Tash

The Hunger Games.

Peeta Mellark -

Haymitch Abernathy -

Finnick Odair -

A Wished For Future

I'll Carry You Home

Capital Princess - Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

District Baby in The Capitol - Part 2

Fire Girl and Water Boy

Childhood By The Sea With A Victor

Katniss Everdeen -

The Walking Dead.

Daryl Dixon -

Truly Worth Loving

The One For Me

Rick Grimes -

Carl Grimes -

Just A Child's Crush

Together Until The Very End

Shane Walsh -

Z Nation.

10K -

Apocalypse Chaos - Part 2

Bath Time and A Gift

Addy/Addison Carver -

The CW Flash.

Barry Allen/Savitar -

He's Back

Zoom/Hunter Zolomon -

Harry Wells -

Twilight.

Carlisle Cullen -

Centuries Old

Blooming in The Shadows

Emmett Cullen -

Charlie Swan -

Star Wars.

Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader -

A New Path

The Truth Shines Through

Obi-Wan -

Luke Skywalker -

Disney.

Ben Beast -

From.

Randall Kirkland ~

Shouldn't Be Loving You - Part 2 - Part 3

The Boys.

Soldier Boy ~

So feel free to send any suggestions through to me, and I'll get to them when I can and make sure to check my request rules.

This list will probably be updated eventually, just whenever I have a new interest and I want to write for those characters.

What do you all think? What do you want to read?

I am conflicted on how to continue and would want to know what you guys that read this series wants in the next part. So in Part 3 I ended it on an open window to do smut but want to know if I should do it or skip and leave it as a slight heated and needy first kiss or turn it into more (clearly smut).

I have left this as a 1 day vote. So in 24 hours I'll come back to see what has been chosen.

Someone had recently brought it to my attention that I was writing actual details of the reader in my Randall Kirkland x Fem!Smile monster!reader fic, like "Brown hair" and "Blue eyes." I wanted to say sorry, I literally had no idea I was doing that. Once I start writing, I go on auto pilot, and I have summed this mistake to me accidentally writing in the characteristics I have for an actual fanfic I'm writing for my wattpad, and I apologise. That person was, and I put this lightly, not impressed :| which is understandable.

But I draw the line of being accused for something I didn't do.

They have even gone as far to accusing me of using Ai because I made a simple mistake that I didn't even realise but owned up to because it was indeed a mistake, and I just wanted to clear it up and say that I do NOT use Ai. I am against that, and I put a lot of effort into what I write as I'm seriously committed to putting out the best work I can as writing is a big part of who I am. I have always done it, and I don't appreciate being accused of using Ai. I'm a person who loves what I do, and it's disappointing that Ai has become so used in ways like that, that people who put genuine time and effort into their work just to be accused of using ai.

I'm a human who makes human mistakes, and so do many other people. So please don't jump on people for making a mistake and accuse them of using Ai for a mistake in writing. If anything, mistakes make it even more human but also human to own up to mistakes.

So I will be going back through my last 2 posts of my Randall kirkland fic to fix said mistakes and add a note in my documents and my note book to check for these mistakes before I post the next part.

Tw: mentions of blood, swearing, scars, and obviously monsters and slightly sexual (nothing really happens), possibly anything else.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Some souls seem quietly intertwined, drawn together by invisible threads of hope. You long to love them completely, wondering if one day your hearts will meet, letting them seep in through the cracks of your walls, choosing each other with the same unwavering certainty for eternity. Coming back again and again in an endless cycle of everlasting love completely and utterly interlinked forever.

Randall was finally able to get up and walk around properly again. His strength had returned enough that he no longer needed someone watching him every time he stood. The massive stitched wound that ran from the bottom of his earlobe to the corner of his mouth still throbbed, as well as the scratches running down his neck. every movement tugging painfully at the healing skin, but he was alive.

Mariell had offered him a place to stay in the clinic, and he had accepted. She and Kristi lived upstairs while he stayed downstairs. It wasn't like back home, but it was quiet, warm, and close enough that someone could help if something went wrong.

The problem was... Being alone gave him too much time to think.

His thoughts always drifted back to her.

To the way her smile could somehow make the world seem quieter. To the way she laughed so softly, it almost disappeared into the wind. To how gentle she always was around him, as though she were terrified of hurting him despite being capable of far worse.

She had saved his life. That truth refused to leave his mind.

He still hadn't found her pink sweater, either.

He'd searched everywhere he could think of and had convinced himself that someone at Colony House must have taken it.

The thought irritated him more than he cared to admit.

At least she had something of his. His black zip-up hoodie. He couldn't help smiling whenever he imagined it hanging loosely on her frame.

A strange warmth settled deep inside his chest. He recognised it immediately.

He'd only ever felt it once before..... love.

His smile faded. "...Shit," he muttered to himself.

He couldn't. Not with someone like her.

She was one of them. One of the smiling monsters everyone feared. Yet every time he tried convincing himself of that, another memory surfaced.

She helped him to Colony House, She refused to leave him. Her gentle voice told him he was going to be okay. She wasn't like the others. Not to him.

A faint...

Tap.

Randall looked up.

Another.

Tap... tap.

His eyes shifted to the small window above his bed. He walked over and looked outside.

There she was.

Sitting comfortably on a tree branch beside the clinic, tossing tiny rocks at the window. The second she saw him, her face lit up with a bright, gentle smile.

She was wearing his hoodie.

It looked much too big on her. The sleeves could hang well past her hands, but she has them rolled to go to her wrists. For some reason, seeing her wearing it made his heart race.

She gave him a small wave. He smiled and motioned for her to come over.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching.

He did the same.

Satisfied they were alone, Randall quietly unlatched the window and pushed it open.

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before slipping through and pulling the window shut as she did. Without thinking, he reached out and caught her around the waist before her feet touched the floor.

She probably didn't need him to. She would have landed perfectly well on her own.

But he wasn't taking chances.

...Or maybe he simply wanted to hold her. Even if it was only for a few seconds.

She loosely wrapped her arms around his neck, careful not to brush the massive scratched wound running down his neck.

His arms stayed around her waist. Their faces were only inches apart.

Neither of them spoke.

Then, a quiet, airy laugh escaped her lips. She smiled at him, "Hi," she whispered, looking softly at him blinking slowly to not miss any detail of him.

Randall couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face, even as the stitches protested, "... Fuck....Hi." he mumbles as he try's not react physically to the way she is looking at him.

He held her there for another second before, reluctantly lowering her until her feet met the floor.

His hands lingered at her waist for just a moment longer.

He didn't want to let her go.

Not yet.

But he made himself loosen his grip.

She smiled softly before letting her arms slip from around his neck. Without a word, she wandered over to his bed and climbed onto it as though she'd done it a hundred times before. She sat cross-legged near the middle of the mattress, her dress pooling around her while his oversized black hoodie hung from her frame like a warm embrace.

Randall couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She looked...

Comfortable.

Safe.

Like she belonged there, on his bed.

Turning away before he let himself stare too long, he walked over to the door. His hand quietly turned the lock until it clicked into place.

One habit down.

He grabbed the old white sheet they kept folded beside the wall and carefully draped it over the narrow window in the door, making sure there wasn't a single gap for anyone to look through.

It had become routine now.

She slipped in through the window.

He locked the door.

Covered the glass.

Then they could simply... exist together.

He turned back toward her. She hadn't moved.

Still sitting with her legs crossed, she watched him with quiet curiosity, a gentle smile never leaving her face. Her fingers absentmindedly played with one of the sleeves of his hoodie as it hung from her shoulders, far too large for her but somehow looking as though it had always belonged there.

He came back toward the bed and lowered himself down in front of her, settling with his legs drawn up and one arm resting loosely as he faced her.

Close enough now that the quiet didn’t feel empty anymore.

She stayed sitting where she was, relaxed, like she belonged there without question. Her fingers drifted down and began absentmindedly playing with the hem of his flannel layered over his black shirt, twisting the fabric between her fingertips as she listened.

They talked in low voices at first.

About his days downstairs in the clinic. About the slow process of healing. About what it was like in the tunnels when the sun was out and everything else was awake up in the sun.

She listened carefully, head tilted slightly, like every word mattered more than it should.

Randall found himself watching her more than he was speaking.

The way she sat so close without hesitation. The way she looked at him like he wasn’t just something broken she had fixed.

At some point, his words slowed. Then, he stopped completely.

His gaze dropped without meaning to, ro her lips lingering too long before he caught himself.

He cleared his throat softly.

But the silence didn’t feel awkward. It just… filled the space between them.

Finally, almost without thinking, he spoke. “…Are you gonna tell me your name?”

She froze.

Just for a second.

Her fingers stopped moving against his flannel. The air shifted, subtle but noticeable.

Randall didn’t push. He just waited.

Her eyes lowered for a moment, like she was weighing something heavy inside her. A breath left her slowly, controlled, as if she’d been holding it in for a long time.

Then she looked back up at him. And after a long pause— “…It’s ___,” she whispered.

So soft he almost thought he’d imagined it.

But he didn’t.

He held it there in his mind anyway, like something fragile he didn’t want to drop.

He repeated her name slowly, like he was testing how it fit in the air between them.

“…___.”

Again, quieter this time, as if saying it too loudly might make it disappear.

It settled in him in a way he didn’t expect. Not just a sound, but something that anchored her more firmly into his reality. Like she wasn’t just a presence slipping through the cracks of this place anymore—she was real. Defined. Known.

He exhaled softly.

“…___,” he said again, and something in his expression softened before he could stop it.

The look on her face changed immediately.

She shifted slightly where she sat, suddenly very aware of him saying it like that. It's like it mattered. Like she mattered. She could feel the heat move through he body, the heat pooling between her legs. Her hands paused in his flannel, fingers curling into the fabric as a faint warmth rose in her face. She tried to hold his gaze for a moment longer, but it only made it worse.

She looked away.

That tiny reaction did something to him.

Randall sat up a little straighter.

Then, leaned closer.

Not enough to scare her. Not enough to break whatever fragile balance had settled between them. But close enough that he could see every small flicker of emotion she tried to hide.

His voice dropped.

“…Say it again,” he murmured.

She hesitated.

His stitched cut pulled slightly as he spoke, a constant reminder across the side of his face, but he didn’t notice it right now. He was too focused on her.

Too focused on the way she wouldn’t quite look at him anymore.

“___,” she whispered again, barely audible.

And that did it.

Something in his chest tightened—warm, disorienting, impossible to ignore.

He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was closer still, one hand braced beside her on the bed, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the intention behind it.

His thoughts collided all at once.

Should I kiss her?

The question hit him hard.

He swallowed.

Can I even love her?

His eyes flicked briefly to her mouth before he forced them back up, like he was fighting his own instincts. Because this wasn’t simple. Nothing about her was simple.

She wasn’t just someone who had saved him. She was someone everyone else would call a mistake to trust.

And yet she was sitting here like she belonged beside him more than anyone ever had.

His voice came out quieter than before.

“…What are we doing?” he asked, almost to himself.

A beat of silence.

His fingers curled slightly against the mattress, tension he didn’t know how to release.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he admitted, eyes searching hers now. “With you.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening just slightly as the cut at the side of his face pulled with the movement.

Then, softer— “…I keep thinking I shouldn’t feel this way. That i shouldn't trust you”

His gaze didn’t leave her, “But I do.”

She looked at him again, and this time, there was no hesitation in the way her gaze held his.

Her eyes flicked—just briefly—to his mouth.

Then to his hand resting beside her on the bed.

Slowly, carefully, she moved her own hand over his, letting her fingers settle against his like she was making a decision she couldn’t take back. Her grip wasn’t tight. It didn’t need to be. It was certain in a way that everything else between them had only been leading toward.

Randall didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe quite right.

Then she spoke quieter than before. “…Do you really trust me?”

The question landed heavier than he expected.

For a moment, all he could think about was everything he should say. Everything everyone would warn him about. Everything he’d been taught to believe.

But none of it mattered more than what was right in front of him.

He gave a small, firm nod.

“Yes.” Just that.

No hesitation.

Something in her expression softened immediately.

Like she’d been holding her breath for far too long and finally let it go.

And then she leaned in.

The space between them disappeared in an instant.

Her lips met his.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t uncertain. It was careful—but real, like she was finally allowing herself to cross a line she’d been standing at for too long.

