Warning: These one-shots feature heavy subjects, including alcoholism, drug abuse, and torture... so far. I'll add more as the story wears on, just in case.

AN: Credit goes to HannahSongla for the story idea. Please go check out her Hayniss story similar to this - Sweetheart. Credit goes to Suzanne Collins for the verse and the characters. I don't really own anything but the text of these one-shots. And no, that doesn't mean the song lyrics. Enjoy c:

Song: King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men

King and Lionheart

Taking over this town, they should worry
But these problems aside, I think I, taught you well
That we won't run, and we won't run, and we won't run

Long after the lights out are triggered, and my roommate has fallen into a deep sleep - how can anyone sleep in a situation such as this, is beyond me -, I am awake. My eyes focus on the spinning ceiling fan, following one particular plank of the fan with my eyes to keep myself busy. The things that go bump in the night wait for me to sleep, I can see them shifting from the corners of my eyes. They wait for me to let my guard down, to relax for just a moment, so that their dark demons can devour me and take me whole. So that they can slaughter me and be rid of me. I refuse to let them do so, fighting the heaviness of my eyelids as I stare at that stupid plank on the ceiling fan.

My throat is dry, and I yearn for water. But to retrieve water, I would have to open my mouth and ask the demons, and damned if I ask them for anything. If I let them know that I'm conceding, the demons will grab me from behind and drag me down into their pit of hell. They will break me, mend me and break me again. I cannot let that happen. So I continue to stare at the ceiling fan and swallow whatever saliva I can conjure in my mouth.

My eyes droop closed for a moment, just the smallest of moments and I feel something akin to a blade slide down my arm. The coldness of the weapon forces me to shiver involuntarily. The things that go bump cackle. I snap my eyes open again, and go back to staring at the ceiling. I need to focus, I can't rest yet. Not until sunlight begins to peek through the small skylight and the demons go away for the day. I wonder why they don't find their pleasure in my roommate, but then I remember that they broke him weeks ago. No need to find pleasure in something they cannot play with. My thoughts swim at the idea of being broken like them. I need something to focus on, anything besides that panel of the ceiling fan that's just making me dizzy. I conjure up an image, an image of her.

With her straight dark hair that frames her face perfectly and her eyes the color of an arrowhead and her ability to make me see my lionheart - my heart of not courage, but of cowardliness. I think of her, of the dip in her thick lips and the slight curve of her wide hips - now that she's been fed properly, she's filling out to be a beautiful. Although she was always beautiful. I think of her hands, running down my chest tentatively and the way she gave just as hard as she got when I slammed her against the wall. I think of the way she ignited a fire that I thought had cooled long ago, of the way she pulled me down to her and made me feel things that I was terrified of feeling.

I think of her, with the shame in those eyes the shade of an arrowhead. I think of that same straight dark hair that she pulls into a braid in front of her vanity. I think of her ability to appear as glamorous as a queen, and yet still feel as if she's a lionheart - a heart not of pride, but of shame. I think of her, the way her lips were dry with unspoken apologies and the way her hips swayed as she attempted escape the awkward situation. I think of her hands, about how they shook until she couldn't button her pants all she could do was cry, mumbling the name of the boy we'd betrayed. I think of the way I extinguished her, of the way I blew out her flames with the smallest flicker of mistakes. I think of how terribly I drug her down with me.

Something that feels like a claw runs over my lips and and I pop my eyes open. I hadn't even noticed that I'd closed them. The demons no longer cackle - they full out laugh. As if my fear is some morbid inside joke, shared only between them. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see one near me. The smell of treated roses and blood fills the otherwise clean air. I shudder.

I think of the way she smiled at me that first night, the way she bucked against my aching groin and asked me to take her. I think of my weakness, the way I had submitted so willingly to her honeyed advances. And I'm back to thinking of my cowardice, of my inability to deny her anything she wants. The way her creamy skin felt under my callused palms come to the front of my mind and I sigh at the memory. I think of how easily she'd become my Achilles heel.

She was beautiful that night. And every night afterwards.

My lionheart aches and I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to fight the fear of the demons and the pain of remembering her. Their laughter increases and the one demon, the one that smells of blood and faux roses, runs his hand down my chest, just as she had. The shivers down my spine are not from desire or pleasure. They are pure, unadulterated fear.

When I open my eyes, the demon stares me right in the eyes. His eyes are blue where the should be red, his skin is pale where is should be afire. I stare at it, watch as it's mouth curls into a delighted smile. I lift a shaky hand to touch it's face.

"President Snow," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Bring me my lionheart." And the there is the cacophony of the demons laughing again.

Howling ghosts, they reappear
In mountains that are stacked with fear
But you're a king and I'm a lionheart