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resident-gay-bitch · 2 months

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Remus loves books, he loves reading so much and Sirius knows this. He knows this so well because half the time when he wants Remus to look at him, and pay attention to him, Remus simply just won’t because he’s so bloody, infuriatingly, adorably invested in whatever book it is he’s reading.

It doesn’t even matter the genre, Sirius has learnt, nor that it’s fictional or otherwise. Just words on yellowing pages, with cracked spines and a warm smell emanating from within, that’s what Remus loves. He likes to escape there, to lose focus, time, and reality. And Sirius respects it.

He used to love reading himself, when he was younger. His favorite books were fantasy action. He got lost in the tales and strange lands, imagining himself as the noble hero, saving lives and running off into the sunset on a noble steed, or perhaps even with a lover.

He’s lost the knack for it these days, mostly. Sometimes he still picks up a book to read, if it really captivates him. Or if it’s so painstakingly good that Remus, rather than just expressing that it was enjoyable to read and outlining the basic plot, rambles about it for ages. Especially if he goes back and reads it a second time over, taking a quill to the pages, underlining his favorite phrases, adding exclamation marks for emphasis, and writing out every thought he has about it.

Sirius always reads those, but mostly for Remus’ input. And mostly so he can sit there and listen to Remus talk about it again, and get so brilliantly excited when Sirius agrees that particular characters sucked, or when they disagree about how certain plot points were brilliant, or how painstakingly heartbreaking the use of symbolism added so much depth to the entire book.

Sirius has two large bookshelves in his room. Both of them he’s built himself because he refuses to let Effie and Flea spend any extra money on him, and he himself doesn’t want to spend money on bookshelves when he can just make them. He also made Remus one, when he first learnt just how much Remus likes to read, when he first moved in with James. He’s still very proud of it to this day.

Point is, he has two large bookshelves, and they’re each only half full of books. There are other things on them, taking up the space. Such as his record collection, which is excessive now, and brilliant, and takes up a lot of space. It’s also riddled with gadgets, and thingamabobs, and dust collectors, and whatsits, as well as little things he’s tinkered.

He’s building himself another shelf at the moment, this one will have a stained glass door- so, more of a cabinet, he supposes. It’s made especially for his records, measured to fit the height and width of them perfectly with just a little wiggle room. That, once it’s done, will clear out plenty of space on his bookshelf for more books.

He’ll build himself another shelf or two, he thinks. Ones to mount one the wall, a place to keep all his little things that don’t really have a place, other than randomly on his bookshelves. He wants to leave as much room as possible.

Because, see, Sirius doesn’t read much. And the books he does read are already found on his shelf, or Remus’, because he borrows them.

But Remus reads a lot. He’s always looking for new books, everywhere he goes. Sirius can’t count the times he’s been pulled into random stores just to look at books for hours, only for Remus to walk out empty handed.

Because Remus doesn’t have the money for books. He never has. Maybe a few, here and there, cheep ones that is, from second hand stores. And on his birthday and Christmas his parents spoil him by picking out a couple of big ones.

But Remus’ money is saved for things other than books.

That hasn’t been much of an issue, because there are libraries. He spends a lot of time in the library at Hogwarts, when they’re there. And over the breaks, he spends it in the library by his house. And he borrows books from Sirius, and James, and Lily, and Peter, and Mary, and Marlene too.

But the thing is, Remus is running out of books. And sure, he’s happy to read the non fictional books, ones about the history of magic, or life in the trenches of the First Muggle World War, or how to bake cakes, or the biography of Salazar Slytherin, or whatever the hell else he can find. But nothing captivates him the way a good story can.

He needs tales to escape in between the more boring stuff. Remus never raves about the non-fiction. Sure, he tells Sirius random facts when he finds them out, or puts his new knowledge to use. But the novelty of a made up world excites him.

Sirius likes to watch Remus read fiction. He likes to watch Remus shift in his chair and tense his shoulders, he likes to watch blush bloom over Remus’ cheeks with a giddy smile as his eyes twinkle and lock onto the page. He also likes when he hears Remus’ sharp gasps, and gets to look up to find him sitting in the most awkward, on edge positions as he fixedly reads, and watches as tears begin to roll down Remus’ cheeks and dance over freckles.

He mostly likes when Remus smiles at his page, sure and familiar, a knowing look in his eye that makes him glimmer right before he looks up to try and find Sirius in the room, and blush immediately when he does before tucking his face back into the pages. Sirius likes that one the best, because he knows, whatever Remus read, it made him think of Sirius. He especially likes when Remus scribbles something on the page right after, or just dog ears the corner so he’ll never loose the page.

Sirius really likes when Remus finds a good story, and Remus clearly also likes when he finds a good Story. Remus doesn’t have the funds to by himself stories and has read his way through the entirety of his local libraries fictional section, as well as everything on Sirius’ own shelf twice.

But Sirius does have the funds for books. He has part of the inheritance his uncle Alphard left when he died, he has his weekly allowance from the Potters, as does James, and he has money saved up from working in Mrs Florence’ garden across the road all summer.

So he goes out, and buys books, and hopes Remus hasn’t read them.

He gets home, and puts them on his own shelf, because the last time Sirius bought a book for Remus just simply because he wanted to, Remus slapped him with the book, made his knee buckle with his cane, and told Sirius to never spend his money on him again.

So naturally, Sirius stole him a book, and Remus hit him twelve times with the new book, called him a stupid fucking idiot, and made him promise to never do it again.

He then promptly went and read the book, and made a note at the very back that Sirius was the one who got it for him, with a star placed by his name, thinking Sirius wouldn’t notice. Because Sirius would never snoop through Remus’ bookshelf when he’s not looking to try and read whatever annotations from Remus’ brain he could, hoping to find one that Remus made after doing his adorable glance and thinking of Sirius. No, no he’d never do that, Remus, he promises.

So Sirius buys himself books, ones that wouldn’t look too out of place sitting on his shelves, ones he doesn’t recognise Remus ever holding (though, that doesn’t mean much as Remus reads at the pace of a race car, Sirius is sure there’s a new book in his hand each time Sirius looks up), and prays Remus will like them. He thinks he will. He likes most books.

Sirius just hopes he makes annotations in them before he remembers they’re not his books, and puts them back on Sirius’ shelf to find.

So Sirius stacks them on his shelf, and waits for Remus to take the bait.

The first time Remus comes into his room once they’re there, he clearly notices, but doesn’t comment. So Sirius goes out to buy another.

The second time, he makes a comment, asking if Sirius ever actually reads the books he carelessly spends money on, and nothing else.

So Sirius buys another book, and begins to read the one with the most interesting cover. He makes sure the spine is cracked, the pages withered, and a crease on the cover from bending it wrong.

Remus notices it, the next time he visits, and asks if Sirius enjoyed it. He didn’t mind it, but he tells Remus he really liked the character named Liam (who reminds him vividly of Remus), and recommends it. Remus takes it home. Sirius rambles to James about how brilliantly smart his plan is for hours.

The next time Remus comes around, he returns the book. It’s in a similar state to when Sirius had last seen it, besides a few extra wrinkles on the spine, and creased pages. Sirius smiles and admires it for a while once Remus has left, with another book, another one Sirius made himself read, he didn’t like that one at all.

Naturally, Remus really enjoyed that one. They argue about it for a while, and Remus tosses the book at Sirius with a laugh, and Sirius resists the urge to throw himself back at Remus.

James and Peter go out in the sun, but Remus’ hip is bad that day, so Sirius stays inside with him. He sits and watches Remus read, it’s one of his own books, one he’s read at least four times before. He’s got a pen between his teeth that he keeps pulling out to scribble things down before placing it back.

Sirius wishes he were a pen.

Remus finishes his book and whines about it for a while, because he doesn’t have another, and he can’t stand to go outside. So Sirius gets up, grabs a book, and plops it in Remus’ lap. Remus blushes. It’s some muggle book, it’s about magic folk, and fairies, and a really cool protagonist with long black hair and tattoos and a winning grin.

He’s not even shy when he tells Remus he bought it so he could read about himself. Remus lightly thwacks him with his cane and tells Sirius to fuck off.

Sirius sits on the bed, and grabs Remus’ discarded book, and opens it up to page one. Already there, marked in blurry ink on the first page reads: this is what it feels like to have a star wish on you, right back. Sirius smiles, and begins to read, mostly for Remus’ annotations, but the book is good no less. It’s about doomed love, written through the metaphore of the night sky, and unsettling undertones of cannibalalistic desire, all wrapped up in one neat little bow that ties itself off with an accidental murder suicide.

Honestly, Sirius understands why Remus likes it now. He’s heard Remus talk about it in great detail before but bloody hell, it’s good. And Remus’ annotations make it better.

“Bloody-fuck.” Remus gasps, catching Sirius off guard. He sticks his head up and wonders how on earth Remus had gotten to the “bloody-fuck” part of the story yet, that’s over halfway through, and they’ve only been reading for twenty minuets.

“What’s the issue?” Sirius asks.

“Do you have an eraser?” Remus asks, “A magic one, for ink? Can’t use my wand.”

“Erm, no…” Sirius mutters. He knows Flea has one in his office, and he’s allowed to go get it if he ever needs, knowing it sits in the top left drawer, right by the paperclips. But he doesn’t say that, not yet.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Remus mumbles, “I forgot it wasn’t- I just… I still had the pen in my mouth.”

Sirius feels his heart race, “Remus, did you… write in my book?”

Remus looks so ashamed, and he holds up the neat pages and flips through all that he’s read, and… yeah, there’s a lot in there already. Scribbled lines, phrases, exclamation points, question marks, little stars drawn everywhere.

Sirius feels himself fall a little harder in love, “You can write in my book.” He mutters and swallows, “You can write in all of my books, whatever you like. It doesn’t matter, I probably won’t read most of them anyway.” Sirius lies. If they have Remus’ annotations he certainly will.

“Why would you buy them then?”

Sirius shrugged, “I had empty space on my bookshelf… I like having them there. Besides, I could read them, you know, I just… usually don’t.”

Remus snickers and shakes his head, “You’re strange- like a dragon. You’re a dragon that hoards treasure. Your treasure is books.”

Wrong, Sirius thinks, my treasure is you.

“A dragon.” Sirius mutters, “Do you fear me, Remus, a big mighty dragon?”

Remus scoffs and turns back to the book, “You’re such a small dragon you don’t even have the ability to fly.”

Sirius throws his pillow at Remus’ head. Remus laughs, flipping Sirius off, which only spurs him on.

Sirius promptly jumps off the bed and changes to Padfoot midway through the air, landing right on the arm of the chair Remus occupies before crawling all over him.

“Get off me, you stupid mutt!” Remus laughs, tacking Padfoot away, “You’re going to rip the book.”

Padfoot only barks and wags his tail high in the air.

Remus laughs again, sticking his good leg out where Sirius now sits on the ground, he uses it to pet Sirius’ side as he fixes his hair and book.

Padfoot tilts his head up at Remus, tongue hanging out of his mouth, as he watches.

“I can really write in it?”

Padfoot scoots closer, licking Remus’ knee.

Remus snickers and shoes him away, “You’re so gross, Padfoot. Your dog slobber stinks, you know that?”

Padfoot barks, resting his paw on top of Remus’ hand for a moment.

“Fine.” Remus breaths, “But you can write in mine too, that means.”

Sirius will be, he knows it.

Padfoot, however, watches Remus go back to reading, too invested to pay him any mind now. He plucks the pen from his ear and starts making more marks. Padfoot rests his head on Remus’ knee, and mindlessly, Remus reaches out to pet him.

That’s how James and Peter find them, two hours later. Remus deeply concentrated, halfway through his book, and Padfoot looking up at him like he hung the sky. James teases Sirius mercilessly about it later.

Over the week, Sirius reads. He reads Remus’ book, the one he left behind so Sirius could finish reading. And Sirius takes a red inked pen, because one time Remus said Sirius looks good in the colour red, and makes his own annotations. There aren’t many, as there isn’t much room left and Remus has basically said it all, but he underlines the things he likes, and draws wonky little circles half shaded in by the things that make him think of Remus (they’re supposed to be moons, and he hopes Remus won’t be able to tell at first, because the first wonky circle is placed right next to the phrase: nothing consumes her they way the need to taste his skin on her tongue does-).

The next time Sirius sees Remus, they’re at the Lupins. He brought Remus’ book with his own red annotations, and two other books, one about space, and one about a dog that dies.

He’s almost at the end of the one where the dog dies, and it’s honeslty devastating. It’s bound to make Remus sad. So very, very sad.

They sit on Remus’ bed, Remus up by the headboard, and Sirius himself laying over the foot on his stomach, a pillow tucked under his chin.

He’s crying, down to the last pages of his book, his heart being ripped out of his chest as he reads. When he started crying, Remus silently extended his legs and crossed them, letting his heels sit on the small of Sirius’ back. Because Remus is brilliant, and he knows Sirius likes to be touched when he’s sad.

He closes his book with a sigh, buries his face in the pillow, and screams. Remus laughs.

“You have to read this, Moony. It’s devastating.” Sirius sobs.

“If you insist.” Remus agrees, still reading his book.

“The dog dies!” Sirius rolls onto his side to look at him, “He dies, Remus, isn’t that horrible. I mean- it was bad enough for me, I can’t imagine what it would be like for you.”

Remus glances up over his book at raises an eyebrow at Sirius.

“You know…” Sirius sniffles, rubbing his nose before waving his hand through the air, “Because I’m a dog, and you won’t be able to stop thinking about me, and losing me, and-“

A pillow was thrown at his head so hard it shoved him back. But Sirius loves the dramatics, so he takes it further, and rolls until he topples off the end of the bed and groans about betrayal. Remus pretends not to listen, Remus continues to read. Sirius wants to give him the world.

Sirius eventually gets up and selects a book off of Remus’ shelf, admiring his own handiwork for a moment. He flicks the book open, and finds no annotations, so he puts it back. He grabs another, finds the same, and repeats.

“What are you looking for?” Remus asks.

Unashamedly, Sirius tells him, “One with your thoughts written out. Those are my favourites.” He picks up another, sifts through, and puts it back.

He turns when Remus is quiet for a while, he’s grinning, like he expects to find Remus with his head in his book, so distracted he didn’t hear. But he’s not.

Remus is blushing, and he’s looking at Sirius so curiously.

“I like your thoughts.” Sirius clears his throat, “You’re smart, they’re interesting. Besides, I hate not knowing what’s going to happen, you always manage to make correct predictions, so good at picking up clues.”

Remus smiles and ducks his head before reaching out and grabbing a book off his bedside. He tosses it at Sirius, “That one’s a children’s novel. It’s about a frog. I’ve annotated it seven times.”

“Brilliant.” Sirius grins, plopping himself back down on his bed and opening the book, “I love frogs.”

Remus laughs, a quiet laugh, embarrassed and bashful. They both continue to read. Sirius pulls out his pen and scribbles a red, wonky circle when the frog finds himself in love.

Four weeks later, and Sirius and Remus have been swapping books back and forth in trade. Remus takes his pick of whatever is on Sirius’ shelf, or whatever he’s “accidentally” left at Remus’ place, and in turn, Sirius reads whatever books Remus has annotated. Eventually, he begins to read his own, purely for Remus’ annotations.

Remus never fails to leave annotations, and Sirius leaves them right back.

One time, Sirius even worked up the courage to write annotations in one of his own books before handing it off for Remus to read, just in hopes of Remus liking them too.

He does. He circles Sirius’ annotations with his own black ink, and adds little stars in random places, and he even goes so far as to argue with Sirius in the margins.

This week, they meet at the movies with James and Peter. As they wait in the popcorn line together, Sirius hands him two books. One of Remus’ own that he’s returning, and one from his collection. He read it, another book about love. There was a line about reliability, and loyalty, and pure, blinding admiration, even in petty fights and bickering, and Sirius took a bold step and wrote: This reminds me of us.

Remus returns the book about a fierce dragon, and slaps a new one in his hands about a man driven to murder by his untidy roommate, “Maybe you’ll learn something from this one, hmm?”

Sirius didn’t get it until the book was done, and he had read every snarky remark aimed right at Sirius that Remus wrote, including the note at the end that requested Sirius keep his mess to his corner of the room before Remus is driven to a murderous fate. Sirius laughed so hard James came rushing into the room out of pure concern.

The next time they exchanged books, Sirius gave him one titled The Picture of Dorian Grey. Remus had already read it. Sirius scoffed, knowing this would happen sooner or later. However, when Sirius moved to put it back in his bag, Remus snatched it away. He only borrowed it last time, so now he could write his annotations, which excited him. It excited Sirius too.

“I have a strange one for you.” Remus said, handing it over nervously, “I… I’ve read this one a lot.”