Randall froze for half a heartbeat—

Then his hand lifted, gently cupping her face as if anchoring her there, like he didn’t want the moment to break apart.

Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his flannel, holding onto him like he was the only steady thing in the room. Letting loose a soft moan as she breaths him in.

Everything else fell away.

The clinic. The silence. The fear.

Just the two of them.

When she shifted closer, Randall instinctively leaned into her, his grip steady, his breathing uneven as he tried to make sense of what this meant without letting it slip away, groaning "Fuck" as he pushes the kiss deeper.

She stayed there against him, close enough that there was no room left for doubt between them—only the quiet certainty of a choice they were both making in real time.

And for once, Randall didn’t think about what he was supposed to feel.

Only what he did. And he felt amazing. He never wanted to let her go.

That's something they could both agree on. And oh, how desperately they wanted more.

Thank you so much for reading.

Look, I'm not much of a big smut writer or reader, but if you want me to continue off on this night or just skip it and leave it just as it is, lmk.

First I wanna start with sorry to anyone that reads my fics I'm currently having severe writers block and currently just taking time to remove that so I can freely write more.

So if you have anything you want me to write, you're welcome to leave requests :-)

Now

A little about me, I absolutely love to draw, paint, and write basically anything art related.

Today, I tried a style I've never done before, and that was "painting" with bleach.

Now this isn't finished. I have to continue the wings in the morning.

What are people's thoughts? I love getting feedback and ways to get better at what I love.

Yes, I did use a reference picture, but I have never traced. And even if I thought tracing was good for this, I wouldn't want to ruin anything with bleach.

Tw: mentions of blood, swearing, scars and obviously monsters and possibly anything else.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

As harmless as a baby bird. But deeply deeply disturbed as the monster that lived under her skin against her will from when she arrived all those months ago and left to bleed out alone.

Randall spent most of the next day unconscious.

After being brought back to Colony House, nobody expected him to stay awake for very long. He had lost far too much blood, spent the entire night fighting to stay alive, and pushed his body well beyond its limits. By the time they got him inside, exhaustion had finally caught up to him.

Mariell spent hours treating his injuries. The deep cut that ran from beneath his earlobe toward the corner of his mouth needed several stitches, and it had taken a frustrating amount of time to stop the bleeding. The three claw marks running down the side of his neck hadn't required stitches, but they were deep enough to need thorough cleaning and fresh bandages.

Throughout the entire process, Randall refused to let go of a pink sweater.

Even while unconscious, his fingers remained wrapped tightly around the fabric. Every time someone tried to move it, his grip would tighten instinctively. It was stained dark red with his blood, and nobody recognized it.

Eventually Ellis managed to carefully pry it from his hands so Mariell could properly clean him up. Once it was free, everyone immediately became curious.

Fatima turned the sweater over in her hands, examining it carefully. "Anybody know who this belongs to?"

Donna looked up from where she was standing nearby and frowned. "No. I've never seen it before."

"It definitely isn't anyone's from Colony House," Ellis added.

Mariell glanced over while organizing supplies. "Did he say anything about it when he woke up earlier?"

Fatima nodded slowly. "Not much. He was barely awake."

"And?"

"He asked if she was okay."

That immediately got everyone's attention.

Donna folded her arms across her chest. "Who?"

Fatima shook her head. "He didn't say."

Donna looked back down at the sweater. "Great. Another mystery."

The sweater was eventually folded and placed with Randall's belongings, though nobody stopped wondering about it.

Later that afternoon, Randall briefly woke again.

Donna happened to be nearby when she noticed his eyes opening. Before he could drift back off, she grabbed the sweater and held it up.

"Alright," she said firmly. "Who's this belong to?" Randall's eyes immediately locked onto it.

For just a second, something softened in his expression.

Relief.

Recognition.

Concern.

The reaction was gone almost instantly, but Donna saw it.

They all did. "No idea," Randall muttered, both a truth and a lie.

Randall simply closed his eyes again. Conversation over.

By late afternoon, they decided it would be safer to move him to the clinic. His blood loss alone was enough reason to keep him somewhere Mariell and Kristi could monitor him more closely.

Randall slept through the entire trip.

Fresh pajamas replaced his ruined clothes, and Mariell checked the stitches along his face one final time before finally allowing herself some rest. By the time darkness settled over the town, both she and Kristi were exhausted.

Eventually they headed to their room, leaving Randall asleep in one of the beds in the main treatment area.

Outside, winter winds rattled softly against the windows.

The clinic settled into silence. Hours passed.

Then Randall woke.

For several moments he simply lay there staring at the ceiling. Everything hurt.

His face felt tight where the stitches pulled at his skin. The claw marks on his neck burned beneath the bandages every time he swallowed. His entire body felt heavy, weak from blood loss and exhaustion.

Slowly he pushed himself upright.

Pain immediately shot through his jaw and neck. "Fuck..."

The room tilted for a moment before finally settling. He sat there quietly, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The clinic was silent.

No voices.

No movement.

Just the occasional groan of the old building settling around him. Then he heard it.

A soft tapping sound against the window.

Randall frowned. At first he thought he had imagined it. Then it came again.

Tap.

Tap.

His eyes narrowed.

A moment later came a whisper so quiet he almost missed it. "Randall..."

His stomach immediately tightened.

That voice.

Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Every movement hurt, but curiosity pushed him forward.

Carefully he crossed the room.

The floor creaked beneath his feet as he approached the window.

When he finally pulled the curtain aside, he immediately saw her.

For a moment he simply stared.

Moonlight illuminated her completely. Long hair flowed around her shoulders as the winter breeze tugged at it. Her bright eyes reflected the faint warm light spilling from inside the clinic from a lamp.

She was still wearing the cream-colored dress she'd had on the night before. And immediately Randall noticed what was missing.

The pink sweater.

The moment she saw him standing there, relief flooded her face. Real relief. Not the fake smiles the monsters wore.

Not manipulation.

Not cruelty.

Just genuine relief.

Like she had been worried about him. Like she'd spent all day wondering whether he would wake up.

Randall didn't know what to do with that. So instead he crossed his arms. "What do you want?"

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm alive."

"Barely."

Randall rolled his eyes. "Still counts."

Her gaze drifted to the cut, running along the side of his face.

The sight visibly upset her.

Then her eyes moved to the bandages around his neck. "You got hurt pretty badly."

"No kidding."

A shadow crossed her expression.

Guilt.

At least that's what it looked like. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

The wind continued to move through her hair while she stood outside beneath the moonlight.

Finally Randall broke the silence. "What's your name?"

Immediately she looked away.

There it was again.

Every time he asked, she avoided answering. Every single time.

"You still aren't going to tell me?" Instead of answering, she pointed toward his face. "Mariell did a good job." Randall groaned loudly.

"There it is."

A small smile appeared on her face. "What?"

"The subject change."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're terrible at it." The smile only grew wider. Randall shook his head.

Then suddenly he remembered the sweater. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Without another word, he turned and began limping away from the window.

Confusion immediately crossed her face. "Randall?"

He ignored her.

"Randall, what are you doing?" Still not answering, he made his way slowly through the clinic and into the hallway. Every step hurt, but he kept moving.

Outside, she followed alongside the building, trying to keep up with whatever strange plan had suddenly entered his head.

By the time Randall reached the front entrance, she was standing outside waiting for him.

He checked through the small glass panel first.

The street was empty. Good.

Slowly he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Her eyes widened immediately. "What are you doing?"

Randall stepped aside. "I'm getting tired of talking through a window." For a moment she simply stared at him.

Then her gaze drifted past him into the clinic.

The lights.

The furniture.

The warmth.

The safety.

Something about it made her hesitate. She knew she didn't belong there.

Finally she looked back at him. "You really shouldn't trust me."

Randall snorted. "I don't."

The answer genuinely surprised her. "You don't?"

"No."

"Then why let me in?"

Randall shrugged. "Because I need something."

Her eyebrow lifted. "What?"

He pointed directly at her.

"Your sweater."

The surprise on her face was immediate. For a moment she simply stared at him. "You kept it."

Randall immediately looked away.

A smile tugged at her lips.

He groaned. "It was yours."

The smile that followed was impossible to miss.

Warm.

Genuine.

The kind of smile that completely transformed her face.

Randall pointed a finger at her. "Don't."

That only made her laugh. The sound echoed softly through the quiet clinic, warm enough to make Randall roll his eyes and look away again.

Finally he sighed. "They took it somewhere."

Her expression softened immediately. "And you want help finding it?"

"Yeah."

For a moment she simply looked at him.

Then she smiled again.

Not teasing this time.

Just happy. "Okay," she said softly. "Let's find it."

Randall stepped aside, allowing her to move fully inside. Once she crossed the threshold, he quietly shut the door behind her.

Neither of them noticed how strange the moment was.

The woman who wandered the night was standing inside the clinic, while Kristi and Mariell slept peacefully in their room, completely unaware she was there.

And for the first time since waking up, Randall found himself smiling just a little as they began searching for the missing pink sweater together.

They searched quietly through the clinic.

Randall moved slowly between the beds and storage shelves, still stiff from his injuries, still favoring the side of his face where Mariell had stitched the deep cut. Every movement pulled at his neck bandages, but he ignored it. His focus kept drifting—not to the shelves, not to the cabinets—but to her.

She moved differently inside the clinic.

Outside, she felt like something untouchable, something that didn’t belong in any room with walls. Inside, she softened. Every time they passed Kristi and Mariell’s room at the back of the clinic, she went silent. Her steps became lighter, more careful, like she was afraid of waking them, or being seen too clearly.

Randall noticed that more than he wanted to admit.

He also noticed how she kept scanning the room as if she expected someone to appear and drag her out at any moment.

“Why are you so quiet now?” he muttered as they checked a cabinet near the counter.

She paused, glancing toward the hallway.

“I don’t need attention,” she said softly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

She didn’t answer, just moved past him again, careful not to let her dress brush anything that might creak.

Randall leaned against the counter for a second, watching her.

Somewhere between the exhaustion, the pain, and the strange quiet of the clinic, his thoughts started drifting.

He shouldn’t have been thinking like that.

Not after everything. Not after the monsters. Not after bleeding half his body weight into the pavement.

But his mind didn’t care.

It lingered on her anyway.

On the way she stood between him and things that should’ve killed him.

On the way she looked at him like he wasn’t just something to survive, but something worth saving. His gaze stayed on her as she bent slightly to check under a table. And then, uninvited, the thought came.

What it would feel like to kiss her.

It wasn’t even fully formed at first. Just a flicker. An image he didn’t ask for. Her face closer than it had ever been, eyes soft instead of guarded, that careful distance between them gone.

Randall’s throat tightened slightly before he even realized what he was thinking.

He looked away quickly, jaw flexing as if that could physically push the thought out of his head.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “What?” she asked without turning around.

“Nothing.”

He rubbed a hand across his face, immediately regretting it when it pulled at the stitches near his jaw.

They kept searching.

But after a while, she stopped near the hallway again, listening. Kristi and Mariell shifted in their sleep behind the closed door. The faint sound made her freeze in place.

Randall noticed immediately.

She went completely still, holding her breath like even that might be too loud.

When the room settled again, she finally exhaled and continued forward, but more cautiously than before. Randall watched her for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she let out a quiet sigh. That small sound cut through his thoughts like a snap.

He blinked, suddenly back in the present. “What?” he asked.

She straightened, looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

“I can’t find it,” she said simply. “It’s not here.”

Randall exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the counter again.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think it is either.”

Silence settled between them for a moment. Outside, the wind pressed softly against the clinic walls.

“So someone took it,” she said, more statement than question.

“Probably,” Randall replied. “Donna, Boyd, or someone else. They keep asking about it like it’s important.”

She nodded slightly, but didn’t look surprised.

“That makes sense.” Randall studied her for a second. “You’re not upset?” She hesitated.

“No,” she said finally. “It’s just a sweater.”

But the way she said it didn’t match the way she was looking at the floor.

Like it wasn’t just a sweater. Like it meant something she wasn’t saying.

Randall pushed off the counter and walked toward the storage room at the back. “If it’s gone, it’s gone,” he muttered. “We’ll deal with it later.”

She followed him quietly, still staying careful near Kristi and Mariell’s door.

They reached a small storage area where spare clothes and supplies were kept. Randall pulled open a box near the floor, more out of habit than expectation.

That’s when he saw it.

A black zip up hoodie.

Folded poorly, like someone had shoved it in there quickly and forgotten about it.

