your grasp. But instead of leaving, he places his hands back onto the railing. "Alright." You glance down at the city below, your fingers tracing the patterns of your dessert plate. "I’m sorry I went after you earlier," you say.

pairings: levi ackerman x reader

contains: fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, hurt and comfort, semi canon compliant, character death, descriptions of blood, phycological trauma, rebellion, this is gonna hurt but be so rewarding, and any other warnings that come with aot characters/the hunger games universe

word count: 7.4k

playlist

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After a night of slumber, your team got to work on you and Levi by noon in preparation for the interviews. Your lessons with Hannes and Valerie are over, now the day belongs to Hange. You’re washed down, re-waxed which wasn’t pleasant in the slightest, and your hair was done into a neat updo.

By late afternoon, your makeup was done. You were all ready aside from the finishing touch being your dress, which you were anxious to try on. Hange mentioned something about more fire, and even though you survived the first outfit, you wonder how this one will work.

Will you and Levi be matching once again? Will you end up getting burnt? No, you trust Hange enough now to not question that.

Hange returned to your room with what you guessed to be your dress. “Close your eyes,” she smiles.

It’s surprisingly heavy, the weight of it pressing against your shoulders, cascading down your frame like a waterfall of silk, and something feathery. It clings to your form perfectly, as if it were sculpted just for you. Hange moves quickly, fastening clasps, smoothing the fabric against your waist, adjusting the shoulders.

The texture is unlike anything you’ve ever worn. It isn’t the rough, patchy fabric of District 12, nor the sleek artificial materials of the Capitol. Instead, it’s a blend of soft and sharp, of feathers that ripple like shadows and embroidery that feels like embers beneath your fingertips.

“Alright,” Hange breathes, and you can hear the excitement underneath her voice. “Open your eyes!”

You blink your eyes open, readjusting to the bright lights above as you try to catch a glimpse of your reflection in the full length mirror before you. Your breath catches in your chest. The girl staring back at you is unrecognizable. Is it really you?

The dress is made of layered black feathers, so intricately placed that they look as if they were real, shifting with even the smallest movement. The bodice is tight, sculpted to fit you perfectly, the details glimmering like the dying glow of embers beneath a thick layer of ash.

Your hands trail down the dress, where the feathers grow heavy and thick until they transform. The hem of the dress burns. Not literally, but the illusion is flawless. The edges glow with hues of orange, red, and gold, flickering like a dying fire, like a bird ready to take flight. It isn’t still, the flames seem to breathe, to move, licking at the ground but never consuming.

“Well?” Hange glances at you, watching your reflection in the mirror.

“Wow…” you breathe. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Hange clasps her hands together excitedly. “Of course, darling! You look gorgeous. Are you ready for the interview?”

Judging by the look on your stylist’s face, you can tell she’s talked to Hannes and Valerie by now. They’ve probably told her you’ll be hopeless in earning over the audience with your words, but you know they’re not wrong.

“No, not really. Hannes told me I have about as much charm as a dead slug,” you admit, absentmindedly fiddling with the feathers on your dress.

Hange does her best to stifle a laugh, gracefully clearing her throat. "Well, you charm me. Why don’t you just try and be yourself?"

Those words grate on your nerves, but you don’t find yourself mad at Hange. No, you’re mad at Hannes for even telling you those excruciating words yesterday in the first place. You are being yourself, but apparently, that won’t be enough. Not charming, witty, or charismatic enough to win anyone over.

You exhale, forcing the frustration down before it can fester. "Apparently, that’s not working out for me," you mutter, shrugging as you turn away from your reflection to meet Hange’s gaze.

She hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin. "Say, when you answer the questions, why don’t you pretend you're talking to a friend from back home?"

The suggestion makes you pause. A friend. Petra.

You could answer the questions as if you were talking to her. The way she’d listen, the way she’d smile, the way she always made you feel like your words meant something. Why didn’t you think of this? Not even Hannes or Valerie could have! God, Hange is a genius.

“Thank you, Hange. It’s a plan.”

“Of course, dear. Now, let's get you going,” Hange quips, briskly guiding you by the shoulders to the waiting room where all the tributes prepare for their interviews.

You two took the elevator to the waiting room just behind the huge interview stage. The ride was quiet, but just as you exchanged a small goodbye with Hange when the doors slid open, she grabbed your shoulder to stop you.

“Oh! How could I forget!” Hange says excitedly, fixing a few feathers on your dress and neatly smoothing them out. “Make sure you spin when you’re on stage.”

“What?”

Hange couldn’t help but laugh at your confusion. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Now your guess is more fire, just as she had mentioned earlier. “I’m excited to see what you’ve planned out.” you smile.

“Me too darling, me too. Now, move along. Levi should be waiting by now!” Hange exclaims, ushering you out of the elevator door. You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye before the doors slide close, leaving you on your own to find your seat.

You look for Levi, brisking over the tributes in their seats, who are all anxiously waiting for the interviews to begin. As your eyes scan the room, you catch a glimpse of blonde hair—Armin. You were going to wave, but you noticed he wasn’t exactly paying attention—too busy in a hushed conversation with the black-haired District 4 tribute.

What business do those two have with each other? You’d never admit it out loud, but if you’re already petrified of that girl, Armin should be the last person that would ever want to be that close to her, let alone conversing with her! Well, even though he’s not very strong, that boy does have some brains. What if he’s trying to form an alliance?

Though, if he were smart, he wouldn’t form one in the first place, because that’s a real easy way to get yourself betrayed and killed.

You don’t have much time to ponder on their business with each other, as you’re snapped out of your thoughts by none other than Levi calling your name. He’s sat in the back row of chairs, of course, being District 12. He’ll be the last tribute of the night to be interviewed, with you going right before him.

It is hardly a laughing matter, but you can’t help but hold back a snicker at the thought of that boy in front of hundreds of thousands of Capitol citizens attempting to be charming. You imagine he’d give simple yes or no answers, or even be bold enough to ignore the questions entirely.

“Hey,” you whisper, picking up the bottom of your dress to sit beside the raven-haired boy. This time, he isn’t styled identical to you. He is dressed in a charming all black suit with fiery red accents, his hair neatly styled in a slick back. You can’t help but think he looks handsome, though you’d never dare to admit that out loud.

“What took you so long?” Levi questioned, scooting over slightly to give you more room with your dress.

You smoothed out the black feathers, exhaling in an attempt to blow out all of your anxiousness. Then, of course, just as you feel your nerves settle, you remember the fact he’s practically betrayed you, going behind your back to get trained on his own! How can he act like everything is normal?

“Hange just had to go over a few things with me,” you simply say, to which Levi gives a small nod. You notice the way he leaned forward, elbows propped up on his knees, nervously fiddling with the ring on his middle finger.

Don’t. Don’t ask. You don’t care.

But he’s anxious. Though, so are you. So is everyone! It doesn’t matter. Don’t ask!

Don’t—

“Are you okay?” you blurt out, your mouth moving as if it had a mind of its own.

Fuck. Someone needs to cut out your damn tongue.

“What?” Levi is snapped out of his trance entirely, his scowl deepening impossibly more as if you’ve said something absolutely vulgar.

“Nothing.”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“Idiot, I said I’m fine. You can probably guess crowds aren’t my thing.” Levi admits, now leaning back in his chair in an attempt to get more comfortable, his arms strung over the top of the backrest.

“Yeah,” you make a noise between a scoff and a laugh. “Not either of our strong suits.”

A jarring voice interrupts your conversation from the television hung on the wall. Darius Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interview for the games for over twenty years, bounces onto the stage with his bright purple wig, styled with a matching purple suit. Really, what is with the Capitol and the ridiculous style?

The massive crowd erupts into cheers, a dizzying blend of colors screaming together. The introduction music blares, and Darius quiets down the noise. “Welcome, welcome, welcome, to the 98th annual Hunger Games!”

