#we must be killers: tales from District Two

[gildedtragedies]

of course my first post on this godforsaken site would be a shittily-made we must be killers meme...your honor i am simply obsessed with @lorata's specific brand of mentor-mentee dynamics

[irenespring]

Happy Ides of March to @lorata's Victors: you would have loved finding some old history book and then making Brutus' life hell all day every year.

[analiza-beta]

Exit Interview: Artemisia

For her exit interview Artemisia's prep team curled her hair and pinned tiny daggers to dangle between the ringlets, but Callista's left it loose, wavy and a little bit wild. She looks -- normal, happy, and even better she actually looks eighteen, not like a kid sexed up far beyond her age so the Capitol audience won't feel guilty drooling over her. For the first time since the Reaping, her clothes don't look like they're just waiting for an artistic spray of someone else's blood.

Anyways, I reread Nobody Decent by @lorata for the hundredth time probably and was completely possessed. Happy New Year everyone, may this little Misha bring you good luck!!

[irenespring]

I recommend @lorata's work to my friends whether or not they are interested in The Hunger Games. It stands that well on its own.

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[the-sun-and-the-sea]

What's your opinion about District 4 as Career District?

Why is there a difference between District 4 and other Career Districts (1&2) in supporting the rebellion?

From all known victors from 4, who do you think the first to support it?

(If you know any fics which explore this, please let us know).

Thank you :)

@curiousnonny

Great question!

First of all, just to get it out of the way, I definitely think D4 was a "real" Career district, despite some people not fully considering it one. I know the movies left it out but in the books it's pretty clear that 4 is just as much of a Career district as 1 and 2.

It makes a lot of sense why they are. Four's industry gives its kids a natural advantage in the arena because they're already proficient with knives and spears (and, in rare cases, tridents) by the time they're reaping age. I also think Mags was a big reason why Four is a Career district (because it's not like they're the only district whose industry would be advantageous). She won the Games so early that she probably has a lot of influence over Four's culture relating to the Games.

I'm pretty sure it's canon that Finnick was a Career, and as for Annie, we really don't know. But I will say that every day, I'm leaning more and more towards the Career!Annie theory. It just makes so much sense and adds impact to her story. But that's a discussion for another time.

When it comes to the rebellion, I don't think that Four being a Career district means they're less likely to rebel, especially with Mags being so influential. I think One and Two's hesitation comes more from the culture of those districts as well as their proximity to the Capitol. We know D1 produces luxury items and is probably the richest district, which makes them a threat because they would have the resources to rebel if they wanted to. And D2, Panem's primary export for weapons and Peacekeepers, would have not only the resources but the skills to fight. So those districts probably grow up consuming Capitol propaganda because they're the biggest threat to the Capitol's power.

I definitely know of some fics with this concept! I wrote a Career!Annie fic and of course I have to mention the incredible to dust or to gold by @dancingonmoonbeams. A lot of my headcanons for the Career districts also come from lorata's iconic series, We Must Be Killers: Tales From District 2.

[bourbonboatsandbows]

The Pile

To @lorata and her universe. Thanks for letting me play in your sandbox. Also to my grandmother-in-law, who made me bury a chicken wing and the first slice from the first loaf of bread I made for the first meal in my new house, all while wearing my nicest clothes. In the beginning, The Pile had no name, and only remembered that it came from a pair of socks. The Creator had worn The Pile's foundational form on an excursion and then thrown them onto a platform of sorts, where The Pile stayed until the next piece came along-- a pair of shorts. The Pile grew and grew, by bits and bobs, sometimes the Creator's pieces, sometimes pieces from other Creators, sometimes clean and most of the time not, throughout its life because what was time to a pile of laundry? In truth, The Pile did not know what socks or laundry was until it heard the Creator say these words, while burrowing within The Pile. "Where are my socks?" says the Creator, furiously digging, "I have weeks of laundry here, I should have some somewhere." There are many of these things within The Pile by this point, so The Pile gently adjusts itself so that two of its pieces emerge at the top. This is how life goes for The Pile-- it learns words from the Creator, words like "fuck" and "shirt" and "Devon" and "Lyme" then it learns phrases like "where is my fucking shirt" and "Is this Devon's or Lyme's?" Devon is another Creator and there are some of Devon's items within The Pile, but Devon is more aware than Creator when it comes to The Pile. Devon, while helping the Creator look within The Pile, notices The Pile's helpfulness first. "Misha, have you noticed that when you mention specific things out loud, like 'socks' or 'that blue sweater of Lyme's that smells like smoke,' it shows up at the top of the pile faster? And when you say thanks, it shows up even faster the next time you look for stuff?" And thus, The Pile learned that the Creator is also a Misha. Another Creator comes forward with creatures that are not Creators nor are they part of The Pile. The other Creator, who wears not many items, refers to the new creatures as Octavius, Bartleby and Eustace, and they are relatively charming company. The four of them commiserate about how slow the Creators are in acknowledging mutual sentience, except for Eustace, who is barely sentient, to be honest, and has managed, through no fault of The Pile, to slowly start suffocating himself with The Creator Misha's sweater. It is an ordeal to free him because The Pile does not have arms, but it is resolved and Eustace lives. The Creatures and The Pile come to an agreement to never leave Eustace unsupervised near Beings Without Arms. Life is not all negotiations with Creatures and unearthing items for the Creator Misha-- every so often The Creator Misha leaves for a period of time, and thus other Creators appear to attend to the location. One of them is very large, easily as big as The Pile with less hair than The Creator Misha and the Creator Devon and The Creator Lyme, but oddly also has articles within The Pile. This Creator stares at The Pile, only to say, "What the fuck?" The Pile knows this phrase-- The Creator Misha uses it frequently for many things, and so does the Creator Lyme whenever the Creator Lyme sees how large The Pile has gotten. It is a phrase of pride and joy, The Pile knows. "These are some of my shirts," The Large Hairless Creator says. But how can these be Hairless Creator's shirts when The Creator Misha has helped The Pile grow with them? This is a complexity rivaling Eustace's attempted self-strangulation, and The Pile does not notice until the Hairless Creator reaches towards it. This cannot be tolerated without Creator Misha's support, and so The Pile moves its items very slowly and very menacingly, wrapping sweaters, shorts, and pants around the limbs of The Hairless Intruder. The Hairless Intruder is large, but the Pile is made of multitudes and can move them independently. It is not long before Creator Devon's sweatpants are slowly wrapped around The Hairless Intruder's neck. "What the fuck!" The Hairless Intruder says again, this time with no joy. The shirts remain within The Pile, and the Hairless Intruder backs away, slowly. Soon after, the Creator Lyme appears with the Hairless Intruder and The Pile learns new phrases- "Living Creature," and "Tried strangling me!" and "DID IT COME FROM THE GAMES?" The Creator Misha comes back, and they are not the same. They burrow into The Pile and stay for a long time. The Pile readjusts and brings The Creator Misha's favorite items-- the Creator Lyme's blue sweatshirt that smells of smoke, the Creator Devon's softest t-shirts, these are the items that The Pile knows The Creator Misha needs. They stay this way, with The Pile readjusting to provide a soft, warm place for The Creator Misha. Creator Lyme appears, and sits within The Pile as well. They are silent and still, and The Pile in its generosity, unearths a soft sweatshirt that The Creator Lyme has also worn. The Creator Lyme watches the movement carefully, with lines appearing between their eyes similar to lines in fabric. They do not speak of "The Games," whatever they may be. They are silent until The Creator Lyme says, "You know, a few of us think your pile of laundry is sentient." The Creator Misha burrows deeper within The Pile and mumbles, "oh you mean Jeremy? Yeah, they're great." 