“Okay?” Sirius asked, taking it slowly, looking at the cover, so withered he couldn’t clearly make out the image.

Remus swallowed, “It’s really one of my favorites.”

“I can’t wait, then.” Sirius grinned, flicking through it quickly and seeing almost no room to leave his own messages.

Remus nodded, “Just… just beware, okay?”

“Okay, Remus, I’ve got it.” Sirius snickered, wiggling the book like a fan, “What, has it got like, wild kinky sex in it. Does this book delve into your deepest desires, Remus? Does it make you feel sexy?” Sirius teases.

Remus swallows and turns his gaze away.

Sirius’ jaw goes slack, “Oh, my Merlin- I… it does.”

Remus blush’s, “Look- it’s not like that, it’s just-“ He mumbles, hiding his head in his hands, “Yes, there is a sex scene in it, near the end. It’s very long, and very detailed. But that’s not- I’m not trying to be weird, okay? I’d prefer to not give you a sexy book-“

Sirius snickers, “I was only teasing, Remus, it’s fine. Is that the weird bit? The long, sensual sex scene?”

“Mostly… it’s… well, I suppose it’s everything that leads up to it.” Remus swallows.

“Got it.” Sirius nods, and because he’s his own worst enemy, he asks, “Do you get off to it?”

Remus’ front door promptly slams in his face, and no matter how hard he knocks, or laughs, or pretends he’s joking, Remus does not open the door.

Sirius goes home, and he very pointedly does not pick up the book. He’s too nervous now. To nervous to read about this sex scene in Remus’ most favorite book and wonder if he’s ever… Sirius flops face down into his pillow and goes to annoy James instead.

When they meet up to swap back, Sirius still hasn’t read the book yet. He makes up an excuse, telling Remus he hasn’t been focused enough to read something important. Remus doesn’t seem to believe him, he seems so disappointed. He gives Sirius back The Picture Of Dorian Gray and barely talks for the remainder of their time spent together.

When Sirius gets home, he flips through Remus’ annotations, reading them all, and having to do a double take at one. Sure, there are plenty of snide comments about Sirius’ good looks, comparing him to Dorian and making theories on how Sirius must be in a similar situation. But there’s one that makes Sirius’ heart race: I’m annoyed at you. This entire fucking book Dorian’s been described as the most beautiful fucking man on earth and the only face I can fucking picture is yours you bloody idiot. Stop being beautiful, please? It’s detrimental to my sanity.

Sirius’ breath hitched in his throat. He ran to James, immediately, crashing into his room and jumping on the bed, not even caring he’s just interrupted James with his shirt off in a very compromising position with Lily. He doesn’t even care that she’s there.

“Look at this, James, read-“

“Really, Sirius? Now?”

“I’m sorry, Prongs, but you’ve got your happy ending so I don’t care- look.” Sirius shoves the page in his face, “What does this mean?”

James shoves on his glasses and gives Lily an apologetic glance before reading, “What the fuck do you think it means, Sirius?”

“I don’t know.” Sirius breathes, running his fingers over the black ink, “It could mean anything-“

“Sirius!” James laughed, flinging his hands into the air, “It means exactly whatever the hell your heart thinks it means, probably.”

Sirius glares and James and turns to Lily, “You’re smart, what do-“

“Might I remind you, Remus is my best friend, Sirius?” Lily smirked, “So no, I won’t be saying anything, and if you’re smart, you’ll know that’s enough. And I warn you, I will be telling him about this.”

Sirius swallowed and glared at her, “Shit.”

“Shit in deed, Romeo.” She giggled, “Go away please.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighed, crawling off the bed, “Not too loud, please.”

James tossed a pillow at him.

“Hey, Sirius?” Lily asked, catching his attention, “You should read his book.”

“Right.” Sirius swallows, and very pointedly does not do that. He goes to make dinner with Effie and Flea, and ask them questions about it instead. They just say the same things James did, and they’re old and happy and very in love, so he actually trusts that.

That night, he lies in bed, a lamp over his shoulder, and he learns extactly why Remus seemed so nervous to share this book. Especially about the sex part, which was… well, it was really sexy. Like, so sexy. Sirius didn’t think anything could ever get that sexy. All he could think about whilst reading was Remus, and how badly he wanted to do those things to Remus, and how he wanted Remus to do those things to him. It was terrible, really.

So good, and so terrible, and so delightfully strange to read about. Because, in the start, the main character was engaged to a very wonderful woman. But by the end, he had left her. He left her because he loved a man. Two men in love. Remus’ favorite book was gay, with so many annotations about his own experiences, with a gay sex scene, with annotations about how much Remus liked the sex scene.

And most of all…

Sirius knew exactly what a lot of those annotations meant. Because around them were little stars. Within them they used “he” and “him” and terms of longing and yearning and… and then it got to a point midway through the book where things changed.

Remus stopped writing things like: I think of him. He’s more beautiful. I’m scared to lose him too.

Instead, he just used one word. One word scribbled everywhere. Beside so many different phrases, with different intentions and different feelings. One word that shattered it all, and that word was: Sirius.

Beside the phrase, he’s so beautiful, I hate him.

Beside the phrase, I miss him, I never got to have him but I miss him, no less.

Beside the phrase, kissing the expanse of his throat is something I think about often, no thought could be as beautifully filthy as mine when he’s around.

Beside the phase, I love him.

“Wakey, wake- oh, you’re up love. Are you alright, I’ve never seen you up with the sun before.” Effie teases as she walks into his room.

Sirius turns to her, eyes blinking. They’re red rimmed from crying. He didn’t realise it was morning. He still has the book in his lap, open to the last page where there’s a message. It’s an apology, and then that apology is taken right back and replaced with a heart.

“I didn’t sleep.” He muttered.

“Oh…” Effie mutters when she sees the state of him, “My darling boy, are you-“

“I have to go.” Sirius whispers.

“What?” She asks.

“I have to go.” Sirius says with more urgency, and he scrambles to his feet and makes a run for it.

“Shoes, dear!” Effie calls, and Sirius runs right back. He stuffs his feet in his slippers and runs off again, “Teeth!”

Sirius races back and hurriedly brushes his teeth. She calls for him again to change his clothes and eat when he tries to leave again, but he doesn’t bother. He just grabs the book and runs, tying not to slip in his slippers.

“Where’s he going?” James asked, standing his his doorway.

“Im not sure.” Effie said, “He’s still in his pyjamas. All he had was a book-“

“A blue one?” James asked.

Effie nodded. James rapt his knuckles on the doorframe and ducked his head inside, “Lily, he’s doing it!”

“Oh, yes!” She shouts back.

James gets a slap on the back of his head, “Did you sneak your girlfriend in over night, James Fleaumont Potter?”

James goes red, “Erm… no?”

Sirius is rushing. He couldn’t get Elvendork up and running, she still needs a few more tweaks. So he’s running there instead. All the way to Remus’ at who knows what time of morning.

When he gets there, he’s panting. He knocks on the door, but there’s no answer.

Lyall is probably at work, Hope is probably tending to her garden out back, and Remus is no doubt still sleeping. He’s worse than Sirius, he’ll sleep until something wakes him up, meaning he’ll sleep through till the next morning if nothing does.

Sirius doesn’t wait, he’s around the corner and shoving open Remus’ window, and hauling himself in before he can even think about it.

The desk that usually sits under Remus’ window is not there. So when Sirius dives in head first, expecting to catch himself on a desk, he’s rather shocked to come toppling down to the floor face first.

He groans, splayed out there on the ground, looking at the roof.

“What… the fuck?” He hears Remus mutter, and he pokes his head up to find that Remus is in the process of rearranging his room.

Sirius furrows his brow and looks at the time, “Why the fuck are you up and active at seven ten in the morning?” He runs his face and sits up, “Why are you rearranging your room?”

“I was stressed.” Remus swallowed, “Didn’t sleep.”

“Why?” Sirius groaned, his nose hurts, so he pokes it, which doesn’t help.

“Lily said you read what I wrote about you in Dorian Gray… called me, said you were asking what it meant.”

“Yeah, uhm- ow.” Sirius poked his face again.

“Don’t do that.” Remus grumbled, reaching for his cane and walking over to help Sirius up.

“Sorry.” Sirius yawns, his lack of sleep catching up to him.

“Why are you up?” Remus asked, “You don’t do anything before nine if you don’t have too.”

Sirius smiles, Remus knows him so well, “Didn’t sleep either.”

“Why not?” Remus hummed, casually leaning on his cane in that suave way he does. James doesn’t think it’s suave, he tells Sirius it’s just normal, but Sirius knows better than James. He’s blinded by love, of course he knows better than James.

“Was reading.” Sirius swallowed, holding up the book and wiggling it in his hands, “Uh… I made some annotations back… where they fit.”

Yeah, basically just Remus’ name right beside his own, everywhere, and lots of little moons. He even underlined one very sexy line in the dirty scene that really made him think of Remus, and drew and arrow pointing to it, and wrote both of their names with a heart around them.

“Oh.” Remus swallowed, taking the book when Sirius handed it back.

They were both blushing.

“Go on, open it.” Sirius mumbled, nodding for encouragement.

So slowly, tentatively, Remus did. He opened the book, midway through, and found his name, and little moons, and a million hearts scribbled everywhere there was space.

Remus dropped the book.

Sirius leant down to pick it up, because he’s always willing to do things for Remus. He always will be. He buys books with all the money he’s meant to be saving, to put them on his own shelf, so that Remus might browse and find something he likes. He just wants to please Remus. To make him happy. To make his life a little simpler.

“Oh, careful, it’s on the brink of falling-“ As Sirius stood back up with it, Remus kissed him. Very quick and very short but very on the lips, “apart.” Sirius squeezed out, “Oh.”

“Oh.” Remus muttered.

“Well…” Sirius swallowed, walking past Remus to put the book down on the desk. Because Sirius is respectful of Remus’ things, always has been, and what he wants to do to Remus right now is probably not very respectful. He turns back, and he grabs him, with everything he has, “You’re mine now.”

“Oh…” Remus mumbled as Sirius kissed him, pulling him down onto the bed, careful to help take the weight off Remus’ hip. Because he’s always thinking of Remus like that.

He lays them down, the way that makes Remus most comfortable, and he presses tight against him, and he kisses Remus with all the strength, and love, and devotion he has.

Sirius never stops buying books, and Remus pretends he never figures out what Sirius is doing. And in their own little house, when they buy one a few years later, Sirius fills a whole room with bookshelves just for Remus, and fills them until they’re overflowing.

He never gets tired of watching Remus read. And he never gets tired of seeing his own name written down in the margins of whatever love story Remus just finished reading.

★ ★ ★

This came to me in a dream. I don’t even know why. It was a vision and I just had to write it so… enjoy?

Also, I just had the image of the Ben Barnes fancast edits using the Dorian Grey clips in my head whilst writing this so I had to reference it. I’m pretty sure canonically Dorian doesn’t even look remotely like Sirius, and honeslty, that just makes Remus’ pining even more pathetic lamo.

Also, none of these books (besides Dorian) referenced are real. I wrote this between 2-4 am so I really had no brain cells left that could use real references lol. This was just fun.

If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it here <3

Wonderful Wolfstar lovers who were interested: @lemongrass77777 @weirdtinkerbellversion @lapassemirroir

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qianinterprises · 3 years

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Unexpected Snow Day

Author's Notes: This fic was actually created for Valentines Day and a version of it has been posted on ncta and ao3.

Synopsis: The snow on the ground was a big surprise, and you aren't sure if it's pleasant or not. Sure, you love the snow, but the thought of spending Valentines Day alone isn't super appealing. It's a good thing your neighbor, Kun, has other plans to spend the day.

Pairing: Kun x Reader

Genre(s): fluff, tiny microscopic bit of angst

Warning(s): none

Word Count: 3900

This image is not mine. Credit to the owner!

You hadn’t been expecting to view the snow blanketing the ground when you’d woken for work that morning. Your first thought was that you must be dreaming. Upon further inspection, however, you discovered that your eyes didn’t deceive you at all. Snow covered the ground. Well, more than covering it. Coating it more like. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen snow like this. Actually, you hadn’t seen it snow here at all, at least, it hadn’t snowed in the three years you’d lived in the small, one bedroom, one bathroom cottage you rented from the sweet old couple a few houses down.

You let out a sigh and leaned against the window sill, pressing your nose against the cool glass. You loved the snow. You always had. However, snow today? You squeezed your eyes shut. Typically, you didn’t mind being alone; you’d gotten used to it, but you’d never had to be alone on this particular holiday. Sure, it had been a while since you had someone romantic to share it with, but you typically had friends, or, at the very least, your students to keep you company. That was actually the plan for today. Spend the day of love with your students.

Those plans were foiled now. You hadn’t checked your email yet, but guessed school would be canceled. This place hadn’t received snow in years. They had no idea what to do with it! School would be canceled indefinitely until the snow melted away or, at the very least, became more manageable.

Your phone dinged on the nightstand, drawing your attention out of your thoughts. You gave the snow one last glance, puzzled feelings bubbling in your abdomen, before moving back to your bed to retrieve your phone.

‘Look outside!’

The message had come from Kun, your neighbor.

Before you had a chance to respond, another message arrived.

‘Guess no work today! And all that time put into lesson planning!’

You let out a little giggle at that.

Kun taught cooking class at the high school, a few doors down from your class. You weren’t in the same subject, but you had hit it off instantly when Kun had brought you a batch of brownies to welcome you to the school a few years ago. You’d quickly become fast friends, something that only made living next door to one another that much better.

‘Extra vacation days for us and the kiddos!’ you replied.

You couldn’t keep the grin off your face. There was just something about Kun that made you smile. Whenever he was around, a smile broke across your rosy cheeks, even if you’d had the worst of days. Your other co-workers seemed to have picked up on this and began relentlessly teasing you for it. Thankfully (or maybe not so thankfully), Kun hadn’t seemed to notice at all.

Your phone chimed again, this time portraying a little laughing emoji that Kun used a little too often. You slipped your phone into the pocket of your gray sweatpants. You were half tempted to climb back under the warm blankets heaped atop your bed, but opted to instead pace into the kitchen for a steaming cup of your favorite coffee.

While waiting for your Keurig to finish brewing, you stole another glance out at the snow through your kitchen window. The sun had risen fully now and you could now see white sticking to the tops of the trees. It was absolutely breath-taking. Something you hadn’t experienced in many years.

The sound of liquid filling your favorite coffee mug ceased and the sweet aroma filled the air. You poured in all of your creamers. Once it was sweet enough, you took a nice, refreshing sip, sighing softly as the warm liquid slid over your tongue and down your throat, instantly warming you.

Morning coffee was an absolute must. You couldn’t function without it. Sure, the caffeine was great, but it was more of the sweetness that you enjoyed. It was the perfect combination of sweet and bitter that got you ready for the day.

With a yawn, you moved into the living room of your little cottage. Monday’s were usually hectic and tiring, something you’d be counting on for the day. Now, with the snow covering the ground, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

Perhaps you should stuff your face with chocolate and watch sappy romance movies with a box of tissues to dry your tears at someone else's happiness and your own loneliness. Maybe you should pop open the bottle of wine chilling in your refrigerator and drink the day away.

You sighed. You didn’t have a boyfriend to spend the day with. You didn’t have your best friend, who was already married, to cheer you up. You didn’t have your students to keep you distracted long enough for Valentines Day to feel full and bountiful.

You stretched out on the couch and your cat, Effie, jumped up in your lap, laying herself across your stomach, purring softly as she curled up. You stroked your cat's head and let your head lull against the throw pillows, staring up at the ceiling fan.

The best thing to do for a day like this would be reading a good book, you thought. It wasn’t long afterwards that you got up to grab a book from your collection.

The day was drifting away slowly, just as you had predicted. You was halfway through your book, taking your time to bask in the novel with a bowl of popcorn that Effie kept stealing. As lunchtime came and went, you found yourself succumbing to boredom. Your book was nice, but not nearly as interesting as you’d been hoping. You were blue. You had hopes that perhaps Kun would invite you over like he sometimes did for food or for a riveting game of Mario Kart, but as the day trickled away, those hopes vanished.

However, as your phone, which had been silent most of the day, began to ring, your hopes began to grow ever so slightly. The frown that had stitched itself across your face easily eased as soon as you picked up the phone to find Kun’s name flashing across the screen.

Light pink dusted your cheeks before you answered.

“How's your day going?” he asked.

His velvety voice sent chills up your spine.

“Boring,” you replied.

Your voice was dull with unenthusiasm that he chuckled at.

“I was bored too, which motivated me to clean out the old shed behind the house and I happened to find my own snow sled! I was wondering if you wanted to go to the park with me to try it out?”