Randall stared at it for a second. “Seriously?” he muttered, forgetting he put it here along with some of his other stuff.

He picked it up, shaking it out slightly. It was clean. Too clean for this place.

He turned back toward her. “Here." She looked at him, confused.

“What is that?”

“Take it.”

She didn’t move. Randall held it out a little further.

“It’s mine,” he added.

Her hesitation lingered for a moment longer, then she finally stepped closer.

Her fingers brushed the fabric carefully, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch it.

“It’s warmth” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” Randall replied. “Figured you might want it.”

She looked up at him then, eyes catching the dim clinic light. "Why?”

Randall shrugged, trying to make it sound like nothing. “Because I lost your sweater.”

A faint expression shifted across her face. Something softer. Something almost startled.

“I told you,” she said quietly, “it’s just a sweater.”

Randall gave a short laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

But neither of them sounded like they believed it.

He placed the hoodie into her hands more firmly this time, letting go before she could refuse it. “Call it an apology,” he added.

She looked down at it for a moment, fingers curling around the fabric.

Then, very quietly, she nodded. “Okay.”

Randall glanced toward the hallway again, making sure everything was still quiet.

When he looked back, she was still holding the hoodie like she wasn’t sure what to do with it. And for some reason, that stuck with him more than anything else that night.

Sorry for the late post. It was meant to go up yesterday, but my mum got married to my stepdad, so I got busy. But it's here now!!

TW: This will contain blood and swearing and torture.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Not all monsters choose to become monsters. Some are dragged into darkness against their will, transformed by fate, tragedy, or circumstances they never asked for. Yet even with the nightmare living beneath their skin, they fight it every day. They turn away from the cruelty expected of them, refusing to take part in the violence that defines what they are. Their existence becomes an act of quiet rebellion—a constant defiance against the darkness inside them. There is something heartbreakingly beautiful about a soul at war with itself, about someone who knows they have become something terrible and still chooses kindness. They are not trying to return to who they once were; they know that person is gone. Instead, they struggle to create something new from the ruins, carving fragments of light out of the shadows that consume them, proving that even among monsters, humanity can survive.

The ambulance screeched to a stop just around the corner from the diner, close enough that it could still be seen from the main street. Its headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty road and the shapes moving inside.

Inside the ambulance were Tabitha Matthews and Henry, Victor's father. The paramedics who had been driving it were already dead, their bodies left behind after the nightmare that had unfolded only moments earlier. The police officer who had arrived with them had abandoned the vehicle and sprinted toward Colony House in a desperate attempt to survive the night.

The town felt alive.

Not alive in a normal way.

Alive in the way it always did after sunset.

Watching. Waiting. The creatures were everywhere.

Boyd burst from cover first, Jim right behind him. "Tabitha!" Jim shouted, running toward the ambulance.

"Come on!" Boyd yelled. "Move! Move!"

The creatures were beginning to emerge. Then another sound broke through the chaos.

Screaming. Human screaming.

A young woman's head snapped toward the noise.

She stood partially hidden in the shadows between two houses, her long hair dancing in the cold winter breeze.

Her bright eyes followed the source of the sound.

Julie Matthews came sprinting from behind the Liu house. "Ethan, hurry!"

Ethan was right behind her, his face pale with fear. Sarah followed close behind, clutching a weapon and constantly looking over her shoulder.

The monsters were moving toward them from every direction.

Then a loud horn blasted through the night.

BEEEEEEP!

Everyone turned. The bus.

Randall Kirkland stood in the doorway. "GET IN THE BUS!" he yelled. Another blast of the horn echoed through town.

"COME ON!" For once, Randall wasn't arguing with anyone.

Wasn't fighting.

Wasn't making things harder.

He was helping.

The young woman couldn't help the small smile that touched her lips. Even now, with death surrounding them, he was trying.

Julie, Ethan, and Sarah ran toward the bus. Boyd and Jim continued toward the ambulance.

Everything was happening at once. Then Randall jumped down from the bus and ran toward Boyd.

"What do you need?" Boyd turned. "Go grab that emergency tool bag!" Randall nodded immediately.

"Got it." Without another word he sprinted back toward the bus.

The woman watched him disappear inside before emerging seconds later carrying a large tool bag.

"BOYD!" He ran as fast as he could.

But the creatures were already moving. Smiling.

Blocking the street. Closing in.

Randall slowed. "Fuck"

One creature stepped directly into his path.

Then another.

Then another.

The smiling faces formed a wall between him and Boyd.

"Move!" Randall shouted.

They only smiled wider.

The woman felt her stomach twist. She hated that smile.

Always had.

Randall looked toward Boyd. Looked at the bag. Then, with all his strength, he hurled it through the air.

"BOYD!" The bag sailed over the creatures.

Boyd caught it. "GET BACK TO THE BUS!" Boyd shouted. Randall immediately turned.

He started running. Then he froze. The woman saw it happen instantly.

Saw the terror enter his eyes. "No..." she whispered.

Randall stumbled. His hands flew to his neck.

Then his arms.

Then his face.

"No! No! No!" He crashed to the ground.

The cicadas.

Randall began clawing at himself frantically. "GET THEM OFF!" His voice cracked.

"GET THEM THE FUCK OFF ME!" He rolled across the gravel. Scratching. Pulling at his skin.

Trying to remove bugs that weren't there.

The creatures stopped moving.

Watching. Enjoying it.

The woman took a step forward. Then another. Her heart pounding.

"Randall..." he couldn't hear her.

Couldn't hear anyone.

He was trapped inside his own nightmare.

Boyd turned. His face filled with horror. For a brief moment, their eyes met.

Boyd. Randall. One man standing by the ambulance. The other lying helpless in the road.

The creatures slowly closing around him.

Boyd knew.

Everyone knew.

There wasn't enough time. If they stayed... everyone died. If they left... Randall died.

The choice hung in the air. Heavy. Terrible.

The monsters smiled.

Waiting.

Boyd's jaw tightened.

The ambulance engine roared. "Boyd!" Jim shouted.

The ambulance accelerated. The woman watched it pull away. Watched the red taillights disappear down the street.

Watched Randall get left behind. Alone. The episode slowly faded. His breathing became ragged. The invisible bugs disappeared.

Randall blinked, confused. Then he noticed the shadows around him.

The monsters.

Dozens of them. Standing in a circle.

His eyes widened in fear replaced confusion instantly. "Shit..."

A monster crouched beside him. Smiling. Another grabbed his arm. A third tilted his head. Like they were inspecting him. Like he was a toy.

The woman stepped forward. "Leave him alone." Nobody listened.

Randall struggled. "Get the fuck off me!"

One of the creatures dragged a sharp fingernail across his face. A scream tore from his throat.

The cut began beneath his earlobe. Then ripped downward toward the corner of his mouth. Blood immediately poured from the wound. The woman flinched.

"Stop!" Another monster dug its claws into the left side of his neck.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Deep gashes opened through his skin. Randall cried out again. The sound echoed through the empty street.

"STOP!" This time her voice carried authority. Power.

Every monster froze. The street became silent.

They all turned toward her. Her hair moved gently in the winter wind. Her eyes reflected the moonlight.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then she looked toward the horizon. The first faint hints of dawn were beginning to appear, with a few hours to spare.

"The sun will be up soon." The creatures seemed disappointed. Several looked back at Randall. But eventually they began to leave.

One by one.

The smiling faces vanished into the darkness.

Until only she remained. Randall lay trembling on the pavement.

Blood covered his cheek.

His neck.

His shirt.

His breathing shook. She slowly knelt beside him. For the first time that night, he truly looked at her. Even though she is shes not a monster.

Not smiling.

Not cruel. Just... sad. Deeply sad.

"Why?" he whispered.

She swallowed deeply, trying not to let the monster inside her come out. "You are going to be okay."

Randall groaned weakly. The sound hurt. "I'm pretty sure I'm not."

"You are."

"You don't know that."

She carefully brushed some blood away from his forehead with her cold fingers. "I do."

His eyes were beginning to close. "No," she said softly. "Stay awake."

Randall winced. "Easy for you to say."

A small smile touched her lips. The first genuine smile of the night.

"Fair."

He stared at her. Trying to understand.

Trying to figure out who she was. But she never offered a name.

Never explained herself. Instead, she slipped an arm beneath his shoulders.

"I'm getting you help."

Randall looked at her like she was crazy. "You can't carry me."

"I can try." It took effort. A lot of effort.

He was bigger than her.

Heavier.

But eventually she managed to pull him to his feet. Randall groaned. "Okay... maybe this was a terrible idea."

She laughed softly. "Probably."

Together they slowly made their way through the empty streets.

Step by painful step.

Toward Colony House.

Toward safety.

Toward morning.

By the time they reached the ambulance parked outside Colony House, Randall was barely conscious.

She carefully helped him onto the top of the hood of the ambulance. Then sat beside him.

The night grew quieter.

The monsters were gone, well except her, but something about her feels different to him. Only the cold remained. She removed her pink sweater.

Without hesitation she pressed it against the wound on his cheek. Randall hissed. "That hurts."

"I know."

"You always this bossy?"

"Only when someone I care about is bleeding to death." That earned the faintest confused smirk from him.

For the next several hours she stayed. Talking. Keeping him awake. Telling him story after story.

Anything to stop him from slipping away. Whenever he started drifting off, she nudged his shoulder. "Stay with me."

"I'm trying."

"No. Try harder."

He chuckled weakly. "You sound like Boyd."

She smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Slowly the sky began changing. Black became dark blue. Dark blue became gray.

Morning was coming. The first rays of sunlight appeared beyond the trees. The woman stood. Randall noticed immediately.

"Wait." She paused.

His eyes found hers. "Thank you."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then she nodded. A faint sadness crossing her features. "You'll be okay."

Randall opened his mouth.

Wanting to ask her name. Wanting to know who she was. But before he could speak she stepped backward.

Then another step.

The first golden rays of sunlight crept over the horizon. And just before they touched the town, She disappeared into the shadows.

Leaving only her blood-stained sweater behind. And Randall sitting on the ambulance alone. Wondering if she'd ever been real at all.

Thank you so much for reading.

The Arena

Finnick sat in the shallow water, letting the waves lap against his arms. The salt clung to his skin, the familiar sting reminding him of District 4’s coastline. But this wasn’t home. It was a nightmare—an arena where every breath could be your last.

Katniss and Peeta sat a little ways back on the sand, huddled beneath the shade of the trees. Their heads were bowed together, voices low, speaking words he didn’t try to catch. His own mind was far too heavy to hear them.

Mags was gone.

The image of her still lingered before his eyes—the way she had walked so willingly into the poisonous fog, sacrificing herself so that he and the others might live. He remembered her laughter back home, the way she’d woven nets with her gnarled hands, and the way she had always looked at him like he was her own grandson. And now she would never meet the most important people in his life.

His little sea star.

His two-year-old daughter, Briar-Sea, with her golden-blonde curls and eyes like crystal blue oceans. She was all innocence, all joy. And Mags would never hold her.

And Pearl.

Pearl, with her soft brown hair and the same crystal eyes their daughter had inherited. She was his anchor in the storm of Capitol demands, the quiet force who reminded him he was more than a pretty face, more than a weapon to be sold. She was the mother of his child, his truest love. And she was trapped in the Capitol while he was trapped here.

Finnick closed his eyes and murmured, “You’d have loved them, Mags. Both of them. My Pearl and my little sea star.”

The words slipped out louder than he intended.

Peeta and Katniss looked up, startled.

“What?” Katniss asked, her brow furrowed.

Finnick let out a bitter laugh, running his hand through his wet hair. “Oh, you didn’t know? The Capitol doesn’t share everything, I suppose.” His voice cracked with a mix of grief and defiance. “I have a daughter. Briar-Sea. She’s two. She has her mother’s eyes—Pearl’s eyes—and my cursed hair. And Mags… Mags will never meet her.”

Peeta’s mouth opened, then closed. Katniss just stared, her shock plain.

“The Capitol raised them, like pets in a gilded cage,” Finnick continued, his voice shaking but growing harder with each word. “Pearl and my little girl. They keep them fed, clothed, adored by some, hated by others. And all the while, I fight their wars and play their games.” He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m a District boy, and they’ll never let me forget it.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, broken only by the waves.