As the interviewer addresses the crowd, you watch as the District 1 tributes stand and make their way to the entrance to the stage, the black-haired girl who mocked you in the training center being first to go.

While the interviews go on, you’re sitting in quiet concentration. This is your chance to get to know the people you’re up against. You finally learned District 1’s names, Pieck and Porco, and from what you observed, the two of them are pretty cocky. Though, what can you expect from careers?

Next is District 2. Those two aren’t nearly as cocky, although they are clearly strong. The blonde girl, Annie, didn’t talk much in her interview, but the male tribute who you swear is built like an ox, Reiner, presents himself well. District 3’s girl was younger, probably about thirteen. The male tribute for 3 was Armin, and he was great at winning over the crowd.

Following District 3 was the black-haired girl who could rip you to shreds with just her glare, Mikasa. She doesn’t talk much, giving short and simple answers for Darius. He tries to challenge her and make her spill a bit more, but she doesn’t falter. Jesus, it would be one thing if she was eying you out of cockiness, but no, based on the fact she didn’t even try to win over the crowd, she’s even more frightening.

The District 4 boy, Eren, had a bit more of a personality to present. He seemed cocky, but not as the District 1 tributes were. More confident, you’d say. Darius even brought up their team, complimenting their stylists for the designs this year, as well as pointing out their mentor, who's name you learn is Erwin Smith.

The next few tributes that stood out to you are a boy named Jean from District 7 who was quite the charmer, the tributes from District 8, Gabi and Falco, who are the youngest in the entire pool of tributes, and the pair from District 10, Sasha and Connie, who are from the livestock district.

Now, you’re face to face with the entrance that goes straight into the stage. The District 11 boy is just about to finish up, and you can’t help but feel absolutely terrified. You’re up next.

The thought of being in front of hundreds of thousands of people that are betting on whether you live or die is sickening. You feel bile threatening to rise in your throat. You squeeze your hand into a fist, feeling your clammy palms. Your feet feel as if they could give out in your heels, as if you’d topple over yourself the moment you start walking.

The sound of your name pulls you out of it, and you look to see Levi gesturing toward the entrance to the stage. “What?”

“You’re up,” is all he says, and you swear you could feel your stomach plummet to the ground.

With a shaky inhale, you try to ground yourself. All you have to do is answer the questions honestly, and if even Valerie said you’re likeable, you might say something that will win over the crowd. All that matters is getting through it. What’s the worst that could happen?

You feel yourself walking forward, as if you were in some kind of dream. You make your way toward the center of the stage, finding your seat beside Darius. You can’t tell if you’ll throw up, pass out, or blank everything out, or all of the above. The spotlight on you is absolutely blinding, and the crowd blends together in a dizzying array of colors that makes you nauseous.

Darius begins speaking, and you try your best to focus on exactly what he’s saying. “Back at the City Circle, that was quite an entrance you made,” he begins, tilting his head in admiration. “I think all of our hearts stopped, I know mine did.”

You force a small smile, gripping the armrests of your chair. You’re fine. Just answer honestly, as if you were talking to Petra. It’s okay. You’re okay.

“I was just hoping I wouldn’t get burnt to a crisp.”

Laughter ripples through the audience, Darius joining in with an easy chuckle. “Well, thank goodness you didn’t! You and your district partner certainly made an impression.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Now, I think we are all dying to know. You had the highest score among all the tributes. Can I ask how you managed an eleven?”

“Well, I—” you started, but stopped yourself before you needed to cut your tongue out yourself for speaking without thinking. You glance at Darius before shaking your head with an almost apologetic smile. “I don’t think I’m allowed to say, am I?”

Through the crowd from one of the balconies, you see the same bald gamemaker that fell into the punch bowl shout out, “no!”

Darius gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest. “Alright then, folks, I guess we’ll never know!” he jokes, earning another wave of laughter from the audience.

Your shoulders relax slightly, but the reprieve is short lived. His next words send a chill through your spine. “On a more serious note, back at the reaping…”

Your heart drops. No.

Darius reaches out, gently taking your hand in his, his expression softening. “You are the first volunteer in District 12’s history. What made you step forward for that girl?”

A pit forms in your stomach. You should’ve known they were going to bring Petra up. Your breath catches as your mind races, scanning the sea of faces for something, someone, to ground you. You manage to spot them in the crowd—Hange, then Hannes, Valerie beside them, all watching intently. Your eyes lock with Hange’s and she gives you a slight nod, encouraging you.

Be honest. Don’t say too much. You have to keep Petra safe.

You steel yourself, your fingers curling slightly in your lap. “Well,” you begin carefully, “I don’t have much to lose.”

The audience murmurs, their intrigue only deepening. That surely was not the answer they expected nor wanted from you. But you don’t owe them anything.

Darius tilts his head, his brows furrowing before he pushes you more. “Really? I’ve heard you’ve got a sister. Some people say you volunteered because that girl reminded you of her. Is that true?”

Your blood runs cold. What the fuck?

In the midst of your panic, your fingers twitch as you instinctively pull your hand from the man’s grasp before you could compose yourself. Great, now that wasn’t very likeable of you! Though, how could you be likeable when they just asked you about your passed sister? Damn them! Damn Darius and everyone in the Capitol!

You glance at your team in the crowd, and there’s a split second of hesitation, just enough for you to see them stiffen, their smiles faltering, uncertain of how to guide you through this. You notice Hannes gulp down a huge swig of his alcohol, shrugging as Hange whispers something in his ear.

How could they know about your sister? Let alone, why would they bring her up here of all places? Did they seriously dig that far back into your past? How much do they know? No, calm down! They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come at first. Then, without thinking, they tumble out, sharper than intended. “Had.”

The weight of that single word lingers in the air. The audience is mostly silent, with a few “awes” echoing through the stadium. Fuck them.

“And that’s not true,” you add quickly, forcing steel into your tone. “I hardly knew that girl.”

It’s a lie. A blatant, ugly lie. And you hate yourself for saying it, you know Petra is watching this back home. You can only hope she understands why you had to say it, why you have to protect her, no matter the cost. You know her, and you know she’s kind and selfless. But they don’t need to know that.

Darius blinks, clearly taken aback, but he recovers quickly, pasting on a charming smile. “Well then,” he muses, “I think that was very brave of you.”

The crowd hums in agreement, though the tension still lingers in the air. You force yourself to breathe. You’re okay.

Darius brightens again, shifting gears. “Your stylist truly outdid themselves this year. Can you tell me more about this dress you’re wearing?”

You seize the change in subject, pushing down the unease still crawling up your spine. “Yes, actually,” you say, straightening your shoulders. “My stylist said she has a surprise in store for us. Would you like to see?”

The audience erupts into cheers before Darius can even answer. He laughs, eyes twinkling with excitement. “Wait, is it safe?” he teases, throwing his hands up playfully. “Well, what do you think, folks?”

The cheers grow even louder, an eager chant building in the stands. You push yourself up from your seat, walking to the center of the stage. The lights shift slightly, dimming just enough to focus on you. You take a deep breath, then turn. Once, then twice, and around you go. The moment you move, the dress ignites.

Gasps echo through the crowd, followed by thunderous applause. The fire spreads along the black feathers, illuminating the intricate details of the design. You knew it, more flames. Hange, you damned genius. Then, the flames flicker and morph. The fire transforms into wings, feathers curling up your arms, shimmering like embers.

You spread your arms straight out, and almost gasp yourself. It’s just like a Mockingjay.

Darius reaches out instinctively, steadying you by the elbow as you regain your balance, fighting the spinning world in your vision. “Woah! Steady, steady!” he laughs, though his awe is evident. You regain your balance, holding his gaze.