Your face heated up brighter than it already was. He wanted you to go? Sledding? With him? You swallowed thickly. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

“I’d love to but uh… I don’t have a sled.”

“That’s fine! We can share mine! I-if you want to, of course.”

The way his excitement changed to stammaring made your heart pound. You’d never heard the cool, collected man stumble over his words before.

Your face heated, but you nodded against the phone, too anxious to speak just yet, although you knew he was waiting for an answer.

“I’d love to! When should I be ready?” you managed to squeak out.

“Ten minutes?” he asked.

Ten minutes?!

“Uh… sure!” you agreed, stupidly.

With that, the conversation ended and you shot up off the couch, startling Effie who had been asleep surrounded by popcorn kernels. Hastily, you tore the gray sweatpants down your legs, stumbling as you ran toward your closet, flinging your shirt off at the same time. As you reached the closet, you ripped the door open so hard it rattled, but you didn’t have time to care. Ten minutes was nowhere even close to enough time. Why you had agreed was completely beyond you. You could only assume it was your stupid, love-drunk brain going into over-drive with excitement.

You yanked a pair of black leggings off a hanger, ignoring the hanger that dropped onto the floor with a clank. You didn’t pause to pick it up. You didn’t have time! You rolled the leggings up your legs before grabbing a pair of jeans and sliding them up as well, hoping the simple combination would keep you warm enough. You pulled a sweater from another hanger, throwing it over your head and attempting to force your hands through, your heart racing as time slipped away, causing you to get lost in the sweater, attempting to blindly shove your head through the neck of the fabric.

With a grunt, you finally had the blasted thing pulled over your head and reached into the far back of her closet to retrieve a pair of black snow boots you rarely wore. You weren't even sure they’d still fit your feet, you could only hope.

You pulled your thick winter coat off it’s hanger. It was actually an old, tan, Carhartt coat that had belonged to your younger brother, but when he grew too big for it, shoulders too wide to fit, your parents, who hardly threw any clothing item away, found you could wear it. Sure, it was a little big on you. The sleeves were too long for your arms, the bottom covered your rear end almost completely, and it sat loose against your chest. Still, you loved it. It always smelled like pine and never failed to keep you warm, even in 20 degree weather.

You laid the coat out on the bed and turned your attention to the bathroom mirror.

Kun had seen you without makeup before, once, when his heat had gone out and he was banging on your door at 4 in the morning on a Saturday asking for warmth. That still didn’t make you confident. At the time, you didn’t care how your face looked, but now, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, you wrinkled your nose.

Freckles were cute when they just covered the cheek-bones of pretty, skinny girls, but you was neither pretty nor skinny, and you had dark freckles all the way from the top of your forehead down to the chubbiness under your jaw.

Time was ticking down. You knew you didn’t have too much time to worry about your face, but the thought of facing Kun bare-faced made your stomach churn. So, you did the only thing you could. You opened the bottle of concealer and pulled the wand out. You used the wand to dot over the freckles all over your face before going over them all with foundation. It wouldn’t cover them all or hide them, but it made them lighter, less noticeable.

Once dressed completely, you gave one more long, unsatisfied look into the mirror. You’d covered as many of your cosmetic flaws as you could. There was nothing more you could do, and you were rapidly running out of time.

More time had passed than you realized. Just as you emerged from the bathroom, reaching for your shoes, the doorbell rang.

“Coming!” you shouted, tugging on your snow boots, over fuzzy socks. Once they were laced up, you pulled the winter coat over your shoulders and zipped it up to your chin.

Once completely ready, you shuffled over to the door, turning the lock and opening it hesitantly to reveal a grinning Kun standing on your tiny porch, clutching a dull, red sled with the paint chipping. He wore a beige jacket, hood pulled up over his head, and a pair of jeans he’d likely lined with long-johns. He was dressed casually. Much more casually than she was used to, and it forced the air to get trapped inside her throat. He was perfect, even when he was dressed for the cold.

“Ready?” he asked, voice smooth, melodic, and full of excitement.

“Absolutely!”

Your heart thumped a little harder in your chest. His attire, the sled, his smile, the day; it all made this seem like a magical date. You knew it couldn’t be but… in your dreams and your diary, it would be the most perfect date you’d ever gone on.

He walked down the three small steps leading to the ground that was covered in the icy white powder. As soon as he stepped foot on the ground, his boot crunched under the snow, a sound you hadn’t heard since you were young. It brought back so many memories of a happy childhood spent building snowmen and having snowball fights.

You followed him off the porch, you own feet soon crunching into the snow.

Kun led the way from your yard into his, taking a shortcut to the park not far from where you lived, a little more than a block away. You made your way up Kun’s driveway and out onto the side of the road. A snow plow had already come through to scrape the snow and ice off the road, but it hadn’t done a very good job. It had left ice in the center of the road and the scrapped away snow leaned precariously on the shoulder, teetering between off the road and on it. Not much of anyone would be driving today anyway, you supposed.

As the two of you made the short journey to the park, you exchanged small talk, mostly about classes or students you had in common. A brief conversation about your desire to get a German Shepherd puppy and Kun discussing his goldfish, Hendery and Xiaojun.

Before long, you’d reached the park and your eyes grew wide. From the moment Kun asked if you’d wanted to go sledding, you’d held no other thought about the complications in your mind, specifically the complications of the amount of people currently running amach. More specifically, your students, both past and present, seemed to be everywhere you turned. In fact, as you were taking it all in, Billy Bridges, one of your more… challenging students, flew past on a juvenile snowboard, nearly plowing over another adult in his path.

Your heart pounded nervously in your chest. You weren't great in crowds, especially in crowds that included your students that would ask a million questions about seeing you when you saw them again. Part of you thought it would be best to just go home, ditch a Valentines Day sled date and do something else, but as Kun’s gloved hand found your bare one, your mind blanked. He didn’t say a word, but he seemed to somehow know how nervous you’d become. He slowly guided you up through the throngs of people to a tall hill on one side of the park, a hill not too many people were occupying, as surprising as it was.

Once at the top, you took a moment to survey the area below. It was amazing. The usually green field was covered in thick white like some sort of enchanted wonderland. Children with pink noses were sliding down smaller hills on homemade sleds. Teenagers threw balls of icy fun at one another and chased each other around with snow-dusted boots. Others lay on their backs, stretching their arms out and flailing them as if they were trying to signal for help, forming the wings on an angel as their legs opened and closed over and over to make the outline of a dress, creating a pile of snow between their legs. Parents stood around, watching their children have fun or tilting their heads back with opened mouths to a falling snowflake on their tongue.

“Ready?” Kun’s voice brought you out of your reverie, his hand squeezing yours gently.

You looked back at him, grinning and nodded. As snowflakes began falling around them, several flakes became trapped in his hair, making him look like a dazzling snow prince that made you weak in the knees, and the urge to throw yourself at him became more impossible to withstand.

Luckily, he gave you a smile and turned away, releasing your hand and dropping the red sled into the snow, balancing it on the top of the hill, careful not to let it slide down without passengers.

“Did you want me to push you first?” you asked once the sled was situated.

Kun turned around at your question, confusion etched into his brow until that confusion turned to mirror dejection.

“I-I was thinking we could slide together…” he said, a light pink dusting his cheeks.

He must have been getting cold.

You was flabbergasted, nevertheless, at his statement. Your mouth was agape and you silence must have come off as judging rejection.

“I mean, if you want to! But you don’t have to!” he insisted, voice wavering slightly as the words rushed out.

You was still struck dumb, but this seemed to be all the push you needed to collect yourself and respond.

“That sounds like fun!” you agreed.

Kun let out a sigh that you were sure was just a hard exhalation of air and his smile returned.

He opened his hand, offering it to you, who gladly took it, face beginning to feel warm. He led you to where the sled rested and held the sled as you settled onto it. You bent your knees and slid your feet at the base of the sled to stabilize yourself. Once you were settled, Kun released the sled and you placed your bare hands on the frozen white sheets to stabilize it as Kun slowly lowered himself behind you. Your cheeks grew hotter as he situated himself with his legs on either side of you. He scooted closer, until his feet were pressed against the head of the sled beside yours and your back was pressed against his coat-clad chest. You could feel his warmth and his heartbeat through their clothes, slow and steady. Your own heartbeat racing at the closeness.

Kun reached around you, settling his arms on your waist and grabbing hold of the steering robe that rested against your knees. He pulled it tight and let his wrists settle on the tops of your thighs.

Your face was hot. So hot you were surprised you weren't melting the snowflakes still falling around you. You fought the urge to nestle yourself back against Kun’s chest, to make yourself more comfortable in his embrace. You fought against every urge within yourself not to turn around and press a kiss against his lips.To claim this as the perfect date in the history of dates. In fact, the only thing grounding you and keeping you from acting on your feelings was your bare hands still resting in the freezing snow to stabilize the sled.

“Ready?”

Kun’s voice was so close to your ears, you felt like you could melt. All you could do was nod, too nervous to speak.

With that, you dug your fingers into the snow and used it as a springboard to topple you over the hill. With as much strength as you could muster, you did just that, forcing the sled to slide on the ice until gravity took control and you were descending the hill. The sled was slow at first, but it gradually picked up speed.

As you sped down, wisps of hair fluttered up into the wind as elated laughter bolted from both your chests. A wide grin stretched across your face. You had forgotten how much fun this was, or maybe it was Kun’s presence behind you that made it more fun.

Your eyes began to sting from the cold wind blowing in your face, drawing liquid to your eyes that you blinked away. Kun’s hands squeezed tighter around you, holding the rope and holding you steady in his strong arms. Everyone else had seemed to disappear. The only two people left in the world seemed to be the two of you sliding down the slope, laughing the whole way, wrapped up in each other’s bliss.

Unfortunately, the best moments never last forever and all too soon, the sled was sliding to a stop at the bottom of the hill. The world came back into view. Children were running around, teenagers were throwing snowballs, parents were catching snowflakes. Nothing had changed. You were still two people riding a sled who had no idea how the other felt.

As the sled came to a stop, you collected yourself to get off, ready to ask if he wanted to go again, but Kun’s arms tightened around your middle. You paused and glanced back at him questioningly, your cheeks heating again.

The snow fell around you, bits of it collecting in your eye lashes.

Kun didn’t speak for a long moment. His brown eyes just searched your, looking for the answers to a question he hadn’t asked.

You was about to open your mouth to speak, when he beat you to it.

“How do you feel about me?” he asked

Your cheeks flamed hotter.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked, attempting to play dumb.

You had no intentions on revealing your crush if he didn’t feel the same way.

“Am I just a good friend or… more?”

You were silent. It was your turn to search him. Your eyes met his again, hoping for the correct answer. As you looked, you saw no trace of jokes or laughter. You saw seriousness. A seriousness that you drew courage from.

“I see you as a really good friend who lives next door to me that I’ve known for three years,” you began.

His face seemed to fall and he started moving away from you. It was your turn to catch his wrist.

“A really good friend whom I’ve had a massive crush on for the past two years.”

It felt good to admit it. Your cheeks heated up more as you waited for an answer.

It never came. At least, not a verbal one.

Instead, a cold, gloved hand touched your cheek, drawing you closer before a pair of cold, plump, and absolutely perfect lips fell on yours.

It took you a moment to comprehend what was happening and to respond, but when you did, you placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer to deepen the kiss. Your heart pounded in your ears. This was absolutely, without a doubt, the best Valentines Day there was in the history of days.

At least until a snowball hit you in the back, drawing you from the kiss in utter shock. You spun around, eyes wide until they met the mischievous smirks of Kim Jongin, Kim Jieun, and Lee Perry, three students you and Kun had in common.

“Mr. Qian and Ms. (Y/L/N) sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” They began singing.

Their teasing brought more heat to your cheeks, and Kun drew you closer.

“Well, that’s what we were doing until you three broke the moment,” he scolded.

This did nothing but make the three laugh as they doddled away to go bother someone else.

You whined. Your perfect moment ruined.

At least, until Kun wrapped his arms back around your waist and squeezed again.

“So you see me as someone you had a crush on. I see you as my girlfriend,” he said.

You turned to look up at him, shock written all over your face. You searched him, hoping he was serious. Deeming he was, a smile broke out across your face.

“And I want to be your girlfriend.”

He smiled and brought you in for another kiss, one that sealed the deal officially.

Definitely the best Valentine's Day ever.

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

Text

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

#everlark #thg #the hunger games #everlark fic #fanfic #prompt #everlark fanfic #fanfiction #growing back together #userreese #i think thats what you meant when you said to tag you????#gravity ♥️ 🌅 🥖

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pixieungerstories · 4 years

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The Captive - 3

Of course he didn’t think she was a virgin! Humans usually get married before they finished growing. Well, they used to anyway. George wasn’t good at guessing humans ages. They were small for a short time, then they were full sized for a longer time, then they were dead forever.

But this one, seemed like she was old enough to have married, had a couple of children and still had time to lose her family in some plague or another. Humans were always dying like that. Plagues, famines, it was more trouble than it was worth keeping them alive. Most of the time.

He had honestly thought of them as handy snacks for the longest time.

Or pets.

Well, not exactly pets.

Then black powder had turned up and suddenly the world was a lot more complicated.

When the arrangement had first been put into place, George had an entire monastery of nuns to attend to him.

That had been good times.

Until he realized the women didn’t want to be there.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t any fun at all.

He might not ever have found out, except that he had met a woman who did want to be there.

His tail lashed in anger. Centuries of women, being sent to him. Then Silene came and taught him how to speak human language. She had loved him. And when she had died, he had been beside himself with grief.

Then her niece had come. Or great niece or something. The woman had come and they had lived together. They had grown fond of each other. Then she was old and he was taking care of her. One day she was gone. He had returned her body to her family, as requested. He had left with a cousin of some sort.

Eventually, he had surrendered part of his hoard and purchased the land. That was when things had become official with this particular family. He always had a companion. Some were better than others.

His last treasure - what was her name? - had been more interested in running some sort of shop over his head than in actually keeping him company. He didn’t approve but he had allowed it. Now this last one… He didn’t know what to make of her. She was moody. Some days she would come down here and read to him for hours. Other days she would sulk or rage against him. She was right though. He should try to remember her name.

Ellen? Helen? Something. Damn it.

Elly!

Maybe?

George sighed. Whatever her name was, she kept accusing him of eating her cat. That was ridiculous. He wasn’t interested in anything smaller than a sheep. She was at more risk from him than some stupid cat. He didn’t like cats. They tended to spit at him.

Maybe if her got her a new one, she would get over that? How hard would it be to find a cat? They used to be like vermin around here. Maybe he should let her keep the boy as a pet. It wouldn’t be the first time he had allowed that. Usually he waited until he knew the woman first.

He needed a few things for his lair. Humans were pathetic and fragile. They had almost no night vision and certainly couldn’t see colour in the dark. They were entirely too sensitive to cold. He had a cast iron wood stove around here somewhere. It would need to be cleaned, but he generally found that carefully heating it until it was glowing white generally did the trick. It had worked on the wrought iron bedstead … sort of. The spring base for the mattress had melted.

He carefully dismantled it and dragged it down his tunnel and away from the house. No hot fires under the structure. He had learned his lesson last time. Ann hadn’t let him live that down.

He missed Ann. The one who had come to replace her hadn’t been that friendly. He had been hoping this one would be better.

Elsie?

His treasure. He had bought her with gold before she was even born. Priceless. His.

His…. Evvie? Did it even start with an E?

She was right. He was going to have to try harder.

When he got back to his lair, he could smell her. She had been here recently. She had been afraid. Was something wrong, or was this the usual humans always stank of fear?

Not her, though. Not Effie. She was just angry all the time. Or at least all the time she was with him. He should really do something about that.

He slithered up the steps and tried the door knob. He was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. It was easy to follow her scent trail through the shop, past the pile of raw fleeces in the corner that smelled slightly of pasture and slightly like lunch. The stairs up were wider than the ones to the basement. There was a whole house up here! He had never been to the second level before. One guest room that smelled like dust. One office was full of boxes that smelled like old books, and the last door to the corner room was her bedroom.

It also wasn’t locked.

He barely had the door open when she announced, “Na dean fochmoid fáinn!”

That made him pause. “I would never!”

“George? Why are you in my bedroom?”

“Why are you cursing in Celt?”

The woman sat up in bed and turned on a small electric light on a little table. Humans liked little tables. George was not overly fond of the fake light she was always using. “I asked you first,” she challenged.

“That is true,” he conceded. “You were in my lair when I was not near the stairs. I was uncertain what you needed there.”

She sagged, “I forgot your dinner. I was going to ask if you needed anything.”