Katniss finally whispered, “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Finnick muttered. “No one’s supposed to. It ruins the illusion, doesn’t it? The Capitol’s darling, secretly in love with someone they can’t control. A father, when I was supposed to belong only to them.”

Peeta shifted, sympathy in his gaze. “She must be watching,” he said quietly. “Your Pearl. Your daughter. They’ll see you fighting for them.”

Finnick’s throat burned, and he looked away, pretending the saltwater on his face was just the sea.

---

The Capitol

Pearl sat on the velvet couch in her beautiful apartment, her hands clutching Briar-Sea tightly against her. The little girl wriggled, golden curls bouncing as she tried to reach for the screen.

“Dada!” Briar-Sea cried, pointing at the projection. Finnick’s image filled the massive Capitol display, sitting in the water, speaking words that made Pearl’s heart stop.

Her breath caught. He had said her name. He had said their daughter’s name. Out loud. To the world.

Gasps and whispers rippled through the Capitol audience watching alongside her. He wasn’t supposed to do that. He wasn’t supposed to expose what Snow had always warned was their secret weakness.

Pearl pressed a trembling kiss to Briar-Sea’s curls. “He’s thinking of us, baby girl. He’s fighting for us.”

The door clicked open. She stiffened, clutching Briar-Sea closer, but it wasn’t Snow. It was Plutarch Heavensbee.

“May I?” he asked smoothly, gesturing toward the chair across from her.

Pearl narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Plutarch leaned forward, his expression both urgent and calm, as though every word he spoke had been rehearsed. “Because Finnick trusts you. He told me about you, and about your little girl. And because I’m here to offer you a way out.”

Pearl’s heart thudded. “A way out?”

Plutarch’s lips twitched into the smallest smile. “There’s a plan. A rebellion. The Capitol is going to fall, Pearl. And when it does, you and Briar-Sea won’t be here when it burns. I want to take you both to District 13.”

She froze, her mind racing. District 13? The place people whispered didn’t even exist?

Briar-Sea squirmed in her lap, still chirping, “Dada! Dada!”

Pearl looked back at the screen. Finnick’s face, weary and grief-stricken, flickered before her eyes. He had revealed their existence, knowing the risk. He had trusted someone with their secret. He had trusted her.

Her voice was firm when she answered. “When do we leave?”

---

The Arena

That night, the jungle around them hummed with insects and the rustle of unseen creatures. Katniss stood watch with her bow, her eyes sharp, but Finnick could see the exhaustion in her movements.

He sat close to Peeta by the fire. The boy was restless, staring into the flames as though trying to draw strength from them.

Peeta finally spoke, low and uncertain. “Finnick… why tell us? About your daughter. About Pearl. You didn’t have to.”

Finnick leaned back against a log, his bronze hair catching the firelight. He smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I wanted someone to remember them. In case I don’t make it out of here.”

Katniss glanced over. “Don’t talk like that.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened. “Mags is gone. We’re surrounded by death every second, and you want me to pretend? I’ve been in their games long enough to know how it ends.” He hesitated, then his voice softened, almost a whisper. “But if I die, I need someone to know they existed. That Pearl isn’t just a Capitol secret, and that Briar-Sea isn’t just a bargaining chip. They’re my life. My reason.”

The silence after his words pressed heavy, filled only by the crackle of the fire.

Finally, Katniss murmured, “Then we’ll remember. Both of us. Even if you can’t.”

Finnick met her gaze, surprised by the steel in her tone. And for the first time in days, he allowed a small, genuine smile.

---

The Capitol

The next morning, Pearl found herself pacing with Briar-Sea in her arms. The Capitol was buzzing with Finnick’s revelation. Commentators on every channel were speculating—A secret family? A hidden romance? How long has the Capitol kept this from us?

Pearl’s stomach twisted. Every whisper, every set of curious eyes turned toward her quarters.

Plutarch returned, carrying a small case.

“We don’t have much time,” he said briskly. “Snow is furious. He thinks Finnick’s slip might inspire sympathy in the districts. He’ll come for you and the child soon. We need to move before he does.”

Pearl clutched Briar-Sea closer. “How? The whole city watches my every step.”

Plutarch opened the case, revealing sleek Capitol tech—false IDs, a cloak that shimmered faintly when held to the light, and a vial of something green.

“Disguise and timing,” he explained. “There’s a hovercraft that makes regular supply runs. If you’re with me when it departs, you’ll be listed as cargo—not passengers.”

Pearl’s breath hitched. “And Finnick? Does he know?”

Plutarch’s expression softened. “He doesn’t. Not yet. But he fights with a clearer head when he knows you’re safe. If he survives the arena, you’ll be reunited in 13.”

Her chest constricted, torn between terror and hope. She looked at Briar-Sea, who was tugging at her curls, babbling nonsense.

“Alright,” Pearl said firmly. “We’ll go.”

---

The Arena

The next day, the alliance moved deeper into the jungle. The oppressive heat clung to their skin, sweat dripping into their eyes.

“Water,” Johanna muttered, swiping at her forehead. “I don’t care if it’s poisoned this time. I’ll risk it.”

Finnick helped Katniss steady Peeta when his leg buckled. Peeta gritted his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Katniss snapped, adjusting her grip on him. “You’re burning up.”

Finnick’s mind churned, flashes of Pearl’s voice filling his head: Take care of them, Finnick. You always take care of people.

He swallowed hard, forcing his focus back to the group. “We’ll find something. Mags taught me to read the ground for signs. We’ll manage.”

But even as he said it, his thoughts betrayed him. Pearl, keep our little girl safe. Don’t let her see this. Don’t let her see me like this.

They stumbled upon a tree with strange, bulging fruit. Katniss raised her bow warily. “Looks poisonous.”

Johanna smirked darkly. “Everything here is.”

Finnick plucked one down, rolling it in his palm. “Sometimes the only way to know is to try.”

Peeta’s voice was hoarse. “Don’t. Not you.”

Finnick blinked, surprised at the sudden protectiveness.

Peeta looked away. “If you die, she loses you. Pearl. Your daughter. You think I don’t understand that?” His blue eyes softened. “I do.”

Finnick froze. He hadn’t expected that kind of acknowledgment—from the boy Snow had shackled to Katniss’s side. For a moment, his grief eased. He wasn’t entirely alone.

---

The Capitol

That night, Pearl tucked Briar-Sea into bed, the little girl clutching a carved seashell Finnick had once smuggled back from a Victory Tour.

There was a knock. She stiffened, expecting Snow’s men. But it was Plutarch again.

“It’s time,” he said simply.

Pearl’s heart pounded. She scooped Briar-Sea into her arms and nodded.

They slipped through dim corridors, Briar-Sea whispering, “Mama, shh?” as though she understood the gravity of silence.

Pearl kissed her daughter’s temple. “Shh, sea star. We’re going where Dada wants us.”

When they reached the loading bay, a hovercraft loomed, its engines humming.

Plutarch pressed the false ID band into Pearl’s hand. “Once you’re inside, don’t speak. Don’t move. District 13 will take care of the rest.”

Pearl swallowed her fear, clutching Briar-Sea tighter. “And Finnick?” she whispered.

Plutarch met her gaze steadily. “If he survives, he’ll find you. I promise.”

Pearl stepped forward, her heart hammering. For the first time in years, she wasn’t walking deeper into the Capitol’s trap—she was walking out.

---

The Arena

The humidity pressed against Finnick’s skin as though the jungle itself was trying to crush him. The group had moved deeper inland, but every step seemed to drag.

Katniss scouted ahead, bow strung tight, while Johanna muttered under her breath about bugs and heat. Peeta leaned heavily on Finnick, his leg worsening.

“You’re slowing down,” Johanna snapped at Peeta.

“Leave him, then,” Finnick shot back before he could stop himself. His voice cracked with sharpness, startling even Katniss.

Peeta gave him a strained look, as if expecting Finnick to regret his words. But Finnick didn’t. He had promised himself never to abandon someone again. Not after Mags. Not after all the people the Capitol had stolen from him.

Finnick adjusted Peeta’s weight on his shoulder, forcing a smirk. “District Four’s good for something other than tying knots, you know.”

Peeta huffed a laugh through his pain. “I’ll take it.”

They pressed on until they reached a stream that trickled between rocks, its water glinting under the artificial sky. Katniss crouched, testing it with her lips, then spat it out instantly. “Salt.”

Finnick sank to his knees, staring at the water. The image of the ocean tugged memories loose—Briar-Sea laughing as she splashed in the shallow Capitol fountains, Pearl kneeling beside her with her skirts soaked. Both born in a world of cages, but they still shine brighter than the sun.

Katniss’s voice pulled him back. “Finnick. You alright?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Just… thinking of home.”

Johanna scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Some home."

But he smiled faintly anyway. “Not the place. The people.”

---

The Capitol → The Flight

Pearl’s heart hammered as the hovercraft doors hissed shut behind her. The walls were stark, silver, humming with power. Briar-Sea clung to her shoulder, thumb in her mouth, eyes wide with the strange lights.

Capitol attendants bustled around, loading crates. None gave her a second glance—her false ID band shimmering faintly under the dim light.

Plutarch leaned close before stepping back. “Stay silent. No matter what you hear.”

Pearl nodded. She tightened her hold on Briar-Sea, who whispered, “Mama, go up?”

“Yes, sea star. We’re going up.”

The hovercraft lurched, weightless for a moment before settling into the sky. Pearl swallowed hard, refusing to let her fear show. For two years she had smiled, played the part of Capitol darling for the sake of survival. But this—this was real.

Hours later, the hum shifted. The attendants disembarked at a checkpoint, and suddenly, the hovercraft veered off course. Pearl tensed.

From the cockpit, a calm voice announced: “Approaching District 13 airspace.”

Her knees buckled. It was real. It was real.

Briar-Sea squealed with delight at the descent, little hands flapping. “Mama, we fly! We fly to Dada!”

Pearl pressed her lips to her daughter’s curls, tears slipping free. “Yes, love. To Dada.”

---

The Arena

Night again. The arena’s false stars flickered overhead. Finnick lay awake while Katniss dozed lightly, bow across her lap. Peeta shifted restlessly in his sleep, murmuring.

Finnick stared up, unable to keep the words in. He whispered softly, as though the trees themselves might carry it.

“Pearl. Briar-Sea. If you’re watching… I hope you know I love you. That every step I take here is for you.”

The leaves rustled above, but no answer came.

Still, he closed his eyes with the smallest comfort. For once, he didn’t feel completely hollow.

---

District 13

When the hovercraft landed, Pearl was ushered down a narrow tunnel, the air cool and clean compared to the Capitol’s perfumed rot.

People in gray uniforms approached, efficient but not unkind. A woman crouched to smile at Briar-Sea. “Well, hello there, little one."

Briar-Sea buried her face in Pearl’s neck, shy.

Plutarch placed a reassuring hand on Pearl’s arm. “Welcome to District 13. You’re safe now.”

Safe.

The word nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. She clutched Briar-Sea tighter, unable to believe it. For the first time in years, she wasn’t afraid someone might burst through the door and take her daughter away.

But even as relief washed over her, dread lingered. Safe didn’t mean whole. Not while Finnick was still inside that arena.

She whispered into Briar-Sea’s hair, “We’ll wait for him here. We’ll wait for Dada.”

---

The Arena (Later)

When Beetee began sketching his plan in the dirt, Katniss’s brow furrowed. “Use the lightning to fry the forcefield?”

Finnick crouched beside her, absently braiding a strand of rope. His mind half-followed the plan, half-drifted to thoughts of Pearl. Of Briar-Sea.

Are they watching? Do they know I’m fighting for them?

Johanna caught his distracted look. “You’ve got that far-off lover’s stare again.”

Finnick smirked faintly. “Maybe I do.”

But inside, his chest thudded. If the rebellion was real—if the ones long gone whispers, Mags once used to hint at were true—maybe there was hope.

Maybe his girls would live free.

I like how it looks like Finnick is looking at them ^^^ 🤭

--- Part 1

For everyone that liked this fic and especially for @theoraekenslover

Also, I've just learnt how to name links on posts, and honestly, you think if I was born in the early stages of phones and technology (early 2000s) that I would know, but um... no 😔

So please shame and bash me in the comments (pls don't that's a joke)

The Georgia sun had dulled since the world fell apart. The sky often hung in muted tones of grey, a heavy fog of dust and death lingering even on the brightest days. Still, the heart of the apocalypse beat on — quiet, cautious, but somehow still alive.

