♪

[firefly-ace]

☆ 𝙰𝙲𝙴 .ᐟ.ᐟ — they/them. butch lesbian. ukrainain in us. intj. neurodivergent. mitskiholic. artist & writer. 16

masterlist strawpage pinterest @firefly-acee

if you can, donations would mean a lot .ᐟ.ᐟ

ukraine aid palestine aid

𐂂 “I’m so full of love I could barely eat.”

[vxsellie]

❛ DESERVE BETTER ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔳𝔦

wc. 8 837

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

20:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

They stayed in the bunker for three days.

And Ellie spent almost that entire time pacing. She had to stay within a certain distance from H Wing, she was delivered her food during mealtimes, and—most infuriatingly of all—she was barred from talking to Marlene. Hell, she couldn’t even see her. Part of Ellie wondered if she was simply grouped in with the rest of Thirteen as a mere citizen prohibited from associating herself with the divinity of their leader. But she knows her better than that: Marlene won’t let Ellie speak to her because she knows what she will say.

Regardless of the reason, Ellie was utterly trapped; worse over, she was useless to you. She bore witness to the spilling of your ichor onto marble floor and could do nothing to staunch its flow. She lent an ear to your screams of agony and could do nothing to soothe them. And so she paced. 

In those two feet of space between the bunked-beds, Ellie bruised the floor in her fervor. She drove Jesse half mad with her relentlessness as he begged her to lie down. But she knows he couldn’t hear her footsteps, and he only said that in an attempt to trick her into resting—as though rest were a thing she desired. No. The only desire she felt was an indescribable savagery. 

She needed to see Fedra dead and she needed to see Marlene suffer a similar fate; she needed every last person who ever brought you an inkling of harm dead. And if nature were not so benign as to become rid of them, she would do it her damn self. 

She formed a list in her head which she would whisper under her breath in the dark corners of nightfall. When everyone else in H Wing was lost to slumber, she would extend her pacing to the entire Wing. She would mutter and murmur like a madman. But she was saying nothing of lunacy—just the names. The names of the people whose lives she would steal. Because Time is a thief, but he sometimes works laggardly.

“You need rest.” 

Ruben is trying to keep up with her long stride, but his prosthetic slows him down. Where she would typically feel guilt for using his injury against him, she feels only relief that he can not force her to a halt. She knows, if he were able to match her gait, he would have long since grabbed her wrist and compelled her to heed his warnings. Alas, what with his irritation with his leg, he cannot so easily do that.

“Ellie, you’ve not slept in four days!” He’s shouting now. Although the hallways grow less crowded near Marlene’s quarters, there are enough ears around that she would prefer her business to not be so loudly announced. Ellie hunches her shoulders, drawing them closer to her ears, and continues walking. “You cannot save her if you’re dead on your feet. Do you hear me? You’re useless to her like this!”

That gets her. 

Ellie’s stride slams to a stop as she spins around. Ruben stands four yards away, his chest heaving and his face scrunched with pain. The hallway sways in her focus, shifting with each lethargic blink she musters. The walls are cracked in some places from the bombs and the people who’ve been caught in the argument scurry away to provide them with some privacy. That, or to go cower away while she fights their fucking battles.

Ellie gives her head a little shake, trying to clear the disorientation from her mind. Four days without sleep is not that long—she spent longer in the arena; she spent longer away from you. She approaches Ruben, but keeps her distance so as to not be dragged to her compartment. 

“Do you even know where Oakley is?” Ruben challenges, taking a daring step toward her.

“Of course I do. He’s–” Her words fall short when her memory staggers, as though there are missing gaps within its chronology. Panic grips her by the throat, slamming her toward insanity. “Where is he?” Her voice comes out hoarse, like a dying man’s last words. “Ruben, where is– please. Where is he? I didn’t mean to lose him, I just– Ruben, where is my son?”

“He’s safe.” Ruben shakes his head at her relief. His expression is lodged somewhere between pity and disgust. “You asked Cricket to babysit him this morning. He’s perfectly safe, Ellie, but the fact that you can’t remember is a problem. You need sleep. I’m not asking.”

“What I need is to speak with Marlene.” She scoffs. “I’ll sleep when I get my wife back.”

“We were released from the bunker two hours ago. You have time to–”

“She has no time!” Ellie shouts. “We don’t know what they’re doing to her, Ruben! She could be dead for all we know! I need to get her back, or–”

“Do you really think she would want you stumbling around like a fucking maniac over her?” By this point, they’re completely screaming at each other. Their voices overlap, bouncing off the walls like light on a mirror. “She would want you to sleep! If you try going after her now, you’ll just get more people killed and–”

“At least I’m doing something!” She clenches her fists at her sides to refrain from hitting him. His features blur and shift and she has to blink to keep her vision straight. “What have you done, Ruben? Sulked?”

He tips his head, challenging her to keep talking. “Don’t say something you’ll regret, Williams.”

But she’s already started.

“It’s been six months! Y-Your baby sister is being tortured to death, and what have you done? No, don’t deflect– tell me! What have you done to get her back, Ruben?”

He holds her gaze like a viper. All the weakness she’d priorly seen in him has vanished. His breathing is steady and his expression holds only bitterness. He’s even straightened his posture to loom over her, casting a shadow of threatening vigor over her resolve. 

Ellie’s breath catches in her throat as she suddenly realizes that, no matter the environment nor the circumstance, he will always be a L/n before anything else. And that’s not necessarily the bad thing which everyone makes it out to be. It’s a token of strength and potency. Even a girl who has become so interwoven with the L/n family that she can hardly recall their reputation—even she cannot deny the tangible fear which Ruben can so easily instill upon her with a single look. 

She hunches her shoulders, quite literally cowering from him. 

“I have done more to see her returned than you.” His voice carries like a king’s decree for war. “I have spoken with Marlene every other day. I have created ties with people in high places. I have refused to grow acquainted with anyone in Thirteen. I have made myself indispensable to this revolution and I have made myself look fragile to this naive population. You do not see the efforts I have made to have my sister returned only because I do not want you to see them. This is not a game, Ellie, and you would do well to cease treating it as such. This is a war and everyone has their part to play—it’s high time that you play yours.”

Her lip trembles under his scrutiny and she clenches her jaw to still it. She does not care when people lecture her, for she was raised by Marlene who never stopped lecturing her. But to hear it from Ruben, and spoken so passionately: she can hardly breathe around the shame.

She can hardly bring herself to care about anything anymore. She cares only for her family’s lives: yours, Ruben’s, and Oakley’s. She does not care about sleeping or eating or washing—such things are pointless to her now. She has worked day and night for the past half-year to make Ruben look at her; to make him see her. Now she has gone and thrown it all away. And for what? A few moments of flared anger?

“Don’t cry.” His voice is somehow both consoling and condescending. She wasn’t crying before but, at the sound of his voice and the mention of tears, she cannot help herself. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, sucking trembling breaths in through clenched teeth. Ruben heaves an audible sigh before he steps forward and encircles her within his arms. “I know what you’re thinking and no, Ellie, I don’t hate you. You’ve certainly annoyed me, but I’ve dealt with Y/ns anger for more years than I can count. Yours is pitiful compared to hers.”

Ellie releases an airy laugh against his shoulder, somehow feeling even more terrible for herself at the mention of your name. “She could be an asshole, couldn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ruben laughs, “she could.”

“But she could also be so fucking great.” Ellie’s voice cracks but she doesn’t care. Ruben doesn’t judge her, he just rubs circles into her back and continues to hold her. “She was so kind and smart and gentle.”

“She is.” Ruben corrects her. “And she will continue to be after we get her back.”

Ellie nods, tasting the words on her tongue. “She is; she will be.”

03:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

The things which Ruben feels for Ellie are complex and tangled. He loves her like a sister, more than willing to die for her if need be; but, simultaneously, he loathes her like a foe, unable to see past his hatred at times. When he ponders how she invited you into her home and loved you better than he ever could, he feels infinitely indebted to her; but when he ponders how she’d abandoned you during the arena, he wants to ring her fucking neck.

It’s confusing and vague and he prefers to not think about it. Instead, Ruben has formed a habit of basing his emotions on hers—creating a mirror. When she is giggly and cheerful, so is he; when she is wretched and angry, so is he. It’s easier that way. 

When she’d spoken of his stagnancy, Ruben basked only in detestation. He loomed over her the way his father would loom over him prior to punishment. In Ellie’s eyes, Ruben saw a fear which he’d only ever seen in the mirror—when he would hide in the solitude of his bathroom, drying his tears and bandaging his wounds. But it only lasted a moment. Then, Ellie took on something else: a guilt so heavy that he thought she’d break beneath the weight of it. And that expression was familiar, too. It was the same guilt which you would don after Ruben took a beating for you. 

So, even when wearing the mask of his father, Ruben remains an older brother before all else.

Even now, Ruben looks down at Ellie’s sleeping form beside him and can only feel fondness for the little girl in her who has lost everything. He tries to hate her; he tries to look at her slackened face and muster that deep loathing he’d been burying for the past month, but he cannot. He looks at her and he sees you. He sees all the little marks which your love has left on this woman. The same marks you left on Oakley. 

With a sigh, Ruben stands from the bed and leaves the room. 

It didn’t take long, after their argument, for him to convince Ellie to get some sleep. Their fight seemed to have drained all the determination she’d priorly been flooded with. She nodded in agreement, walking silently and amendably to her compartment, collapsed into her bed, and promptly passed out. He stayed by her side as she slept, unable to peel himself away for fear of facing all the monsters in his own head. Without someone else to take care of, he’ll be forced to care for himself. And he didn’t yet want to.

The halls are typically empty at this time of night but, after so many days spent in the cavern, people are still bustling around in an attempt to regain a semblance of normalcy. Some of the halls have been completely destroyed by the missiles; others remain untouched. Due to this, the residents of Thirteen have been forced even more clustered together. It’s nigh suffocating down here and Ruben wants nothing more than to escape to the surface and drink in all the fresh air this world has to offer. It’s greedy, but he wants it. He wants it so badly he can hardly imagine it. He looks at the stone ceiling and cannot imagine the stars; when he does, they’re the falsified ones from the arena.

He walks past a family of three, trying not to roll his eyes at the way their teenage son scowls at the back of his father’s head—that damn boy has no idea how lucky he is. A few minutes later, he passes a woman whose husband recently died in Seven’s fires. She offers him a weak smile but he cannot bring himself to return it. 

Everything seems to futile down here. His entire childhood was spent in preparation for the arena—which has long since commenced. After that, his life was spent tending to the tributes of Four—which came to an end after you were placed under his care. After that, his life was spent in hopes of attaining a life with Birdie—which was demolished the moment she was ripped away from him. And now what? Does he search for a new purpose, or does he subject himself to the prospect of never finding tenacity again? 

Just then, he slams into something heavy and metallic. Agony bolts up what’s left of his leg, causing him to brace himself against a nearby wall and try to see through the pain. 

“I’m so sorry!” A small voice chimes, pitched with genuine apology. “My brother, he–”

The child’s words fall short when Ruben lifts his head high enough to be recognized. A small boy in a wheelchair stares at him with wide brown eyes. Behind the chair, a second boy—who looks identical to the first—wears a deadly glower on his lips. Ruben knows these kids; Ruben loves these kids; Ruben failed these kids. 

“Avner,” he nods in acknowledgement, “Noam.”

“Watch where you’re going, fuckface!” Avner bites out, steering his brother’s wheelchair in the other direction, as if to protect him. “You’ve got a metal leg and– and maybe try and get used to the damned thing before you knock someone out with it!”

Ruben tries not to smile at the boy’s unfaltering fierceness, but he can’t help himself. Avner reminds him so keenly of Birdie that he ends up grinning despite his vain attempts—which only adds fuel to Avner’s wrath. He waves a dismissive hand, trying to stifle his grin. “Sorry, kid, I’ll try and practice more. But that wheelchair is quite the weapon, too.”

Noam laughs, pressing the back of his bony hand to his mouth. “Especially when Avner is steering it.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Avner hits his brother in the back of the head, but Noam’s laughter doesn't quiet. If anything, it only grows more fervent. “Ugh, I hate you.”

Ruben’s grin falters. 

Every stubborn child has told their sibling that they hated them. Ruben certainly has, screaming it with all his breath before slamming a door in your face, only for you to kick and scream outside of his room. But as real as the anger felt at the time, he would give anything to take it back. You were both vexatious little children who now know that the words were empty but, still, every moment he spent in your company is a moment he wishes to have back—to have spent better.

Part of him wants to slap Avner across the face and demand that he apologize. But he knows better. Not only because violence would be a terrible thing to give in to at this moment in time, but also because they’re just kids. Kids who don’t understand the gravity of all which has tainted the world. They don’t deserve to be holed up underground, prohibited from experiencing a childhood filled with starry skies and dewy grass. 

“What if I gave you something?” Ruben’s question draws both children to cease their incessant arguing, their gazes both sliding toward his face in unison. Noam is weary but hopeful; Avner is completely absorbed by his hatred for Ruben that he can hardly allow himself to experience anything else. 

“We don’t want anything from–”

“What is it?” Noam interrupts his brother, beaming up at Ruben with those big brown eyes. His cheeks are rosy hope and his body is frail with youth. “I always wanted a library of my own. One where you can’t see the end, and the books stretch all the way up into the sky.”

Ruben’s skin buzzes with a wistful sorrow, your obsession with literature dragging across his body like pin needles. Even as a child, your mind was never far from your books, always rambling on about their premise as though everybody else in the world was equally as infatuated as you. Had you been offered the chance to have anything you wanted, he wants to think that you’d make the same wish as Noam: for an endless supply of books. But he knows that’s not true. He knows you would have wished for nicer parents and a better life. It infuriates him, to know your childhood—despite having starry skies and dewy grass—was equally as restricting as being kept underground.

“When’s the last time you saw the sky?” Ruben asks, tipping his head. Noam’s entire face lights up at the suggestion; even Avner cannot stifle the gasp which passes his lips. “A long time, I’d bet.”

 “The sky?” Noam’s voice is tight with aspiration. 

Avner shifts forward, his expression having closed as quickly as it had opened. “Don’t listen to his asshole, Noam. He’s just trying to trap you the same way he trapped Birdie. And we all know how that ended.”

“You cuss a lot for a little kid.” Ruben says, ignoring the flare of irritation behind his ribs. “How old even are you guys? Seven?”

Avner scoffs at him, knowing better than to take the bait. Noam, however, purses his lips in defiance and says: “We’re eleven! Our birthday was last week.”

Ruben frowns. “And you guys came here when you were five, right? Which means you’ve been living underground for more than half your lives. You’ve not seen the sun and stars in six years.”

“Don’t pity us.” Avner sneers, his hands gripping the handles of Noam’s wheelchair so tight that his knuckles have turned white. “Birdie took us here for our safety and– and then she went to the Capitol and found you. Maybe if she stayed here with us, she wouldn’t be getting tortured to death right now. Maybe if she hadn’t met you, we’d know if she was alive!”

At that, Ruben can no longer repress his anger. They’re kids, he tries to remind himself, but he soon finds that he no longer cares. His rage has never been as teeming as yours, he knows this, but it’s still more ferocious than an average person. He was able to keep it smothered for the most part, acting as docile as his dignity would allow. But after his screaming match with Ellie, it’s quick to act. Like a bear that’s been in hibernation and is now fueled with renewed energy, it rushes to the surface. 

