#I'm still working on the sother one

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Teen and Up Rated Fics Masterlist (8)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 /

Created: September 20th, 23

Last Checked:---

The Mines and The Dandelions-Lily_ofthe_Valley (AO3)

Summary: The broom she had in her grasp fell to the ground, and with it, her hopes for a painless future. Because she didn’t need to open the envelope to know what it asked of her. There was no merchant shop to inherit, nor a husband to protect her from her doom. The mines were waiting for Katniss, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to avoid their calling. Hunger Games AU. "This would have happened anyway". Katniss survives the reaping.

The Mockingjay is Hijacked-bookmarkedpage (AO3)

Summary: After the arena for the third Quarter Quell comes crumbling down, Katniss and Finnick are captured and taken to the Capitol. Snow plans to make examples of them in live, televised trials, to show the rest of Panem what will happen to those found guilty of aiding the rebels.

The Other Choice-icbiwf (AO3)

Summary: A different kind of unplanned pregnancy fic. A submission to Prompts in Panem's Language of Flowers week. Prompt: Hyacinth/Fertility.

The Prince and the Pearl-SoThere (AO3)

Summary: It all started with some bread and a magic pearl. Katniss learns that there are still princes to be found in the world.

the way she tells me i'm hers (and she is mine)-rosaeles (AO3)

Summary: Peeta is full aware that he sounds like something terrified. Something deranged, but Katniss nods firmly. “I believe you," She whispers. "I believe you. But it's all stopped. We're safe, sweetheart, I promise.” Alternatively: In which Peeta Mellark doesn't want Katniss to see just how badly he's holding up until everything eventually comes crashing down on him. A sequel to "all the version of me dead (and buried in the yard outside)"

The Whipping-LemonLuvGirl (AO3)

Summary: Written for the lovely artist Andretries. Who asked if I had ever written a story where Katniss was being whipped instead of Gale in Catching Fire. I had indeed not ever written a story like that. So I wrote one. Here's the result.

Thirty Seconds-soafterr (AO3)

Summary: "Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine, Thirty. I count an extra five just in case. I slowly open my eyes and look down at the pregnancy stick."

Throwing Sparks-igsygrace (AO3)

Summary: Catching Fire from Peeta's point of view. Much of the dialogue is taken from the original work and is the property of Suzanne Collins.

thus with a kiss-songbirdheart (AO3)

Summary: Peeta crumples the paper up and tosses it over her head into the fire. “You’re not my conquest,” he says, taking out a fresh sheet. “You’re my — ” He stops. He should have an answer to that question. What is Katniss to him? The woman he loves. The best gift he has ever been given. The most beautiful creation God ever made. But these epithets are too sentimental. What is Katniss to him? Not his conquest. He doesn’t like “paramour.” Certainly not “mistress.” Even “lover" feels inadequate. His wife? He hasn’t asked her to marry him. Somehow, even that falls short. a sequel to violent delights!

try to set the night on fire-Abagail_Snow (AO3)

Summary: The Girl on Fire, she's called. If they only knew.

#t #teen and up masterlist #masterlist #everlark #everlark fanfiction #gadge #thg #thg fanfiction

[docholligay]

Sleep, Sleep

I’m working on a real thing that is for a patron but it’s going slowly because *gestures vaguely* so please enjoy this shitty hurt/comfort I wrote to soothe myself. 1770 words, all of this universe is here for timeline or whatever

Fareeha Amari was not in the business of shirking responsibility. When she felt she had failed, she was the first to mark ways she could improve, and she was the first to notice the same in others. It was not so much that Pharah sought fault so much as she sought improvement, and the beginning to fixing a leaky roof was finding where the leak came from. But, on a handful of occasions in her life, she could simply admit that it had been a bad day. 

Sitting in a Talon cell, half out of her mind with the pain of torture and the exhaustion of resisting it, she could admit that it had simply been, one of those days. 