George considered this. She had come to offer him food, then got frightened and ran away. Interesting. “Why were you shouting in Celtic?”

“Gaelic,” she countered. “I don’t speak much, but I found a book of… well… legends and that was something to keep evil spirits away.”

“Do you know what it means?” he asked patiently.

“Um… leave me alone or something?” she suggested tentatively.

George considered that, “Nearly. It doesn’t work on me. You should be careful about using words of power that you don’t understand.”

“Do you need me to find you something to eat?”

He considered this. She was trying to change the subject. “You are not happy here.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snarled.

George blinked. “What do you need to be happy?”

If anything she frowned harder. “What do you mean?”

George sighed and squeezed a bit more of himself into her room so he could curl around himself. “We are both going to be here for the rest of our lives. If I can help make you happier, then maybe…” he trailed off. She was watching him carefully, trying to puzzle out his expression. Good luck with that, he thought, you are only good at reading monkey faces. “You need to sleep more, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if I will get to though. Ben will be here in a couple of hours.”

George just kept watching her. “Think about what makes you happy and let me know. Is there any part of that life you gave up that you could get back?”

She shook her head sadly, “I was almost a librarian. I spent a lot of time and money attending university for that. Now I sell fancy ass string.”

George crept forward and put his head on the bed next to her. “Would you be happier selling books instead?” Treasure just stared at him. “I was surprised when you added the bakery. But that has done well. Would people who eat…. Fancy ass bread also buy books?”

She shook her head, “No one buys books anymore.”

Suddenly he understood and it made his eyes light up. “You hoard books.”

“No! I don’t! I mean, I collect a few, but that isn’t the same as hoarding.”

He smirked not believing it for a second. “Sell the wool, use the money to buy books, be happy.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

George awkwardly shook his head, being careful not to bump her. “You are selling the wool to buy more wool to sell. Sell the wool and buy books to sell.”

The treasure snorted, “My mom said that. I’ll think about it.” After a moment she added, “George? I don’t like that you came into my room.”

He nodded, but made no move to leave. He waited until she shifted uncomfortably and was about to speak before he replied, “You are not comfortable in my lair. You are here to keep me company. So, I came to your lair to join you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

He shrugged, though his shoulders didn’t really work like that. “I get lonely. You were right. You are the only person I talk to.”

She swallowed, “We will have to figure something out.”

George grinned. He stopped when she looked nervously at his teeth. Then he backed out of the room. There wasn’t enough space on the landing to turn around without bumping into something. He figured it out, but it wasn’t graceful.

He was most of the way back to his lair when he realized he hadn’t asked her name. He would just have to listen carefully through the floorboards and pick it up when someone else said it.

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #dragon boyfriend #Novel #Free Fic Friday #yes I'm late #just go with it

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junie-bugg · 4 years

Text

Prospects and Propriety - Chapter One

Summary: Everlark Jane Austen AU

“We’re very similar, you and I.” He turns the leaf over in his palm one last time and then presses it into my hand. His fingertips are warm where the leaf is brittle.

We are, aren’t we? Me, a girl forced to marry by the rules and expectations of society and him, a boy whose freewill was stolen away before he could even walk. We’re both prisoners. Destined to fates we did not choose ourselves. Now I see what was so funny to him.

The two of us: we are absolutely tragic.

Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister Prim are the adopted daughters of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution and set her up for a happy marriage of her own. Katniss sets her sights on Mr. Gale Hawthorne, a wealthy man who just moved to Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her. But what of the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?

Read here on Tumblr or on my AO3 account: izzacrosswriting

Author’s Note:

This is a story inspired by my love of Everlark and Jane Austen’s novels. I am in no way an expert on the Regency period and I include fashions/details that are not historically accurate.

The setting is an alternate England-like Panem.

The plot is my own (Gale is not Mr. Darcy people, don’t get it twisted) but does borrow aesthetics and ideas directly from Jane Austen and Suzanne Collins.

The cast of characters is a mix of canon Hunger Games and original characters I’ve created.

I plan on including links to music and ambiance videos I used while writing so feel free to explore those! I typically play nature sounds and music together on my laptop so sorry if you're reading on a phone!

Warning: I do plan on this series getting a lil smutty. There will be graphic depictions of violence, sex, and possibly death. I’m still working everything out:)

Nature ambiance(s):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZ9uyQI3pF0&t=1694s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUjUhZ1Yy7Y

Music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cc9ofwF-e4

(If you want to listen to this on Spotify it's called 'The Secret Life of Daydreams' from the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack.)

Word Count: 1,727

Chapter One

I run my hands through the tall grasses at my waist. It’s the perfect morning. The crisp air doesn’t quite hold that harsh bite of winter that will soon sweep the countryside in blizzards and ice. Emerald leaves hint at the coming autumn with the slightest tint of yellow along their stems. The sun shines bright through branches and I watch the forest come alive with squirrels and chipmunks that scurry through the thick brush. The dirt path I followed to get here grazes the edge of the woods, but I’ve abandoned it to traipse through the wild-flower dotted hillsides instead.

From this high up, I can see everything. The village of Whitley lies to the west. I can just make out the rooftops of the squat brick buildings off the main square. By this time the merchants will have opened their shops for business. The rest of the countryside is peppered with grand estates and bountiful farmland. Rivers gleam like veins of silver and dirt roads are wreathed in the dust kicked up by horse-drawn carriages. I wish I could stay and sit here all day. I would drink in the sun and drown in the low hum of insects, though Haymitch has warned me of the nasty gossip that follows a lady with a tan and a set of freckles.

A lady. I almost snort. Apparently, that’s what I am. Or what I need to be if anyone is ever going to ask for my hand in marriage. The thought ruins the good mood my morning stroll had put me in. I throw myself down among the tall grasses and begin plucking mindlessly at their stems.

Haymitch Abernathy, the legal guardian of me and my sister, has never been one to force us into doing things we dislike. I’m allowed to ride my horse alone, hunt with a bow and arrow, and take off into the woods whenever I please, like some woodland nymph from one of my father’s old stories. If it wasn’t for Prim and my greenhouse back at home I would probably live out here. Until it got cold of course. I’m allowed more freedom than any other young girl in the county, I’m sure. But not even Haymitch can protect me from matrimony.

My sister is excited for me. I imagine she’s fantasized about her wedding since she knew what a wedding was. To her, marriage is a romantic fairytale. A strong, handsome man of large fortune will sweep her off her feet and give her an estate to run and small, cherub-faced children to care for. To me, marriage sounds like a death sentence. They say if I’m lucky, I’ll marry for love as well as for fortune, but I never want to love someone as much as my mother loved my father. Because when he died, in a way, so did she. The only person I know that I truly love is Prim.

Primrose Everdeen, my little sister, was never the outdoorsy type like me. She’s fair, with golden blonde hair that hangs in ringlets past her slight shoulders, and a face as fresh and as pure as a spring dewdrop. She spends her days drawing, flower arranging, and studying languages with my old tutor Mrs. Winthrop.

“She’ll be a highly accomplished woman by the time I’m done with her. Mark my words, this young girl is special,” Mrs. Winthrop had said to Haymitch mere days after first starting Prim’s lessons. She had been my tutor for years and had never said anything nearly as flattering about me. Sullen Katniss Everdeen must have been a lost cause in her eyes.

I’m four years older than Prim who’s a mere twelve. We share the same parents, though we look almost nothing alike. Where she received the fair skin, blonde curls, and gentle blue eyes of our mother, I received the olive-toned, straight black, and storm grey palette of our father.

I sit up suddenly, aware that I left home hours ago and it must be getting time for my lessons. I dread heading back to that stuffy room where I’m required to sit straight and learn to be “lady-like” under the scrutinizing gaze of Ms. Effie Trinket, my new tutor. Manners are of the utmost importance to her, seeing as she makes her living off of teaching them. She considers being late an unforgivable sin.

With this in mind, I take my time gathering wild-flowers. There are so many at my feet, their delicate white and yellow petals peeking up amongst the grasses. I deftly craft two flower chains. One for me, which I place on the crown of my head, and one for Prim clutched in my hands. I notice some dirt under my nails and smile, wondering what Effie will say when I arrive late and grimy.

She purses her lips and crosses her arms as I enter the room. “Where were you?” She demands in that high pitched voice of hers.

“Out,” I shrug. I hadn’t seen Prim on my way in so I’m still clutching her flower crown. I offer it to Effie instead. “Flowers?” She squints at my offering, probably checking for bugs, before gingerly taking it and placing it down on a side table.

“Katniss, I need you to take today’s lesson seriously.” Her clipped tone sets my teeth on edge.

“I always do-” I start, but Effie cuts me off.

“Don’t lie to me, Katniss. I know you don’t care for etiquette. I know that to you a spoon is just a spoon, even when that spoon is a soup spoon and should only be used for soup!”

Again with the soup spoon thing, it was one time. But she’s right. I find learning manners and etiquette a waste of time. I’ve only been out in society for a short while. I barely attend balls seeing as I’m sixteen and prefer to stay at home anyway. I look up and realize that Effie is still talking at me.

“Are you even listening? Mrs. Winthrop was right, you are hopeless.” She sighs and wipes non-existent dust off of her shimmery lilac skirts. “It is imperative that you start paying attention and make some kind of progress in these lessons. Mr. Gale Hawthorne has recently taken possession of Templeton and is traveling here, as we speak, to take up residence indefinitely. Do you know what this could mean for you?” Suddenly, her annoyance melts away and is replaced by a teary, almost hopeful expression. The way this woman’s emotions swing back and forth between happy and exasperated hurts my head. She comes to clasp my face between her palms. “Mr. Hawthorne earns ten thousand a year, Katniss. Ten thousand!”

I have in fact heard of the Hawthornes. Maybe those lessons have had more of an impact on me than I thought. I was forced to spend months poring over books filled with the names and family trees of wealthy, well-known families that I had either already been acquainted with or might be acquainted with in the future. A healthy knowledge of people, especially rich people, will get you far in life. At least that’s what Effie says.

Gale Hawthorne is the eldest son of the wealthy businessman Ezra Hawthorne. I forget exactly how Mr. Hawthorne first made his fortune but the word mine sticks around in my head. What his mine produced, I’m not sure. Precious gems? Gold? Coal? All I know is the Hawthornes are incredibly wealthy, and Gale being the eldest son inherited when his father died. He is in possession of everything from the family fortune to a legion of servants to the many extravagant houses in Town. Now it seems he’s grown tired with the city and has decided to try his hand at country living. Good, I think. A wealthy man who’s used to the high society of the Capitol won’t last long out here. He’ll be out of my hair before the month’s up. Effie must not realize this since she’s still staring happily into my face.

“And?” I ask.

“Well, he’ll fall in love with you and ask for your hand in marriage!” She beams as if this is obvious. “If you play your cards right of course. For instance, he won’t find you very agreeable if all you do is scowl at him like you do me-” I jerk out of her grasp.

Of course. Marriage. It’s one of the only things Effie has talked about the entire time I’ve been her pupil.

“Yes, Mr. Abernathy warned me that'd you'd be. . .avoidant. But don’t you see? That’s the reason I’m here. To teach you how to win a husband! It’s an art you know.” She sighs, probably seeing the panicked look on my face, and slips back into a tone of tired annoyance. “You’ll have to marry someone, Katniss. Might as well marry knowing you’ll spend the rest of your life in the lap of luxury.”

She’s right, of course. There’s no way for women to make their own living. I can’t go to university to study business or law, I can’t run my own shop, I can’t inherit Haymitch’s estate or fortune. When he dies the money goes to some estranged cousin on his father’s side. I am a woman, therefore, I am destined to either marry or die poor and unprotected. And Prim…

If I don’t marry, then Prim can’t marry. One of the rules of proper Panem society is that a younger sibling cannot marry unless the eldest has, meaning I must be happily settled before my younger sister can even entertain the idea of love. If I don’t get married and Haymitch goes and does something stupid like die, there will be nothing I can do. For either of us. We’d be turned out of the house and left to beg for scraps. And I will not let that happen to Prim. Not again.

I force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat and spend the rest of the afternoon paying careful attention to Effie. She’s trying to teach me to communicate with men via body language, long gazes, and the fluttering of lashes.

This is the only way to save Prim, and with each horrible flutter I produce and each disappointed sigh from Effie, I feel my chances slipping away.

#everlark #thg #thg fanfic #everlark fluff #katniss everdeen #Peeta Mellark #gale hawthorne #haymitch abernathy #finnick odair #pride and prejudice #jane austen au #regency #everlarkfic #The Hunger Games

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aimeegbbs · 4 years

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i was tagged by @youre-the-sun-flower thank you, effy 💙

AIR

I have small hands / I love the night sky / I watch small animals and birds when I pass them by / I drink herbal tea / I wake to see dawn / the smell of dust is comforting / I’m valued for being wise / I prefer books to music / I meditate / I find joy in learning new truths from the world around me

FIRE

I don’t have straight hair / I like to wear ripped jeans and overalls / I play an organised sport / I love dogs / I am not afraid of adventure / I love to talk to strangers / I always try new foods / I enjoy road trips / summer is my favourite season / my radio is always playing

WATER

I wear bracelets on my wrists / I love the bustle of the city / I have more than one set of piercings / I read poetry / I love the sound of a thunderstorm / I want to travel the world / I sleep past midday most days / I love dimly lit diners and fluorescent signs / I rewatch kids’ shows out of nostalgia / I see emotions in colours not words

EARTH

I wear glasses or contacts / I enjoy doing the laundry / I am a vegetarian or vegan / I have an excellent sense of time / my humour is very cheerful / I am a valued advisor to my friends / I believe in true love / I love the chill of mountain air / I’m always listening to music / I am highly trusted by the people in my life

AETHER

I go without makeup in my daily life / I make my own artwork / I keep on track of my tasks and time / I always know true north / I see beauty in everything / I can always smell flowers / I smile at everyone I pass by / I always fear history repeating itself / I have recovered from a mental disorder / I can love unconditionally

i’m taggging @247-series, @nooraevas, @tunissan, @hugunderthestars, @carlasmina, @magnetoo & @yourlocalskamblog

#about me #tag thing

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preface2adreamplay · 4 years

Text

Under Your Spell (Chapter 29) - South of Her Shoulder

Summary: A Jared Padalecki/ OFC/ Oscar Isaac fiction.

Stef spends a week in NY with a trip down memory lane.

Married Jared! Single Oscar!

Chapter warnings: Angst, fluff, swearing.

Chapter WC: 3,794

Valentines and beyond passed in a blur of wallowing in self pity and a great amount of singing in her ‘home studio’ (the mic set up in the upstairs hallway).

Stef had finished the lyrics and polished off the sound she wanted for almost all of the songs for the new album and she was pretty damn proud of herself.

March came in and she was ready to get back out into the world, or at least back on a plane to New York.

Nik and the guys had booked studio time so they were all set to get shit done. They had taken a couple of years break, each of them doing their own thing for a while and honestly, Stef missed them. But, she only realised how much when she walked into their old practice space.

It’s not like she had abandoned them, but moving to a different country made it a little harder to record and write together as a band, even with the internet.

Jimmy, the drummer, had done them a solid and completely repainted, put in new carpets and made sure all spiders had been sent on their way.

It felt like a new beginning.

Jimmy was excitedly tapping on the snare while Stef set up her mic, a magazine article had once described him as ‘the cute one with the floppy hair,’ so that’s what he was referred to by the rest of the band, either cutesy or Flopsy.

Flopsy was eager to get going.

So Stef sang her heart out. She had a lot to get off her chest.

***

The day before Oscar’s birthday, Stef was searching through a second hand shop for a gift. There was a framed painting she knew he would love and she had run out of ideas of what to get the man who had everything.

Oscar was out of town but flying back home for his birthday weekend, Stef had planned on wrapping the gift and leaving it in the kitchen for him to find when he came back.

She had been recording songs for the past four days and though she didn’t want a break, she needed to take one. So here she was, covered in dust, searching through the shelves for the painting. The Kurt Cobain lookalike store owner had waved his hand in this general direction when she asked if it had been sold from the window or if he had just moved it.

Her phone beeped, pulling it from her purse she glanced down at the notification, not sure if she should open it now or leave it til later to read it.

Oh hell, she told herself, just open it.

‘I see you’re recording again, can’t wait to hear it. I hope you’re good.’

No pictures, no gifs, no kisses. Stef took a deep breath, thumb hovering over the tiny letters. It was the first time she had heard from him since that morning he had left. A whole month.

Fuck it.

‘We are. It’s sounding good, I know you’ll like it.’

She wanted to ask if he was ok but didn’t want to open a dialogue. Imagining a scenario where he would reply and say he missed her and she would weep and declare she missed him too and would go running into his arms. It was a bad idea and she truly didn’t want it to happen.