“Watch your mouth, kid.” He snaps, still keeping a leash—albeit straining—on the beast. “I’m the only person in this entire district who knows what you’re going through. You’re pissed because you lost your sister, and I get that. I lost mine, too. But I also lost my fiance. I knew Birdie for years and I know how much she loved the two of you. And now that she’s gone, you’re all that’s left of her. So God forbid I try to form a connection with either of you in hopes of feeling like she’s still here. But of course not, because you’ve been acting like a goddamn asshole since you met me.”

Noam blinks up at him, eyes brimming with tears that threaten to spill over his rosy little cheeks. Behind him, Avner’s entire body is clenched and rigid. He swallows harshly, trying to hold on to the little bit of remaining strength that he can still flaunt. But then he exhales a sigh, all the fight leaving him. He looks down at the floor before looking back up at Ruben’s face, a small—almost shy—smile on his lips. 

“The sun and stars haven’t gone too far, have they?”

10:42.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Thirteen wasn’t the only victim of Fedra’s bombing. 

Though Thirteen was the one who you publicly warned of the attack, Twelve suffered an even worse fate. The district is in complete disarray after what was done to them. Homes and workplaces have been demolished; hundreds of thousands of people are dead. And, according to Marlene, Ellie ought to be the one to ‘mend’ this catastrophe. The conversation between them hadn’t gone smoothly—to say the least. 

After being forced to sleep for almost fifteen hours, Ellie woke with an even deeper loathing for her guardian. First, she visited Cricket’s compartment to assure herself that Oakley was alive. Sure enough, Ellie was pleased to find that Ruben was truthful: Oakley was perfectly safe. He babbled in Cricket’s arms, entertained by the book of fashion designs that she’d inherited from Cat. Ellie thanked Cricket for her assistance, then regretfully asked that she watch him for a few hours longer while she spoke with Marlene. Of course, Cricket was more than happy to oblige—though Ellie still felt guilty for having to inquire.

Then she headed for Marlene. The guards stationed throughout Marlene’s quarters refused her entry, claiming they had direct orders to apprehend Ellie if she were ever to arrive—though they were apologetic for having to do it. She asked them to deliver a message, if nothing else. They agreed. Within minutes, Marlene withdrew her order and grudgingly permitted Ellie entry. 

“You threatened to leave Thirteen?” Was the first thing Marlene said when she entered her office. Ellie nodded, solidifying her decision to flee if she were continuing to be treated as a prisoner. “Where would you go? The Capitol doesn’t want you, and Seven is destroyed. Where would you go, Ellie? You have no home.”

“Far away from you.”

That, of course, was not taken well. They descended into bickering rather quickly, though Marlene had the dignity to keep her voice level despite her seething irritation. After a while of back-and-forth, Marlene slammed her hands on the desk and asked what Ellie wanted, promising to adhere to one wish so long as she agreed to remain as Thirteen’s symbol. The question was a foolish one, in hindsight, for they both knew what she would demand: “I want my wife back.”

To Ellie’s surprise, however, Marlene acquiesced. She pulled a slip of parchment from her desk, clicked her pen, scribbled down her signature, then held it out to Ellie like a treaty. Ellie snatched it from her hand and, without reading it, stormed back to her compartment. Only then—in the solitude of her own company—did she read through it. And what she saw was enough to bring her to tears. 

The document was exactly that: a treaty. It was typed out, clearly having been kept in Marlene’s drawer until she was absolutely forced to use it. The first few paragraphs discussed the role which Ellie would be required to play as the symbol. She would provide Thirteen with eight campaigns to broadcast per month, she would swear and say whatever Marlene demanded of her, and she would travel to whatever terrain needed to film the campaigns—whether that be active war zones or underwater. 

But it was the last paragraph—the last sentence, really—which caught Ellie’s eye.

“In requital to their aid, the Symbol is permitted a single desire which the interim president must adhere to. Regardless of circumstance, the interim president must comply and show corroboration with the Symbol’s desire within a month’s time. Signed: Marlene.”

A hope which she hadn’t before permitted herself to feel suddenly flooded her nervous system. Ellie dropped the paper and smiled wider than she had in months. She could not sleep that night, and nor could she stop her mind from screaming at her—screaming one single fact: she will have you back within a month. She will have you back. Within a month. 

It is five in the morning when her door is slammed open and Tommy apologetically informs her that Marlene has requested her presence. But Ellie merely laughs, assures him that she’d not been sleeping, and follows behind him toward the president’s quarters. Because she will do anything, so long as it gets her a step closer to seeing you again.

It’s odd, Ellie thinks, that time works such as it does: an endless march toward—what, oblivion? Mankind has debated over the meaning of life since the dawn of time, scholars and physicists alike coming together to solve impossible questions. Ellie herself has pondered it more than once, considering what reason could possibly have amassed billions of people into one area. What could possibly be worth such devastation that humanity yields: war, genocide, the fucking Hunger Games? She has long since ceased asking such futility to an unanswering sky, knowing better than to waste her breath. But as she marches toward Marlene with her stomach roiling with anxiety, Ellie cannot think of a better reason to be here but to be with you. If she were put on this Earth for a purpose, it is to love you. 

“The quest with which you will be tasked is no easy one.” Marlene warns her once she and Tommy have seated themselves around her grand table. “It is grueling and tiresome—not only on the body, but also the mind. You will bear witness to horrible things and you will–”

“–do it.” Ellie finishes, hardly able to contain herself. Her knee bounces beneath the table, her eyes wide as she leans forward with anticipation. “I will do it,” she repeats. “Whatever it is, I will do it.”

Something crosses Marlene’s expression, an emotion Ellie has never before seen her wear—not directed toward her, at least. And, if Ellie didn’t know any better, she’d say that it might just resemble pride. Marlene leans back in her seat, arms braced on either side of herself. She eyes Ellie like she is gazing upon a stranger. Then, slowly, she inclines her head. 

“Very well.” Marlene nods. “You will do it.”

What ‘it’ exactly entertains, Ellie perhaps should have inquired more about. Even five hours later, sitting beside Ruben in the hovercraft, she cannot seem to smother her nerves. 

It would be unhealthy, she thinks, if the object of her obsession were anything else. But it’s you—it’s always been you. And so she sees no problem with it. If she has to witness children being burned alive and families starving to death, she would do so without uttering a complaint. If she had to stand in front of a camera and mark herself as the reaper of all bad things, she would do it. If she had to slaughter a thousand people to get to you, she would do it.

A hand lowers itself onto her knee and Ellie glances down to find that she’s bouncing again. She forces herself to sit still, turning to Ruben with a frown as he removes his hand. He eyes her for a moment, almost wary, before speaking. “How are you?”

“Me?” She blinks as though the question is impossible to fathom. Ruben raises a brow at her, but she just lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “I’m good. Great, even. I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t be, considering–”

“Stop.” He tells her. “What the hell has gotten into you? Have you taken something? Morphling?”

She laughs again. “No, Ruben, I’m completely sober. I swear.”

“Then why are you bouncing all over the place like a fucking addict?” He asks. They’re both having to yell over the whirring blades overhead, but she doubts anyone else can hear their voices. The rest of the crew is sitting in random spots around the hovercraft, everyone having been strapped into the same black uniform that she has: a complete contrast against the Capitol’s Peacekeepers. A message of sorts, she would guess. “Has something happened that you’ve not told me?”

“No. Well–” she tips her head to the side, peering at the ceiling with squinted eyes. She considers what exactly would fall under the umbrella of ‘not told me’. It sounds like she’s keeping a secret, although she isn’t. Not intentionally, at least. She hadn’t spared the time enough to tell Ruben about her contrast with Marlene. If she had, she would certainly not have kept it a secret. But, seeing as she knows something and he doesn’t, she thinks it would in fact fall under the aforementioned umbrella. “I signed a contract with Marlene. I remain her the rebellion’s symbol and I will do whatever she asks of me, and–”

“Why would–”

“Shh,” she waves a hand at him, successfully beckoning him into silence. “In return, she will work toward having Y/n returned. Within a month.”

Ruben stares at her, his mouth gaping like a fish. Multiple times, he opens his mouth to speak and—each time—he finds nothing worthy of being voiced. Then he shuts his eyes, inhales a deep breath, and turns his head forward as he opens his eyes again. He stares at the metal wall across from them. It vibrates with the buzzing of hovercraft blades, as the entire fuselage does. 

“Ellie, I–” his voice shakes then breaks off at the end. Ruben turns his head to the side, looking her in the eye as the hovercraft begins to slow. “You cannot trust her. Whatever paper she had you sign, it is only that: paper. It can be burned, ripped, and betrayed.”

Tommy and Robert have both stood up and begun beckoning the crew toward the ladder. Members are descending toward the earth. All the while, Ellie continues to stare at Ruben, her faith unfaltering. 

“We are closer to having her back than ever before.” She tells him, voice sounding much more steady than she feels. “I will not let it slip through my fingers.”

He watches her for a long moment, both of them ignoring the orders being spoken through their earpieces. Only when he gives her a nod of understanding does Ellie return to the world around them. She unbuckles from the harness attaching her to the seat and stands up. Just like she’d done before visiting Seven, Ellie does not spare a glance to the world below. She prefers to not bear witness to atrocities which she can do nothing to halt.

But as she climbs down the ladder, her thighs already burning, she can taste death on her tongue. 

The scent of smoke and rot fill her lungs. And, when her boots hit the earth, a bone crunches beneath her heel. She glances down to find a hand—a small hand—cracked under her weight. It had to have belonged to a child. That, or an extremely malnourished adult. 

Ellie sucks in a deep breath before turning around to face the sight before her. She hadn’t asked Marlene where she was going, though she knows she could have. She could have requested to be told the exact itinerary of the campaign; she could have asked for a long script to read from. But she chose not to. In a world such as this one, authenticity is harder to come by than pure gold.

They’re in District Twelve, where Fedra released bombs on innocent and unsuspecting homes. She supposes she should have expected this, considering Marlene had been telling her about it right before they started arguing. And perhaps the thought would have crossed her mind, had she not been so absorbed with the idea of seeing you again. 

Twelve was never a pretty District to visit. Even during the Victory Tour, during which the mayor is obligated to make their District look as polished as possible, it still settled a heavy weight in Ellie’s gut. The starving children and dying parents still existed, only they were shut behind closed doors and forced to hide away while the shining new Diamonds made their way through the country. Now, all that cruelty and gore is laid out on display. Not only because of Twelve’s harsh conditions, but because of Fedra’s murderous tyranny. 

There is a child wailing somewhere nearby, their voice cracking with a grief that should never strike a heart so young. Farther away, she can hear someone groaning and gurgling as though they’re actively choking on their own blood. She turns toward the sound to find a man a few yards away, buried so deep under rubble that his skin and hair is dusted gray. The only thing which makes her know this human and not debris is the blood seeping down his face. That, and the outstretched hand which reaches toward her. She walks forward, aware of all the eyes tracking her. She looks down at the man—at his dust-covered face and gurgling mouth. He makes noises as he looks up at her, the sun in his eyes. She supposes he is trying to speak, but he cannot. Then, jumbled in with all the unintelligible sounds he is making, she can just barely hear the word: “please”.

Perhaps she should have hesitated; perhaps she should have asked what he was begging for. But she already knew. Because Ellie Williams is no mere soldier fighting some civil war. She is a two-time victor of the Hunger Games. She knows Death, and she knows him well. 

She brings a heavy rock down on his head.

When the man dies, he does it with a silence she doubts he has experienced since the bombs first landed almost a week ago. She wonders how long he has been trapped under there: begging for someone to just end it already. She wonders how long he would have lasted, had she not come along. Longer than most people, she would presume, considering his body is used to starvation and would keep him alive out of habit.

And that’s when she realizes that the people of Twelve are suffering from the bombing, yes, but they have been suffering from far worse for far longer. Those who were instantly killed got off lucky. Not because it was immediate, but because death is a mercy in a place like this.

“How many medics do we have?” Ellie asks without turning around. She knows there is a crowd behind her—she knows Marlene ordered a crew to follow her at all times. Cameramen, designers, directors, coordinators, you name it. Soldiers, too, of course to keep their symbol safe. And medics. 

“With us here today? Two.” Responds a voice she has never before heard. And when she turns, it belongs to a man she has never before seen.

“How many do we have back in Thirteen?”

“Twenty-four.”

“How long would it take to send for all of them?”

“Do you– all of them?” He does not sound judgemental as he says it, merely shocked by the suggestion. He watches her with wide brown eyes and a gaping mouth. When she nods, he continues to sputter for a moment before calculating the answer. “Three hours? Maybe more if their supplies were relocated after the bombing. Are you– pardon me for asking, but are you certain this is something we should consider?”

She ignores him, walking past the man and toward Tommy—who had priorly been kneeling down and pouring water into the mouth of a young woman. She purposely makes her footsteps audible and he turns when he hears them.

“I want all twenty-four of our medics brought here before dusk today.” She tells him.

Tommy does not hesitate nor gape at her the way the other man had. He merely nods and goes about relaying the message back to Marlene—who did not accompany them on this trip, but is watching and listening through everyone’s suits. Except Ellies. She ripped hers out the moment she got on the hovercraft. And, judging by the tear in his suit, she would suspect Ruben did the same.

A few moments later, Tommy offers her a smile and rests his hand on her tense shoulder. “Marlene agreed on sending half. I know it’s not what you want, but twelve medics plus the two that are already here is a good addition. We will help these people, Ellie, and they–”

“I know.” She brushes him off.

She turns back toward District Twelve. The streets were never paved and nor were they buried under gravel, but it seems as though they have cracked nonetheless. Portions of land are elevated higher than others, like the earth has ripped itself apart under the strain of Fedra’s attack. Buildings are decimated, crumbling as easy as if they were made with straw. Perhaps some of them were. 

She walks down the street, listening to the heavy footfall of the rest of the crew following behind. It drives her mad, knowing they’re all hired to spy on her by Marlene. But she supposes she cannot blame the woman. If Ellie were in her position, she’d do the same. Only she wouldn’t waste her time trying to be subtle about it when everyone already knows. 

Some of the crew members are genuine, however. The soldiers, particularly, cannot have their loyalties as easily bought as the stylists and cameramen. Their talents reside in gunfire and blood, not makeup and photography. They have no interest in fame or fortune—only justice. And that is not something Marlene can weasel her way into marring. Ellie likes the soldiers more than the rest of the crew due to this reason, so she naturally sticks closer to them. 

There are three cameramen, all loyal to Marlene. There are seven stylists, all loyal to Marlene. There are two directors, both loyal to Marlene. There are two coordinators, both loyal to Marlene. A lofty amount of spies and mercenaries. But there are also two medics, eight soldiers, and four guards—all loyal to themselves: to the futures they believe in earning for their country. And, of course, there are the authorities: Tommy, Maria, Robert, Ruben, Yasmin, and Cecil.

Ellie thinks it was unnecessarily cruel to send Cecil here—to make him bear witness to what has been done to his home. Marlene insisted that his alliance with Ellie would help to ease the nerves of the people of Twelve who might not be wholly convinced that Thirteen is benign. Ellie had to refrain from saying Thirteen isn’t benign—not under Marlene, at least.

“Sending for medics was a good idea.” Ruben is at her side, making Ellie jump at the sudden proximity of his voice. He sighs, long and deep, as they walk through the District. “You know where to go, don’t you? You know where all the people will have gathered?”

“Of course I do.” She says, because it’s true. If a catastrophe were to befall Seven, she knows where the people would go: the Justice Building. It was the sturdiest structure in the entire District and therefore the safest. She assumes the people of Twelve have turned the building into a makeshift hospital: a place for the wounded to seek help and families to reunite. But that’s also what worries her. If she and Ruben both know where the people will have gathered, who’s to say Fedra doesn’t also know where everyone is? It makes for an undeniably easy target. She only has to cling to the hope that those bombs were the last which he will send to Twelve. Although she doubts it.

