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#really wanted to go with 'they were back in the arena fighting for survival just the two of them against the world' but

wonderlandwalker · 4 months

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After All These Years | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: You think he no longer cares, and he thinks you're better off without him. But the reaping for the 75th hunger games puts a dent in both of those thoughts

Content Warnings/Tags: Angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, insinuations of smut, kissing, once again not proofread

Requested by @rottingpeache: absolutely need to see enemies to lovers with finnick. “I really don’t like you.” “And I really don’t believe you.”

Word Count: 1k

A/N: No clue if this is actually enemies to lovers or just a poor attempt at it. I'm gonna go take a nap now but there is more coming cause the requests sparked something in me again so thank you to everyone who sent them!!

None of you had expected it to happen, how could you? But you've learned by now there is no point in fighting it either. So when you heard Mags’ name being called out and you volunteered in her stead, you suppose it was simply out of habit. In a world like this, the only thing that makes you feel like you are surviving is helping others do the same thing. As you stepped forward you could see the cameras zooming in on your face, trying to capture every expression you were making. You saw the cameras do the same for Finnick. Years of being in an unwelcome spotlight had made his poker face almost unbreakable, but the small furrow of his eyebrows and the twitch in his gallant smile told you everything you needed to know.

It wasn't until the next day that he first spoke to you. Over the years you would see each other, of course, you would talk. But at all the events and all the parties you did nothing more than exchange pleasantries. But now he came out of your peripheral vision and cornered you against the wall behind you with his broad arms.

“What were you thinking, this might be the stupidest thing you've ever done.” His demeanour seemed angry, he seemed serious. But you had no reason to match it, you just wanted to get under his skin like he got under yours.

“Be careful what you say, you might actually be the stupidest thing I’ve done.” you wondered if he remembered, if he remembered the night you had spent together so many years ago, it had been the best night of your life, and you had no idea if he even remembered. If he did, he didn't let it show.

“Did you even think it through? You survived the arena once, and only barely, what makes you think you’ll make it out alive again.” His voice was a low rasp, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he sounded upset. But you knew better, Finnick had shown you his true colours when he started avoiding you, and you did remember that.

“I wasn't thinking, how could I? All I could think about was Mags having to go through it all again, you more than anyone else know she deserves better.” you were looking him in the eyes now, and it took all of your willpower not to melt. “My games weren’t that long ago, I did it then and I’m still here, I can do it again.” He stepped closer to you, eliminating the remaining space between your bodies, his chest against yours, and you could feel his heart skip a beat as he spoke.

“Exactly, I was there, and it damn near broke me too. I was there to piece you back together. But I won’t watch it happen to you again, I can’t let it happen. Because what if I’m not there this time, what if I'm not there to put you back together.” There was a stark contrast between his face and his voice. As you looked at him you saw his eyes soften, and it gave you a glimpse of the Finnick you once knew. But his voice was still filled with anger, and it snapped you back to reality.

“And how would you know what I can and cannot handle.” You were challenging him now, but he had you matched.

“Because I know you. Even if you don’t believe so, I know what youre like, I know how you think. You might believe I forgot, that I ignore you and go on with my life as if nothing happened. But if you were to actually think for one second you would see that I’m simply doing what's best for you, I just want what’s best for you but now you’ve gone and ruined all of it in one day.

You’re at a loss for words, because maybe he was right, maybe you had gone and messed up everything with a single sentence at the reaping. But maybe everything was finally making a turn for the better, because for the first time, he was telling you he cared. And you’re thankful to finally see his thoughts shine through, but you’re overwhelmed too. So you turn around, you turn away from him, wanting to escape the confrontation. Except he’s not letting you go, not this time

“I really don’t care what you think Finnick.” You weren’t sure if you believed your own words, but you needed to get away from him.

“And I really don’t believe you.” You tried shrugging him off again, and you were about to turn away from him when you felt him grab onto your arm and pull you into him. As you looked up you could feel his eyes fixed on yours.

And so you do the only thing you can think of, you do the thing you want most in this moment right here, you kiss him. You tell yourself that consequences be damned, because even if he will hate you for it, even if you’ll regret it later, at least you have this one moment to get yourself through it, at least you didn't let your fears of losing him completely win this time. You kiss him as if everything will be okay, because when you feel his lips start to move in sync with yours, it is.

For a moment you think everything will resolve itself and you and Finnick can live together in a small house near the beach. For a moment you forget how much you hate him for everything he put you through. Because in this moment, if life could be like this moment, you’d forgive him for all of it. And you don't know it yet, but he’s even more scared than you are.

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selfindulgentpixies · 20 days

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Learn to play the game for me

Aventurine x GN!reader Hunger games!AU

Wrote this for @decaydaddy's event! The idea of Aventurine being a previous victor and mentor for the hunger games hit me like a truck. It just fits him really well I feel like. I can't say i'll write more for this just because I can't say i'm fully back on the writing horse yet. I was just really taken by this idea because i really enjoyed the hunger games back when i read it. Even if i only read the first two books. It'll be clear that certain scenes really stuck in my head.

header is official promo art and divider credit goes to @kaeyaphile

A sharp rip echo’s through the room before a string of curses fall from your lips. “Fuckin mother fucki’- the hell did you you warn me first?! Why do I need this done exactly?!”

“Ah ah, language, if you’re going to get sponsors we need to play up that pretty and polite image, no one’s going to want to sponsor you if you don’t.” Your mentor chides as the stylist disposes of the first paper and wax strip now coated in hair, hair that you really didn’t think there was a point in getting rid of.

You glare at your mentor, pretty as a picture as he always is. He’d even been pretty when you were young children, even if he’d lacked the flamboyantcy and refinement he now carries himself with back then. You try to ignore it as more warm wax is painted onto your leg and keep your focus on Aventurine. “And you think a few sponsors will be enough for me to survive this thing? I’ll probably end up dead, and then i’ll just leave behind a ‘pretty’ and hairless corpse.”

Something shifts in Aventurine's eyes and he leans close to you. “You can survive this, you just need to learn how to play their game. Just like I did. Are you really ready to just give up and let yourself be chewed up and spit out?”

Something stutters in your chest both at the intensity of his gaze and at his close proximity. Rrrriiiip- the wax strip being pulled from your skin cuts off anything you could have said, though to your credit you don’t swear this time and just let out a surprised choked sound.

Aventurine steps back from you, the expensive heels of his shoes clicking on the hard floor as he turns away. “I’ll leave you to get finished being cleaned up.” He gives a little wave of his hand and walks away.

___

You stand before the full length mirror, staring at yourself draped in expensive fabric you would never have been able to imagine yourself in before. Soon you’d be sitting on a stage, selling yourself, selling the idea of you, to the sponsors who could tip the balance for you once the games begin. No. The games have already begun. Aventurine stressed that point to you, that the game began the second you were chosen as a tribute. Everything you did leading up to the fighting was just as important if not more so. You swallow thickly, your thoughts race, you weren’t cut out for this but who was? Maybe those brats in the more well to do districts. Not you though. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing in check.

Suddenly there are hands on your arms, squeezing lightly. Your eyes snap open, only to be met with your mentor’s in the mirror. Finally alone with him you can see concern there. “That’s right, come back to me, just breathe.”

His words make your heart stutter but you do as he says, he breathes deeply and you mimic the action. Time stretches on forever with you mimicking his breathing until he seems satisfied. “There you are,” there’s a hint of a smile on his lips now. His hands smooth over the fabric he’d wrinkled while gripping your arms. “I know none of this is fair, but I’ll do everything I can to give you every advantage I can in order to even the odds.” His voice is serious, quiet, you might not even be able to hear him if not for how his lips are pressed to your ear.

“Aven…” before you can fully say his name he continues.

“All I ask is that you fight like hell. Both on stage and in the arena. Don’t throw the game because you’re scared.” His eyes are intense, so much so that you try to glance away from his reflection in the mirror only for him to turn you toward him.

He holds your gaze until you give him a firm nod. “Good.” He rests his forehead against yours for a moment and you feel your cheeks heat, your heart racing for an entirely new reason by the time he pulls away and steps back from you. Suddenly your hands shoot out to grab at his arms startling you both.

“I-i..” A deep breath. “How… Did you manage it? You were a lot younger than I am now when you won.” Despite being your mentor Aventurine has actually spoken very little about his own games. He’s dodged most direct questions both by you and the other tribute.

“I got lucky.” He lets out a dry chuckle when your face contorts.

“That’s a terrible answer and doesn’t help me.”

“Ah ah but is it not in line with what they say about these games? ‘May the odds be ever in your favor.’?” there’s a hint of something pained in his voice.

“Aventurine, please, is that really all you’re going to tell me…?”

He removes your hands from his arms before reaching up to cup your face. You feel the warmth of his hands seep through his gloves to your skin contrasted harshly against the cool metal of his rings. “Tell you what, you win and then i’ll tell you everything.”

“But-”

“That doesn’t help you win? Consider it a little extra motivation.”

Before you can protest he steps away from you and turns to head toward the door with a little wave. “It’s almost time for your interview~” With his back to you can’t see that sadness in his expression. He’s not ready to talk about her with you yet, his older sister who’d given her all and made it possible for him to be standing here now. He can’t share that pain with someone who could be dead tomorrow.

—

Very few could ever claim to know what’s going on in Aventurine’s head, and you certainly don’t count yourself among them. So when your interview concludes and you’re just barely off stage and he takes your hand, mouthing the words ‘trust me’ then without a moment for you to process he pulls you to him, his lips crashing with yours. Your sound of surprise is swallowed up by him as he deepens the kiss, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his expensive jacket. You almost don’t register the gasps and murmurs of the crowd. You may not see it but this moment with your mentor is broadcasted on the large screens as he walks you back a step further into view. The way he kisses you and his tender embrace plain for everyone to see.

Everything feels like whirlwind from there, granted everything since being chosen as tribute has felt that way, but this? The news of you apparently having a love affair with your mentor is everywhere. Headlines of how a pair of lovers are being forced apart and how one must watch the person he loves endure the same trials he once had to survive are abuzz. “Was that seriously necessary?!” Your face is heated and you can’t decide if you feel more embarrassed or angry as you stare at Aventurine perched on the love seat in your temporary accommodations. Shameless with legs spread and a knowing smirk on his lips.

“It makes for a good story. Everyone loves a tragic love story.” He gives a small shrug.

“Why didn’t you ask me first!?”

He raises one elegant brow. “Would you have agreed?”

“No!?”

“And that’s why i didn’t ask. This is another way i can help you and make you more appealing to the audience. Besides… You didn’t seem to mind while I was kissing you.”

“That’s-!” Your stomach twists and you feel your face heat further if possible.

He puts his hands on his knees before standing and walking toward you, when he’s about to pass you he speaks again, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “If it helps, I meant it. The kiss, I mean.”

Your world slows. “You- you don’t get to just say things like that and walk away!” You follow hot on his heels as he begins to head for the door. You grab at his expensive jacket once again, the poor fabric seemingly doomed to your abuse, and turn Aventurine to face you. His expression surprises you, all traces of smugness gone. You swallow thickly. “You can’t play games with my feelings at a time like this…” Your fire seems to fizzle out further with each moment you look at him.

“I’m not… I wouldn’t be putting so much work into giving you the best chance possible if I was.”

“But… why now? After all this time.. After you were in the games when we were little I never heard from you again and suddenly now that you’re my mentor you’re telling me what? That you lo-” a deep breath.

“And if I am?”

“I don’t know… But i have missed you.”

“That’s why you wanted me as your mentor isn’t it? I know you asked for me specifically.”

“Is it why you accepted?”

You meet eachother eyes and suddenly share a small moment of quiet laughter.

“You’re impossible, you know that right? And don’t think I’m not still mad at you.”

“Win the games and I’ll make it up to you.” And he sounds so sure when he says it that a small part of you believes you could win, if not for yourself perhaps for him. Perhaps for the two of you.

The next day, standing on the platform waiting for it to rise to the arena you feel your resolve solidify. He stands in front of you and rests his forehead against yours. “May the odds be ever in your favor.” spoken for you only before he steps back, allowing the platform to rise to take you to the surface, away from him and he hopes it’s not for the last time. By the resolve in your eyes as you get further and further from him he can believe you have a chance, and that’s all you need to win a game like this.

I hope you guys liked it! Aventurine has taken over my brain lately. I've actually written a couple other things but I just haven't polished them. This idea forced me to sit down and write it.

Tag list: @scarabrat-archived @pastelle-rabbit @fushigurro @zorosdimples @bad-as-the-boys @likelilacwine @kweenkatsuki-fics

#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #aventurine x gn!reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #rossi writes

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savannahsdeath · 4 months

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A little req for you!! readers and katniss’s first kiss???

-💫

warnings: none, pure fluff 🫶 reader calls katniss "kat" two times because . yes . also this is v shitty but im tired and uhhhh

she came back from the games two days ago. the emotions are still boiling but you want to spend every second together. she won and you knew what it means - no one can take her away from you now.

you are on the meadow, sitting on the dew covered grass. a dark forest, in which katniss used to hunt, extends on your left. you can hear birds' songs echoing from there.

"i should have brought a blanket." you sigh as your dress uncovers your bare legs, letting the wet green strands tickle your thighs.

"it's okay." katniss chuckles and takes off her jacket. "stand up."

you do as you're told, your skirt waving from the sudden move. she stretches her cloth on the grass and motions for you to sit down on it.

"thank you." you smile and it's probably your first genuine smile since she got reaped. not counting the last two days, of course. you smiled a lot during them.

a minute of comfortable silence passes as you both watch the blue sky in front of you. the dark forest behind you doesn't matter, you only care about what's in front of you. just like in real life, you think. the past is the past. now is the time for the future.

"surprised?" katniss softly asks, as if she's scared to break the silence.

you knit your eyebrows together and tilt your head to look at her. "about what?"

she looks down. "about me coming back."

you can't tell if she's being serious or not, so you take a moment to think, before you burst out laughing. "you can't be serious! katniss, i knew you'll win."

"oh," she smiles, "you believed in me?"

"no, no..." you begin explaining. "i was just— sure. you're really good at playing with people's hearts - the capitol's, the districts', mine..."

"yours?" her eyes widen.

you shrug. "what happened between you and peeta-"

"nothing happened between me and peeta" she shakes her head. "we were just trying to survive."

"really?" you turn your whole body to her and she quickly follows your move.

"really." she giggles. "you thought... me and him...?"

"forget it." you wave your hand, a little embarrassed by your accusation.

no matter how much you didn't want to admit it, you always had a crush on katniss. they way she kept giving you mixed signals didn't help at all - in fact, it felt like your brain melted and she's stirring in your head, mixing your mind. what you thought you once knew stood with a big, question mark now.

and peeta, god, peeta. he was a good guy, you had to admit. funny, nice, smart, clever as hell. yet, you couldn't help but dislike him. hate would be too much, but you felt so, so jealous, you couldn't help but be skeptical. at first, you were sure he will betray her. you waited for this moment, as you knew she would end him with one arrow. but nothing happened. now...

now, sometimes you just wish he would actually end up being an asshole. so the whole panem wouldn't cheer nor applaud for their wedding.

your hair fall down your face. "i wish i was him" you think, snatching a strand of grass and nervously playing with it.

"you wish you would have to fight in the arena?" her eyebrows furrow, a look of pure confusion on her face. she leans in and tucks some of your hair behind your ear, revealing your features.

you realise you thought out loud and she heard your little wish. but at this point, it doesn't even bother you. she should know.

"no, kat." you throw the string away. "i wish we would have our moment."

you expected something bad to happen. maybe she'll think you took things too far and just... run away? she could stand up and leave you there at any moment. could you blame her? maybe she just loves peeta.

but she chuckles, and as you look up at her, she is smiling. you have no idea what's going on, though you can't help but smirk back as you see her so amused.

"what?" you giggle and your gaze drifts downwards.

"nothin', you're just—" she raises one of her arms and taps your chin, making you look back at her. at her lips, to be exact. she keeps herself sitting up by leaning on her free hand, until she moves this one too to cup your face. "we have our fifteen seconds of fame now."

the intensity of her voice makes your whole body tremble, all your emotions falling to the background, as everything that is in the foreground is just you and her. yet you can feel your confusion rise and you manage to huff out a quiet; "isn't it fifteen minutes?"

"well, can you hold your breath for fifteen minutes?" she whispers back.

before you can comprehend whatever she meant by that, you feel her lips press against yours. you instinctively whimper, but the sound get catched in the bridge of your tongues, inaudible to anyone but you two. the birds seem to stop singing, the crickets pause their ticking. she starts gently and carefully, as if to see if you won't pull away. you only bring her closer by her neck, what also forces a soft moan out of her.

eventually katniss breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away, so you can still feel and hear her breath. she closes her parted mouth to gulp before opening them again, while her body slowly moved where it was earlier, about half a meter distance from you.

"kat—" you trail after her, wanting to get more of the feeling.

she tsks and shakes her head. "fifteen seconds, remember?"

✧˖°

#⭑ ָ࣪ ۰ ꒰ 💫 ꒱ ָ࣪ ۰⭑#sav w anons ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა #reqs open #katniss everdeen x reader #katniss x reader #the hunger games katniss #katniss everdeen #thg katniss #the hunger games #thg fanfiction #thg #katniss x you #katniss everdeen x you

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queuestarter · 4 months

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daybreak

(johanna mason x reader)

cw: none- just two girls in love

link to the request → grumpy x sunshine during training for the quarter quell

open to submissions/asks

You watch from across the room as Johanna strips off her training uniform and begins to rub oil all over herself. You shake your head in amusement and refocus on the conversion you’re having with your district mate and close friend, Beetee.

“I wonder what the reason they put the forcefield up this year is,” he comments offhandedly while observing a piece of wood as he attempts to figure out how to start a fire. You sit opposite him, not having much luck either.

You didn’t win your first games by fighting or learning survival skills. You won by appealing to the audience.

“Maybe someone attacked them. Or maybe one of the Gamemakers fell over the balcony,” you giggle, throwing down your two sticks as Katniss walks over to you.

You’ve never met her, but of course you know all about her. Who doesn’t at this point?

“Hello,” you friendlily greet her. She stands over you and Beetee awkwardly. “Do you know how to make a fire with two sticks? We’re awful at it.”

She sits down at the station with you. “Yeah, but I haven’t done it in a while. Let me see…” she grabs some sticks and begins to rub them together.

For the next ten minutes that you three spend at the station, a friendly rapport grows. You talk about many things, like the forcefield, productivity in your districts, and a few other topics. Eventually, she starts asking if you’re going to join any alliances.

“I think so,” you say hopefully. “I know me and Beetee are going to stick together. Johanna, too.”

“Johanna?” Katniss asks, raising her eyebrows.

You smile, finding your girl across the room. She’s arguing about something with Finnick, shoving his shoulder and getting shoved back in response.

“Yeah, she’s great. She’s just really, really great.” You can feel a blush growing on your cheeks which you hide behind your hands.

“I didn’t feel that way when I met her.” You furrow your eyebrows at Katniss.

“Oh. While I’m going to go see if I can try to make a lure with Mags. Beetee, want to join?” You want to be nice considering she doesn’t know about your relationship with Johanna and your girlfriend does come off as rude sometimes.

“Oh, yes. That could be very helpful,” he comments, getting up from his seat. “Thank you for helping us, Katniss. Maybe we would keep up that trend in the arena?”

Katniss nods, getting up as well. “I should see what Peeta is doing.”

You don’t talk to Katniss again until the next day of training.

You’re sparring with one of the trainers, having decided that it might actually be important this time around to work on your physical skills rather than just relying on your brains and public appeal.

When you finish the spar and are bent over trying to catch your breath, you feel a hand cup your ass. You let out a gasp of surprise.

“Johanna!” You shriek as you return to an upright position. Ignoring the shocked gazes of the people around you, you wrap your arms around her neck and pull her in for a quick kiss. “You can’t just scare me like that when I have a deadly weapon in my hands!”

She looks beautiful with her signature smirk on her face. “I just wanted to let you know how good you were doing. And let everyone know that you’re mine.”

You giggle uncontrollably, holding onto her for a few more seconds. With one final kiss to her smiling lips that end up more on her teeth than anything, you back away from the sparring station to allow other people to enter, namely Finnick and Katniss. Katniss has a look of disbelief on her face.

You say a quick ‘hello’ to them before Beetee is calling your name from across the room. “Can you identify the metal that comprises this beam? It seems to be steel but the density is all wrong.”

As you walk across the room to help out Beetee, you can hear Johanna talk to the two others, none of them being too quiet.

“What a woman,” she says, causing you to smile once more.

“You two are…? Her?” Katniss practically hisses.

“Why not?” Finnick teases. “Johanna needs something good in her life.”

“Shut up!” You turn your eyes back towards your girlfriend just in time to see her try to knock Finnick over.

This is what it means to be in love

#johanna mason #johanna request #johanna mason x reader #johanna mason x you #johanna imagine #johanna mason x y/n #johanna x reader #hunger games #thg johanna #lane's writing

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damiansgoodgirll · 10 months

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Can you write a jimmy uso x reader with the recent events that went on with smackdown and him going to the hospital

yup!

jimmy uso x reader

tw : hospital (?), nothing bad in general

through hell with you

everything that was happening with the bloodline was happening way too fast for you. you saw your family falling into pieces and you couldn’t do nothing to stop it.

you weren’t a professional wrestler but you met jimmy and jey when you started working in the backstage of the wwe. the moment you met jimmy something sparkled between the two of you, anyone could feel it.

you started dating only a few weeks later and now, two years later you were married and living a happy life together. his family welcomed you with open arms and you couldn’t be more grateful.

when the whole bloodline thing started you were actually so happy to see them all together, they were a family and seeing them fighting together and having each other’s back made you happy. but things started to going down too fast for your liking and in a matter of time it was just jimmy and jey against the rest of the bloodline.

you didn’t want this to happen but you couldn’t do anything about it.

when jimmy and jey won at money in the bank you couldn’t contain your happiness, you knew what that meant for them.

but things got worse the week after, during smackdown, as jimmy got injured because of roman. you couldn’t believe your eyes, you were currently watching the show behind the scene and you knew the moment jimmy fell that he was hurt in a very bad way. you were used to his matches and his injuries but you’ve never saw him like that.

your heart missed a few beats and when you saw the ambulance ready in the backstage you knew it was really bad. you rushed out from the twins locker room and ran through the ambulance when you saw jimmy laid on the stretcher and jey running next to him.

“oh my…” you couldn’t even speak.

you rushed to his side and jey motioned for you to go with him at the hospital.

the ambulance ride was silent, filled with anxiety and worry.

“don’t worry baby, i’m here…” you whispered to jimmy. you knew he was awake but he wasn’t fully conscious so you didn’t know if he was hearing you or not but you kept talking to him anyway. even the nurse told you that you were doing a good job in supporting him.

“everything is going to be okay…you’re okay” you whispered once again, leaving a soft kiss over his hand. you quickly wiped the few tears that fell from your eyes, you were worried sick but you needed to be strong for jimmy and jey too, since he stayed back at the arena, you knew he was worried and he was waiting for any news on his twin.

once at the hospital, jimmy was brought to the examination room but you couldn’t go in so you stayed outside pacing around the waiting room. when the doctors left the room they didn’t tell you what was wrong with him but they told you that you could visit him if you wanted to.

you silently entered the room, not wanting to scare him or wake him up and sat next to the bed. he was awake and clearly in pain but the moment he saw you he smiled.

“hey…” he said, his voice cracking a bit.

“don’t talk baby…i’m here” you said grabbing his hand “i’m glad to see you awake…” you whispered, letting him know your fears.

“i’ll always wake up when i have you by my side…” he said making you tear up a little.

“you got us all worried…you know, if something happened to you i would have walked through hell and heaven just to find you and bring your ass back here” you joked making him laugh a little.

“that’s very nice of you” he sarcastically said still laughing. you noticed how tired he was and you didn’t want to be the reason he was keeping himself awake.

“you should sleep a bit…i’m not going anywhere…” you said to him. he nodded and closed his eyes.

you sent a quick text to jey, knowing how much worried he was.

jey bro >3

he’s doing okay, in pain and probably injured but he’ll survive. still being very sarcastic so we shouldn’t worry very much lol.

jey calmed himself down when read the message, thanking you for always being by his side.

and he was right, you couldn’t wait to bring jimmy back home so you could take care of him.

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 11 months

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Hi! Hello how are you? I hope you're doing well!

So i would like to make a request, can you please make one where the reader is a runaway child, going on adventures and seeing new places and helping lots of other people, And as how she was able to survive that long is because she is a witch who tampers with dark magic, that's why she's running away from her previous life.

She died due to the people who she ran away from, found her and they ripped out all her organs in revenge (gruesome i know) as was then dubbed the traitor child

She is also on the human side, so may i request with all the human figthers so far? Or if not, maybe king leonidas, qin shi Huang, kojiro, tesla, adam and aswell as some other gods like thor, hades and poseidon and as for how her story goes. This is how it went

She goes into the arena, other people expecting another grown man. But to their surprise it was a child, the crowd burst into an outrage, but she calms them down saying that can handle it and that no one needs to worry and that she'll make them proud, when her opponent talks to her she is polite and respectful, they then fight when her opponent hits first, she teleports behind them. The fight then soon ends and she wins, the gods and humans in shock! Did this child really win against a god? After that she meets up with the people who i mentioned this to be for.

You can decide after that! Thank you very much

-Traitor, demon, witch, evil, those were all words that you remember well, being called those numerous times, despite being a child.

-You ran away from your home young, no longer willing to put up with your family’s abuse, and you spend your days traveling, exploring, and being free.

-But being a child in a cruel, unforgiving world, you did what you had to do to survive, and learned with dark magic to defend yourself.

-However, a child is still a child, and it wasn’t long until you had been caught after your parents deemed you evil, and after many saw you using your dark powers, you were deemed a witch and sentenced to death, but you were given no quick death, you were torn limb from limb, disemboweled, brutally tortured until you bled out.

-You couldn’t even fathom on how cruel some humans could be, especially to a five-year-old.

-However, in Valhalla, you were free, you got a safe and warm home, you were never hungry, and nobody thought too much about you, just seeing you as a child.

-There were only a few who knew about your power, Odin and Brunnhilde, knowing full well that you were strong with magic, and after years of honing your skills, you were dangerous, but still looked like a child, much to your annoyance as nobody took you seriously.

-That is, until Ragnarok occurred and Brunnhilde took a gamble with you.

-The amount of shouts of rage and outcry, seeing a young child walking out into the stadium was almost deafening, so many were furious, seeing that a child was being forced to fight.

-Your bright smile and look of fiery determination did throw them off as you spoke, “Don’t worry about me- I’ve got this!!” but your words and confidence did little to deter their anger.

-It wasn’t until you easily defeated your opponent that they finally shut up, completely stunned as you did nothing to hold back, showing off years of training work with your magic.

-When you returned backstage, you were no expecting to be hugged so quickly, by a man who wanted to adopt and protect you, even more so after Brunnhilde told them how you died on Earth.