Nik had always handled the social media for the band. He had been posting all sorts of shit on every platform for the last couple of days about them being in the studio.

Shoving the phone back into her purse, she searched harder for the painting, moving the canvasses aside noisily while Kurt watched her from behind his desk.

***

Oscar got home right after Stef had gotten into bed in the spare room. Throwing back the blankets, she slipped out into the hall. He was yawning and rubbing his face as she peeked through the doorway.

‘Hi.’ She whispered.

‘Still up?’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

‘Only just. Almost fell asleep.’

‘Sorry, go back to bed.’ He smiled, she could see he was so tired he could barely stand.

With a slight shake of her head, Stef reached over and helped him out of his jacket, hanging it in the hallway next to her own.

He ran a hand through his curls, dyed black again for the movie he was working on.

‘Do you want tea?’ Stef was still whispering.

Oscar nodded following her into the kitchen. ‘Hey what’s this?’ He pointed to the neatly wrapped, perfectly rectangular gift on the kitchen island.

‘Oh, Happy Birthday!’ Stef chirped, checking the clock. It was 2am.

‘It’s not my birthday til I go asleep and wake up.’ Oscar eyed the present, wondering if he was allowed to open it.

‘Then ignore the present til you wake up! It’s only fair.’ Stef poured the boiling water over the dried chamomile flowers, smirking when she heard the rip of the paper behind her. He could never wait.

‘Wow, Effie this is amazing. I love it. Thank you,’

‘You’re welcome,’ placing the steaming cup in front of him she gave him a kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Oscar put the painting onto the counter top and pulled her into a tight hug. ‘You get the best gifts.’

‘I knew you’d like it. I had to fight some dust bunnies to get it. Worth it though.’

I think I’ll hang that in the bedroom, it’ll look cool there, right?’ He turned his tired eyes to her, she felt herself perk up a little, despite the aching tiredness she felt in her bones.

’Show me in the morning?’ Stef gave him another kiss on the cheek, making for the spare bedroom.

‘You could help me hang it,’ Oscar replied, watching her walk away.

‘If that’s your attempt at a euphemism, it sucked, but I’ll put that down to you being so tired.’

‘Night Effie.’ He called, as she closed the door behind her.

Next morning she awoke to a tap, tap, tap.

It was 8am, he probably didn’t get much sleep. She made her way to the bathroom. A hot shower was first on the agenda, then maybe yoga. But, she had to be in the studio for a few hours later on, she figured she would take some quality time with the birthday boy afterwards.

‘Hey, check it out.’ Oscar called out. Stef was towel drying her hair when she stepped into the bright and very airy bedroom.

‘Fucking hell, Oscar. Close at least one window?’ Stef felt her nipples stiffen from the cold. Why oh why didn’t she bring the padded sports bra, this lacey number was sexy but not functional.

If Oscar noticed, he didn’t let on. He was kneeling on his bed, arms out presenting the painting that now hung on the left side of the room.

Stef tilted her head to the side, hmming loudly.

‘You don’t like it?’

‘No, I think it looks good I just can’t think straight in this freezing cold room, what is wrong with you!’

‘Air conditioner is a bit broken, I’ll fix it.’ With hammer in hand, he manoeuvred himself off the bed, throwing his free arm around her shoulders. ‘Perfect,’ he grinned, looking at the painting and back to her.

‘Put a bra on Stef!’ He furrowed his brow and shook his head.

‘What?’ Stef stammered. ‘Wear some boxers!’ She countered, ‘I can see the outline of your junk in those sweats!’

‘It’s my birthday, I can wear what I want.’ He started fiddling with the air conditioning unit. She could hear him cursing before yelling that it was fixed while she put on her boots. Realising she hadn’t checked her phone all morning, she looked around for it.

There were a few messages. A couple from Darius and one from Clare sharing an update on what Brendan was doing while ‘mommy was away making some cash.’ Two were from Jared.

‘I’ve liked everything you’ve done so far.’

‘Out of interest, are you keeping the bit we recorded?’

Stef sighed, that song had been way to personal for her to put onto the album she was recording with the band.

‘I’m keeping it for a future release, it’s far too nice a song for this album we are doing now. I hope you don’t mind?’

Jared shot back a message straight away.

‘Naw I don’t mind. I look forward to hearing it whenever you’re ready for the world to hear it.’

Stef plugged her phone in to let it charge. Leaving Jared on read. She was sure he wouldn’t mind, it was easier than a conversation right now, she could always reply later.

Arriving at the studio a little early due to Oscar offering to drive her there, he took a few minutes to catch up with the guys.

‘Want to hear one of the new songs?’ Flopsy was bouncing on his feet, always so excited.

‘Of course I do!’ Oscar spun on his feet, fixing Stef with a glare. She hadn’t let him hear anything yet. Scrunching up her face, she nodded at Flopsy. Letting people hear her music wasn’t the issue, it was when someone listened to it that she knew so well.

Oscar knew her inside out, would he know who the songs were written about? She watched his face while he listened, grinning from ear to ear when the song finished. ‘I think that is some of the best I’ve heard by you guys. So fucking good.’ He clapped Flopsy on the back and looked to Stef. ‘Your voice is...’

‘Haunting,’ Nik offered.

Oscar nodded, ‘haunting. You’re telling us something here, Effie. I can’t wait to hear the rest of it.’

For the rest of the session, Oscar sat on the studio sofa while Stef recorded her vocals. Sipping between takes on her favourite tea, Oscar would give her the thumbs up each time she nodded that she was happy.

There was just the guitar to lay down before she could sign off and go home.

‘You happy?’ Oscar looked over at Stef in the car on the way back to his house.

‘Are YOU? You just spent your entire birthday in the studio.’

‘I’m so happy, it’s been years since we did that.’

‘It’s been years. I thought it was fun.’ Stef sank lower into the seat, wrapping her arms around herself.

‘The songs are something else. Whatever your muse was, try hold on to it.’

Oscar slowed at a stop sign and grinned. ‘Fancy a trip down memory lane?’

Stef narrowed her eyes, ‘how far down memory lane are you talking?’

Nodding his head down a street to the left, he waggled his eyebrows.

There was no one else on the road, so he did an illegal turn. Fuck it.

He pulled up outside a tall building that was ready to fall down, the condemned sign hung on one chain on the gate.

‘I’m not fucking surprised it’s condemned, it was falling down when we lived there.’ Stef shuddered looking up at the smashed windows.

It was the first place she and Oscar had lived in after they had Darius.

‘Yeah, I’m glad we got outta there.’ Rolling up his window as he drove away. ‘Probably the worst place I’ve ever lived.’

Stef nodded in agreement, even though she had lived in some crummy places in her lifetime.

‘Where to next?’

‘Oh so you wanna go see some shit?’

‘Well, now you started this trip down memory lane, let’s continue!’

Oscar laughed, driving toward their old high school, slowing as he came up to the parking lot. The gate was chained and padlocked.

‘Don’t even think about jumping that gate.’ Stef warned.

‘Not as young as I used to be.’ Oscar was shifting around looking at the building beyond, ‘if you move your head here, you can see the window of the music classroom. Here look,’ Oscar grabbed for Stef’s arm and pulled her toward him, she stood in front of him, pressed against the gate, nodding while she remembered meeting there for the first time over twenty years ago.

‘You ever get pissed that we didn’t finish school?’ Oscars breath tickled the back of her neck. Giggling, she ducked away from him. ‘Nah. I have a good life. No regrets, right?’

Oscar didn’t answer. He was still looking around the grounds, reminiscing.

‘How about you?’

‘Sometimes. But I got a good life. I’m not so sad about it.’ Shrugging, he dug his hands into his pockets and made his way back to the car, limping slightly.

‘Your foot still hurting?’ Stef asked, seeing him grin as he got into the car. He shook his head. ‘Nah, I just wanted your sympathy.’ He revved the engine at her as she scrambled to get back into the car.

‘Don’t leave me out here, it’s scary.’

‘Still afraid of the dark?’

‘Too many scary movies watched that had schools in them, it can’t be helped.’

‘Fancy some food?’

‘Oscar, it’s nearly midnight.’

‘My birthday doesn’t end til I go asleep!’ He declared. Stef nodded eagerly, she hadn’t eaten anything but a sandwich at lunch, her stomach had been grumbling.

***

Tucking her feet under a pillow on the sofa, a beer was passed under her nose. Her stomach was full of good food and she felt sleepy.

She raised the bottle to his and clinked, toasting to his health and happiness and many more birthdays.

Oscar dropped down heavily next to her, throwing his arm across the back of the chair.

‘I’m old and tired.’

‘Me too,’ Stef tried to hide a yawn.

‘Tell me Effie. Who ended it?’

‘Oh, uhm,’ Stef fiddled with the label on the bottle. ‘I did.’

Oscar nodded. ‘I thought you might.’

Stef closed her eyes, laying her head back against his arm. ‘I think everyone knew it had to end.’

‘Are you ok about it?’

Stef sighed loudly, ‘actually, yes. I’m happier now that it’s done.’

She didn’t need to see Oscar to know he was making a face of disbelief.

‘I am. Long term, I wanted something he couldn’t offer.’

‘Oh-ho, Effie knows what she wants. There’s a surprise.’ He teased.

Stef poked her finger into his ribs, enjoying his reaction. Grabbing at her hand, he held onto it for a moment before letting it fall into her lap.

‘I’m happy you’re happy.’ He said simply.

‘Thank you, Oscar.’

He nodded and sat quietly for a moment.

‘I got something for you,’ he announced.

‘What? You got me something? But, it’s your birthday.’

He was pulling out his phone, scrolling and fiddling with the volume.

‘It’s because it’s my birthday that the guys put this together for me. Ready?’

Stef shrugged, smiling at him, wondering what he was up to.

The familiar guitar chords started up, it was a song they had recorded earlier in the week, it was still a little raw, hearing it. Her vocals started in but it wasn’t until the second verse she heard it, the unmistakable sound of Oscar singing behind her own voice. ‘When did you do that?’

‘I was sent the early version and recorded it before you came down to the studio.’

‘You cheeky bastard.’ Stef laughed. ‘I love it, Oscar. Are we using it?’ She was wide eyed, excited. They had never done a duet. The thought had never even occurred to her.

‘If you want. The guys are cool with it.’

She was nodding again, listening to the song. It was perfect.

‘So it’s ok? You’re happy with it?’ His brown eyes were eagerly searching for the yes he hoped for.

‘Hell yes it’s ok, I’m more than happy Oscar. Well done you for sneaking that by me.’

Stef paused, she had leaned in to kiss his cheek. He was looking at her mouth in that way he did, his head tilted to the side.

‘Unless, you wrote it about someone and you don’t want to share the song?’ His soft voice was tender in the absence of music as the song finished, the short space between them closing.

‘I didn’t write it about him,’ Stef swallowed, shutting her eyes.

His lips found the side of her mouth, placing a gentle kiss. Stef didn’t pull away, he could see her mouth was open, her eyebrows raised like she was waiting for the kiss.

The kiss that would begin a long night of laying awake alone and heartbroken or the kiss that would bring her back to him, finally. Heart fluttering he leaned in again. It had been so long since she kissed him like this, lips fitting together as they had done so many times before, yet this kiss was new.

Stef put the beer down on the coffee table, rattling the glass top. ’Sorry,’ she stopped the giggle as it came to the surface.

Her cheeks were flushed. She was bundled up in her thick hoodie, oversized and too damn heavy for the heat in the room.

Both of them looked at anything but each other, both wanting to break the silence but too sure they would say something stupid.

Stef felt like a teenager again, with Oscar sitting next to her making out and being caught by a sibling who always dashed out to find a parent or yelled about it to everyone in the house.

Oscar wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Fuck, that was...’

‘Nice.’ Stef finished, blushing at him.

’It was nice,’ he agreed, ‘and I wanna do it again.’

‘Ok,’ Stef leaned in to him, his hands running along her neck, cupping her face.

They smiled into the kisses, tongues brushing, breathing ragged.

Stef had bunched his shirt into her fingers, holding onto him. Eventually the grip got so tight he had to pull away from the kiss to ease her fingers away. ‘Hey, I’m not going anywhere, you can let go.’

It had been a while since he was this close her. He could see the smattering of freckles over her nose and the scar on her forehead from when she ran straight into a fence when she hurtled down a hill when she was 15.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I just want to...touch you,’ she admitted, biting her lip.

He nodded, taking her mouth again, his thumbs on either side of her face.

Her lips were stinging when they came up for air. ‘Your stubble is killing me.’ Stef laughed, touching the tender skin around her mouth with her fingertips.

‘I’ll shave tomorrow,’ Oscar offered before seeing Stef vigorously shaking her head.

‘What?’ He was grinning now, his eyes lighting up.

‘Don’t shave, I like the scruff.’ She ran a hand across his cheek. ‘I love the scruff.’

‘Hey, I think we should talk about this.’ Oscar took her hand, kissing her palm and letting it rest against his leg.

‘Oh.’ Stef shifted, ‘you don’t want to...’

‘No, I do. Sorry, I wasn’t even sure if you felt the same as I did about this. I’m not...reading this wrong?’

‘No, Oscar. You’re not making me kiss you. I want to. I’ve wanted you for such a long time.’

The confession was enough, he wanted to grab her and kiss her and yell out of the windows that she finally felt the same.

‘Well, thank fuck for that. But...’

‘But?’ Stef deflated a little.

‘But I think, we should slow it down a little. I don’t want to jump in where we left off.’

Stef was nodding, her gaze never leaving his. ‘And I don’t mean from that night after Darius’s party, I mean if we do this, I want to take you out first.’

‘You want to date me!?’ Stef grabbed the beer, throwing back half the bottle on realising how thirsty she was after the make out session.

‘Yeah, I do. I think we should get to know each other as we are now. As adults, not as kids struggling to hold everything together.’

‘Ok,’ Stef wanted to pinch herself, surely she was dreaming. ‘So the Oscar sitting next to me right now, wants to bring me on a date? And after the date?’

‘Maybe another one?’

‘Maybe?’ She was trying to tease some assurances from him.

‘Definitely another, then another.’

‘Sounds…quaint.’

Oscar rolled his eyes, smiling. Their hands were entwined, neither remembered that happening, but it was all happening.

‘How long have you wanted to date me?’ Stef’s tiredness had ebbed away, she felt like she was flooded with electricity, jolts were keeping her upright and twitchy.

‘A long time, but honestly, every time I wanted to speak up I knew it wasn’t the right time. You never wanted to entertain any man that wanted into your life. I’d be intensely in love with you every we saw each other and I’d have to...’

‘Pull back and not talk to me for a while?’

‘Yeah...’ Oscar winced.

‘I thought it was coz I was turning you off.’

’No, the opposite. It’d break my heart every time you acted so normal around me. We were friends and that’s the way it was staying. It seemed.’

Stef felt a stab of guilt. ‘I’ve always wanted you. I was just too proud to let you back in.’

‘God, did I waste too much time we could have been together?’ Tears were threatening. Not again, she scolded herself.

’No time like the present!’ He threw his hands into the air. ‘Forget about it all, Effie. Let me take you out.’

Gathering herself, Stef thought to fix her hair. She hadn’t checked a mirror in a long time. What if she looked like the wreck of the Hesperus??

Seeing Oscar’s hopeful eyes looking back her, it seemed he didn’t care a jot.

‘Yes, please take me on a date.’ She gushed.

***

Stef was under the blankets in the spare room, tossing every few minutes. It would be reckless to go seek comfort in Oscar’s bed. They had agreed to take things slow, go on a few dates, get to know each other and see where it went.

Fuck it, she thought. It’s not as if they had just met. If he didn’t want her in there with him, he would send her away.

She tip toed down the hall, the icy air hit her legs when she opened his door. The soft knock had woken him, she stood shifting from one foot to the other before he lifted his arm and the blankets with it, inviting her in next to him.

Slipping in next to him, he threw his arm over her and sighed contentedly. She bit her lip to conceal a smile she couldn’t seem to get rid of.

#uys #under your spell #oscar isaac #oscar isaac x ofc #oscar isaac fic #oscar isaac fiction #jared padalecki #jared padalecki x ofc #jared padalecki fic #jared padalecki fiction #real life person fic #real life person fiction #Real Life Fiction #spn #supernatural

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everlarkstoastbabies · 6 years

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Cursed: an Everlark fan fiction

It’s been so long since I’ve written any Hunger Games fan fiction, but after literally blowing the dust off my copies of the books I’ve been inspired by the series re-read here on tumblr. This is an idea that’s been on my mind for quite some time. I’m so happy to finally be posting it!