“When we get back to Thirteen, I need you to show me your contract with Marlene.” He says, which sounds more like a demand than a request. He then drops his voice to a whisper to avoid being overheard by any of the spies’ suits. “There are loopholes which that woman is not afraid to take. I want to find them so we can anticipate how she might try going back on her word.”

Ellie shakes her head. “We don’t have to wait until we get back to Thirteen.”

“You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” She says. “You don’t think I didn’t also consider how easily paper can be destroyed, did you? Considering we’re all out on this campaign and Marlene stayed back, what would have stopped her from entering my compartment and taking it? Nothing. And so it is here.”

Ruben looks at her, “I’m impressed.”

“Me too, to be honest.” She exhales shakily. “I could hardly think around my excitement. I didn’t even sleep last night, too busy trying to weigh all the possible outcomes of this contract. But even amid all of that, I knew better than to trust Marlene so easily.”

When they reach the Justice Building, Ellie has to conceal her horror at just how many people are crammed into the space. It’s no small building—not by any means—which makes the congestion even more horrific. Hundreds of people lay wounded, their shabby clothes stained red and brown. So many cots have been brought here that they must have run out because some patients are laying on mattresses and others are on the hard floor. There are so many people tending to wounds that she knows all of them cannot be medics. In fact, she would argue that only two percent of them are. The rest are simply good people who couldn’t bear to see their neighbors bleed out.

She feels frozen in place, like her feet have been nailed into the floor. She can hear Thirteen’s medics rushing to aid those who need the most help. She can hear soldiers and cameramen alike murmuring their concerns. Loyalties aside, politics aside—this is a terrible, terrible sight: a fate no one deserves. 

Slowly, Ellie moves her feet across the floor. She walks between the cots, weaving through the room as the residents of Twelve pause what they’re doing to gawk at her. Patients look up at her as she passes, eyes wide and watery as though they’ve just witnessed a miracle. 

She passes a man who’s lost both arms. She passes a woman who’s lost her unborn child yet must still carry it to term. She passes a blind twelve-year-old, a deaf four-year-old. She passes so many people that they start to blur together, forming one great big mass of gore and terror. She reaches the center of the room and turns around to find that the rest of the world seems to have stopped.

They’re all staring at her, waiting for something to come of her presence. She regrets knowing that she is waiting for the same thing.

She sees Tommy and his shaky hands as he helps a senile man lift himself from the floor to get a better look at Ellie, the man’s wrinkled eyes wide and dilated. She sees Ruben whispering to a little boy who just lost the same leg as him, making the child giggle—which makes the boy’s mother descend into harsh sobs as she explains that she’s not heard that laugh in so long. 

She sees Robert and his blink, blink, blinking camera. 

But she does not speak to the Capitol, she does not speak to Marlene. She speaks only to the people of District Twelve who have endured horror after horror and got back up. 

“I’m no hero.” She admits to them, drawing the final whispers toward complete silence. She can hear her own heartbeat in her ears. “I have done nothing to earn your faith or your trust, I have done nothing to deserve it. I have done terrible things and I have done them unapologetically. I wish I could say that this war was not yours to fight; that it is between Thirteen and the Capitol alone. But that’s not the truth and so I will not say it. This war is between Fedra and the people; this war is between a tyrant and the oppressed; this war is between the singular and the many.” 

She turns, chin trembling with the vigor of her honesty. She has spoken to crowds before, many of them. But how often has she been able to speak from the heart? How often has she been able to say what she knows the people need to hear? She could cry from the passion flaring in her chest. She feels shaky all over from it.

“You should not have to suffer any more than you do. You should not have to starve or freeze to death in your homes. You deserve all the luxuries which reside in the Capitol—and more! Your babies deserve to live past the age of five. Your husbands deserve to work jobs that do not risk their lives each day. Your wives deserve to breathe once and a while without fear of collapse. Your parents, your siblings—they deserve a better life than this!” She looks across the crowd, meeting all the wide eyes of people who have never before heard such destructive things spoken aloud. Her gaze lands on a little girl whose head has been dented, their eyes meet and the girl straightens her shoulders as though to appear more brave. When Ellie speaks again, it is directly to her—to all the brave little kids across the country. “And the only way to get it is to fight for it.”

The silence which follows her speech is deafening. The little girl with the dented head is the first, the bravest, to call out: “Fuck Fedra!”

Ellie has never been a particular fan of that exact war cry, though she can understand the sentiment. She wishes this country had something more symbolic, something more heavy to bear the weight of their sorrow and their troubles. But, then again, what better to bear such a weight than Tommy Miller’s rage?

The chant is still singing through the air when a sudden explosion goes off. 

Everyone falls silent as the earth trembles and all their ears start to ring. A bomb—not a big one, but enough for all the people of Twelve to recognize its message. Fedra could have landed it on the Justice Building and killed them all in an instant. But he wanted to cause fear; he wanted them to slowly emerge at the realization that their safe haven is not so safe after all. He wanted them to suffer before they died.

Another goes off, closer this time. 

The walls and ceiling of the Justice Building start to crack. A few people start to recognize what is going to happen, panic gripping their throats. But they seem to accept it rather than fight it—which only enrages Ellie. 

“We need to leave!” She shouts, turning to Robert.

And, for all Robert’s faults, he seems to recognize the gravity of their situation. He nods at her, passing his blinking camera to one of the guards—who fumbles with it before training it on Ellie. She has no doubt that they’re live streaming all of this, revealing in real time the cruelty which Fedra has no problem wreaking. She ignores the camera.

“Everyone, out!” Robert shouts, pushing the doors open to reveal a dust-ridden world beyond. But nobody moves. He grinds his teeth, raising his voice to the point of cracking. “Out!”

“There’s no point.” Says a pregnant woman from the floor. Her left leg is mutilated, both hands cradling her stomach. Her voice is rough and her hair is splotched with bald patches. “If we go out there, we die under rubble or die from inhaling too much smoke. If we stay here, death will be instantaneous. A mercy.”

“That’s–” Maria shakes her head, struggling to fathom the idea. “That’s a terrible way to think.”

“It’s th’ only way t’ think.” Says a man from the opposite side of the room. Half of his face is burned off, skin peeling back from bone. Beside him, a cat is curled up atop his cot but Ellie is unsure whether it is alive any longer. “We’ve lived in fear our entire lives. We ain’t gon’ suffer any longer than we have to.”

“You said it yourself.” Calls another voice: a teenage boy with burn marks all down his body and an older man—likely his father or grandfather—laying unconscious beside him. “We don’t deserve to live like this anymore. We deserve to rest.”

Maria scoffs, though there are tears in her eyes. “You can’t seriously be–”

“Leave us.” Says the first woman again. “You will be faster alone.” Her eyes then slide over to Ellie’s, landing on her face before managing a small smile. “The world needs you guys. It does not need us.”

Maria opens her mouth to argue again, but there is a third and more imperative explosion which interrupts her. Pieces of the ceiling crash down onto the floor, burying people who do not scream as they die. The walls and pillars tremble under the weight of their impending destruction. Tommy grabs his wife by the arm and begins yanking her out of the building. She fights against him the whole time, screaming and begging for someone in the damned building to save themselves. No one does.

Ellie remains anchored to the floor, unable to leave. Ruben is saying something to her, his voice furtive and beseeching, though she cannot hear his words over the ringing in her ears. He touches her shoulder and she pulls away, snapping back to the material world around her. She stares at the half-dead people in the building, offering them one more piece of advice.

“Don’t save yourselves if you don’t want to.” She announces, her voice carrying over the room. “But save your children. Twelve doesn’t have very many, so they won’t slow us down. Send them with us and I promise you: I will keep them alive. I will give my life for theirs, if you trust me enough to do so.”

For a long moment, no one moves. 

Then, from the back of the room, a mother can be seen pushing her little girl toward Ellie. Her hair is blonde and cut short to her ears. She wears a little pink dress, stained with filth and blood. She is crying, but she obliges her mother’s wishes. She runs into Ellie’s arms, and Ellie crouches down to meet her. 

After that, every parent in the room who still has children to spare sends them running forward. Little toddlers, traumatized teenagers. They all come forward, seeking Ellie’s aid and protection. Ruben helps her pick up the youngest ones, carrying them on his back and his shoulders despite the way his prosthetic is likely screaming his protests. She does the same, carrying as many as possible and shouting for Thirteen’s soldiers to help her carry more. They do.

They stumble out of the building: a little clan of children pattering behind. She walks as fast as she can with their weight slowing her down. The guard holding Robert’s camera turns over to them, broadcasting the moment all across the country. She hopes Fedra knows this is not for him—she hopes he knows, deep down, that she is not doing this out of spite or to send a message. She is doing it because the people of Twelve deserve someone who is willing to save them.

The rest of the crew assist in carrying the children until everyone has at least one or two on their hip or on their back. Even Yasmin L/n scoops up a pair of whiny toddlers and runs ahead of the group, shockingly agile for her age, to take them as far from the building as possible. 

When the bomb goes off and the Justice Building is destroyed, Ellie feels the blow. It rattles her bones and sends her flying to the ground. She scrapes her hands and knees on rocks, gathering herself as quickly as possible and making sure the children she was carrying are uninjured. They both assure her that they’re fine before resuming their positions.

They clamber into the hovercraft one at a time, sending the children up first to make sure they reach the top. Ellie is sent up after them, made priority for her position as the symbol. Just as she reaches the top, she can hear the whirring of two other hovercrafts approaching Twelve at great speed, only to slow down at the sight before them. She already knows who they’re carrying: the twelve medics she’d sent for.

But there’s no one left to save.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[firefly-ace]

this is genuinely my favorite chapter yet.

[firefly-ace]

why was i a child immigrating to the US in 2015. i should’ve been seeing hozier live.

[vxsellie]

❛ BETTER ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔦𝔦𝔦

wc. 6 271

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

09:35.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

All things considered, the propaganda campaign passed rather insipidly—and quickly.

Ellie had, admittedly, been hoping it would take weeks for the video to be completed, for it would aid time in passing quicker. Marlene demanded that Robert have it finished by next Saturday; the damned fool had it finished by Wednesday. 

The filming of it was tedious. She had to pose in front of a blinding camera and act natural. She was giving the audience a tour of Thirteen, pretending as though she weren’t walking only through Marlene’s quarters. The rest of the District was much too crowded and filthy for the world to see. She explained to the camera that they had plenty of job opportunities and that she would ‘love to see her community flourish’. 

Ellie pretended not to care about the divide in citizens, pretended not to be annoyed with Marlene’s insistence that it had to be refilmed twenty times. Any other time, Ellie would have made her insolence known. But this time, she didn’t because, from the corner of her eye, she could see Oakley squirming in Marlene’s arms, whining to be back with Ellie.

After her soliloquy commenced, she all but ran to have her son returned to her. Marlene cooed at the toddler, mockingly stroked his hair, then passed him over roughly to Ellie’s awaiting arms. She’d never held him tighter in all her life. She feared that his ribs would crack under the pressure of her relief. They did not.

In Ellie’s absence, the camera shifted its view over to Ruben. Robert decided it would be best to highlight his prosthetic, as it would make the audience recall how much Y/n risked for him. The entire thing was clinical and morbid. Robert and Marlene treated the entire ordeal as though it were a mere film to enjoy rather than peoples’ lives to exploit. They were no better than the Capitol, but Ellie knew better than to speak those thoughts aloud. In the Capitol, Fedra was too egoistical to pay any mind to his people because he thought everyone loved him. In Thirteen, Marlene is much wiser—she has ears everywhere, waiting sentry for someone’s distaste for her to slip up. 

Ruben delivered a beautiful speech, one that he’d been practicing for days. Ellie saw him writing it in his spare time: between the gaps in his cluttered schedule, during lunch while he sat alone, while he held Oakley in the other arm. She even saw him pacing back and forth in his compartment, reading the speech aloud to an empty audience. Ellie pretended not to notice because she knew he would be embarrassed. But she saw. She saw the tears clouding within his eyes, too.

By Thursday, the campaign was edited and ready to be aired.

By Friday, it was streaming all across the country.

Marlene called the group into a meeting so that they could all watch it together. Ellie loathed her for having done this, because it was naught but a taunt. She forced Ruben and Ellie to bear witness to the lies they were forced to spew. They were laying a trap for helpless citizens to fall into. Thirteen was over-populated enough as it was. Adding more people would only strain the bars of the cage. She feared the day it would break.

Oakley is sleeping against Ellie’s chest as the screen shifts from Capitol propaganda to Thirteen propaganda. And, eerily enough, they look almost identical. The entire thing is disgustingly cinematic, as though the audience isn’t already glued to their screen at the sight of Ellie’s face plastered onto it. She looks healthy, happy. They must have distorted her features to appear more pleasant. Her cheeks are flush with red and her eyes are brightened with cheer. They even pitched her voice higher. She watches the woman on the television and does not recognize her.

Images flash on the screen to show pictures of Thirteen’s citizens. They’re all smiling in a cafeteria which has enough space for hundreds more. Their plates are filled almost to an almost inhuman amount. Ellie wonders how long after the picture was taken did Marlene take the food back. 

When Ruben is brought to the forefront of attention and begins speaking, she tries not to wince. They added even more bags under his eyes and even more cracks to his voice. And when he says your name and mentions his leg, Robert went through the trouble to replay the fucking footage of when it had happened. Ellie cannot help her gasp, then. 

Ruben is seen propped against the side of a building, screaming in pain while Thea cuts meticulously into his flesh. In front of them—protecting them—you can be seen slaughtering an entire horde of clickers on your own. It’s terrible. 

Ellie turns toward Robert with her face feeling hot with rage. “What the fuck is your problem!?”

“Shh,” he presses a finger to his lips and does not turn away from the screen. “It gets better.”

When she turns back to the screen, more records from the arena are being displayed. Over the footage, Ruben’s speech is heard as an overlay. A low, sorrowful tune accompanies his broken voice.

The first video must have been taken when Ellie first left because your group is still on the beach. You’re sitting astride Ruben, grabbing at his collar and yanking him forward until your noses touch. You look venomous. You look beautiful. “This is all your fault. You’re so filled with pride and strength that you thought you could– could piss off the Capitol. Thought you’d be the only one to suffer. But now look– we’ve all got to face the consequences! You did this.” Ellie does not need to be told that you’re not speaking to Ruben. She can see it in your eyes: you're speaking to the pieces of yourself which you find in him. You’re speaking into a mirror. Her assumption is proven correct when you slump against his chest and descend into horrible, grating sobs: “I did this. What did I do wrong?”

Ellie has to force back the lump in her throat. She can feel Ruben’s eyes on her, watching her reaction. Because he is who speaks next in the video. His speech has long since been muted, allowing the replay to take full attention. “Absolutely nothing. You were good. You were so, so good. You did nothing wrong. The world is a cruel and horrid place, and you’re so good. You’re good.”

“Then why–?”

“Some people just can’t see what they have in front of them.” The Ruben in the video pulls away, both hands situated firmly on either of your shoulders. He looks deep into your teary eyes. “Ellie is–” there is a slight glitch, like some of his dialogue was cut out, “–terrible. You did nothing wrong, do you hear me?”

Ellie turns to Ruben, but he looks distraught. He shakes his head, brows furrowed deeply against his forehead. He turns toward Ellie, pleading, but she already understands: Robert is trying to pit them against one another. He is trying to make the Districts choose sides between him and Ellie. That way, the people will have yet another thing to divide them. And when the people are divided, it is all so much easier for a new dictator to clamp chains on their throats. She does not need to hear Ruben’s apologies because there is nothing to apologize for. He did nothing wrong; he is good. Marlene, however, is not.