-Instantly had you in his arms, hugging you close, ignoring your futile attempts to struggle free, “Let go! I’m not a child!” he found your struggle amusing, holding you by the back of your shirt like you were a feisty kitten, “Struggle all you want, you’re my kid now, and nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.” You paused at his words, eyes narrowed like you didn’t believe him, “Really?” he grinned, keeping you in his arms, “Really- c’mon I’ll get you some ice cream.” Your hands flew up as you cheered, showing your child-like nature, which you were quick to deny.

-Leonidas, Qin Shi Huang, Hades, and Thor

-Kneeled down and introduced himself to you and you did the same and he offered you a hand, “Would you allow me to adopt you, Y/N? I don’t want anyone to ever hurt you again.” Now that your powers had been revealed, you did think it was a good idea to have some extra protection, mainly because you were afraid of being attacked for using dark magic again. It was rather cute, seeing you acting so mature, because you were, but in the body of a five-year-old, it was rather amusing to see. You agreed, taking his hand and he pulled you up and into his arms, holding you like a child so he could take you to a waiting room to relax with him.

-Adam, Kojiro, Poseidon, and Nikola

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror leonidas #ror qin shi huang #ror hades #ror thor #ror poseidon #ror adam #ror kojiro sasaki #ror nikola tesla

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thegreenthepeacetheorange · 5 months

Text

Everlark (Mockingjay, Ch. 20-21)

(there's so much chapter 21 about the old peeta resurfacing and it feels like a reward for suffering through what this book has made me suffer through so far)

i take bogg's telling katniss to kill peeta as him just saying "do whatever you have to do to get the job done"

katniss being like um surely he doesn't think i can just kill peeta? like surely not. and then her literally being like i'm just gonna do the first two things he said and ignore the third

finnick putting on and adjusting peeta's mask while he's unconscious. the fact that katniss notes this. i cry

peeta realising he's killed mitchell hurts a lot. the capitol really turned him into something he's not. and he's fighting it so hard still

the compassion the other members of the star squad show peeta is actually very heart-warming, they're so understanding. finnick looking after him. holmes automatically going to carry an unconscious peeta so they can start moving again without being asked to. finnick reassuring him; actually everything finnick does. them refusing to leave him behind even though he is an actual threat to them

katniss thinking of the hanging tree while contemplating peeta's request that they kill him. the fact that she realises it might even be the more compassionate thing to do at this stage to give him nightlock. but the same way he says he can't let her take it at the end of the book, she can't do it here

"i feel the arena all around me... once again i'm battling not only for my own survival but peeta's as well"

i personally don't think katniss could have ever killed him. there's just no chance. when his survival is so intricately linked to her own. they're a package deal. and they fight so hard to keep each other alive.

peeta holding out the can of lamb stew to katniss. so mad we didn't get so many important moments from this book in the movies. they did a terrible job of showing the moments where peeta was coming back to himself. all his comments to the others, this moment

"the memories of rain dripping through stones, my inept attempts at flirting and the aroma of my favourite capitol dish in the chilly air. so some part of it must still be in his head too. how happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave."

OUR cave. like it was their first little home. first little intimate space just for them.

the fact that she paints this time in their cave as romantic and sentimental and picturesque. she's romanticising tf out of it. like she was in a death arena but in that moment, she was happy and close to him and that mattered so much to her

her hope at him returning to himself dripping off the page. that he remembers this.

(an aside: katniss being snarky about snow's puffy lips and saying his prep team need to be lighter with his blush is sooo funny)

in my catching fire summaries, i noted that katniss's desire to save peeta is actually a very selfish one. she's saving him for herself. because she wants him so badly to live. she wants him to be able to live more than herself. and the thought of him living while she doesn't is a personally comforting/happy thought for her. yes he deserves to live and he's a wonderful person but she's doing a lot of the saving of him for herself. because she NEEDS him to live. so her line here is interesting: "if it's true, it would be kindest to kill peeta here and now. but for better or worse, i am not motivated by kindness." - i think this is her essentially confirming what i believe or have gathered so far from what she tells us. saving peeta is not her showing him some great kindness. it's for her. she can't let him die for her own personal need and reasons. (and this isn't me criticising her, i don't think her reasons for saving him are selfish in a bad immoral way. just that she is a teenage girl in love with a boy and she desperately can't let him go)

she does the whole 'am i saving him because i care for him or because i don't want snow to win' but like it's been clear why she's been saving him thus far and continues to

"why can't i just let him go?" because you love and need him sweetheart. and you literally would not be able to live without him

and it's funny that despite all the emotion behind her reasoning, she comes out bluntly and says: so are you coming yourself or do we have to knock you out

"i slip it into my pants pocket, where it clicks against the pearl"

ugh. the key that keeps him restrained is now with katniss. her taking control of that part. the fact that it clicks with the pearl, reminding her of her boy with the bread who gave her this pearl that she's inseparable from. reminding her of exactly why she can't let him go, let him die.

peeta's comment to pollux when no one else can think of anything to say!! why didn't they include these things in the movies? auihfuaedhfufkeadh

the fact that his words are able to make castor laugh and pollux smile. he is so charming, so good-hearted, so good with people. and it's coming back. the boy with the bread is there, behind all that fog. he's there.

and again, katniss's hope at realising this. her glancing back at him. i can feel her emotions even though she's not always forthcoming with them

her wishing she could read his mind and go inside it to help him. settling on making sure he's eaten. taking away the lid so he can't hurt himself.

him saying mockingjays need wings to survive kinda feels like flirting/charm idk

"slowly, as i would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. he freezes at my touch, but doesn't recoil. so i continue to gently smooth back his hair. it's the first time i have voluntarily touched him since the last arena" - never forget what the movies took from us!!

them smoothing/playing with/brushing back each other's hair has been a constant since the first book. an intimate thing, a comforting thing. and here, after all that's gone on, katniss knows what might help him sleep and she takes the risk of touching him. it could've gone so badly. but she still did it, for him. and for her.

him whispering "you're still trying to protect me. real or not real"... i want to hug him so bad. but he feels it. he feels her wanting to still protect him and he needs the confirmation.

protecting each other is what they do guysss

he has horrible circles under his eyes from not being able to sleep but, as katniss smooths his hair back, he falls asleep after a minute. do you understand how important this is?????

#everlark #the hunger games #mockingjay #peeta x katniss #katniss x peeta #katniss and peeta #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #tgtpto everlark read

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ilguna · 1 year

Text

☼ crowned (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; you were the one to crown Finnick ten years ago, and now he's back in the games.

warnings; swearing,

wc; 2.6k

–

“I want you to stand right here, (Y/n).” Your father says, grabbing your shoulders and moving you over a foot to the left. “I will not allow you to hide behind me today.”

“I won’t.” You say, smoothing out your sky blue dress, “I wasn’t planning to.”

He gives you a look, telling you that he knows better than to believe your word, especially when you’ve said the same in the past. He’s unimpressed by your attitude, but he’s not going to expect you to apologize for it. He knows that when he gets fussy, you begin to get mouthy.

You look away from him, over the balcony and out to the colorful crowd that sits in the stands that surround the City Circle. You’re not really in the mood for another fight today, because that’s all you seem to do lately. You criticize his actions, he tells you that you’re dishonoring the Snow name, and the both of you end up pissed off and miserable.

Your mom has asked you several times to quit making him mad, because it’s not going to make the situation any better. That all it’s doing is putting a strain on your relationship, that’s already borderlining hatred. You’re not entirely sure what she wants from you—does she really want you to pretend to be happy with what he’s done?

Do they think you’re stupid? What are the chances of your father worrying about losing control of the country to rebels, and the Quarter Quell card reading that the victors have to go back inside? Which means that the same victors who are causing trouble, go back into an arena, and likely end up killed.

He’s sacrificing so many victors that fought hard to survive and make it out of the arena, just to eliminate a problem.

Your father knows how you feel about what he’s done. He cared about the distance you slowly started putting between you two, but recently he’s decided that he doesn’t care much anymore. Now you’re just waiting for him to call you a traitor too, or ask you if you care more about the District people than you do the Capitol people.

In truth, there’s more of them there are of you. Why are you treating them this way, if you know that they possess the power to overthrow you? Before, they didn’t realize exactly how many numbers they had, and now that they have, he’s handling it the wrong way.

He’s not going to listen to you, though. No, your father has been ruling for decades, which means that your opinion is irrelevant. Even if it would save a lot of fighting.

“The chariots are coming out in fifteen seconds!” A coordinator harshly whispers from behind. Your face twists briefly, wondering why she couldn’t just say that normally.

You fix your hair, smooth down the dress, straighten your posture, hands clasped properly in front of you. The drumming begins, starting slow and quiet, gradually getting louder as more chariots pour through the doors.

The victors they carry have no age limit. The first chariot is the brother and sister duo, Cashmere and Gloss, you remember seeing their Games when you were young. How amazing it was to see siblings win like that, something that had never been done before. You remember a temporary trend Cashmere set with glitter. You vaguely remember your tooth gems.

The next pair are Enobaria and Brutus. You recognize Enobaria, another Games you were able to watch. Her win was violent, and nothing for a child to watch, but you’re less surprised by her now. Her partner, Brutus, is a victor that must’ve won around Haymitch’s time—the last Quell. You had to do your own research on him.

Then there’s Beetee and Wiress, an impressive pair. You’ve met Beetee a good handful of times, solely because he does work here in the Capitol. He’ll create gadgets for trends for the citizens to use, and he’s also done more important work, like defense for the Capitol. He hasn’t done all the work, though, to prevent an issue happening later down the line. He’s very technical, fairly weird. He’s respectful, though. As for Wiress, you’ve seen her mentor around, but you’ve never spoken to her before.

You try to take a step forward to get a better look over the balcony, and your father’s head turns slightly in your direction, glaring at you from the corner of his eye. You move back to where he told you to stand.

You just wanted to see Finnick and Mags clearly. They’re the ones you’re upset for the most, for a number of reasons. Mags is entirely too old to be coming into the arena again, she’s so grandmotherly and her kindness will kill her in the Games. You’ve had a few conversations with her, and each time she’s wonderful to talk to.

As for Finnick’s, it’s a whole new story.

The first time you met Finnick Odair, you were thirteen years old. Your father had decided that he was no longer keeping you out of the Capitol publicity, because you were a teenager and needed to see the world how he saw it. The way he introduced you to the Capitol was by having you be with him every step of the way during the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games.

Which is the Games that Finnick won, of course. Your father walked you through the entire process of the Capitol week, where the tributes are dressed up and tested to see where they stand. The next couple of weeks would be watching them inside of the arena, controlling their actions and ensuring that the right person wins. After, there’s an additional week to heal the victor from all the wounds they sustained inside of the arena.

It was an interesting process, seeing how he could go from doing so little, to doing so much if something went wrong. You now know that it’s his perfectionism that gets the best of him. He wants to control everything, and when it goes haywire, that’s when he begins to crack down to regain it.

He gave you one job to do the entire time you followed him, and it was to crown the victor.

You still remember following him on the stage, head bowed, hair in your face, carefully carrying the pillow that cushioned the crown. He said his congratulations to Finnick and took the pillow to free your hands. Your hands shook, you let out a breath to calm yourself down, taking the crown from the pillow, and gently placing it on Finnick’s brow.

You met Finnick’s hard green eyes, focused on your movements. When he realized that you were staring back at him, he lifted his head, and offered a smirk. You smiled back, it was small because you weren’t sure if you were allowed to, congratulated him, and then you took a step back.

Since, your father has done nothing but drag him through the dirt for the past decade.

This year, it seems as if Finnick’s stylists thought that showing skin was the best way to go. His tan skin is almost golden in the evening light, the shadows casting perfectly across his body. You have no doubt that his outfit is breezy, there’s nothing but a bunched up net at his crotch, and assuming his behind, too.

His smile is dazzling, even from this far away. You watch him wave and blow kisses to the stands around him, letting them throw gifts at him in return. Ones that he won’t even be able to pick up, let alone keep to have inside of the arena. The Capitol doesn’t care, they just want to show their appreciation.

Beyond Finnick, the other districts don’t necessarily matter to you. The tributes from Five are underwhelming and easily forgotten, you can’t even remember their names, despite watching the reaping recap again before the parade. The two tributes from Six are both addicts, and they do everything they possibly can to stay out of the spotlight.

The girl from District Seven won recently—Johanna Mason. You were on the edge of your seat the entirety of her Games, wondering if she was going to manage to pull through or not. You can’t say anything about her district partner, you don’t know his name either.

The tributes from Eight, Nine, Ten and Eleven are too old for you to know their names. There’s not a single doubt in your mind that your father knows. There’s been so many victors since he took power, and he crowned every single one of them, including the two that bring up the rear.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the reasons why your father was desperate to change the letter to something more sinister. They’re a couple of teenagers, they’re going to make mistakes and screw shit up. It’s exactly what Finnick did, but he figured out how to keep the pacifier in your father’s mouth at some point. They need more time.

And now they’ll never get it.

The chariots come to a slow stop at the City Circle, waiting for your father to speak.

He steps away, though, motioning for you to step forward. Your lips part, face twisting in confusion, because this is a sudden change. You’ve seen him do this a dozen times before, but it’s different because it’s a Quell. It’s more important.

You step forward, not wanting to leave the people below waiting. When you get closer, you’re able to see over the balcony, and your eyes can’t help searching for the one person down there you care for the most. You find that he’s staring right back at you, waiting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the third Quarter Quell!” You shout, words echoing in the air.

The crowd cheers, the anthem begins to play. You watch as the chariots begin to move for the final time around the City Circle, before heading back to where they came from. As soon as the first chariot disappears through the Training Center doors, you’re turning to leave the balcony.

You bunch a handful of fabric in your hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Your father asks.

“To congratulate the victors.” You give him a look. He knows exactly where you’re going.

“You can’t be down there unattended, it’s dangerous.” He tries to shut you down.

“Half of them don’t even know who I am.” You shake your head, “I’ll be back.”

“(Y/n), you will not—!”

“Bitch about it later!” You start to jog down the hall, heading for the stairs. It’s faster than waiting for the elevator to bring you down.

It’s three flights down the stairs, down a long hallway, and then a sharp right turn that brings you underneath the stands that line the street. It’s dim underneath here, there’s a few working lights but it’s obvious the bulbs need to be replaced.

You hike the dress up in the front, running down the path, feeling the breeze on your upper thighs from the speed you’re going. You’ve gotta catch them before the peacekeepers usher them out of the space. They’re under special orders this year to disperse any groups that form together, afraid of rebel planning.

It takes you two minutes to run from one end to the other. By the time you get to the door, you’re having a hard time breathing, your throat sore from sucking in air so aggressively. You take a second to smooth down your hair and fix your dress, since you had been jerking it from side to side while you ran.

You push through the door, and on the other side, you’re met with the sight of horses and chariots, and people. The victors that you had been staring at from above are in here, gathered with their mentors and escorts, probably talking about the change in announcement. It’s unusual that he would do it without planning it with you first.

You wander through the space, ignoring the few looks you receive, sticking out like a sore thumb. You don’t belong here, you look like a Capitol citizen gone rogue, trying to sneak in so that you can meet the people you’ll be seeing on television in a few days.

You find Finnick because of his height, and his bronze hair shining in the sunbeams through the high windows. You take your time wandering over, observing the way he talks to Mags, fixing a stray hair in her face, touching her cheek. They’re close, and you can tell that he’s worried about her already.

The stylists standing with him catch sight of you first, straightening like a stick and averting their eyes. You hate it when they react like you’re royalty. You’re nothing more than a girl with power that she doesn’t even want.

“Finnick.” You say, his head raises, and then he turns to see who said his name.

A smile hits his face instantly, “(Y/n).”

“Long time no see, darling.” You wink at him, joining the circle they’ve created. Your attention turns to his stylist, “It was a good idea, dressing him this way. I try not to gaze at the sun if I don’t have to, but he was too tempting.”

Finnick rolls his eyes at you, “Please.”

“Thank you.” His stylist says.

“Do you mind if we have a moment?” You smile.

“No, of course not.” The other stylist says, “We have the rest of the night to talk to him, I’m sure you’re busy.”

They take off together, heading for the elevators. You look at Mags, who has her head tilted in your direction, disapprovingly. You ignore the expression, holding your arm out for her to hug you. She squeezes you tightly, head on your shoulder, before pulling away.

“So what have you been up to, princess?” Finnick asks, “I see you had a new job this year?”

“It wasn’t planned, I was just as surprised as you were.” You laugh.

“How mad was he this time?”

“Oh, pretty pissed. Apparently you’re all just a bunch of dangerous animals down here, and I shouldn’t be unattended. As if there aren’t a dozen peacekeepers crawling around here.” You glance over your shoulder, and find one standing nearby, watching you three.

Finnick makes a face.

You let out a sigh, “I’m sorry it has to be this way. I tried to convince him to change the rules, I really did. He won’t listen to me though, he thinks that the damage has been done, and he needs to embrace it to a certain extent.”

“We’ve got it figured out, (Y/n). You don’t have to worry about us.” Finnick says, offering you a halfway smile.

“That’s the only thing I do anymore.” You admit, “I didn’t want you to go back inside of the arena.”

“Let me guess, you tried to get him to rig the reaping?”

“In yours and Mags’ favor, yes.” You shake your head, “He told me to let everything fall into line, and to stop fucking with destiny. I don’t understand him anymore.” You look back at Finnick, “Regardless, I had to come down here at least once to talk to you. I won’t be able to do it again.”

“I’m glad you were able to in the first place.”

“Me too. It’s nice seeing you guys.” You cross your arms, “Well, good luck, and try not to do anything stupid like getting yourself killed.”

Finnick laughs, “No promises.”

“And um—one more thing. I’ve pulled some strings, people owe me favors. If there’s anything you need in the arena, just say it out loud. It’ll come.” You smile.

“Thank you, (Y/n).” Finnick opens his arms for a hug.

You try not to with him in public spaces, it’ll give people the wrong idea. Their first thoughts might go to the fact that you’re friends, but if they see you do it too often, then it travels further.

You hug Finnick, squeezing him tightly.

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bokettochild · 2 months

Note

Febuwhump suggestion for “hostage situation” if I may

Ravio being held captive by some villain? (Preferably resurrected Yuga for angst?)

As someone who STILL hasn't played ALBW (I tried!) I wasn't able to swing Yuga. i'm not sure how I would do that, but... I may have figured out something else? Don't worry, Ravio still suffers >:)

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 7,066

Summary: Mister Hero never goes unarmed, and Ravio discovers just WHY when an old enemy from his friend's life reappears and mistakes him for Link. Perhaps, when Mister Hero gets back, he's going to ask for fighting lessons. That is, if he survives the gladiator's arena.

(Note: LoZ Manga references. You don't need to know much, just that Legend is, in the manga, a gladiatorial champion.)

There’s one rule Mister Hero has always kept: do not stray from the house without a weapon.

He’s laughed at the other for it a few times, during the time when they shared the home, and sickness, injury, or exhaustion had stopped the hero from being out and about fulfilling their work. He’d felt guilty, at times, for letting the other lad do everything, so on the days when Mister Hero did decide to allow himself to relax a bit, he’d tried to make them enjoyable. He took on most of the work of cooking and keeping the house anyways, and doing the tiniest bit extra to accommodate the hero was hardly any burden, what with how much work the other was doing for him. Even on rest days though, Mister Hero has never been one to sit idle. Provided he didn’t end up sleeping the day away out of exhaustion, he would typically slip out to tend the garden and orchard to ensure the coming harvest wasn’t lost, and trips to the market also came about to restock the house’s spacious pantry.

The market in Kakariko is so much nicer than those in Thieves Town, which were always louder, dangerous, and usually somewhat violent. The people of Hyrule, in comparison to Lorule, are a peaceful sort, so seeing Mister Hero arm himself before leaving the house had been odd.

“You’re not returning to the road already, are you?” He’d asked.

Honest eyes had turned to him, stare heavy, and trying so hard to find something to focus on, what with Ravio’s own face still having been covered at the time. “No.”

“Then why are you arming yourself?” He’d asked. He'd already explored the area around the house, including the village, and while the roads between could be a bit rough, it was never anything that couldn’t be avoided. A sword seemed to be overkill.

“Why aren’t you?” Mister Hero had stared at him. He'd been to Lorule already at that point, so perhaps it made sense that he’d presume Ravio would feel a similar need to prepare against a foe, but the merchant was doing no such thing.

Sure, he has a knife, but he doesn’t really use it unless he really needs to, and even then, it’s mostly just for a quick stab or slice so he can have time to get away. He's never been much of a fighter, and no one had wanted to teach him either, saying he was too small to handle a weapon, or fight at all. Now that he’s met Mister Hero, he knows that’s all poppycock, since the hylian wields many a weapon with skill superior to the average knight, despite being even smaller than Ravio is- if only by an inch or so. Still, he doesn’t really want to learn to fight, and finding favor at the castle had meant he hasn’t needed to since his early childhood, working for Hilda usually keeps him well away from anyone and anyone who wanted to harm him. There were some more aggressive persons in the castle, but the threat of the queen’s wrath was too great for them to risk anything.

“Kakraiko is safe,” he’d answered, voice warm to convey a smile the hero couldn’t see. “Why would I need to?”

“Danger can appear anywhere,” and something had snapped behind violet eyes, “you shouldn’t relax your guard just because it looks safe.”

The words have stuck with him since then. Granted, he’s not faced much since, staying mainly at the house while Mister hero had tended to their mission, but after it was over, and they’d parted ways, he’d not strayed much from the castle. He’s kept to his own and in spaces shielded by magic, so weapons weren’t something he needed. Granted, when he’d taken the portal that opened to him in the castle, tumbling out into a new era and meeting a new hero, he had been called upon to fight at times, and he had had a weapon then, but he’s really not the aggressive sort. Fighting isn’t in his nature any more than sitting still is in Mister Hero’s.

Now returned safely to his own era by a very apologetic Lana, he’s taken up his old habits from living in Hyrule. He’s got his knife, of course, because after that one time, Mister Hero had taken to asking him, at random times, if he was armed. The hero is obsessive about it, but then again, he is about many things.

Once it was all over and Yuga had been defeated, but before they’d gone their separate ways, he’d seen Mister Hero actually fully disarm for the first time. They’d been exhausted by the day; its emotions, the battle, and just everything. There was an intent to close the connection between their worlds, but Hilda had promised them some time. He’s thankful for it too, although that day had been simultaneously one of the worst and best in his life.

They’d gone back to the house, both awkward with each other and not speaking at all until abruptly Mister Hero had announced that he would be having a bath. His joints ached from the fight and he needed to relax, so he’d drawn a bath into the wooden tub he kept in the house, set before the fire to keep it warm, and while Ravio had had every intention of leaving him to his privacy (goodness knows he had no room to disrespect such a thing after all his fuss about his hood!) he’d sort of gotten distracted when he’d seen the hero disarming. First the sword and belt had come off. They weren’t put away though but set on the floor close enough to reach from in the tub, which really had been a very clear indicator of how wary and distrustful a person his hero is. After those then had been the knives; he thinks there must have been at least a dozen hidden beneath the clothes of the hero, and even after those were all set aside, there came the medallions, the rings, the earrings with protective magic, the magic infused tunics, the boots. He'd left when clothes started coming off, because Mister Hero had asked, rather flustered as he’s fiddled with the buttons of his shift, if Ravio was intending to ogle him the whole time and he’d hurried out as answer.

Really though, it came as a bit of a shock to realize just how much in the ways of weapons and defensive tools the hero carried.

He doesn’t see a need for that though. He keeps the knife, but nothing else. He’s not a fighter, he’ll never be a fighter, and he doesn’t have any wish to either.

Sometimes, looking at the home buried under a decade’s worth of adventures, he wonders if Mister Hero ever wanted it either, but it’s sort of a null point now, considering there’s really no changing things. Even if he wanted too, he doesn’t think Mister Hero is capable of spending any part of his life without at least one weapon in easy reach at all times.

It’s fine though. As the hero, it makes sense that his housemate is armed, and him being able to defend himself is important in his line of work. Ravio, however, has no such needs. Any enemies he’s made, he’s left them behind in Lorule, and there’s no way for them to slip across to get at him now. The house is well guarded at all times, between the magic twined through the trees and the bees that sting anything and anyone that they deem a threat. Out in town, he’s got the good sense to be aware of his surroundings, but fighting, even with people who want to harm him, isn’t really necessary. He’s fast enough to evade blows and slip out of their clutches in the case of anyone actually wanting to hurt him, and again, that’s very rare, especially once they get the idea that he’s not worth the trouble.

Since returning to Hyrule, there’s really been no trouble whatsoever, so maybe he is slightly to blame for having let his guard drop. Yes, if he’d only been a bit more aware- but he hadn’t and now Mister Hero is definitely never going to relax about his safety ever again.

He’s on the road, headed to the market to fill the pantry again. It’s not that it ever really empties, but Mister Hero always likes to keep it full to brimming on the off chance of not being able to restock for one reason or another. Illness, war and sometimes his own safety are some of the reasons he’s cited for not being able to get out, or shop for food. He thinks there’s maybe more to it, maybe something to do with the hero’s stunted growth, but he doesn’t ask. If anything, he’s just as happy to make sure they never run out of food, as Lorule hadn’t exactly been the most prosperous place to live either.

The roads aren’t any worse than normal, and now that Yuga and Ganon aren’t an issue anymore, teh soldiers are no longer nearly as aggressive. They've tamed some, and between the efforts of the hero and Hyrule’s princess, they’d begun training new knights who’ve never known the touch of dark magic that so altered the minds of their former defenders. Link is still chased down, of course, but Ravio himself is at no risk, and he’s able to simply slip past the patrolling soldiers with a brief wave on his way down the path. The younger of the two men nods in answer, but neither stop in their route back to the castle. Just the same, he doesn’t stop on his way to Kakariko.

Celeste, the elder’s wife, had let slip that traders from out Holodrum way were traveling through the kingdom and would likely stop at the village before heading on the Castletown, and after hearing Mister Hero rave about the fruits found in the other kingdom, he’s determined to see if he can’t find some to serve when next his doppelganger and companions arrive back in this time. It’ll be a delightful treat! He hasn’t really seen the hero smile in a bit, and he’s sure he can maybe get him to crack even the smallest of smiles if he makes something especially good.

Then again, he could just make cocoa, but honestly, he needs to expand his arsenal!

His attention is sort of on trying to estimate the cost of imported fruits and remembering if they have any recopies for them anywhere (he could just ask, but it would ruin the surprise) so he doesn’t exactly notice until it’s too late that he’s been being followed. Really, he wouldn’t have noticed at all if a hand didn’t suddenly catch ahold of him, grip far too strong to be ignored and making him stumble in his steps.

“Excuse me-” some offended comment is about to drop from his lips, but he doesn’t exactly get a chance to finish it. Something soft, but with a strong smell is suddenly thrust over his nose and mouth and the merchant finds that any and all words drift out of his mind, thoughts fading all together as darkness steals there place.

Whomever it was that had grabbed him, he sags into their hold as his final action before his consciousness is lost.

Coming to, he sort of expects... well, he’s not sure. His head is throbbing and fuzzy, but there’s the vague inclination that usually, when the advisor to a queen is captured, they’ll wake up to...well, not this!

