okay y'all.. i'll be real, i keep forgetting i have a tumblr until im insanely bored...
do y'all want more PJO or Hunger Games content? right now im writing a Ruegard x Hadestown fic to celebrate s2 coming out soon but i could easily spin it to be Hunger Games if thats smth yall want
guys, i opened my laptop today to try and write some requested fics, and my laptop deadass almost exploded or something istg, so now i have to wait until my new one comes🥀
i'll try to write a bit on my phone until then if anybody wants to send reqs
all current requests are for johanna plus an aloy and 1 or 2 katniss, all x reader. if you want anybody else added to the list, send a req.
(also, i want to say that im going to start doing writing commissions too, more about that soon.)
(ignore that this is sent from my main account lmao)
I’ve never actually requested any fics before but I love Joniss so I HAVE TO..
I have no good plot ideas but anything angsty is always good >:) it could be Johanna getting back from the capitol idk, really anything with them in mockingjay!!
Or it could be post-war, also always good :>
(sorry if these are genuinely terrible, I have no ideas for genuine plot so these are just small suggestions. also it’s 3 AM and I’m fresh out of creativity 😭)
The Subway
johanna mason x katniss everdeen
warnings – cursing, ooc johanna maybe? my first time writing from jo’s perspective.. not proofread. written at 4am..
word count – 1588
prompt – Johanna Mason has never been good at telling people how she feels, and it bites her in the ass.
a/n – in honor of The Subway release <3 which i totally havent been listening to on loop…
i’ve never liked the capitol’s trains.
still don’t.
but something about the tunnels feels better now that they’re quiet and not leading me to my imminent demise. cold metal tubes filled with the kind of silence that finds a way under your skin. not the kind that kills you, but it definitely tries.
it’s late. cold enough to see my breath in the air, but i don’t mind much. i’ve always favored the cold.
district 12’s station is nearly empty. just two drunks slouched on benches opposite each other. and then me; cross-legged on the cold wooden floor like some kind of washed-up tribute.
from where i am i can see a certain brunette making her way through the markets. basket on her hip, stray strand of hair stuck to her cheek like she doesn’t even notice it. she’s got that everdeen limp now. one foot dragging just enough to make a sound. quiet enough, but you can hear it if you’re listening for her. and i always am.
they rebuilt 12 like it was something worth saving.
i still don’t get it. honestly.
the town square’s got benches with plaques now, and kids play hopscotch in the same square where corpses had laid.
the mellark bakery is up and running again. it always fills the square with the scent of sugar and warm things i never had growing up.
people look each other in the eye now.
i came for the ‘healing’, or whatever propaganda they were pushing when they assigned me here. “build the districts back up, brick by brick, person by person.”
i’ve been here for just about six months now. nothing’s healed. they’re insane to think things can just be patched over.
the train hums just enough to make the rails vibrate the wooden flooring under my thighs.
i close my eyes and press my palms to the ground, trying to pretend i’m somewhere else. anywhere else.
but then i hear it.
that voice, her voice. that laugh..
i open my eyes.
it’s muffled but i’d know it anywhere. it’s tormented me for long enough, i could recognize her damn voice if i was buried alive.
she’s talking with Peeta by the edge of the other side of the platform.
the two come around the corner and my bones ache when i see her. she’s carrying herbs and roots in that ugly ass woven basket she had stitched herself.
i watch them walk.
peeta’s talking. he’s always fucking talking.
he’s good to her, i guess.
i don’t guess, actually. he is good to her. the kind of good that doesn’t run away in her bad moments.
she deserves that kind of good.
she throws her head back when she laughs, nose wrinkled, eyes all squinty-like. she doesn’t look at him when she laughs, though. i mean, not always. sometimes her eyes wander. sometimes they land on me.
like now.
she spots me before peeta does, and i watch as her smile falters for just the briefest moment.
but he notices.
of-fucking-course he notices.