They had only been here two days entirely, Pharah thought. She had tried very hard to keep mark of the time. It was so easy to lose it, in these moments. Moira was helping her, she supposed. She kept a tight schedule, and if much of that schedule relied on when and how she chose to experiment on she and Tracer, well, at least she knew when tea time was. 

A more straightforward sort of torture, Pharah might have been able to bear better. But it wasn’t torture, not for information. Other people might care about that--the monster that had once been Gabe certainly got in their face enough--but Moira did not. It was experimentation, and even if they told her every secret they knew, it would not stop. Moira herself pretended little different. 

It would go on until they were rescued or died, and at least that gave them little reason to give any information at all. 

She sat the edge of the small cot provided to them. Tracer lay at the top of it, trembling, her body jerking every so often against her will. Pharah looked away from her. She told herself it was out of respect for Tracer’s general dignity, but even half-mad she knew it was a lie. She simply could barely stand to look. She hadn’t looked down at the stump where her metal arm should rest, either. It hurt. She knew it must look terrible. No reason to make it worse with visual acknowledgement. 

“F’reeha?” Tracer’s voice was soft and wobbling, ““‘M a bit poorly. I think.”

“You need to stop goading her,” Pharah shook her head, “Just lie still, and quiet. They will find us.” 

“What, and let ‘er come after you? Fuck off, then.” 

Tracer had the unique gift of being able to irritate a human being better than a mosquito at the ear, and she had employed this to great effect in Moira’s lab. She tortured them in tandem, which was a unique technique, if she meant to get anything from them, but perhaps it was that she knew the effect of seeing the other dissembled bit by bit was its own brand of horror. 

Pharah had not gotten the worst of it, because Pharah was not medically interesting. Certainly, she had Winston’s unique set of sensors in her shoulder, where a fully functional arm had been installed, but she’d seen enough of that with McCree. Pharah was fine, but Tracer was the real toy, and it didn’t hurt that Tracer was very good at making someone want to hurt her. And Moira had. She had taken great pleasure in it. 

Even Pharah herself, constantly surprised by her own emotions, had not understood what an effective method of torture it would be for her. 

Pharah lay her hand on Tracer’s leg. She could feel the twitch running though it. 

“Rest.” 

Pharah was not the most verbose human on her best day, and this was certainly not her best day. She wanted to tell Tracer it would be all right, that they would come and Mercy would mend what Moira had damaged. But who could know if it was true? Pharah had many faults, she thought, but she was not a liar. She wanted to tease Tracer, to set her at ease, but the words would not come. Pharah was more steel than anything else, in difficult times, and so her words were firm, and decisive, and formal, whatever she tried. It was a comfort, like a child’s blanket. 

A shock ran through Tracer, and she gasped, her back arcing against the cot. Pharah moved to her, and closed her eyes with the sharp, bright pain that moved through her body as she did so. She took a few deep breaths, did her best to ignore it, and rubbed Tracer’s shoulder until her body let her relax again, what could have been ten seconds but felt like hours. 

Tracer opened her eyes just a little, and looked up at Pharah. 

“We may want to consider the outside possibility I won’t be making it to the debriefing.”

“You cannot. That would leave me sole leader of Overwatch. Do you want that on your conscience?” 

Tracer cracked a weak smile. “Not me first choice, no, but” she swallowed, “But this isn’t what I expected to ‘appen, love. Didn’t know it would do this, it’s nothing like when I...anyhow, if I do...If I do..”

“Stop,” Pharah looked away from her and sighed, “I am not your errand boy. We are in pain, and we are tired.” She gave a chuckle, “And longing for the days when torture meant being beaten.” 

“God yes, “ Tracer closed her eyes, “love to be cracked across the jaw just now.” 

Pharah nodded, her hand still on Tracer’s shoulder. “When we escape, when they come for us, because, you see, I am an optimist. Not like you, who thinks Winston would leave you to die here.” 