Among the ruins of the old world, two teenagers made a world of their own.

Carl Grimes and Charity Walsh had been best friends for as long as they could remember. Even when the dead started walking, when fences had to be built and guns had to be carried, that bond never broke. In fact, it grew stronger. They’d grown up in this nightmare together, aged too fast and smiled too rarely — except with each other.

Charity had black hair that fell in waves, a mirror of her father's, Shane Walsh. Her piercing blue eyes were the exact shade that used to make strangers stop and comment when she was a toddler. Her temper came just as quick as Shane’s used to, but Carl had a calming effect on her. He always had. He knew just when to crack a joke or offer a hand to her shoulder before she exploded.

Carl had changed too. Gone was the boy with the sheriff’s hat too big for his head. Now, the hat fit, and so did the weight of the world. His hair was longer, his face sharper, and his eyes — once full of wonder — had grown distant. Except when he looked at her.

And Charity noticed.

They didn’t talk about the crushes they harbored. They didn’t say it, but it was there — in the way Carl always stood a little closer to her when they were in a group. In the way Charity always shared the last piece of rationed chocolate with only him. In the way they laughed a little too hard at each other’s dumb jokes.

Everyone else saw it. Judith teased Carl relentlessly. Rick would smile and shake his head. Daryl once muttered, “Shane’s girl’s gonna break your heart, kid,” with a laugh, but Carl just shrugged. “She already has.”

---

The day started like most did — tense and quiet. The group had been running low on supplies. Carl and Charity volunteered for a run, just the two of them. They were a strong team — smart, fast, and good with knives.

As they walked through the remains of an old neighborhood, Carl glanced over at her. She had her gun slung over her shoulder and a blade strapped to her thigh. She moved like a soldier but carried herself like a wildfire.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just thinking,” she murmured.

He knew better than to press.

They found a gas station with a few intact shelves. Charity climbed the counter while Carl kept watch.

“Found some cans!” she said, shaking one with a triumphant grin. “Green beans — lucky us.”

Carl smirked. “Better than nothing.”

“Maybe not better than death,” she joked, hopping down.

Just as she landed, a walker slammed against the window behind Carl. Then another. Then five more.

“Shit!” Carl cursed. “We’ve got to move.”

They burst out the back door, running through overgrown yards and fallen fences. Carl turned just long enough to shoot two walkers down, but more poured in. One lunged at Charity, grabbing her arm. She grunted and stabbed it in the head.

“You good?” Carl shouted.

“Yeah!” she replied — but her sleeve was torn. He didn’t see blood. He didn’t think about it.

They didn’t stop running until the sun started to set. They found an abandoned cabin just off the road, surrounded by trees.

Panting, Carl locked the door and leaned against it.

“That,” Charity said between breaths, “was bullshit.”

He laughed breathlessly. “You’re telling me.”

They sat in silence for a while on the floor, backs against the wood.

“Carl?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I was scared.”

He looked at her. “Me too.”

“I didn’t want to die today,” she added.

He shifted, moving a little closer. “Neither did I.”

She turned her head. “But if I had to — I’m glad I was with you.”

His heart stopped. For a second, the world wasn’t full of walkers and decay. It was just them — sitting close enough to touch, both aching with feelings they didn’t say out loud.

“I’m always glad I’m with you,” he whispered.

Charity looked down, a rare shyness on her face. “Carl, if things were different…”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know.”

---

Back at Alexandria, things moved slowly. Charity trained with Rosita in the mornings. Carl patrolled with Daryl. But their evenings were reserved for each other.

They’d walk the perimeter or sit on the steps of the church. They’d talk about stupid things — old movies, the way the stars looked different now, how Judith had learned how to braid her own hair.

One night, Carl caught her throwing a rock at the fence in frustration.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Rosita said I have to ‘channel’ my temper. I hate that.”

He leaned beside her. “You’re not your dad, you know.”

She didn’t answer at first. Then: “Sometimes I feel like I am. Like something inside me is just waiting to snap."

Carl looked at her, blue eyes burning under the moonlight. “You’re not Shane. You’re you. And I like you.”

Charity blinked at him. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

She stared for a long second, then punched his shoulder lightly. “Took you long enough.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that shook off the weight of grief and war, if only for a moment.

---

The next run was different. Too many walkers. Too few bullets.

Carl and Charity were with Aaron and Michonne when it all went wrong. They were in a cul-de-sac, checking houses, when the noise started — a screech from a metal door. Then the groans.

They fought hard, like they always did.

Carl stabbed, shot, yelled.

Charity was right beside him, blade flashing.

Then Carl heard it — a scream.

He turned. She was on the ground, kicking a walker off her leg. She stabbed it, hard. It fell. But the damage was done.

He rushed to her, shot the last one in sight.

“You okay?"

Her eyes were wide. She didn’t answer.

Then Carl looked down and saw it.

A bite on her thigh. Deep. Already bleeding dark red.

“No. No no no,” he whispered, falling to his knees.

“Carl—”

“We’ll fix it. We’ll—”

“Carl.”

He looked into her eyes. “We can cut it off. We can try—”

“It’s too late.”

Carl’s hands trembled. “No it’s not. Please, Charity—”

Then she pulled up his sleeve.

His blood ran cold.

There, just above his wrist, was another bite.

They sat in silence.

They didn’t cry.

Not at first.

Charity leaned her forehead against his. “Guess we’re going out together.”

Carl nodded. “Together.”

---

They didn’t go back to Alexandria.

They couldn’t.

Instead, they found a quiet house just off the road. Empty. Peaceful.

They laid on the couch, holding hands, legs tangled. The sun set slowly. Neither said much.

When night fell, Carl spoke. “Do you think we’ll turn?”

Charity nodded. “Probably.”

“We should… we should stop that from happening.”

“I know.”

Carl looked over. “Do you want me to do it?”

She smiled faintly. “We do it together. Like everything else.”

His heart broke in pieces he couldn’t count.

“I love you, Charity,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

She touched his face. “I love you too.”

Their kiss was slow, sweet, sad. It wasn’t fireworks — it was a flame, gentle and real.

They curled together that night.

And when dawn broke, they stood together by the fireplace, each holding a gun.

Charity reached for Carl’s hand. “On three?”

He nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“One,” she whispered.

“Two,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Three.”

---

They were found days later by Rick and Daryl.

Rick fell to his knees, clutching Carl’s hat.

Judith cried.

No one touched the guns still lying on the floor, side by side.

They buried them together — beneath a tree, under the open sky. Their names carved into stone.

Carl Grimes. Charity Walsh.

Best friends.

In love.

Together until the very end.

And somehow, even after everything, that made the world feel just a little less broken.

Finally done. I worked hard on this one, and my gosh did I struggle. But finally now you can all read it.

The Georgia sun dipped low over Hershel's farm, casting the fields in gold as the last of the walkers from the barn ordeal were laid to rest. The group was still fractured, raw nerves and sleepless nights making tempers short and conversations clipped. But not all the tension was grief—some of it simmered quiet, unnoticed by most.

Daryl Dixon noticed.

Or rather, he noticed her.

Briar Grimes. Rick's oldest. His grown daughter, even if Rick still hovered like she was a kid who couldn’t handle herself.

Daryl chewed absently at a stalk of wheat as he leaned on the porch railing, eyes trailing after her as she walked across the yard. Long curly brown hair falling wild around her shoulders, rifle slung casually on her back like it was born there. Her blue eyes caught the sunset just right, a flash of stubborn defiance in them that made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t appreciate.

She was short—hell, barely came up to his shoulder at five-foot-three—but the way she moved? Confident. Capable. Like she’d been running headfirst into the end of the world and dared it to push back.

"You watchin' her again?"

Daryl stiffened. Glenn's voice, smug and quiet beside him.

"Ain't watchin' nobody," Daryl muttered, gaze flicking back to the barn.

Glenn snorted, elbowing him lightly. "Yeah, sure. You look at everyone like they hung the moon? Or just Briar?"

Daryl didn't answer, jaw working as he looked anywhere but at her. He wasn’t some dumbass teenager with a crush. He wasn’t supposed to… care. Especially not for the sheriff’s kid. But damn if she didn’t make it hard, stomping around like she owned the ground, sharp tongue and quick smile throwing him off balance.

Across the field, Briar paused near the makeshift shooting range they’d set up. She adjusted her grip on her revolver, narrowed those bright blue eyes, and fired clean, each shot cracking the quiet evening air.

Bullseye. Every damn time.

Glenn whistled low, impressed. "You see that? Girl can shoot better than half the guys here."

"She’s alright," Daryl grunted, but his gaze lingered, pride curling in his gut. He’d seen her practice in the early mornings when no one else bothered. Saw the focus, the frustration when she missed, the stubbornness when she kept trying. She earned every shot.

"Bullshit she's 'alright,'" Glenn grinned. "You like her."

Daryl shot him a glare sharp enough to skin a walker. "You say that louder, maybe the whole damn farm won’t hear ya."

Glenn raised his hands innocently, but the teasing didn’t fade. Daryl’s voice comes out annoyed. "And you think she's the girl for me?"

Glenn gives a shrug and that maddening, knowing smirk.

"She's tons of fun, and you're no fun at all… she completes you."

The words hit like a stray arrow to the ribs.

"Shut up," Daryl muttered, pushing off the railing and stalking toward the woods. But even as he walked away, his eyes drifted back to her—Briar laughing with Maggie now, curls bouncing as she teased her little brother Carl, blue eyes lit with the fire of someone who hadn't let the world break her yet.

He couldn’t stay away.

Later that Night…

Briar found him by the treeline, crossbow resting on his knee, head down as he cleaned the bolts.

“You hidin' or brooding?” she asked, stepping into his space like she belonged there. Her revolver was holstered, curls pulled into a loose knot, a few strands framing her face.

Daryl didn’t look up. “Neither.”

She grinned, cocking her head. “You do know I’m not stupid, right? You vanish every time I show up.”

“That’s 'cause you run your mouth too much,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

“Maybe,” she shrugged, sliding down beside him in the grass. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to talk to people.”

He snorted under his breath, shaking his head. “Ain’t worth talkin’ to.”

Briar nudged him with her knee. “Yeah? Well, I think you’re worth it.”

Daryl's hand stilled over the crossbow, throat tightening. She said it so easy, like it didn’t mean anything—but to him? It meant everything. And it terrified him.

“You keep practicin’?” he deflected, changing the subject.

Briar caught the dodge but let it slide. “Every morning. Ain’t gonna be caught slippin' out there.”

Daryl finally met her eyes, blue locking onto blue, and for a moment the noise of the camp, the grief, the constant threat of walkers—it all faded.

“You’re good,” he admitted quietly.

Her smile softened, less teasing, more real. “You noticed?”

I notice everything about you, he thought, but bit it back. Instead, he nodded once.

Briar’s gaze lingered on him, reading between the lines like she always did. “I notice you too, y’know.”

Daryl’s heart skipped. He looked away, fingers tightening on the crossbow. Maybe Glenn wasn’t full of shit after all.

She completed him. Damn if it didn’t scare him more than any walker ever could.

---

The sun hung low over District 4, bleeding orange and gold into the restless sea. The sand, still warm from the day, stuck between Finnick Odair’s toes as he walked along the familiar stretch of beach. The same beach he and Clover had grown up running barefoot across, collecting shells, daring each other into the surf.

But everything was different now.

The salt stung more than usual, or maybe that was just the ache behind his eyes. His fishing net-patterned shirt clung to his damp skin, and the gold Victory pendant around his neck felt heavier than it should. His hair, still damp and curling at the edges from the ocean, stuck to his forehead.

He was supposed to feel lucky.

Instead, Finnick just felt… lost.

A voice, soft but bright like sunlight through the clouds, called from down the shore.

"Finn?"

He turned, heart clenching the same way it always did when he saw her. Clover Spring. All blue eyes like the shallow tide and wild, blonde curls that never listened to her. She had a woven basket in her hand, probably collecting driftwood or shells—always the beachcomber, always the one dragging him away from whatever trouble he’d been brewing.

But she froze when she really looked at him. Her smile faltered.

"Hey," Finnick called, forcing something close to his old, teasing grin. "You gonna stare at me like I washed up from sea, or are you gonna say hello properly?"