He's seen the torture chambers in Lorule Castle, and through no fault of his own, is aware of the Sheikah equivalent in Hyrule. He knows that when it comes to people in his position, no time is wasted on the off chance that a noble sends out a rescue of some sort, so if it’s information that’s wanted, well, he’d be waking up in a good deal more pain than he actually does. Blinking his eyes open though, he’s not in a dungeon. Sure, there’s stone walls and a (probably) locked door, but the sunlight that bleeds in through a small, glass paned window, indicates that whatever place this is, it’s not exactly a holding cell either. In one brief glance around, he can see at least two viable escape paths, and besides, it’s clear that someone is very much living in this space.

Yes, someone is living here, and based off of the figure currently sitting before him, a bottle dangling from their fingers, it’s a very, very big someone. Lolia below, the man is at least as tall as twice of him and one leg alone is as wide as the merchant’s whole body! What sort of a monster of a man is this? And furthermore, why is he looking down at him with such hatred and ire?

“Just as you asked,” a clipped, almost posh sounding voice, sounds from beside him, and swiveling his eyes over, he sees a decent looking fellow, either Hylian or human- he can’t tell past the hood, smiling up at the giant in the room. “One hero.”

Oh fiddlesticks, are these people looking for Mister Hero?

“You sure it’s him?” The giant’s voice is booming, echoing slightly off the walls even as it slurs slightly.

The young man in the hood nods, smile almost attractive if it wasn't so cold. “Certainly. You wanted a Link Lon? Well, I tracked down his residence and watched for days. This one-” a hand catches his shoulder and shakes, and he moves to protest the rough treatment only to find there’s a gag stopping him doing so, “- was the only one to show his face. Lucky for us though, he matches your description: black hair, short and built like a child’s doll.” It would almost be a compliment, back in Lorule, to be told he looked like a doll, and he knows in Hyrule, there are many people who teasingly call Mister Hero that, but here it almost sounds derogatory, like that’s something to his discredit.

The giant hums lowly, eyes trailing over him, glazed over and not quite all there. Still, he hopes that the man will realize that whomever they’re looking for, it’s not him. Mister Hero’s name might be the one they’re using, but last he knew, the hero has blonde hair, not black. That is the only real distinction between them, other than their eyes, but he desperately doesn’t want to believe that his friend is the target of these clearly ill-intentioned men either. Good grief, what do they even want him for?

“Alright,” the giant growls, turning and retrieving a small sack from the table beside him, one which he hands to the hooded fellow, who takes it with an eager smile. “There, for your troubles.”

It's clear Hood has experience, because he doesn’t take the bag and go, but opens it to briefly check its contents, charming smile dropping a moment later for a sharp look. “This isn’t what we agreed upon.”

“You took too long.”

Honestly, as a businessman himself, he’s slightly affronted on his capturer’s behalf! The man has no issue expressing the same anger though. “We agreed on two hundred rupees! This is barely a hundred!” At no response, the man presses on. “I hunted down the Hero of Hyrule for you and dragged him all the way out to Lynna City on your behalf. Of course it took time! You think he’s easy to tempt out of his little magical den?”

The chair that the giant sits on screeches as the man stands, and he’s really very, very huge when standing, head brushing the ceiling overhead as the chair crashes back against the floor. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Perhaps smarter than the average crook, Hood huffs, biting back whatever it is that he wants to say, and instead gathering up his earnings before leaving the room. That leaves Ravio alone with the giant. Oh, dear darkness, please let this all be a bad dream! He knows it’s not though. His dreams would have Yuga in the place of the giant, or maybe Ganon. He’s also pretty sure Mister Hero had said once that every face you see in your dreams is a person you’ve met, and he’s never met anyone who looks like the monster of a man before him.

The monster smirks, picking up his fallen chair and settling into it again. It's too small for him, but somehow, it doesn't fall to pieces under his bulk. “You’re a hard kid to find, pipsqueak,” the giant drawls, grabbing again for the bottle that’s dwarfed considerably in his hands and taking a swig. It’s clear he’s had plenty of whatever’s inside of it already, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping him at all. “That’s the third one I hired.” This time the words are a growl.

He wants, very badly, to exclaim that he’s not the hero and that maybe the trouble is that Mister Hero is never at home, but he sort of can’t. Good grief, he really hates gags, and the ropes bound around his arms and wrists aren’t particularly welcome either! From where he’s slumped on the floor, maybe having been dropped, maybe placed, he can’t be sure- he can see that his feet are free, and had it actually been Mister Hero they’d caught, that would be a deadly mistake. Between the fogginess of his head and the length of his robes though, he’s not particularly confident in his ability to stand right now, much less do anything to try and attack his friend’s apparent enemy.

It’s clear no attack is expected either, as the giant settles back, leaning heavily on a table that creaks and groans at protest to his weight. “You owe me a rematch, pipsqueak,” comes the rough growl, slurring slightly at the ends of the words. “It’s been a long time coming, but Lynna City’s going to see that Buri Bonebreaker doesn’t accept defeat.”

He doesn’t know what on earth is going on, but whatever it is, it keeps going. Still, from the blather of the drunken man, he can gather at least some information. First, that this person is called Buri and he has a minor obsession with Ravio’s hero counterpart. Second, they’re not in Hyrule anymore, but in a place called Lynna City, which, if he recalls correctly from Mister Hero’s many, many maps, is somewhere on the coast in Labrynna. Thirdly, Buri has something of a grudge against Mister Hero, and while he doesn't explain fully, the merchant gets the impression that the cause has something to do with a fight the man had somehow lost to the hero some years ago. How Mister Hero ever defeated a man this size so many years ago, he can’t imagine, but considering the other had already fought Ganon twice before they’d ever met, it would follow that he’s probably strong enough to have taken on some other foes too and won, even if the odds would definitely appear to be very much not in his favor.

Lastly, he manages, after what feels like hours of being sneered and jeered at, to learn one final, and perhaps far more important piece of information; Buri apparently has every intention of having a “rematch” with Mister Hero, tomorrow. And he thinks Ravio is the hero, so Ravio is going to be the one who’s involved in this rematch instead of Link!

Eventually, the giant passes out against the table, but Ravio, still stuck on the floor and still very much in pain from the pounding headache from whatever herbs were used to knock him out, is left unable to do anything save sit and panic.

He can’t fight a giant. He couldn’t even fight Yuga who, for all intents and purposes, was just a man, ordinarily sized and without much proficiency in anything besides magic to aid him in fighting. He'd had to get Mister Hero to handle that one, and he’s still never gone up against anything in an actual fight in years! The closest was fighting off some bigger children in Thieves Town when he was a kid, and even then, he’d ended up running away as soon as he’d managed to get free from their grasp, food blessedly still in hand. He’s not improved in skill, hasn’t even tried, but this time there won’t be any avoiding it.

If the cheering he can hear, rumbling outside like a wave of thunder, is a good enough indicator, he has a rather awful suspicion that this fight won’t exactly be a throwdown in an alleyway or a house. What’s outside sounds like a full-blown arena, and that means his destruction and shame will most likely be on full display to anyone and everyone who’s in there.

Dark hair hits the wall, and he groans.

He wishes Mister Hero was here. Him, or Hilda, or even Miss Zelda. Anyone who knew enough to give him a helping hand, or at least enough advice on how to slip out. Selfishly, he thinks at least his counterpart could handle being captured, because he’d escape easily, probably before even being brought to the person who’d put a bounty on his head in the first place! He has no such skill though, and the best he has is a knife he can’t reach and a desperation to not die anytime soon.

Hopefully, that’l do him some good, but he deson’t exactly have high expectations.

His expectations drop in the morning.

He was right, it is a blasted stadium that he’s been hauled to, and now he’s left standing in the middle of it, armed only with a knife that looks like a child’s toy in comparison to the axe in the hand of the man before him. Ravio’s heart is beating too fast to probably be good for him, and his breath keeps catching in his throat as he watches from the sidelines as Buri and another, apparently stupid person, duke it out before the crowd. It’s apparent that this is a tiered event, and so far, the giant hasn't lost, but he has left his opponents lying as bloody messes all over the arena to be scraped up by others and hauled away to be fixed up.

Arena fighting is a huge part of Lorulian culture, so he can’t say he doesn’t understand how such a thing can exist in a kingdom, but he never did get the appeal. There's so much blood and violence! Dread pools up in his stomach as the match he’s watching comes to another bloody end, the announcer calling out, voice loud and carrying over the whole of the area, telling the crowd that the match is won. The winner is clearly apparent, his smile still crazed in the morning light even without having hit the bottle again, and the merchant’s stomach lurches as its fixed on him.

The announcer continues, unaware, but telling the crowd about a special treat that’s apparently been prepared. Hearing Link’s name so loudly proclaimed isn’t nearly as exciting as it would be to know his friend was battling at Treacherous Tower, where he knows the other is the champion and quite capable of making it out alive. Here though, it’s the same title, apparently uncontested over the years, and this, the announcer tells the crowd, is the first rematch between competitors from five years ago, when the title was last taken. It makes a lot of sense to learn Link had won that title from the giant, hence the man’s lingering resentment and anger. Still, that’s not helping him at all.

The hooded man, who apparently had wanted to stick around for the fight and is claiming a portion of the inevitable winnings of the giant in return for keeping an eye on Ravio, turns to him with a smirk. “You’re up, mate. Best of luck.” It feels like a taunt.

The moment the gag comes off, he’s trying to protest, to tell the man that he grabbed the wrong person, that he’s not even a hylian, that he isn’t the hero! His words go unheard though, ropes quickly cut away before he’s pushed out and into the arena, the door between the waiting space for competitors and the main stage pulling shut loudly behind him.

Oh, he is so going to die!

The giant’s smile is a mad thing as he comes flying along, feet rumbling at the earth as the merchant fumbles at his sleeves, looking for the knife he keeps there, searching, seeking- there! He’s got it out and just in time to start running away, to dart as fast as his feet will carry him.

Yet, his feet that fumble to move, to step at all after sitting tied up all night. He trips.

Thundering steps slow, and he can see the shadow of a figure with an axe raised, although he’s too busy scrabbling to get back on his feet to even dare look back behind him, and then-

A loud clang sounds through the arena, and a hush falls over the screaming crowd.

The noise rings in his ears, painfully loud, and this time he can’t help but cover them, shifting up onto his knees and looking over his shoulder to see what in Lolia’s name has brought about so great a crashing sound.

A familiar blue cap and glittering sword makes him nearly start sobbing in relief right then and there. The giant’s axe has fallen, but not on him, nor on the stone, but caught on the shield of his very own Mister Hero, who’s shaking just slightly from the impact but facing the gladiator head on and unblinking.

“You...” the giant’s eyes widen, still crazed, but at least more focused than the drunken state of the night before.

“Me.” He can’t see, not with the hero’s back turned to him, but he can hear the smirk as the shield is pushed up and the axe is cast off, rising again in another blow only for the call of the announcer to sound.

He’s not entirely sure what happens after that. He only knows that, somehow, the giant catches ahold of him and starts yelling at Mister Hero, who yells back, sword raised and eyes glinting dangerously as they dart from Ravio’s terror filled face to the frothing rage of the giant. The announcer, who may or may not be acting as scorekeeper, darts over, and then the yelling gets to be so much that he can barely make out any of it over the furious pounding of his heart in his ears and throat.

“I paid good money for this slip,” he’s shaken by a huge hand, “you have no claim over him!”

“He’s my housemate, you asshole!” Mister Hero’s eyes are blazing as he hisses up at the face twice as high as his own. “How on earth did you think he was me? Let him go!”

But the man won’t. There's more yelling, threats, drawing of blades and swinging that’s quickly stopped by the announcer, who jumps between the two with more guts than Ravio would suppose the fellow would have, hands raised to either of them. “I promised the audience a fight, so-”

“You got the wrong Link Lon!” Mister Hero hisses. “You promised them a championship fight, but you’re not even bringing in the champion?” His voice carries, no doubt intentionally, and there’s murmuring from in the stands that clearly has the announcer, who Ravio supposes might also be the owner of the establishment, on edge.

“We were informed-”

“Your informant is brain dead if he can’t tell the difference between the Lynna City champion and some random fellow on the road!” And then the yelling starts again, and there’s fussing and there’s pointing of fingers, but Mister Hero’s eyes aren’t on the announcer anymore. They’re on Ravio. “Let him go.”

The hand holding him by his neck, which is far tighter than he’d like, tightens even further. “No.”

“He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“He’s your housemate,” there’s a smile in that voice he definitely doesn't like. “Your friend, yeah?” And the tone drops, a growl that rumbles through the hand around his throat. “You owe me a rematch, pipsqueak.”

“I don’t owe you a thing.” Dark eyes flit between him and the giant warily, and the hand on the Tempered Sword is tightening, adjusting its hold, ready to make a plunge even as the announcer yells something at the two fighters.

Another squeeze cuts off his breath for a moment, but blessedly releases it just a second after. “You want his freedom? You have to win it!”

Realization dawns, quickly overtaken with a sharpness and ferocity he remembers seeing directed at Hilda, at Yuga, at Gannon. Mister Hero is ready for the fight, and he’s pissed. “Fine. Let him go, and you’ll have your rematch.”

“Win,” the giant hisses, leaning down enough that spit flies of his lips as he speaks and spatters over the hero’s cheeks, “and he’s all yours.”

That seems to quiet the announcer too, who catches ahold of Ravio and surprisingly is met with no resistance as he tries dragging him away. The man’s strong, not as strong as the giant, but the merchant is hard pressed to get his hands free as he’s hauled across the stadium to a small platform where he’s quickly jerked to a stop. The voice of the announcer is even more painful up close and personal, and it rings over the crowd, announcing the change in competition, the foul play of a fake hero, but that the champion is in fact here now to defend his title. It’s all well and good, until he holds up Ravio’s hands and announces that the merchant is the “lovely prize” that the winner gets to take home. That’s too far, but unfortunately, Hood is back close at hand, offering to “mind the merchandise” so the announcer can attend to his actual duties.

He’s had maybe ten minutes with his hands unbound, and despite the swings and every attempt to slip away, he finds himself once more tied up again as Mister Hero and the giant take their places across from each other in the ring.

The crowd is well and truly losing their minds.

Ravio himself is as well, worry building up as he watches. Yes, he knows his hero is capable, but this is a bit much. Ganon was one thing, Yuga too, because they used magic for most of their attacks. The presence of the huge axe, which would only take one swing to leave his friend in pieces, feels like so much more of a threat as he’s forced to just sit and watch. Well, not actually forced. Since no one’s doing more than keeping him from leaving, but he really does have to cover his eyes a few times as the giant’s weapon is raised and swung at the hero. Every time he dares to look though, Mister Hero is still standing. Blood paints the features of both fighters, but even Hood, at his side, whistles lowly a few times in a way he takes to mean his friend is doing surprisingly well. He's hard pressed to watch those moves though. That’s his hero in trouble, all because he’d gotten captured and hauled off to some strange country he’s never been to before.

He is, perhaps, when they get back to Hyrule, consulting with Mister Hero’s smithy friend on getting a bigger knife. And lessons, he adds as he watches Link go flying over the giant’s head after performing a very impressive backspring, twisting in midair to swing his sword at the giant’s back.

He’s watched the other train before, and he thinks Mister Hero calls that move a helm-splitter. It would make sense, given that if there was an armored helm to split, the force of that swing would most certainly have left it in pieces. A cry of pain rises from the giant as he spins around, just as the hylian hits the earth, rolling with the impact, quite literally, and all but bouncing back to his feet again the moment his momentum has run out.

Mister Hero makes fighting look like a dance, and unconsciously, Ravio can pick up a subtle rhythm to his motions, a beat that’s followed like it’s a rule. It’s new, since he rarely sees any actual combat, and what he did was that one battle with their foes, not anything where the stakes were lesser than the fates of two kingdoms and all that lay within them. Here, all that’s on the line is his own safety, which he has no doubt the hero will preserve even if he did somehow lose, and the pride of his friend, which, considering all the other has already done in the name of saving others, probably isn’t nearly as much of a concern in the other’s head. Still, that desperation he’d seen turned on Ganon isn't here, if anything, Mister Hero is cold, closed off, face fixed in a stern look that’s only made lazing by the explosions of stars in his violet eyes. He’s fluid, twisting easily out of the way an not letting anything throw him off alance, off the steps of the unknown dance he’s crafted to use against his foe.

And he makes the giant look like an incompetent idiot the whole while.

Mister Hero’s laughter, not the wildly happy thing he’s seen once or twice, or the relieved desperation after everything was over and they were all safe, but a cold, cruel sort of sound that rings over the crowd, will sound after he avoids a blow. There’s damage done, yes; there’s blood flowing from injuries on both, but no full blow has landed on the hero, and he circles his prey as though he is the bigger, taunting and hissing, striking hard and fast and sure, feet gliding in the churned up dirt of the stadium, calling out to his opponent.

It’s his way to know that Mister Hero is well and truly pissed.

Buri is too, running, throwing his weight around, striking out in anger and missing, blinded by his rage as the hero glides out of reach and then flies forwards, blows landing hard and fast.

Thye axe will lift and fall, and here and again, they do land close enough to tear skin and clothes, ort the edge will catch on the hero’s body just a second before he’s out of reach, leaving a stripe of crimson painted over sweat soaked skin. Still though, his hero doesn’t falter. One moment that great weapon is raised, Ravio shielding his eyes, and then there’s another hiss from his friend and he’s looking against to see blood flowing and feet moving, eyes flashing so bright they’re visible even from where he’s being kept like a trophy for the winner to claim.

The dirt of the stadium is churned up all about, flecked with blood that’s quickly absorbed by already red stained dust. Feet shuffle, blades clang, and the shield of the hero raises, reflecting light into the eyes of onlookers.

It’s one such flash of light that has him blinking, blinded, and opening his eyes a moment later to find that the hooded figure who’d hauled him here and now slumping across the ground before him. Another man, also hooded, but with red hair drifting over his eyes, flashes a smile at him. “Need an out there, mate?”

It’s the same accent, but a deeper voice, and a kinder one, although it’s low with a whisper. A knife appears in one hand of the stranger, but it’s only turned to the rope on his hands.

The announcer is too lost in his own shouting and excitement to even notice as the red-head catches Ravio by the hand- not the wrist or the neck, but the hand- and tugs him towards the door that separates the announcer’s space from the crowd. Quite frankly, he has no clue who this person is, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so far, they’re not threatening him or anything, just holding tight as they weave through the crowd, pulling him along through the screaming onlookers and towards what looks like it might actually be an exit.

“Where-”

“Patience.”

It’s not the thing he wants to hear from a stranger hauling him away, but again, the man isn’t being rough with him. He’s had he continues too, because once the scream of the crowd fades and they’ve darted down a stair to a space below the seats, he sees some actually familiar faces waiting for him.

“Mister Captain Hero Sir!”

“Ravio!” The blonde spins about at the sound of his voice, relief washing over lovely features as he darts over, scarf billowing beautifully with the motion. A sturdy hand catches his shoulder, blue eyes flitting up and over him in a familiar once over that leaves both of them a little more at ease.

“You’re okay!” Tune- Wind (he’s got to get that straight) throws his arms around him, and eagerly, Ravio hugs him back. He doesn’t get to hug long though, as the young sailor bounces back with furrowed brows, staring up the short distance between them with a faint frown. “How did you get away? The fight isn’t over yet!”

The clearing of a throat has all the heroes glancing behind the merchant, eyes falling on his strange savior. “That would be me.”

“And you are?” Mister Captain Hero asks, guarded and already looking ready to grab for his sword on the off chance that a fee be demanded for the merchant’s release. There’s no such request though.

“A friend of your hero’s,” the red-head answers. “He can vouch for me once he’s finished kicking that idiot’s ass. I must say, his distraction worked nicely.”

The question of ‘what distraction’ lingers in his head, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask it because, even if the sound of the crowds is dimmed from below, the mighty roar that sounds from above stops anyone from hearing anything else.

The stranger smirks. “And that’s the idiot downed, I daresay.”

As it turns out, he’s right. It’s only a moment or so more and Mister Hero is suddenly coming up to them, clutching one arm and bloodied to a concerning degree, but that’s all cast aside as the hero all but flies over and throws his arms around the merchant, grip almost painful for how tight it is. “Thank God you’re okay, you idiot.”

“Oh, so you’re close friends,” the posh sounding voice of teh stranger chuckles. “I ought to have guessed.”

He can feel the stiffening of the hero’s whole frame, but long ears prick forwards with an eagerness that’s not spoken at the sight of the redhead. “Ralph.”

“Link.”

“Thanks for grabbing him for me.”

“My pleasure.” the man smirks. “You did put on such a lovely show, i don’t think anyone even noticed he was gone, they were so fixated on you.”

A grin, sharp and bloodied from the busted nose his friend has acquired, is flashed, and that’s what ends the conversation as Mister Captain Hero steps in and demands they start treating Mister Hero’s injuries. The stranger, whom his doppelganger continues to address as ‘Ralph’, also demands that once first aid has been finished- which he takes no qualms in swiping off his gloves to aid with- they come ack with him to a “safer place to catch your breathes”. It’s a welcome thought, especially as Mister Hero agrees without question; a sure sign that it’s alright, for his friend would never agree if it was in any ways a risk.

There’s questions, as they work to tend the rather copious amounts of cuts. What happened, why was Ravio captured, how does Mister Hero the giant, know the red-head, and of course what is going on in general. They’re all shut down though by the man called Ralph, who says there’s a time and a place for stories, but not while stopping someone from bleeding out. in Ravio’s experienced opinion, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it does a decent job of granted a bit of silence to those doing wound care.

Once the worst is tended, they’re heading out, moving quickly to avoid the crowds and the announcer who will no doubt have something to say to the veteran hero.

Mister Hero keeps a hold of his hand the whole time they slip from the stadium, and even once they’re on the street, following the hero’s red-headed friend, he doesn’t let go.

“No arguments,” the voice of his housemate is strained as it hisses between them, under still straining breathes but not exactly secretive, “when we get time, I’m teaching you to fight.”

“Please.” he’d argued about it before, but quite frankly? He regrets that. “If something like this happens again, I don’t want to be useless.”

One shoulder, the one that wasn’t nicked y the axe, checks against his own, dark eyes sparking as they tur on him. “This, will never happen again, okay? Never.”

“But something similar-”

“Ravio, I’m not letting anyone do that.” Violet hold green like the skies cradling the earth, only to break away a moment later with a huff. “But for pities sakes, there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep knowing you’re as likely to hurt yourself with your weapon as you are someone else.”

Rude! “You should have seen me in the war! My hammer wrecked quite the decent amount of destruction!”

“Sure it did.”

“I’m serious, Mister Hero!”

But even for their words, the tone of his otherworldly twin is light, warm, and- for the hero at least- fond.

He’s okay. They’re okay. Everything is going to be fine, and the only ones who aren’t are likely the giant and the announcer, who will have hell to pay from the crowd if Ravio was reading the situation right. Good riddance to bad rubbish though, and Mister Hero agrees with a tired laugh when he says as much.

#asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse #febuwhump2024 #febuwhump #ketto writes #lu legend #lu ravio #manga reference

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that-1-gay-writer · 4 months

Note

Could I ask for Shiva (record Ragnarok) x male reader?

So reader is a son of Aphrodite. He also doesn't really care for Ragnarok. So maybe he was cuddling on Shiva's lap and trying to sleep while the fights were happening.

Also I forgot to mention that m!reader is always tired and can fall asleep anywhere (He's also a god btw)

OMG YES I LOVE THIS, AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST, YOURE FANTASTIC!! MWAH MWAH♡♡

BY CONTINUING TO READ YOU ARE ALLOWING YOURSELF TO READ NSFW CONTENT AND THAT IS ONES ONLY WARNING, THANK YOU, AND REQUESTS ARE OPEN-K🍃💚

All of Ragnarok could agree you got your looks from your mother. You where one of the most beautiful men to roam, and that is why Shiva was so persistent in showing you off to anyone and everyone. Even when the gods where fighting humanity for its ability to live. All he could think of was how lucky he was to have you. In his arms, and as the only one he would ever put so much precious time into. Sitting in the audience, you felt like these fights would have given you a reason to cheer for your kind. However you already knew the God's had the complete upper hand, so your cheering didn't matter. Not that you thought at least. You where just happy to be next to Shiva. His beautiful eyes and soft tainted skin. Oh, he is everything you could ever want and adore, and you know so many of those who roam in Ragnarok would kill to be in yours (and his) shoes. You move closer to him, feeling bored and uninterested in what was happening below. You cuddle into one of his few arms, one of them being around you. (One of them messing with you in a different way-) That was the only thing your mind was focused on was the way he was messing with your semi hard cock. In public at that. Not like your mother was near, not like all of Ragnarok and Humanity could see and hear. Maybe thats what made everything more intimate and more connecting. A part of you was so into it, as he was touching you in ways you could never have dreamt of. Well of course you could have, but reality is so much better than fantasy. When Shiva would notice how your head would trail off to other sides of the arena. He would give a slight squeeze to your cock, bringing you back into the moment and back in with him. You knew if you whined people around you would hear and more enlikely get an idea on what was going on. The one time you let a small mewl out was the minute he wrapped you up into his arms and you two where gone. Doing lord knows what, but at least the both of you where more satisfied in your passion then in any aggression between God's and Humanity.

"I don't think I would survive these boring battles without toying with you, my pretty boy."

#male reader #that1gaywriter #record of ragnarok shiva x male reader #shiva record of ragnarok #god he is so fucking hot #requests open

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vay99 · 1 year

Text

Loki x reader

🖤Those black and white roses🤍

Anime/Manga: Shuumatsu no valkyrie

Helloooooo,

Yep I'm obsessed with yet another anime/manga an so I'm trying to get back into writing, I have plenty of os in my draft that are still waiting to be finished lol

╔═════════════╗

Being a Valkyrie during Ragnarok wasn't easy for you. Your sisters and you stand by the humans, support them, so that they'll survive. On the other hand the majority of Northern gods wanted humans to vanish from the world.

"(y/n) get it together!" Brunhilde scolds you. "You have to become someone's weapon!"

"I know, but not against him!" you defend your standpoint. Your sister is very much aware of your feelings for a certain God but she knows that you'd make a perfect match for his opponent. "Any other opponent, I'd gladly accept, but I can't kill him, I can't help someone kill him."

"So you want humanity to die? To perish? Just like those other scum of Gods!?!" she screams, breaking the phone she had in her hand.

"No! That's not what I am saying!"

"But this is how you're acting! (y/n) you- Just get lost!" Brunhilde marches off, leaving you behind.

"It's really not like this, but I can't... and yet I wish I could." you mumble sadly to yourself, walking the opposite direction.

One of your sisters decided to take your place and bonds with the human that fights Loki. A few minutes before the fight your stomach starts to twist, the pure thought of Loki dying makes you want to throw up.

"Someone's looking sick." the green haired man appears out od nowhere, catching you so off guard that you fall backwards onto the ground. "Oh my dear (y/n), I didn't want that to happen~" Loki helps you back up.

"Uh, what are you doing here? Isn't your fight supposed to start in a few minutes?" you ask, fixing your hair. Loki reaches out and tucks a hair strain behind your ear before pulling out a black rose from behind it.