The rest of Ruben’s speech continues to resound across the room but Ellie pays it no mind. She is wholly focused on the night imperceptible grin on Marlene’s lips. And the slight stirring of Oakley as he rouses awake. She only notices the fullness of his attention when he begins to cry and reach a hand out toward the screen. She turns to find that you’re once again at the center of it.

This time, you’re in a bookstore. You’re fighting Remy, pleading with him to answer you. For some reason, you seem convinced that he is alive and he will recognize you. The sight is jarringly grotesque. Then Penelope arrives and forces your hand. She snaps you into reality, albeit brusquely. Ellie covers Oakley’s eyes when you bring the scythe down on Remy. She almost removes her hand, but then you keep going. And going. An overlay appears on the screen, reading: 

“THIS IS WHAT THE CAPITOL DOES.  JOIN FREEDOM. JOIN PROSPERITY. JOIN THIRTEEN.”

12:08.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Ruben can hear you screaming for his help, but he cannot seem to reach you. He is trapped in an abyss of darkness, no matter how hard he tries to see through it. The ground beneath his feet reminds him of the dirt roads in Seven; the walls remind him of the slick stone in Thirteen—like he is trapped somewhere between one place and the next. A cave, but not quite so solid. 

Your voice reverberates within his mind, grating against the marrow of his skull like nails against a chalkboard. He punches and scratches at the stagnant stone walls, trying desperately to reach you. Alas, nothing works. He knew deep down that it was hopeless, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying anyway.

Then there is a grotesque harmonization of screams, contorted into the shape of his name. He recognizes both voices from the arena: you, his baby sister, and Birdie, his estranged love. He attacks the walls with such force that he can feel his fingernails peeling from their roots; he can feel the skin of his knuckles breaking apart. He shouts in frustration, collapsing to his knees and covering his ears as your collective voices grow louder, louder, louder, louder, louder, louder, loud–

“Ruben.”

He sits up so violently that his head slams into something solid and he sees stars. He hasn’t the time to complain, though, for he is much too occupied with the task of scrambling as far away as possible from the person who’d been hovering over his sleeping body. His movements are stuttered and pained as he still expects to find a second leg beneath his hip. When he realizes there is none, his panic only doubles.

“Calm down.” Maria’s voice sounds oddly like yours when it takes on such a consoling tone. He relaxes, imagining that it’s your face which stares down at him. “Breathe, Ruben, you’re fine. You’re safe.”

Slowly, steadily, he obliges. After a few embarrassingly long minutes of Maria consoling him, Ruben’s breathing begins to even out and the rigidity in his body begins to lax. He thought he knew Maria before this—back when they were mentors together, caged to the same pyre. Alas, he did not. He knew nothing about her because, apparently, her husband has been alive this entire time. Where he thought she trusted him, she trusted no one. She kept her mouth sealed shut and revealed nothing of import to a single soul. She was biding her time before she could return to Tommy and start a new life underground as Marlene’s trusted partner. Maria was never tied to the pyre, she just had a good view of the scene while Ruben burned.

“I was sent to ensure you were awake.” Her voice is apologetic, but he doesn’t forgive her. Not when Joel could have known that his brother was alive this entire time but didn’t; not when she could have given everyone something to fight for in the arena and didn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised if she knew, the whole time, of the rescue mission yet allowed everyone else to believe only one person would survive. 

But, deep down—so deep that Ruben would prefer to ignore it—he cannot blame her. Sure, he can hate her all he wants, but he would have done the same. If it were Birdie waiting for him at the other side of the war, he’d have fought it twenty times over. And if he needed to remain silent in order to see her, nobody would ever learn the sound of his voice. He hates Maria. Not because she lied, but because he wishes it were him who was given this opportunity.

“It’s early.” Is all he can manage to say without revealing the jealousy wedged within his soul.

“Yes.” She agrees curtly. “You have an appointment scheduled with Doctor Gawan Fulmer. He’s renowned for his innovative genius and Marlene thought his insight would prove useful regarding your leg. He just arrived in Thirteen and is expecting you within the hour.”

Maria dithers for a moment, on the precipice of saying something more. Ruben looks at her, allowing his disgusted expression to do the talking. She clears her throat awkwardly before sweeping out of the room, making sure to wish him luck over her shoulder. 

He knows it’s unfair to treat her like this, but he can hardly help it. Ruben has been wearing masks and playing nice for years in the Capitol. All he wants is to be seen for who he truly is. And if his truly, unadulterated identity ends up belonging to an asshole, so be it. He would prefer having no friends at all than having friends who do not know him. Here, he doesn’t care what people think. Here, he has better things to focus on than his reputational appearance: getting you home.

When the soldiers rained down from the sky, he thought he was dying. He’d heard accounts of men hallucinating God before taking their final breath. Ruben merely thought he’d hallucinated Satan instead. It would make sense, all things considered. But he wasn’t so lucky as to be dying. Instead, the door was slammed down and a series of soldiers filed inside, heaved Ruben from the ground, and transported him here. He thought they’d go back for Thea and Penelope. He thought they’d go back.

He was fading in and out of consciousness after being injected by some sort of syringe, but still managed to whisper your name. The soldiers ignored him. So he mustered all the strength he could spare, then reached out for one of them. He managed to hook his fingers on the loop of one of their belts, stopping them from moving. When the soldier whipped to face Ruben and pressed a pistol against his skull, Ruben could still only conjure one solid thought: you. He repeated your name, louder this time. The soldier yanked from his grip, holstered his gun, and shook his head. “We couldn’t get her.”

Those four words have drummed against the walls of Ruben’s consciousness ever since. 

He doesn't remember arriving in Thirteen because someone had doubled the drug and made him pass out. When he awoke, it was your name being chucked from his dry tongue. He was shushed and told to lie back down, lest he wanted to cause more damage to his leg. It was gone. They’d performed the surgery while he was unconscious. Apparently, he’d been sleeping for four days.

The medic explained to him everything that happened: he was rescued from the arena by the Fireflies, he was brought to Thirteen for his own safety, some of the tributes could not be rescued, and war was waged against the Capitol after District Seven burned down during the Quarter Quell. Ruben asked who was taken, and the list was sickening. Thea Thatcher, Penelope L/n, Abigail Anderson, and Y/n L/n. At the sound of your name, he promptly turned over and vomited straight onto the floor. The medic looked upon him pityingly, but knew there was nothing to be said. He thought it would be reassuring to hear the list of people who did survive and were taken to Thirteen. Not just the tributes, but everyone who the medic thought he would recognize the name of. Yasmin L/n, Maria Miller, Tommy Miller, Dina Woodward, Jesse, Stephen Lawrence, Cecil Bowe, Ellie Williams, and her son, Oakley. 

The second list was admittedly longer, but not very reassuring. That is, until he heard Oakley’s name and everything else ceased to exist. He tried to stand up, only for the medic to push him down and demand that he remained seated. Because Ellie and Oakley were already in the room, both sleeping in a chair in the corner.

Ruben turned, squinting against the haze which the drug still brought to his mind, and found that the medic hadn’t been lying. Ellie was covered in bandages and bruises, looking more of a mess than he’d ever seen her look before—even worse than after she was whipped, for even then she had you to keep her sane. But there, fast asleep on her chest, was a bundle of sunlight. Oakley’s little pink lips were wet and parted, allowing a patch of drool to seep into Ellie’s shirt. His hair was still only a wisp of black atop his head. His cheeks were plump and rosy against his soft, sleepy skin. Ruben started crying before he could stop himself.

Even now, the mere thought of Oakley is enough to make his stomach swoop with sorrow. You deserve to be here; you deserve to be living here, with your child.

“Good morning, Ruben!” Chirps Doctor Fulmer from a sterile white chair, which sits like a splash of paint against a muted backdrop. The entirety of Thirteen is made of concrete, stone, and metal. Such a plush, white chair is enough to tell Ruben all he needs to know: this man is a Capitolite. At Ruben’s lack of response, Fulmer turns around with a wide smile filled with perfectly straight teeth. “I understand how grossly early it is and I apologize for that inconvenience, but I am very excited to be acquainted with you.”

“I don’t like you.” Ruben says while crossing the room and lowering himself down onto the cot against the wall. Despite his attempts at appearing loathing, he cannot help the gratitude which flutters across his face as his weight is removed from his leg. Fulmer smiles at him, and Ruben quickly stomps down any hopes of becoming friends. “You are from the Capitol and I would thereby much rather see your corpse than your smile.”

“Yikes. Don’t worry, though. I’m not at all offended by–”

“I want you to be.” Ruben interrupts him. “I want you to wince at my words and wish you were not born the way you were. Millions of people from the Districts wince at the Reapings, wishing they were born into a wealthier family. So yes, Gawan, I want you to be offended. You have slaughtered my kind and–”

“Oh, but that is where you’re mistaken.” Doctor Fulmer is still smiling as he gathers his tools and begins to remove the prosthetic from what remains of Ruben’s leg. “I have done nothing personally to lead to the death of anyone from the Districts. You, however, have much more blood on your hands than I. So perhaps you should swallow your pride and see the world for what it is: a damned pity.”

Ruben yanks his leg away from the man’s ice-cold hands. He stares at Doctor Fulmer with a slackened jaw. It is not rare for Capitolites to believe themselves better than those from the Districts, but for someone to speak so blatantly about it—to blame Ruben for the deaths, then to deem the loss of lives as a ‘pity’—is absolutely sickening. 

Something deep within Ruben’s chest spikes with anger, fueling his body to act without thinking. He lands a punch across Fulmer’s jaw before he could stop himself. Although, in hindsight, he’s unsure whether he would care enough to stop even if he knew what he was intending on doing. The sting in his knuckles is a pleasant sensation, spurring a gentle hum of glee to whisk through his nerves. The hum is silenced, though, when Fulmer turns his face toward Ruben with that same smile he has not yet dropped from his lips.

“How very intriguing.” The man muses, rubbing his forefinger and thumb against the blooming bruise dotting his skin. He wheels his sterile chair across the room and scribbles something onto a slip of paper. His back is still turned as he speaks up again. “Might I say, Ruben, your family is a rather mystical fascination. Studying the lot of you has always been a vivid passion of mine.”

“The lot of us?” He blurts out, nearly falling from his cot due to the vehemence with which he leans forward. He knows it is impossible, but Ruben cannot help himself from thinking that Doctor Fulmer knows something about you. He’s from the Capitol, is a renowned doctor, and is morbidly attracted to your tree. It can’t all be a coincidence, it can’t. This is the closest Ruben has been to you in a long time; he cannot allow it to slip through his fingers. 

“Indeed.” Says Fulmer with his back still turned. “I have spoken recently with some of your relatives. A shame I was never lucky enough to meet Elina, but Penelope comes close. Such a vicious thing, she is. So stubborn. But such things are present in all of you, I suppose. But that anger she and your sister have: it’s so singular! Your anger is stronger than most average people, yes, but it does not hold a candle to that which is present in Penelope and Y/n. They are–”

“I will kill you where you stand.”

“Oh, but I am not standing.” Fulmer finally turns around, indelible smile still glued to his face. 

Ruben wants to rip his flesh clean from his bone. Fueled with rage, Ruben tries to stand but finds that his limbs are all heavy and sluggish. He manages to lift his arm, only for it to slump back down again. 

“You drugged me.”

“And you threatened to kill me.”

Ruben blinks at him, slow and lazy. Fulmer stands from his chair and walks over to where Ruben is now weak and bed-ridden. He reaches forward, caressing the back of his hand down the side of Ruben’s face like a mother to her baby. Then he pulls his hand away and lifts a scalpel. The blade glints under the light and Ruben braces for impact, wholly expecting Fulmer to cut him open and see what a L/n is truly made of. But he does not. Instead, Fulmer slides the blade across his own face, tracing it from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. He screams in pain, blood dripping to the floor in a steady pat, pat, pat. Then, still whimpering with pain, Fulmer places the scalpel into Ruben’s palm.

“If I’m lucky,” Fulmer speaks through the pain, “this will have you deemed clinically insane and sent away to the Capitol, to me.”

“You’re a monster.”

Fulmer smiles down at him, pityingly. “Your sister says the same.”

When the door is slammed open, Fulmer resumes his act. He hunches over himself, pressing a shaky hand against the side of his face, and begins to breathe heavily in feigned agony. Tommy, Robert, and Cecil all come barrelling into the room at the same time, demanding to know what exactly happened.

“He– he’s crazy!” Fulmer bellows, pointing a bloody finger in Ruben’s direction. “I was checking on his leg a-and he accused me of kidnapping his sister! I-I-I tried to tell him that I was innocent, but– he attacked me!”

“And yet he is the one unable to walk.” Cecil points out.

“Don’t patronize the victim, Bowe!” Robert brushes past his counterparts as he enters the room to assess the situation. He looks at Fulmer’s bloody face, then at the scalpel in Ruben’s hand. Robert is aghast, staring at Ruben as though he is some sort of mangled creature rather than a human being. Ruben tries to speak in his defense, only to find that the drug has now prevented his ability to speak. Robert turns toward Tommy, arms flailing. “He must be arrested! He has injured an employee of Thirteen!”

“I ain’t arrestin’ anyone.” Tommy scoffs, pushing Fulmer aside as he approaches Ruben. “We’ll bring the topic to Marlene ‘n see what she thinks. Meanwhile, help me carry ‘im back to his room.”

“Back to his room!?”

“Are ya deaf as well as stupid?” Tommy snaps. “Fuckin’ help.”

The journey back to Ruben’s compartment is embarrassingly difficult as Robert supports the left half of his weight and Tommy supports the right half. Robert complains the entire way, saying Ruben could at least pick up his foot and try. He is silenced, however, when Tommy says that he’s clearly been drugged—likely as a common procedure for an amputee check-up. Cecil stays behind to tend to Doctor Fulmer and ask him more questions regarding the ‘attack’.

Ruben hates everything about this. His entire life, he has been more than competent in keeping himself and his loved ones safe. Ever since his leg was injured, he cannot seem to do anything but the opposite of that. Everyone he loves has been hurt in some way, and he has been reduced to a pathetic animal who can hardly even walk on his own. It would be easier if you and Birdie were here. Perhaps he could even manage a smile.

A few minutes later, Ruben is being laid out on his bed. Robert scoffs as he leaves the room as hastily as possible, likely to deliver his account to Marlene before Tommy has the chance. But Tommy does not appear so convinced that he needs to persuade her. 

Tommy pulls a blanket up to Ruben’s chin and sits on the edge of his mattress, staring down at him with a frown. 

“I always thought that guy was weird. Ever since I heard ‘bout ‘im from Marlene, I knew there was somethin’ off.” Tommy says with a heavy sigh. He braces his hands on his knees, tucking his head between his shoulders. “Ya don’t know me very well, I know, but I hope we can become better friends in the future. You’re a good guy, Ruben. ‘N we all know the world needs more good guys. So whatever ya say Doctor Fucker did in there, I’ll believe ya. No questions, no comments. I’ll take your side ‘n try my hardest to make Marlene take it, too. Ya deserve somethin’ to go your way for once.”

Ruben would cry if he weren’t rendered unable. He would cry and hug Tommy for as long as he’s allowed. Perhaps it’s a good thing he’s drugged, lest he make an absolute embarrassment of himself—even more so than he already has.

With a small smile, Tommy stands up. “I’ll get Ellie. I know y’all ain’t exactly on the best terms right now, but she’s the closest thing to a friend you’ve got—and you’re the closest thing to family she’s got. If ya weren’t high as a kite, I’d tell ya to talk to her your damn self. But as it stands, I’ll do the talkin’. No need’a thank me.”