[gildedtragedies]

i have nothing but time on my hands right now and the wmbk ostrich farm au is coming soon to a gildedtragedies tumblr blog near you

TYSM FOR ANSWERING i'm obsessed with this idea now and i had never even considered the idea of RACING THEM? brutus just walks outside one day and there are 9 FOOT TALL BIRDS racing down the village streets?

misha and devon order them unironically and it quickly becomes a serious endeavor, and then one of them lays an egg and they're like "hmm. hmmmmmmm" at which point eibhlin gets involved.

bonus points for your consideration: -ostriches will dance at humans they consider to be friends and you have to do a little dancey dance back at them as a gesture of cordiality. DEVON DOING THE DAILY OSTRICH DANCE? or okay okay misha and devon go out of town and Eibhlin takes over the practical care aspects but she is absolutely not doing the dance and Claudius would walk to the ends of the earth for her so Lyme steps out of her house one day and Claudius is frantically dancing at the birds???? -they are loud as hell! they make all sorts of weird noises! grumpy brutus having been kept up all night by ostrich sounds is a thought -can you even imagine how petra would feel about this development -i feel like emory would be surprisingly enamored with the birds. she would want absolutely no part in owning one but she'd be the type to drop by with an armful of fresh produce to mix into their food. -callista would hate everything about this probably, also one major concern for people who own ostriches in conjunction with domestic cats and dogs is that ostriches are known to bite the testicles off of small mammals. soooooooooooo there's that! -i can't even fathom how enobaria would feel about the birds but it'd be funny as hell

follow-up discussion point: what would misha and devon name them?

good evening!! imagine if there was a perfect au where absolutely all of your hunger games ocs and the original characters you've made backstories for live. war's over, no more games. i'm imagining the canon divergence au but without That One Thing That Happens With Emory.

anyways, the question i'm getting to here is which of them would be most likely to unironically own several ostriches?

this is a beautiful ask. a glorious ask. i will come back online for this.

see i had an IMMEDIATE instinctive answer which was Artemisia, hands down, except you said UNIRONICALLY and now i'm ... not sure

i have actually spent a large part of my workday contemplating this

i did text @penfoldx about Eibhlin, because I had Suspicions, and she had this to say:

Probably as a failed farming endeavor, because Eibhlin got attached. She doesn’t say this, but, she can’t actually imagine harvesting the meat off them, so it’s eggs and feathers and ‘scientific experiments’. Ostriches are low maintenance so that works. Holy cow, Brutus gonna lose his mind.

I'm still stuck on this. Odin loves birds, but he's not really into husbandry -- falconry yes, where you catch one for the season, train it and release it at the end, but a farm? no.

Devon and Misha are still fairly high if it's in the "start ironic, end up taking it weirdly seriously" kind of vein, maybe (you can RACE them!)

Brutus: No.

I wonder if Ronan might, if he ever decided to take something up, he's got dogs already, he doesn't really like cows, horses seem fun but they're big ........... ostriches? maybe? could be, could be .....

I invite discussion as it's going to be on my mind for a long time

[ruinconstellation]

Assorted fic recs

(this is all of my recs so far that I haven’t yet posted, sorted by fandom)

(what I like to read is not always consistent in mood/tone/theme/etc., ratings vary from T to E, these go from 5k to 2m words, and please read the tags if you do check out these wonderful fics)

Hunger Games

Smiles and Promises by kawuli

My World's On Fire (How 'Bout Yours?): District 2 at War by kawuli, lorata, penfold, Xanify

We Must Be Killers: Tales from District 2 by lorata (main works are #1, 2, 5, 8, 15, 27, and 46 which is the start of ‘my world’s on fire’)

I wanna see you be brave by lorata

It Comes With a Price by deathmallow

A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones (see my other post too under /tagged/fic+recs )

But the wolf is always there by dwellingondreams / @dwellordream

I lack the patience to haunt / Instead, I hunt by dwellingondreams / @dwellordream

Harry Potter

Barbed Wire, Grass Crown by dwellingondreams / @dwellordream

all waiting is long by shuofthewind

There is Nothing to Fear by Callmesalticidae

where you'll find your real friends (Slytherin AUs) by aletterinthenameofsanity

we must unite inside her walls or we'll crumble from within by dirgewithoutmusic

face death in the hope by LullabyKnell

I Know Not, and I Cannot Know; Yet I Live and I Love by billowsandsmoke

The secret language of plants by Endrina

neither lost nor found by kuchikopi, tonberrys

Sarcasm and Slytherin & Harry Potter and the Secrets of Vipers Part 2 by Sunmoonandstars / anonymousmagpie

souls touch, and the future changes & the ties that bind by Sunmoonandstars / anonymousmagpie

The Prince of Slytherin by TheSinister_Man

Of a Linear Circle by flamethrower / @deadcatwithaflamethrower 

I rose from marsh mud by cassiopeia721

Animorphs

Portraits from the Revolution by Callmesalticidae, shadow_wasserson

Avatar: The Last Airbender

firebender!Jet by suzukiblu

What Is and What Shouldn't Be by BitterPill

Boomerangs and Rainbows by mindbending

Two Drama Queens Loose on a Shirshu by mindbending

Dragon of the Yuyan by AwkwardPenguin

Flow Like Fire by aleangreenmeanmachine

Hamilton (musical)

it feels more like a memory by savrenim

The Old Guard

The Key of Solomon by qqueenofhades / @qqueenofhades

Naruto

Until their leaves fall off by stereden

what's the procedure? by spideywhiteys

the bridge that always burns behind us by elumish

in dreams you follow (but I dream in the dark) by blackkat / @blackkatmagic

The Witcher

to grow in adversity by soulykins

Marvel (various)

a world unending by therestlessbrook

that prison au by therestlessbrook

Maggie Fitzgerald and the Saltwater Drip by antistar_e (kaikamahine)

Silver and Gold by scioscribe

tin soldiers by idrilka

The Making of Monsters by shuofthewind

The Last Archangel by inukagome15, alatarmaia4 (+ Supernatural TV)

Antichrist Verse by Crescent_Blues

The Teenage Vigilante's Guide by candlesneedflame / @dumbbitchnumberone

Narnia

The Stone Gryphon by rthstewart

this is a story about wolves by underscored

Temeraire

These Idiots by WerewolvesAreReal

The Life and Times by the_glow_worm

[valiantphantommoon]

NIGHTFALL

It was the 1833 in England. People had told stories of a creature that only came out at sundown. Of course, it was only to scare children to make sure that they didn’t go out at night. But, in this tale that creature is very much real. All you will be able to do is hide and pray it doesn't find you.

Today in England was a beautiful day sun shining, plants blooming, and birds singing. Along the stone road a woman walked. Her name was Elanor, and she was the daughter of Judge Rosenburg. Elanor thought to herself “what a lovely day this is”. A man standing in front of the flower shop just so happened to respond, “It is indeed isn’t it”. Elanor responds asking, “I'm sorry”, the man says, “it is a beautiful day as you said” and introduces himself. “I am William” Elanor responds, “nice to meet you Sir William”. As they exchanged words William asks Elanor to accompany him at moonshine park in the afternoon. Elanor blushes, and replies “oh, I would very much like to join you at the park.

As the afternoon approaches Elanor gets ready and heads to the flower shop to meet William. When she gets there William is holding a flower. When she reaches him, he gives her the flower and says, “are you ready to take our leave” Elanor replies, “yes good sir” and they get in their carriage and leave for moonshine park. While in the carriage, Elanor is nervous but musters the courage to ask William what his job is. When she asks, he replies, “I work at the courthouse with Judge Rosenburg”. Elanor says “oh Judge Rosenburg, that’s my father”. Before William is able to say anything the carriage stops, and the driver gets down and opens the door.

They get out and start to walk as they walk William ask, “what is it that you do”? Elanor responds saying “I own a Bakery three stores down from the flower shop.” He says “oh, so your good with your hands”, she replies “yes I would say so”. William says, “you know they say the way to a man’s heart is through their stomach”. Elanor laughs and says “that must explain why many of our men have such humongous bellies” they both laugh as they keep walking. As night sets in they decide to retire for the night and head back to the carriage where the driver waits for them. When in the carriage they decide to go to Williams's home to eat. Along the road back home William and Elanor talk, Elanor says to him, “that was delightful, I very much appreciate you”. William says to her “I am glad that you were able to join me tonight”, Elanor smiles, and both sit back as they make way for William’s home.