"How could I fight before making sure your not the one I'll be fighting?" he chuckles, handing you the rose. "This is just in case I die, so you have something black as my soul to rest on my empty grave."

With those words he turns around, making his way to the arena, leaving you behind, too torn to wish him good luck.

"I'm such a weakling." you curse yourself, watching as a single tear drop hits the petal of the beautiful black rose.

Loki and you have always been close, growing up together, fighting together and yet you were as close as you were distant. He despised humans, enjoyed to make them suffer, while you fought for their survival. As much as you two got along this point was always a sensitive one. You fought him about this on multiple occasions, until you were both near bleeding to death, each time you tried to stop him from bringing another plague to earth.

And each time after you two recovered he'd bring you a white rose. Like nothing ever happened you'd go back to talking, hanging out as if you didn't know that this would repeat over and over again.

The fight was pretty intense, Loki is heavily bleeding, and so is his opponent.

"Oh no, please, no." you pray, to who you don't know, but to anyone who listens. And right as you thought no one would something strange happened.

"I declare defeat."

The arena went silent, no one believed their ears as Loki, the God of mischief declared defeat. Who's he trying to trick? What kinds of joke is that supposed to be?

"You, uhm, you what now????" Heimdal asks in shock, watching Loki loose consciousness right after. "Medics!!!! Loki is down! The God of mischief declared defeat, the winner are the humans!"

Watching as Loki hit the ground and blood soaking the ground you feel dizzy, your knees shake until they hit the ground. How you ended up in the sick bay is beyond your knowledge, after you watched Loki bleed out everything is blank.

"He's going to make it." that's the first thing you remember. The Doc allowed you to stay with Loki until he wakes up. He lost a lot of blood but his regeneration in the tank was done after 7 hours and you didn't leave his side for just a second.

"He can be transferred to a normal bed now, he should be awake soon." the Doc informs you and leaves you two alone.

"I'm sorry Loki." was the first thing you said to him after the fight. Not knowing if he could hear you. "I'm sorry for not holding you back from participating. I'm sorry for not rooting for you. I-" the sobs break your voice, holding your hand over your mouth to silence the crying you close your eyes to calm yourself down. Once you open them you see Lokis purple eyes looking right at yours.

"I'm not dead yet, no reason to cry." he chuckles, tugging another strain of hair behind your ear and pulling out a white rose.

"A white rose..." you sigh, taking it into your hands.

"As pure as your soul."

You pull out the black rose he gave you earlier, holding them in each hand.

"Why did you give me a black rose earlier?" you ask him, blinking away the last tears.

"Because it was the first time you let me win, and we both know that when I follow my path it'll be dark one. So if I would've died on that path I would've want you to remember that I chose this. Just like I chose to listen to you every time you stood up against me and up for humanity."

"Then why did you give me a white rose now?" you ask, causing the tears to fall once again, and the lump in your throat to tighten.

"You just admitted that you were not able to hold me back, and couldn't cheer for me. You would always choose humanity but today you also chose me." he pauses for a second to sit up, looking at his now closed wounds he strokes them with a gentle simile on his face. "And today I understood what you meant. My opponent is honorable, and he knew that humanity is far from perfection, and yet he said that they'll survive any catastrophy, plague, torture, as a unit. As long as humans come together they'll be able to defeat anyone. Just like you always said. Guess I needed to get beaten up by a human to finally understand what you've been telling me all along."

"Loki? Does that mean?"

"I don't want to wipe humanity, maybe a plague or two but not to erase them all, but to test them." he pats your head. "I already changed my view on one point, can't expect me to change completely, I'm still the God of mischief."

Not able to hold your joy back you tackle him with a hug, nose dug into his neck and arms tightly wrapped around his torso. "You don't know how long I've waited for you to say this you idiot!"

"Then how about you say something I've been dying to hear all these decades?" Loki rolls you two to the side, placing his hands on your waist.

"Like what?"

"I love you." he whispers before pulling your closer until your bodies meet.

"Since you've survived this horrible fight I think I could do that for you. I love you Loki." you place a soft kiss on his nose before he pulls you into a heated kiss, using your hands to dig your nails into his hair, not wanting to let go of him any time soon.

"Prepare for a bunch of roses for the rest of your life (y/n)."

#Ror #record of ragnorak #shuumatsu no walkure #shuumatsu no valkyrie #Loki #Loki x reader #Ror Loki x reader #Snv Loki x reader

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hopeymchope · 20 days

Note

(Yeah I probably misread something)

There is something I am curious about that I wanted to share with you

If I remember correctly (please correct me if I am wrong here) in the answer yukari becomes more antagonistic towards Aigis because she’s heartbroken over makoto’s death because she lost the guy she loves

One thing I want to bring up is in the kotone route some of the ship tease scenes with yukari are replaced with akihiko and as we all know all yukari’s scenes with kotone are mostly platonic along with her feelings so I doubt if there was a kotone version of the answer yukari would take it as bad as she did(not saying she wouldn’t but not as hard is all I’m saying)

So if we had a kotone version of the answer who would take yukari’s place

(Personally I’m leaning towards akihiko)

Yukari is antagonistic in "The Answer" because she wants to bring Makoto back to life regardless of what it would mean. From what I can recall (and this might be a little off the mark), they'd have to redo the battle against Nyx to try and destroy it completely OR they'd have to remove Makoto from his service the Great Seal to protect all life from Nyx — thereby endangering the world. But Yukari's so desperate to see him again that she (along with Mitsuru - who sides with Yukari for reasons left unstated) winds up fighting new protag Aigis (and whoever is with her party by then).

It's not explicitly stated to be romantic, but her desperate desire to see him even if it undoes the entire point of his sacrifice (...that he didn't fuckin' know he was making, I should note) definitely comes off that way IMO — regardless of whether you choose to believe Makoto returned those affections. After all, Junpei even compares it to how he'd feel if he could go back and save Chidori (which is sure an interesting bit of dialogue given that her survival seems to be canon in P4A). I guess you could argue that it's at least up to interpretation whether Yukari's feelings were a romantic love or something just intensely platonic.

The easiest and most logical answer here is to just say "Yukari gets that role in any version of The Answer." So whether that makes her bisexually in love with Kotone or just very emotionally attached to Kotone as part of her found family, she should probably remain the person who fights against keeping them gone, because that's just her character and because it reduces the amount of work a dev team would undertake.

But let's say we want to do something more radical and ensure that the person who fights back is a potential love interest with a legit romantic hangup on the protagonist. When you look at Kotone's potential love interests — Ahihiko, Theodore, Ryoji, Aigis, and even fucking Ken — who among them seems most likely to be so messed up over a (theoretical) Kotone death that they'd be willing to undo the purpose of her sacrifice for the chance to see her once more?

There are really only two options, because (A) Aigis is the lead protagonist of 'The Answer' and pre-determined to take the side of maintaining his sacrifice. (B) The velvet room attendants are established to be on the side of maintaining the sacrificer... although we do learn in Persona 4 Arena that Elizabeth leaves the Velvet Room to go on a quest to destroy Nyx and thereby release Makoto from being stuck as the seal, returning him to life. Maybe Theo could do the same in the Kotoneverse? (C) Ryuji is off the table for obvious reasons related to his identity.

That leaves just Akihiko and Ken. Akihiko would be a really dramatic interesting route to go, and I think I'd honestly prefer it? Because to see someone with his level of determination get so undone would be REALLY intense. But... I also admit that Kotone's worst romance option is the one that makes the most sense.

Because like I said, jst because The Answer strongly supports the idea that Yukari loves Makoto doesn't mean it ALSO supports the idea that they were canonically together. I will never support the idea that Kotone had any canonical feelings towards Ken, but regardless of that, I still feel like Ken is the obvious pick to take up Yukari's role as the one who has trouble accepting that Kotone's truly gone. It's easy to imagine him as the character who is nursing an unrequited love that's THAT hardcore, leaving him to take up his weapon against the squad.

#persona 3 spoilers #asks #femc #kotone shiomi #makoto yuki #yukari takeba #persona 3 #p3p #persona 3 fes #persona the answer #the answer #persona #persona series

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sea-owl · 4 months

Note

In your hunger games au what was the arena like for each other spouses?

Like what type of area they fought in? That's an interesting question, hold on let me think.

Simon: Simon's arena was miles of open fields. There was nowhere to hide, and the only option was to kill or be killed. Tributes had to be on gaurd every second in case another tribute or mutt spotted them. This led to many forgoing sleep, including Simon, lomg enough that the gamemaker debated leaking a gas into the arena so the tributes wouldn't make the games boring by passing out from exhaustion.

Kate: Kate's arena was rows and rows of different crops, trees, and other items one would need to help survive. It honestly seemed too good to be true, and it was. What the gamemakers didn't tell the tributes was that each time they picked an item, it was a gamble. Was what they grabbed the real thing or something the gamemakers mutated to kill them. The thing is, Kate's too stubborn to go down so easily, and she took great satisfaction of killing the mutation for her prize.

Sophie: Sophie's arena basically looked like the ruins of a city with nature beginning to overtaie it. This arena really urgered Capitol citizens even more to send her gifts. It's hitting a little too close to home that this tribute who looks so much like their Capitol children is wandering around, scared and fighting for her life. Sophie, who was always more comfortable among nature, stayed closer to that part of the ruined city, which she unknowingly played on the Capitol citizens even more.

Penelope: Up above were a set of islands, each one with a different terrain that a tributemight gravitate towards based on their home. But underneath was an underwater cave system with a few openings a tribute could set up camp. Penelope frequently used to hide herself in between leaving her messages to mess with the other tributes. Being from District 4, she and her district partner had the best chances of navigating that cave system. If it wasn't for that tracker and underwater cameras, the gamemakers probably would've called her death when she first discovered it.

Phillip: Phillip's arena is very much like Haymitch's. Pretty, but all that it really is is pretty poison. Phillip knew the prettier the plant, the more likely it's poisonous and he was proven right when he found plants he knew were poisonous because they grew back in District 7. Unsure of what the other plants did, he picked the poison he knew and used it to coat his weapon. He hunkered down and waited after that. He won't seek the other tributes out but he's also not dying in this arena like George did.

Michael: Michael's arena was rocky terrain with many cliffs and a never-ending fog. Many of the tributes fell or were pushed to their deaths over the cliffs. Michael himself even used the cliffs when he realized one was unstable and managed to switch positions in battle with another tribute who fell after the cliff broke out from under them.

Gareth: Gareth's arena was a little different as it was in an abandoned mansion. The gamemakers really wanted to stick it to Victor Danbury that her beloved grandson would die surrounded by all these broken luxury comforts. District 1's export was broken in this arena just as they planned to break District 1's tribute and District 1's victor. Many rooms in the mansion had a different way to kill you. What the gamemakers failed to realize though is that Gareth recognized many of these items and was able use the broken pieces against other tributes.

Lucy: Poor Lucy got thrown into a swamp, and everything was constantly wet. A few tributes managed to die from trench foot. Lucy tried to keep herself as dry as she could by climbing the trees. This also helped in her plan to secretly take other tributes because constantly looking down for any dry spots made it easier for her to shoot from the trees.

#bridgerton #hunger games au #victor spouses #simon basset #kate sharma #kate sheffield #sophie beckett #penelope featherington #phillip crane #michael stirling #gareth st clair #lucy abernathy

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threeletterslife · 2 years

Text

Things We Owe to Each Other

⨰ summary: The Capitol promised you riches and fame after you won the games, but you should've known they were lying. After years of wasting away and feeling pity for yourself, when you meet the local fragrance shop owner who's as similar to you as one can get, you realize you need his help. Except, everything comes with a price.

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 100% angst | hunger games!au & hurt/comfort!au

⨰ warnings: profanity, death, gore, blood, mentions of prostitution and suicide

⨰ wordcount: 26.8k

cr.

ONE.

You were never going to die.

You were meant to volunteer, to survive. Meant to win. And most of all, you were meant to be the face of the new rebellion.

You’ve done most of these things. You volunteered obediently—without hesitation. You survived as your life depended on it, which it did. And you won. You really won. But then you betrayed the people who built you up when they needed you most.

All those years of training, of intermittent starvations, of freezing cold nights and scorching hot summers in the name of preparation… You just wanted to rest. You wanted a break. You were only looking out for yourself. Because not once in your life were you ever given a choice. If you died in the Arena, you were only going to be a martyr—but there are 23 martyrs every year, anyways. If you lived, you were going to be puppeteered again, and the rebellion would begin, just like it did 24 years ago. Except this time, it was expected to succeed.

TWO.

You didn’t think you would betray the rebels. They were all that you’ve ever known. They fed you, dressed you, gave you so many rules to follow, punished you if you broke them.

They chose you. Because your mother was strong and your father was handsome. They plucked you from your crib and handed you a silver dagger and told you to fight. So you did. You were dazzling. They told you that you had to look pretty all the time—even while you fought. You needed sponsors to survive the Arena, and sponsors only loved beautiful things. So you had to be the most beautiful, lethal thing they’ve ever laid their eyes upon.

You learned how to move faster than lightning, how to aim so precisely that you could throw bullseyes with your eyes closed, how to survive off of the land with only nuts and berries, how to put your body through hell yet not beg for death just yet.

But that wasn’t all.

You learned how to be charming, coy. You learned how to manipulate and get your way. You learned how to lie. You learned it so well that sometimes, you couldn’t even remember what the truth was anymore.

They strategized every minute of the game for you—from the moment you’d step forth to volunteer at age 18 to your last kill in the Arena. They paved your path to victory. All you had to do was follow it. Then, you were supposed to kill President Snow at the victor crowning. You were supposed to kill all of them at the victor crowning. That would’ve set off a chain reaction, wherein District 8—your district—would lead the new wave of the rebellion. The Capitol would be destroyed once and for all.

But when the time came, you sat on your throne, exhausted, relishing in the feeling of victory, and you pretended to forget all about the rebels back home. In fact, you might’ve tipped off a couple of Peacekeepers about the secret rebel headquarters you’d frequented in your district. In days, they’d all be dead. Another rebellion, squashed.

You tried not to look back.

The people at the Capitol made you feel good. They made you feel desirable. And for once in your life, you felt free.

THREE.

You regret it.

You regret the betrayal.

You wish you could turn back time to three years ago during the victor crowning. You should’ve done it. You should’ve killed everyone in that room—maybe even yourself. Because this, whatever this is, is considerably worse than what you’d expected.

You slip on your silk robe. It billows out, trailing the clean, marble floor of the suite. When you look behind you, you see the Capitol dog still sleeping. In fact, he’s snoring. It’s loud enough to shake the jewel-studded nightstand. He’d bragged about that nightstand yesterday. Said it was made from every naturally occurring and man-made gem in the world. That it was a one-of-a-kind. That he won it at an auction to impress his wife. And for some reason, he thought it would impress you too. But maybe that nightstand is impressive.

It’s most definitely worth more than your own life.

Your brow twitches at the sight of the Capitol dog. He hasn’t even bothered to throw some clothes on after last night. Hasn’t even bothered to take a shower in his bathroom that’s so big that it could shelter at least fifty people. Told you last night to “Get out” as soon as you woke up the next morning. Threw the money on the floor and made you pick it up—bill by bill. Sometimes, you wonder if they’re the animals, not you. So why do they treat you like one? Why are you always used and tossed out like a rag doll?

You thought after you won the games that they’d accept you into their highly civilized society. You thought that you wouldn’t have to work another day in your life. You thought you’d be happy. Freedom never felt so real. But the monthly income you receive from the Capitol for winning the Hunger Games is barely enough to buy a single bathtub, much less an entire suite, and you don’t dare to go home to live in the Victor’s Village. Your district would burn you alive for the betrayal—what’s left of them, anyway.

So you stay in the Capitol, spending night after night in strangers’ beds, using their generous tips to buy food, some nice clothes for yourself. Everyone wants to spend the night with the alluring District 8 Victor who killed her supposed ‘lovers’ in the games with nothing but a delicate smile on her face. You’ve always been popular amongst the Capitol. You used to think it was because they admired you, respected you. But now you know you’re just a toy to them.

You’ve thought about killing them. You trained thirteen years to become a vicious killer—couldn’t you go for a couple more kills? But the prospect of getting caught is terrifying. President Snow would have your head. No. Even worse. He’d torture you to death and then broadcast it for everyone to see. And you refuse to die in such a humiliating way.

With a final look, you check to see if you’ve left anything in the suite; it’d be embarrassing to come crawling back to find it—not that you’ve done it before. But this time around, you’ve been meticulous. Satisfied, you make one final movement and spit on the jeweled nightstand. Then, you leave, your pink silk nightgown billowing in the air behind you.

FOUR.

You step into the fragrance shop. You’ve been saving up for this moment for the past three years. They sell products such as lotions and perfumes here, but not just any lotions and perfumes—ones infused with your own, personal scent. It’s supposed to drive other people crazy, make them hungry with desire. You’ll use it to fish even more tips out of your clients.

A silver bell rings as the heavy door closes behind you. Instantly, a man comes out from the purple drapes behind the counter. “Hello,” he says, rustling about and straightening a row of bottles filled with a mysterious, golden elixir. “Welcome to—” When he meets your eyes, he stops talking.

Oh no. For a moment, you forget how to breathe.

Then, his sharp, cat-like eyes narrow, and he spits out an even sharper: “Get out.”

You hear the phrase too often to care—even if he says it so menacingly. And you know what this man is capable of. He could slice your head straight off your body in a matter of seconds. You’d be dead before you blinked. District 2 trash. A Capitol lapdog. Of course he’s working in the Capitol after he’d won the games.

You remember watching him win on the screens back home. They made you study every televised game, take notes on the Victor’s strategies and learn from their mistakes, copy their triumphs. His was the 95th Hunger Games. It feels so long ago—seven years, to be exact. He was sixteen, then. So young. So naïve. He’d volunteered for his younger brother.

But his sacrifice never ends up mattering.

Because four years later, you end up killing his brother during the 99th Hunger Games.

“I’m only looking to buy some perfume,” you say innocently. “You’re not going to turn down a customer, are you?”

In a second, he’s standing before you, hot breath in your face, hands reaching to clasp around your neck. But his eyes widen when he realizes you’re holding onto his wrist, effectively stopping his hands from closing in around your throat.

“Did you forget?” you whisper. He’s so close to you that you can carefully delineate his every feature—his downturned lips, his squinted eyes, his soft, delicate nose. But you manage to maintain eye contact. “I’m a Victor, too.”

He scowls, wrenching his hand out of your grip. “I’ll call the Peacekeepers,” he threatens. “I’ll tell them that their little throw toy is out of her cage.”

“Ouch,” you say, placing your hand on your chest in mock hurt. “But what makes you think that they’ll take your side?”

He gives you a disgusted look. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“What? Tell me to get out?” you say. “How are you even here, anyway? You’d think someone like you would live in the Victor’s Village.”

“Someone like me?” he scoffs.

“A Capitol lapdog,” you say as a matter of factly. “Did District 2 run out of housing for the Victors?”

“Watch your mouth,” he says. He looks like he’s ready to lunge at you again, but you’ve studied his fighting style. You’ve integrated it into your own, too. So you know he will lean right before he throws a punch.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” is his simple reply.

He’s also not wrong. You suppose that you’re the one who owes him. And you hate owing things to anyone—why should you? Your entire life has been a give-and-take. They told you that they only fed you so you could be strong. You had to be strong to win the games for them. They wanted you to do blood loss training. You did it because they let you rest an hour longer than usual. Your clients use you for self gratification; and you let them because they give you generous tips in return. Things have always come out even in your life. No one owes each other anything.

So why do you feel the need to owe this particular shrimp of a person? He’s short, barely taller than you, and has twigs for his limbs. Looks can deceive, of course, because this twig-legged man can outrun a particularly fast dog muttation. But his lacking physique doesn’t change the fact that you’ll owe him.

Yet where there is an odd favor, there’s always a way to make it even.

“Ask me two questions, then,” you say. It’s an offer that almost comes out of nowhere. The thought of anyone prodding around, demanding that you indulge them in your private business—it’s sickening. It makes you vulnerable. But this is what will make you and him even. “One for Jungkook,” you say. “And an extra one so I can ask my own question. We’ll be even then.”

His expression darkens when he hears Jungkook’s name fall from your lips. He spits out a harsh: “I don’t want to know anything about you.”

“But aren’t you just the least bit curious?” you press him.

He hesitates. It’s only for a split second, but it still counts in your eyes. “Your answers to my questions won’t undo what you did to him.”

“I suppose it won’t,” you say. “But you admit it, then. You have questions.”

He glares at you.

You just grin innocently. “You watched my games.”

“You watched mine,” he accuses.

“I did,” you say. “I enjoyed it. It was fine entertainment.”

Out of all the words you’ve spoken, these are the ones that set him off.

His eyes flash. Then, all too soon, he’s leaning right, ready to take a swing at you. But you’re too quick for him, side-stepping out of the way. He almost crashes into a shelf full of glass bottles, but he stops himself just in time. Victor’s instincts. They never disappear.

He’s shaking in anger as he slowly turns around to face you.

“What’s wrong?” you say. “Am I too fast for you?”

He’s lunging at you again.

But his patterns are so easy to detect. You’ve watched his games over and over and over again. You know how he fights. You know how he pins his victims down and saws through their throats. You know that if you’re not careful, you could meet the same fate.

But you’re always careful. And you were born to kill.

You grab his wrist and flip him down to the ground. He grunts in pain.

“Are you going to stop now?” you ask him.

He’s panting. Clearly, he hasn’t been exercising much after his games.

“I won in three days,” you tell him. “Or did you forget?”

It’s quiet. You think he might lunge at you again, but then he speaks without bothering to face you. “That’s because you cheated.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I did?”

Of course you did. You had hundreds of people on the sidelines, strategizing for you, helping you take notes on your opponents. You needed to win. For the rebellion that never happened. But did he know?

“Everyone knows you started playing the game the moment you stepped into the Capitol,” he says. “You were so charming that no one could take their eyes off of you. Even the other tributes.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

Yes it was. You were trained to do that. To trick them into falling in love with you, then kill them off when they were blinded by their own starry eyes.

“Just get out,” he says, standing back up, though with a wobbly leg.

Huh. You hadn’t noticed that before. He walks with a slight limp. Was that because of the District 1 girl he battled to win his Victor title? Does it still hurt after all of these years?

“I can’t.” The words slip out before you can even stop them.

He raises his eyebrows. “And why would the Capitol’s Princess desperately need her personal scent?” It’s a stupid question and he knows it, too. There are only certain types of people who come here, frantic to smell desirable, to smell addicting. Because how good they smell will likely dictate how much they might make in a night. He looks away.

You hate being vulnerable. You hate being weak. You’ve been weak and vulnerable nearly every night for three years. So what’s one more time going to do?

“How did you do it?” you whisper. “How did you get out?”

He looks stricken with panic. His eyes dart around the shop, though there’s no one there except the two of you. Then, he lunges forward—not to punch you, not to pin you to the ground—but to tug you behind the counter, behind the purple curtains. There’s a tiny corridor there, one with a door at the end. He must be living here. You wonder what it took for him to gain this much freedom.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” he says quietly, still tightly holding onto your wrist.

But you’re persistent. “You were prostituted too, weren’t you?” you say, urgently. “So how are you here? Teach me,” you say. “I know I’ll owe you twice as much but I’ll make it up to you.” That’s a lie. You could never make that up to him, but sometimes, well, most times, people believe the words you say. Something tells you though, that he won’t be so easily deceivable.

“How?” he seethes. “How would you make it up to me when I know how much you’re making a night? You couldn’t ever pay me back during your entire lifetime, and I have no desire of letting you off easy, either.”

His sharp words boil your blood. You inhale deeply in an attempt to calm yourself down. But that’s when you notice how nice he smells. It’s such a strange instance to focus on his scent, but you can’t help it. He’s too close to you. And your nose is simply doing what it’s supposed to do.

“Mint,” you whisper.

He frowns.

“Fresh mint, a hint of lemon and…” you struggle to find the last note.

“Linen,” he says impatiently. “It’s clean linen.”

“I see you made yourself a personal scent of your own,” you say. “It fits you. Except I’m not sure it works. You were much more charming on-screen.”

He glowers. “Is this your way of attempting to persuade me into helping you?”

You shake your head. “Just making an observation.”

“Well, I’m not going to risk getting in trouble,” he says, his grip around your wrist tightening so hard that it’s beginning to hurt. If he grips any tighter, you think it might crack. “I already got away with it, so I’m not going to let you ruin things.”

You jerk your wrist away from him, rubbing it tenderly. “Careful! That’s my working wrist,” you exclaim, glaring at him. “It’s my money-maker, you hear?”

There’s something that flashes in his eyes. Is it anger? Pity?

But who knew such a stone-cold killer could feel pity?

“You’ve become so pathetic.”

Oh. He wasn’t feeling pity, all right. It had been anger. His downturned lips, the crease on his forehead, his darkened eyes—he hates you. But no one ever hates you—at least, not to your fucking face. You’re sure the survivors back home despise you, but you’ll never visit them to find out, anyway.

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he speaks before you can even get your words out.

“What happened to the coquettish girl who kissed and seduced the other tributes before stabbing them to death?” he says. “How fucking dare you ask me for help years later? After you killed him? You’re a pathetic person. And you’re weak.”

Weak? Weak?! After everything you’ve been through, you’re the weak one??

That sets you off.

“I didn’t have a choice!” you yell, your voice booming so loud in the tight quarters that he visibly flinches. “I won for the same reason that you did! Because I couldn’t die!”

His eyebrows raise at your outburst. “Well, would you look at that? I made the Capitol’s Princess finally lose her cool.”

“This isn’t a joke!” you cry. “This is my life, okay? If you won’t help me leave, then at least find me my personal scent!”

He finally steps away from you, giving you your much-needed space—well, as much space as the narrow hall can provide. “Your life?” He nods, scoffing. “Of course. And what makes you think your life is so much better than everyone else’s?”

You snap.

Screaming obscenities, you lash out at him, slapping him straight across the face. He could’ve stopped you, but he didn’t. Your hand stings. You’ve never slapped anyone in your life—mostly because you always resort to doing worse. Now there’s an angry red welt on his face, and you know it’ll blossom into a purple bruise by tomorrow.

He touches his cheek. Doesn’t even wince. “You won because the Capitol let you win,” he tells you, slowly, as if he’s talking to a child. “You’re alive because of them, their money, their sponsors. So you owe them your life.”

“And what about you?” you pant angrily, ready to deliver another slap when the time comes. “You’re just like me.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m just like you said.”

“And what did I fucking say?”

“I’m a Capitol lapdog. But the difference between you and me? I know it, and you don’t.”

You want to slap him across the face again. It’s so tempting. Your hand twitches. But he’s right. He’s so right.

“You don’t regret it at all,” he says.

“Regret what?”

“Killing everyone,” he replies. “You don’t feel the guilt.”

“Why should I?” you say. “If I didn’t kill them first, they would’ve killed me.” And you had a mission. Those 23 other tributes were supposed to be pawns, martyrs, for the real cause. For the rebellion that never happened. You swallow. Can he see right through you? Does he know how many people you’ve killed both directly and indirectly? Does he know? That you’re only really loyal to yourself?

“On second thought, we’re not alike at all,” he says. “You misspoke.”