the baker’s eyes drift over to me and he offers up a polite little wave and smile.
i raise a hand in a stiff hello. more like just an acknowledgement that we’re existing in the same time and space.
i don’t smile though, he does that enough for the both of us.
katniss crosses over the tracks, even though you’re not supposed to. too dangerous, but she doesn’t seem to care about the rules too much anymore.
not since the war made her a symbol, then just as quickly made her nothing.
she crouches down beside me, sitting her basket beside my thigh. “why’re you sitting down here?” she asks.
i shrug. “avoiding people. isn’t that what this place is for?”
she gives me that stupid look of hers, like she can tell i’m bullshitting her.
you can’t lie to her. you can try, but she’ll never call you out on it. she’ll just hide it away like a squirrel hiding acorns and use it against you when she knows it’ll play in her favor.
peeta lingers on the other side of the tacks but doesn’t cross. smart. he knows when to give her space, knows she’ll come back. she always fucking does.
the brunette sits beside me, her knee bumping mine.
she doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither do i.
i can feel her examining me. as if she hadn’t avoided me the entire time i had been in this damn district.
“you’re still not sleeping.” she speaks suddenly.
i look at her, “neither are you.”
her lips press tight together into a thin line. she nods.
i want to tell her to leave.
i want to tell her to stay.
i want to grab her stupid face and kiss her until we both forget why we’ve ever loved anyone but each other.
but i stay seated beside her, letting the silence suffocate us.
her fingers twitch against mine.
and i feel so stupid for the way it makes my heart throb.
i inch my finger closer, brushing back against hers.
the archer stands abruptly.
“we should go.” her words are firm.
i look up to her, half tempted to beg her to stay, but she’s already turned away and walking. back to him.
☄. *. ⋆
the worst part is that she always comes back. it’s just in her nature, i guess.
a week passes. maybe more. honestly, i lost track.
some days i forget what season it is.
but then she shows up again. like she never left. like i didn’t spend every night wondering if i made the entire interaction up.
she knocks at my door just once.
i answer in a towel, half expecting it to be peeta. hoping it to be peeta. so i can tell him to keep the brunette girl away from me.
it’s not him.
why would it be him.
of-fucking-course it’s her.
she’s got the same basket from before. it’s still ugly.
this time it’s empty though, no herbs or roots or whatever the hell she lugs around in that thing.
her eyes scan me, taking in my still dripping hair, bare shoulders, and bruised knees. she doesn’t look away when our eyes meet.
“i brought you tea,” she lies.
i let her in anyway.
i make us some tea. because i know that if i don’t keep my hands busy, i might do something stupid. not something i’d regret. just stupid. she hums while it steeps. some old tune, probably one her father used to play.
i don’t ask.
she picks at the loose thread of her sweater. “do you remember that first week we had you in 13?”
i almost choke on my own breath.
of course i did.
i remember the bruises. the yelling. the blood drying in my ears. how crushingly alone i felt.
i remember her sitting by my bed.
“yeah, i remember.” i say slowly, as if it was that long ago.
“you hated me then.”
“no,” i say probably too fast. “i hated everything.”
she nods silently and just sips at the tea cup i had handed her.
i want to ask why she’s here, sitting on my floor and drinking my tea. like we’re two old women who meet up every week for tea and biscuits.
“does peeta know you’re here?” i ask instead.
she looks down at her cup, “no.”
i blink at her, sinking down onto the floor beside her, my own tea in hand, “well. you gonna tell him?”
she just shakes her head.
then what the hell are we doing?
the question lingers in the air between us.
i lean my head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
she stays silent, but i can feel her watching me.
“i keep thinking about it,” she speaks finally.
i don’t ask what it is.
she continues anyway, “how it would’ve gone. if things were different.”
i let out a short, sharp laugh. “if we weren’t martyrs?”