“That,” he announces, turning to the crowd, “was extraordinary.” He extends his hand, gesturing toward you with a grand flourish. “Let’s give it up for her, folks! The girl on fire!”

The stadium shakes with applause, the roar of the Capitol deafening. As you retreat toward the backstage, you catch Hange’s eyes on you, giving you an enthusiastic thumbs up. By the time you make it backstage, you watch as Levi brushes past you toward the center of the stage for his interview. You can only imagine how much that boy hates crowds.

You’re still in a daze for the first part of his interview, catching your breath in your seat. From what you hear, the interview goes as you expected. Levi gives short and blunt yes or no answers, though surprisingly he didn’t ignore any. Probably best not to, anyways. Then, just as you think they’re almost done, the sound of your name catches your attention.

"Your district partner has certainly caught the Capitol’s attention. Brave enough to volunteer along with that outstanding training score. Tell us, what’s it like working alongside someone like her? Is she an asset or a challenge?" Darius asks, eager to know more.

Levi slightly leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “She’s not weak, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, not weak at all according to her training score,” Darius agrees, eyes gleaming with interest before prodding some more. “But beyond that, does she stand out to you in any particular way?”

Levi tilts his head slightly, as if considering. How do you even answer that question? The pause stretches just a little too long, enough for the audience to lean in.

“She’s… different,” he starts. “Most people either break or bend when they’re afraid. She doesn’t do either.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Interesting,” Darius muses, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “So, would you say she’s someone you’d trust in the arena?”

“I don’t trust anyone. But if I had to?” he says, then pauses. The stadium is so quiet with anticipation you could hear a pin drop. “It’d be her.”

A ripple spreads through the crowd, soft gasps, whispers exchanged like currency. The Capitol adores moments like these. It’s exactly what they want, tension wrapped into something they can shape and manipulate. You can see right through it. They’re going to manipulate you two into something you’re not, and it’s going to make you look weak!

“Well, well,” he chuckles, turning toward the audience with a flourish. “Unfortunately, we have run out of time. It seems District 12 has given us quite the pair to watch, wouldn’t you say? Let’s give it up for the male tribute, Levi Ackerman!”

You watch as Levi casually waves into the crowd, exchanging a quick handshake with Darius Flickerman before retreating towards backstage. What the fuck was that?

By the time Levi makes it backstage, the other tributes have departed to their apartments. When the black-haired boy is just about to pass you, you grab him by the collar of his suit, shoving him into the back of a wall. He barely resists, letting you pin him down. The muffled roar of the audience still rings in your ears, but it’s nothing compared to the irritation burning in your chest.

You release his collar with a shove, your glare practically burning holes in his eyes. “What the hell was that?”

Levi doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he adjusts the stiff collar of his suit like this conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. “What are you talking about?”

You scoff. “Oh, I don’t know. First, you go behind my back to get trained separately, and then act like everything’s normal. Now, the interview? Didn’t you want to keep your distance? Because it sure didn’t seem like that back there.”

Levi exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed by your outburst. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You blink, thrown off. “Worked?”

Before he can answer, Hannes strides up behind you, rubbing his temple like he’s been dealing with a headache all night. “You two done having a lovers’ quarrel?” he mutters, shaking his head. “Because I’d love to go to bed without needing to drink an entire bottle of whiskey first.”

You whirl on him. “Hannes, what was fuck that?” you demand, motioning toward Levi. “Why did he—”

Hannes groans dramatically, cutting you off. “Because it made you look desirable! The audience eats that shit up. Tension, a little unresolved something, they love it.” He waves a hand vaguely. “You were already intriguing enough with your training score and that whole volunteering stunt, as well as your dress, but Levi’s little interview sealed the deal. They’ll remember you now.”

You blink, the weight of it settling over you. You knew they wanted you to be likable. You knew the approval of the Capitol, the gamemakers, and the sponsors were everything. But hearing it like this, like a game being played right in front of you, makes your stomach turn.

“It’s strategy,” Levi says simply.

And damn it, he’s right. You hate that he’s right. This stunt, though maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal, had to be what he and Hannes had agreed on during prep yesterday.

You sigh, rubbing your face. “Fine, whatever. But next time, I’d appreciate a warning.”

Levi shrugs, his gaze flicking past you. “Next time? Let’s survive this first.”

You felt your chest tighten at that. Let’s? Only one of you is making it out of this. And now, for the first time, you truly wish you could do something about it.

Hannes claps his hands together. “Great, now that that’s settled, let’s wrap this up. Eat some dinner, say your goodbyes, get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Everyone lingers. Valerie offers a surprisingly sincere well-wish, Hannes pats you on the back before heading for a drink, and Moblit nods politely before following Hange off to deal with last minute preparations.

But Hange, she lingers behind.

She doesn’t leave like the others. Instead, she rests a hand on your shoulder, her usual manic energy dimmed just a little. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, voice soft. “In the morning, I’ll be the one sending you off.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. Somehow, that makes it all feel more real. The Games are tomorrow. You’re running out of time. Then, you remember your interview, the way they practically used everything they could learn about you against you.

“Hange,” you call out. She stops in her tracks, turning back to face you. “Why did they bring her up?”

Hange must’ve understood who you meant by ‘her’ judging by the way her eyes softened. “My dear, the Capitol will do anything to break you. You just have to stand strong enough to not let yourself be another piece in their games.”

You don’t know what to say. Levi lingers too, standing just a few steps away. For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say something. But you don’t. Instead, you just turn and walk away.

Damn the Capitol and anyone that has anything to do with the Games.

You were quick to make it back to the top floor of your apartment. You couldn’t help but feel sentimental, knowing this was the last night you’ll truly be safe. Surprisingly, you think you’ll miss hearing the banter between Hannes and Valerie. Tomorrow, you’ll be fighting for your life in an arena in which you don’t know you’ll make it out of.

You know your team won’t be going with you. Hannes and Valerie will be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up your sponsors. Hange will be travelling with you from the very spot you will be launched up into the arena.

You scarfed down as much food as your stomach could possibly handle, even bringing some extra desserts and drinks to snack on before bed. Before you could make a break to your room, your team insisted on saying their goodbyes, even though they might still see you early in the morning before your departure.

Valerie takes you and Levi by the hand, and with actual tears in her eyes, wishes you two well. She thanks you for being the best tributes to ever have the privilege to sponsor. And then, because apparently Valerie is required by law to say something awful, she adds in, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”

She hurries out of the dining room, and you’re left with Hannes. He crosses his arms and looks you and Levi over.

“Any last advice?” you ask.

“The moment the Games start, make a run for it. Screw everything inside of the Cornucopia, it’ll be a bloodbath. Put as much distance as you can between yourself and the other tributes, and find a source of water. I’ll try to cover your backs with the sponsors.” he says. “Got it?”

“And after that?” Levi questions.

“Stay alive,” is all he says. It’s the same advice he gave you two on the train, but he’s not drunk and mocking this time. And you only nod. What else is there to say?

When you finally depart to your room with hands full of food, Levi stays behind to talk to Hannes. You’re glad. You two can exchange whatever words of parting you might have tomorrow.

You shower after snacking, having hung up your dress neatly in your closet, scrubbing off all the makeup and fragrances that were meticulously placed onto you today. The warm water feels nice, and you wish you could stay here forever. Away from everything and everyone. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Unfortunately, since those kinds of luxuries do not exist in the world you live in, you finally step out of the shower. You dried yourself off with a fluffy towel, then retreated to your closet to find a robe. You spot your dress, now transformed into something that reminds you so much of a Mockingjay. How can Hange even come up with these design ideas? Like you’ve said—genius.

You finally roll into bed, and after just about five seconds, you realize you will not be getting a wink of sleep tonight. You know you desperately need it, whatever ounce of energy you can preserve in the arena can make a difference of life or death. The arena. What kind of lands will you be in? Desert? Swamp? Ruins?