You hate being told that you’re wrong. “And what?” you scoff. “You feel guilty for winning? Is that it?”

“Haven’t you heard of survivor’s guilt?”

“No, and I don’t want to hear about it.”

He stares at you a long while after that. “Sometimes, you don’t seem human to me.”

“I wasn’t meant to be.”

He frowns at your words. “You weren’t?”

How do you tell him that you were a carefully crafted weapon? That you were never meant to have measly human feelings and emotions because you were just the rebels’ tool? How do you tell him that you have never cared for someone other than yourself? Because if you didn’t, no one would?

You don’t tell him, that’s what.

“God,” you say, messing up your perfect hair by running your hand through it. “This was supposed to take ten minutes.”

“I was never really asking for much,” he tells you, voice quiet.

“You weren’t the one who was asking! I was.”

“If you were even a little bit regretful about killing him, I would’ve helped you right away.”

This shocks you. You nearly stumble back. “What?” you say. It would’ve only taken that?

“But you’re exactly as how everyone back in the districts saw you as,” he says.

“And what was that?” you challenge him.

“A monster.”

The word seems to pierce through your chest. You’ve heard of tool, weapon, martyr, killer, murderer, coquette, slut, whore… But monster? You’re not sure why that stings so much.

Yet… he doesn’t understand what you’ve gone through. He doesn’t understand that all your life, you’ve lived for everybody but yourself—even now, as a Victor, you can’t seem to escape.

“I’m not a monster,” you whisper, voice shaking slightly. “I can’t be.”

“Did I hit a sore spot?” he asks.

You can’t even answer.

“Maybe you do have some emotion in you after all.”

You’re still silent.

There’s a long pause.

“You’re really desperate, aren’t you?”

Of course you’re fucking desperate. You were promised fame and riches. People were supposed to kneel and bow in your presence. They were supposed to please you. Instead, it’s the other way around. You, a vicious Victor, forced to kneel down before your clients and please them in ways that you’ve never been pleased yourself. You’ve killed so many things in your life—starting off small with insects, working your way up to cats, dogs, foxes, wild boar to desensitize your mind from blood and gore—so when you finally killed a human, you wouldn’t feel anything at all.

So how is it that you, a trained killer, is working so subserviently for others?

It makes your skin crawl just thinking about it.

You only betrayed the rebels because you wanted freedom. The blood loss training, the blunt force trauma training, the intermittent starvations were better than this. Because you felt like you had actual purpose then—an important purpose. They chose you to be the face of the rebellion. You were to be better than Katniss Everdeen ever was.

But this is where you end up?

Pleasing Capitol dogs by night, feeling sorry for yourself in the mornings?

Doing everything you can to seek revenge in the littlest ways? Spitting on their jeweled nightstands? Leaving a hairpin in the bathroom so the wives will find out? Stealing a few extra bills from their wallets?

It’s so pathetic.

You can’t even kill them without facing dire consequences.

Sometimes, on your worst days, you wish you were back in the Arena. At least there, you could kill without being persecuted.

So yes, he’s right. You are desperate. The truth hurts—you’ve been trying to hide it for three years now—and for this Capitol lapdog to debunk your inner turmoils within minutes of first meeting you? You don’t feel angry, you feel…

There’s a lump that grows in your throat. It’s expanding and expanding until you think you’re choking. Is this how your victims felt in the Arena? Is this what they call karma?

It’s hard to breathe. Is there something in your nose? Did he poison the air? Will you drop dead in a few seconds now? Will he pull out a gas mask and watch you struggle to breathe until you’re no longer a nuisance to him? Were you stupid to follow him into his own territory—where he could pull all the strings he wanted to, and you’d be too ignorant to notice them?

But your thoughts come to a screeching halt when something wet rolls down your face.

At first, you think it’s sweat. Then, you suspect it’s the condesation from the poison. Only after the fourth tear rolls down your face do you realize what is actually happening to you.

You look up to see the Capitol lapdog’s shocked expression. At least, you think he’s shocked—you can’t tell. Your tears have blurred your vision. It’s been a long time since you’ve cried. Probably more than a decade. You hate this feeling. It’s too foreign, too vulnerable. What did you do to warrant this? How can you stop it? Why are you doing it in front of him?

With your blurred visions and disoriented state, he can kill you right now if he wishes to do so—even with his bad leg. But you can’t seem to stop the tears. These are the same bodily instincts that the rebels told you to be wary of. You should be able to control them; for god’s sake you’ve dealt with dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, hyperthermia—all the likes. Can you really not stop weeping?

“Look at that,” the Capitol lapdog breathes. “I made her highness cry.”

It makes you want to slit his throat. But that would make you even more of a monster than you already are. Why do you always feel like killing someone? Even when they don’t entirely deserve it?

“Maybe you are still human,” he says absentmindedly. He sighs, staring at your pathetic state, yet he doesn’t leave. He just watches you.

Is he waiting to kill you? Biding his time, having a little fun with watching you squirm? Will he swoop in and pin you to the ground and put you out of your misery soon?

“Well?” he says. “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? That you’re not desperate? I have a shop to tend to, you know.”

Silence.

He stares at you for longer. When he realizes that you may never talk again, he makes a move to leave. But it’s only then when a depressing croak leaves your lips: “W-Wait.”

He stops.

“I’m desperate,” you say.

It feels horrible to do this. To tell him that he’s right. To show him that you’re weak. But do you have another choice? You’ve been backed up against a wall. You’re not giving up—you’ll never give up. You just need help. A little bit of help from a Capitol lapdog. It takes all of your strength to keep from breaking down, from lashing out and killing him.

His eyebrows raise slowly. “And how do I know you’re not lying?”

Why the hell would you lie about this? Even before being tossed into the Arena, you never pretended that you were weak; even with all that deception, all that trickery, you never ever bargained away your strength. Your training score was a whopping 11, though you’d secretly hoped for a 12. The other tributes always knew you were strong—everyone did. Does he really think that you were feigning weakness? Does he think you’ve been sent to detain him by President Snow? Or is he only saying this to rile you up?

“And even if you weren’t lying,” he says, “what makes you think that you deserve my help?”

The lump in your throat pops open. “You don’t know what I’ve been through!” you yell, fists clenched. This doesn’t seem like you. You’re usually so calm, so collected. Even if someone angers you, you’re able to stay smiling, though you might be positively seething inside. But why do his words garner such a reaction out of you?

“What? That you had to kill people to be here? I’ve done it myself,” he says. “You’re not that special.” He pauses. “Or maybe you are. You didn’t have to give them hope,” he says. “You didn’t have to play with your food.”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. But you had to do it. You had to pretend to like them, to enjoy their company, to become their lover if you ever survived the games together. It would make it easier for you to kill them later. It wasn’t your plan but the rebels’.

You feel limp. Like his words had sucked the anger right out of you. Do you wish to go on? Should you abort? But you don’t think you have the strength.

“I…” the words get stuck in your throat. The lump is back. “I’d… rather it had been Jungkook.”

For the first time in your life, you feel like prey.

“What?”

“I think I wanted to die in the Arena,” you say. The words just come out. You can’t comprehend what you’re saying. But they also don’t feel like a lie. “But I couldn’t die,” you say, slowly as if you’re recalling memories from the past. “They… They were counting on me.”

“Oh sure, the Capitol was rooting for you the entire time.”

“No, not… not the Capitol,” you say. “I thought I was going to do it, then. I thought I’d follow through with their plan because that was my purpose. I went through hell for it. But… But I couldn’t do it.” You look down at your feet, knowing that if he wanted to kill you now, he could. “I couldn’t do it, Yoongi. I didn’t want to work for someone again. I thought if I became a Victor, things would be different. I didn’t know that they’d…” You can’t even bring yourself to finish.

Everything you’d been suppressing for the past three years pours out of you. And the aftermath?

You feel tired.

Who knew it took more strength to be weak than resilient? If you were in the Arena, even the youngest tribute could’ve killed you at this state. Your legs suddenly give out, but you never fall to the ground. Because he’s caught you by the arm.

Will he finish you now? Kill you after you confessed your sorrows? Has he heard enough? Is this the right time to give up? Is this how you’ll die?

But one look at his face and the bad thoughts dissipate.

He looks sorry.

And his hold is gentle. Something you wouldn’t expect from a man who once beat a tribute dead with a log.

“You said I have two questions,” he says, quietly.

You look up at him, relief washing over your body. It feels so good, but your cheeks burn with humiliation. You can barely look him in the eyes, but you force yourself to. You don’t want him to think you’re completely broken. “Yes,” you say, using your other arm to wipe your face. “Two questions to make us even.”

He scoffs as if what you did to his younger brother will never be made up for by a couple of answered questions. But he’s silent, probably thinking of questions to ask you, if not ready to change his mind and make you leave. His long pause allows you to regain your composure.

The emotions slink away, behind a veil in the back of your mind. You calm down your wildly beating heart with a breathing technique that the rebels taught you when you were only ten. All traces of your tears are gone. The lump in your throat is gone. You no longer feel weak in the knees, so you shake his hand off of your arm. It’s almost as if you’ve never had your outburst.

“Too many questions to ask me?” you ask, the tremor that had been in your voice, gone.

His eyes scan warily over your figure. He must be shocked at how easily you can regain your composure. Even you have to admit it’s scary how easy it is to pretend you don’t feel anything at all. He scowls. “I liked it better when you were crying.”

“Not a question,” you quip. But if he mentions your weakness again, you swear you’ll kill him.

He only glares. Finally, he sighs, parting the purple curtains and walking out. You follow him, only to find him leaning on the counter, staring out at the tinted windows of his shop. “I’ll find you your personal scent,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows raise. “Without asking any questions?”

“You already told me everything I wanted to know in your little soliloquy,” he says. He ignores your grimace. “Apple blossoms,” he tells you. “I’ve thought about it ever since I saw you on the screen.”

FIVE.

They’ve started to pay you more in tips—ever since you began smelling exactly the way they wanted you to. Apple blossoms, notes of mellow wine and pink pepper. Yoongi said it was all undeniably you. So you’d purchased lotions, hair and skin care products, perfumes all laced with the same scent. You watched him make them, silently, slowly, studying him, his stance, his hands, his concentrated expressions and the red welt on his cheek that you had given him.

Then, you’d paid him. He refused to give you a discount.

Your personal scent was supposed to be your big break. You were supposed to feel happy again after this. You’re making much more than you usually do, and having this money gives you a sense of power. But…

Now you know what freedom actually looks like.

You want what Yoongi has.

But he had been so reluctant to help you; how could he ever do more for you—more than he already has?

Can you manipulate him? Sweet talk your way into his heart? Just like you did to his brother? He seemed to soften up slightly when you showed him some emotion, which you didn’t really do willingly; it had just come out. But maybe you could use that to your advantage. Maybe if you act more human, he’ll be more likely to help you.

But no, if he caught you, he’d kill you. Even with his bad leg he’d figure out a way. Because not only is Yoongi extremely adept with his weaponry, he’s also scarily intelligent.

“Back again?” he scoffs when you burst into the store, letting the silver bell ring violently behind you.

You slam your palms on the wooden counter. “How did you do it?” you ask him. This was not what you planned to do—to scare the information out of him—but you always seem to go rogue, anyway.

“I thought you were the one who owed me two questions, not the other way around,” he says, cocking his head. He’s unfazed.

“Why do you think I’m a monster and you’re human?” you say. “Why am I some—some fucking creature and why do you get to be okay? We both killed the same number of people. So why? Why do you think you’re better than me?”

“I never said I was better than you,” is his answer. His left cheek has a giant purple bruise plastered on it, and even to you, it looks painful. Why didn’t he get medical help for that? The Capitol medicine could have him looking brand new in a matter of seconds.

“You’re sure as hell thinking it,” you accuse him.

“Am I?” he asks. “Are you what, a mind reader now?” But when he sees the dangerous look on your face, he seems to remember what you’re capable of. “I killed because I had to,” he says. “But you? You enjoyed it.”

“I did not!” you scream, his accusation curdling your blood. You did it because you had to, too! You didn’t have a choice! You couldn’t die—there were thousands of people counting on you to start the rebellion. The rebellion that you’d conveniently squashed.

“Careful, or you might cry again.”

All of a sudden, you see red.

“How fucking dare y—”

But the silver bell sounds and you whirl around to see a Capitol dog, all dressed up in a flouncy skirt with odd feathers attached to it. Feathers are appended to her lashes as well, and you wonder how hard it is for her to blink like that. She giggles when she sees Yoongi, and it instantly makes you narrow your eyes. She just unknowingly saved his life.

“I see you have a new worker here, Yoongi,” she tells him with a kind smile. “I’ve been telling you to hire some help since forever. Ever since old woman Hennenger died, you’ve been running this shop all by yourself. Glad that you adhered to my advice.”

“That’s Y/N,” Yoongi grunts, awkwardly reaching out to polish some empty glass bottles on the counter. “She works here part-time.”

The words shock you, but you don’t show it. Is he lying because she’s a Capitol dog? Or is he telling the truth? Do you really work here part-time now? Did your scare-him-until-he-agrees tactic work this easily?

“Y/N?” the Capitol dog gasps. “You mean…?”

It’s your cue. You immediately turn around, facing the dog fully, curtsying dramatically. A radiant smile plasters on your lips. “Yes, madam,” you say. “At your service.”

She seems satisfied with your formal greeting, and it helps her forget all about how deadly you had been on-screen. “Well, it looks like Yoongi’s trained you well!”

Your eyebrow slightly twitches at her words, but you let it go.

“Go clean the bottles behind the curtains,” Yoongi orders you. “I’ll attend to Miss Bijou myself.”

How can he have the nerve to boss you around? It stings. He always speaks in a way to show off that he’s better than you. How could he have thought that you enjoyed killing those people? You’ve never found enjoyment in a single thing in your life. Just because you smiled prettily for the cameras didn’t mean you enjoyed watching the life leave your victim’s eyes. Killing the others was a chore, an obstacle. It was never for your own self gratification.

You push aside the curtains into that small space again, only to find that there are no bottles at all. How can there be? There are no shelves here—only the door that most likely leads straight to his living quarters. Your heart seems to sink. So was he lying? Did he only say that to get you off his back while he dealt with his customer? God, you’re such a fool for believing him for a split second. Is this how desperate you’ve become? That you’re able to listen to a goddamn stranger because he has all the power to help you?

You hear his quiet voice from outside the curtains and scowl. He’s so fucking polite to her, it’s irritating. Would it be worth it to barge out here and twist his neck? But no, the Capitol dog would report you for violating whatever stupid laws there are around here. So what else can you do other than to sit here and sulk?

“Oh,” he says after who knows how long. He parts the curtains and gives you a strange look. “You’re still here.”

The Capitol dog must’ve left.

You’re immediately in his face. The smell of fresh mint and linen reaches your nose. “Of course I’m still fucking here! You promised me a job!”

He raises his eyebrows. Your heart drops. “So what, you think I’d really let you work here?”

The hurt on your face is hard to conceal. You hate it. Hate being weak, hate being vulnerable. So you do the only thing you know how to do: you fight back. “Maybe you should,” you tell him, voice icy. “What was it that the Capitol dog said? About old woman Hennenger? You killed her, didn’t you?”

You think he might lunge at you again. To your surprise, however, he just slumps against the wall. “And what if I did? You seemed to have betrayed a larger sum of people.”

Is that all that he gained from your sob story? That you’re a betrayer? That your deception probably killed hundreds?

“You’re a monster,” is all you can muster up.

“I never said I wasn’t,” is his emotionless reply.

“You killed her and then you took over her shop and now, you can’t even face the Capitol because they let you get away with it once, but they’re not gonna be so forgiving after that. So even if you’re hurt,” your finger grazes his cheek, “you can’t seek medical attention.” You glance down at his left leg too, for good measure. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“For someone who’s been begging me for help, you don’t sound too desperate anymore,” he says. But the way he evades answering your question… You must be correct.

“If I kill you, will I be able to take over the shop?” you say. “Does that sound desperate enough for you?”

“You’d think they’d leave you alone?” he says. “You’re the Capitol’s Princess. If you left, they’d know.”

“I’m not their fucking princess!” you yell. “How can I be? They treat me like an animal!”

“Am I supposed to feel bad for you?” he asks.

You sputter. “N-No! Why the hell would I want your pity? I just want to work here. Let me work for you!”

“No,” he says, sternly. “You can’t.”

You have never wanted to strangle someone to death so badly. There are glass bottles everywhere in this shop. One tiny accident, one little wrong move and they should shatter into a million sharp pieces. If you were to take one of these shards and stab him in the jugular… No. No! You can’t kill the only person who could be the key to your escape, to your freedom.

You have to play this smart. You have to manipulate him. Sweet talk won’t work on this man; he hates you too much for any of your coy tactics to work. But maybe, maybe persistence will.

SIX.

Despite Yoongi’s protests, you come to the store every single day. You arrive in the early morning, ignoring his violent threats, and leave swiftly in the late afternoon—after you’ve helped him clean up the shop.

Though he scowls every time the silver bell rings and you step in, he can’t do much to force you to leave. He knows that if he were to challenge you to a fight, he’d lose—with his bad leg and all. You and he both know that while you took only three days to kill off 23 people, he took nearly twenty.

“I swear to fucking god I’m going to call the Peacekeepers,” he mumbles under his breath whenever the two of you fall into a minor disagreement—which occurs as naturally as one might breathe—but he never follows through. Probably because you and he both know the Peacekeepers would never come.

It’s also not like he can stop you from interacting with the customers, either. If anyone asks who you are, you immediately give them your brilliant smile, push Yoongi out of the way and announce that you are a part-time worker. He can’t even argue with you—not without raising suspicion. And you quickly come to realize that the man has a paralyzing fear of the Peacekeepers.

So, he always lets you stay. He doesn’t have much of a choice.

And besides, you’re a diligent assistant.

“Good day, Miss Bijou!” you say as you rush out to greet the regular customer. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like a refill, Y/N,” she says, holding up two empty glasses bottles.

You recognize the shapes instantly. “Two conditioners, Yoongi!”

He grunts in reply, rustling around in the back as he gets started with Miss Bijou’s refills. Soon, the modest shop begins to smell of sweet honeycomb, amber and sugary vanilla. They’re smells that encompass the entirety of Miss Bijou, and you have to give Yoongi some credit for being so accurate in his judgments all the time.

“How are the cats?” you ask the Capitol dog. “I hope Glimmer’s surgery went well last week. Oh, and did Shimmer finally learn that new trick you’ve been getting him to do?”

Miss Bijou brightens up when you give her attention. She is a peculiar lady—not at all rude or condescending like some of the other Capitol dogs. Instead, she is… sweet.

“Oh,” she giggles, hand placed politely on her lips. “Glimmer’s in the process of recovering,” she says. “And Shimmer, oh goodness! He can’t seem to catch on, unlike his sister! She’ll have to teach him after she’s all healed.” She smiles at you kindly, and her feathered skirt bounces as she moves, holding up a basket full of Capitol pastries. They smell absolutely delicious, even complementing her personal scent. “I picked these up for you,” she says. “For working so hard! They’re for you too, Yoongi!” she calls to him behind the counter, where he’s got his sleeves rolled up, goggles on, mixing whatever chemicals and fragrances for Miss Bijou’s refills.

“Thanks,” he replies.

But you’re a bit more animated than that. You gasp, taking the basket from her hands. “Oh, Miss Bijou, these look wonderful; thank you so much! We’ll eat them down to the last crumb! Are these from Mr. Bauble’s bakery down the street?”

She nods, blushing. “Yes, of course! The best bakery in town!”

You laugh, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You go there pretty often, don’t you?”

She stutters, “T-The pastries are too good!”

“I’m sure Mr. Bauble enjoys your company,” you smile. “You should ask him how Trinket is,” you tell her. “He loves his cat as much as you love yours.”

Miss Bijou flushes a deeper shade of pink. “Maybe I will next time.”

As if just on cue, Yoongi interrupts the conversation and hands Miss Bijou her two refilled bottles of conditioner. She squeals with joy. “Thank you!” She quickly digs through her tiny purse and pulls out a wad of bills. “Here,” she says, shoving the money into your unoccupied hand.

“Oh!” you say, eyes widening almost comically. “That’s so much—”

“Take it,” she sings, enclosing her hand around yours. “It’s thanks to you that I’ve been talking to Mr. Bauble more often these days.” She tucks her bright pink hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you next week?” she asks.

“Of course,” you answer, beginning to walk her out of the store. Her feathered skirt bounces behind her as she moves.

“You too, Yoongi!” she calls out from behind. “I’ll see the both of you soon!”

He only waves.

Then, she’s gone, the silver bell on the door jingling, and the only trace of her presence is the lingering intoxicatingly sweet smell of her personal scent.

You immediately turn around from the door, a murderous look on your face. “God, if I have to squeal and giggle again one more time today, I’m going to kill someone.” You set the basket full of pastries down on the counter and toss Yoongi the money. He catches the bills and counts them meticulously—right in front of you. He always does that. You think he thinks you’ll steal from him. The thought is tempting, of course, especially after seeing him being so annoyingly careful with the money. But that would ruin the little trust that he has for you. And then all these early mornings walking to his shop and squealing your goddamn ass off with the Capitol dogs would’ve been for nothing.

“Your squealing and giggling is helping the business,” Yoongi answers. He looks at you, black eyes seemingly staring into your soul. “You’re disgustingly charming.”

“I know,” you say. “People can’t get enough of me.”

It’s true. You can shift your personality to be whoever the other person wants you to be. For kind, insecure people like Miss Bijou, you’re bubbly and supportive. For men who are rough around the edges, you flirt a little to find your way into their hearts. For mean, uptight women, you act subservient, act as if you couldn’t ever possibly upstage them—it helps boost their egos, and in turn, they open up to you.

You spend most of your time in Yoongi’s shop listening to the Capitol dogs. You’re used to it, however. After your nightly sessions, most of the men want to talk to you too—about their ugly wives, their disobedient children, their unsatisfying jobs. You usually massage their shoulders, coo something suggestive in their ear, and they tend to shut up right away. But the shop customers aren’t as easy to take care of.

You have to play along. You have to pretend that you care.

There are women who come in, begging for Yoongi’s expertise so that they feel lovable. There are men who come in, wanting to feel more confident. There are young girls who frequent the shop, swearing that no one else makes the whipped lotions as soft and smooth as Yoongi does. Their stories blend in together.

Too many women want to impress other men.

Too many men want to impress other women.

Too many children are caring about how tantalizing, how alluring they smell. When you were their age, you were lucky if you even got to take a bath once a month.

But then there are the outliers.

There’s a man who comes in one morning—and not just any man—a Peacekeeper. Yoongi immediately steps out, a terrifying look on his face. It reminds you of the version of him you’ve seen on the big screen: menacing, unafraid to kill. He motions you to hide behind the curtains and scowls when you don’t listen to him.

“Hello, sir,” you tell the Peacekeeper, though cautious enough to not overbear him with too much charm. You’re polite but nothing more than that. “What are you looking for today?”

You can see Yoongi behind you, gripping a glass bottle particularly hard in his hands. You’re not sure if it’s because of distrust or genuine fear.

But the Peacekeeper only takes off his helmet, which might as well have signed a peace treaty. “Is this the shop that sells personal scents?”

He’s on the older side, eye bags sagging, hair completely white and wrinkles on his forehead. Even with the Capitol’s anti-aging cosmetics, he looks eternally tired.

“Yes,” you say. “This is the place.”

Yoongi’s still on his guard, glaring at the Peacekeeper through the slits of his eyes.

“And… And this personal scent… can it be made for other people?”

You cock your head. “Other people, sir?”

“What are you planning?” Yoongi asks. He steps closer to the Peacekeeper, eyes still narrowed.

“He’s just our customer, Yoongi,” you tell him, and though your voice is light and teasing, the glare you throw his way screams bloody murder. You turn back to the Peacekeeper, a polite smile on your face. “If you can describe the essence of this person, we can try to make it happen,” you say.

“Will these do?” the Peacekeeper asks, pulling out a photograph from his uniform, along with a small teddy bear. His hands shake as he shows them to you.

Inside the photograph is a young girl; she couldn’t be more than six years old.

“Your daughter, sir?”

“Yes,” he says. “My daughter. I wanted something… To remember her by.”

You force your eyes to soften. “Oh, sir…” You try to think of something a sympathetic person would say. “She looks like such a bright child.”

He nods in agreement. “She was… So… can you…? Can you do it? I know she’s not here right now, but I can tell you everything I know about her. I even brought her favorite teddy bear… It’s a little old… Think it’s been twenty years since she’s last held it.”

You turn to glance at Yoongi. He looks stoic as ever, but he moves forward to take the teddy bear and photograph from the Peacekeeper’s hands. “I recommend infusing her personal scent into an essential oil,” he says. “It’s useful for air diffusers, candles and incense. Good for keeping around your home.”

The Peacekeeper looks forever grateful. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

And to try to gauge an accurate personal scent on the young girl without ever meeting her, Yoongi asks the Peacekeeper to talk about his daughter. The man goes on and on for hours. Other customers come and go, and you tend to these regulars, simply filling up their refills as Yoongi had taught you.

You hear just fragments of the Peacekeeper’s monologue, “...was always so bright and adventurous… didn’t like to share her adventures until you tickled them out of her… hated dead animals… afraid of the dark… loved ice cream for breakfast… Died when they bombed the Capitol… identified her body three weeks later… never had a funeral. There were just too many casualties.” He says something about wanting to kill the rebels, the ones who had bombed the Capitol nearly 30 years ago. You fight the urge to tell him that it’s too late; they’re already dead. The Capitol was sure to take care of that.

And you were the one who killed the new batch of rebels. Did you unknowingly avenge the Peacekeeper’s daughter’s death?

By the time you’re done helping the others, the Peacekeeper is done talking. The first thing you notice is that Yoongi looks annoyed. You would be too, if you had to listen to someone jabber about another person for more than one sentence. You cannot fathom it. How can you care about someone so much that you can talk about them like that for hours? How can someone be fond of you so much that they find comfort in your scent? The annoyance is replaced with confusion.

And soon, with Yoongi working his magic, the entire shop begins to smell of lilac and magnolia with softer notes of rose and jasmine. It’s so undeniably the little girl in the photograph that you have to admire Yoongi’s expertise.

The smell makes the Peacekeeper emotional, and you have to hand him a few tissues to help him compose himself.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sniffles. “It just… It makes me feel like she’s by my side again.”

You don’t understand.

Why would anyone want someone else by their side?

“Good for you,” Yoongi says, curtly.

You push him out of the way. “The smell is lovely,” you tell the Peacekeeper. “I’m sorry about your daughter, sir. She sounded like such a wonderful young girl. I would’ve loved to have met her.” You hand him back the teddy bear and the photograph, and he takes them, staring at the items in his hands.

He smiles sadly. “Thank you…” he says. “I feel… I feel better.” He looks up at you, worn eyes filled with tears. “She would’ve loved an older sister like you.”

Something horrible spawns in your gut. It twists around, fighting to escape, and you have to secure your hand on your stomach to ignore the searing pain.

“What was her name?” you ask, though you know you would forget by tomorrow.