One last fond smile is sent Ruben’s way before Tommy sweeps out of the room to retrieve Ellie.

The rest of Thirteen is still sleeping, save for the miners and higher-up leaders—hence why Robert, Cecil, Maria, and Tommy were so quick to action this morning. It’s a good thing everyone is asleep, too, because it would have been even harder for Ruben to be pulled back to his compartment if the halls were all crowded beyond belief. It was difficult enough as it was, and they only passed a handful of people.

Ellie should be sleeping right now, too. Though Ruben doubts she’s able to get more than an hour of rest per night what with her nightmares and Oakley’s teething. Still, he cannot help but feel guilty for having her roused for his sake. Thirteen is freezing cold and it’s nigh torture to leave the warmth of one’s bed. Due to how far underground they are, the lack of wood to build fires, and the stone stripping all heat from the air, it’s undeniably fucking frigid.

But still, Tommy was right: Ruben and Ellie aren’t on the best terms right now.

Mainly because, every time he sees her, he thinks of you. He sees the woman whom you loved so much and hates that he cannot bring himself to treat her with the kindness you would want him to. Because, while he can see Ellie as that doting girl from Seven, he can also see her as that cruel victor from the Quell. He can still see the roughness in her which drew her to abscond you in the arena. He thinks of how she’d left and cannot unsee your tears nor unhear your broken cries. Ellie’s leaving ruined you.

For that, Ruben cannot treat her with the same brotherly love he’d once have been able to conjure. He cannot laugh with her and smile at her. He cannot confide in her and trust in her. He cannot see her as a friend, as a member of his family.

But, for you, Ruben cannot loathe her. He cannot hate the voice you’d once fallen asleep to. He cannot hate the hands which you’d once held so softly in your own. He cannot glare into the eyes you’d once memorized. He cannot hate the woman who you once wanted to spend eternity with.

That is why Ruben and Ellie aren't on the best terms. Ruben doesn’t know what to do with himself. Would you understand if he were to ignore her to avoid the turmoil her face brings him? Would you understand if he were to forgive her for leaving you? Every breath he takes, he takes it for you; every decision he makes, he makes it for you. Ruben lives for the sole purpose of seeing you returned. His heart beats in the steady thump of a timer awaiting your return. He wants more than anything to die. He wants to leave this world and never again have to imagine the terrors which are being inflicted upon you and Birdie. He wants to never return. But he has to keep going—he has to keep living—so that he may see you again. Before he dies, he will make sure that you kiss Ellie again, that you hold Oakley again. He will give you the family you deserve before taking away the one that you never asked for.

“Ruben?” Ellie is out of breath when she bursts into the room.

She would have arrived much, much sooner without that limp slowing her down. It’s nigh imperceptible at this point, but he can still see the pain which her stitched torso causes. He notices that she only carries Oakley on one side and that, when she stands for too long, she grows restless with discomfort. She is holding Oakley on that same side, heaving for breath as her anxious eyes land on Ruben’s unmoving form.  You’re the closest thing to family she’s got. Damn Tommy and his stupid fucking words.

“Tommy told me what happened.” She says, walking over to the bed with a heavy frown. When she reaches his side, she extends the hand which isn’t holding Oakley. Her fingers are warm against his throat, feeling for a pulse. “He told me you were drugged, but– but I just had to be sure. Sorry.”

There’s an awkward pause which Ruben wishes he could fill. Instead he stares at her, rendered silent and immobile. He tries to imagine all the things which Fulmer could do with this drug if he truly desired; he imagines all the things which Fulmer has done. 

“I don’t know exactly what happened, of course, but Tommy told me what he could. He said everything should be taken with a grain of salt because it was only the doctor’s account who he’d heard. He said you stabbed him in the face when you thought he had something to do with kidnapping Y/n?” Ellie settles on the edge of the bed, in the same exact spot Tommy had priorly rested. She places Oakley on the floor, watching from above as he explores the room. “It’s easy to forget that he can walk now. Despite having only been away for a week, he’s grown a lot. Cricket apologized profusely when she told me that– that Y/n and I missed his first steps. And I told her it was fine, that she couldn’t control it, but I was still crying. I couldn’t stop. Y/n had– she had at least five different books about how to teach babies to walk. She wanted to be there so bad. I think it’s because you were there for her first steps. And that’s a really special thing, even though she can’t remember it.”

Ellie leans back, her hands bracing most of her weight as her eyes follow Oakley around the room. He waddles across the floor—which Ruben has a rug placed specially so Oakley won’t crack his head on the concrete when he walks around. Ruben wishes he could turn his head and watch him, too, but can only see the ceiling and the side of Ellie’s face.

“I want to kill Robert.” She suddenly blurts. “If that doctor had anything to do with Y/n or is associated to what’s happening in any way, Robert has no fucking authority over how he should be dealt with. If you ask me, Marlene doesn’t have that authority either. It should be placed in Y/n’s hands, ideally, but the next closest thing would be mine and yours. We should decide his fate—rather, his death.” There’s a pause, then she takes a deep breath and turns toward him. “I believe you, Ruben, and only you. If the doctor is telling the truth, then I’m sure you attacked him for a good reason. But if everything the doctor has said is bullshit, then he has reason to lie and thereby is guilty. The man is a piece of shit no matter what, it seems like. So I won’t make any definitive claims until you’re able to make your own account. And when you do, I will be on your side. Even if Marlene says you're wrong—hell, even if the whole world says you’re wrong—I will always be by your side. Not only because it’s what Y/n would want, but because it’s what I want.”

There’s a soft thud from the other side of the room. Ellie gasps. He can’t turn to see if Oakley is okay, only imagine what could possibly have happened. Instantly, a series of thoughts run through Ruben’s mind. He imagines Oakley hitting his head on the stone wall and bleeding, he imagines Oakley falling over onto the floor and bleeding, he imagines Oakley walking into something hard and bleeding, he imagines–

“He’s fine.” Ellie’s hand is on his shoulder. “He picked up a book and dropped it, Ruben, he’s fine.”

Apparently, his breathing started to pick up as his panic set in. Even as Ellie continues to describe how perfectly fine Oakley is, Ruben cannot stop himself from imagining the most terrible scenarios. His breathing only slows down when she leaves the bed, grabs her son, and holds him out in front of Ruben’s line of sight. Sure enough, Oakley is unharmed. He blinks down at his uncle, eyes wide with curiosity. There is a string hanging from his clenched fist, which was presumably yanked from the rug. Then Ellie places him back onto the floor, hops back onto the bed, and smiles down at Ruben. 

“You’re so much like her, you know.” Her voice is almost too quiet to hear. “Sometimes, it hurts just to look at you because all I can see is her. You have the same colored eyes, the same texture of hair, and the same smile. But what really stands out is your incessant worrying. You worry about Oakley almost as terribly as she did. That’s why she had so many of those baby books, she– she could never trust herself enough to just live. She needed everything to be proven by a scientific fact or else she wouldn’t take the risk. 

And– And I hope you don’t hate me for what I did. I regret having left her, but I don’t regret going after Abigail. I loved Joel with every fiber of my being. He was my only family and I would have died to keep him safe, just as I would die for Y/n, Oakley, and you. I never had a father, not even for a second. But Joel was pretty damn close. I only wish avenging him didn’t cost this. I wish I could have never left the sanctity of Seven. I wish I died in those fucking spores with everybody else. I wish I was sleeping in bed with Y/n and Oakley when it happened: curled up and warm, then just– dead. No pain, no misery. Just dead. And I wish the same thing would happen to them. I wish Y/n didn’t have to experience everything in the Capitol which she is certain to be enduring, and I wish Oakley didn’t have to spend his toddler years underground in some sort of war-time bunker. They both deserve better than that. But this world can offer nothing better. So I wish we were all dead and you were, too. I wish we could all find that ‘better’ in the next life.”

Ruben blinks and something wet slides from the corner of his eye. 

“We all deserve better.”

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆   they're

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[firefly-ace]

rewatching mockingjay part 1 & in tears over theorizing simple living things arc 3

[firefly-ace]

plotting.

literally.

[firefly-ace]

take me to church i’ll never forget what white millennial christian women did to you.

[vxsellie]

❛ LIKE A PRAYER ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔦𝔦

wc. 6 725

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

...

THE CAPITOL.

Time is a luxury which prisoners of war cannot afford.

The steady pace with which it marches onward is deafening to all those who hear it. But what of those who cannot—those whose ears have been plugged and eyes have been blindfolded? Does time cease to exist when mankind is not looking? Or does it continue despite holding no audience? 

Abigail paces back and forth, though she does not know for how long. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. Her bare feet pat across the floor. It’s made up of white tiles, which she counts in her head over and over until the appeal eventually wanes. She places her hands on the walls, searching for a weak spot or a hole or– something. Alas, there is nothing. The walls are white and padded with something soft. She supposes that’s to stop the prisoners from killing themselves. She lays on the floor, flat on her back, and stares up at the ceiling. It looks similar to the floor with its geometric quadrilaterals. The light which hangs from it is nigh blinding. It buzzes with electricity and she wonders, vaguely, if it would be a mercy for it to fall on her. But it doesn’t.

She memorizes every single thing in the room—cell, more like—until it is so engraved into her mind that she could map every inch of the space with her eyes closed. She knows the little dent in the right wall. She knows the thin crack in one of the tiles—the one which is in the second column and fourth row. She knows the exact height and width of the toilet. She knows that the innards of the toilet have been removed to avoid being used as a weapon. She knows the amount of springs in her mattress after having ripped the entire thing open and having it replaced the next day. She knows everything of the cell so intimately that it feels like a piece of herself has been divided into its existence. Perhaps she has been here for years. Perhaps this little white room is her new home. 

The only source of reality she is able to cling to is the frequency with which she is taken from her cell and escorted down the sterile, white hallway to another room. This other room is equally as etched into her brain as her own. There are machines and a rolling tray of tools. There is a dentist chair in the center, where she is expected to sit each time. There are four Peacekeepers lining the walls like paint, and there is a doctor sitting to the left of her chair. His is the only face she has seen since the arena. The Peacekeepers masks do not count. And she has not looked in a mirror in a long, long time.

The doctor calls himself ‘Fulmer’—which she assumes is his last name. He speaks in the third person quite often, making her feel like he’s somehow distanced from his physical being. She wonders if he is as much a prisoner here as she is. But she doubts it, for some reason. Because when he inflicts pain on her and the screaming starts, he does not look opposed. He looks pleased.

After each session, she is injected with a deep violet serum with a syringe. She never remembers passing out, only that she wakes up on the floor of her cell later. She could not say how long later. Hours, days, months? She does not know. 

What she does know is that there is a schedule. She can hear the other prisoners being tortured for the same information as she, and, after some time of contemplation, she is able to put a name to their screams. Thea Thatcher, Penelope L/n, and you.

Thea, she thinks, is whose proximity is closest, for her screams are nearest. Her cell must be directly neighboring Abigail’s own, for she can sometimes hear her banging against the door. When Thea is taken to Doctor Fulmer, she does so screaming and thrashing. The Peacekeepers eventually start to drug her first so that they can carry her down the hall. Thea is a fighter, Abigail will give her that, and it’s almost admirable if it weren’t so fruitless. With each passing day—or what is assumed to be a day—hopes of being rescued grow thin. She listens to Thea’s fighting and feels naught but pity. Soon, very soon, she shall come to the same conclusion. And, sure enough, she does. Thea’s cell eventually falls quiet as she stops screaming and stops thrashing. Abigail wonders if she has memorized her cell, too; if she has become as deeply acquainted with captivity as Abigail has.

There is also Penelope, who is farther away but not so far that Abigail cannot hear her sessions. She must be in the same hallway yet not so near as Thea. And, when Penelope is taken to Doctor Fulmer, she does so without a fight. She rarely screams, but sometimes cannot help herself. She tries to keep quiet during her sessions, Abigail can tell, but once the doctor learns what gets to her, the screams become more recurring. And soon, her tenacity is equally as fractured as the rest of them.

Then—worst of all—is you. You are taken to Doctor Fulmer ten times for each visit Abigail pays. Your pain is chronic, endless, and eternal. None of them hold a candle to you. The raw desperation with which your voice sounds is nigh indescribable. It bounces off the walls and travels through the air vents. Abigail cannot sear it from her mind; she cannot plug her ears against it. It’s maddening. She can only imagine what they’ve done to you: the shining sun of the rebellion. What makes it worse is how frequent it is. Whenever she attempts to gain a wink of sleep, you scream. Whenever she sits down on the toilet, you scream. Whenever she starts counting the tiles, you scream. It doesn’t stop; it will never stop.

Sometimes, between sessions with Doctor Fulmer, Abigail tries to busy her mind with things aside from the continuity of which you’re tortured. She sits on the edge of her mattress, knees against her chest, and clings to every thought pertaining to those she loves. She thinks of Owen, but he’s slipping away from her. She can no longer recall the exact depth of his voice nor the exact amount of freckles on his body. She tries to remember her favorite memories of him, but they’re shattered like glass. Each piece is scattered across her mind and whenever she tries to pick one up, she is only hurt more.

She tries, too, to think of those she does not love. She wants to feel something—anything—aside from the numbness that floods her whenever she is in this cell. She thinks of Joel Miller, but can no longer feel any relief in his death. Not after knowing what it brought her: nothing. She thinks of Ellie Williams, who massacred her friends and slaughtered the love of her life, but that’s even worse. Every time she tries to hate Ellie, she can only imagine the fervency with which she is trying to get to you. She can only imagine the horror which will don her face when she sees how little of your light you’ve retained. Abigail cannot bring herself to hate Ellie because she cannot bring herself to stop listening to you. She feels only pity for the two of you, no matter what futilities fueled her past feelings. None of that matters anymore; none of that will change anything.

There is one occurrence in which you alter the sessions indelibly. Your pain has only multiplied over time and, eventually, you start saying names. A list of them. You scream for them, beg them for help. She can hear each one clear as day and does not need to guess who they are. Ruben, first and foremost—which brings a weight of pain to Abigail’s chest at knowing she no longer has any family left to cry out for. Ellie, with the most pain—which sends bumps all over Abigail’s skin because she can only think of Owen and how she would love to have the luxury of thinking he was out there, somewhere, looking for her. Thea, thirdly—which is the only one on your list which earns a response. At the sound of her name, Thea begins screaming in turn. She assures you that she is here, that she can hear you. The sound of banging and shattering can be heard through the walls and Abigail wishes she would stop, because it will result in nothing benign. A moment later, she can hear a troop of Peacekeepers file down the hallway, slam open Thea’s door, and the room goes silent once more.

That’s when Doctor Fulmer realizes how he can use the victors against one another.

The following session Abigail endures after this, she is hooked up to a machine she does not recognize. She is so focused on committing it to memory that she misses Doctor Fulmer’s first question. For that, she earns a whip to her leg. She screams out, suddenly wholly focused on the man’s face hovering over her. He repeats his inquiry: “Where are the Fireflies hiding?” When she does not respond, the foreign machine buzzes into action. Images flood through her mind. People, places, memories. They whiz past her consciousness like a train whizzing past the Districts on the way to the Capitol. 

Finally, it stops on one memory in particular. Just long enough for her to see her father’s face. He is smiling at her, his eyes crinkled and his skin wrinkled. She knows, deep down, that he never lived to be this old, but she cannot help thinking that it is real. She can feel his hand on her head as though it were really, truly there. She can feel the weight of each finger, she can feel the heat of his palm. Then the image shifts and she can hear his lungs begin to rattle. Just as she lifts her head toward his face, blood begins to pool from his fingers. It gets in her eyes, in her nose, in her mouth. She screams, thrashes, and tries to get away. His hand is anchored on her skull and she cannot evade it. He is dead. Again, he is dead. All over again, he is dead. There is a voice which suddenly caresses the shell of her ear, asking for information. When she continues to scream instead of responding, she can feel another lashing land against her thighs. Then another and another. She begins to cry and the voice repeats itself: “Where are the Fireflies, Miss Anderson?”