“if we weren’t chewed up and spat back out.” she answers.
i turn my head to look at her, and she’s looking at me like i’m the only thing in this room.
i look away again.
because i knew if i didn’t i’d let my mouth run.
instead i say, “you should go. lover boy’s waiting.”
her throat bobs as she swallows.
“don’t be like that.” i can almost hear the exhaustion in her voice.
“like what?” i shrug.
she’s quiet for a moment before, “y’know what– okay. okay.”
she stands slowly, like some part of her is hoping i’d change my mind or magically come up with the words to tell her everything i’ve ever felt before she reaches the door.
but i don’t.
she opens it, letting the cold air slip in.
and then without looking back to me i hear her speak again, “i dreamt of you last night.”
i almost answer, just to let her know that i had too, but the door clicks shut before i can.
queen the way you write Johanna is genuinely so fitting and accurate to her character, i beg of you ANYTHING johanna related once you have the time to write😭
Love you and your writing! 🖤
I Left My Home
johanna mason x fem!reader
warnings: poorly written whilst i am dying of strep throat, not proofread
word count: 833
a/n: hii guys.. sorry it's taken me so long to begin posting again, and i'm not entirely sure i'll be able to keep a secure schedule right now.. i'm working 3 jobs right now in an attempt to save money to move out. i'll try to post as much / whenever i can though! always feel free to send in requests.
summary : she's not about to let them take the last thing she cares about.
you were seventeen when the axe handle cracked under your grip and split a boy’s skull.
the crowd called it strength.
you called it survival.
now they call you a victor.
you don’t sleep anymore.
you never expected to come back home, not really.
but district 7 spat you back out with a crown of pine needles and bloodstained boots. johanna was the only one who didn’t give you that glassy-eyed look like you were something to be both pitied and feared.
she had already worn the title for two years when you returned. sharp-tongued, mean, impossible to forget.
you were still numb when you first spoke to her.
“you didn’t cry,” she said, after one of your returning interviews. she was leaning against a support beam behind the justice building, tossing a matchbook from hand to hand. “most of them cry.”
you didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything.
the brunette smirked like you’d passed some sort of test. “you’ll last.”
and that was that. she didn’t coddle. she didn’t stare at you like you were going to break. she just was.
angry and alive.
you clung to her like a splinter in your palm.
by the time the next games had rolled around, the nightmares had begun to dull to a low, constant hum. you and johanna train together in the low lights of the rising sun like it's just another job.
you dodge her punches and she swings like she wants to kill you, because she probably does. just a little. deep down.
she calls you “kid,” even though you’re only two years younger and you’ve already grown in the ways that matter. she calls everyone “kid.”
she calls the peacekeepers “piss-stains.” you love the way her voice sounds when she’s angry. which is most of the time.
one night, you catch her on the roof of her house, barefoot, bottle in hand. the wind tosses her short brown hair around like it’s trying to pull her away.
“could jump,” she says without turning around.
you step beside her. “not your style.”
she glances sideways. “you don’t know my style.”
you shrug. “i know you’re not done fighting.”
she gives a bitter laugh. “fighting for what?”
“for me. for yourself. for a future.” you say. and then you look away, because the words are stupid and true.
she’s quiet. Then: “You’re an idiot.”
you nod. “yeah.”
she doesn’t jump.
--
the announcement comes in the middle of a humid afternoon. you’re carving wood because it’s the only thing that quiets your hands. then the screen blares on in the square and you freeze, knife midstroke.
“this year’s hunger games will be a quarter quell. the tributes will be selected from the existing pool of victors.”
you drop your knife.
your legs move before your brain catches up. the square is erupting in noise but all you hear is blood rushing to your ears. you make it to johanna’s unit first. she’s already there, hands on her hips, jaw clenched, staring at the screen like she could burn through it with her eyes.
her voice is cold steel. “they’re going to take you.”
you shake your head. “they’re doing a reaping. they said.”
she barks out a laugh with no humor in it. “you’re so fucking stupid.”