Maybe, God be willing, you will end up in a forest. You know how to hunt and navigate, so you presume that could work. But there are also your fellow tributes, you won’t be alone, you could be stalked like prey with every step you take.

Now, your heart is racing and you can’t seem to calm it down. You stand up from your bed, smoothing a hand over your face as you exhale and pace the room. Jesus, just rest, won’t you?

But you know you can’t. You won’t. Your feet practically move on their own, grabbing a plate of leftover dessert and heading straight for none other than the rooftop. Seeing the stars underneath the moon one last night before you’re hunted like an animal would be nice, so you don’t stop yourself.

The moment you burst through the door to the rooftop, you finally seem to catch your breath, feeling your heart slow as you take in the fresh cool air. Your bare feet track toward the railing, resting your elbows on top as you take in the city lights, taking a chocolate covered strawberry from your dessert plate and popping it in your mouth. There are exhilarating colors, echoes of cheers and laughter from below as the party goers celebrate.

“You should be getting some sleep,” a voice calls out from behind, though you don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Shouldn’t you be as well?” you quip back.

A pair of hands grip the ledge beside you. From the corner of your eye, you see Levi lean forward, dark hair falling slightly over his face. For a moment, you consider leaving. Going back to your room, forcing yourself into whatever restless sleep might find you before morning.

But the thought of being alone, of staring at the ceiling with nothing but the weight of tomorrow sitting on your chest, makes your stomach twist. The crisp night air wins, even if you have company.

"I don’t sleep," Levi finally mutters.

You scoff. "Ha, funny."

He pushes off the railing. "Fine then, I’m going back to my room."

"Wait," you say instinctively, your free hand catching his wrist before he can leave. "Don’t go."

Levi closes his eyes, considering for just a moment before sighing, pulling his hand from your grasp. But instead of leaving, he places his hands back onto the railing.

"Alright."

You glance down at the city below, your fingers tracing the patterns of your dessert plate. "I’m sorry I went after you earlier," you say.

“I get it. I might’ve done the same,” Levi says, his gaze not meeting yours as he watches the city, too. Another roar of cheers echo from the streets below, loud enough to hear it clearly from the top floor of the Tribute Center. “Jesus, listen to them.”

"I know." You shake your head, the absurdity of it all settling into something disturbingly familiar. “I just don’t want them to change me.”

Levi’s gaze finally settles on you, his brows furrowed together, laced with confusion. “How could they change you?”

You exhale, glancing away. “I don’t know,” you admit, shrugging. The thought has been gnawing at you for days, but putting it into words makes it feel heavier. “I just don’t want to become something I’m not.”

It reminds you too much of what Hange said earlier, the way she warned you about the Capitol breaking people down, twisting them into pieces that fit their narrative. The idea makes your stomach churn.

“I don’t want to be another pawn in their game.”

Levi hums quietly. A small acknowledgment, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. You wonder if he understands.

“If I die in there,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I want to die as myself. Does that make sense?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches you, really watches you, like he’s trying to figure out the weight of your words. Finally, he nods. “Yeah.”

You hesitate before speaking again, letting the words form before you let them out. “I keep wishing I could find a way to show them, to show the Capitol that they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their game.”

Levi exhales sharply, barely a laugh, barely a sigh. “Aren’t we all?”

You blink, considering that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe every person in Panem, at least in the districts, feels the same way, buried under the weight of a system designed to destroy them.

“Maybe,” you murmur. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’m tired of living like this.”

Levi doesn’t say anything else. The two of you watch the night life, cars bustling through the city and parties ongoing at every block. In the morning, just around ten, you will be in the arena with every citizen of Panem watching you and the rest of the tributes on live television, rooting on who they believe should win.

You’re terrified. Hundreds and thousands of eyes will be on you, watching your every move, either mocking you or cheering for you. It’s hard to believe that in just a few hours you’ll be shipped off to that damned arena.

Though, for now, you’re okay. Now, you are safe on the rooftop, watching the Capitol. For now, you can breathe. You might as well take in the peaceful moments before they’re stripped away from you. You look at Levi. Maybe talking to him will keep you from getting lost in your own head.

"Why did you do it?"

Levi turns slightly, brow raised. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you decide to train separately?"

His fingers tighten against the railing, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. Then, after what feels like forever, he exhales sharply. “Because it was the best move,” he says simply. “You needed the sponsors more than I did.”

You blink, thrown off. “What?”

Levi finally turns to face you fully. “They already expect me to be strong. You? You’re different. The Capitol loves a story, and that’s what I gave them. Hannes and I agreed on it.”

He pauses, his gaze flickering over you like he’s trying to gauge your reaction. “As for the training… it was better to know where we stand before we get thrown into that arena.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Maybe he has betrayed you, after all. “And where do we stand?”

Another pause. The night air feels colder now.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I don’t want to stab you in the back.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Levi’s gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches you, as if waiting for you to make the next move. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you want to believe him. You want to believe that not everyone in the Games is out to kill you. Maybe, he doesn’t want you dead, either.

Absentmindedly, you take another chocolate covered strawberry from your plate and toss it over the edge. It meets the forcefield, flickering slightly before recoiling back, landing somewhere behind you.

"Why do you think they put a forcefield on the roof?" you ask.

Levi shrugs. "To make sure none of the tributes take it upon themselves to be eliminated before the Games."

“Geez,” you wince at the thought. You can’t really blame anyone for that, though. Might be an easier way to go, that or be mauled by someone in the arena. “And do you remember what that boy, Armin, was saying about the forcefield?”

"Yeah. Why?"

"What do you think he meant by that?"

Levi sighs, rubbing his temple. "Good grief, is this another interview?"

"No!" you exclaim, waving your hands in defense. "I’m just curious."

Levi’s lips twitch slightly. "Who knows? That kid seems too smart for his own good."

"I guess so."

For the next hour or so, the two of you fall into a much more comfortable silence. You snack on the desserts you have left on your plate. You even came up with a game where you throw a strawberry at the forcefield, attempting to catch it when it bounces back. For a little while, it feels like things are normal.

Though, you know that tomorrow, everything changes. For now, you let yourself pretend that the world isn’t about to fall apart.

Exhaustion finally begins to creep up on you, and you end up saying goodnight to Levi, retreating to your room in an attempt to get some shut eye. You spend the rest of the night in and out of sleep, thinking about all of the possibilities that might come in the arena. Despite your exhaustion, you don’t rest much.

You don’t see Levi in the morning. Hange comes to you before dawn, gives you a simple dress to wear, and guides you to the loading area. Your final dressing and preparations will be done in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of thin air and the aircraft opens up, leading to a few seats. Before you get the chance to sit, a woman in a white coat approaches you carrying a syringe.

“This is just your tracker,” she says. You reluctantly hold your arm out, feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside of your forearm. You assume that it’s for the gamemakers to keep track of you in the arena.

The ride to the arena is quiet. Hange respects your space, and the only thing to distract you was your breakfast, and the barren windows in the hovercraft. When you glance outside, you’re so high up that the trees are just a cluster of specks. This is what the birds must see. Though, the only difference between you being that one is free.

When you arrive, you and Hange are escorted to the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. You’re led into a chamber for your preparation. In the Capitol, they like to call it the launch room, but in the districts, it is referred to as the stockyard. A place where animals go before they’re slaughtered.

You are instructed to shower by Hange, and when you do, you fight back the urge to throw up the contents of your breakfast. Once you get out, you clean your teeth and change into the outfits all twenty-four tributes will be wearing in the arena. Hange, unfortunately, did not get a say in the design.

The clothing is nice, though. The jacket’s material is clearly made for cold weather, so you can expect some cold nights. The quality of the boots are better than anything you could get at home with a great fit, good for running.