“Haeun,” he says. “Her mother… she wanted to name her Glitter—it was a popular name in the Capitol back then. But I insisted on Haeun. It’s a name from the districts. From District 2.”

You turn to Yoongi. There are no fluctuations in his expression.

“Are you from District 2?” you ask.

The Peacekeeper nods. “It was either become a Peacekeeper or become a trainer in the academy. And…” he glances at Yoongi, “I didn’t want Haeun to grow up in a place like that… I didn’t want her to become a killer.”

Yoongi scoffs, though it’s a very quiet one. The Peacekeeper is too busy drowning in his emotions to even notice.

“And you chose right,” you say. You press harder against your stomach, wincing a little when it retaliates with a sharp pang. “She never became a killer.”

He blots his eyes with the tissue you gave him and smiles at you. “But when I look at you, I think, ‘Maybe she would’ve turned out fine if I had trained her to win the games.’ You’re a Victor from District 8, aren’t you? Your parents must be so proud… all their hard work raising their kid… It paid off. You haven’t lost your humanity.”

Have you, really? Is this the impression that you give off to strangers? That you’re perfectly normal and polite after the complete nightmare you’ve been in the games? That the you in the games was a fake? That the current you is the real you?

It’s all wrong. Right now, solacing this crying man is the fakest that you’ve ever been. And you liked yourself more in the Arena. Besides, how could your parents be proud of you? You barely remember what they looked like after they sold you off to the rebels. And the rebels? You’ve betrayed them, and they’re all probably dead—or worse, working for the Capitol. Does he really think you turned out “fine?”

Yoongi steps in. He pushes you back and faces the Peacekeeper himself. You notice that his hands are shaking.

“You made the right choice,” he tells the Peacekeeper. “Not everyone can survive the academy in District 2.”

The Peacekeeper nods, but he’s silent, lost in his thoughts.

“We have another customer scheduled to come in a few minutes,” Yoongi continues on. “I apologize for rushing you, but we’ll have to prep to help them.” Lies. All lies. He does it so easily.

“O-Oh! Of course,” the Peacekeeper says. He wipes the last of his tears away and positions his helmet back on his head. “I… I don’t know how I could ever repay you,” he says. “I don’t think any sum of money would be enough.”

“No,” Yoongi says. “Money’s fine.”

He gets a large wad of bills from the Peacekeeper—much more than what the price was originally asking for.

The Peacekeeper won’t stop mumbling his gratitude, even after Yoongi has to push him towards the exit. He leaves eventually, but not before turning around and giving the two of you one last gesture of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says, voice shaking. It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s crying under his helmet. “Thank you so much.”

Your stomach stings. “I’m glad we could be helpful,” you say with a feigned smile.

And just like that, he’s finally gone.

Yoongi collapses against the counter, hands still shaking, and you? You’re lost in your thoughts, stomach twisting uncomfortably.

After a while, Yoongi’s the first to speak.

“Damn fucking Peacekeepers,” he grunts, rummaging around the used tools and beginning the arduous clean-up process. “They think they’re so fucking high and mighty. What the fuck was that he said to you? That you turned out fine? That you haven’t lost your humanity? Is he out of his goddamn mind?” His face is so eerily dark that even you’re a little shocked. “He didn’t want his daughter to become a fucking killer? Like we ever had a fucking choice! Fuck!” he curses, hurling a glass beaker into the sink. It breaks cleanly in half with an ear-splitting crack!

You stare at him, still massaging your upset stomach.

“Calm down,” you say. “He’s just an ignorant Capitol dog. Don’t waste your energy getting upset about it.”

“You should be more upset,” Yoongi says. “I can stand normal Capitol citizens spewing out bullshit, but Peacekeepers? They’re the fucking instigators! They’re the guiltiest of them all—right after fucking President Snow and the Gamemakers themselves!”

“You’re so worked up,” you tell him, cocking your head. “Do you really think that I didn’t turn out that fine?”

This time, he’s the one who stares at you. “You’re joking.”

At least you tried.

“Whatever,” you say. “What fucking ever. It doesn’t matter. If you hate him that much, then he got what he deserved, anyway. His fucking daughter died. He’s depressed. He’s the one who emptied out half of his wallet to buy shit from your shop. It doesn’t matter. Everyone lost.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Only carefully picks up the two broken pieces of the beaker. For a second, you think he might throw them at you. But when he carefully tosses them in the trash bin, you blink—as if you can’t believe your eyes.

Maybe he’s right. Would a normal person be afraid that everything everyone else does is an attack against them?

“My stomach hurts,” you say. “I’m going on a lunch break.”

“You’re not allowed lunch breaks,” he says.

“Are you going to stop me?” you ask.

He pauses. “No,” he says, after he seemingly realizes that he can’t really do anything about it.

So you take a longer lunch break than usual, de-stressing yourself and erasing the words that the Peacekeeper had spoken to you until all that is left in your memory is his love for his daughter—you already forgot her name. The horrible feeling in your stomach goes away after a while. You forget that it was even there in the first place.

Another time, there’s an Avox.

You are kind, chirpy when greeting her; it’s your default persona when you see someone who looks older than a teenager but younger than a middle-aged woman. But all too soon, you realize that she can’t speak back—that she’s the Capitol’s slave. They must’ve cut off her entire tongue because the only sound she can make is this faint, guttural noise. But you hide your initial shock in a matter of milliseconds. “You must have orders from your master,” you tell her with a smile. “Could they not make it to pick up their orders?”

The Avox shakes her head. She’s on the younger side, a little shy, too. She stares at her hands the whole time.

“Stop talking to it,” Yoongi says, swiftly collecting bottles of lotions and perfumes and placing them in a thick, purple bag. He must know who the master is. “You’re gonna get us all in trouble.” He hands the filled bag to the Avox, who takes it without once looking up.

But before turning to leave, the Avox pauses, and you watch as she inhales a whiff of Yoongi’s personal scent. Yoongi never overdoes it; he only slathers on a bit of lotion around his arms and neck to achieve a faint effect. It’s not overbearing, nothing too fancy at all, so customers can’t accuse him of manipulating them into buying more products; yet the smell’s still there, giving him a small boost of charm—he really needs it.

You see Yoongi subscribing to his lotion routine every day, just minutes before the two of you open up the shop. The scent is the first thing you smell when you walk in every morning. That crisp smell of mint, sour lemon and clean linen. It’s started to become a smell that brings you strange calm. Not because Yoongi’s wearing it, but because you’ve always been a fan of mint.

You smelled it a lot in District 8; there were mint bushes outside the factories, in the forest, too. You’d come home every day from training smelling the leaves. You used to imagine that the smell itself would soothe the aching pain in your wrists, your sore arms and legs. It was one of the many lies you told yourself to endure your training.

The Avox must like the smell too because she’s lingering, trying to ingrain that particular scent in her head. She must be so deep in her thoughts, because the next thing you know, her grasp on the bag slips, and the whole thing falls to the floor with a loud clang.

You’re the first to crouch down and pick up the thick bag. It’s mostly reflex, not kindness that forces you to do it. Nothing cracks, thanks to the heavy fabric—it would’ve made a nasty mess that Yoongi would’ve made you clean.

You smile as you hand the Avox the bag back. “Mint’s a nice scent, isn’t it?” you say. “Smelled it all the time back in my district.”

Her eyes light up with recognition. She lets out a gargled noise that sounds a lot like the number eight. Or maybe you’re imagining it. But if she is from District 8…

You suddenly search her eyes, her face, her posture. She couldn’t be… Could she?

There were so many people involved in the rebellion that you never got to learn everybody’s faces and names. But the others? They all knew who you were. You were the face of the movement; how couldn’t they know you?

So was she involved too?

And does she know what you’ve done?

Does she secretly wish that she could bludgeon you to death for selling out the others?

The foreign feeling is back: the horrible emptiness in your gut, the wrenching of your insides.

But you force yourself to smile. “Well, you’re all set,” you tell her. “Have a nice day!”

She looks so grateful—as if no one has ever bothered picking up the things she has dropped in years. As if no one has ever looked her way, even talked to her unless they were giving out orders.

But what if she wants you dead?

What if she’s hiding her real emotions, just as you are?

You don’t get much time to mull over it, however, because she’s hastily leaving—either embarrassed about dropping the bag or eager to escape the presence of you, the one who ratted out the rebellion.

Yoongi stares at you. And though you have your back turned to him, you can feel his gaze piercing through the back of your head. “You didn’t have to be so nice to it.”

You press on your stomach, grimacing slightly. “I know.” You turn to him when you can manage the pain a little better. “I know how I’m supposed to treat an Avox.”

But what if she’s a Avox because of you?

You would’ve preferred it if she tried to kill you. Her grateful gaze flashes in your mind. The pain in your stomach worsens.

“Do you, though?” Yoongi asks. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to talk to them if you’re not going to give them orders.”

“I was trying to be amiable,” you tell him. “She’s still technically a customer.”

“No, she isn’t,” he says. “Her master is.”

“Why do you always have to argue with me?”

“I only do it when you’re wrong.”

“God!” you shout, running your fingers through your hair. Yoongi’s not making anything easier. Now you have to deal with him and the strange stomach pain. “Sometimes I wish I could fucking kill you.” But you regret it at soon as the words come out.

“Why don’t you do it then?” he says. “Maybe you’d put me out of my fucking misery.”

Your eyes involuntarily widen. Does he really think that you’d kill him? As much as he’s akin to a pesky fly, you don’t think you completely despise him anymore. But does he still despise you?

“I-I thought…” You hate that you stuttered. You hate that he got to hear it come from you. You clear your throat. “I thought you of all people would be happy.” He owns his own shop, despite the dubious ways in which he’d inherited it. He makes quite a lot of money every day. He no longer has to worry about President Snow breathing down his back if his sales drop just a little bit.

But Yoongi laughs out loud, to your surprise. It’s the kind of laughing you’d do when you’re in utter disbelief. Ergo, he’s not laughing because you said something funny; he’s laughing because you said something stupid.

“Me? Happy?” he says. “I’m a Victor, Y/N. I’ll never be happy.” He glances at you. “How can I be? When the person who toyed with and killed my brother won’t leave me alone?”

There’s a lump in your throat. It’s comparatively tinier than the last one, but it’s still there, threatening to squeeze your throat closed. Yet… you ignore it, trying not to think about how hard it is to breathe. “Well, surprise,” you say, dryly. “I guess no one is ever fucking happy. So you really aren’t that special.” You scoff. “Everyone who fucking comes into this shop is depressed. They all come here because they want something. Because they’re desperate. Isn’t it funny? The desperate helping the desperate.”

He scowls. “I never said I was desperate.”

“You never say you said anything,” you retort.

“That’s because you put words in my mouth.”

“I’m only saying what you’re probably thinking.”

“Oh, because you’re such a fucking mind reader?”

“Maybe you’re that fucking easy to read.”

“Go fucking take your billion hour lunch break,” he tells you. “I have better things to do than argue with someone like you.”

Someone like you, huh?

Well, if he really hates you so much, he must hate most of his customers. Because a good percentage of the people who come to this shop—other than the Capitol dogs—are just like you. They frequently blend into the shadows, often ashamed that they’ve resorted to this tactic—as if it’s something illegal. Other times, though extremely rarely, they are proud and haughty; you can almost mistake them for a Capitol dog if you aren’t so keen.

These are the people who have been sold to the Capitol by President Snow. Just like you. People who are forced to spend their nights with strangers. People who are barely getting by because every cent they make, President Snow takes. And the tips that their clients give them—especially if they’re not a Victor—are scarcely enough to keep them afloat.

But if Yoongi really hates people like you, then why does he give them a special discount? Why does he give them products for free?

“What did you mean?” you ask him, weeks later.

He turns around from cleaning the tinted windows. “Mean what?”

“When you said that you hate people like me,” you say.

He frowns. “I never said that.”

Those words are like a trigger. Why does he never admit to anything? Before you know it, you’re raising your voice. “Yes, you did!”

“You’re only proving my point,” he says.

“How the hell am I proving your point? What even is your point?”

“You have a fucked-up perception of things,” he tells you.

“Excuse me?”

“You think that everyone is against you,” he says, so casually, so easily. There’s no way he came up with this on the spot. He’s thought about it before; you’re sure of it. It bothers you. How long has he been psychoanalyzing you? “You think that you’re the fucking victim and everyone else is the villai—”

“So?” you say, cutting him off. “Is that so bad?”

“It is when you start remembering things incorrectly,” he says. “I never told you that I hate people like you. I told you that I can do better things than argue with someone like you. You know, someone who always fucking thinks the other person is attacking them. People like you are so blinded by their own fucking perception that they can never admit when they’re wrong.”

“I do it to survive,” you tell him. “Because everyones does want to bring me down!”

“Well, wake up then,” he says. “We’re not in the Arena anymore.”

“You might not be!” you tell him. You can feel yourself losing patience. “But I still have to go to the Capitol buildings at the end of the day. I still have to sleep with these repulsive men and women knowing that if I refuse, Snow will have my head!” There’s a pause while you catch your breath. And when you come to, your voice is cold, icy. “What makes you better than that Peacekeeper you hated so much? You both need to get off your high horse.”

Your words seem to shock Yoongi into silence.

“What?” you say. “I’m right, aren’t I? Got nothing to say all of a sudden?”

He pauses a moment before nodding his head. “No, I have something to say.”

“What ever could it be?”

“That I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Then he simply turns around and begins wiping the windows clean again.

All you can do is stare at the back of him, mouth agape. Was this some sort of trick? Is he pulling on your leg? He must think you’re stupid if you actually believe his apology.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asks. He doesn’t turn around, just pauses his cleaning. “Aren’t you going to help?”

You scowl. And without saying anything more, you pick up another rag, walking over to clean the windows on the other side of the door. The two of you work silently, you seething in anger and suspicion, and Yoongi? You have no idea what he’s fucking thinking. Neither do you care.

But you do know that tomorrow, the two of you will act like nothing happened.

And just like this, with mid-sized banters here and there and wordless resolutions, months pass. Now, your presence is always expected in Yoongi’s shop. He still scowls at you when you enter, sure, but that might be due to habit. Just as you, by habit, shoot him back a murderous glare. Regulars come to greet both you and him, and they often bring you gifts, sometimes forgetting to do the same for him. You’ve quickly become a favorite, though you’re not so sure how. Can they not see through your façade? Don’t they know that you don’t really care about them? Don’t they realize that you simply covet the nice gifts and large tips that they leave you?

Even so, there must be something different in the way that you treat them. Because Yoongi mentions it, nonchalantly, one day. The feeling of wanting to murder him in cold blood doesn’t completely go away, but it comes less frequently now. Yet he still has a way of getting in your head. It’s enough to make you want to slap some sense into him—not enough to kill him, but well-enough to bruise his stupid ego.

“I noticed you don’t call them Capitol dogs anymore,” he says as he thoroughly cleans his soiled gear while leaning against the counter.

The store smells like honey, amber and vanilla—Miss Bijou’s personal scent. She’d just left a couple of minutes ago, but she’d stayed longer than usual. Turns out, the man she was in love with, Mr. Bauble, recently became engaged to another woman. She had cried big, fat tears, the feathers on her skirt wobbling as she hugged you. One of the feathers on her lashes had also fallen off, but everyone just pretended that didn’t happen—to save her from further embarrassment. She wouldn’t let go until you had to gently coax her to spend her money on more products.

“Do it for yourself, Miss Bijou,” you’d told her. “Mr. Bauble never deserved you anyway. So show him that you’re better off without him.”

She’d complied, hugged you tightly, told you that you were one of her only friends, and left the store with four bags in her hand—an obvious splurge. Your entire year’s worth of salary, spent in a blink of an eye.

You look back from feather dusting the shelves, giving Yoongi a distasteful look. “I’m glad you have a brain to be able to discern that.” But the mysterious feeling in the pits of your stomach had come back as soon as Miss Bijou had left. It’s coming so often these days that it’s strange when you don’t feel it.

“You’re nicer to them too,” he says.

You frown. “I was always nice to them.”

“I know,” he answers. “It just feels more genuine these days.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Really?” His eyebrows raise. “Is that why you’ve been feeling sick to your stomach so often?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He gives you a strange look.

You stare right back at him.

He’s the first to break eye contact, staring down at the messy residue of assorted lotions, candle wax and perfume on the wooden counter. He sighs. But before he can even reach down to grab a rag to wipe it all down, you’re doing it yourself.

He gives you another strange look.

You give him the side eye. It’s nothing special. But during the months of working for Yoongi, you’ve come to know exactly what condition he likes to keep his (stolen) shop in. Subsequently, at times, it can even seem like you can read his mind.

SEVEN.

The silver bell chimes when you walk in. Except, today’s a little different. Where is that stupid, welcoming scowl of his? And where is he?

You carefully step into the shop, instinctively slinking into the shadows. This is what they taught you to do during your training: to be the predator, to wait out the danger, to leap in when you spot weakness. Even after all of these years, you can’t seem to escape it.

You’re not stupid.

This could very much be the work of President Snow. He probably figured out that you’ve been spending time with one of his ex-prostitutes and thought he was giving you bad ideas, which, he was. Maybe Yoongi’s somewhere in the Capitol building now, being tortured alive. Maybe there are rows and rows of Peacekeepers hiding behind that purple curtain, waiting to jump you and take you there too.

Do they really think some Peacekeepers could take you out? The rebels trusted you to assassinate President Snow and murder everyone else in the room. You’re a built killer; if you want, you can kill anything in your path with a blink of your eye. You’re stealthy, picking up a glass bottle, ready to tug the curtains down and kill whoever dares to hurt you. But then you hear a crash! and an oomph!

No Peacekeeper in their right mind would let out such a pathetic sound. President Snow would have their head.

The sound comes from behind the curtains; it’s faint, which means it’s from behind closed doors. So it must be coming from inside the door down the short hall. Yoongi’s living space. You’ve never been in there, nor have you cared that you haven’t.

Has he been taken hostage? Is a customer angry at him? But Yoongi wouldn’t let a mere Capitol citizen best him; he’s the Victor of the 95th Hunger Games. He should be tougher than that. So what the hell is happening?

He couldn’t be waiting to jump you, could he? Was the pathetic sound of weakness a ploy to let your guard down? Did all those months you spent together working the shop mean nothing to him? Probably. He must be fed-up with you; your persistence has bothered him, and now, he’s going to kill you—just like he killed old woman Hennenger.

But not if you kill him first.

You slip between the purple curtains, walking quietly across the floorboards, making no sound. Your hand ghosts around the door handle down the hall. And you hesitate. You don’t know why. You never hesitate when you go for the kill. This is why you won the games; this is why they trained you.

You shake the thoughts away. There is an uncomfortable feeling creeping into your gut. It’s horrible; similar to the sensations you’ve been feeling when you’ve dealt with customers in the past. You push past it, and you swing the door open, ready to jab the glass bottle into Yoongi’s throat.

But you stop.

He’s on the floor, next to a small bed. There’s a small kitchen in one corner, another door in the other—that one must lead to a bathroom. There’s a desk and a chair with a few dirty dishes and paperwork piled on top the table’s surface. Overall, quite a humble one-bedroom space for a shop owner who sells expensive products.

Your eyes shift back to the man. He’s crumpled on the floor, face red, hair clinging to his forehead from sweat. He seems to be in a great deal of pain.

Stern voices echo in your head.

When you see someone wounded, you finish them off.

Your training instructors told you that countless of times. That’s what you did in the Arena; it’s exactly how you won. You never hesitated, never second-guessed yourself, never let anyone get away alive.

But…

“Don’t just fucking stand there,” Yoongi grunts. “Do something.”

You stare at him. “Do… Something?”

What could you do? What is there to do? You can put him out of his misery. Is that the merciful way to put it? Is that how you kindly deal with someone who is injured? Apologize and then kill them?

“You can start by helping me up,” Yoongi tells you, outstretching his arm as if wordlessly telling you to grab it.

You look at him suspiciously. “Help you up?”

“Yes, Princess. Have you forgotten how to speak over the night?”

You scowl at him. Then, placing the glass bottle on his desk, you walk over, grabbing onto his arm and yanking him up. He winces in pain, obviously favoring his right leg. You drop him on the bed, and he nearly wobbles over. He’s so weak. If he were in the games now, even someone from District 11 could’ve picked him off.

“Thanks,” he grumbles.

You don’t answer. Because you don’t know how to respond.

When you see that he has no intentions of killing you, you sit down on his bed next to him. “They didn’t heal that after your games?” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Heal this?” he frowns. “I got this after the games.”

So it hadn’t been the District 1 girl who’d mauled his leg. That would make sense. After someone wins the games, the Capitol scrubs and polishes and mends and fixes their body—it would almost be like they never fought in the Arena. So then…

“You think I got off easy when I tried to escape?” Yoongi asks.

Your eyes raise. “You let them do that to you?” You bring your legs up to cross them on the bed and Yoongi scowls.

“That’s disgusting,” he says. “Put your feet down.”

You ignore him. “I asked you a question.”

“Should I have killed them instead?” he asks, exasperated.

“Is that even a question?”

“Right. And then they would’ve killed my entire family. Back then, Jungkook was still alive.”

Oh. Right. You feel uncomfortable again. You end up putting your feet down.

“Stomachache?” he asks when he notices you pressing on your belly.

You nod.

“I had to let them do something to me,” he says. It almost comes off as an excuse, but you let him be—only because your stomach stops you from arguing. “That way, they would think they’re still in control,” he continues. “But you always wondered how I got out, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for you to reply. “Well, I bought it.”

“Bought it?” you say incredulously.

“I bought my way out,” he clarifies as if that would help you believe it any better. “I bribed my clients, stole from them, and then I killed Hennenger because she was old and unimportant enough to fake a health-related death.” He leans back on his bed, careful not to bump his left leg onto the edge. “She didn’t wrong me in any particular way,” he says. “She was one of my most loyal clients. But she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

So he kills when he has to, too. Interesting.

You throw him a look. “You are a monster after all.”

“I know I am.”

“And your leg?” you say. You’ve always wondered about it. Not because you cared but because it was pitiful. “Is that when they found out?”

“They ransacked this place,” he says. He closes his eyes, but you can tell that he’s holding something in. What is it? Fear? Anger? Sadness? Why is it so hard to read him? “That dent in the wall?” He points though he’s got his eyes closed. “That’s where the Peacekeepers threw me. Had a concussion. They took turns beating me with the blunt ends of their guns—like it was some sick game. And then the leg… They were going to kill me, but I had money. A lot of it. I was saving up to escape anyways, so I paid them off. But they made it clear I’m not allowed in Capitol buildings. Hence,” he sighs, gesturing to his leg. “Hence why it’s been getting worse. God, it took me fucking ages to scrub my own blood off the floors.”

You feel sick hearing his confession.

Is this really his life? Trapped in his little fragrance shop with no way out? Even with money, he can never live like a real Capitol citizen.

So wait a minute.

This isn’t freedom. In a way, he’s just as locked up as you are. So why are you asking him for help?

Suddenly, your head feels too heavy for your neck. Your limbs feel sluggish and your stomach? It seems to free fall from inside of you. You lurch up onto your feet. The words leave your lips before you can even comprehend them:

“I have to go.”

There’s something that flashes across Yoongi’s face; it goes away so quickly that you don’t have enough time to discern what it means. But then he’s stoic again, and he lazily opens one eye. “I thought as much,” he says in an even tone. “Lock up the shop for me, will you?”

You don’t know why you half-expected him to stop you, perhaps even beg you to stay. He stays silent the entire time you walk out, and you even walked extra slowly to give him a chance to say something, anything.

Nothing.

He says nothing. He lets you leave. So you do.

You lock up the shop, closing the door behind you, hearing the faint sound of the jingling silver bell before you make your way back to the Capitol buildings. His stupid words echo in your head the whole way there:

I thought as much.

I thought as much?

I thought as much?!

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It makes you almost irrationally angry.

Sure, you left him because he’s no use to you now, but did he really insinuate that he knew that was going to happen? Is that what he meant by fucking ‘I thought as much??’

You imagine that if you march back and confront him, he’ll berate you for putting words in his mouth again. The goddamn bastard. And why didn’t he stop you? He could’ve asked you to stay. He could’ve scolded you for being so fucking shallow.

It’s almost like he wanted you to leave! Like he was waiting for it!

You pause in your footsteps.

Did you make a mistake?

Should you have at least said goodbye?

No.

You begin to walk again.

You did the right thing.

He hates you anyway. And now that you know that he’s just as free as you are, you’ve lost interest in his aid. In fact, he probably needs help just as much as you do. So there’s no reason for you to stay with him at the shop anymore. He never wanted you there anyway. And now you don’t need to endure his stupid little scowls and annoying remarks every morning through evening.

But…

I thought as much.

God, why can’t you let that go? Leave it to Yoongi to somehow always get inside your head—even when he’s not anywhere near you. The rest of the trip to the Capitol buildings is a long one. You can’t stop repeating his words over and over again in your head.

By the time you reach the Capitol buildings, it’s time to check your pool of clients for the night. You’re considerably luckier than most. While others sleep with whoever requests them, you’re so popular that you get to pick your client for the night out of the many who ask to see you. It’s a privilege—that you get a choice.

It makes you think. Are you somehow freer than Yoongi?

No… that can’t be.

Even if Yoongi’s confined to the small quarters of his shop, he doesn’t live for anyone other than himself. If he chooses to, he can take a few days off of work and President Snow won’t have his head. He has his own agenda, his own autonomy. Well, his own autonomy to be an asshole to you, that is.

You, in the end, still live for other people. Maybe you get the illusion of power from the fact that you get to choose your clients. But it doesn’t matter who you choose because, at the end of the day, they’ll still use you, throw you out and then pay for your usage—like you’re some kind of animal. And you can’t take days off as you please or President Snow will have your head.

After you put your client to sleep, you stare at your hands from the edge of the giant bed. You’ve put your legs up on the sheets—even with your shoes on—because it’s a comfortable position. It reminds you of earlier today when Yoongi had freaked out over it.

Yoongi.

Even on your job, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The faux moonlight streams in from the window of your client’s suite. It bathes you in its blue light, which is supposed to calm you down, but you’re agitated all over again.

Goddammit, Yoongi. Those damned words won’t seem to leave your head:

I thought as much.

You run your fingers through your hair.

I thought as much.

You roll your eyes.

I thought as much!

You stand up. You’ll fucking show that stupid bastard. He thinks he’s so smart all the time! Thinks he can read you like a book. Well, you’ll prove him wrong. He’ll be so wrong about you that he’ll be humiliated. I thought as much, my ass.

You tiptoe around your client’s gigantic suite. He’s richer than the average citizen—most likely a Gamemaker or some sort of famous researcher. He probably has an unlimited amount of medical supplies. You dig around the place, finally finding a fridge-like cabinet with white backlight that holds everything you probably need.

You don’t care for the labels, so you take one of each product, stuffing them in the pockets of your robe and holding whatever that doesn’t fit in your hands. He’ll never notice that anything’s gone—he’s far too rich to be counting his supplies. Then, in the dead of the night, you leave the Capitol buildings, your pink silk robe billowing out behind you in the wind.

The real moonlight is a hideous, dim shade of yellow. But compared to the fake, eerie blue light in your client’s suite, it’s infinitely better. At least it somewhat calms you.