“Don’t bloody bring ‘im int--” Tracer shuddered and tamped down a squeal of pain into a small squeak. “Oh Fareeha, I’m…” 

“A pessimist, yes.” she moved up her hand, gently rubbing the hair at the back of Tracer’s head, “I can see that. But when we escape, when we are saved, and you heal, because, remember, you have so many times before.” 

“Right,” Tracer gave a little nod and swallowed, “born under a lucky star.” 

“When you heal, I will take you to your horrible little pub, and play darts, and attempt to understand anyone in that godforsaken place.” 

Tracer gave a laugh, weak and small, but genuine, and Pharah grinned. 

“And I will fail. You know that, of course, and you will have to order for me. Again.” 

Tracer’s eyelids fluttered open, her vision hazy but more for Pharah’s benefit than anything. “It’s not as Isla can’t understand you, you know, it’s just the other way round.” 

Pharah shook her head. “I know you have some sort of magic word, for when all I want on this earth is a light beer.” 

“Right, and it’s ‘go somewhere else.’” 

Pharah ruffled her hair. “It’s sometimes easy for me to understand what Moira sees in you.” 

Tracer giggled. “Me own personal brand of charm, innit? Going to be a right shame when I can’t share mese--” 

She gasped, and let out a cry as her body twisted into one terrible contraction. 

“Lena!” Pharah went to move the arm that wasn’t there, and a wave of nausea and pain went through her, but she pushed it to the side, using her good arm to scoop Tracer onto her lap. Tears ran down Tracer’s face as she struggled to breathe against the spasm, Pharah unable to do anything but watch, and hope that her touch offered some comfort. 

Watching her lit a fire in Fareeha Amari, a deep coal seam of hot anger than would not dissipate until her child was nearly grown. She would nurse it and feed it, and never apologize for it, and it would take her years to remember that it had been lit in this exact moment. She never had a friend quite like Tracer, and she never would, because who could be said to be like her at all? And Moira had tortured her like a cat playing with a mouse, and Pharah would remember this, always. 

It released Tracer, and she lay panting on Pharah’s lap. A few moments passed, just the two of them nestled together, in a cold and dark cell, the dire nature of their situation hanging over them like a shadow. 

Tracer could not go on like this for too much longer, Pharah knew. Whatever Moira had done to her had hurt her badly, and she needed help. Pharah knew, in the same way, that Tracer would fight and snipe at Moira to her last breath, even if it accelerated its coming. Tracer could stop fighting like the sun could stop rising in the morning. She was a terrier to the bone. 

But she believed herself, that the team would be looking for them. D.Va was a natural leader when called upon, Winston would hardly stop looking for Tracer, McCree was constantly looking to be made useful, and even the newer team members had nothing but fondness for Tracer, and maybe even Pharah herself. 

Mercy, of course, would never leave Pharah behind. She knew that like she knew the moon still sat outside that cell, watching. 

“Fareeha…” 

“Rest now.” She arranged herself carefully, and pulled Tracer up to her shoulder, leaning against the wall, and wrapped her arm around her. “You want to be fresh to spit in Moira’s face.” 

“Love you, Fareeha” 

“Shut up.” 

She held Tracer close and began to hum and then sing, some Arabic lullaby drawn far from her childhood, though she couldn’t even remember where or when. Who would have sung to her? Maybe she was something better than the sum of her childhood experiences, or maybe there was a tenderness inside her she did not know, or maybe she had grown into something that could give a softer and sweeter fruit,  but in any case, she chose to think of it little in the moment. There would be time later, to wonder where it came from. 

Tracer could not have possibly understood the song, but it sank deep into her, and Pharah felt her sink against her shoulder as she slept, the words carrying her along and comforting her. 

Later, Pharah would not know how long she sang, or when she fell asleep herself, or even exactly when help came. This part of her life, these next few days, would be a blur, scattered with only moments of clarity. This would be true for all of her very long life. But she would remember the song, and she would remember the flickering lights and long shadows, and she would remember that she had been, a good friend. 

#I'm still working on the sother one #I just...need a break to step outside #and breathe