You think you’re finished getting dressed when Hange pulls out a familiar pin from her pocket. It’s the gold Mockingjay pin Petra had gifted you. You had almost completely forgotten about it between the chaos of the days.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

“Off the blouse you wore on the train,” she says. “I figured you should have it. Though, it barely passed through the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an advantage, which is ridiculous! What could you do with such a small needle?”

You can’t find the right words through your nerves, so all you do is offer her a faint smile while she fastens the pin on the side of your jacket. “Anyways, they eventually let it through. They eliminated a ring from the District 2 girl, though. If you twisted the ring, a sharp metal piece came out, sharp enough to cut through flesh.”

“Why would she even try to bring something like that through?” you question.

“Who knows, darling. Here, walk around for me. Make sure everything fits right.” Hange gives a small shrug, sending you off to walk around.

You shuffle around, rolling your shoulders back to make sure the jacket wasn’t too confining. “It all fits well.”

“Good then. All we can do now is wait for the call.” Hange says, offering a smile, though you can see the sadness behind it. “Do you think you can eat anymore?”

You decline, but chug down a massive glass of water. You find a seat on the couch, nervously messing with the hem of your jacket. Your palms are growing sweaty, and you can practically feel your heartbeat through your ears.

No. You’re okay. It’s okay.

Nonetheless, nervousness seeps into terror as you imagine what is to come. You could be dead within the hour, or even before then. On top of that, you are going to watch people die. The same group of people you’ve spent training and prepping with for the past week are all going to die, aside from one lucky victor.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Suddenly, you feel a hand on top of yours, resting on your knee. You see Hange offer a comforting nod, and you smile. You sit like this until a female voice announces to prepare for launch.

Sixty seconds.

Still clenching onto Hange’s hand, the two of you walk over to the tube that will take you into the arena. “Remember what Hannes said, run and find water. The rest will follow,” she says. You nod, feeling your fingers tremble as you clutch her hand like it was your lifeline. “And remember this. If I could bet on anyone, I would place everything I have on you, girl on fire.”

You feel your lips tremble. “Really?”

Thirty seconds.

“Really,” Hange nods. She squeezes your hand before pulling you into a tight embrace. You can feel your body tremor underneath her hold, though neither of you say anything about it. She only lets go once you hear the glass cylinder to the tube slide open and the female voice counting down the seconds before launch.

Carefully, you step onto the platform, your gaze locked onto Hange’s. “Good luck. Remember, I’m betting on you.”

Ten seconds.

You can only watch as the glass cylinder closes around you, fully encasing you inside of the tube. It begins to lift, and Hange gives you a reassuring nod. Right, get yourself together. Hange disappears from your sight as the platform rises. You’re in darkness for a few seconds, feeling the platform pushing you up into the open air, straight into the arena.

For a moment, your eyes are completely blinded by the bright sunlight, unable to take in your surroundings. As your senses adjust, you’re conscious only of a strong breeze with the hopeful smell of fresh pine trees, accompanied by the sound of rushing water.

A forest.

Then, you hear the legendary announcer, Paladin Templesmith, as his voice echoes all around you. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the 98th Hunger Games begin!”

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a/n: yippe! interviews are done and we are heading straight into the games! in my outline, we've finished the first out of three "acts" ! i presume there will be about twenty chapters to this fic in total. next up obviously will be the games, and i am so excited to dive into reader and levi's dynamic, as well as start introducing the other characters on a more personal level. i can't wait for you to read it all! thanks for tagging along! <3

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my-heart-beat-for-anime · 6 days ago

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Fighter and Mother Cato H. x OC

part I. part II.

After a sleepless night full of tossing and heavy dreams, I finally gave up trying to fall asleep. My eyes burned, my body was tired, and my heart felt like it was carrying the weight of the whole world. Every touch of the silk that the Capitol had forced me to wear felt like a reminder of everything that had been taken from me. I was lying in a bed — soft, fragrant — and yet I had never felt farther from home.

I slipped off the nightgown and reached for my old shirt. It was the one I wore at the Reaping — pieced together from scraps of fabric the children and I salvaged from homes where no one saw their worth anymore. The cloth was mismatched, in faded tones, but embroidered with bright threads. Suns, birds, leaves, and here and there a child’s attempt at a flower. I’d embroidered them in the evenings, when everyone else was asleep. Every stitch carried meaning. And now, as I pulled it on, I felt like myself again. Not because it was warm — but because it was mine. It belonged to my life, my children, my work. In the Capitol, it looked completely out of place — but I was done bending to their rules.

I walked into the lounge, where the servants had already laid out breakfast. The table was buckling under the weight of food — shiny pastries, glistening fruit, delicate dishes I couldn’t even name. The smell was intoxicating, but my stomach remained twisted in knots.

Still, I filled three plates. Not for the taste — but out of strategy. My grandmother used to say: “If there’s food, you eat. A strong body has a better chance of surviving.” I could almost hear her voice in my head — calm, amused: "With color on your cheeks and a song on your lips, everything goes a little easier.”

Turen appeared a little while later. He sat beside me, the traces of yesterday’s tears still lingering in his eyes, but he was quiet. He scooted closer, a bit awkwardly, and began to eat. I placed a hand gently on his back. That was enough. He was here. I was here.

Then Effie swept in, like something from another world. Bursting into the room with her peppy energy, she launched into a speech about the schedule, the preparations, and the importance of staying positive. Her voice was like silver-wrapped cotton candy, but inside me it just rang like a hollow drum.

Eventually, Haymitch shuffled in. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, reeking of wine and fatigue. He dropped into a seat across from me, poured himself a strong coffee, and stared at me for a moment.

“That…” he said, eyeing my brightly embroidered shirt, “is not Capitol standard.”

“It’s not,” I replied calmly. “It’s mine.”

Something shifted in his eyes then. Just for a second. As if he understood more than I expected. He gave a small nod and said nothing more.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said quietly, no drama in my voice.

He watched me for a long beat, then finally muttered, “We all deal with it differently. Some drink. Some go quiet.”

We ate the rest of the breakfast in silence, until Effie suddenly straightened and pointed toward the windows.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she declared, “I present to you… the Capitol!”

And that’s when I saw it for the first time.

The glittering city stretched all the way to the horizon. Towering buildings like crystal needles, colorful trains gliding on high rails, waterfalls of light, and sculpted gardens that had more lights than all of District Twelve put together.

Turen pressed against me, eyes wide with awe. “This isn’t real,” he whispered.

But I knew it was. And that’s exactly what made it so dangerous.

The train slowed, then stopped. The entire machine, so quiet and smooth during the journey, seemed to suddenly hold its breath. A chill ran through me as the metal wheels gave one last screech against the tracks. I looked over at Turen. He sat silently beside me, no longer crying, but his eyes still held that childlike helplessness — the look of someone torn away from the only home they've ever known.

“We’re here,” Haymitch muttered, groggily rising from his seat. Effie was already standing tall and rigid, a synthetic smile glued to her face.

“The Capitol! Our beloved viewers await!” she sang, gliding gracefully toward the door.

As we stepped off the train, light rained down on us. We stood on a platform that sparkled like it had been dusted with diamond powder. Screens blinked all around us, cameras, shiny objects I couldn’t even name. And people. Dozens — maybe hundreds — of Capitol citizens lining the path, cheering, waving, some with glasses in their hands, others holding banners, and a few… a few wore expressions of twisted delight.

“Ohhh, that boy is adorable!” called a woman with pink feathers instead of hair. “I know that girl! That’s the one from Twelve — the embroidery one, right?” someone else shouted. “Give us a smile, sweetheart!”

A shiver went through me. Not just from the shouts, but from how little we seemed like real people to them. We were props in some kind of show. Dolls soon to be thrown into the arena.