“johanna—”
she grabs you by the shoulders. “you’re not going back in.”
you don’t know what to say.
you want to scream.
you want to run until the trees swallow you whole.
but her bruising grip is anchoring you.
“they may not even pick one of us,” you whisper. “statistically…”
“i don’t give a shit about statistics.”
the day of the reaping is a performance.
you wear the same tailored clothes they made for your victory tour.
you stand straight.
you smile when prompted.
you keep your hands still.
your name is the first drawn.
silence. no one is surprised.
you feel the breath squeeze out of your chest.
you step forward automatically.
your legs feel hollow.
you force a smile to your lips, making sure to play it up.
and then you hear her.
“i volunteer.”
her voice cuts through everything like an axe through bark. you turn. she’s already stepping up to the microphone.
the escort blinks, clearly not having been prepared for this. she glances between two of the peacekeepers on either side of her. “i—uh—johanna mason has volunteered as tribute.”
your knees buckle.
she doesn’t look at you.
that’s the part that hurts most. like you’re not even part of the decision.
you stand there with the cameras on you, trying not to fall apart. trying not to scream or lunge or do anything that’ll make this worse.
anything that’ll remind the capitol what the stupid butcheress means to you.
the escort thanks her. actually thanks her. for her sacrifice.
like it’s some generous gift and not a death sentence.
i have a lot of jo fics (and two katniss fics) in the works rn, but they'll probably be posted after easter cause thia weekend is gonna be BUSY for me...
been writing a little bit abt these ocs and have been debating posting it as a series..currently like 4 chapters,, i dunno..lmk if u would read it..
ANYWAYS ABT HER GAMES‼️‼️ possible spoilers for SotR if u haven't read it yet, but if there r spoilers then u probably wouldnt even be able to tell....
@radkatzzstuff
OKAYYY
river linley is from d4 and volunteered for her games at 15 bc her brother, who was in earlier games, lost and brought "shame" to her family..
stuff happens at the reaping, river volunteers. omg shocker‼️‼️
her arena is a semi-aquatic underground cave system. so kinda a win kinda a loss bc shes tall and keeps hitting her head..
she immediately separated herself from everyone, especially her districtmate, even tho it was advised against.
games go on, stuff happens
blah blah blah
river ends up becoming allies with...drumroll please..
EIRA LATIER‼️‼️
last name sound familiar? it should. beetee's daughter. (when i attach the fanart, trust me when i say.. she HEAVY takes after her mother. heavy. heavy.)
they fall in love teehee (not teehee.)
not gonna say much more in case i decide on posting it as a series / u guys want me to
but it ends up being oc x oc x canon..
and now me shoving art for my goobers down ur guys throats.
been writing a little bit abt these ocs and have been debating posting it as a series..currently like 4 chapters,, i dunno..lmk if u would read it..
ANYWAYS ABT HER GAMES‼️‼️ possible spoilers for SotR if u haven't read it yet, but if there r spoilers then u probably wouldnt even be able to tell....
@radkatzzstuff
OKAYYY
river linley is from d4 and volunteered for her games at 15 bc her brother, who was in earlier games, lost and brought "shame" to her family..
stuff happens at the reaping, river volunteers. omg shocker‼️‼️
her arena is a semi-aquatic underground cave system. so kinda a win kinda a loss bc shes tall and keeps hitting her head..
she immediately separated herself from everyone, especially her districtmate, even tho it was advised against.
games go on, stuff happens
blah blah blah
river ends up becoming allies with...drumroll please..
EIRA LATIER‼️‼️
last name sound familiar? it should. beetee's daughter. (when i attach the fanart, trust me when i say.. she HEAVY takes after her mother. heavy. heavy.)
they fall in love teehee (not teehee.)
not gonna say much more in case i decide on posting it as a series / u guys want me to
but it ends up being oc x oc x canon..
and now me shoving art for my goobers down ur guys throats.