Summary: Katniss and Peeta end their Victory Tour with an encounter from a mysterious fortuneteller. When they wake the next morning, they’re not quite... themselves. This is Everlark: freaky Friday style. Canon divergent AU.

Chapter 1

The Presidential mansion sat alone atop the hill in the middle of the Capitol, perfectly positioned so that every resident in the city could see its imposing form from all angles. The surrounding night would have been still and silent if not for the raucous party in full swing in the mansion’s vast courtyard, and in the center of it all, the star- crossed lovers of District Twelve.

The glittering lights and the loud music were headache- inducing by this point in the evening, and Katniss wanted nothing more than to go home. Peeta stood faithfully by her side, his hand wrapped around hers as it had been all night, but the wear was starting to show on him, too. It was long past midnight, their bellies were full, and their eyes were beginning to droop, but Effie had promised them only thirty more minutes at this final party and then they’d be on the train home. The Victory Tour was at an end at last, and Katniss and Peeta were nothing but grateful to be headed back to District Twelve.

A loud laugh from the partygoers echoed behind them. Katniss looked past the tables laden with food and the dance floor filled with people to see Venia and Flavius exiting a tent on the edge of the party. The pair of Katniss’s prep team members tottered towards them on wobbly legs, clearly intoxicated out of their minds.

“Have you two gone to see Madame Alcina yet?” Venia slurred when she stumbled over to Katniss and Peeta.

“No, we don’t really-“ Katniss said.

“Oh you must go have your palms read! She’s simply divine,” Flavius trilled, pushing the pair towards the tent at the edge of the yard. Katniss looked to Peeta, who merely shrugged.

“Why not?” He murmured to her. “It’ll kill some time, won’t it?” Katniss couldn’t argue with that, especially because she could spot a few more Capitol citizens making their way towards them. The hordes of party guests had hardly left the pair of them alone all night and Katniss wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more of the colorful, self-possessed people than she already had. So Peeta hooked her arm through his and led her to the tent draped from top to bottom with glittering red shawls. On the outside, a sign: Fortunes by Alcina- Discover what your future holds.

Katniss had to resist rolling her eyes. It was exactly the kind of superfluous thing that would exist in the Capitol and nowhere else in Panem, where people had no better way to spend their time or money. Besides, President Snow’s cold eyes had already told her what her future was going to look like, and she doubted very much that the truth of it lay in this tent. She followed Peeta inside anyway because the alternative was no more desirable than having her future predicted by someone who couldn’t have the faintest idea of what her future as a victor could possibly mean. Upon entering, they laid their eyes upon the most eccentric women they’d seen anywhere in Panem.

Katniss and Peeta were no strangers to the bizarre fashions here in the Capitol, but this woman was something else entirely. What little they could see of her natural skin was ghostly pale and the remainder of it was covered entirely in spindly, black tattoos. They curved and twisted, creating a cacophony of indistinguishable shapes and patterns upon her skin. Her hair was a fiery, unnatural shade of red. Here in the glowing candlelight it seemed to flicker like a real fire. Her eyes were dark, the pupils so enlarged in the dim lighting that it was impossible to determine their true color. There was something peculiar about the eyes, too. Something in them that was steady and solid and perceptive. The vapid self- absorption that possessed so many people in the Capitol was entirely lacking here. This woman had eyes that could see right through your very soul. “Ahh,” the woman purred. “I was hoping the star- crossed lovers would find their way to my tent.” Katniss and Peeta shared a raised eyebrow glance, and then turned back to the fortuneteller.

“Well, we were told that you’re the best,” Peeta piped up on instinct. Katniss was grateful that he chose to fill the silence. Something about this woman and this place made her mouth go dry, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. An uncomfortable tingle slithered up her spine.

“Have a seat,” the woman said, gesturing to the two armchairs across from her spindle- legged table. The pair did as instructed, and the woman turned to Katniss first. She extended a withered hand, palm up to Katniss. “Your hand, please, dear.” Katniss placed her olive- skinned hand into the woman’s heavily tattooed one. Madame Alcina ran a long finger down the center, eliciting a cool shiver that zipped up Katniss’s arm.

She spent a long time tracing the lines of Katniss’s hand before she spoke. “There’s conflict,” the strange woman whispered finally. “Oohh yes, and determination, defiance. But beneath your stubborn air, your heart has always known the answer you’re seeking now. Find the place where your heart and your mind come together.” Katniss blinked at the woman in confusion, her trademark scowl settling into place. What on earth could that mean?

Madame Alcina turned next to Peeta. Again, she studied his palm for several minutes, running a finger down every single line and crease of his hand. “You, young man, are at war with yourself. At odds with your love and your desires. The only way to fix it is to confront it.” She grabbed a shocked Katniss’s hand, entangled her fingers with Peeta’s, and then began gesticulating wildly in the air between the pair of them. “Your destinies are intertwined so very closely together, you may not even realize it at this moment! You need to become one! Take the path that leads to each other and never look back. Your fates are sealed within each other! Realize that potential and all will be well.”

Silence hung heavy in the air when the woman finished her impassioned fortune, her pupils blown and chest heaving with excitement. Katniss and Peeta gaped at her, their hands still laced together, and at a complete loss for how to respond. Luckily for them, time was on their side, for Effie chose that moment to poke her head through the front flap of the tent.

“Katniss! Peeta! Venia said you’d gone this way; the train leaves in twenty minutes and the there are some important goodbyes you must make!” Their escort placed a stern hand on both their shoulders and promptly ushered them from the tent, but not before Peeta could glance back at the mysterious woman, whose jet black lips were quirked into a smug smirk on her tattooed face. He couldn’t explain the reason for it, but her expression gave him an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach, as though the feast he’d eaten earlier had come alive and was attempting to make an escape from his belly.

The feeling stayed with Peeta as he led Katniss through the crowd of socialites and gamemakers and politicians. By the time they bid farewell to the highest-ranking officials in Panem and boarded the train, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Do you think she was right?” he asked Katniss as soon as the door to their shared bedroom slid closed behind them.

“Do I think who was right?” Katniss asked, distracted as she went to work tugging the pins out of her elaborate braided hairstyle.

“That Madame Alcina woman. Do you think she was right about our… well, our destinies being so closely wrapped around each other and all that?”

Katniss gave a derisive snort and massaged her scalp, now freed of its updo. “Of course she was. We’re engaged now, Peeta. The whole country knows that, so yes I guess you could say our destinies are entwined.” She held up her fingers and made air quotes at the last word, rolling her eyes. “It’s all mindless drivel, anyway, just like everything else in the Capitol. I wouldn’t waste your time worrying too much on it.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you notice something… I don’t know, something different about her? She seemed real, Katniss. Not like the preps, or even like Effie. I think she knew we’ve putting on an act.” This gave Katniss pause as she thought it over. Yes, the woman’s black eyes had given the impression that she was more intuitive than most in the Capitol, almost like President Snow in a way. Not quite in the same cold and calculating manner as he, but in a more discerningly subtle way. Then there was the fact that something about the woman had sent unusual shivers tingling down her spine from the moment they entered her tent, but Katniss had attributed that to the lateness of the hour and the awkwardness of the situation.

“I think our fates were pretty much sealed the moment I held out those berries in the arena. She probably realized that and took advantage of it to try and scare us.” Katniss reasoned.

“Maybe you’re right,” Peeta said, though uncertainty clouded his voice.

“I am.” She nodded her head as though the matter was settled. “Don’t let it bother you. We have so many other things to worry about right now, as it is.”

She has a point, Peeta thought, as they climbed into bed together. It was silly to worry about the fleeting words of a woman they didn’t even know. Not when real dangers from real enemies lurked so clearly in the periphery of their lives. Katniss nestled herself into Peeta’s side and he wrapped his arms around her, just has he had almost every night they’d spent aboard this train. Despite his troubled thoughts, his exhaustion- combined with Katniss’s body heat and soothing rhythm of the train as it slipped through the night- lulled him into a dreamless sleep almost instantly.

It was Katniss who woke first the next morning, the sun a mere sliver of brightest orange on the horizon. The train compartment was still mostly blanketed in darkness, and the scenery was whipping by much too quickly to determine where in Panem they could possibly be. With a measure of sweeping relief, her first thought was that wherever they happened to be, it was certainly far from the Capitol. Also that sometime today, they would be home. Her second thought was that she needed extract herself from Peeta so she could use the bathroom. She made to gently disentangle herself from Peeta’s still sleeping form, dragging back the blankets and attempting to exit the bed as quietly as possible. Then she lost her balance the second she tried to step down onto the carpet, landing on the floor with an almighty crash and an even louder yelp of shock.

The reason for her fall was explained at once when Katniss tried to pull her feet underneath her into a standing position, and she found that the left leg of her pajama pants hung flaccid and empty. The right was presently splayed out in front of her, but the left leg appeared to be missing entirely.

She only had one leg.

Her arms flailed as she felt around wildly for her missing leg, her hands landing on her upper thigh and following it to the end where it tapered into nothing but smooth skin and bone just below the knee. Katniss froze, the rising panic in her chest overwhelming her as the light from the bedside lamp flicked on and Peeta leaned over the side of the bed to investigate the commotion.

“Katniss, are you alright?” Only it wasn’t Peeta’s concerned voice that called out to her. And it certainly wasn’t Peeta’s face, either.

It was her voice. Her face. Her body.

As he peered down at the fallen body on the floor, Peeta realized at the same time Katniss did that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. For he was looking down at himself, sprawled out on the floor wearing only pajama pants and noticeably missing his prosthetic leg. His eyes flew down to inspect himself still in the bed, noting the tanned, slender hands that could not possibly be his own and the raven hair fanned out across his torso. He brushed the long strands away from his chest and his hands froze on his body. Were those… breasts? He ventured a squeeze, and sure enough, under his palms were two plump mounds of flesh. Small, but most definitely present. He gaped at his chest in horror, his newly silver eyes meeting the blue irises of the body on the ground that- by every law of common sense and plain reason- should have belonged to him. Yet inexplicably, it didn’t.

They held the gaze for a long time, chests heaving with panting breaths and minds racing for an explanation. This wasn’t possible. It simply wasn’t, and yet…

“Katniss,” Peeta whispered, “I think we’ve been cursed.”

As absurd as it sounded, as absolutely, utterly impossible as it was, instinct told Katniss that Peeta was right. What other explanation could there possibly be? Still in a state of shock, Peeta climbed out of bed and grabbed the prosthetic leg propped against his nightstand. It was subsequently the weirdest sensation in the world to help Katniss put the leg onto his body from the outside. He fastened it around the stump below the knee and watched as the Capitol grade alloy melded itself seamlessly with the flesh of her (his?) leg. He pulled her to her feet and she wobbled, unused to the indescribable feeling of solid floor beneath an extremity that did not exist.

“It takes some getting used to,” said Peeta.

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want to fix it!” Katniss snapped. But upon seeing the look on his (her?) face, she backpedaled at once. “Peeta, I’m sorry. I just- I don't get it. How did this happen?”

“I don’t know," he replied, wracking his brain for a reason, any reason that would explain why he woke up in Katniss Everdeen's body this morning, and she woke up in his. If he was correct, and they were in fact cursed, someone had to have done this to them. But who? President Snow seemed the most likely candidate, but how on earth could he have managed something of this scale? And better yet without their knowledge? He was a cold, calculating, monster of a human, but still he was just a human.

"What if... what if whatever did this to us isn't… human?" Peeta supplied. Katniss merely raised her blond eyebrows. "What if the Capitol created some kind of mutt or virus and we came into contact with it unknowingly at the party last night?"

"It's possible," Katniss said, though doubt filled her voice.

“Maybe Haymitch knows something about it. He’s been around the Capitol for a long time. He might be able to help us,” said Peeta.

“No! We can’t let anyone else know about this.” There was an unmistakable ferocity in her voice that belonged to Katniss alone, regardless of the body she happened to inhabit at the time. “We have to hide this until we can find a way to reverse it!”

Peeta had opened his mouth to respond just as a sharp rapping on the door made them both nearly jump out of their skins. “Up up up!” Effie’s voice trilled though the door. “We have our last big day in front us! You two will be back to District Twelve in just a few short hours!” With a mutual flood of relief, they heard the click- clacking of her heels marching away from the door.

“Look, we won’t tell anyone,” said, Peeta, his tone low and conspiratory. “Not yet, anyway. But for now if we don’t want anyone to find out, I think the best course of action is for each of us to act as much as possible like the other. Do you think you can manage that, Katniss?”

Katniss wondered- could she pretend to be Peeta Mellark? He was so much better than her already, not only at putting on the act, but also at making it believable. Between the two of them, he carried most (okay, practically all) of the weight of the star-crossed lover’s ruse. His were some awfully big shoes to fill, but at the moment she couldn’t see any other choice in front of her.

She had a feeling her face showed as much doubt as she felt when she gave him an affirming nod, but if it did, Peeta did not say. Instead, they gathered the clothes Cinna and Portia had chosen for the day’s closing ceremonies and headed their separate ways to change. Peeta into the bathroom while Katniss remained in the bedroom.

When the bathroom door had closed behind him, Peeta hunched over the sink, locked in a staring contest with his reflection in the mirror. His long hair hung in a wild tangle around his shoulders, his grey eyes over bright with shock in the sunken purple rings surrounding them. The strange thing was, he didn’t feel any different in this body, save for the fact that he had two intact feet standing on solid ground. If he closed his eyes, Peeta could have sworn up and down that he was in his own body and this was nothing more than an elegantly crafted nightmare, courtesy of the Capitol. He switched on the tap and began furiously scrubbing his face with the icy water flowing from the jet, as though he could scour away the olive skin and return it to its normal pale and freckled state. When he looked up at last, Katniss’s reflection stared back at him, entirely unchanged.

With a grunt of frustration, he turned defiantly away from the mirror and grabbed the pile of clothes he was meant to wear. I can do this, he thought. After all, how hard could it be to impersonate Katniss Everdeen?

Back in the bedroom, Katniss sat gingerly on the edge of the bed to remove Peeta’s pajama pants, still unsteady on his prosthetic leg. How on earth had he learned to walk with this thing as smoothly as he did? Some days she forgot he even had it at all, as sure and steady was his gait. That was, until he’d take it off at bedtime with a groan of relief and her eyes would flit away from the remaining stump of his leg. The stump itself wasn’t what bothered her so much as the reminder of how it had come to exist in the first place.

She wasn’t brave enough to remove the underwear despite the fact that Peeta had been wearing them since yesterday; she knew they’d both worn underwear for much longer periods of time in the Games. One more day would do no harm. His jeans, however, did turn out to present a bit of a problem. Once she managed to finagle the left pant leg up the metal leg without tripping and falling flat on her face again, she found that the seam of the pants, centered as it was, rested uncomfortably against her crotch. Having had no idea this was how it felt to wear pants as a man, Katniss decided she wasn’t terribly fond of the sensation.

Katniss took a couple of precarious steps around the room to test the waters before coming to the conclusion that this simply wasn’t going to work. Given that she had no intention of asking Peeta how he always managed this situation, she did the only thing that made sense. She dove her hand valiantly into the pants and shifted his package away from the seam and to the right. It did feel better off to the side, though it still felt strange to have something dangling there at all.

She startled when Peeta exited the bathroom and tried to look as though she hadn’t just had her hand down his pants. He was fully dressed with the exception of one article of clothing clutched in his first. “I don’t need this thing.” He thrust the bra at Katniss and she flinched away from it as though he’d tried to hand her a venomous snake.

Interpreting his reluctance to mean that he couldn’t figure out how to put it on, Katniss fought to keep the corners of her mouth from turning upwards into a smile. “Oh yes you do,” she said.

“Why? It’s not like… well, I mean- it’s not like there’s all that much there to support.”

She folded her arms across her new masculine chest and glared at him with narrowed eyes, but she had to admit privately that Peeta did have a point. Her breasts weren’t particularly prominent, which is why all of the bras Cinna designed for her had a little additional padding in them. The extra boost was usually necessary to fill out all the pretty dresses he’d made for the Victory Tour, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Peeta that. “Because... because if you don’t Haymitch and Effie and Cinna will definitely notice and they’ll suspect that something is off,” she said, which was true enough anyway. “Here, I’ll help you. Take off the dress.”

Without stopping to think of the ramifications of doing so, Peeta followed her instructions and slipped the dress over his head. Suddenly Katniss was face to face with her own bare chest; the small but proud breasts peaked with the cool air of the train compartment. “Turn around,” she gulped, her mouth sapped of moisture while her face flooded with color. In the back of her mind, she wondered why the extra parts in her pants twitched at the sight.