Clover's sandals kicked up sand as she approached. “You did wash up from the sea. Or close enough.” Her voice was gentler than usual, lacking its usual sharp humor. She stopped just shy of him, tilting her head. “You… look different.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound bitter. “Four days home and that’s the first compliment I get?”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” But her smile tugged at the corner of her mouth now, even if her eyes stayed sad. “You’ve always been beautiful, Finn. Now you just… look older.”

Older.

Like the Games carved years into his skin that no one could see but her.

Finnick’s throat tightened. He shifted his weight, digging his toes into the sand to ground himself. “Older, huh? Maybe they should’ve just left me in the Arena. I wouldn’t be anyone’s problem.”

Her basket dropped into the sand with a soft thud. In a flash, Clover’s hand caught his wrist, eyes stormy now. “Don’t say that.”

He tried to brush it off with his signature smirk, but she held firm. Her fingers were small but strong, calloused from fishing lines and nets.

“You survived,” she whispered. “That’s… that’s not a problem.”

Finnick looked down at her hand on his wrist. It was shaking—whether hers or his, he couldn’t tell.

“I—” His voice cracked before he could finish. “I didn’t think I would. Clover, I—”

She stepped in, her forehead gently pressing to his chest. Finnick’s heart nearly stopped. Her curls brushed his chin. His arms hovered, unsure if he was allowed to hold her like this after everything.

“You scared me.” Her voice was small, trembling like the tide against the rocks. “You’re my best friend, and they—they took you and I had to sit there and—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I couldn’t watch all of it. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you didn’t see everything,” Finnick admitted, voice barely a whisper. His hands finally settled around her waist, holding her like she might disappear into the wind. “There’s things I never want you to know.”

Clover tilted her head up, blue eyes sharp with defiance despite the tears brimming. “I want to know, though. You shouldn’t have to… carry all that alone.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “You’ve carried enough.”

The walls Finnick had been building cracked under her stare. It was always her—Clover with her fierce loyalty and stubborn light—that got past him. Before the Games, she was the only person who made his heart trip over itself. Now, with everything twisted and broken inside him, she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the shore.

“Clover…” His voice was rough. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, tracing the freckle near her temple. “I thought about you. In there. Every day. Every second.”

Her breath hitched. She leaned into his hand. “Me too.”

For the first time in weeks, Finnick let himself breathe. He looked past her, out to the rolling waves, the horizon stretching endless and uncertain. But here, with her—the girl with salt in her hair and stubbornness in her soul—he wasn’t drowning.

“Promise me something?” he asked softly, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Anything.”

“Don’t ever… look at me like I’m just the Capitol’s pretty toy.” His voice cracked with the words. “I’m still me. I’m still… your Finnick.”

Her hand came up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing away the tear that slipped free before he could stop it. “You’ll always be my Finnick.”

The sun sank lower, casting the beach in honeyed gold. For the first time since the arena, Finnick let himself smile—not the fake, charming grin he’d worn for cameras—but the one Clover always brought out of him.

And under the setting sun, with the sea at their backs and the scars between them, Finnick Odair finally let himself hope.

The weeks after Finnick’s return blurred into a storm of whispers, visitors, and too-tight smiles. The Capitol’s claws stretched all the way to the sand-swept docks of District 4. People looked at him differently now — like he was a celebrity, not a fourteen-year-old kid with nightmares buried behind his green eyes.

But Clover never looked at him like that.

She still met him on the beach when the sun dipped low, when the fishing boats pulled in, and the sea turned molten with sunset. That stretch of sand became their safe place, the only place the Capitol’s cameras didn’t follow. For now.

Tonight, the stars were already spilling across the navy sky when Clover found him, sitting alone on the rocks, rolling a piece of driftwood between his fingers. His gold Victory pendant glinted faintly in the moonlight.

“You hiding again?” Clover teased, stepping closer, the wind tossing her blonde curls over her shoulders.

Finnick looked up, his smirk weaker than usual. “Can’t hide from them, not really. Just… taking a break.”

She sat beside him, knees brushing his. The air between them buzzed with the quiet ache of unspoken things.

“How bad’s it been?” she asked softly, voice threading with concern.

Finnick shrugged, eyes on the horizon. “They send letters. ‘Invitations.’ Want me back in the Capitol for… events.” His fingers tightened around the driftwood until the edges dug into his skin. “They want to show me off. Pretty Victor, fresh from the Games.”

Clover’s jaw tensed. “You’re not theirs.”

“Aren’t I?” His laugh was bitter. “They made me into this… thing. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t even know what I am.”

She grabbed his hand, prying the driftwood free. Her fingers laced through his, grounding him. “You’re Finnick Odair. My best friend. The idiot who taught me how to fish and fell out of the boat trying to show off.”

A small, real smile tugged at his lips. “I was showing off.”

“And you nearly drowned.” She bumped his shoulder gently. “Point is, they don’t own your heart. Or your kindness. Or that ridiculous grin.”

His gaze softened as he studied her — those defiant blue eyes, the freckles on her nose, the curls haloing her face. She was so real, so untouched by the Capitol’s poison.

“Clover…” His voice wavered, vulnerability bleeding through. “They’ll never leave me alone now. You know that, right?”

She nodded, her hand squeezing his. “And I’ll never leave you alone either.”

For a second, he just stared at her, chest tight, words locked behind his ribs. Then, before he could lose his nerve, Finnick leaned in. His forehead brushed against hers, their noses almost touching.

“I’ve wanted to do this for… forever,” he whispered, heart thundering in his chest.

Clover’s breath hitched, her eyes flicking to his lips. “Then stop waiting.”

Finnick’s mouth curved into the ghost of a smile, and he closed the space between them.

The kiss was soft, salty from the sea air and tasting faintly of tears. But it was real — no cameras, no Capitol games, just them.

When they finally pulled apart, Clover rested her head against his shoulder, their fingers still entwined.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmured. “Not here.”

Finnick exhaled, the weight in his chest easing. “You’re the only thing that feels… safe.”

They sat there, tangled together under the stars, with the waves crashing at their feet and the future pressing in like the tide. Whatever came next — the Capitol’s demands, the lies, the games they played — Finnick would face it.

But Clover Spring was his anchor. And as long as she looked at him like that, like he was still her Finnick, maybe he wouldn’t drown.

---

What I will write:

Fluff, Angst, Smut, all three if you like. I'll write about any character that's in my masterlist nut if you have a different character feel free to ask and if I know that character and enough to be able to write about them I'll definitely write for them.

What I won't write:

Incest, stepcest, or anything along those lines. Piss kinks or poop kinks because that's gross, and I will not under any circumstances will I write r*pe because that's a big no no.

Unfortunately, I can only write Fem!Reader/OCs, and I could attempt to write GN!Reader/OCs because I am a girl, and I have tried to write MC×M or Male!Reader/OCs with characters and I struggle so bad it's not even funny.

---

The woods were dead quiet.

Daryl moved through the trees like a shadow, crossbow at the ready. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, ears tuned to the faintest rustle. Something was out here—he could feel it in his bones.

He stepped lightly over a downed branch when he caught the low, almost imperceptible click of a boot behind him.

He spun around, raising his weapon.

“Easy,” came a voice—calm but firm. “I ain’t your enemy.”

A woman stood there, hands lifted just enough to show she wasn’t aiming her weapon—yet. A matte black Glock hung low in her grip, pointed toward the ground. Her stance was solid, practiced. She wasn’t some lost civilian.

She wore dark cargo pants, a weather-worn olive jacket, and a charcoal-gray tank top underneath. Her light brown hair was half-tied back, strands framing her face, streaked with sweat and dust. Bright blue eyes locked onto his, alert but not panicked.

Daryl didn’t lower the crossbow. “You trackin’ me?”

She raised a brow. “I could ask you the same.”

He didn’t answer.

“Name’s Adeline-Briar. I’m on my own. Been that way a while.” She shifted slightly and grimaced. “Not here to steal your shit, Dixon.”

His jaw tightened. “How the hell you know my name?”

She gave a wry smile. “Ran into a group a week back. Some said they’d traveled with a guy—quiet, crossbow, looks like he chews gravel for breakfast. Figured it was you.”

Daryl frowned, but didn’t respond. He didn’t like being known.

Adeline slowly lowered her gun and tucked it into her belt. “Look—I got separated from my people. Heard gunfire, tried to double back, but the herd was too big. Lost ‘em.”

“You sure they’re not dead?”

“Don’t know.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “But I’m not about to stop moving. I’m not done yet.”

He finally let the crossbow drop slightly. Just slightly.

“You military?” he asked, noting the way she stood—like she’d been trained.

She shook her head with a smirk. “Doctor. ER. But I learned real fast how to shoot.”

Daryl blinked, surprised. She didn’t look like the doctors he knew. Then again, he didn’t know many that were still alive.

“I ain’t babysittin’,” he muttered, turning back toward the trees.

“I didn’t ask you to,” she replied easily, following a few steps behind. “But if you’re heading somewhere, and you’ve got space by the fire, I’d trade a night’s safety for antibiotics, clean bandages, sutures. I still got ‘em.”

Daryl paused.

She was tough, he’d give her that. He could see it in the way she moved—not cocky, just competent. She wasn’t some burden.

“…Fine. But you keep to your side of the fire. Any bullshit, and I ain’t hesitating.”

Adeline gave a short nod. “Fair.”

That night, the camp was barely more than a ring of stones and a tarp. Daryl watched her as she set her gun beside her pack and knelt to examine a sprain in her ankle she hadn’t mentioned earlier. She worked fast, wrapping it tight, biting down on a piece of cloth as she cinched it.

“You ain’t gotta do it alone,” he said quietly from across the fire.

Adeline looked up. “Didn’t think I had a choice.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You do now.”

She blinked, then smiled softly. “Thanks, Daryl.”

He looked away, uncomfortable.

Days Later;

They'd settled into a rhythm. Daryl would scout ahead, she’d check their map, track water sources, and share the supplies from her pack with no hesitation. She never whined. Never flinched at walkers. She could stitch a wound while half-asleep and shoot with near-perfect aim. Still, she laughed when it was quiet, sometimes hummed an old song under her breath.

It was messing with Daryl’s head.

He caught her watching him once—just watching as he cleaned his crossbow.

“What?” he barked, more defensive than intended.

She shrugged, leaning against a tree. “You’re careful. I like that.”

He glanced up, wary. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

Adeline tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like I’m worth somethin’.”

She pushed off the tree and walked closer, slow but sure. “Because you are.”

“No I ain’t,” he growled, standing.

She stepped right into his space. “You’ve saved my life three times this week. You make sure I eat before you do. You didn’t have to let me stay, but you did. So don’t tell me you’re not worth it.”

Daryl clenched his fists, eyes darting away. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I am.”

“I know exactly who you are,” she said, touching his arm. “You’re someone who still gives a damn, even after the world burned down. That’s rare.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking. “People like you don’t... you don’t look at people like me like that.”

Adeline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe people like me have been looking for someone like you this whole damn time.”

His breath hitched.

She took another step, resting her forehead against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Daryl. Not unless you make me.”

Slowly, awkwardly, he let his hand hover over her back—then finally, finally let it fall.

It was the first time in a long while he let himself believe maybe, just maybe... he wasn’t too broken to be loved.

The next morning broke with mist clinging low to the ground, sunlight barely pushing through the trees. Birds sang high above, soft and distant. It was the kind of quiet that usually meant walkers weren’t nearby—but Daryl still stirred awake, tense, hand already reaching for his crossbow.

Adeline was sitting at the edge of the camp, tying her hair back with a leather string, her Glock resting beside her. She looked small there—5’3 and hunched slightly against the morning cold—but not weak. Never weak.

He noticed she’d already started boiling water, using a small fire she’d carefully banked to keep low. Efficient. Smart.

“Didn’t wake me,” Daryl grumbled as he stood and rubbed a hand across his face.

“You needed sleep,” she replied without looking back. “I only slept a few hours.”

He stepped closer. “You keep doin’ that, you’re gonna burn out.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.

Daryl didn’t like the idea of her watching over him like that. It made him feel exposed… cared for.

“Got a plan for today?” she asked, glancing up at him now.

“Yeah. If we cut east, there’s a place I seen from a ridge—couple days’ walk. Used to be a hunting lodge, might be stocked.”

She gave a short nod, rolling up a map. “Let’s go. I’ll keep pace.”

Midday.

They moved in silence, broken only by the occasional squawk of crows overhead. Daryl glanced back often—not because he thought she couldn’t keep up, but because she looked pale.