She cannot breathe, she cannot speak. Another lashing. She will not be able to walk for days—though it’s unlikely she will be going anywhere. Another. Another. She opens her mouth, murmuring, “Thirteen.”

As time passes, the sessions grow worse. It has been an eternity, no doubt, since she was thrown in here. The Capitol becomes more desperate for information, thus caring less for the prisoners’ sanity. Her head is flooded with images and memories. Some of them don’t belong to her, but feel so real that she does not know which ones. She watches Owen kill her father; she watches her mother die; she watches Ellie kiss Melanie; she watches Ellie kill her father; she watches Manny kill her father; she watches her father kill Owen. She can no longer keep track of what’s real and what’s not.

The cell she is kept in becomes less and less familiar to her. She wonders why it had ever been familiar to begin with? Had this been her home at some point? How long has she been here? Who was she before she was brought here? She counts the tiles on the floor, but the numbers grow jumbled and she cannot recall what successes four, nor what is the predecessor to fifty. She tries to count each strand of her hair, but cannot count anymore. Who taught her to count? Her mother, her father, or a mentor? Does it matter? She doesn’t think so.

She tries to dissect the toilet, searching for a nail she can stab herself with. But she finds all the innards removed. Since when were they gone? She tries to climb to the ceiling, but cannot reach. She folds her mattress over itself and stands on it, but still cannot reach the light. She lays on the floor, sprawled out like a star, and imagines the light falling down and crushing her. She wishes it would. 

Down the hallway, she can hear someone else enduring the same thing, though does not recognize the voice. She remembers the names of who was sent here with her: Thea Thatcher, Penelope L/n, and Y/n L/n. She tries to remember who is who. One of them was super bright, like the sun; one of them had the blondest hair she’d ever seen; one of them was old and cruel. But who was who? She plays this game with herself ceaselessly, listening to them all scream and cry while asking herself who it is. Which one is old, and what did she sound like? Abigail finds emotion in the most strange things, now. She laughs when the light buzzes. She cries when the toilet fizzes after she flushes it.

She no longer dreams, which she considers a luxury because she had grown sick of the nightmares. Her period has stopped, too, which is another luxury because she no longer has to awkwardly inform Doctor Fulmer of the details regarding her menstruation. She can no longer eat the food which is given to her by the doctor because she vomits it all back up each time she swallows it. She can feel her body withering away and she wonders if this is why Doctor Fulmer is so distanced from himself. She starts talking about herself in the third person, just like him, though there is nobody around to hear her. 

She continues to hear three voices who she does not recognize. She knows that she had once known their names, but she can no longer recall what they were. One of them is close, perhaps next door; one of them is far away, like miles; one of them is trapped in the walls. She tries to help them out of it, clawing at the fabric until it tears and her fingers are bleeding. For her destruction, Doctor Fulmer removed the thumb from her left hand. She wonders how many fingers she has, now.

She spends her time in the corner of her bedroom, curled up and rocking. She plugs her ears to be rid of the screams but they’re everywhere. She can hear the screams formulate into the shape of names. She tries to count how many, but cannot. She can repeat them, though. She can say the names over and over in hopes of them belonging to someone important. Maybe these people will help her. Maybe the voice in the wall is God. Maybe He’s trying to help her. Maybe He’s clawing at the other side, trying to get to her. She loses another finger when she tries to help Him out. The littlest one, this time, though she does not know which hand is left and which is right. She wonders how many fingers she has, now. She wonders how much of her is truly left inside.

She tries to remember the names which God has offered her: Ruben, Ellie, Joel, Thea, Penelope, Dina, Jesse, Remy, Oakley, Stephen, Tess, Cricket, Birdie, Kayce, Dakota, Theodore, Abigail, Selene, Catalina, Ariadne, Dahlia, Cooper, Maria. She does not know who any of these people are, but she mimics God regardless just in case they mean something. Like a prayer.

17:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

The first thought that traces through Ellie’s mind is you. Every single morning, as certain as the rising sun, it is you. Distance does not change that. Even whilst she is here: safe, sound, and protected by Marlene—and you are there: tortured, captive, and endangered by Fedra. Still, you are the first face she longs to see when consciousness rouses her. You’re the warmth in her bed that her arm stretches toward when she rolls over. You’re the voice she listens for when she wakes, fretful, from night terrors.

But you’re never there.

“El-ee.” She presses little Oakley’s hand to her lips, allowing him to feel the shape of her name. He watches her with wide eyes that had once belonged to Dakota. She blinks and, suddenly, he is sitting across from her and laughing at every vain attempt she makes at furthering his son’s speech. She can see it clear as day: the mirth in his eyes, the grin on his lips. 

Her focus falters and her breathing follows suit. She releases Oakley’s wrist and presses the heels of her palms against her watery eyes. She tries to cover her face to avoid the toddler seeing her in such a state, but he picks up on it regardless. He begins to whine, mirroring her stress as fussiness swells in his chest. She forces herself into composure, wiping roughly at her face and offering him a smile. He stares up at her, expression confused, as he struggles to process the display of emotions. Poor thing. She hardly understand her emotions herself; it must be a fucking labyrinth for him to puzzle out.

“Okay, then. If you can’t say Ellie, why don’t we try another name? A better name.” 

She leans over to the nightstand beside her bed and grabs hold of the only picture she has of you. It unfortunately isn’t sentimental, seeing as everything in Seven was burned down during the Games. The image is the same one which was used by the news broadcasters when they showed your evaluation score. You’re staring blankly forward with a strong determination in your eyes. It’s not at all how you would look at Oakley. 

Ellie holds the image in front of her face and says your name slowly. She breaks up the syllables so that they’re easier for Oakley to swallow and, to her surprise, he shifts toward her—toward you. He slaps a hand against the paper, like he’s trying to reach you. When your face crumbles under his touch, he begins to wail. Ellie tries not to cry herself, discarding the picture and pulling him into her lap. 

“I know, baby.” She says while rocking him gently against her chest. He continues to cry, but he quiets down to a low whimpering sound in his throat. She rubs his back and head the way she watched you do it. “She’ll come back, though. I promise. She’ll come back.”

Just as his tears begin to dry, the door to her compartment slams open and Oakley starts to wail again. She glowers at the person in the doorway. Upon seeing Joel standing there, however, she relaxes. Except it’s not Joel, it’s Tommy. He apologizes for having riled him up, but insists that her presence is needed by Marlene. 

“I don’t give a fuck what she has to say.” Ellie tells him the same thing she’s been telling him for the past four months. The same thing which results in naught but infighting and added stress. “That is, unless she’s finally planning to invade the Capitol and bring my wife back to me.”

Tommy sighs. He enters the compartment, shutting the door softly behind him as Ellie tries to console Oakley back into quietude. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. His expression wears the same mien which Joel wore right before the Quarter Quell: a heavy fatigue, yet a determination to appear strong. She turns away from him, hoping he doesn’t feel insulted by it. 

“I know what you’re feelin’.” He tells her, though she doubts it. “Maria ‘n I were separated for years before bein’ reunited. Jus’ like you, one of us was with the Capitol ‘n the other was with the Fireflies. Y’need to be patient, Ellie, or nothin’ will happen. Marlene’ll think you’re actin’ on impulse. Show ‘er that you’re clear-headed ‘n she might jus’ listen to ya. Climb the ranks, make her rely on ya.”

“She raised me from infancy.” Ellie tries to keep the emotion from her voice. “ I shouldn’t have to climb the ranks to make her care about my feelings.”

Tommy rests a hand on Ellie’s shoulder and she tries not to flinch away from it. It takes a conscious effort to remain relaxed beneath his palm—so much so that her sudden tenseness begins to upset Oakley again. When he starts to whine, Tommy releases her. Once again, she hopes he doesn’t feel insulted. 

“You’ve got so many people here who care ‘bout ya.” Tommy says. “Ya don’t need Marlene, but it would be smart t’make her need you.”

She stands from the bed. “Fine. I’ll go see Marlene but Oakley is coming with me.”

“Ellie, everyone assumes he’ll be with ya no matter what.”

“Good.” She pushes from the compartment, leaving Tommy perched on the edge of her bed and your face crumpled atop the duvet. 

The entirety of Thirteen is forged by rock and metal. The floors are concrete, the walls are stone, and the ceilings are laced with thick pipes. Living underground has been a torrid affair for Ellie, for she can no longer hunt or paint or do any of the things which had once brought her solace. 

She holds Oakley close against her chest as she weaves through the crowded hallway toward Marlene’s office. Her quarters are across Thirteen from where everyone else resides, forcing any visitors to cross the entire District to reach her. It reminds Ellie eerily of how Fedra lives in an enormous mansion to distance himself from the rest of the citizens. She wonders if Marlene is aware of the similarities between herself and Fedra.

When Ellie first arrived in Thirteen after the Quell, she was beyond relieved to learn that Marlene was the leader of the Fireflies. She thought that, surely, Marlene would help her through the tribulations of getting you back. Alas, she has done little to aid in the endeavour. Ellie has begged her thrice each day for the past four months. Once, she even sank to her knees and sobbed. But Marlene still displayed no pity, only stepping backward and demanding for Ellie to be removed from her office. She has thus been prohibited from entering Marlene’s quarters unless priorly invited.

Ellie tries to band together her own army to save you, but nobody would listen to her. The citizens of Thirteen are all held under the guise that Marlene is already doing everything in her power to see you returned. But they do not see what Ellie sees; they do not know how much Marlene already dislikes you. They know nothing and they are thereby useless to her. All of those who have shown interest in aiding her still only add up to a handful of people. And most of them aren’t able-bodied enough to actually help. It’s all so maddening. She feels so powerless. 

“Ellie!”

She turns to find Dina and Jesse both approaching her from the other end of the hallway. She stops walking to allow them time to catch up to her. 

They both look much healthier than they have in weeks. Dina’s hair is brushed, her skin is clean, and her stomach is swollen to a prominent baby bump. She is now six months pregnant with her son, whose gender she was glad to be informed of when Thirteen performed an ultrasound on her when she returned from the Quell and was healthy enough to attend a doctor’s visit. She has been taking vitamins to help with her morning sickness and tolerance for smells. Jesse, too, looks much better than before. He wears a wide grin on his lips which sets a stone of guilt in the pit of Ellie’s stomach for having abandoned them during the Quell. She has apologized profusely, but they assure her that it’s fine. They even claimed to have been glad that she left after learning that she was able to reunite with you while away. But none of their consolations will ever ease the iniquity marring her conscience.

“Heading for Marlene’s office?” Jesse asks while Dina makes silly faces at Oakley, who giggles and reaches for her. “Tommy just said that she wanted to see us, too. Something about District Five, I think.”

“District Five?” 

He shrugs. “I’ve heard that it was a neutral District, but maybe they’ve finally swayed to our side?”

“Or swayed against it.” She mutters under her breath.

Dina focuses on the conversation and frowns at her words. “You’re too pessimistic, Ellie. It’s no wonder you’re so stressed all the time when you don’t allow yourself a moment to relax.”

“How am I meant to relax when my home was burned down, my son still can’t talk, and my wife is being actively tortured by our tyrannical government?” Ellie snaps. “Please tell me how I should relax, Dina, because I’d love to hear it.”

“You’re right.” Dina’s voice holds the weight of genuine remorse. “I’m sorry.”

“Oakley still can’t talk?” Jesse asks, peering at the boy clung to her front. “Why is that a bad thing? He’s just a baby.”

“He's not a baby, he’s a toddler. He’s a year and five months old.” She tells him haughtily. “And it’s a bad thing because all the books I’ve read claim that babies should have said their first word by the time they’re ten months old. He’s said nothing. I’m scared that his development is delayed because of the trauma he suffered as a baby. He lost both parents and watched his home burn down. That has to be the reason for his lack of speech, right? Unless I’m doing something wrong, which I wouldn’t be surprised if–”

“Woah, woah.” Dina laughs to defuse the anxiety building in Ellie’s chest. It doesn’t do much. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re the best mom I’ve ever met and I could only dream of being as natural at it as you are. Perhaps you’re a little clingy to him, yes, but that’s understandable. You’ve both been through a lot and it’s completely normal for his development to be stunted due to that. Jesse’s mom just recently told me that he didn’t start talking until he was a year old. Even then, he only said a few words. And look—he turned out pretty alright, don’t you think?”

Ellie turns toward Jesse with a frown. He offers her a crooked smile and says, “I think you’re reading too many parenting guides. You don’t need that shit. Just trust your gut and do what you think is best for your son. Those authors don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Y/n used to read parenting guides all the time.” She says quietly, almost like it’s a secret. She doesn’t miss the way Dina and Jesse both shut up at that, perhaps unsure what they could possibly say. Ellie sighs, trying to articulate her thoughts. “Maybe it’s stupid, but reading them makes her feel closer to me. I tell myself she would be parenting him through books if it were her in Thirteen and me in the Capitol, and it helps me feel like I’m doing something right. Because she was the best mom and she would be reading them.”

“It’s not stupid.” Dina lays a hand on her arm and she pulls away from it. Not because she holds any distaste for Dina, but because she cannot stand the feel of anyone’s hands on her skin aside from Oakley’s and yours. Unlike Tommy, Ellie feels comfortable enough to pull away from Dina when she feels uncomfortable because she knows Dina won’t feel insulted. She understands and she smiles at her despite the motion. “It’s not stupid, Ellie, but I wish you would trust yourself more often. I don’t think you realize how many people put their faith in you. It’s only sensible to put your own faith in you, too.”

Ellie doesn’t have the opportunity to tell Dina that she doesn’t know how to put faith in herself. The time is taken away when they enter Marlene’s quarters. The hallways grew steadily less crowded as they got closer to her side of the District until, eventually, it was just the four of them. The sound of their footsteps resound off the rock walls. 

Marlene’s quarters hold more than just her bedroom compartment, but also her office, a private bathroom, a drawing room, and more doors than Ellie can count. It feels like a castle on this side of Thirteen while the other side feels like a pigpen: crowded and caked with grime. It’s as dehumanizing as the contrast between the Capitol and District Twelve. 

When they reach the door leading to the conference room, Jesse’s hand dithers before turning the handle and holding it open for his companions. Ellie enters first, on instinct, to find the table is already full of the people in highest authority over Thirteen: Marlene as the leader, Tommy as her advisor, Maria as her strategist, and Robert as her key propagandist and supply smuggler. The rest of the table holds the necessary consultants to keep the peace. She only invites the rest of them for the sake of democracy. These people consist of Ellie, Dina, Jesse, Yasmin, Stephen, Cecil, and Ruben. 

As they situate themselves around the table, Ellie sits between Ruben and Dina. Ruben smiles when she approaches, but it’s thin and forced. He offers to take Oakley from her and she allows him, knowing he’s one of the only people she trusts enough to touch him. Oakley makes a cacophony of happy noises when Ruben positions his nephew on his lap.

Marlene clears her throat roughly. “I thank you all for sparing the time to gather here today. I’ve called each of you here to discuss the precarious conditions in Districts Five, Four, and Ten. Each of these Districts are delicately balanced between either side of this war. While Ten leans more toward joining the Capitol, Four and Five lean more toward our side.” She then gestures toward Maria with a diplomatic sweep of her hand. “Miss Miller, if you will?”