Along the road William looks out the window daydreaming and sees a blur pass by. It startles him, Elanor ask him, “are you alright” he replies, “I’m fine something just flew pass the window, probably a bird of some sort”. He continues to look out of the window and sees a figure running in the woods alongside them. William closes the curtain over the window and takes a deep breathe, releases it and peeks outside of the curtain and sighs with relief. Not wondering if what he saw was real or not the tells the driver to speed the carriage up. Not knowing that the dark figure has disappeared into to the night. As they arrive at Williams home Elanor smells food that smells as if it’s been cooked by a chef. They go to the table and are met with a grand meal prepared by William’s chef. After dinner Elanor is too tired to go home so William tells his maid to prepare her a room.

The maid prepares the room and notifies William it is ready. He carries Elanor up to the room and lays her in the bed before she leaves, she asks him, “can you bring me a glass of water” he nods and brings her a glass of water. But as she drinks, she freezes and drops the glass frozen by fear. William tries to wake her but hears a growl and turns around slowly, and before he could scream his head is relieved and eaten by the creature. As Elanor watches in fear it cast its eyes upon her and walks toward her. The creature grabs Elanor. The next morning a fellow worker with William goes to William’s house to check on him. He opens the door and sees nothing but blood and body parts. As he cowers in fear other people check and scream. When the Police arrive, they sent in one person, Detective Tia. As she searches for any signs of who may have done this she comes across William and sees a tooth in his head and quickly says to herself, “Whatever did this was not human”.

Detective Tia keeps searching the room and finds a very distinct necklace that Elanor Rosenburg wore. She informs the officers, and they hastily get word to Edward Rosenburg Elanor’s father. When he arrives, the detective ask him if the necklace is his daughter’s, he replies, “yes. It was her mother’s, she always had close to her you couldn’t take it away from her”. With the conformation the detective needed she ordered a search of the city for Elanor Rosenburg. As nightfall came, the city was blanketed with fog, a mysterious fog, and while one of the officers were patrolling, they saw something on top of the roof. He exclaims to another officer, “There’s something on top of the roof”! He and the other officer rush to the roof and see nothing once they get to the top. They calm themselves and continue patrolling. As the two exchange words, “I can’t believe they’re doing a city search for this girl”. “She is the daughter of the judge, so it makes sense”. “ It makes sense my a...”. “Mate what happened”, he turn around. Where are you? This better not be some joke of you bastard”. He hears a scream and runs toward only to find his friend laying in his blood. He runs and runs, he trips over a stone, looks up and screams “AWWWWW”!

In the morning they find the bodies of the officers bury them and have a meeting once they get back to their HQ. Detective Tia says, “obviously our friend only comes out at night” so they devise a plan to catch their killer. When night comes around all officers are stationed at their positions in order to catch this creature. As the fog sets in, an officer does his patrolling route and hears a growl. He stops and looks behind him he sees nothing, so he keeps walking. This time its louder, he begins to run, as he runs he hears something like metal hitting the ground. He looks back and sees a creature covered in shadow with metal claws and red eyes. He runs and doesn’t stop. He reaches his point, and they release the trap to catch whatever this creature is, but it suddenly vanished. Detective Tia and the officers get their guns out and are watching every inch of their surroundings. Detective Tia sees red eyes and fires, she hits one if her men. As the bleeds he is dragged into the fog. They see more red eyes in the fog and fire, hitting their own men and those men are dragged into the fog. Infuriated Detective Tia shouts, “fire in a directions”, they fire and keeps firing until she stops them. As they stop, officer Cage walks closer to the fog and is yanked into it along with several others. One by one they are taken out.

Struck by fear Detective Tia runs, and doesn’t look back as her men are torn to pieces. But notices, in her panic a weird paw like print of blood on the street but keeps running. The next morning citizens walk out into the street. A woman screams “AWWWW”! The road was painted with the crimson blood of the officers. Their bodies torn and scattered across the street. Which became known as the “FOG NIGHT MASSACRE”. The officers that survived searched for Detective Tia and found her at the station shook from the event. When she saw the officers that had survived last night massacre she snapped back and in a fit of rage ordered all the remaining officers in her district tom come to HQ. She exclaimed, “we will kill whatever the hell this thing is, bring back Elanor Rosenburg, and avenge those who have lost their lives to it.

So, every man was at work gathering weapons to hunt and kill this creature. Once all of the supplies were ready to go Detective Tia created an entire plan to corner it and kill it. But, officer Shawn asks, “how are we supposed to find it”. Detective Tia says “it has tracks of blood that I noticed when I... yea, so we just follow those and kill this thing”. As they traveled to the woods Tia noticed that even though the sun was out it was night time in the woods. They stopped and unloaded their gear. They marched into the woods only to be met by a thick fog. It was thicker than the one in the city. As they slowed they heard a cry for help Detective Tia and five other officers ran to check what it was only to find Elanor Rosenburg. She was bound to a tree with some sort of fluid.

When Elanor was freed, they ran back to meet the others only to find them gone. Officer Shawn shouted, “what the hell is going on! Their guns are here but there not, they were just here!” He threw down his gun and said, “I’m out you can do this yourself.” Detective Tia yells, “DON’T YOU LEAVE, WE HAVE TO PROTECT ELANOR!” As he runs, he is cut in half. Upon seeing this Tia puts Elanor in the middle of her and the remaining four officers. They see a tail come out the fog grabs Elanor and dodges telling her men to “shoot where I shoot.” She sees red eyes and shoots. The creature swiftly takes out two officers leaving three. They and this time they hit it, but it had no effect, enraged the creature kills two more officers. Leaving only Tia and Elanor.

Tia tells Elanor, “Here’s the plan even though most of those have never worked, here’s the plan I'll distract this accursed beast and you’ll get away in that carriage.” Elanor responds, “I'm not leaving without you.” Tia tells her, “One of us has to make out of here alive and that’s going to be you. So, when I start shooting you go.” They wait anxiously for it to make its move, but it refuses to. Tia tells Elanor, “run now”. Elanor runs and Tia shoots. Tia struggles to fight the creature as Elanor takes off, the creature tries to chase her. But Tia grabs a rope off one of the men's body and catches it with the rope and pulls it back. Tia continues to fight it; she grabs her sword and stabs it. The creature lifts its head and opens its mouth and then there was silence.  Elanor able to escape makes it back to the city. Upon returning she is rushed to be taken care of. While recovering a man walks in and ask her questions about what happened in the woods. Elanor says, “It, it... I can’t remember.” The man says, “you can’t remember���, Elanor replies, “It’s as if I was never there, as if nothing ever happened.”

[fireteam-dauntless]

A Tale of Two Guardians XIII

Part 1 of the Destined Series. Chapter 13 : Capture and Release masterlist

word count : 3.4K [I know, it’s a big one] tag list : @mail-me-a-snail @basically-nacl send me an ask or a pm to be added to the tag list!

I don’t know how long it was before I woke up, but when I did, my Ghost floated up in front of me.

“You’re awake!” She exclaimed.  “Thank the Traveler.”

“Where am I?” I asked softly and rubbed the back of my head.  I had a killer headache.  I blinked a few times and realized I was in a white room, nothing in it, no windows, and the vaguest outline of a door that had no handle.  I could feel my heart sinking as the realization sank in. 

“You… You’re in total lockdown," Dawn confessed.

I didn’t say anything in response.  I was afraid this would happen.  The moment I stopped running, they would have found me.  “Do you know what happened to Maverick?”

“He protested, but there was nothing he could do.  The people that caught you were Zavala’s bounty hunters, nothing gets in the way of their missions.  They had their orders.”

“Is he alright?”

“He should be.  They told him he would have to take it up with Zavala before they caught hold of me and put me in here with you.”

Rage sparked through me at the thought of someone touching my Ghost.  Someone who wasn’t Maverick, a stranger with malice in his intentions.

I close my eyes to refocus and sighed heavily.  “So what happens now?”

“Now?” My Ghost paused before responding.  “We wait.  Try not to go insane.”

I crossed my legs and closed my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly.  I could still feel Arc energy flowing through my veins.  “I am the storm,” I said softly.  “I am the calm in the eye of the hurricane.  I will not falter.”

I let my body relax, and entered a meditative state.  Nothing could distract me, or cause me to panic.  I simply thought of my Fireteam, thought of Maverick, and thought of my mission.  

I will remain as myself.  I will not falter.

When the door finally opened, my eyes shot open, and I thrust my hands forward.  The thunder strike erupted from my palms and struck the man that stood before me, I jumped up, kicked the back of his knees to lower him and put the man in a headlock before he could sink to the floor.  