“You sure you’re good?” he finally asked.

Adeline pulled a protein bar from her bag and shrugged. “Ankle’s sore. Everything’s sore. But yeah. I’m good.”

“You don’t gotta act tough for me.”

She stopped walking and turned toward him. “I’m not acting. I’m surviving.”

He looked at her for a long beat, then gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

But something shifted after that. He stayed a little closer than usual. Slowed his pace to match hers without making a big deal of it. When she stumbled on a root, he caught her by the elbow—firm, grounding.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go right away, either.

That night; they holed up inside an old red barn that had mostly caved in, but the loft was intact. It smelled like mildew and old hay, but it was safer than sleeping outside.

Daryl paced the floor, listening to the creaks and groans of wood, checking the perimeter one last time.

“You always on edge like this?” Adeline asked from her spot by the wall. She’d cleaned her gun and laid out the map again, marking their route with ash and a piece of twig.

“Yeah,” he said. “Keeps me alive.”

She tilted her head. “You ever... stop? Even just for a few minutes?”

Daryl sat down across from her, resting the crossbow against his leg. “Can’t afford to.”

Adeline reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. Carefully, she unfolded it: a photo. It was water-stained, corners curled. A little girl stood beside a man, both grinning in front of a hospital sign.

“My niece. Ava,” she said. “She had a heart condition. I used to promise her I’d become a real doctor one day and fix it. I was about a year into my residency when everything went to hell.”

Daryl watched her, unsure what to say. He wasn’t good with that stuff. Never had been.

“She’s gone,” Adeline said simply. “So’s my sister. I think maybe that’s why I keep going. Because if I stop, then they really are gone, you know?”

He swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I know that feelin’.”

She looked up at him, eyes searching. “What about you? Who’d you lose?”

“My brother, Merle. He was… a lot of things. Most of ‘em bad. But he was blood. Then the prison went down. I lost more there.”

“You haven’t lost yourself,” she said softly.

His jaw clenched. “Not sure that’s true.”

Adeline leaned closer, resting her arms on her knees. “I see you, Daryl. All of you. You protect people who don’t even ask. You take the hits, and then keep going. That’s not someone who’s lost. That’s someone worth following.”

He shook his head. “You got some messed-up ideas, doc.”

She smiled sadly. “Maybe. But I mean every word.”

Later that night – after midnight

Daryl hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but when he opened his eyes, the fire was just coals. Adeline had curled up nearby, knees tucked under her coat. She shivered once, even in her sleep.

He hesitated... then slowly peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

As he moved away, she stirred.

“Daryl…” she whispered, still mostly asleep. “You don’t have to protect me all the time.”

“I ain’t,” he muttered, half to himself. “Just makin’ sure you’re warm.”

She didn’t reply. But she smiled, even in sleep.

The next morning, as they packed up camp, Adeline paused beside him.

“You never answered something,” she said.

“What?”

She held his jacket, folding it and handing it back. “Why do you keep me around?”

Daryl took it slowly, staring at the worn fabric.

“I dunno,” he admitted. “Maybe I just... don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Her eyes softened. “Then don’t be.”

Two Days Later;

The trail narrowed the deeper they hiked. Trees pressed in on both sides, the forest thicker than usual. Birds had gone quiet.

Daryl’s hand hovered near his crossbow, and he kept glancing back at Adeline. She looked tired. Pale. But she didn’t complain—not once.

“You’re limping more,” he muttered, not slowing down.

“Because we’ve walked twenty damn miles, Dixon,” she shot back, brushing hair from her face. “I’m a doctor, not a triathlete.”

He smirked, just a little. Her sarcasm was starting to feel like… something familiar. Something good.

“We’re close,” he said. “Should be over the ridge.”

“Good,” she grunted, “because if it isn’t, I’m staging a mutiny.”

Thirty Minutes Later — The Hunting Lodge.

The place was real. Nestled in a thicket of pine trees, with a rusted gate hanging off one hinge and the words Whispering Pines Retreat burned into a wood-plank sign. Most of the windows were intact. A miracle.

Daryl motioned for Adeline to stay behind him as he crept to the porch.

The door creaked open.

Empty, mostly. Dust and decay. But no fresh blood. No moaning. No immediate smell of death.

“Clear,” he called back.

Adeline let out a breath she’d been holding and followed him inside, carefully stepping around a fallen picture frame.

The main room had a wide stone fireplace, leather chairs still standing, and mounted deer heads on the walls. It looked like the kind of place people used to spend weekends drinking brandy and pretending the world was simple.

Adeline dropped her bag and slumped into a chair. “If there’s a mattress in this place, I’ll cry.”

Daryl disappeared into the back. Moments later, his voice rang out, “Upstairs has beds. Little stiff. Better than the ground.”

She closed her eyes. “Marry me.” she basically moand at the thought of sleeping in a real bed for the first time in years.

He froze in the doorway. “What?”

Her eyes shot open. “I was joking. Kinda. Mostly.”

He looked away quickly, ears pink. “Right. Well. There’s food in the pantry. Canned stuff.”

She smiled as he turned, flustered, and disappeared again.

An Hour Later — After they eat.

Rain pelted the roof like bullets. A thunderstorm had rolled in fast, the sky now a bruised grey.

Adeline was upstairs, drying off by the fireplace with a blanket draped around her shoulders. Her wet shirt clung to her collarbones, and her blue eyes reflected the flickering firelight. Daryl tried not to look. Failed.

He paced.

“You always pace when it rains?” she asked.

“Hate bein’ trapped.”

“We’re in a locked cabin, not a cage.”

“Feels the same,” he muttered.

She tilted her head. “You’re not the only one who’s haunted, you know.”

He stopped, staring at her.

Adeline set down her cup of water. “I had to choose who to save once. A father or a little boy. I picked the father because he was bleeding out faster. The boy died thirty seconds later. They never let me forget it. Not the nurses. Not the mother. Not myself.”

Daryl sat down across from her, silently.

“I don’t think people like us ever really come back from that,” she whispered.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But you’re still here. You keep goin’. That counts.”

She reached over and touched his hand, fingers barely brushing his knuckles.

He stiffened—but didn’t pull away.

“I meant what I said before,” she said. “About you being worth loving.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. You’ve never once let me walk behind you. You always wait when I fall behind. You pretend not to notice when I cry in my sleep.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“It is,” she whispered. “It’s everything.”

A crack of thunder shook the cabin. She flinched, and instinctively, Daryl reached for her hand this time—holding it tight.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve,” he said, voice rough.

Adeline stood, dropping the blanket. She stepped between his knees and cupped his face gently.

“I don’t want perfect. I want you. Even the broken pieces.”

He looked up at her, breath caught in his throat. “You sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then—carefully, like she was offering him a choice—she leaned in.

And Daryl didn’t pull away.

Their lips met softly at first, unsure. But then he held her tighter, like maybe if he kissed her long enough, the fear would melt into something warm. Something real.

When they finally broke apart, Adeline rested her forehead against his.

“You’re not alone anymore, Daryl.”

And for the first time in years, he believed it.

‐-------------‐----

Please interact if you enjoyed.

Young Carl Grimes × Older Reader.

When Carl Grimes first saw you walk through the prison gates, he was sure someone had taken a character out of a comic book and dropped them into the apocalypse.

You were tall, confident, and had this sharp look in your dark green eyes like you could take on ten walkers without flinching. Your long brown hair was pulled back into a braid, and your army-issued jacket was faded but still intact. You had a knife strapped to your leg and a backpack that looked like it had been through war.

Rick said you'd been in the Army before things went to hell. Alone for months. Quiet, but skilled.

To Carl, you were the coolest person in the world.

He was thirteen. Practically a grown-up, in his mind. He’d fought walkers. He’d lost his mom. He had a gun on his hip and a permanent crease between his brows. But the moment he saw you casually flip a walker with one hand and stab it clean through the skull, his voice cracked when he tried to say hi.

---

You were kind from the start.

Even though you noticed him following you around cell block C like a stray puppy, you never teased him. You’d smile and say things like, “Hey, sharpshooter,” or “Need backup, Carl?” and his face would turn red every single time.

One day, you caught him sneaking glances at your knife while you cleaned it.

“You wanna hold it?” you asked, lifting a brow.

Carl nodded quickly.

You handed it to him, handle first, and warned, “It’s sharp, but it’s balanced. Used to be my favorite.”

He held it like it was made of gold. “Did you, uh... take out a lot of walkers with this?”

“Plenty,” you replied with a smirk. “And two bad guys who thought I looked too small to fight.”

Carl’s eyes widened. He grinned like a kid at Christmas. “That’s so cool.”

You gave him a playful wink. “Don’t tell the others. Gotta keep some of the mystery.”

That was the moment Carl decided he was going to impress you.

He started wearing his sheriff hat more often, tipping it down low over his eyes when you walked by.

He practiced his aim daily, asking Daryl to time his shots, hoping you'd notice.

And he’d always, always be nearby when you were helping clear walkers, ready to step in with his pistol like a hero in training.

You noticed. Of course you did.

And you thought it was the cutest thing ever.

---

“Someone's got a little crush on you, huh?”

Maggie had whispered it to you one afternoon when Carl brought you a half-squished flower he'd “found near the fence.”

You’d laughed quietly, twirling the stem between your fingers. “He’s sweet. Brave, too.”

“Yeah, he is,” Maggie agreed, smiling. “And you’re like a superhero to him.”

You glanced over where Carl was sitting on the steps, pretending not to look in your direction. “I know. That’s why I don’t tease him. He’s already grown up too fast.”

---

One day, Carl found you in the yard, sharpening your blade. He shuffled up awkwardly.

“Hey, um... I drew you something.”

You looked up and smiled gently. “You did?”

He held out a folded sheet of paper. On it was a cartoon sketch of you and him standing back-to-back, both holding weapons. You were smiling. Carl had a huge cowboy hat on and a serious frown drawn across his stick-figure face.

Above it, he’d written:

“Y/N & Carl: Prison Defenders”

Your heart swelled.

“This is awesome,” you said genuinely. “You even got my braid right.”

Carl grinned. “Yeah, I, uh… practised.”

You leaned over and gave him a gentle side-hug. “You’re my favorite sidekick, Carl.”

His cheeks turned crimson. “I’m not a sidekick! I’m like... co-leader.”

You laughed. “Alright, co-leader. Just don’t steal all my glory.”

---

That night, as the prison quieted and the sun dipped behind the fences, you found Carl on watch duty.

He looked tired—older than he should—but still had that spark in his eyes.

“Mind if I join?” you asked, settling beside him.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but his smile said otherwise.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “I think you’re gonna be a great man one day.”

Carl looked up, startled. “You do?”

“I know it,” you said softly. “You’re smart, brave, loyal… and you care about people. That matters more than anything in this world now.”

Carl stared at the ground, then mumbled, “Thanks, Y/N. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met."

You smiled and nudged him gently. “And you’re the best little brother I never had.”

Carl tried not to sigh too loudly. “Yeah… little brother.”

But then you added, “And if I had to be stuck in a zombie apocalypse with anyone? I’d pick you every time.”

Carl straightened, pride beaming from every inch of his thirteen-year-old frame. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Now scoot over, co-leader. Let’s make sure nothing gets past us tonight.”

And under the stars, behind the cold bars of an old prison, Carl sat beside his hero.

Not just someone he had a crush on—

But someone who made the world feel just a little less broken.

I hope you enjoyed it. This was really fun to make.

If you liked this as much as I did, please interact in anyway, anything means so much.

Forks had always been drenched in rain, secrets, and stories whispered between trees. When Ivy arrived, she brought the scent of wildflowers and something long forgotten—hope.

She wasn't born to the Quileute tribe, but her mother had married a member years ago, and the council had accepted them. Ivy was 21, newly shifting, and unlike anyone the pack had ever seen. With long, light brown hair that shimmered under the faintest light, and vivid green eyes, she drew attention not just for her beauty, but her calm defiance. She bore the pack tattoo, proof of her belonging, but her body also carried delicate floral tattoos—honeysuckles twining around her forearm, lavender on her ribcage, wild roses creeping over her hip. They weren’t just decorations. They were symbols of growth, pain, and survival.

Sam had assigned Leah to help her through her early shifts. Ivy was a fast learner—graceful even in her wolf form, a rich tawny hue with streaks of soft gold. She rarely spoke unless she had something meaningful to say, and the pack respected that. But what no one expected was how often she’d start wandering past the treaty line.