I smiled — or tried to — but the smile froze on my face.

Haymitch turned to us. “This is where you end. From here on out, you're products. Goods. Let them do their job. Don’t make a scene — the stylists know what they're doing.”

We were led into the styling center — a towering, windowless marble building, with endless corridors and doors, every surface gleaming. They split us up. Turen went one way, I went another. Soon, I found myself in a room that smelled of perfume and wax.

At first, I only caught flashes — shimmering lights, rustling fabrics, the clinking of bracelets, and clouds of sharp scent. Then they appeared.

Alistar a man with skin dyed turquoise, his eyes framed with black sequins, his lips coated in a glittering iridescent gloss. He wore a sheer silver mesh dress — if you could call it that. “Ohhh! Heavens above, this is her! The Twelve girl, in the flesh! And that SHIRT!” he shrieked theatrically. “Is that handmade? It must be! Those stitches!”

Next to him floated Valeria her hair a massive neon flower, her eyebrows shaped into spirals, her dress shifting color with every move. “So beautiful, and yet so... natural. But don’t worry, darling. We’ll fix that. We’ll let your beauty shine!”

And finally, Remus silent, with a shaved head and eyes that changed color like photo-reactive lenses. He wore a latex coat, and his long, slender fingers were adorned with silver rings topped with crystals. “Your face has... gravity,” he murmured. “Not much to fix. We’ll just lift you into Capitol light.”

Without further hesitation, they handed me a silk robe. “Off you go, sweetheart. We’ll be gentle,” Valeria winked.

I had no choice but to obey.

I stood there — naked, tense — while they buzzed around me like small, glittering birds. They stripped away my hair, clipped my nails, rubbed scented oils into my skin, washed my hair in warm, fragrant water, buffed my heels, applied creams. Everything was soft, precise — but impersonal. I was no longer a person. I was a body being prepped for display.

Valeria worked through my hair while Alistair examined the shirt I’d folded so carefully. “The embroidery — it’s like a diary. Look here — the sun. And this one... is that a poppy? Poppy? Is that a name?”

I nodded silently.

Back home, people overlooked the embroidery. Here, in the Capitol, it wasn’t survival — it was fashion. And if it was beautiful, it had value.

My head was buzzing. Somewhere behind the walls, Turen was being readied too — decorated, reshaped, just like me.

Two figures from a different world, dressed up and tossed into a trap.

And as their hands moved, the scents swirled, and the lights blinded me, I thought of home.

Of children’s hands. Their voices. The rustle of grass at the fence. The herbs in the old tin bowl.

And I held onto it — all of it.

So I wouldn’t disappear in all this shine.

When the prep team finally withdrew, taking their last cotton swabs, brushes, and tissues with them, I remained seated in front of the mirror, surrounded by soft lighting and the lingering Capitol scent that still didn’t sit right with me. My hair had been braided into a loose plait that draped over my shoulder, ending at my waist like a silk rope with delicate pearls woven into the strands. The skin on my hands and face was smooth, my nails neatly done with a subtle shimmer I’d never been able to afford before. But still, I felt like myself — just a washed and polished version of Zinnia from District Twelve.

When they carefully helped me to my feet, Valeria clapped her hands and turned toward the door. “And now, to your stylist. I believe he’s going to fall in love with you.”

They led me down a narrow hallway laid with glossy tiles until we reached a door that opened on its own, as if welcoming me in. Inside was a tall, airy studio, scented with glue, fabric, and something that reminded me of oranges. A man stood at a table — slim, with pale skin and jet-black hair cropped close to his head. He wore a long coat made of heavy fabric with a high collar, and every movement he made was slow, gentle, as if he lived at a different tempo.

“Zinnia, right?” he said softly. His voice had a strange kind of melody to it, like he was composing sentences to a rhythm only he could hear. “I’m Corvel.”

I nodded and said quietly, “Nice to meet you.”

He studied me for a moment. “Interesting,” he said. “We’re used to inventing stories for our tributes. But you already have one. I just have to translate it into fabric.”

Then he walked over to the wall and pulled down a design that had been covered by a fine cloth. He turned it toward me, and for the first time, I saw what he had created for me.

It wasn’t kitsch. It wasn’t a parody of fire or coal. It was an image of survival.

“Everyone would dress you in flames and soot,” he said, “but I want them to see what grows from the ashes.”

He pointed to a pair of dark, slim silk trousers that shimmered like soot under the light. They had an ornate waistband stitched with tiny cross-stitches — a tribute to embroidery. The top was light, made from silvery-gray fabric, delicately embroidered with black, red, and gold thread, with patterns that resembled charred wood and sprouts growing from scorched earth.

“This pattern is your fingerprint,” he explained. “I created it based of your shirt.”

Floating over it all was a cloak of sheer organza, falling to the ankles, threaded with tiny metallic strands that sparkled like drifting ash. It was light as breath.

“So,” he asked, “are you ready to become a story?”

“If you’re the one writing it,” I said — and for the first time all day, I smiled from the heart.

Once Corvel summoned his team, everything moved very quickly. Remus, Alistar, and Valeria began dressing me without unnecessary words. Every swipe of fabric over my skin was careful yet firm. They pulled the shirt over my head, slipped the vest on, and fastened the cloak with the precision of people born to adorn others. I could only feel the light touches, the rustling of fabric, and their quiet whispers. Before I knew it, I was ready.

Corvel measured me once more, from head to toe, slightly adjusting the cloak on my shoulders before he smiled — that soft, satisfied smile of an artist proud of their work. "Ready," he said quietly, nodding toward the door.

I was then led away from the prep room, down the long, glossy hallways, and outside, where richly decorated carriages were waiting, each drawn by two beautiful dark horses. Under the glow of Capitol lamps and spotlights, everything sparkled and shone, almost unnaturally.

Turen was already waiting for me, nervously shifting by our carriage, and when he saw me, he smiled in relief. He was also dressed in a simple yet beautiful outfit that matched mine. He quickly jogged up to me and quietly mumbled, “You look amazing.” I smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and that’s when I felt someone’s gaze on me.

Through the crowd of other tributes, I caught his eyes — steel-blue and cold. Cato from District Two. He was casually leaning against the side of his carriage, arms crossed over his chest, wearing an expression that was a mix of interest and predatory curiosity. He was openly studying me, as if appraising me before we even stepped into the arena.

His gaze ran over my costume, my hair, my posture — and in his eyes, there was no pity, but a kind of curiosity. I held his gaze for a moment, then lowered my eyes back to Turen. I realized that my fingers were trembling slightly beneath the costume.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered to Turen, more to calm myself. “We can handle this.”

Above our heads, the Capitol drums were beginning to thrum, signaling that the ceremony was about to start.

The carriage was majestic — black with dark glossy sides, without a driver, only two muscular, coal-black beasts adorned with golden harnesses, waiting silently, almost indifferently, as if they knew this was a ride for applause, not escape. Slowly, Turen and I climbed aboard, his small hand clutching tightly at my elbow. The rest of the tributes were already seated, arranged by district. We, as always, were last. District Twelve. The end of the line. The shadow of the system.

As soon as our feet touched the floor of the carriage, the horses moved without a single command. Automatically. Like puppets on strings, led by the Capitol’s invisible will. We marched forward into the glare of spotlights, the roar of the crowds, and the blinding shine of glory.

The road was narrow, lined with thousands of Capitol citizens waving, shouting, laughing. The lower levels of the buildings were packed with spectators in vibrant costumes, hair dyed in rainbow hues, faces painted like festival masks. People reached out toward us—some tossed flowers, others confetti. Light and perfume filled the air.

“Look how her shirt sparkles!” “She’s the one with the kids, the girl from Twelve!” “Does she make her own clothes? So talented! And that look on her face!” “That child with her… this is going to be the real tragedy.”