“I’ve collected data from a number of citizens from each of these Districts to best predict how each one will most likely be swayed as the war progresses.” Her voice wavers slightly as she straightens her stack of papers atop the table. 

“How many citizens?” Yasmin sneers.

Maria falters at the interruption when one of her papers cuts her index finger. She winces before turning to Yasmin with the most kind expression she can possibly conjure. Still, the resentment in her voice is palpable in the air as she speaks. “Pardon?”

“If you have not collected data from each and every citizen in each and every District, how are we to confidently deem your predictions as reliable?” Yasmin inquires. “You’re expecting the entirety of Thirteen to rely on a mathematical equation for the safety of their lives. Please excuse my lack of faith, but I do not see how that is viable in the least.”

“I’ve collected hundreds of thousands of responses, Yasmin. The math is reliable–”

“‘The math is reliable’.” She scoffs. “I would not trust those numbers if they came from the smartest person in the country. Numbers and calculations cannot predict the future, Maria. There is no point in–”

“I am sorry to hear that you disagree with Miss Miller’s mode of research.” Marlene suddenly chimes in, drawing both women into silence. “But if you interrupt this meeting again, I will call for your removal and no longer be in need of your counsel. Do you understand?”

Yasmin bites her cheek so hard that Ellie can see the tension in her jaw. She is not used to taking orders from anybody outside of her family. Even when she was affiliated with the Capitolites, Yasmin rarely heeded their demands because she knew she was not disposable. Here, however, she can be tossed away as easily as any other person. She holds his Diamondcy here; she holds no power here. And thus she mutters: “Yes, ma’am.”

“Please. Carry on, Miss Miller.” Marlene instructs. And, despite their recent argument and endless feud, Ellie sees an expression of pity cross Maria’s face as she watches Yasmin cower away from authority.

“Um.” She straightens her papers again and again. “Four is typically a very patriotic District due to their direct relations to the L/n family. They are very proud of their victors and therefore agree with their sentiments. When the L/ns were more closely laced within the Capitol, so was the entirety of Four. However, as the family has distanced itself farther from the tyranny of President Fedra, the people have followed suit. Even more so after the news of Y/n L/n’s abduction was made public. Therefore, I have a very strong belief that District Four will join our cause when the time comes.”

As soon as the mention of your captivity is spoken, Ellie has to refrain from showing any evident display of her emotions. It feels like everyone is looking at her, even when she knows they are not. She feels Ruben’s knee knock against her own and she glances at him. But he’s not looking at her. She is grateful for the contact because, alongside you and Oakley, she is willing to accept touch from Ruben as well. Because when she looks at him, she sees the fear in your eyes when you explained the gravity of his injury. When she looks at him, she sees the risks that you took for him to be alive. The breath in his lungs is nothing short of a miracle.

“As for District Five, they aren’t nearly as renowned for their patriotism as Four. In fact, their citizens seem to have been leaning toward a rebellion since witnessing the deaths of their tributes, Ariadne Evans and Selene Jones, last year. Their fates were gruesome and tragic, which seemed to have stirred up a lot of prejudice against those from the Capitol. Protests and boycotts have been happening all across the District for the past year and a half.”

“Well– If I may… Seeing as they’ve been leaning toward rebellion for over a year, why have they not yet joined Thirteen?” Cecil Bowe’s question is wholly genuine but he still glances warily toward Marlene, appearing almost fearful of her reaction. 

“Employment.” Maria replies easily. “Being the electricity District, they know how easily they can be replaced by District Two if they were to leave. And, in leaving, they believe that their men will be put out of work and their families will suffer. That is the only reason”

Ellie remembers very little about District Five but, considering the fact that Maria and Yasmin are both victors from Five, she supposes they make up for her lack of knowledge on it. She remembers Ari and Selene, though. Much more than she wishes she had. It’s a great relief, however, to bear witness to the shift in her country. Only a few years ago, the Districts would not have cared about the deaths of their tributes. And yet, the deaths of tributes are now influencing the very outcome of a war. She knows Ari would be proud.

“District Ten, on the other hand, has been historically neutral in almost all political occurrences. Very similar to District Five, they have yet to choose a side due to their lack of wealth as the agriculture District. They believe that, if they were to side with Thirteen, they would be completely put out of jobs. So they remain neutral so as to keep their men employed and their families fed. What pushes them more toward Fedra’s cause is the death of Owen Moore. He was beloved by many, if not all, and his murder was deemed undeserved and immoral considering his pregnant wife, Melanie Moore, suffered the same fate.”

This time, Ellie knows she is not imagining the eyes which suddenly turn to her. She swallows, holding her chin high as she continues to listen to the meeting push onward. In hindsight, she knows she fucked up when it came to avenging Joel. And yet she would do it again, even now. Perhaps she wouldn’t do it again alone knowing the fate you are forced to endure due to her decision, but she would certainly go after her. Owen’s death was naught but a stepping stone in the greater scheme of things. He was one mere step leading up the staircase to the sweet release of killing Abigail. 

“Seems like we need’a let the Districts know that we’ve got jobs for ‘em to fill.” Tommy says, reclining back in his chair to snag the attention away from Ellie. She is grateful for it. 

“And how do you propose we do that?” Robert says through a jibe, glaring across the table. “Round up all the Districts?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “We ain’t livin’ in the 1300s, Rob. We’ve got the same access t’ technology that the Capitol does. What’s stoppin’ us from runnin’ a propaganda campaign? We can stream it live ‘n inform the entire country ‘bout our cause in one recordin’.”

“What’s stopping us?” Robert barks out a laugh. “What’s stopping us is the fact that the Capitol can digitally trace out fingerprints back here. They can find our location.”

“Ain’t ya the key propagandist?” Tommy rests his elbows on the table, threateningly. “Why can’t ya jus’ figure out a way to prevent ‘em from findin’ us? Is that so hard?”

“Yes, actually.” He says. “It’s much easier said than done, Jackass. And also–”

“Boys.” Marlene’s voice cuts clear across the table and they both fall silent. She delivers them both a harsh glare, reeling in the reins of her two most trusted advisors. “Robert, you will puzzle out a way to stop the Capitol from tracing our location, then you and Maria will film a campaign which informs the Districts of our career opportunities. I want it broadcasted across the country by the end of next week, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Robert responds while offering a firm nod in Maria’s direction. 

“And Tommy, you will refrain from initiating childish arguments lest you want your position at this table to be replaced by your wife. After this meeting is adjourned, I want you, Stephen, and Cecil to take inventory of all the jobs in Thirteen which are filled and all which are not. Then you will deliver your calculations directly to me before dusk tomorrow. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says with a forced grin.

After a few more minutes of prolonged discussion, the meeting is officially adjourned and everyone begins filing out of the room. Marlene and Tommy remain at the table, however, positioned to discuss something important. Just as Ellie stands to follow behind her peers in taking her leave, Marlene calls out that she wants Ellie and Ruben to remain seated. They oblige.

When the door shuts behind Stephen and the room is enveloped in silence, Ellie begins to feel uncomfortable under the weight of Marlene’s gaze.

“I hear that you are still pressing to have Y/n abducted from the Capitol, Ellie.” She speaks.

“It’s not an abduction if she is being held captive there. It’s a rescue.” 

“I hardly care to debate etymology with you.” Marlene says. “I don’t address this to reopen old wounds, but to propose to you an option. The propaganda which Robert will be creating for the Districts needs to appeal to each of the emotions. While Tommy, Stephen, and Cecil are working toward attacking logos and I will be present to display ethos, I come asking if you will appeal to pathos. You will show yourself as a symbol for the war, you will be their reason to fight. You will act as their Helen of Troy.”

“Helen of Sparta.” Ellie corrects her. “And why should I help you when you refuse to help me?”

“Because, if you do this, I will aid in seeing your wife returned.” She pinches the bridge of her nose as she speaks, almost as though the mere notion of having you returned is a burden on her shoulders. Then she lifts her head and looks toward Ruben. “You will be their Menelaus. Ellie will be the symbol beckoning their attention, but you will be the voice drawing them into action. If the two of you do not oblige, Y/n will remain firmly locked within the Capitol for as long as I please. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” Ellie responds, purposely leaving out the courteous ‘yes, ma’am’ which displays obedient respect. Because Ellie holds no respect for Marlene—not anymore. She is not helping you from the goodness of her own heart, but for the benefit of her own narrative. Nothing about that is respectable.

She stands up and takes Oakley from Ruben’s outstretched arms. She then pulls his chair back far enough for Tommy to hop to his feet and help Ruben out of it. 

After arriving in Thirteen—and after the initial shock of having lost you wore off a bit—Ruben’s health became the barycenter around which all her thoughts orbited. She visited him every single day after his leg was given a proper surgery. He was kept in a wheelchair for a long time while the bone healed, and he was given a prosthetic last week. But he seems to still not have acclimatized to the feel of it. Not yet, at least.

Tommy bears half of Ruben’s weight as he helps him out of the chair then, once he is standing, Ruben insists that he can walk back to his room on his own. Tommy seems reluctant, but eventually nods and leaves him. Ellie walks beside Ruben toward the door, holding for him to limp out of.

The prosthetic is made from a sleek, black metal. The foot and the knee both bend mechanically, but not exactly naturally. She wonders what it feels like to no longer have a limb but then she thinks of you and supposes she does know what it’s like. It’s terrible.

“He’s getting big.” Ruben says after they’ve been walking in silence for more than a few minutes. 

The conversations between them have been stilted and awkward ever since the Quell, but she knows it’s wholly her fault. When he woke from his surgery to find Ellie asleep at his side, he cried. When she asked why he was upset, he said: “I saw you and immediately assumed my sister was somewhere nearby. Then I had to remember where she was all over again.” Ellie felt guilty because, had she not left, maybe things would have ended differently. She started to cry, too, which only made the whole ordeal even more awkward.

They see each other multiple times a day, now. He visits her compartment to see Oakley. He reads to him and feeds him and Ellie wonders if this is how Ruben raised you when you were a baby with virtually no parents to lean on. 

“Yeah,” she says, “he is.”

“Still not talking though, is he?”

She shakes her head and swallows harshly as a lump forms in her throat. “No.”

“He will soon.” Ruben assures her. She suddenly can’t seem to stop herself any longer. She starts blinking quickly, trying to hide her face from him. He pretends not to notice—either out of awkwardness or out of respect. “I heard Jesse didn’t start talking until he was a year old. Maybe Oak’s just a late bloomer.”

“Yeah, I heard that too.” She sniffles and clears her throat. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“He won’t be silent forever, Ellie. You’ve taken him to the doctor a hundred times in the past week, so you know nothing is wrong with him. He’s just as traumatized as the rest of us, and his body is protecting him. He’ll start talking when he’s given enough of a reason to.”

“That’s what I’m scared of.” She admits. “Am I not enough of a reason? Does he need his real parents?”

“Oh, Ellie.” Ruben stops walking and turns toward her. She stops too, but keeps her eyes trained firmly on the floor. He touches her arm and she pretends that it’s your hand instead. “You and Y/n are his real parents now. He needs nobody aside from the two of you. He probably feels her absence just as much as the rest of us.”

“I know he does.” She really starts crying then. Not just a few sniffles, but a full thing. Her chest starts to stutter and Oakley whines at the movement. “I showed him a picture of her this morning and her– he tried to grab her face. He did it the same way she used to grab his face. And I– I know he remembers her and, if he remembers what it was like to be near her and to be loved by her, he definitely misses her.”

“We’ll get her back.” Ruben’s voice is firm. “Doing this propaganda video is the closest we’ve been. Marlene gave us her word and we need to trust that she’ll honor it. If not, we can formulate our own group and raze the Capitol our damn selves. We’ll get her back. We’ll get all of them back.”

And, for some reason, Ellie believes him.

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆   This third arc is EXTREMELY heavy regarding sensitive topics. It will contain things such as suicide, sexual assault, and all the atrocities which come with war. As much as I would love to dilute these things, I think it is very important to acknowledge the cruelty of war - especially in our current political climate. In the past, I provided trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter but this arc is much too onerous to attempt doing that for. That being said, this is your ONLY warning. Please do not continue reading if you are not able to handle these things. I love you guys & I hope you enjoy!

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[breathinlove]

put me on twitch ellie williams smau

synopsis: ellie is a known youtuber and streamer and ure a somewhat new streamer and u both happen to be sapphic and share a very lesbian fanbase

009: lightweight sleepyness

taglist: @eilishfike @kmatrixx1130 @antihumangirl @forwardsreckonreboundddd @arlecchinosswife @firefly-ace @deertrxworld @almadellie @lesbones @munequitaas @yzwillie @justtbuggin @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @meamouraa

[firefly-ace]

my biggest pet peeve when someone is doing a literary analysis is when they say “parallel” but they mean “mirror”.

especially in Sunrise On the Reaping by Suzanne Collins (!!!SPOILERS AHEAD!!!) when comparing Haymitch and Lenore Dove with the gumdrops and Katniss and Peeta with the berries. how Katniss was able to stop Peeta from ingesting the poisonous nightlock berries and how Haymitch could stop Lenore Dove from eating the poisoned gumdrops. many refer to these as a parallel of each other however they are mirrors. (a mirror is a TYPE of parallel but i still feel the distinction is important) a parallel compares two moments which are virtually identical but a mirror highlights the contrasting elements (e.g LD dying and Peeta living)

it’s so minor but it ticks me off yk??

[kirafawn]

i can NOT stop thinking about this. so..

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

ellie williams with a gecko headcannons! (part 2 from last fic!!)

ellie williams with a pet gecko who! goes above and beyond to get the best stuff for it.

ellie williams with a pet gecko who! goes to reptile conventions and comes home with 3 bags worth of stuff.

ellie williams with a pet gecko who! starts most conversations with pictures of him as she doesnt know what else to say.

ellie williams with a pet gecko who! made a tiktok account for the gecko but it flopped really bad so she quit.

ellie williams with a pet gecko who! wants to have the gecko on her shoulder 24/7 because she thinks its cool but he never stays there for more than a minute.

[firefly-ace]

i have to remind myself that it’s okay to read trashy teen books for fun and like them while my peers are analyzing classics for fun. ITS OKAY. i’m still reading and enjoying myself and i can read the classics slowly so they don’t give me a headache. it’s okay. i’m not falling behind or stupid js because i dnf p&p or have been staring at little women for 2 years on my shelf

[firefly-ace]

i love the new theme it’s so prettyyyyy

thank you so much mootie <333

[strangergraphics]

floral spring dividers part two:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[firefly-ace]

i thought breaking bad was a dramadey about to guys who sell meth. jane. oh god, jane.

[vxsellie]

⌗ WEBBED !!

synopsis.  being new york's super hero is hard, but hiding her feelings for you is even harder. especially when you begin working as the daily bugle's photographer—thus forcing her to face the truth of her crush.

warnings. 3rd person omniscient. mentions of graffiti. desc. of loss of sleep and stress.

New York, despite its esteemed population density, floods with criminals.

Ellie has been gifted with the intangible power to counteract this evil but, instead, she spends her days ogling at a classmate. Can't blame her, though. Not when you look that good—legs crossed neatly beneath your desk, wrist rolling as you write in loopy cursive.

Her longing gaze is only drawn away from you when an elbow is thrusted into the side of her rib. She groans, frowning as she turns to Dina who does not wear an expression of regalement.

"You're staring again." Says she, keeping her voice low so as to not draw the attention of the lecturing professor. "Don't you have better things to do? For example, your assignment."

If only Ellie could tell Dina how insanely correct that statement is. Not only regarding her plethora of missing assignments in each class, but also the suit currently stuffed inside her backpack. A suit in which carries such a heavy weight that she sometimes wonders how the hell she's managed to bear such a burden on her own for so long.