Carlisle Cullen had sensed her long before he saw her.

It wasn’t just the pulse in the forest or the unusual heartbeat—it was the feeling of being seen. The first time he caught her scent near the river, he paused mid-step. Earthy pine mixed with soft florals, undercut by something more electric. He stayed still, waiting.

That’s when he saw her.

Ivy stood just across the riverbank, in human form, watching him. Her green eyes didn’t widen in fear or wrinkle in anger. They just held his gaze.

"You're him," she said calmly. “The doctor.”

Carlisle’s voice was soft. “You’re far from your territory.”

She shrugged. “You’re close to mine.”

And with that, she turned and disappeared back into the trees.

Their second meeting was less civil. Ivy had chased a rogue vampire beyond the boundaries and found herself near the Cullens’ land. Carlisle had intervened before she could tear the creature apart.

“You could’ve let me finish it,” she snapped, panting, her eyes glowing with rage.

Carlisle placed himself between her and the nearly unconscious rogue. “He was fleeing. Not a threat anymore.”

She glared at him. “And next time he comes back and kills someone?”

His voice remained level. “Then we stop him. But not like this.”

Something in her defiance stirred him, not because she was reckless, but because she cared. Deeply.

That night, Ivy returned to the border again. And the night after that. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they just stood in silence.

She told him about her mother. How she didn’t know her father. How she had always felt out of place until the wolf woke up in her. Carlisle told her about his own transformation, about centuries of loneliness before he built a family.

And then one night, she asked, “Do you ever feel like the world has already decided who you are, and you’re just… acting it out?”

He looked at her with quiet understanding. “Yes. More times than I can count.”

The imprint, when it happened, was unexpected.

Carlisle hadn’t believed it was possible—he wasn’t Quileute, after all. But the moment Ivy collapsed near his home, trembling from a poisoned cut left by another vampire, he rushed to her side.

Her eyes fluttered open, barely conscious, and she whispered, “I didn’t want to come here but… I knew you’d make it stop hurting.”

And as he lifted her into his arms, the world shifted. It wasn’t sudden fireworks, but a slow realization that everything he had been missing was right there—in her, wrapped in pain and wildness and kindness.

Ivy healed quickly under his care. He treated her with the gentle reverence only he could provide, his fingers barely brushing her skin, always asking for permission. And despite herself, Ivy found comfort. Found… safety.

Of course, it wasn’t simple.

The pack was furious. A wolf, especially a new one, falling for a Cullen? Sam nearly banned her. Jacob was conflicted. Only Leah, surprisingly, understood.

“You don’t choose the soul that calls to yours,” she said to Ivy. “You just answer it.”

The Cullens were cautious too. Rosalie didn’t trust the idea. Emmett found it fascinating. Edward kept his distance, knowing how complicated the future could become.

But none of it mattered when Ivy and Carlisle were together.

In the woods behind the Cullen house, he traced the flower tattoos on her shoulder. “What does this one mean?” he asked.

“Hibiscus,” she whispered. “Delicate. But bold when needed.”

He smiled, lips brushing her skin. “Just like you.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. “I don’t care if this is impossible. I’ve never felt more myself than I do with you.”

---

Years passed.

Slowly, the pack came around. Carlisle’s loyalty, Ivy’s strength, and the way they chose peace over pride began to change hearts. Ivy started assisting in the hospital, quietly saving lives with her speed and warmth. Carlisle kept her safe, never once asking her to hide who she was.

One spring evening, they stood in the meadow, her in a light sundress, hair catching the gold of the setting sun.

“I don’t think the universe meant for us to be enemies,” she murmured.

Carlisle turned to her, his golden eyes soft. “No. I think it meant for us to heal each other.”

And then, beneath the swaying wildflowers that mirrored her inked skin, he kissed her—timeless, soft, and certain.

And in that moment, there were no lines, no curses, no rules—only love blooming in the shadows.

---

Blair was a broken girl, but the Capitol loved her. They adored her like some flawless porcelain doll, trapped in the gleam of their glittering, cruel world. The gleam that did nothing to hide the cracks beneath. She was their star—a young woman who could set others on fire, both in the arena and in the minds of Capitol citizens who devoured her every move with ravenous hunger. But while they cheered for her, she was drowning.

The night before the Games began, Blair had stared at herself in the reflection of the silver-plated mirror in her prep room, her eyes hollow. All she could hear was the sound of screams. The deafening screams that echoed through her head—of those she had killed, of those she had watched burn, of herself. The flames that had consumed the other tributes that had turned them into nothing but ash were nothing compared to the fire she carried in her chest. The memory of each face twisted in agony, their cries still seared into her mind, played over and over again. The Capitol loved her for it, but she hated herself.

She could barely hold it together anymore. There were moments when she couldn’t even remember who she was before the Games, before the arena. It felt like someone had carved her soul out, and what remained was just a shell, trembling and trying desperately to keep it all intact. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames again, and with them, the pain—the pain of others and the pain of herself.

It was Finnick Odair who made it quiet. Finnick, the boy who had been forced to grow up too fast in the Capitol’s blood-soaked spotlight, a winner at fourteen, a child of the water, with eyes that had seen too much. He was a reflection of her—broken, yet shining under the Capitol's unrelenting gaze, a symbol of the Capitol’s twisted love.

But there was something about Finnick. Something that felt like a lifeline, even if they were both drowning. He didn’t tell her that she could heal, didn’t try to fix her—because he knew better than anyone that some scars ran too deep. Instead, he held her when she broke. When her fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, her body shaking violently as the memories overwhelmed her, Finnick was the one who held her, his strong arms wrapping around her until the tremors finally subsided.

“Breathe, Blair,” he whispered in her ear, his voice low, soothing, the only thing that ever made the world feel still for just a moment. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She leaned into him, her hands clutching his shirt so tightly it hurt. The scent of saltwater, of sea and memories long buried, surrounded her, pulling her into the calm of a storm she could never escape. His heart beat beneath her ear, steady and strong, like a pulse that reminded her she was still alive, that she could still fight.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, barely able to breathe through the weight in her chest. “I can’t… it’s too much. I hear them, Finnick… I hear the screams, and I can’t stop them.”

Finnick didn’t respond at first. He just held her tighter, his own breath ragged, as if he too was struggling to keep the pieces of himself together. He knew those screams. He had them, too. They never left, not after the arena, not after the Capitol had thrown him into the Games, again and again, each time expecting him to come out unscathed. He had been their golden boy, their darling, but he had lost so much in the process. His innocence, his soul, his peace—gone in the same way they had taken Blair’s.

“I know,” Finnick finally murmured. “I hear them, too. But we’ll survive this. Together. You’re not alone, Blair.”

She lifted her head, her tear-streaked face meeting his. His eyes, though haunted, were unwavering, like the ocean that could drown her but also save her. She was falling, but somehow, with him, she wasn’t alone. Not completely.

“I can’t be like this forever,” Blair said softly, her voice shaky, the rawness of her trauma spilling over the cracks in her facade. “I’m falling apart. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend.”

Finnick gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. His gaze softened, his own pain written in the lines of his face, but there was something resolute in him now. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Blair. You don’t have to hold it together. I’ll hold you together when you can’t.”

She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on her, like the darkness was swallowing her whole. The fire, the pain, the loss—it all felt too much to bear. But with Finnick’s steady presence, she found the smallest glimmer of something she thought was long lost: hope.

They didn’t talk about the Games, or the Capitol, or even the screams. They didn’t need to. The silence between them spoke more than words ever could, because in that silence, they understood. They understood that they both wore the scars of survival. That they were both broken, both pieces of a puzzle that would never quite fit, but somehow, together, they worked.

“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” Blair whispered, her voice fragile as a piece of glass.

Finnick’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile in the depths of his grief. “I’ll never leave you, Blair. Not now. Not ever.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Blair believed him. Even if just for a fleeting moment. Even if the world outside was dark, and their nightmares were waiting to claim them again. She could hold onto this. She could hold onto him. Together, they were still alive. Together, they could keep the noise at bay.

At least for now.

While they had the chance to be together openly and completely, they did everything they could to make the most of the time they had. In the quiet hours between the chaos, the Capitol’s glittering walls fading into the background, they became two broken souls trying to piece themselves together in the only way they knew how—through each other.

The quill—the weapon they had been branded with since they entered the arena, the symbol of the Capitol’s hold over them—was always there, lurking. But in moments like these, they could push it aside, if only for a short while. There was no arena here. No Capitol cameras. No screams. Just them, lost in a world that was small and fragile, but still real.

They found solace in the simplest things. A walk in the gardens behind the Capitol mansion, where the scent of flowers that didn’t belong in their world wrapped around them like a brief reprieve. They didn’t need to speak to each other—words were too heavy, too full of things they couldn’t say. They simply walked, side by side, hands brushing in the humid air, the silence speaking louder than anything else.

Blair often found herself staring at the ground, trying to focus on the small, familiar rhythm of each step, each breath. But Finnick always seemed to know when she was struggling to hold herself together. When the air became thick with unspoken fears, he would nudge her with his elbow, a small, playful gesture to remind her of the world outside their trauma.

“Race you to the end,” Finnick said one day, a rare flash of mischief in his eyes, as he broke into a jog. “Last one there has to cook dinner.”

Blair's heart stuttered in her chest, her muscles frozen for a split second as she watched him, his long legs carrying him effortlessly down the path. For just a moment, she was caught in the illusion of normalcy—the illusion that she wasn’t a weapon, that she wasn’t broken.

Without thinking, her feet followed his, the ground beneath her soft and welcoming. She ran after him, laughing, not the hollow laugh that echoed in the dark corners of her mind, but a real one. A fleeting moment of lightness. She could hear Finnick’s laughter, too, his voice warm and deep, pulling her out of the darkness, pulling her into something that resembled joy.

When they reached the end, both out of breath, Finnick threw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him as they both collapsed onto the soft grass. Their laughter continued, but it faded into something quieter, more vulnerable, as they lay there, staring at the sky. It was a luxury they didn’t have often—just being. No games. No expectations. Just Finnick and Blair, stripped of their Capitol personas, just two people in a fleeting moment that felt as fragile as the stars above them.

Blair’s chest tightened when she glanced over at him, her thoughts turning to the inevitable. The Games. The Capitol. The quill. But when Finnick caught her gaze, his hand found hers, squeezing it tightly. The unspoken truth between them was always there—their shared trauma, the weight of survival, the past that neither could outrun—but they didn’t have to talk about it. Not then.

“You’re not alone,” Finnick whispered softly, his breath warm against her ear. “Not anymore. I promise."

Her eyes closed, the weight of his words sinking deep into her heart. She could feel the storm inside her, the trembling inside her chest, but his presence soothed her, even if just for that moment. The quill was still there, always in the back of her mind, but with him beside her, she could breathe. She could exist.

They spent their days this way—no longer hiding their connection, no longer pretending to be something they weren’t. The Capitol may have thought they were playing a game, that their lives were just another show to be broadcast, but Blair and Finnick knew the truth. Their connection wasn’t a game; it was the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

Some days they would just sit together, wrapped in silence, their heads leaning against one another as they stared out at the city beyond. The Capitol buzzed around them, but for once, it felt distant. It was just the two of them, lost in their shared grief, but also in the shared moments of something beautiful that they didn’t have to explain to anyone.

Other days, they’d venture into the Capitol, where no one knew the weight they carried. They’d stroll through grand halls and busy streets, lost among the Capitol’s towering buildings and loud chatter, but they weren’t lost in each other.

They had each other—broken, scarred, but alive. Alive in a way that made the days feel like something more than just survival. They held each other together, making the most of these stolen moments. Because in a world so consumed with bloodshed and spectacle, their love was the only thing that had the power to heal them, to quiet the noise. Even if it was just for a few hours.

And maybe that was all they needed. Even with the Games ahead. Even with the quill hanging over them. For a while, they could forget about it all and just be Finnick and Blair—the boy who had been broken and rebuilt, and the girl who set fire to the arena. Together, they were something more than what the Capitol had made them. Something more than weapons, more than tributes. They were alive in each other. And for that brief, fleeting time, that was enough.

Finnick won the poll so here is the story as promised.

Thank you to everyone that voted and I hope you enjoy so if you do give a like and who know if you like the rest of my work give me a follow.