Turen pressed close to me. His eyes were wide open, but his lips were tight. He wore the kind of face children wear when they’re trying to be brave — clenched and fragile. I placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, and then forced myself to smile. Not even for the audience. For him.

As the final carriage arrived at the end of Victory Lane, the lights intensified, and everything fell into a hushed, expectant whisper. President Snow stepped onto the balcony above the square. His pace was slow, but not from hesitation — from precision. His presence sent a chill down the spine.

He stood at the microphone, folded his hands behind his back, and cast a brief glance over all the tributes. His gaze was like a cold breath of winter against the neck, even though the square burned with torchlight.

“Citizens of the Capitol… people of Panem,” he began, his voice calm, yet it carried far. “Today, as every year, we gather to honor the memory of those who paid the price for peace. Those who gave everything for unity and balance among us. Today we welcome the new tributes — a girl and a boy from each district — and we wish them honorable games. May the odds be ever in their favor.”

At his words, golden flames erupted above the square, illuminating all the carriages as the crowd broke into deafening applause.

The procession resumed — this time heading back — and Turen and I sat still, almost stiff, until the carriage finally returned us to the underground section of the Tribute Center.

As we stepped down, our team was waiting, ready to greet us like heroes. Effie clapped her hands in delight and exclaimed, “That was absolutely, absolutely enchanting! You shone! Corvel, you genius!”

Haymitch, who for once was actually standing upright, welcomed us with a mock-pat on the shoulder. “Didn’t look like arena meat, congrats,” he said with a smirk that came dangerously close to a real smile.

Valeria from my prep team looked like she might cry. “You looked like… like someone out of legend. That embroidered shirt beneath the cloak, it was just so… authentic!”

Turen stood silently beside me, red-faced but with a sparkle in his eyes. It was his moment — and he had survived it.

Then Haymitch noticed someone lagging behind. He turned his head and frowned. “Well, isn’t that sweet… looks like someone’s watching you.”

I followed his gaze — and there he was. Cato stood on the far side of the hall, surrounded by his team, but saying nothing. His eyes were fixed directly on me. No blink. No smile. Just a stare like a black hole’s gravity — it won’t let you leave, and somehow, you don’t want to.

Effie quickly intervened, ever the social diplomat: “All right! That’s enough staring — time for rest! Your suites are waiting. We’ve prepared everything you might desire.”

She led us to the elevators, which carried us high into the upper floors of the Tribute Center. The whole ride up, I could still feel Cato’s gaze lingering on my back — heavy as stone, hot as a warning, unreadable as a dream I wasn’t ready to wake from.

I hope you liked it. Part IV.???

If you have any tips or request i am happy to help =)

erika-simps

nowayhomenever

kittykataerokitty

@zelabee

@sopitasopita

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amgk22 · 1 month ago

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all people from thg, tbosas, & sotr

⭐️🌻 the cast of the hunger games being asked out by reader, their best friend

⭐️⛅️💐 the cast of the hunger games with a sunshine!fem reader

⭐️⛅️ the cast of the hunger games meeting the cast of tbosas

⭐️ the cast of the hunger games with a baby

⛅️🌙⭐️💐🌈 the cast of the hunger games finding out you’re pregnant

🍓⭐️⛅️: mom!effie and dad!haymitch headcanons

🍓🌻 ⭐️: the victors of the hunger games with a 12 year old victor

⭐️⛅️: rue and prim being best friends

🍓⭐️: haymitch and katniss with preg!victor

🌙 🪐: reefs and trees. coral & johanna

🌙🪐💐: the 75th hunger games. katniss & peeta

🪐: new hair. haymitch x effie

🪐: a rose and one boot. asterid x burdock

🪐🌙: nothing I can do. lenore dove x haymitch

the hunger games trilogy.

katniss everdeen

🌈⛅️💐🪐: katniss teaching you how to shoot a bow and arrow

🌈🌙💐🪐 katniss singing you to sleep

⭐️: autistic!katniss headcanons

⭐️: katniss in the fall

peeta mellark

⛅️⭐️💐: peeta accidentally burning your hand

⛅️🪐💐: cuddles.

gale hawthorne (+ the hawthorne siblings)

primrose everdeen

⭐️🍓💐: prim being your best friend

haymitch abernathy (alcohol’s version)

⛅️⭐️🍓💐: haymitch with a newborn daughter

⭐️🍓: haymitch when you burn your hand

effie trinket

rue barnette

cato hadley

clove kentwell

glimmer belcourt

🍒🌈🪐💐: glimmer tempting you with a sexy dress

marvel sanford

thresh morrowson

⭐️⛅️💐: thresh being your boyfriend

🌙⛅️⭐️💐: angst and fluff headcanons

finnick odair

johanna mason

annie cresta

cinna

the ballad of songbirds and snakes.

coriolanus snow (young)

sejanus plinth

⛅️💐⭐️: sejanus plinth with pregnant!reader

⛅️⭐️: sejanus plinth hanging out with the covey

lucy gray (+ the covey)

🌈💐⭐️⛅️: lucy gray sewing you a dress

⭐️: lucy gray + the covey going to the beach

⛅️⭐️💐: lucy gray, maude ivory, and cc going clothes shopping

⛅️💐⭐️: lucy gray with sick!reader

⛅️⭐️🌻: lucy gray helping reader stay focused

⭐️🌻 : lucy gray helping you with a meltdown

🪐🍓💐🌈: lucy gray after you cry in class

⛅️🌙⭐️: maude ivory and cc hcs

🍓💐⛅️⭐️: maude ivory braiding cousin!reader’s hair

festus creed

coral marlin

sunrise on the reaping.

haymitch abernathy

lenore dove

⭐️💐🍓⛅️: lenore dove with siblings

maysilee donner

wyatt callow

⭐️🌙⛅️: wyatt callow hcs

louella mccoy/lou lou

⭐️⛅️: louella and lou lou meeting

burdock everdeen

blair

asterid march

#hunger games #the hunger games #thg series #sunrise on the reaping #thg sotr #tbosas #ballad of songbirds and snakes #haymitch abernathy #thg haymitch #lucy gray baird #finnick odair #annie cresta #johanna mason my beloved #lenore dove #lenore the cute little dead girl

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blueberrypancakesworld · 9 months ago

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Private training

Career Tributes x recruit!reader

warning : obsession, some touching, kiss, no use of Y/n, nicknames

Summary : The four from the best districts there were, young examinees who had eliminated all others in the Hunger Games and wanted the four golden future teachers, four young teachers who had their eyes on a new recruit. The only solution private training four times because as outstanding talents they should be entitled to everything, shouldn't they?

info : Not only because of dear anon i found motivation and an idea for the four of them, it was also nice to write for them again, have fun reading :)

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

Cato

Everyone knew the golden boy from the second district, his strength for thousands of millions was to be seen when he simply broke the neck of one of the players, how fast and precise he was with the sword and had slaughtered his opponents, it was brutal, horrible but above all without mercy.

A young man now after the 74th games it would soon be the 75th games bigger more brutal and above all even more successful and more memorable than the last, which is why the respected mentor and coach was not surprised that he received a letter from Snow asking for his strength for the new players. But he hadn't expected it to be such an extraordinary new recruit.

So he found himself in front of this pretty little bird, almost too gentle to lift anything heavy and too powerless for a real blow, ,,But your wings are beautifully dipped in black,” he murmured as he approached her, entering her personal space and squeezing her hand, his lips approaching her ear and his hot breath giving her a goose bump.

His rough hands seemed to feel her body, but he seemed to have noticed this very thought as he withdrew with a smile of pleasure. The new black training uniform was tighter fitting whether intentionally for the audience or not he couldn't tell but it didn't bother him a bit as he watched what exercises she was doing.