“Where’s Zavala?!” I demanded.  

“In the Hall!!” the stranger responded, his shout garbled by the pressure of my arm on his throat.  He sounded like one of the bounty hunters that had kidnapped me to bring me into isolation.  I let the man go, he fell to the ground coughing, then I turned and walked out the door like nothing  had happened.  I had been stripped of my armor and put in a simple white shirt and pants, something usually seen on rogue Guardians when they were undergoing several reevaluations.

I caught glances from almost every Guardian that I passed by, unaware that my blue eyes were almost glowing with the Arc Light that hummed through me.  I walked proudly through the Tower, straight to the Hall of Guardians, but the Vanguard weren’t there.  They must have been in a private conversation elsewhere.  I turned around, and saw Lord Shaxx wave me over.

“Greetings, Guardian,” he said.  

“Lord Shaxx,” I replied with a nod of my head.  “Do you know where the Vanguard are?”

He nodded, then slipped me a small diagram of how to get to the private conference room that was reserved for reevaluations, private meetings, and battle discussion.  A SCIF.

“Thank you,” I said, and took off without much more to say. I followed his map down a hidden hallway, and I could hear the arguments happening on the other end.  I recognized the voices of Ikora, Zavala, and Cayde-6, so I hovered outside the door, listening in on the conversation.

“Genesis Page is a flight risk!” Zavala said.  “We cannot let her out of lockdown until she clears a few evaluations.”

“You cannot believe that,” Ikora stepped in.  “She missed her reevaluation for the sake of trying to save another Guardian.”

“And she helped bring everyone home,” Cayde added.  

“Even still, her revaluation was a necessary part of rehabilitation.  The simple fact that she didn’t return to the Tower afterwards showed that she did not have intentions of receiving the reevaluation.”

“That’s because you labelled her a criminal!”  It was Maverick that spoke now.  His voice was strong and stern, full of anger.  “She was grieving the loss of her fireteam, just like I did.  I know what was going through her head.  You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like, Commander.”

“You went through your eval, Maverick-8,” Zavala snapped.  “She did not.  There is nothing you can do.”

“It doesn’t matter if I got my eval at the time!” Maverick yelled back.  “I disappeared to the Moon for a solid week!  Just to slaughter Hive in the name of my fireteam!  You couldn’t understand the pain of loss!”

“Enough!”  Zavala shouted, and a silence fell over the room.  I couldn’t stand the way that he spoke to Maverick.

“You don’t know what I saw in the EDZ,” Maverick said after a moment of silence, his voice level and calmed.  “She is no flight risk.  Ikora, you were right.  She is one of the best of her age.”

“What happened out there, Maverick?”  Ikora asked.

Before he could speak, I entered the keycode Shaxx wrote on the paper and opened the door.  Everyone fell silent at the sight of me.  “I embraced that storm that has been tormenting me for the last week,” I said simply as I walked up to Maverick and stood beside him.  “In my time in the EDZ’s French district, I followed the path of how I met my team.  I didn’t want to forget them, and it was the only way I could feel them near me.  Not anymore.  There… there was an incident that Gilly never added in his reports.  Adam had dared me to climb the Eiffel Tower, and in my overconfidence, I did.  Well, I only got part of the way before Gilly demanded I come down.”

“Where are you going with this?”  Zavala said, though his frustration of my appearance was clear in his voice.

“Right, anyway,” I said.  “I climbed it… how long ago was it?”

“Two days ago,” Maverick said quietly.

“Oh, wow, I was out for that long?  Anyway, I climbed it.  In the middle of a very bad storm.  Lightning struck the old monument, and I fell off.  But… I found peace in my panic, so to speak.  I embraced the storm.  I embraced both my life and their deaths.”

“You are a Stormcaller?” Ikora deduced with wonder in her voice. 

I nodded and smiled.  “And I have felt like myself again ever since.  Acceptance of what happened.  That I can’t change it, but their Light will always be with me.”

“That doesn’t explain how you even ended up here,” Zavala said.  He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Oh? That little detail.  Right.  I don’t know, mister tough Commander, I was kidnapped by a group of Guardians!  How the fuck did you think I was going to respond when I woke up in solitary confinement without much recollection of how I got there because they knocked me out when I wasn’t even resisting!  You need to teach your bounty hunters to give people a chance to surrender before they knock someone out.”

Cayde burst out into laughter and I heard Maverick stifling a chuckle.  Even Ikora had a smile on her face, though she was trying not to show it.  Zavala was not amused.

“Language, Genesis,” he said lowly. 

“Language yourself,” I said back.  “Look, you can give me your test, you can give me ten of them, or you can let me prove myself through action.  Anyone can fake your tests on paper.  Let me prove it to you.  Give me a chance, please.”

I watched the Titan Vanguard glance at his associates, then glance at Maverick and I before he caved.  “Very well.  Do not disappoint me, Guardians.  You are dismissed.” 

I smiled and nodded my head, and Maverick and I left the room in tandem.  Once we were alone in the hallway, I felt Maverick place a hand on my lower back.

“You really need to get out of those clothes,” he said.  I looked up at him suspiciously and he quickly realized how his statement could be perceived.  “No no no, not like that, I mean, you know, they basically paint you as a criminal and you aren’t a criminal and every Guardian in the Tower is staring at you and…” He sighed and covered his face with his hands.  “Ugh, this is coming out so much worse than I wanted it to.”

I couldn’t help it.  I burst out laughing.  “Oh Maverick, you really need to stop trying so hard all of the time.  But you’re right.  Some of my own clothes would be so much more comfortable.”

He visibly relaxed that he got away clean with his misleading statement, but he slowed down his walk.  “What is it?” I asked softly.

“Well… since you were gone for so long, all of your belongings were put into storage.”

“Oh.”

We exited the hallway into the Hall of Guardians, until we were finally on the main level of the Tower and I walked over to the Postmaster.  I collected my mail and engrams that had shown up in the past five days or so, and started to sift through it.  Maverick leaned against the wall beside me.  I could hear the whispers from Guardians every now and then, some about my clothing, some about what happened to me on the Eiffel Tower, and some were saying that I was one of the heroes that brought the missing Guardians home from Phobos.

“Word floats around fast,” I remarked after I finally got through all of my mail.

He scoffed and shrugged his shoulders.  “Unfortunately, people around here take gossip like it’s free exotic engrams.  Without a fucking question.”

I shook my head and leaned against his side.  “It’s a little… unnerving.”

“Yeah, no kidding.  Do me a favor and DON’T ask me what they’ve said when you aren’t around.  To me.  I think I’ve gotten like eight citations in the past four days for assaulting other Guardians with the intent to harm.  And Skinner has DOUBLE.”

I just stared at him in both shock and awe, and for a split second I thought I was going to start crying.  And I did, and I tried to hide my face from Maverick.  I only choked out a small “thank you” before walking away as quickly as possible.  I slipped into the elevator when two Guardians just came out of it, pushed for the City level, and closed the door before Maverick could follow me inside.  Halfway down, I pushed the emergency stop button and sat down on the floor and pulled my knees to my chest.  The light in the elevator dimmed and pulsed, casting the room in between light and darkness every three seconds.

These two Guardians defended my honor when I was unable to, and they were willing to accept the consequences without caring about their own reputation.  I couldn’t appreciate them more, but I had no idea how to show it.  Their kindness was more than I deserved from them, they were more like strangers to me than anything else.  At least Skinner still was.  I haven’t really known him for long.  And Maverick… Maverick is a guy that I have fallen head over heels in love in that I’m not even totally sure I can stay with.  There are rules around Guardians being in relationships, I’m sure, but I’m not totally sure on the specifics.  And besides, I’m not sure about him, but I haven’t told any of the Vanguard about our relationship.

I shook my head and ran my hands through my silver white hair, and sighed heavily.  This was too much and at the same time, not enough.  I couldn’t understand why they would vehemently defend me, and yet at the same time I couldn’t be more thankful to have them. 

“Guardian?” My Ghost’s voice rang through my head.  “You shouldn’t always question things.  Sometimes it’s just meant to be.  Those two care so much about you.”

“I think that’s the problem.  The last two people that cared for me like that are dead.”