Equally as beet red as Katniss, Peeta turned away from her to face the wall. He felt her arms encircle his waist and her hands at his back, fastening the garment. He was eternally grateful that he wasn’t currently in possession of his penis when her fingers brushed his nipples as she adjusted the cups of his bra, but there was still an unfamiliar surge of electricity that jolted in the hollow valley between his legs.

The blush had not faded from either of their cheeks when they left their room to join the others for breakfast. For once they were grateful for Effie’s incessant prattle about schedules and timetables, for all they had to do in response was nod and smile. Katniss thought she caught Haymitch giving the pair of them the occasional sideways glance from behind his flask. She looked away each time it happened, convinced that their mentor would see her behind Peeta’s eyes if she allowed herself to make eye contact with him.

They stumbled through the rest of the day (for Katniss this was literal- damn leg) pretending to be each other.

While Katniss was prepped and ready for the cameras hours before they were to arrive in the district, Peeta gained an immediate understanding of why she always bemoaned the prep process when he was forced to sit through her beauty routine for the first time. He’d thought he had it bad, but the hours Venia, Octavia, and Flavius spent slathering him in pungent goo and curling his hair and powdering every inch of exposed skin was mind-numbing to the point of torture. It went on and on and on all morning long. Luckily the preps chatted amongst themselves about the party last night as they worked on him, with Octavia notably disgruntled about the fact that she’d not had her fortune read by the Great Madame Alcina.

“I’m going to be famous in the Capitol one day,” Flavius said with a wistful sigh. “Madame promised that I’d soon have my very own tribute to style.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful!” Venia gushed. “She told me I’m about to find the love of my life! What about you Katniss? Katniss?”

Peeta was only startled out of his reverie when Venia’s hand landed on his shoulder, momentarily having forgotten that to the prep team, he was Katniss. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He put on his most Katniss-like expression and tried to recover from the fumble.

“What did Madame Alcina tell you about your future?” Venia hedged.

And then it hit him. Madame Alcina. The fortuneteller. Of course. He could have slapped himself for not realizing it sooner. He tried to cover the moment of hesitation. “Oh! She… she said Kat-Peeta and I are going to have a long and prosperous life together.”

“Did she say anything about children?” Octavia pressed eagerly.

“She... hinted at that.” Peeta said evasively.

“Oh can you imagine!” Octavia gushed. “Any little baby of theirs would be absolutely adorable! With his hair and her eyes…” Peeta let them carry on about the nonexistent Everlark (really, how stupid) baby that would never be, but his mind was racing. What had the mysterious fortuneteller said to them last night? The hour had been so late and he had been so tired, but he squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the scene and willing his brain to remember.

Then his eyes flew open. He had to find Katniss.

Also on AO3 and FF.net

#Everlark #fan fiction #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #lindsay writes things

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lordeasriel · 2 years

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Marcel has one job and one job alone and that is to kill Malcolm, thank you good night

#effie reads the book of dust #my current mood is: no patience for Malcolm's bullshit #when he tells Olivier about Bonneville's daemon that was gratuitous violence imo lol #in fact i hate his attitude in general. not following orders. following Lyra's trail when he should be after the roses #the way he just threatens people without much reason it's getting under my skin this time around #do i want the Magisterium to win? of course not #do i want Malcolm to die? yes will he die tho? probably not #but a girl can dream cant she?

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vexdrolo · 5 years

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MY BABIES, INCLUDING TWO COMING SOON TO A THEATER NEAR YOU.

please give me all the plots, just hmu and we can talk things. (especially for the two new ones bc i don’t know what i’m doing with them yet.) if you click on their names i added links to their pinterests because that’s where i do most of my character development.

LUELLA MAE “LUE” NASH. 22. artist. creek.

a plain white tee shirt covered in dried paint, honeysuckle, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, skipping rocks, the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, stargazing, messy blonde hair catching sun rays, lemon and honey, love letters spritzed with perfume, floral sundresses and floppy hats, power ballads, holding a butterfly on an outstretched finger, accidental bruises and band-aid covered knees, blowin’ big pink bubblegum bubbles until they pop, pinky promises, hushed bedtime prayers.

Literal god damn ray of sunshine. Painting is her drug of choice, thank you very much. And wine. Her tolerance is non-existent though. Likes trashy romance novels, pretty things, and people liking her. Sheltered and naive and extremely unworldly. A burnout, but like, a classy burnout. Also an orphan. The apple of her brother’s eye and he will protect her at all costs. Has been in slaughter for the last four years and was really angry about it at first but like it’s not the worst. Teaches beginners painting classes at Vino and Van Gogh and cries a lot for various reasons.

ANGELINA OPHELIA “ANGEL” BOOKER. 24. tour guide. bone.

angelic ○ shimmery eye shadow and highlighter dusted cheekbones ○ cocoa butter ○ spearmint gum ○ velvet scrunchies ○ eyes that roll back in her head so far all you can see is the whites ○ theatrical hand gestures ○ bong hits and acid trips ○ ripped jeans and silky camisoles ○ cheap costume jewelry ○ poetry about flowers and the burden of existence ○ the worn down spine and dog eared pages of a beloved book ○ sun kissed skin ○ wishbones snapped in half ○ a smile that never reaches the eyes

[ tw: drugs]

Angel, doesn’t the name say it all? Grew up on the old Booker Salvage Yard, the youngest of a large brood who word hand-me-downs until she left for college. Majored in English Lit at ASU, now gives enjoyably theatrical tours through old town Slaughter. Seems nice, but is she really though? Seems chill, but is really dramatic as fuck. Seems like she isn’t really what she seems. Just wants to get high, trip balls, and write about her own existential dread. Extremely articulate and well read, but still calls everyone “bro”, “dude” and “my guy”, (regardless of gender).

IMOGEN MATILDA “GINNY” BEAUFORT. 27. guidance counselor. mist.

wrinkled button down’s with the sleeves rolled up ○ perfume covering up cigarette smoke ○ the creak of an old floorboard in an empty house ○ a screeching forgotten tea kettle ○ wilting bluebells ○ scratched out words in a journal ○ dark red lipstick feathering at the edges ○ photoalbums collecting dust on a shelf ○ color coded sticky notes on a wall calendar ○ worn brown leather ○ fingerprints on a fog covered mirror ○ night terrors and cold sweats ○ the evenly paced clicking of a flat heel ○ a thousand yard-stare ○ cut-out obituaries held together with an alligator clip ○ broken porcelain dining plates ○ the flickering light of a candle you swear you blew out .

[ tw: death ]

Que Yoav’s cover of Where Is My Mind playing in the background. Haunting and a bit peculiar - with a deep love of button down shirts dark wash and brown leather shoes. May or may not be convinced that she sees ghosts, and that’s really none of your damn business. Smokes like a teenager worried her parents are gonna catch her doing it - but they can’t, because they’re dead. Depressed, afraid, and emotionally constipated. But she’s mostly a good person, and has a really cute dog named sable to make up for it. Came back to Slaughter about a year ago (and some change), currently trying to deal with the newest in a long string of deaths in her family.

NADINE MARIE “NADS” BERNARD. 22. fashion student. iron.

double-breast trechcoat; cat-eye sunglasses; a passport with too many stamps / monogrammed paper shopping bags hanging from each arm / bleach-stained washcloths; lysol wipes / pencil skirts with thick white stockings / a piano scale / milk & honey; champagne kisses / words of ice; temper of fire / tennis bracelets and silk blouses / the cut of skates across fresh ice / pale lips; pale skin; dark eyes / a silent scream.

nadine is one of my unfinished babes so i don’t have her entirely fleshed out. but she’s a little carrie bradshaw and a little miranda priestly, and a pinch of serena van der woodsen. she’s taking a break from fashion school to look for her half-sister, manon, which is why she’s in slaughter.

DARLA JANE “DJ” AUERBACH. 26. cam girl. rot.

oops don’t have an aesthetic thing written for her yet, please see pinboard.

darla is also unfinished and yet again i do not have her entirely fleshed out. but idk she’s fiona gallagher meets effy stonem with a super tragic backstory. she’s one of a set of co-dependent triplets. an actual train wreck. yes she’s a cam girl but is she a successful one? not really, she doesn’t enjoy men telling her what to do. :/

#crowskinrp

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ellanainthetardis · 6 years

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It is time to say it... After this one, we’re two chapters away from the end... Let me know your thoughts!

[ff} or {ao3]

Chapter 58 : Sometimes You Are

“The maid told me you were back. I did not hear the car.” Effie announced, walking in the library like she owned the place.

Well… She did, he supposed.

Haymitch barely glanced up from the window. He could see the pen full of geese from that window and he liked watching the birds. She had gifted them to him a few days after they had moved to the country house and he found them… peaceful.

More peaceful than being forced to deal with maids and domestics.

The house was too big for it to be otherwise.

He liked it when it came down to it. It was a small estate but an estate nonetheless, with a huge meticulously designed topiary garden, a gazebo, tortuous paths that slithered around what passed as woods in that part of the country… The house itself would have been better called a mansion. The library with its hidden passage in the wall that ended up next to the woods was his favorite room – mainly because it was full of books he hadn’t read and because nobody disturbed him in there. There was an interior pool downstairs, a couple of living-rooms, a big dining-room, something that Effie refused to call a ballroom and far too many bedrooms.

He understood why they needed the staff but he resented the invasion on his privacy.

He would have liked to be able to come and go from his house without anyone tattling to her.

“They dropped me off at the gates.” he mumbled. “Walked back from there.”

Being half an hour away from the city was a blessing. Sometimes, he didn’t hear about the Capitol for a few days and… He could even forget. This place was certainly not Twelve. It was neutral ground. And it was good.

“I thought you might stay in the city tonight.” she ventured, hesitant.

He turned to study her, finally. Her blond hair was tied in a low ponytail and she was wearing a simple enough dress that told him she didn’t expect a visit or wasn’t planning on going out. He had been scared she would put on airs all the time with staff around but that was a compromise they had been forced to reach: as few people working there as possible, invisible ones, and it couldn’t affect the way she acted because… Well, the side of her he loved most was the side he was the only one allowed to see. He hadn’t married Euphemia Trinket, he had married Effie.

She looked uncertain but, then again, he was aware that he was guarded and hostile. He had been for a while now. Ever since Plutarch Heavensbee had showed up uninvited about two weeks after the Tour, when they had barely been done settling in their new home, and had asked him to follow him back to the Presidential Mansion for a special project.

The special project that had involved two former rebels leading the witch hunt on what was left of them…

The work was challenging, it was the thing. And he had always loved a good challenge, which only made him even more disgusted with himself. So for two months now, he had been helping the government bury what was left of the rebellion deep into the ground.

And he had found more new reasons to avoid his face in the mirror every morning.

He hadn’t been dealing with all that stuff very well, no surprise there. And the house was so big that he sometimes thought he and Effie would lose each other in it if they weren’t careful.

“It’s over.” he said flatly.

She frowned and hurried closer, outstretching a hand that she dropped halfway there. “You found them all?”

He swallowed hard and rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring down below at the white dots the geese formed.

“We got Paylor this morning.” he told her. She had been the most elusive, the last real danger, the last possible spark of a rebellion. Eight’s rebel cell had been the hardest to crush. He had spent days studying her file – and unsurprisingly the Capitol was good at keeping detailed files on possible threats – and even longer designing the perfect trap for the woman to fall in. “It’s over.”

Effie sighed in relief when she snuggled against his side but he wasn’t sure what she was relieved about. That they were in the clear? That he was done hunting down people that would only be put down like dogs once captured? That he was done disappearing for days in a government building often without means of contacting her other than a short phone call to warn her he wouldn’t be back that night?

“How are you?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes even as he wrapped an arm around her waist in reflex, bringing her closer. How was he? It was a good question. One he didn’t have a clue how to answer.

“She was a good woman, I think.” he said quietly. “And now she’s dead ‘cause I…”

“You kept the children alive. You kept me alive.” she cut him off. “You didn’t have a choice, Haymitch. You have to remember. You didn’t have a choice.”

That was a lie and not a lie at the same time.

He could have chosen the difficult path and made a stand even if it had cost him… everything. He could have refused to be a puppet, a dog who ran when he heard the whistle…. He could have…

No…

He couldn’t have.

He wrapped his second arm around her waist and brought her even closer, burying his nose in her hair and breathing in the comforting smell of her shampoo.

It was a paradox because, yes, there had been a choice to be made and he had made it… But at the same time, he could never have chosen differently.

“Funny, you know…” he snorted without any amusement. “I remember telling Katniss to play the game whatever shape it takes… I remember telling her to do it even if it made her skin crawl… I told her she should do everything she could to keep her people alive…” He shrugged. “Never thought it would be like this.”

He had never pictured himself living in that kind of houses, that kind of life, working for Snow on the side. It wasn’t what he wanted for himself. Not at all.

And Effie knew that very well.

The mansion was too big for them. It always came down to that.

He liked the house. It was old and authentic in a way Capitols couldn’t build despite the pool downstairs and all the latest technological appliances. He liked the house but it was too big and they were both too lost in their new lives.

He hadn’t been the only busy one. Effie was working her ass off for her new collection. She was always making trips back and forth to the city or inviting people over to talk about clothes, fabrics and targets. He had grown used to stylists, models and various people staying over for dinner or spending the afternoon locked in the room she had turned into her home workshop. Sometimes he humored her by joining them for a few minutes, more often he kept his distance from that part of her life.

Her collection would be ready for the spring fashion week, he had no doubts about her success – although why they called that a spring fashion week when all the clothes seemed to be winter related was puzzling to him – but Effie was frantic about deadlines, schedules and possible delays. She was all over the place but she also was in high spirits, thriving in her new job, happy in her new role.

She laughed and beamed and could talk his ear off about her day every night. He wasn’t very interested in what she did for a living but he liked watching her when she was that animated. He liked seeing her happy.

“It will settle.” she promised soothingly. “Everything will fall into place eventually.”

“Yeah…” he lied.

He was a little scared she was right. He would get used to this life, make do with it. He would get used to her ridiculous colleagues, employees and friends coming over. He would get used to the parties she would insist on throwing – the housewarming party alone had been such a smash it had warranted the front page of ten gossip magazines. He would get used to hiding in the library or in the garden when he got tired of their guests – and it was the good thing with having such a big house, he figured, he wasn’t forced to be in contact with anyone she brought over if he didn’t want to. He would get used to opulence. He would…

He would soon forget what it was like to feel the biting cold when electricity gave in because Twelve’s generators were unreliable and there was no more heating or when they ran out of things to burn in the fireplace. He would soon forget what it felt like to go hungry. He would soon forget the fear of spotting a squad of Peacekeepers at the end of the street. He would soon forget about the coal dust thick in the air that made you cough with every breath. He would…

Her lips crashed on his, hard and demanding, and he opened his mouth for her, letting her push him against the wall. A few buttons flew without him being able to tell if it was his shirt or her dress that had suffered the damage. Not that it mattered.

He had killed a woman that day, a good woman, maybe not with his hands but the logistics didn’t really count in his opinion.

He had killed too many people as it was.

And he was settling for a life he had never thought was meant for him.

Her fingers traveled all over his chest, lingering on scars, her tongue was battling with his in a fight for a control he was reluctant to hand over. Her hand tangled in his hair, tugged his head back forcefully and he could only groan when she sank her teeth in his offered throat.

It sent a chill through his body. His blood ran south.

It was the last straw though.

She yelped when he pushed her back. Confusion flashed on her face but it soon disappeared when he shoved her against the closest bookshelf and tore the dress off her with no regard whatsoever for the fact she might have wanted to keep it in one piece.

“Haymitch…” she breathed out when he squeezed her breast.

He swallowed her whimper with a kiss when he twisted her nipple.

Their remaining clothes flew off, hands roamed over naked skin… He had his fingers deep inside her and she was threatening to fall apart when he spotted the leather armchair a few feet away. He grabbed her under the thighs and while she whined at being suddenly empty she locked her legs around his waist without needing any prompting from him.

She seemed a little surprised when he carried her away from the bookshelf but when he sank in the armchair, she adjusted quickly, slipping her legs through the holes under the armrests, guiding him into her swiftly.

They paused for a moment, chests pressed tight together, cheek to cheek, as close as was humanly possible. Her breathing was short and he could feel her every exhale against his ear. His hands were spread at the small of her back, his golden bangle probably digging into her skin.

“I love you.” she mumbled.

“Then, move.” he muttered right back, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against her shoulder.

She chuckled. “Always the romantic.”

He snorted and opened his mouth, intending to get the last word, always intending to get the last word, but the retort died on his tongue when she actually started to rock her hips. It was slow and controlled, it had to be given their position, and it left his mind a blank slate.

Truth be told, it was a relief.