The silver bell sounds strange when it’s so dark out, but you step into the shop, where the lights are still off—the way they were in the morning. You cock your head, shifting the medicine in your arms before pulling back the purple curtains behind the counter. The walk down the short hallway is a little unsettling, and that’s coming from you, who once had to fight off dangerous rat muttations with her bare hands.

When you reach the door, you hesitate.

You feel real stupid, right now.

Did you come all the way here in the dead of the night just to prove this tree stump of a man wrong? And what about the medicine? You didn’t have to bring it, did you? But what if he’s dead behind that door? What if you left him when he was dying? Well then, that’d really suck. Because how else would you prove him wrong now?

That is exactly why you brought the medicine. You want him to be conscious when he sees you come through that door. You want to see that shocked look on his face.

The door creaks open. Inside, the room is pitch-black dark. You can barely make out a figure on the bed. The figure groans. Well, he’s not dead at least.

You switch on the light. And there Yoongi is, laid out on the bed, in the exact same position you saw him hours ago. Had he not moved the entire day? You walk closer to him, only to find him staring up at his ceiling blankly.

Where’s his scowl? His snarky commentary?

“I’m back,” you say, only slightly desperate for a reply.

There’s something glistening on his face. Is there a leak on the ceiling? Your eyes train up to see what he could possibly be staring at, but there’s nothing interesting up there at all—not even a crack. So the wetness on his face…

“Are you crying?”

He finally blinks. In fact, he blinks several times. “I was,” he croaks. He sounds bad. Much worse than the way you’d left him this morning.

For a second, you’re angry that you didn’t come sooner. You would’ve liked to see him cry.

“Well, I brought some medicine, so you don’t have to whine about the pain anymore.” You sit on the bed, laying out the assortment of creams and bottles of pills to show Yoongi. He barely looks your way.

“Why are you back?”

Your hands hover over the medicine. “What do you mean?”

“You left,” he says. “Why did you come back?”

“I always leave and come back. That’s how working part-time works,” you sigh.

“No,” he says, closing his eyes again. “This time, you weren’t going to.”

How is he so sure?

“Well, I’m here now,” you say. “So you were wrong.”

Silence.

It’s so, so awkward. Why isn’t he fighting back? He should be saying something mean. This is why you came back! To see his reaction; to fight with him. But why is he so weak?

“I thought about giving up, you know.”

You turn to him. “Giving up?”

He hums. “Sometimes waking up doesn’t seem worth it.”

Why is he telling you this? And how the hell are you supposed to respond to that?

“Why did I want to live so bad?” he says. But it sounds like he’s talking to himself, not you. “It feels like such a waste. That I out of the 23 others had to be the one who lived. And look at me now, busted leg, terrified of the fucking Peacekeepers, living in hiding, being so fucking alone all the time… I’ve killed so many people to be alive, but why did I do it? If I’m going to live like this? Even if I try to be a better person, it will never erase what I’ve done.”

You stare at him. This is far beyond being weak and vulnerable.

He might as well be digging his own grave. How can he be like this in front of you? You could kill him in the blink of an eye if you wanted to. How can he trust you like this? To be so open and bare in front of you?

“I was so ready,” he croaks. “I was ready to accept my fate. So why the hell did you waltz back in?” Yoongi’s eyes slowly open and he stares straight back at you, cold, hard eyes meeting your very own. “I know you didn’t do it because you care about me.”

“You’re right,” you say. “I don’t.”

“You probably wanted to prove me wrong,” he says. “Even though I’m no use to you anymore, you’re stubborn, and you hate it when I’m right.”

You also hate that he can read you like a book.

“Are you going to take the medicine or not?” you say, an exasperated sigh leaving your lips. “It’s fucking three in the morning and I came all the way from the central Capitol to deliver this to you.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Just leave me alone.”

Something inside your stomach twists again.

But you can’t just leave him alone. You didn’t walk all that distance just to walk back in your flimsy pink silk robe. You’re going to finish what you started.

So without another word, you seize Yoongi’s leg, roll up his pants and take a look at the injury yourself.

He winces, eyes scrunching closed, but he doesn’t say anything.

The leg is bright red and swollen. It looks like most of the damage is from the inside. How fucking convenient. You noisily sort through the medicine to find something worth using until Yoongi has to spit out a very annoyed, “Can you be any louder?”

You get the sudden urge to snap his leg.

But that would be the exact opposite of what you’re trying to do. You’ve only ever tried to heal yourself. Why would you ever care about another person’s well-being?

Still, you pick up a thick, silver cream that looks just about credible and begin to lather it onto his lower leg. He grimaces every time your fingers make contact on his skin, but he doesn’t complain.

It’s hard being gentle.

The only time your skin is on someone else’s is when you’re servicing them or killing them.

So this is quite new.

When you’re finished, you roll back down his pants and throw a bottle of pills in his face. His eyes open and you see annoyance flash across his features.

“Eat up,” you tell him.

“I can’t fucking figure you out,” he says, groggily picking up the bottle of pills from out of his face.

“Then don’t.”

He looks at you strangely. “Okay.”

Every time he agrees with you, something feels wrong. You’re just so used to being alone, fending for yourself that when someone’s on your side, it feels like an act. Like a lie.

“I think I’ll start paying you,” Yoongi suddenly says. “For working.”

Your eyes widen. “Paying me? Are you delirious?” Maybe his leg is worse than you thought.

“I’m serious,” he deadpans.

“Why the hell would you do that?”

You’re not friends. You barely tolerate each other. You’re only helping him because… well, because you came all the way here and you might as well make something out of the trip. He may not be useful to you anymore, but… If he died, you would lose the little interest you already have in your life.

“I want you to owe me,” he says. “You helped me with my leg, so I’ll start paying you. I don’t want us to be even just yet.”

You scowl at him.

“And you still owe me two questions,” he says.

“Do I?” you pretend you’ve forgotten. “I thought you wanted to give up. Are you changing your mind?”

He leans up on his elbows, dried tears on his face, eyes bloodshot and lips cracked. “I can’t die yet,” he says, attempting a grin. “I’m a curious man. I’ll need some answers from you.”

EIGHT.

Leave it to the Capitol to invent advanced medicine and not think to share it with anyone. Whatever miracle ointment and pills you’d given Yoongi, they’d worked. He’s almost as good as new.

You wish the pills could’ve fixed his attitude, though.

He still walks with a limp, but judging by the way he carries himself, and the speed of which he can move from one place to another (mostly to slap your hand when you touch something you’re not supposed to), much of his pain seems to have subsided.

He’s also been scolding you less these days about keeping the shop in shape. It’s either because he realizes that you have blackmail material on him (now that you’ve seen him all weak and crying), or you’ve just gotten better at knowing what conditions he likes to keep his shop in.

It’s pretty funny. Despite the messy way he keeps his room, Yoongi likes to keep his shop shining from wall to wall—maybe to give off an illusion that he’s actually clean? That no one could possibly have any dirt on him? Either way, it’s a lot of work to be constantly scrubbing the counter down, washing the dirty beakers in the sink and feather dusting every inch of the place, but strangely… it’s not too horrible.

Now that you’re balancing two jobs, you have even less time to sleep. But they always told you sleep is for the dead, anyways. And besides, you think you actually enjoy coming to the shop.

It feels like a real job, now that you’re actually getting compensated for your work, and Yoongi’s generous with the money, too. Maybe he just has that much to spare. This is also the first thing in your life that you’ve voluntarily chosen to do. And it was a good choice, indeed.

You enjoy washing the glass bottles, sweeping the floors, talking to the customers (no matter how disingenuous you have to be). You enjoy the scowl on Yoongi’s face every time a customer asks for you and not him. You enjoy the fresh mint, the sween lemon and the clean linen when you walk into the store every morning to find him waiting for you at the counter.

You enjoy it all because you know that you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.

Enjoy…

What a strange little word.

You’ve never exactly enjoyed anything in your life, for what was there to enjoy? You were always taught to get the job done, to move on from one tragedy to the next. You never had the time to stop and think to yourself, ‘Wow, I really think I take pleasure in this activity.’ How could you? When you were learning things like the fastest way to bludgeon someone to death?

But enjoyment is an amazing feeling. It puts bubbles in your chest, makes you feel like your feet are off the ground. If you’re not too careful, you might just fly away. Sometimes, you catch yourself involuntarily smiling. You never smile for yourself. Always for other people—mainly to charm them, trick them, getting them to do what you want… So what is this? Is this what enjoyment makes you do?

You’re careful never to let yourself smile in Yoongi’s presence. He would never let you hear the end of it. But still, on the nicer days, where the sunlight streams in through the tinted windows of the shop, casting its amber light on the glass bottles, reflecting small rainbows on everything inside, you can’t help the smile that slips onto your lips.

It’s pretty.

You never knew that beauty could extend to the outer world. They always told you that your vicinity was a dangerous ground, that you had to stay tense and guarded. But there’s no reason to suspect the worst around here.

It’s so peaceful.

On slower days, you no longer wait for customers at the counter; it gets old pretty quickly to count the cracks in the wood. Now, you wait with Yoongi in his room.

He usually sits at his desk, dozing off, working on some documents, eating lunch, whatever it is that he does to pass the time. And you? You sprawl on his bed in a starfish position, staring at the ceiling and letting the soft mattress support your stiff back.

The first time you collapsed onto his bed without warning, he’d given you a distasteful look. “You’re getting the fucking sheets dirty,” he’d complained.

“Like you’re any cleaner,” you replied, not moving an inch.

He couldn’t really do anything about it (nor could he disagree), so he quickly gave up. He wasn’t going to share his chair with you, either.

His bed is always so comfortable. If you were him, you would never leave it. The sheets also smell like him. The mint, the faint hints of lemon and linen. Occasionally, when he’s not looking, you bury your face into his sheets.

Except, he is looking today, and he breaks the usual silence to embarrass you about it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You immediately jerk your face away from the bed. “Thanks for waking me up, asshole.”

He squints at you as if he’s well-aware that you’re lying. You’d never sleep in front of him; even he would know that. Sleeping is the most vulnerable position a normal person can put themselves in. And while you trust Yoongi enough to no longer want to kill him at the slightest inconvenience anymore, you don’t trust him enough to sleep while he’s in the room with you.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “Jungkook used to do that all the time, you know.”

“Do what?” You frown, sitting up on your elbows. It’s rare that he would mention his brother, and it’s even stranger that he’s doing it in front of you—the person who killed him.

“Pretend to sleep,” Yoongi answers. “He did it a lot when we were kids. And then when you’re unsuspecting, he’d reach out and wrestle you to the ground. He’d always win.”

“Oh.”

What are you supposed to say to that? The only thing you can seem to take away from Yoongi’s little anecdote is that Jungkook never grew out of that habit of his.

“You can’t seriously be sleeping during the games!” you giggle, poking at Jungkook’s cheek as he lies there on the forest floor, eyes closed, breaths even. When he doesn’t answer, you feel the urge to yank his hair. But you can’t do that. Not with the cameras on.

You’re supposed to pretend that you love him, not that you’re waiting for the perfect chance to kill him—after everyone else is already dead.

So you caress his cheek, lean in closer—just so the audience back home could squeal—and whisper, “Hey, wak—”

He’s awake and on top of you in less than a second.

You gasp, the wind nearly knocked out of you as he holds you on the ground, pinning your body down along with a couple of leaves.

How fucking stupid! How fucking weak of you to be taken out like this! You’re about to slip the knife from your pocket out to slit his throat, when you realize that he was grinning happily.

“Got you,” he sings before crawling off of you. “Did you really think I’d be asleep?”

“W-Well, I just! Your breathing was so even, I—”

He only leans in and ruffles your hair. You want to cut his hand off. “Let’s go,” he says, taking your hand. “We’ve got some others to kill.”

“—about me?”

Yoongi’s voice brings you back to reality and you blink a couple of times in an attempt to register his words. But you realize you’d missed more than half of it.

“What?”

Some time when you were lost in your head, he’d turned around. And now, his back faces you. You stare at it blankly until he repeats his question.

“Did he ever talk about me?”

The two of you make camp in front of the Cornucopia, guarding the supplies and basking in the riches the Gamemakers had to offer. The sky is dark, and the moon is shining. The dead tributes’ names had already been flashed in the sky. Four of them in total today—all killed by the two of you.

“Weren’t we productive today?” Jungkook says, offering you some jerky found in one of the packs. He cooks wild squirrel with his other hand, letting the fat drip down and sizzle into the fire.

“I guess we were,” you answer, taking the jerky and taking a small bite of it—pretty and dainty—just like they taught you. “We have five left now.” Five left before you’d have to kill him too.

“We’ve got time,” he says. “We’re doing better than my brother did, actually.” He smiles.

“Oh?” you say, even though you already knew. “You talk about him a lot.” During training, in between interviews, in the dead of the night when you’d sneak into his suite to visit him (and many others), he’d always mentioned Yoongi.

“I look up to him,” Jungkook says. “I know I said it in my interview, but I’m here because of Yoongi. Because I want to show him that I can win, too.”

Yikes, you think. “That’s admirable,” you say.

“He said he survived the Arena thinking of me,” Jungkook says, the faux moonlight cascading over his doe eyes and sculpted face. “I want to do the same. But… I dunno, he didn’t have someone like you with him…”

His gaze is too soft. Too kind. It takes everything inside of you to not look away.

“I want to be just like Yoongi,” he says. “But I want to be with you too.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just kiss him to shut him up. Thankfully, he takes the bait, and the Capitol gets a good show out of that one.

It’s too bad you can’t do the same with Yoongi. If you leaned in to kiss him, he’d probably murder you, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it… Because now, the thought of hurting Yoongi feels… weird. It feels odd.

“What, cat got your tongue?” he says without bothering to turn around.

You scowl. “Is this how you’re going to use one of your precious questions?”

He pauses for a second before answering, “Yeah.”

“Well…” The stomachache is back again. “He… He always said he wanted to be just like you.”

“I meant the things he said off camera. You said in your Victor interview that you cozied up with him before the games even began.”

You feel like throwing up. It’s like he’s caught you in a web, except you’re not the spider, he is.

“We weren’t usually talking when we met,” you say, which is the truth. Yoongi looks rather disgusted, but you continue on anyway. “He still told me small things. Like…” You struggle to remember. When he spoke, you’d always tuned him out. You were interested in what he could do for you, how much he could trust you, not what he had to say about his goddamn brother.

You’re in his bed, and he’s holding you in his arms, his bare chest pressed flat against your back.

“You awake?” he whispers in your ear.

“Is that even a question?” you reply with a sigh. He should know that you never sleep with someone around. But perhaps maybe he did know. Maybe he only wanted a good segue to talk to you. And even if you were a little short-tempered around him, he never minded. In fact, he enjoyed it when you were a little mean. Because you were honest with him and him only.

You can practically see Jungkook smiling. “I can’t believe we’ll be in the Arena in three days.”

“Me neither.” Although you prepared thirteen years of your life for this.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a while,” he says. “But why did you volunteer?”

You turn around, exasperated. “I thought you listened to my interview.”

He just nudges your noses together. “You were lying,” he says, grinning. “I could tell.”

You sigh. “I volunteered because I knew I could win.” There was something about him that always compelled you to tell the truth—even if it was only a part of it.

“Really?” he says, face lighting up. “Me too!” Then, he laughs. “But there can’t be two winners.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“You know, back in District 2, my instructors hand-picked me to be the boy volunteer four years ago,” he says in a low whisper as if the Capitol could barge in at any minute and arrest him for illegally training for the games. “I was fourteen. But during the actual reaping, my brother overrode the already rigged selection.”

“Did he?”

“The instructors considered him too, but they ultimately chose me over him.” Jungkook’s grin widened. “I thought he was jealous at first, and I was angry at him for taking the spotlight, but as I watched him in the games, bleeding out, starving, crying out my name… I realized he did it to protect me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he says. “He thought I was too young to win. That I still had a lot to learn. So I took four years to learn more, and I volunteered myself. I’m not letting my brother down.”

“Oh yeah?” you say. “And will he be waiting at home when you come back as a Victor?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “He never came back home.”

“How protective,” you say sarcastically, but when you catch his hurt face, you smile, pushing back his bangs and pecking his cheek. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“I’m gonna win to find him,” Jungkook says. But he looks at you, eyes softening and his grip around you tightening. “But I’m not gonna be the one who kills you.”

How ironic. Because you’re going to be the exact person who kills him.

“He told me he wanted to win to find you,” you say, sitting up and hunching over to press on your stomach. “He told me that he didn’t want to let you down.”

Yoongi’s silent.

“He told me that he thought you were probably waiting for him at the Capitol. That when he won, he’d finally be able to meet you. And then you’d be proud of him…”

Again, silence.

“I resent you,” Yoongi finally says after a long time. “I still hate you for killing him.”

“I know.”

You don’t know what else to say.

And Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind.

The two of you dwell in the quietness of the afternoon, both sinking into your respective thoughts.

As the faint smell of mint leaves calms your mind, you realize that even if Yoongi resents you, hates you, absolutely despises you for what you did to his younger brother, he still trusts you. Why else would he be sitting at his desk with his back turned to you? Why else would he doze off some days or be lost in his thoughts with you in the room? In the Arena, that would be like him asking to be killed by you.

But, of course, this isn’t the Arena, and if he trusts you this much, you couldn’t possibly kill him—nor hurt him for that matter.

As you lazily trace the lines of the wood of the ceiling in your mind, it suddenly dawns on you.

You trust him too.

Why else would you be lying on his bed, completely unguarded with him right in front of you? Why else would you not feel the need to kill him every time he annoys you? And why else? Why else would you find comfort in his scent?

NINE.

The 103rd Hunger Games rolls around.

You and Yoongi watch the reaping together in his small space, where a cheap hologram set lies near his desk. It helps pass the time.

But the reaping is always the most boring part of the televised Hunger Games. Volunteers usually make things interesting, but volunteers at Districts 1, 2 and 4 are far too common, too predictable. And these tributes never volunteer because they want to sacrifice themselves to protect their loved ones; they volunteer because they think they’ll win. It’s flashy and ostentatious. No one wants to watch someone who thinks they’re better than everyone. Which was why everyone talked about you when you volunteered. They thought you volunteered to protect the little 12-year-old girl who had started to cry when her name was called. District 8 rarely—almost never—has volunteers, so of course they assumed you volunteered out of the goodness of your heart. You sure made it seem like that: in your interviews, in your expressions, in your actions.

But in reality, your district had an agenda, and you were merely their puppet.

You glance back at the hologram where by now, a boy and a girl have been chosen from District 8. The boy is much younger, and he’s crying. The camera makes sure to pan to his older brothers who look horror-stricken, yet they don’t have the guts to volunteer. The girl is older, but she looks desperate, eyes darting around to the girl’s section, wordlessly praying that someone will volunteer to take her spot. No one does.

Yoongi speaks absentmindedly with his eyes trained to the hologram. “I’ve never seen a District 8 volunteer other than you.”

“I didn’t do it because I was kind,” you say.

“I never said you were kind,” he says back. “You didn’t even know the girl. I always assumed you volunteered because you, for some reason, thought you would win.”

So he had seen through your cordial glances at the girl, your relieved smile when you glanced at her from up on the stage. He had seen through your kind words during your interviews—somehow just like his younger brother. The rest of the Capitol was fooled, though. They thought you were the sweetest little thing.

“You didn’t think I’d be a threat.”

“No,” Yoongi admits. “But I always suspected you’d get a lot of sponsors.”

“Did you?” you say, placing your hand on the top rail of Yoongi’s chair.

He turns around slightly in his seat to look at you. “And I was right.”

“You were.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off. “But as soon as I saw the training scores, I knew you were hiding something. A lot of things, actually.”

“Too bad you weren’t Jungkook’s mentor. You could’ve warned him.” The words come out of you before you can stop yourself. You glance at Yoongi to see if you’ve hit a sore spot. Will he get angry at you? Will he yell? Tell you to leave? The horrible feeling is back in your stomach again, and you want to say something, tell him that you were just joking. But would that even help?

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees with you, to your surprise. “I could’ve. Too bad I’d already been banished. Should’ve waited a couple years before I decided to retaliate… But I never thought that idiot would volunteer to make me proud or to find me or whatever the fuck.”

“He could’ve won,” you say, though you know that’s not true. As long as you were in the games, everyone else was doomed.

“Don’t lie to me,” Yoongi says. He turns back to look at the hologram. “He was a goner the moment he saw you.”

It hurts. Your stomach turns, twists, tangles up just like yarn.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you say, hoping it makes him feel better.

“You had a plan,” Yoongi says. “That’s what you told me, remember? Then you went rogue.”

Of course you remember. The first day you’d met—when you had cried and begged and told him your sob story. How could he ever forget?

Your grip on the chair tightens. “It wasn’t my plan,” you confess. It’s strange, but you don’t want him to hate you more than he already does. “It was theirs… People who were sick of the games,” you say. “People who were sick of the Capitol.”

“I thought so,” he says, a little too casually for your liking.

“Are you trying to tell me you knew all along?” Your eyes narrow.

“It wasn’t too hard to piece it together,” he says. “District 8’s mentors were killed during the Second Rebellion, which means no one trained you. But someone did something because you played the games better than any Career I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think some 18-year-old could’ve strategized that herself.”

“So you doubted my abilities.”

“Yes, and I was right,” he says. “I was never sure who you worked for, but I do know now.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They wanted you to be the new Mockingjay,” Yoongi says. “So they trained you back at District 8, like the academies do in the Career districts.”

It’s quite shocking how much he can discern from little hints here and there, but he also didn’t win the Hunger Games at 16-years-old for nothing. He was always astute and observant. You just never thought that he’d observe you.

“They chose me when I was three,” you say, confirming his suspicions. “And they began training me when I was five.”

“The Third Rebellion, huh?” Yoongi says, leaning back in his chair. “I guess they didn’t think things through, putting a child at the front of their campaign.”

“It almost worked with Katniss Everdeen,” you say, though you’re not sure why you come to the rebel’s defense. It might just be a habit.

“Yeah, well, Katniss Everdeen is dead.” He’s also not wrong. “And you betrayed them, so I’d say the success rate is zero.”

You wince. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Really?” He sounds painfully sarcastic.

“Really,” you say. “I… I dunno. The deal was that they’d feed me, clothe me and train me. All I had to do in return were two things: win the games and assassinate Snow. I was supposed to kill him during the victor crowning.”

“He’s still alive,” Yoongi says, but it’s without malice—as if he’s only stating a fact.

“Obviously I didn’t go through with it,” you say.

Yoongi hums. “You told me before that it was because you didn’t want to work for someone again. Clearly not the entire truth,” he says. “Because you’re working for me now.” You grimace. “So why? Why couldn’t you?”

Why. What an age-old question. You’re not even sure if you can admit the real reason.

“Do you really want to use up your last question on this?” you say, eyebrows raised.

“Sure,” he replies. “Why not?”

“What if I’m not sure of the answer myself?”

This time, his eyebrows raise. “Then maybe you’re lying to yourself too.”

Why is he always right?

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I dunno… I just—It felt good to be congratulated for the first time in my life. They never… Well, back when I was training, they never really liked me.”

“But you were their precious Mockingjay.”

“They’d photograph me, ask me to read random scripts in front of a camera and videotape my training sessions, but it was never because they admired me. At least, it didn’t feel that way.”

“I see.”

It feels good to finally let it out. You can almost feel the pain in your stomach dissipating.

“I didn’t want to be thought of as a rebel,” you admit. “It wouldn’t make sense. I’ve always done what I was told to do. I was always so obedient. And for the longest time, I didn’t know why I was chosen and why I had to train. I just did it. No questions asked.”

You glance at Yoongi, who seems to be listening intently.

“I sold them out,” you say, and the bubble in your stomach pops. “I tipped off the Peacekeepers about their location and… I don’t know what happened to them. They’re dead now, maybe. Or they’ve become Avoxes.”

Yoongi clicks off the hologram. He turns away from you, resting his head on his hands.

“So I guess I am a monster.”

“All Victors are,” is his rather comforting answer. “But we all have our reasons.”

You had your reasons, all right.

They’d let you bleed out of your injuries from training for days—made you fight through the pain because they told you that’s how it would be like in the Arena. They’d tie you down and repeatedly hit you with non-lethal objects to get you used to blunt force trauma. They would never let you eat what you caught in the woods; instead, they’d give you the scraps of their dinner. Because it would prepare you for starvation. They never let you sleep with blankets; they didn’t even let you sleep on a bed so in the Arena, you wouldn’t miss the comfort of a plush bed with fleece blankets. Even when you were at the Capitol, they fed you detestable food—too salty jerky, nearly perished squirrel meat, small berries—because they couldn’t have you getting spoiled just days before the biggest moment of your life, could they? They made you sleep on the hard, marble floors too, and the only sanction you had was when you’d visit the other tributes in the middle of the night.

Because you knew they’d let you in their beds, and the rebels couldn’t do anything about it. Technically, you were following their directions: play coy, wrap the other tributes around your finger.

It never really hit you—the gravity of their treatment—until now.

You knew you were unhappy then, and you knew you didn’t belong with the rebels, but you didn’t think that they ever used you. When you betrayed them, you thought it was because you wanted to save yourself. You didn’t think you were trying to save yourself from them.

But how fucking funny the universe works.

Now that you escaped being used by the rebels, you’re tangled up in the same web again, being used by the same man you were supposed to kill.

It reminds you.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at the small antique clock on Yoongi’s desk. “I might have some clients.”

“Might?”

“It depends,” you tell him. “I select my client of the night. If I don’t like the pool of requests, I don’t choose. But I’ll have to, sooner or later,” you say. “Or Snow’ll know I haven’t been making his money.”

“How much?” he asks.

Your head whips around to stare at his back. “What?”

“How much for the night?”

You scoff. “You’re not telling me that you actually want to—”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Yoongi snorts. He turns, standing up from his chair to face you. You get a whiff of his scent: the mint, lemon and linen. It nearly overwhelms your senses. Did he put on more lotion than normal today? “I don’t want you in the way that you think.”

The only thing you can manage to do is roll your eyes. And after some hesitation, you tell him your price.

He nods. “I can do that.”

“So what?” you say, arms crossing over your chest. “You’re just going to steal me for the night?”

“Steal?” he asks, cocking his head. “Of course not. I’m paying for you to stay.”

It’s time to throw the age-old question right back at him. “Why?”

He gives you a long, hard look, black eyes seemingly piercing into your soul. It somehow sends something sizzling down your spine. Does he know? That you didn’t tell him everything? That you purposely left out the parts where they’d used you? Where they’d hit you, starved you, bled you out? You don’t want him to think you used to be so weak—or worse, stupid.

But he just shakes his head, maintaining eye contact as the words casually slip from his lips: “Because I figured you’d need a rest today after all that stomachache.”

TEN.

Every so often, when Yoongi’s happy with the money he’s earned that day, he’ll buy your company for the night. His money, of course, never goes to you. It’s wired straight to President Snow, who guzzles up all the profit he makes from selling young bodies to the Capitol. Staying the night at the shop also means you don’t get your usual share of the generous tips your clients leave you. But it’s worth it. Yoongi’s paying you to work, anyway.