“I know, but I also know that you don’t want to stop moving forward.”

“Yes, but…”

“No but’s there, Genesis.  Just let it happen.  I know you don’t want to lose them, so why do you keep pushing them away.”

“Because I am afraid that I will fail them,” I admitted quietly.  “I am afraid.  Terrified.”

“And that’s all the more reason to keep them closer.  You can’t fail them if you are with them.”

I thought for a moment and finally stood and deactivated the emergency stop, and the elevator started moving again.  “Do you think that Maverick’s offer is still on the table, even after all that’s happened?”

“What offer?  Oh, that.  I’m sure that they still want you on their Fireteam.”

“Hmm…  Maybe I should accept their offer then.”  I smiled to myself and the door opened and another Guardian got on the elevator.  I got off here, then climbed five flights of stairs back up to the level that my old apartment was on.  My keycode still worked, but sure enough, when I pushed the door open, my apartment was stripped of all of my personal belongings, everything from my clothes, to my bedsheets, to my paints and coffee mugs were gone.  Any curious items that I had found in my adventures?  Gone.  All of my walls were covered by sheets hung over them to hide the murals, presumably until they could get a team down here to paint over them if I had been gone any longer.

I walked inside to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Despite all that's happened, I was exhausted.  All I wanted to do was sleep.  Unfortunately for me, there was a knock on my door.  I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and stood.

“I swear Maverick, now is not the best time to talk,” I said and pulled the door open, but it wasn’t Maverick on the other side, it was Ikora.  “Oh. Master Ikora, I’m sorry, I thought…”

She simply smiled at me. “I have an understanding of who you thought I was,” she said.  “I wanted to come by and congratulate you.”

“Ma’am you really don’t have to.”

“Actually, we do,” she said.  “There are so few of us left with the ability to control the storm.  There are fewer who are even able to gain the ability.  I also came to let you know that your transfer to the City has been approved, given that you keep your promise to us to prove that you are ready for the field.”  

“I do intend to,” I replied.  “Is my apartment ready to be moved in?” 

“Yes.  Everything from storage was moved there this morning.”

“Thank you, Ikora.”

“Child, you need not thank me.  Fight well out there, Genesis,” she said as she walked away.  I quickly gathered myself and hurried back down the hallway to the elevator, and pushed for the City level when the door finally opened up.  I couldn’t be more excited to finally start living in the city.  I couldn’t be more excited to tell Skinner and Maverick that I wanted to officially join their Fireteam.

When I finally got to the City level and the doors open, I opened a channel with Maverick.  

“Hey, Maverick, sorry I just kind of left you at the postmaster.  But can you meet me on Crestwood Road, number 46?  I just got my official transfer to the City and I was hoping you might be willing to help me move stuff and get settled in?”

“Oh, uh, sure.  Do you mind if I bring the arsenal?”

“The arsenal?”

“Ha!  Skinner, I mean.  I think the guy would love to see you, since the last time he saw you was on Phobos.”

“Oh, sure!  The extra hands would be good. See you guys in twenty minutes?”

“Sure.”

I cut the channel link and started jogging down the road.  “Hey Ghost, can you direct me to my new place?”

“Yeah…” She started.  “Crestwood Road is two blocks down.  Your duplex is actually at an intersection with Langston Street, which is three blocks down on Crestwood.”

I follow the directions, and come to a beautiful brick building in the more historical district of the Last City.  The side was decorated with several vines of ivy.  The window frames looked old and the paint on them was cracked and chipped, but the moment I walked inside, it was nothing short of modern.  My boxes were lined along the walls in the kitchen, and in my panic, I quickly searched through them for the painting of Maverick that I had started.  I found it and set it up on my easel, covered it, and placed another unfinished painting on top of it.  

I started unpacking, and loaded all of my canvases along the wall by the easel.  I was in the middle of unpacking dishes when all of the sudden the door flew open, and I turned quickly.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” Skinner said as he walked towards me, his arms outstretched, and then pulled me into a hug.  “The AWOL and MIA Guardian returned home a hero!”

I couldn’t help but laugh and I hugged him back.  “You flatter me, Skinner.  I’m just happy to be back.”

“I’m happy you’re back, too, Genny.”

I heard a second pair of steps start walking in, hoping it was Maverick, but Skinner picked me up and swung me around in a circle.  I laughed and hit his shoulders.  “Put me down, jackass!” I giggled, and pushed him in a friendly manner when he finally set me down.  I turned around and surely enough, Maverick was standing there, arms crossed and leaning against the wall.  “Maverick, I’m glad you made it,” I said softly, then went over and hugged him tightly.  He hugged me back, Skinner burst into his signature maniacal laugh.

“Aww, Mav… If you keep looking at me like that you’re going to make somebody jealous.”

Skinner was teasing, obviously, but I couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Okay, you two, I’ve got a lot of boxes to unpack, so let’s get going.”

We started passing boxes out to each other.  I made sure to leave the ones with all of my casual clothing and personal belongings to the side so neither of them would touch it.  But after a while, once most everything essential was unpacked and put away, we found ourselves lounging in the living room, Maverick and I on the couch, Skinner perched on the armchair.  We were laughing, telling stories about our pasts.  When we started, it was about midday, and now the setting sun was casting the room in an orange glow.  I gazed outside for a moment, before I cut Maverick off.  He was in the middle of a playful argument with Skinner about Maker knows what, I had stopped listening after a while.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Huh?”  Skinner stopped talking and just stared at me.

“If you guys will have me, I’m in.  I’d like to ‘officially’ join your fireteam.” 

“You know, I was hoping you would, because for fucks sake you are pretty good with that rifle of yours.  And hell, you’re not like a lot of warlocks around.  Most of them focus on rational decisions and don’t take risks.  You do.”  Skinner was grinning like a madman.

“Good.  We’re happy to have you on the team, Genesis.”  Maverick wrapped an arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug.  I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh.  

“Well, thanks guys for helping me get settled in.  But I really want to hit the sack.  I’m exhausted.”

“Sure, sure, that’s fine,” Skinner said and stood up from his chair.  “Besides, Cayde called earlier and wants to speak to all of us about some favor he wants.  I dunno.  He said he’d explain tomorrow.”

“Yep.  We’ll meet you at the Tower tomorrow morning,”  Maverick said, then stood up and followed Skinner to the door.  I escorted them out to the door, but before I closed the door after saying good night, Maverick turned on the steps and looked at me.  “And, Genesis?”

“What is it?” 

“Welcome to the team.”

I smiled at him and nodded.  “Thank you.”  Then he left, a slight smile on his face, and I closed the door.

I turned off the lights, collapsed on my bed and let out a contented sigh.

“Well, Guardian,” my Ghost said while I stared at the blank walls and ceiling.  “Welcome to your new home.  And your new family.”

“Thanks, Ghost.”  

[dancingkirby]

As both a writer and a reader, I guess I should do a few of both. This got pretty long so it's under a read-more.

My fics (in the chronological order that I posted them):

Dissolution Fandom: Yugioh 5D's. Rating: M.

Summary: The formation and breakup of Team Satisfaction, as seen through the eyes of Crow and Kiryu. Darkfic.

Into Open Waters Fandom: Legend of Korra. Rating: M.

Summary: When forced to flee their home with a small child in tow, Eska and Desna begin a journey of self-discovery.

Umbra Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender. Rating: M (Heed the tags; this story gets really dark in places.)

Summary: Four of Ozai's ladies during the Day of Black Sun, and how they got there.

Queen of Fire, King of Ice Fandom: Yugioh GX. Rating: T.

Summary: Inspired by Silvormoon's fanfic "Manjoume Family Vacation." Before setting off for Tempest Top, the brothers first must seek permission to go there from a mysterious queen. A series of misunderstandings ensues, and Manjoume becomes re-acquainted with the person he least expected (or wanted) to see.

The Properties of Love and Hate Fandom: Yugioh GX. Rating: M.

Summary: Amon looked amused at Ed’s continued silence. “If you desire my wife so badly, I have a little proposal for you. You can have her, on one condition…I get to claim you too.”

Volatile Elements Fandom: Yugioh GX. Rating: M.