An entire year, in fact, it's been since she was first bit by that god forsaken spider. More importantly, that also happened to be the day she first laid eyes on you. Your hair was held back by a thin, black headband that accentuated your features perfectly. From the slope of your nose to the plush of your lips, she was instantly enamored.

"Yeah yeah, whatever." Ellie grumbles, folding her arms over the desk before plopping her head atop them. She shuts her eyes for a minute.

That alleged minute passes far hastier than she'd anticipated. Her head snaps up at the sound of the boisterous bell announcing the end of school. Beside her, Dina is laughing under her breath. Ellie rolls her eyes, convinced that the other girl enjoys seeing her in agony.

She begins shoving her books into her backpack, complaining to Dina—who is not listening—about how irrevocably doomed her grade is for the semester. By the time Ellie has finished packing up, Dina had been waiting on her for two minutes. She's leaning against her friend's desk, arms crossed as she picks at the skin around her nails.

They're the last to leave the classroom thanks to Ellie's fucked up sleep schedule, meaning Jesse is already outside of their class.

"There you are!" He exclaims as the two girls finally walk out into the hall.

Ellie rolls her eyes, unamused. "Here we are."

"Let me guess, Ellie fell asleep in class again?"

"Yup." Dina confirms.

"Dude." Jesse turns to Ellie with an incredulous expression on his face. "You're going to fail all your classes."

"Thanks, Jess."

"I don't mean to be rude, Els, I'm just being honest." He says. "I'm your friend and I think it's important that you hear the truth sometimes. And the truth is that you need to straighten your shit out or you'll be retaking your junior year."

"I know." She sighs. "I'm not mad you, I'm just tired."

"Why have you been staying up so late, anyway?" Dina asks in a tone so soft it makes Ellie feel ashamed of herself. Not because it's her fault, she knows it isn't, but because she can't be honest with them.

The reason she's been staying up so late every night is because of the new villain terrorizing the people of New York—Firefly. She's some super buff chick with a braid that Ellie cannot, for the life of her, catch. Whenever she shows up to a crime scene, Firefly has already done irreparable damage and left. The only thing she leaves behind is a firefly logo spray painted onto a nearby building.

Ellie used to be really good at balancing her personal life and hero life—albeit having taken half a year to puzzle it out. She has a schedule, before Firefly's debut. She would wake every morning at five, do a quick patrol of the city, go to school, do another quick patrol, study with Dina and Jesse for an hour or so at a park or a cafe, patrol the city until ten o'clock, then be in bed by eleven. It was perfect. Even her grades were flourishing.

"Gaming." She lies right through her teeth, forced to bury the feeling of guilt that begins to coil up in her chest between her ribs.

Jesse frowns at her so heavily that she's certain he will have wrinkles in his face for the next month. "Without me?"

"Dude!" Dina elbows him. "You're supposed to be helping me confront her."

"You guys planned this?" Ellie stops walking, turning to them with a sour look on her face. Dina and Jesse both go silent, neither of them knowing how to respond to her. She scoffs. "So much for honesty."

They both start talking at the same time.

"We didn't want to make you feet—"

"We just want what's best for—"

Their overlapping statements are cut short at the same time when police sirens can be heard. Then, seconds later, red and blue flashing lights whiz past the high school, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere important.

Dina and Jesse turn to her, not nearly as tensed by that as she. Just as they begin to open their mouths once more, Ellie blurts out a shitty excuse as to why she needs to leave so suddenly. Then she rushes off campus, leaving them and their schemes behind her.

She ducks into an alley, reappearing from it clad in her suit—red and adorned with black lining. She flicks her wrist, relishing in the familiarity of the web that ejects from her vein. The web grips onto a nearby building before yanking her upward into the air. She inhales deeply as her body is flung through the sky.

The cars beneath her look minuscule in both size and relevance to her. She angles her limbs in the perfect way so as to adjust her speed and height accordingly. She soars through the streets of New York, weaving between buildings and power lines.

She arrives at the scene at the same time as the police, landing in the grass with a heavy thud.

The scene in question: a fallen tree blocking a five-lane road. Traffic is already backed up by a half hour, car horns and shouting drivers carrying through the air. The cops are exiting their vehicles as Ellie begins to shoot webs at the trunk of the fallen tree and begins to yank it from the road.

It looks and sounds easy but, in truth, the muscles in her arms are already burning with exertion. Her triceps scream at her to stop as she continues to pull upward.

That's when she hears the distinct ch-chink of a photo being taken.

She glances to the side for only a moment, not thinking much of it. But when her gaze lands on you, her entire body falters and the tree falls right back down onto the road, cracking the pavement under the impact. The drivers begin to honk and shout at her, vexed by the time added to the ETA.

Your eyes widen as you lower your camera, fearful that you'd distracted the hero.

God damn it, she thinks, why are you here?

It takes three minutes for her to remove the tree from the road and, this time, you don't dare take any pictures of the heroic act. When she's successfully slammed the tree into the grass, traffic is quick to resume.

The cops clap her on the back, thanking her shortly for her duty. Then they slide into their vehicles, turn on their lights, and speed through traffic without so much as a hair out of place.

"Hey,"

Ellie shuts her eyes, exhaling heavily. She is not looking forward to the way she's about to embarrass herself. She turns around to face you and, what the fuck? How have you managed to get ever prettier since she last saw you in class? It hasn't even been an hour.

"Hi." She replies awkwardly. Was that awkward? It probably was.

"I'm sorry for all that." You tell her. "I hadn't meant to cause any—"

"You didn't." She blurts out, instantly regretting it because now you're looking at her all pretty and confused. She scrambles to make sense of her own statement. "That was all me. I haven't worked out my arms in a while, so..."

You raise a brow at that, amusement tugging at the corner of your lips. "Spider-woman works out her arms?"

"Uh—" She squeezes her eyes shut, grimacing at hearing her words repeated back to her. Not only that, but the way you smirked nearly brought Ellie right to her knees.

"I'm sure the press will be dying to hear your routine." You take a step toward her and Ellie's heart is suddenly hammering in her chest. You're even prettier up close. "So why not get it out of the way?"

"Get—Get what out of the way?" She swallows harshly at your proximity, certain hear heart is about to beat right out of her chest.

You chuckle, taking a step back. "I'm your new journalist, Spider. I take pictures and then write articles about you."

"Right." She clears her throat, looking out at the street hoping to clear her mind of the thoughts clouding it—all of which pertain to you, of course. "That would explain the..."

"Camera?" You laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, shit, that—" She wants to drown herself. "I literally knew that."

"Well, I'd hope you'd know what a camera is."

"Not that, I meant—"

You giggle. "Don't worry, I know what you meant."

She turns her attention away from the street and toward you, finally taking the time to look at you. Every feature, every flaw—you're perfect. The camera hangs from your neck, looking effortless yet out of place enough to be noticed. It has the Daily Bugle's logo printed on the side.

You're suddenly checking your watch and cursing under your breath. "Shit, I've got to go. I expect to be shown your full work-out schedule next time, though, alright?"

"Yep, you got it." She replies, nodding curtly.

Amused by the esteemed hero's awkward dialogue, you laugh while walking away. She watches you for a long time. But then she feels like a creep and turns around, webbing herself up onto the roof of a random building.

Yeah, she'll be reliving this encounter for the rest of her life.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt

[firefly-ace]

Ellie Taking Care of Postpartum Dina

cw: nonsexual nudity wc: 1.7k

For the first time this week, the house was quiet. This was Ellie and Dina’s first actual week as parents and safe to say it was absolutely exhausting. They knew going into this that it would be a difficult and thankless job, but that would all be worth it. Safe to say, they still underestimated the actual tasks. Dina went into labor five days ago in the middle of the night, leading them to leave home at 3 am, and welcome their son, JJ, to the world at 2 pm that same day. Ever since they left the hospital it’s been extremely hard to get some time to breathe. Ellie sees the effect this venture has had on her wife, and as much as she does to help by taking most of the night shifts, making sure Dina is fed and clean, and taking JJ off her hands when Dina desperately needs a nap, she wishes she could help all the time, however living on a farm house comes with its unfortunate downsides of needing care everyday; so instead of being there for Dina and JJ all the time, she has to water and sew crops for the upcoming season, feed the animals, let them out, groom the horses, and milk the cows. But today, she has made time to help out; and today, JJ has finally settled down for a longer nap. Dina looks so exhausted, with bags under her eyes and the same shirt on as three days ago. Ellie takes JJ from Dina’s languid arms, and places him into his bassinet with a feather-like gentility so as to not wake him. He stirs a bit in his swaddle but otherwise falls back asleep. “Thanks…” Dina weakly mumbles with sleepy eyes which are drifting off even as they look at her lover. “C'mon mama, let me take care of you..” Ellie murmurs with a small smile, as she takes Dina’s hands in her own and pulls her up against her. Dina rests her cheek on Ellie’s shoulder and nuzzles her nose into her neck, letting her arms wrap themselves around the auburnette. “Babe, I love you, but I really just want a nap right now-” Ellie cuts her off with a small peck to her lips. After which she presses her forehead to Dina’s and mumbles quietly, “I know. I know you’re tired. But I also know that you need to have an actual moment to yourself and to relax.” She smiles and presses a kiss to her cheek lovingly, proceeding to trail them down to the curve where Dina’s neck meets her shoulder. “I’ll do all the work… Promise.” She adds with convincing puppy eyes.

Dina sighs, closes her eyes and nods. Ellie slowly leads her to the bathroom and lights some of her favorite incense and turns the faucet on to start the bath. Dina sits perched on a stool, watching Ellie work. “Will you get in with me?” She quietly asks as Ellie checks the temperature of the water to make sure it's ‘warm not hot’ as Dina’s doctor advised. “Well… I wasn’t planning on it, so I could wash your hair and stuff, but.. Do you want me to?” She looks back at Dina, whose face is tinged with insecurity. “Yeah. I still don’t exactly.. Feel comfortable with how my body looks yet and uhh- I.. I don’t really want you to look at me.” She timidly admits, and Ellie’s expression immediately softens as she looks at her, in an almost confused manner. “Why..?” She turns off the water and turns to face her. “Y’know… Everything?” Ellie’s face softens further and she moves to stand between Dina’s legs as she remains on the stool. Ellie’s hands cup her cheeks and guide Dina to meet her gaze. “Baby.. you’re so so beautiful.” Her hands drift down to the hem of Dina’s shirt and slowly pull it up. Her once flatter stomach is now bloated and still going back to its original size after having expanded to grow their son. Her breasts are larger as well as they now contain sustenance and nutrients for their baby. Her skin has changed, too, now, scattered in stretch marks from her body growing too fast for her skin to catch up. Dina’s eyes stay on Ellie's face, as if waiting for it to contort with disgust. But it doesn’t. God, no, of course it doesn’t. Ellie meets her gaze and lowers her stance whilst maintaining eye contact as she kisses along her collarbone, then her shoulders, then her breasts, being mindful of their possible soreness and reminding herself to be extra gentle. Her hands grasp at Dina’s hips and she lowers herself to her knees as her lips reverently map out her stomach. “You. Are. So. Beautiful.” Ellie makes out between kisses before she finally pulls away. “This is nothing to be ashamed of. God, you should be proud of this.. You carried our baby. You made our son. inside your body. Do you know how impressive that is?” Upon hearing her words, Dina lets out a tired little chuckle, her hand reaching down to swipe Ellie’s hair out of her eyes. Ellie dips two fingers under the waistband of Dina’s pajama pants and panties, wordlessly asking for permission to take them off. Dina nods and Ellie removes them, kissing Dina’s thighs along the way. “The soonest we are allowed and it is comfortable for you… I will properly worship you.” Dina’s cheeks flush and she smiles down at her lover. Ellie drops the clothes off into the hamper before helping Dina in the tub. The water is comfortably warm, and there’s enough room for Dina to comfortably lay her legs out in front of her. Ellie strips her shirt off, trapezius muscle flexing as the fabric leaves her shoulders and gets tossed in the hamper. She shimmies out of her boxers and gets in the bath behind Dina. Her arms wrap around her waist and she scatters kisses along her back and shoulders, murmuring small praises between them, only for her to hear. “Jeez it’s like you’re trying to eat me alive at this point.” Dina says but makes no effort to push Ellie off.

“Maybe I am.” Ellie whispers back, smiling against her skin. Her hands go to Dina’s hair, taking it out of its low bun. She takes the cup she brought with them and fills it up with water from the bath and starts wetting Dina’ hair. She immediately leans her head back, sighing with relaxation. Once her hair is fully drenched, Ellie takes a bottle of Dina’s favorite shampoo, infused with calming, rose essential oil, and massages it into her scalp. Dina lets out a soft moan, reveling in the quiet, relaxing moment. Ellie’s fingers work through her hair, getting it all covered in suds. She feels the tension in her wife’s muscles ease, releasing stress Dina hadn’t even realized was there.

Ellie guides Dina to tip her head back and she washes out the shampoo before reaching for Dina’s favorite hair mask and a wide-toothed comb. She lathers it to Dina’s long, curly hair, and gently gets out any knots with the comb before tying it up into a bun. She wipes the mask off her hands with a small towel and begins massaging Dina’s shoulders. Dina lets out a pleasure filled moan as all the knots in her shoulders are undone. Her muscles instantly feel looser and limper.

“Alright, babe, I’m sorry but you gotta stand up now..” Ellie whispers with a pout as she reaches past Dina to remove the plug from the tub and then help her wife up. In one hand, she holds Dina’s hand, with the other, she pulls the shower curtain around them. Ellie turns the shower head on, keeping Dina out of its way until the water properly warms up. Once the water is deemed adequate, Ellie undoes the bun in Dina’s hair and washes the hair mask out thoroughly, making sure none of it lingers. She takes Dina’s washcloth, squirting enough body wash on it and proceeds to clean and gently exfoliate her skin, especially in places she, herself, has had trouble reaching, like her back and her legs. After she makes sure Dina is all clean, Ellie quickly washes her own hair and skin. All rinsed off, Ellie turns off the water, gets out first to dry herself off and wrap a towel around her hips before helping Dina out. Her once exhausted and drained expression now looks so delightfully sleepy. Ellie gently pats Dina dry with a fresh towel, and helps her get her underwear back on, a fresh maxi-pad already prepped on its fabric. After guiding her to the bedroom, Ellie sits Dina down on their bed and dresses her in her comfiest clothes when Dina begins to softly cry. “Baby… Baby what’s wrong, did I forget something?” Ellie asks in a soft and concerned voice. “No. Nothing’s wrong, it’s just that-“, she’s cut off by her own little unintentional gasp for air between cries, “it’s just that you’re so perfect and you love me.” Ellie’s expression quickly calms with a smile. “Of course I love you… Do you know how amazing you are? You’re so kind, and funny, and pretty, and understanding, and so much more..” Ellie strokes her hair reverently and wipes away her tears. But Dina just can’t make them stop. “I think you just need some more sleep, mama… Now you’re all clean and massaged, I’ll braid your hair and you’ll get some sleep, yeah?” Ellie smiles at her comfortingly, a grounding force in all this chaos. Because that’s who Ellie is at her core, a protector, a care taker, a lover. Dina lets Ellie braid her curly hair into two dutch braids and tucks her into bed. Dina immediately drifts off, holding onto Ellie’s bicep for a sense of security. When Dina wakes from her respite a couple hours later, she looks to her side and sees Ellie asleep in just her boxers with JJ asleep on her chest. Life as new parents is hard, but as long as they have each other to take care of the other, it will all be okay.

[firefly-ace]

i need this to have more attention i loved writing this and think it’s still good