He also always lets you sleep on his bed, but that was only after you (jokingly) threatened him. (It wasn’t anything too mean, just that you’d put a strong diuretic in his meals whenever he least expected it.) But he never reacted strongly to your threat either, so you suspect that maybe he wanted you to take the bed in the first place.

Never in your life have you ever slept on a whole bed just by yourself. It’s something that you could get used to. Being able to stretch out your legs without touching somebody else’s, to have ample back support and soft covers that keep you warm at night—you almost feel bad that you make Yoongi resort to sleeping on his chair. You glance at him at times. His upper body is usually laid out uncomfortably on his desk, and he slouches in a manner that would’ve had your past instructors screaming. But he never complains.

It’s nice spending a night with him.

Yoongi never whines about a wife that he does not have. He doesn’t whine about his nonexistent children. And he sure as hell doesn’t whine about his job when it’s all that’s been keeping him afloat. In fact, he doesn’t really talk to you, which doesn’t bother you at all. You like it that way. He lets you do whatever you want. You begin to look forward to these nights at the shop.

Sometimes, when you and Yoongi are feeling less hostile towards each other, the two of you stay up late to watch the reruns of the current games. It started ever since the day an exhausted Yoongi collapsed onto his chair and switched on his hologram set to search for fine entertainment before he fell asleep. You’d already been swaddled up in his blankets on the bed, and you were about to yell at him for switching on the hologram when you were trying to get some well-deserved shut-eye. But the games happened to be playing, and it was like a train wreck you couldn’t look away from.

Even on the first day, it’s clear that one of the Careers would win. By day 11, there are only a few tributes left, and they are those who survived day 10’s violent, bloody massacre. You used to be able to watch every single moment of the games—all the blood, all the gore, the screams, the crying and begging—but now, sometimes you have to look away. You used to analyze every tribute’s fighting styles, memorize their strategies and minute habits. Yet now, none of that interests you. Instead, watching the games makes your chest heavy. It feels like your frequent stomachaches, but even worse.

Yoongi usually ends up shutting off the hologram when he notices you grimacing, and at first, you were offended that he thought you couldn’t handle it. You yelled at him for that, and he’d tried to keep calm but ended up yelling back. You’d left that day, storming away and muttering obscenities under your breath and retreating into another one of your client’s beds. But you came back the next day, pretending that incident never happened. And now, you’re glad that he shuts off the program. It saves you from stomachache.

On day 15, there are only two tributes left. You and Yoongi watch, you sitting on his chair and him right behind you, arms resting on the top rail. “Don’t turn it off this time,” you warn him. Even if you get a stomachache, you want to see how this ends.

Yoongi just nods, eyes glued to the screen.

This year’s Arena is set in a city in ruins. The two tributes who are left are forced to meet each other back at the Cornucopia after some bird muttations chase them there, nearly pecking out their eyeballs. The tributes circle around each other at the remains of a courtyard, where there are crumbling bricks, splintered wood, metal pipes—all great weapons—strewn about. You can already see about ten different ways to kill someone in this particular setting. The thought unsettles you. But you make sure not to show any emotion on your face. Yoongi always thinks he knows better, and despite your warning, he’d turn the hologram off again.

You and Yoongi watch the scene unfold. One of the tributes—the boy from District 2—picks up a metal pipe and swings it at the girl from District 4. She ducks, quickly scrambling around in the dust to come up with a red brick. It’s a dumb move on her part; she won’t be able to get in close range to him when he’s got that metal pipe. But as the District 2 boy is laughing at her unintelligent choice of weapon, she throws the brick right at his arm. She’s got good aim. He drops the metal pipe, clutching his arm in pain, and she’s quick enough to take this opportunity to lunge at him. They end up falling on the dirt floor with the boy taking most of the impact. She’s sitting on his chest, his arms trapped under her knees.

You can tell from the look on the boy’s face that he knows he lost. He begins to beg. But the girl is quick. She picks up the brick she’d thrown—the one that is tinged with skin and blood—and she begins bludgeoning him with it. You can hear squelches of skin, of blood splattering. The crack! of the skull. The moans of the boy in pain. She’s so weak. The games have been going on for so long that she’s out of strength. She can’t finish him off with one hit. It’s worse for both of them.

It’s exactly like what happened during the 73rd Hunger Games; the brick bludgeoning, the city ruins… The Gamemakers decided to come full-circle after three decades.

The scene even reminds you of your own games.

“Look at that,” Jungkook grins. “We killed the last one.”

You link your arms together, pulling his body close to yours. “That just leaves the two of us.”

“I guess it does.”

“So, are you going to kill me now?” you ask him innocently—as if you’d already accepted your fate.

He looks at you, eyes softening when he catches sight of your long face. And for a while, he just stares at you, drinking in your features, especially lingering on your eyes and lips. It takes a long time for him to find his words. “Not if you kill me first.”

And before you can even react, he’s embracing you, hands in your hair, your arms around his waist. The hug is sweet. And he embraces you like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it, which isn’t so far off from the truth. There’s something like desperation in his actions, and you try to mirror it, wondering if anyone in the Capitol will believe you. He smells of mud, rainwater and sweat. It isn’t too bad, considering that you’ve only been out here for three days.

Your mind is racing. If you make the move to kill him, will he fight back? Or will he let you kill him? Will he let his feelings for you go so far that he’ll sacrifice his life for you to win? Or will you have to end his life by brute force? And what about his brother? He wouldn’t so easily give up on the search to find him, would he? He surely wouldn’t give him up for you.

But all of your thoughts vanish when he leans into your ear, and your hair hides his mouth as he whispers, “I trust you.”

Then, he’s leaning away, his fingers tracing your cheek and moving down to hold your chin. His dark eyes twinkle in the morning sunlight. He trusts you? Does that mean he won’t fight back when you eventually stab him to death? Does that mean he trusts you to sacrifice yourself for him? No, he wouldn’t do that. Because as haughty and cocky as Jungkook can get, he’s kind to the people he loves. You’ve heard him talk about his older brother.

He pulls you in for one final kiss—one that would have the viewers back at the Capitol gasping and squealing. It’s too chaste, too sweet. Before you can really process it, your hand slinks behind to grab the silver dagger you kept hidden in your pants. And when you stab him, his lips are still on yours. His eyes open, though. Blood splatters from his mouth. You step back, watching him fall. He’s dead before he hits the ground. You’d stabbed him right in the heart. Without any hesitation.

Even when the hovercraft comes to pull you up, the winner of the 99th Hunger Games, you can taste his blood in your mouth. The bitterness, the iron.

And you swear you can taste it now.

You’ll never forget that face before he fell. It hadn’t been a look of betrayal. Nor had it been a look of hatred, even contempt. It had been acceptance. But why? Why was he so okay with it? Why did he let you kill him? You don’t understand. He deserved to fight back. So why didn’t he?

Did he know that you were going to kill him? He was always smart; he should’ve known that this was your strategy: to charm everyone in the games and to kill them when they were blinded by adoration for you. Did he think that you’d make an exception for him? Did he think that just because you were meaner to him, that you’d spare him? That you showed him your true self? And that you really truly adored him back? So was he waiting for you to kill him? But what about his older brother? Did he give up on his ambition to find him just because of you? But no… it couldn’t be.

Yoongi switches off the hologram. “Stomachache?”

No, this is considerably worse. It feels so painful, yet nothing seems to be there. How do you feel empty yet drowning at the same time?

“Can you stay?” he asks, eyes sparkling and mouth set in a hopeful smile. “We’ve never had breakfast together.”

But you’re already gripping the door handle of the exit. “I don’t—”

“I know you don’t eat breakfast, but today’s the last day… You know, before we get thrown into the Arena.”

All the more reason for you to skip your meals today. You wouldn’t want to mess up 13 years of training the day before the main event. “I can’t,” you tell him. It’s the truth.

“Why not?” Jungkook asks, stepping forward.

You give him a hard look. “Because tomorrow, we’ll get thrown in the Arena and we’ll have to kill each other eventually.”

And to your surprise, he laughs. “So? That’s tomorrow. We’re friends today, aren’t we?” You want to correct him. 'Friends' is such a strong word. You and he are allies. But do allies sleep with each other? “Besides,” he continues in your silence. “We won’t have to worry about killing each other in a long time.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll have to kill the others first,” he says, walking even closer. He stands before you, hands lifting to play with your hair. “And when the time comes…” He pulls you into his arms. “I guess we’ll have to fight to the death.”

You snort, pushing him away. “So you’ve thought that far too?”

“Of course I have.” He can’t stop staring into your eyes. “But I don’t think I’ll put up much of a fight.”

You roll your eyes. “Your survival instincts are going to override your feelings, you know.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.” Then, he opens the door of his suite for you, waiting for you to leave. And you do, because you have to begin your rigorous training just like any morning. But his words echo in your head for a second longer than usual.

I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.

Was that it, then? Love?

How could a silly little thing like that cost him his life? He must’ve been an idiot! It was you or his brother. It was a lying stranger versus his own blood. He should’ve killed you; you would’ve felt better if he’d fought back. But no… He couldn’t hurt you because he loved you. You don’t understand. How can you dedicate yourself to a single person like that? Enough to make you sacrifice your own life?

Love?

You’ve been told that you were loved before. The rebels, your clients, your fans after the games… But it never made sense to you. They only loved you because you did something for them. So you always thought love was something you exchange—a give and take.

But you never gave Jungkook anything.

Even when you were an absolute asshole to him, he always acted in your best interest. But how? He only knew of your existence for a little over a week. How long does it take to fall in love? Do you really know nothing about it? Is it love that made the Peacekeeper mourn over his dead daughter? That when he smelled her personal scent, he broke down? Is it love that Miss Bijou is missing that makes her so lonely and friendless? Is it love that Yoongi feels for his brother?

Is it so hard to lose a loved one?

Is that why Yoongi hates you?

In that case…

What about all the people you’ve killed in the Arena? Do they have loved ones at home? Loved ones who want to kill you for inflicting harm and pain on their children? What about the people you’ve indirectly killed because you sold them out? What about the ones who survived and became slaves to the Capitol? Do they hope to see you one day? Even as Avoxes, would they try to seek vengeance for their loved ones?

You would deserve it, wouldn’t you? You ruined their lives. You didn’t have to rat them out, but you did. Because you thought it would gain you a favor from President Snow. And all he did was sell you to the Capitol.

God, you’re a monster.

You can see the faces of those you’ve killed. They’re looming over you, laughing at your distress. They tell you that you deserve everything that happened to you: your embarrassing failure to attain true freedom. It will never matter how much you try; you will always be owned by the Capitol.

Maybe all of this happened because you don’t have anyone to love and no one ever loved you. And the only person who did, you killed without hesitation. Because back then, you never thought too much of his words.

I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.

Why didn’t you understand it before? There’s a hole inside of your stomach. It’s growing and growing until it expands to your chest. You feel empty. Barren.

He loved you! He really, truly loved you.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” you say. The words come out sharper than you’d hoped, but Jungkook is far too used to your short temper to react any differently.

He just moves in to embrace you, cradling your head in his arms.

“You’ll see me in there, anyway,” you murmur against his chest.

“But this is the last time I’ll get to see the real you,” he murmurs back.

“The real me?” You’re incredulous, pushing him back to stare at his face.

“Yeah,” he answers, tugging you in to plant a small kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he’s grinning. “You act a lot sweeter in front of the cameras,” he says. “But I like it when you’re you.”

“What makes you think that this is the real me?” you ask him, brows furrowed.

He only shrugs. “I just know.”

“Well, what if you’re wrong?”

He shakes his head with a grin on his face. “Then I guess I’m a fool.”

“You’d be a little more than a fool,” you say, but you find yourself in his arms again. It’s annoying. He always finds a way to wiggle his way into your embrace. And strangely, you often find it hard to leave. So, the two of you stay in each others’ arms in silence.

Soon, you’ll be escorted underground, below the Arena, and wait until the tight capsules transport you above the surface. Then, the games will begin. But Jungkook seems to want to savor this moment. And in order to kill him in the future, you have to let him appreciate you.

His grip on you tightens.

“I know you’re going to do it,” he says. Your eyes widen. It’s like he can read your mind. “I’ll be okay,” he whispers. He begins to draw circles on your back.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you tell him, face still buried in his chest. “You won’t know what it’s like in there.”

“I won’t,” he answers, “but it won’t matter. I’ve thought about it, Y/N, but in my entire life, I think I’ve been the happiest here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. With you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s the truth. I liked it here with you. I trained all my life to be here, but now that I am here, I just don’t… I don’t know. What would I do after I won? What if Yoongi never came home for a reason? What if he wanted to cut ties? What if I can’t find him?” His fingers tangle up in your hair. “And then there’s you. I know I volunteered to be here, and I know I wanted this, but… I don’t know anymore,” he says. “I just want to spend every waking moment with you.”

He’s stupid. So goddamn naïve. Or… wait a minute. He could be saying this to trick you! So you let your guard down! So when the time comes, he can go for the kill since you wouldn’t suspect anything! You frown.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says. How does he know you so well? “But when you do it, don’t hesitate.”

Is he really…? No, he has to be lying. He can’t be telling you that you have to kill him. It’s impossible! He can’t like you this much, can he? It has to be a trick. You’re desirable, but not to the extent that your fans would sacrifice their life for you. So what he’s saying must be a lie.

Except, years later, now you know it wasn’t.

He’d given his heart to you and you’d repeatedly smashed it down. How had he never gotten tired of you? What did he see in you that was so lovable? God, it hurts to breathe. There’s a searing pain in your chest, so you buckle over to clutch it.

“If you need to throw up, I’d rather you do it in the bathroom,” Yoongi says with an indiscernible look on his face.

You can’t answer.

Everything is too much. And even though you’re sitting, the world is spinning.

“Do you need me to drag you there?”

He doesn’t understand.

You’re not sick to the stomach; you’re sick in the head.

“You’re getting the table wet. That’s a pretty expensive table, you know.”

That’s when you realize you’re crying. Your vision is blurry again, and that coupled with the pain in your chest? It hurts more than the time you broke four bones in your body during training. Because then, you at least knew you’d heal in time. But this? Can heartache heal?

“No, seriously. That’s real poplar wood.”

He must be shitting with you. Can’t he see that you’re in pain?

“Can you hear me?”

God, he boils your blood sometimes.

“Leave me alone!” you shriek. The sheer volume of your voice even takes you back. You hadn’t meant to yell.

But Yoongi ignores your tone altogether—he must’ve been teasing you before, that asshole. “I guess everything’s finally catching up to you.” He settles down at the edge of his desk, facing you. When you give him an incredulous look, he clarifies. “Guilt,” he says. “Or sadness. I dunno. Anything you’ve repressed before, during and after the games.”

Is that what the pain in your stomach had been this entire time? Guilt? Sadness? Are you so emotionless that you can’t tell the difference between emotional and physical pain? Yoongi never once breaks eye contact with you, and it’s so uncomfortable to the point that you have to look away first. You think you understand now.

You might not know love, but you understand. To see the person who killed his brother ask him for help, to see her every day because she won’t fucking leave him alone… To house her, support her, help her… Does he look at you and see red? Whenever he hears your voice, does he hear Jungkook’s?

Deep down, does he still seek revenge? Deep down, does he wish to kill you?

He must only be helping you because if he doesn’t, you would kill him. But maybe he’s plotting a way to kill you. Maybe one day, he’ll find the nerve to call up the Peacekeepers. Maybe he’s already working with Snow right now, praying on your down fall.

You wouldn’t blame him.

In fact, you can’t even look at him.

“You can do it, you know,” you tell him in a shaky voice. “I’ll let you win just this once.”

He looks utterly confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb! Kill me, Yoongi!” you stand up, tears flying off your face as you stand up to grip his shirt. “You were going to do it, anyway.”

He stands still, letting you threateningly hold his shirt but not doing anything about it. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

Apologizing?

“W-What?”

“You feel guilty about killing Jungkook.”

Silence.

“Did you think that I wanted to kill you this entire time?” He cocks his head, staring straight into your eyes so hard that your grip on his shirt loosens. Your hand falls to your side. “If I wanted you dead, don’t you think I would’ve poisoned you by now? I know my way around chemicals, you know.”

Oh.

“Do you really think that if I kill you, we’ll be even?” he asks.

You look down at your feet, and no answer emerges from your lips.

“Why the hell would I waste my money buying you for the night if I wanted you dead?”

“To gain my trust?” you whisper.

Yoongi just sighs.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m…” The word gets stuck in your throat.

“You’re what?”

“I’m… sorry.”

Silence.

It’s so uncomfortable that you look up to see Yoongi staring at you; he has a look of disbelief on his face. “You’re… sorry?”

You nod. “I…” You grit your teeth. Why are you stuttering and pausing and crying? It’s so pathetic. “I hurt him,” you say. “I hurt him and I hurt you and then I hurt everyone else in my entire life. But I never knew or cared. I didn’t know you’re supposed to feel things and that love is real and that I don’t exist to be used and that feelings are meant to be understood and that I shouldn’t use others’ emotions against them and I—” You stop, panting for breath. “I didn’t know he loved me.”

Yoongi is silent.

“I thought he was using me too. I thought it was all just for show! I didn’t think that he… I didn’t—” The babbling is back again. You shut up before you can lose even more dignity. It’s a lot of staring into your own feet after that.

Pathetic.

But is it really?

You are sorry after all. And you’ve seen Yoongi lose himself to his emotions before. Is it so wrong that you apologize? You don’t think you’ve ever apologized for anything other than this in your whole life. It’s always been killing and killing and killing, on to the next, get on to another mission. This is weird.

You’re not really used to this.

And Yoongi seems to be relishing in the silence. He slowly backtracks and sits on his bed, leaning back slightly to stare at the dent in the wall where the Peacekeepers had thrown him years ago. He doesn’t speak—and he doesn’t really need to.

You trudge towards the bed, sitting down next to him.

He doesn’t need to say that he forgives you. You don’t need to hear that he forgives you. And he doesn’t have to forgive you—in fact, you’d feel better if he never does. Even if it would mean that you owe him everything. And even after your embarrassing breakdown, you don’t feel the need to knock Yoongi out to give him slight amnesia.

You glance at him as he continues to stare into the wall, a blank look plastered on his face.

When you look away, he glances in your direction.

But you see his gaze from your peripheral vision.

You realize that you don’t have to speak for him to know either—that you really do trust him.

ELEVEN.

The District 4 girl is the new Victor. She’s crowned and celebrated in the Capitol, but you can’t watch the ceremony. It reminds you too much of what you were supposed to do: you were supposed to kill him. Kill President Snow.

You wonder what your life could’ve been if you had. If you listened to the rebels. Would the rebels have won? Would you have tasted real freedom? Or would you have died trying?

But the rebels… would they have killed everyone in the Capitol? Even people like the sentimental Peacekeeper who longs for his lost daughter? Kind yet lonely Miss Bijou? The innocent children who’ve never had a day of hardship in their life? But it was never their fault that they were so spoiled. They never knew any better.

But god, are you so fucking sick of killing and murder and death. Why did you never feel guilt for taking someone’s life? Because you didn’t know how much it could affect others.

You didn’t understand why Yoongi was so mad. You didn’t understand why the Peacekeeper would pay so much just to smell something that reminded him of his daughter. You didn’t understand why Jungkook died for you. But you understand now. Because you can’t imagine feeling that gaping hole inside of you every day.

On some days, you feel stupid. And weak.

It’s a disgusting feeling.

You’ve never been so vulnerable, so in tune with your feelings in your life. Every way you walk, you feel like sobbing. Every time Yoongi looks your way, you see Jungkook’s face. You hear his last words to you. You recall all of your memories together. Either Yoongi notices that you’re repenting or he’s been nicer ever since you apologized. You still don’t know where that apology came from. But strangely, you don’t regret it. Yoongi might never forgive you for killing and toying with his younger brother, but he would never hurt you in the way that you hurt him. Despite your shortcomings, he has always been generous. Even if he has lingering doubts.

“I want to blame you, you know,” he says one day as the two of you work together to close the shop. He’s been paying more frequently for you these days; you rarely ever enter the Capitol buildings anymore. He considers his pay as his taxes to the Capitol, and Snow doesn’t care where his money comes from, as long as he gets it. But it allows you to stay at the shop with Yoongi, sometimes spending entire weekends there—from morning to night.

“Blame me?” you echo, meticulously cleaning the tools on the counter. Yoongi trusts you enough to let you handle them now. He used to slap your hands away when you went anywhere near them. Then, in your head you would’ve imagined killing him with those very tools. But you can’t imagine doing that now.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up from mopping the floors. His eye contact isn’t as fierce as it used to be. It’s almost like he’s talking to an old friend, although you wonder if that’s the right way to describe it. You’ve never talked to an old friend before. Much less have a friend. “I want to hate you. And sometimes, yeah, I want to kill you, too. But I guess it wasn’t entirely your fault.”

You stare at him. Is this his late reaction to your apology? Is this what he had been thinking in his head that day as he stared into that wall with the dent?

“Some days I get really angry,” Yoongi confesses. He goes back to work, running the mop across the wooden floor.

“At me?” you ask. And it dawns on you that just a teeny tiny part of you does care what he thinks of you.

“At you, at myself, at Jungkook,” he answers. “But I’m working on it. I’m trying not to be angry. I hate it when I am. It’s like I can’t control myself.”

Somehow, his words resonate with you.

“Do you know why I kept you around for so long?” Yoongi asks you. He looks up from his mopping, staring you straight in the eyes.

“Because I clean your toilet so you don’t have to?”

He doesn’t react at all. “Because I trust you.”

Oh.

“Because I trust that you won’t hurt me, given that I won’t hurt you. Because I know you’re already walking on eggshells since you killed my brother. Because after a while,” he says with a slight pause, “I realized that you were helping me too.”

“Yeah, like taking care of the shop.”

“Sure,” he says. “Sure.”

“You’re hiding something,” you reply.

“Can you tell?” he asks.

“I can read you like a book.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Read me, then.”

“Well, you’re big on self-improvement, that’s for sure. You’re sentimental, but you don’t like to show it. But maybe a couple of years down the road, you’ll be softer than the people from District 11—”

“It seems like you’ve gathered some substantial information,” Yoongi snorts. “Fine, then. I won’t deny it. But let’s just say that we’re even now.”

“Even?” you ask, quirking your brow.

“I don’t like owing people things,” he answers. “Just like how you don’t either.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t owe each other anything anymore?”

“I’m sick and tired of keeping count,” he says. “I’m sick and tired of being sad, and I’m sick and tired of being angry.” He places his mop against one of the towering shelves and walks over to you, resting his elbows on the counter. “Or maybe I’m always sick and tired.”

You understand how that feels.

“Would it help if I told you that I trust you too?” you say.

“Oh, yes, I’m magically healthy and awake now,” he says sarcastically.

You roll your eyes. But you do really trust him. You could turn your back on him without worrying he’ll stab you. You could sleep by his side without questioning if he has ulterior motives. If he tells you that you have nothing to owe to each other, you believe him. Whole-heartedly.

There’s that silence again.

The two of you lean on the opposite sides of the counter. It’s peaceful. The warm sunlight filters into the shop, making the glass bottles glitter in different shades of the rainbow. It’s a little hazy, though. Soon, it’ll be evening, and you’ll help Yoongi make dinner—just as usual.

“I think the apple blossoms calm me down,” Yoongi suddenly says. “They make me feel less alone.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking about your personal scent. And for another second, it feels like the sunlight is warming you from the insides. Such a strange feeling.

“Do they?” you ask. “Then I like the smell of mint,” you confess absentmindedly. “It makes me feel secure.”

He peers at you, dark eyes twinkling. There’s something about his gaze that makes you feel warm again. Are you glowing? You certainly feel like you are. Is this what happiness feels like? Have you finally found it? Will it fade away at one point? Will it come back again?

You don’t care. Because as you gaze into each other’s eyes, the aroma of mint and apple blossoms mixing together, for the first time in your life, you feel free.

⨰ a/n: i didn't know that tumblr had a 1,000 paragraph limit. :0 this post was DEFINITELY way over that. spent another hour shortening it down >:( but this is the final product! i'm very proud of how the characters turned out (dare i say this is my favorite story that i've completed on my blog so far??) i very much enjoyed writing every moment of this, and i'm sorry it took such a long time to get posted! nevertheless, please enjoy, if you can, leave feedback (so we can squeal about the characters together!)

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cecexwrites · 2 months

Text

Never a God

Adler Cresswell District Eight Adler was nearly 18 when he heard his name called for the reaping. Having lived all his life fighting to survive this was nothing new. He made no allies, got no help, he survived the games the same way he made it through life- on his own. However, when the games were over and he was the last player standing, the true hell began. A wash in a sea of booze, lovers and gambling, Adler is waiting for his anchor. And he might just find it, as Katniss Everdeen shouts 'I volunteer'

Eulalia Golding District One Eulalia, a legacy tribute, the daughter of Victor Lysander Golding, and one of the youngest volunteers, being only fourteen when she spoke up at the reaping. The young Eulalia cut down her competition, letting them completely underestimate her. She won when she tricked her district mate, having spent the entire games convincing him she loved him- only to slit his throat last minute- but the public never saw that. They only saw a winner. Life as The Capitol's sweetheart was great- until it wasn't anymore. After seeing his daughter win the games, Lysander took his own life- not wanting to see what happens after. And she soon found out that the grass isn't greener on the other side of the games.

Farren Rochester Capitol Resident Anyone who looks at Farren would see exactly what she wants them to, a silly party girl who is here for a good time, just trying to have as much fun as she can while she's still here. However, anyone who knows her, who really looks at her would see that her glass never seems to truly empty, her eyes are never faded, her mind never soft. No, Farren Rochester is a predator, but she won't let anyone know that. Not unless you catch her at her real home, the underground gambling den she funds.

Orin Flair District One Orin Flair didn't mean to be the tribute for district one. He thought he'd done a great job of being middle of the pack. However- he was told, the day before the reaping that he would be the one to volunteer. He didn't realize until later that his father had pissed off the council. That he was meant to die for what his dad did. When it was revealed to him- in a note dropped into the arena for him- he decided, he was going to win and he would never set foot in District one again, a promise he's kept to this day, instead spending his time in the Capitol, rubbing elbows with other victors and people in charge. He was the one who mentored Eulalia when she went into the games.

Roan Rochester Capitol Resident The Hunger Games are a time honored tradition 74 years and counting. And Roan is one of the men who make it happen. A Game Maker with a ton of potential, he finds the games fascinating. He thinks watching people fight to survive and more than that, watching people watch other people fight to survive. And of course, his mean streak comes out when he's plotting and planning the tricks. As he witnesses the girl from District twelve volunteer to save her sister, he can feel the tides changing. And Roan is nothing, if not adaptable.

Thane Hawksley Capitol Resident Becoming a manager and agent for a victor wasn't exactly Thane's plan in life. However, when he found himself in need of a job, and a friend offered him the roll, he knew he'd be a fool to pass it up. That was fifteen years ago. Now over the years he's gone through a few different clients, but the most meaningful one came a couple years back, when he was handed a young victor from District one and told to make sure she didn't do anything too wild, and blow up her image. Now, closer to her than ever, Thane's eyes are on the future and what's coming next, and not anything anyone could have expected.

#hunger games oc #hunger games ocs #never a god

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