Summary: Fifteen-year-old Taniya, the youngest of the Seven Stars, is planted at Duel Academia as a student by Kagemaru. But with a romantic relationship that’s perhaps not quite what she anticipated, a struggle with increasingly divided loyalties, and a cryptic prophecy, her hands are going to be full this year.

NOTE: Unfinished.

Maternal Instinct Fandom: Yugioh GX. Rating: E.

Summary: Taniya and Misawa celebrate their anniversary in their own special way.

(I'm also proud of my most recent fic, Subject One, but @soaringonblackwings already posted the link to that. Thanks so much for doing that, BTW!)

Other People's Fics:

WARNING: The first two fics are from the Harry Potter fandom. I am no longer a participant in this fandom and never wrote any fanfics for it myself, but there were some real gems and I, personally, want to still be able to enjoy them despite how JKR is a horrible person and ruined everything.

FINDING HIMSELF by Minisinoo. Rating: M.

Summary: The-Boy-Who-Almost-Died has to figure out what it means that he didn't. Harry's tumultuous 5th year at Hogwarts is Cedric's 7th and final. Bound together by shared trauma, both boys fall under Ministry suspicion ... Who is Cedric Diggory? Cedric!Lives AU

Recall Alice When She Was Just Small by Harmonic Friction. Rating: M.

Summary: Dudley Dursley: champion boxer, crass chav, cannibal?, bad boyfriend, good son, annoying cousin, best friend. It's hard to keep all the identities straight. Fin.

The Blood of Kings by @silvormoon. Fandom: Yugioh 5D’s. Rating: T.

Summary: Fantasy AU. Being king is hard work. Jack is doing his best to rule his war-torn kingdom while dealing with his upcoming marriage and the uprising of a mysterious cult. More than one person wants him dead, but only one is trying to kill him...

End of the World Series by FernWithy. Fandom: The Hunger Games. Rating: G-M.

NOTE: I don't care what the upcoming book/movie say; THIS is always going to be my canon!

We Must Be Killers: Tales from District 2 by lorata. Fandom: The Hunger Games. Rating: G-M.

Ozymandian by @frostbitepandaaaaa Fandom: Game of Thrones. Rating: E.

Summary:

She should have been more prudent, instead of falling into him like a spell. She should have handled this thing like the fatal tangle of thorns it was, instead of drinking the air from his lungs like the sweetest Arbor gold. She should have picked it up about the edges, holding it at arm’s length until she could find a safe enough place to rest it upon the earth and walk away forever.

(Chapters 1-5 are a collection of Missing Scenes from Season 7. Chapter 6 is when we begin our own journey into possibilities for Season 8)

NOTE: And speaking of me ignoring canon...

Changes by NerdyMama. Fandom: Pokemon Sword & Shield. Rating: E.

Summary: One night, one error of judgment. Now Leon and Sonia's friendship is set to change forever.

Ozula Kinktober by @azulas-daddy-kink Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender. Rating: E. (HEED THE TAGS!)

Summary:

Enjoy, you filthy perverts!

Going to try and complete all 31 days, but I'm not making any promises. Chapters are standalone unless otherwise specified, some will be modern AU or diverge from canon for convenience. R&R!<3

The Tainted Soil of the Fields of Arcadia by @inkblackorchid Fandom: Yugioh 5D's. Rating: T.

Summary: Following an eye-opening confrontation with Misty Tredwell, Aki decides she might have to face up to her past if she ever wants to be free of it. After approaching Mikage with a curious request, she ends up with the last remains of the Arcadia Movement--and starts digging.

Fanfic writers!

Use this post to share some of your favorite fanfics you have written. Share the links so we can read and show you some love.

Fanfic readers! Share some of the fanfics you enjoyed reading, your favorite writers, or any fanfics that just make your day. Show our fanfic writers some much needed and deserved appreciation for all that they do for fandom!

[irenespring]

House MD Characters and Their Mentors

Oh look it's more of this very niche character analysis. This time I'm looking at which of @lorata's District Two Victors would be good mentors for House characters. House fans reading this: you would really like Lorata's writing. Only limited Hunger Games knowledge required (basically you need to know the premise); lots of messed up people making the best of things, found family shenanigans, emotional angst, and queerness.

Anyway, time for mentors!

James Wilson: Devon. The essence of a Devon tribute. Really wants to make the world better. Fairly messed up and depressed, but does genuinely care about the district, and even the kid he volunteers for. The one bit of really key information we are provided about Devon's tributes is that Devon's dreamers burn bright, but flame out as the reality of the Games shatters their world view. This reminds me a lot of how House says that "Wilson thinks that if he cares enough he'll never have to die" contrasted with Wilson's feelings of betrayal and devastation that he, a oncologist who gave his life to treating cancer, is dying of cancer. He served the Capitol, believed everything the Center told him, and the truth of the Games ---the pain and the guilt and the injustice of it all--- is a sudden betrayal that completely unbalances him. The only way he wins is through temporary Arena madness, the kind of desperation that caused him to double his dose of chemo in a last ditch effort to survive and make the world make sense again during canon. Devon's main challenge post-Arena is helping him rebuild his shattered sense of self: Wilson thought he was a good person, but you can only win the Hunger Games by being vicious. Devon, as someone who had a similar break, is the best choice to help him form a cohesive identity. Devon can see him for who he actually is, all of it, and still say he cares. Devon can cite his own struggles with accepting care without "enough work" in return to get Victor!Wilson to step back from compulsively ignoring his needs to "earn" affection. Devon can pull him out of spirals about how his mental state is worse than his brother's now and show him how there is a way forward. The Victory Tour almost kills him, all those people hate him even though he only ever did what was asked of him and what he thought was right. Along with Devon, there is probably only one other person who could help him embrace that he does not need to be perfect or liked by everyone, which brings us to...

Gregory House: Adessa. I went through multiple avenues with this one. First I thought Callista, because viciousness and unapologetic attitude. Then I thought Lyme, because abusive childhood, resentment of the rules, and attachment issues. So we had option A and option B...and we somehow landed around option L. I dismissed Callista because of the reasons I thought Lyme. I moved away from Lyme because she works best with tributes who want to open up but can't until after they win. Claudius wants a family, Misha wants affection, etc. House wouldn't want to open up--- he would want respect, validation, and someone to make everything make sense. The reasons Adessa wasn't a good fit for Nero would make her a great fit for Victor!House. Nero wanted to be told Adessa loves him, but House wouldn't trust any obvious display of affection---instead perceiving his mentor's care for him through nonverbal actions she takes: exactly what Adessa expected to be true of Nero. Adessa can make recovery and all the chaotic, swirling feelings fit within a reasonable framework. She can answer his questions and treat him like someone with a rational mind. She knows that if he opens up, he probably doesn't want to be touched. She understands why he doesn't want the cuddly relationship that Victor!Wilson would have with Devon. She wouldn't pressure him to talk about feelings before he was ready and would give him space when he was ready. She understands his intellectual curiosity. She's probably the only one who could get him to invest in therapy. He wouldn't go based on "I've been there" talks or "I care about you" talks, he would go because "after a significant trauma the logical course of action is to seek medical care, so that one can be assigned medications to regulate neurotransmitters, and to remove unwanted chaos so one can better focus on more important matters." Oh, and also if John House every showed up to take credit for shaping his son into a Victor, Adessa has a briefcase full of knives and decades of fantasizing about taking revenge on behalf of her Victors. They would find his body in pieces...probably. If Adessa was feeling nice and wanted Blythe to have closure.

Devon is terrified when Adessa requests a meeting with him. Misha asks him what he did like fifty times and he doesn't know. He almost calls his mentor, but doesn't because he's a mentor too now, dammit and Adessa totally shouldn't scare him anymore. When he shows up she opens with: "Our Victors appear to have significant romantic attraction to each other. Shall we hasten their union via jointly planned manipulation, culminating in an arranged one-on-one meal over candlelight, perhaps involving the exchange of flowers?"