Pure strength wasn't her strength anyone could see that but his blue eyes saw her agility, she reacted quickly well quickly almost more than well, ,,A quick flight you have birdie use that…come here!” he called to her and watched as she came back to him trying to ignore the judges watching over them as usual.

He had felt comfortable in the attentive makite but she seemed to want to disappear like a shadow but he wouldn't let that happen so he grabbed her in front of him and put the sword in her hand.

His hands on hers covered her even more fragile, smaller but above all helpless, something he had often seen in others and something he loved, ,,Just let me guide you, do you understand?” it came like a question but it was more of a command that she answered with an almost choked ,,Y-Yes, I understand” as he moved.

Still a little stiff at first, after a few minutes of being pressed against him she seemed to relax and let him lead.

Cato heard her sweet smell, it reminded him of flowers, pretty flowers between his fingers that only he could hold. Soon he slowly let go of her as she made the sword movements herself, it seemed that his bird was about to blossom under his watchful eye, such training had to be used not only to win but also to catch a pretty bird.

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

Clove

The golden girl and the golden boy from the district two hopefuls who had been through blood before the games had even started.

Two contestants who together could have won it all according to the estimates, bets, calculations and the other districts, but in the end even they would hardly have believed that the four of them had made it, a win was a win and that was all that mattered.

But even after the games were over, the four of them celebrated, and unlike Cato, who continued to train recruits and not escape the battlefield, Clove continued to indulge in her training and weaponry, of which there was never enough.

Until she was asked by Snow to take care of a recruit who would take part in the next games. Her time was precious, the president and the others knew that, which was why she had the training room to herself with her recruit, apart from the observers and judges.

,,Weak as a mouse, cute to me at most, but not convincing to them,” she said harshly, pointing to the glass behind her where the men who had gathered here were sitting.

In order to get a better picture, she accepted Cato's suggestion and handed a few weapons to her peer. The only way to find out what you were good at was to train endlessly like her or just keep trying until you didn't trip over your own feet and make training dummies stop.

Minutes almost turned into hours and Clove lost more and more of her already low spirits but her eyes never left her mouse, she was really cute she had to admit her attempts to be as good as she could be and yet fail so miserably again, ,,Twitchy scared little whiskers you have my mouse take these knives here…and put them on me” the dark haired one demanded and stood a few meters away from the other.

She could see the overcoming in the recruit and felt her own smile on her lips as she felt the adrenaline in the arena for a fraction, but she caught every precise knife throw, it was more than a good start to begin with.

Clove caught the knives and walked them back to her little mouse, ,,Precise very good keep it up and I'm right here for you my scared little mouse” she said and the tip of one knife pressed lightly against the younger girl's cheek as the dark-haired woman feasted her eyes on the uncertain expression before Clove pulled back satisfied with her reaction, the game was going to be interesting.

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

Glimmer

With pink glitter and feathers she came riding into the arena with her teammate Marvel overwhelmed by the mass of spectators and eyes on her but this attention was something she learned to love. Since then, she had kept her frilly style with lots of attention but most of all gemstones as a reminder of her father.

Gemstones were her chosen design and were almost worked into every outfit, the glitter had to continue. Since she had won the games with the others, she was relieved, more than relieved to be able to continue living, but also to finally be able to do something she had always liked in this brutal place.

Her survival had been worth it, she had won and her honor, her reputation had only increased. Shortly after the 74th hunger games, Glimmer rose to become the top designer for the entire Capitol.

She was responsible for every new design, whether it was for District Twelve or a new suit for Flickerman, she had her fingers in every pie of the Capitol.

Until she received the somewhat surprising letter from Snow, she had even met the president a few times herself to design a new dress for his granddaughter.

But this time it was about something she hadn't done for a long, long time: fighting. In the performance room, however, she found herself face to face with a pretty butterfly, almost an image of herself from back then, pretty, engaging but not yet deadly if you got too close.

,,A butterfly in my design, pretty but you can always be better” she said and the blonde moved towards her student, letting her fingers wander over her arms, feeling the small precious stones on the buttons before she pulled the zipper down slightly.

She could see a little of the bust, it would at least be enough for an extra point or two with the judges, something she had done herself, had to do.

She was aware that she wouldn't keep her student for long if she didn't show results but the designer felt she had found a new muse, a pretty butterfly that would be hers in her room, something she wanted to and would try out new designs on, ,,Something that pretty needs to know how to kill though?” she asked, pointing to the various weapons laid out.

A grin appeared on the blonde trainer's face as she saw the other grab a bow and arrow, a weapon she had once chosen herself, it was okay not as perfect as Katniss was for the games but the okay was enough but she wouldn't make that mistake again.

She let her shoot so that she could aim and as good as this weapon was at a distance, something she had to maintain, Glimmer came up to her after a few minutes, ,,Distance is safe for a start but close combat is even more deadly…you just have to be faster” she warned and grabbed the rubber knife the blonde was about to wrap around her pupil and put the tip of the knife on any deadly body points that would have brought her opponent to the ground with a real knife.

But Glimmer didn't let go yet and stayed pressed against her for a moment before she left a kiss on the other girl's cheek as a farewell, ,,Keep training with the knife, sweet butterfly, and I'll be right back with you soon,” was the last thing the blonde said before she disappeared from the training room.

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

Marvel

The young man from district one had been raised, trained to kill and hunt until the victim lay before him, his father a hunter to emulate him, he too had signed up for the games and entered the arena, the capiteol and finally the Hunger Games with his comrade-in-arms Glimmer.

He was someone with strength and a will to win, but never forget to have fun, because that was the best part of the whole thing. From the moment he arrived, he laughed knowing that charm and wit could make people like you, so shortly after the 74th Hunger Games, Marvel found himself moderating before or after Flickermann.

He conducted interviews and showed glimpses into the secret worlds of luxury, including meeting his friends Cato, Clove and Glimmer again and again “by chance” until he received the letter from Snow and found himself back in the training room for a long time, but his interested eyes settled on a pretty sight.

,,A cute bunny that would be an interview for later mhh would you like that?” he asked seeing that she felt uncomfortable under the eyes of the judges but for him it was a matter of course as he was seen every day.

He slowly walked over to her inwardly thanking Glimmer for the new tracksuits pretty in that black clinging to the body a really pretty victim she herself wasn't even aware of something he loved, being superior having his fun and being allowed to teach something so cute.

He placed his hand on hers and brought it to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of her hand he felt the smile on his lips as he saw her embarrassment, ,,Don't be so shy always smile and be funny for them and for your life remember bunny” he admonished before he broke away from her and went to the weapons looking at some of them memories of his own training he had reached a year ago and so much had changed for the better when he had her with him.

Marvel instructed his student to fight with the weapons to show what she could do and he assessed what was the best they had to train together besides all the TV appearances and announcements of course.

His bright eyes were already on her, imagining the interviews and aftershows, the pretty clothes and how she would always have to stay with him to avoid being eaten by the Capitol.

,,You are truly quick as a rabbit try it here with me” he said and took a spear in his hand his weapon since ever demostrietre not only to the audience but also to her a well aimed throw that hit the mark and the doll was pierced and dead if it was a human he made an angdue bow for the audience he saw her incredible in her own power.

He stood next to her and put his hands on her body again, correcting her position, ,,That's it, that's it my rabbit, now strike out and just let go," he whispered softly, hollering out with her before the metal spear whizzed through the air and dug into the doll's abdomen, not piercing it but killing it.

He saw a smile on her lips as she rejoiced in the motivation and hope that she could really do it and Marvel knew that once she was victorious she would be all his for his interviews and beyond as he left his new star in the training hall.

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

@daegalyah , @sleepygirlmia

#hunger games #cato hunger games #marvel hunger games #glimmer hunger games #clove hunger games #cato x reader #clove x reader #glimmer x reader #marvel x reader #the hunger games

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