Lisa Cuddy: Nero. This one is hard. Cuddy is a lot more difficult to analyze than House and Wilson even though I actually prefer her over House (Wilson is my favorite, he just has so many problems, weird habits, and hidden depression). She has a lot of contradictions. She's manipulative, but empathetic. She genuinely advocates for the rules, but allows for crazy ass things to take place. She seems to argue for the rules because she has to, but is inherently drawn to the more chaotic, vigilante tendencies of House. She puts on a show of obeying regulations set by those above her, but seeks power so that she can facilitate what she thinks is right (she repeatedly says she's the only one who would employ House). This is reflective of a Nero tribute. She doesn't know why she is drawn to violence and competition of the Centre, but she is. She completes her kill tests with the highest scores in her year, but she mainly only feels guilty for not feeling guilty. She doesn't have a rationalization for why she is like this the way someone with House's history has. She should want to join the Peacekeepers or be a medic. But the more time passes in the Centre, the more she wants to win the Hunger Games. She goes into the Games a year early, the youngest District Two volunteer in history, and even though she knows the killing is wrong she still wants to win because why shouldn't it be her? She's better at this than the others. However, the inner conflict causes problems post-Games, as the criticisms from other districts actually hurt her, because she agrees. She knows there's something wrong, she fears she might secretly be evil. Nero, with a lifetime of dealing with conflicted, crazy tributes, knows how to reassure her that even if that something is actually wrong, she still has people who love her.

Bonus! Ducklings:

Foreman: Brutus. He's just here to do his job. He knows he's better than his Centre rivals, so his job is the Games. Trying to make it right or wrong will only drive you crazy.

Chase: Lyme. Daddy issues, alcoholism in the family history, wants the authority to like him. Lots of weird hidden triggers.

Cameron: Emory. Wants to be a decent person, just kept going in the Centre because she figured no one would pick her and she owed it to her district to keep trying. She had a baby Victor crush on House and Adessa had to take Emory aside and be like "the baby is making my Victor uncomfortable, tell her to calm down."

Thirteen: Misha. Rules are for suckers, enjoy your life while you have it, desperately try to find meaning in the world while pretending you don't give a shit.

Kutner: Lyme. Wants to find a place to belong, shoves his emotional issues down because he thinks nobody cares. Thinks outside the box, but still responds well around authority he respects.

Taub: I have no fucking idea. Seriously, the more I try to think about this the more I have no thoughts, head empty. Maybe Odin? Odin has a "do what you're supposed to do no matter what, no matter the cost" ideology that would cause a mentor mismatch like Adessa and Nero but at least that mismatch is something.

Anyway if one (1) person requests a Victors!House/Wilson I will write scenes so you have been warned.

[analiza-beta]

Callista the Butcher, Victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games. From We Must Be Killers by @lorata

(Because I am trying to write her pre-victory and it is like pulling teeth, she refuses to cooperate. So art to make me feel sane lol)

TW for blood.

[hwas-housewife]

Oooo can i ask for 11 from the sentence prompts with Hongjoong?

Prompt: “My name is unimportant – you, tyrant, will die today by my blade.”

Word count: 2k

Genre: Royalty!Hongjoong x Rebel Leader!reader, mostly angsty plot and part two might promise some other types of writing 

Warnings: not really anything, attempted assassination, mention of murder

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

“What’s the blade?” -@leejihoonownsmyheart

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

A/N: here is the first ask for the game I posted! It was a joy to write, and really inspired me to maybe write a part two if I ever get around to it ~ (also royalty! ateez has become a new obsession of mine, so thank you tons)

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

“My name is unimportant – you, tyrant, will die today by my blade.”

A bold move, even for yourself. 

You were standing in the middle of the coronation of your king-to-be, Prince Hongjoong, sword pointed towards the named soul. It felt like a scene out of the tales people passed down from generation to generation. The rebel, standing in front of the worshipped royal family. Hundreds of people around, watching the scene unfold.

The royal guard was quick to surround you, halting any further movements as you were circled by sharp swords. Everything became silent and still, not a single person dared to interrupt history in the making.

“And who may you be?” Prince Hongjoong appeared unbothered as he made his way down the pedestal he was standing on. He walked closer and closer to where you were until he was right behind the guards.

“They call me Luna, leader of The Crimson Revolution,” gasps could be heard at your declaration. Even the richest families have heard the rumors of the Crimson Revolution. An aggressive rebel group that has been working to overthrow the crooked Royal family. And at the head of it all, you. 

Hongjoong merely laughed at your response, “You? The leader? If you’re their measly excuse for a leader then I’m surprised they’ve become as much of a threat as they are.”

Rage bubbled up inside you. He had the guts to laugh at you. At what you’ve accomplished.

“Like you’re one to talk, Prince Hongjoong,” you spat the title back at him, hatred evident in your words. 

Am amused smirk now pressed on his face. You hated how he treated this as a joke. The audience that had originally been here for his coronation was no longer frightened, instead, they were beginning to laugh at your assassination attempt. He was making a fool of you, the leader of the largest rebellion.

“Tell me, Ms. Luna,” you seethed at the way he threw out your name as if he were talking down to a child, “how did you expect this to go? If you’re supposedly the brains behind the Crimson Rebellion, how on Earth did you come up with the worst way to assassinate me?”

The anger must have been evident in the way you held yourself, a scowl and red blush covered your face. He was embarrassing you, making a fool of your hard work in front of everybody. You can’t believe you let him do this to you. You had to take control back.

You began to act calm and collected once again, relaxing your arms and letting your sword hang beside you. You mirrored Hongjoong’s smirk and looked him dead in his eyes, “I figured that you enjoy the sound of your voice so much that you wouldn’t even hear me sneaking up on you. But then I felt as though that would be a little too easy, so I decided it would be better to announce my presence.”

His face dropped in annoyance at your jab. You were pretty proud of your response. 

“Guards, throw her in the dungeon. I want to ask her a few questions after the coronation,” he commanded his guards without hesitation. Realizing this might be your only chance, you waited for them to move to lunge at Hongjoong. Your blade merely grazed his arm before the guard had you pinned to the ground, restrained.

Everyone was beginning to freak out now, concerned you hurt the future king. But the guards managed to disarm you as Hongjoong watched, victory etched into his features. You glared back at him, happy to have at least left your mark on him. Even if you do die within the next few days.

The guards holding on to you pulled you up and started dragging you off to where you only assumed the cells were. Maintaining eye contact with the Prince, you spat at him as they pulled you farther and farther from your goal.

The cells were dirty. And cold. And wet in some places where water was leaking. You could hear faint sounds of the celebration as the Prince was turned into the King. You had failed. You curled further into yourself in the corner of your cell.

What would your people think of you now? You had one shot. One chance to do right. And you blew it. You finally had your chance to speak in front of the Prince, to make him realize all the wrong he’s done in life. Yet you couldn’t even manage that. 

A pathetic excuse for a leader, indeed. 

You were sure the news of your capture had spread to the rest of the rebellion. You had trained them for a day in which this might happen, yet the day had come and you felt as though you didn’t prepare them at all. Successors were lined up, future plans already schemed. You were always thinking up new ways to win the kingdom back to the people. But now, you were here. 

It had to have been hours alone in the cell before you heard anyone make their way down towards you. You refused to respect them enough to spare a glance, choosing rather to stare at the stone ground. 

“That was quite the scene you put on earlier,” the sound of your enemy flowed through your ears and you became angry once again.

You were not going to talk to him. Not after he took your assassination as a joke and humiliated you in front of the majority of the kingdom. Not after he managed to capture you and disarm you without laying a finger on you. He doesn’t deserve your words.

“What? Can you not even look at me anymore? Are you that hurt that I’m still walking? Now that’s no way to treat your king.”

Still not facing him, you mumbled a few words that you will always swear by, “You will never be my king. Now leave, I don’t want to see you.”

“Bold words coming from someone behind bars,” to emphasize his point, he tapped on one of the bars, a metallic ringing sound following his actions.

“I could’ve killed you if you weren’t hiding behind the ten guards. I guess you’re just too afraid to face me.”

“Now, now, Luna. Do I need to teach you a lesson on how to treat royalty? It appears you don’t know when to shut your mouth,” apparently you knew how to get to him, because his words sounded as angry as when he ordered you to be sent here.

You finally looked up at the tyrant. His cool blonde hair was fashioned in a way that fit the crown atop his head. His brown eyes were looking down at you sharply, and his lips were pointed slightly downwards in a frown. You were pretty confident that one of the plethora of accessories adorning his body cost more than the house you resided in, and his clothes were more extravagant than anything you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t call me that. Only people worthy of my respect can call me that. And you are far from that,” you’re beginning to feel like the only thing you can do when you look at him is scowl. But you suppose that’s just the deep-seated hatred for him. 

He didn’t hesitate to respond to you, glaring back.

“And what do people worthy of your respect have to do? Kill innocent guards protecting their kingdom? Steal necessary imported goods? Attempt an assassination?”

“My people aren’t the monsters that you portray them to be. They’re good people,” your voice betrayed you, cracking at the thought of your underlings being perceived as evil.

“And neither am I. Yet here we are,” he sighed, seeming exhausted for once by your hatred for him, “Why do you even hate me so much? I have done nothing to wrong this kingdom. It’s been prospering since I was allowed to make decisions for its future.”

The glare on your face remained as you stood up, making your way towards the king. 

“Have you ever thought about how it’s been affecting the rest of your kingdom? Sure, parts of Atiny have prospered. More kingdoms want to trade, and more people than ever want to live here. But we’ve suffered. In doing all of this, you’ve taken away your people’s voices. Our voices. My voice. The amount of people I’ve found out on the street because their business has been taken from them, all because you let some foreigners come here and offer the same trade, it’s disgusting. I’ve had to take in endless amounts of abandoned children, all because their parents can’t afford to support them anymore. The poor district is the most crowded it’s ever been. And all you filthy rich bourgeois sit up here in your fancy houses, paying no mind to our suffering. Because at least you all get what you want.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, Hongjoong almost appeared sympathetic. 

“You still injured and killed a large amount of my guard. Do you realize how many deaths you’re accountable for? You could be hanged in an hour for all of them if I wanted you to be,” he looked back into your eyes, trying to remind you of the killer you’re made out to be.

“They were hurting my people. Petty crimes like theft happen often there and they think the solution is making examples of the perpetrators. I can’t let them kill children for stealing loaves of bread out of starvation. That is what it means to be a murderer.”

This is something you would never budge on. Protective of you, sure. But it’s not like Hongjoong was going to do anything about it.

“It’s my job to fix what you refuse to acknowledge as the supposed leader of the country. When you stopped listening to us, it felt like you abandoned us. Someone had to step up. It just so happened that that person was me,” calling him out was a pretty aggressive move, but it wasn’t like the situation could get much worse. You were sure that death was imminent at this point. 

“You possess quite a bold tongue, Crimson,” you sneered at the nickname, “yet, I feel as though some of your words might hold some truth. Every kingdom has a poor area that doesn’t prosper as much as the other locations. Besides, classes are necessary for a kingdom to remain stable. But I’m sure there’s some room for improvement if it’s as bad as you make it out to be.”

You scoffed in his face. Make it out to be? You were being kind on your words of the poor district you called home. 

“I was just going to publicly execute you, but I think that might cause your people to be upset and make rash decisions. I would like to avoid a civil war in my time here,” he was thinking out loud at this point, slender fingers grabbing his chin as he spoke. 

“I have a proposition for you, Crimson.”

You looked at him curiously, wondering what he might be planning.

“Take me to your district. Show me the so-called issues you fight against. And help me to fix them.”

Your mouth hung open. Never in your life did you think you would be met with a choice like this one. To fix the problems in the kingdom? To help your people out? Tears welled in your eyes at the thought of children being able to grow up without wondering where their next meal would come from. 

But then you thought back to the fact that you would be working with your sworn enemy. The one you attempted to murder less than a day ago. What would your people think? But if you’re there with him as a way to fix everything, they wouldn’t care, right? 

It was an opportunity you had waited your entire life for. One that made you swallow down your pride and mumble out a quick, “fine, deal.”

Hongjoong’s smirk grew at your acceptance of your offer. What did you get yourself into?

[theonyxpath]

Are you looking for inspiration to tell stories or narrate a game using the Monarchies of Mau corebook? Want a cat-tastic story to read? Tales of Excellent Cats can help. Edited by Melanie Meadors, this anthology is a collection of fourteen short stories written by established authors such as Elaine Cunningham and Lucy Snyder, as well as up-and-coming storytellers like LaShawn M. Wanak and ZZ Claybourne.

Today, we’re pleased to share with a preview from “By Footpad and Clenched Claw”, written by Beth Cato. 

“What did you do, Raul?” Amelie Cymric von Mau asked the empty room. She wanted to grab her brother by the collar and shake him, hug him, never let go, but he was already gone. Dead. Murdered. In this very room, hours ago.

Half his belongings were gone, too. She doubted either the constables or the murderers would have stolen Mama’s old theatrical mask collection off the wall. Papa’s collection of songbooks was gone, too. Had Raul hocked them himself — and if so, why? Was he being blackmailed? Or, perhaps more likely, was a friend of his in trouble?

Oh, Raul. So sweet, so gullible. He’d give his right paw to help someone in need. When she’d last seen him two weeks before, she’d been infuriated by how he fussed over her.

“I’m not about to fall over dead,” she’d finally snapped at him. Her black tabby tail lashed back and forth.

“No,” he had murmured. “We know your death will come slowly.”

“I’m fine,” she’d insisted as she left.

The memory caused a new flare of sorrow. Her final words to him had been a lie.

She should have been the one who died first. Her daily duties as a novitiate minister at the Temple of the Nine prepared her soul for her next life. Raul should have happily bumbled along for decades more, sleeping half the day and going to late shows and thieving just enough to scrape by.

Instead, he was dead. The local constables didn’t care about justice. Raul had been a footpad, after all, and not a particularly good one. She’d seen the judgment in the eyes of the officers who came to deliver the bad news.

Therefore, it was up to her to find Raul’s killer. That meant she had to move fast. As Papa used to say, she needed to “look for the musician while the last note wavered in the air.”

A knock echoed through the door. “Amelie!” a familiar creaky voice called. “Are you still here, love?”

Amelie hurried to open the door for Haley. When Amelie and Raul were young kits, they used to joke that Haley was so old, she’d been running the boarding house since the age of the Old Ones. Today, the gray cat looked more haggard than ever before.

“I’m so sorry about Raul,” Haley said as she pulled back from a hug. “How do you fare?”

Amelie knew she wasn’t merely inquiring about how she handled her sibling’s death. “I’m alive.”

“You poor thing. Every time I hear cats go on about Daphne Persian von Cymric and that sick kitten of hers, I think of you. Do you ever tend to her little one?”

Amelie supposed she should feel annoyed by how Haley swiftly changed the subject to the singer she and half the city idolized, but she welcomed the tangent today. “No. I heard the hospital can’t do much at this stage.”

The older cat’s whiskers drooped. “That kind of suffering shouldn’t exist.”

Amelie couldn’t argue with that. Issues like cancer and organ failure had largely been eradicated in the age of the Old Ones when cats took their rightful, dominant place in the world. And yet, Daphne’s kit was dying. So was Amelie. Her head minister said a few of the old, supposedly cured diseases had always lingered among cats, but the cases were usually kept quiet — with reason. Cats could be judgmental and cruel. A vocal segment of the public insisted that chronic conditions didn’t exist, which meant, in their minds, Daphne was surely faking her kitten’s illness to take a sabbatical.

Right now, another death was foremost on Amelie’s mind. “Haley, what was going on with Raul? Why are half his belongings gone?”

“He carried them out in a crate, whistling as he went. He didn’t seem sad or worried. He must have been under some sort of contract, too. His laundry stank of the sewer this week.”

“He smelled like the sewer?” she echoed. “But he usually works — worked — the theater district.” By worked, she meant he picked pockets there.

“I wish I knew,” Haley said.

“I’ll find out.” Amelie edged out into the hallway.

“You’re going already? When do you think you’ll be back? I don’t want to push you, but there’s a waiting list for rooms and—”

“Soon,” Amelie said with a curt smile. She knew just who to ask about Raul’s business dealings, but she had to get to him prior to nightfall when he busied himself burgling houses — or before he indulged in one too many mugs of fermented milk.

To finish reading “By Footpad and Clenched Claw” by Beth Cato, check out Tales of Excellent Cats today! Now available in multiple formats: Amazon (Kindle), B&N (Nook) DriveThruFiction (eBook/PoD)