There was no room in his head for anything that wasn’t her warmth cradling him, the slippery feel of their sweaty skins rubbing together, the taste of her strawberry lipstick, the small gasps that left her mouth in the middle of a kiss and the slight pain of her fingers accidentally tugging on his hair.

She kept that slow torturous pace as long as she could but it turned a little frantic eventually and he slipped his hand between their bodies without thinking twice about it, instinctively tightening the arm wrapped around her back so she wouldn’t fall. Watching her come apart was the best sight he had ever seen and, if given a choice, it was the last thing he wanted to see before he died.

It took her a couple of minutes to recover and start moving again but between her clenching and her dazed fucked-out-of-her-brains look, it didn’t take him half as long to come. His head dropped back, mouth half open in what must have been her name, blood rushed in his ears…

For a glorious moment, all he could hear was the beating of his heart.

Neither of them talked for a long time after that. They remained where they were, flushed tight against each other, her cheek resting on his shoulder, his arms holding her secure…

“You make me feel alive.” he confessed in something that was barely more than a murmur.

It wasn’t a secret. Not really. She knew him too well not to know how dead he felt most days.

“You make me feel important.” she whispered after a second of consideration. “As if I were your whole world.”

“Sometimes you are.” he shrugged.

Her hand cupped his cheek, nudged his head in her direction… She kissed him as if he was oxygen, as if she needed him to survive…

And maybe that was it.

Maybe it was just that simple.

They were two fucked-up people who had done ugly things – him more than her – but they were also survivors who needed each other to make it through. And because they were aware of that, because they were aware the other needed them to keep breathing, they would survive whatever the cost.

Because they loved the other too much to risk them giving up.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #into that good night

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dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt · 5 years

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Since you've done all odd numbers.. even numbers?

OH DEAR GOD OKAY THAT’S GREAT!!! Thank you so so much for asking, amazing Anon!!!!! :’D Here we gone, it’s gonna be long again, so it’s below the cut!! Click read more to learn more randomness about me!!! X’D [questions from here]

2.have you ever found a writer who thinks just like you? if so, who?

Not exactly like me, no. That’s the good thing about art; nothing is the same! :D

4.would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?

LMAO NO

6.how many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?

Not many. I tend to distrust men more with physical harm and I distrust women more with emotional harm. I have… trust issues. I trust my frens and some of my family members and that’s about it. oof. ^__^”

8.who would you like to see in concert?

If I’m gonna be risking sensory overlord… Coldplay!

10.would you ever want to swim with sharks?

HELL TO THE YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :DDDDDDD

12.what was the last thing that made you laugh?

My Dad just brushed Ria our German Shepherd and came in COVERED in fur X’D X’D

14.have any pets?

YES!! Three dogs (Ria the German Shepherd, Granger the whippet, and Maude the mutt/Pomeranian-ish), three chickens (Haymitch, Cinna, and Effie) and two ducks (Peeta and Katniss). Don’t worry, we named the poultry after Hunger Games characters to be ironic, since we have no plans to kill them and they’re spoiled AF. X’D

16.do you have piercings? How many?

I don’t! I wanted some, but… eh we’ll see. XD

18.what are you craving right now?

Intimacy. :’)

20.have you ever been cheated on?

No. And if I ever am it will absolutely destroy me. So yeah, if my future partner is reading this, please just… don’t. Break up with me first, at least.

22.do you believe in true love?

Meh. Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know. I hope it exists though!

24.do you like the snow?

I’ve never seen snow!! I WOULD LOVE TO SEE IT AND JUST FACE-PLANT INTO IT!!!!!!! :’D XD

26.is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

Kinda depends on the circumstances??? but it’s usually it is pretty cute! ^-^

28.go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is!

Six million pounds of space dust settles on the earth every year.

ummmm…. thanks, I hate it? XD

30.what color do you really want to dye your hair?

BRIGHT FUCKIN YELLOW. PIKA PIKA MOTHERFUCKER!!! >:D X’D

32.talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces.

I have this one bag that’s been with me since I was 8. It’s basically a glorified sack that creases every bit of clothing you put in it to hell and it has straps and rope ties and it’s navy blue and I love it!! :D X’D

34. what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into?

My own goddamn house. Had to bust a window and everything. X’D

36.what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks.

Okay so my Mum exclusively buys black socks. Just…. black socks that you can’t even tell apart, but I can’t wait till I can buy the most RIDICULOUSLY CUTE HECKING SOCKS ON THE PLANET. I do like wearing socks, I do not sleep with socks on, but I think they’re great!! :D XD

38.do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it!

It’s p small and it has lots of art I can actually appreciate on the walls and it’s got a low ceiling and kind of a comforting, dark-but-still-sunny den kind of vibe. The booths are actually comfortable. A lot of wood and smokey colours. There’s a slate fireplace crackling somewhere. It smells strongly of coffee and vaguely of liquorice. There’s a spot at the back that’s mostly hidden from site, the perfect place to curl up and read a book while picking on a muffin that was reasonably cheap but the size of your whole hand. Closest place to heaven on earth.

40.what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today?

Not being able to breathe. Pretty much, ya.

42.think of a person. what song do you associate with them?

Sam aka myriadimagines. And this song, idk why, it just reminds me of her.

44.do you like poetry? what are some of your faves?

ASDFGHJKL ACTUALLY THIS THING THAT SAM HERSELF WROTE IS MY FAVE. I read it like a 2 years ago now and it still stuck with me and it’s so beautifully poignant I want to SCREAM. hello yes why are my friends so talented are they even REAL??????????

46.what are some of your worst habits?

I forget to eat and generally forget to take care of myself, I deny myself things I like for absolutely no reason??? I procrastinate everything, I bite my fingernails super low and also the skin around them bc I’m fuckin constantly anxious and can’t sit still, I overthink everything, I stay up way too late… honestly I could keep going, you get the point. XD

48.tell us about your pets!

OKAY SO. Ria is absolutely OBSESSED with her ball, and I mean OBSESSED to the point where she has no idea what to do with herself if you take it away and gets all anxious and whines and paces till you give it back. She constantly sheds and she does this sUpER CuTe thing where she wraps her front paw around your leg while you’re trying to walk and trips you. :))) Granger is either made of metal or a deflated pool toy and there’s no in between. She eats literally anything, including ants nests bc you know they must taste GREAT. She’s super stubborn. She gets smile wrinkles if you rub her neck. Maudie was rescue we got as a really small puppy. We only knew her mum but her dad must have been a Pomeranian bc she looks almost exactly like one. She has this thing where she bites you when you surprise her but really she’s a sweetheart. She’s mostly blind and deaf and has no idea where she is most of the time, I don’t think. XD The chickens are all idiots, the ducks are scared of me but still eat out of my hand when I offer them grapes. Haymitch likes to jump up on my back, Effie likes falling asleep on my lap, and Cinna pecks me a lot and leaves bruises but she lets me stroke her at night when she’s dozing off. :’)

50.are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub?

I think they can be funny… in small amounts. :/// Their laughs are pretty infectious, you gotta admit. XD

52.describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of.

Wariness and weariness and beauty and a fierce want to be loved.

54.are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones?

YEEEEESSSSSSS. An Ouroboros (either sealed or pulling away idk), a blank line of my arm so I can write how many days I’ve been without a relapse bc I need to be held accountable for my actions, a black square with colours bursting out, I also really love blackout tattoos???? I want a bird on my middle finger. :)))) And maybe a smiley face near my collar bone. The quote “what a marvel life is.” I also want the word “promise” on me somewhere, idk where. Maybe a feather somewhere too??? AHHHH SO MANY MY DUDE!!!!!! :DDDDDDDD maybe even a Southern cross but I don’t want to be one of those wankers y’know XD

56.what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives?

Star Wars, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Mulan, Into The Spiderverse. Basically just my favourites lmao. XD

58.if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why?

Neither, eesh. Maybe the past….?? Maybe…? I guess it’d be pretty funny to grab “I’m a girl!!!” Matt and shake some sense into his thick skull. X’D

60.what are some things you do when you can’t sleep?

Oh boy. Throw a ball at the wall and catch it, try to write, have a panic attack bc I should be sleeping, read, play Pokemon, listen to music, pat my dogs, possibly cry… world’s my oyster. XD

62.who is the last person you told a secret to?

My Mum.

64.what’s your favorite food?

🍕 !!!!!!!! :DDDDDD

66.three songs you were recently obsessed with.

this one - this one - this one

68. three favourite old songs

this - this - this

70.worst possible time to get horny:

lmao when both my parents are home and I have no time to deal with ittttt… occasions like that are the only times I’m sort of grateful I can’t get a boner and give myself away. XD

72.do you believe in soulmates?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I don’t believe any relationship is “perfect”, though. There’s always gonna be difficulties.

74.who was the last person you cried in front of?

Dad. Oof.

76.is it easier to forgive or forget?

Neither. :))))))) Forget… I guess?? But really. Neither. :)

78.do you have trust issues?

*inhale*

Y E S

80.would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

Nopeity nope nope. XD

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING, ANON!!!

#Matt speaks #wooooooo a lot #X'D #love ya anon!!!#<3 <3 <3

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marril96 · 6 years

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Cute Toes

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Dean thinks reader babies Rowena. Reader disagrees.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

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"I'm just saying, you baby her too much," Dean said, tossing a pile of books on the counter.

The Winchesters had called you and Rowena to help out with another case. So far, no progress had been made. You hated doing research, but the brothers had promised the two of you favors in exchange for your help and you couldn't say no to that. A pair of notorious hunters owing you favors was a privilege not many witches had. Given the lifestyle you led, all help in case of emergency was welcome.

"No, I don't," you argued, picking out one of the books. You gagged as your fingers brushed against a thick layer of dust, dropping it back down. These guys could use a cleaning lady.

"Sure about that?" He cocked an eyebrow. "So far I've heard you call her sweetheart–"

"–She is sweet," you cut in, shrugging.

"–Baby girl–"

"–She's cute and tiny."

"–Honey–"

"–Again, she's sweet!"

"–Lovely–"

"–'Cause she is!"

"–And darling," Dean finished.

"That's what she calls me!" you pointed out.

"She's a wicked witch and you act like she's a delicate flower," he said.

"She can be delicate. Get to know her and you'll see."

If anyone bothered to get to know her, they'd see that there was more to her than met the eye. Rowena was tough as nails, but she could be sweet and kind. All she needed was a chance.

"I'll take your word for it," Dean said, earning a chuckle from Sam.

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "I once heard Y/N refer to Rowena as cute toes."

Dean shot you a judging look.

"What? They're cute!" you said defensively.

Just then Rowena walked in, carrying a large grimoire. "What are you lot talking about?" she said, looking from you to the boys.

"Your toes," Castiel replied.

You sighed, while Rowena raised an eyebrow, slightly scrunching her face. "Interesting topic," she deadpanned.

"Y/N claims you've got cute toes," the angel explained.

She smirked, lips widening into an amused grin. Her eyes landed on you and you shrugged. There was no point in denying it.

"Well, I'll have you know, angel," she said, "my toes aren't the only cute thing about me."

You smiled. Oh, how true that was!

Tags: @apritelleorai @darktweet @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @christinalibertymikaelson @violinmyhead @royalrowena @supwhorecorp @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie

Read on AO3.

#rowena #rowena x reader #rowena macleod #spn drabble #supernatural drabble #rowena drabble #rowena drabbles #my fics #fanfic #fanfics #fanfiction #offerings

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allonsysilvertongue · 7 years

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Wiping History

“What will happen when we get to your arena?” she demanded. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.“ 75 arenas and one colossal task for Effie Trinket. Hayffie. Post-MJ. Previously.

3. Worn Down

Effie dragged the small writing table over to the window, wincing at the sound as it scratched against the floor. Walking back to the kitchen, she took her cup of tea and placed it carefully on the corner of the table before parting the blinds. For a moment, the sight of the twinkling stars in the night sky distracted her.

For the next few hours, Effie poured over the paperwork that Plutarch had delivered earlier from deep within the tourism board's archive. In her book, there was a list of all the names of tributes lost in each Games plus the name of all the victors. The list was importance since memorials to the hundreds of lives lost to the Games would be constructed in place of the arena at a later date.

On the wall next to the window, Effie had tacked a map. She had painstakingly marked every single arena that ever existed. It was spread all over the place, across mountains, seas, forests and deserts.

It made her think of the civilisations that existed at each of these places decades ago before the land emptied out, leaving it ripe for the Capitol to construct death dome for children.

It made her think of the planning that went into the Games after the Dark Days; that there was likely a group of men and women sitting around a table discussing about sending district children as punishment. Her thoughts wandered to recent events, picturing Katniss and Peeta, Johanna and Annie, Enobaria and Beetee, and Haymitch with Coin discussing the exact same thing.

She shuddered and took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

Currently, the plan was to destroy the arena in chronological order which made it easier since there were no living victors for the 1st to the 10th arena. This meant that the arenas could be destroyed without much affair. The 11th arena was Mags' Games... but if Johanna were to destroy the arena on behalf of Finnick and Annie, she should extend the same courtesy to Haymitch. Mags was his mentor after all.

She wrote Haymitch's name next to the 11th arena, circled it in bright red pen and placed a big question mark on it. She did the same for the 50th arena.

Until now, she had still not spoken to Haymitch, Katniss or Peeta on the matter. When Peeta had called her a week ago, like he was accustomed to, Effie said nothing about the plans.

She thought she knew why. A part of her felt that she was due for a visit in District Twelve and that this was the perfect excuse to do so, not that she needed an excuse to visit the children but where Haymitch was concern.... She was certain he would be wary if she dropped by for no rhyme or reason.

It took her less than a day to pack since she did not plan to stay long in Twelve. Needing a day to just sit on her decision while convincing herself it was better to deliver the news to them personally out of courtersy, it was only two days later that she made her way to the other side of the country.

Effie alighted from the train, noting immediately the smell in the air. It no longer smelt of coal dust. It was … fresher and lighter, and she took it as a positive sign of the direction District Twelve was heading to months after the war.

She made the slow walk from the station to Victor’s Village, her eyes sweeping through what was once before a familiar scenery but was no longer as such. She had to stop and ask for directions twice before she finally saw the recognizable wrought iron gates in the distance. If everything around them was changing, the same could not be said about Victors’ Village.

Crossing the threshold of the Village, amongst the first thing she heard was the squawking of geese.

Peculiar, she thought until of course, she remembered that Peeta had mentioned off-hand once that he had to feed the geese and when asked, he explained they were Haymitch’s pets.

Her gaze strayed towards the house with its dark painted exterior. She had memories there; moments just before a reaping when Haymitch had pushed her against the kitchen counter or the wall and kissed her because he missed her, moments when she had willingly surrendered because she had missed him just as much. Her heart ached at those memories.

Effie veered right, walking up towards another house. When she knocked on the door, she fully expected to be greeted by Katniss not come face to face with Haymitch Abernathy. It threw her off-guard momentarily. He stared hard at her and she stared at him before she quickly gathered herself and offered him a conciliatory smile.

She was not here to argue or bring up the past or start anything. She was on the job, or so she kept telling herself.

“Is… Katniss in? Or Peeta?”

“Yeah, the boy’s here. Come in,” he grumbled, stepping back to let her pass. “He’ll have my balls if I let you just stand there.”

“Language,” she clicked her tongue.

Following the sound in the kitchen, Effie deduced that Peeta must be there and made her way over, very acutely aware of Haymitch following her from behind.

“No luggage?”

“I won’t be here for long,” she answered, glancing briefly over her shoulder at him.

“Right. Guess who’s here, boy.”

Peeta turned, hand covered in flour. His eyes widened at the sight of her and in seconds, he crossed the kitchen over to her and enveloped her in a hug.

“You should have called!” he chided and then laughed a little when he realised he had transferred flour to her dress. “Sorry about your dress,” he smiled sheepishly, “but you should have called. I could have picked you up at the train station or I could get Haymitch to.”

“I ain’t your dog,” Haymitch scowled to which they both pretended not to hear.

“I could have made your favourite pastries.”

“That is precisely the reason I did not call,” Effie said. “I do not wish to trouble any of you.”

“Good,” Haymitch muttered.

“Haymitch,” Peeta warned but he pulled a chair and ushered Effie towards it. “I’ll make a plate for you. We’re about to have lunch but we’re just waiting for Katniss to return from her hunt.”

While she was aware that Peeta had more or less moved in with Katniss, it was still something to see him so familiar in her kitchen. The kitchen was his and he worked with ease, same as Haymitch who lounged on the chair across from her, his legs propped on an empty chair.

Her gaze darted to him briefly but he was not paying her any attention, too busy as he was pouring himself a glass of whiskey and wine for her. At the end of the table, near the wall was a bound book which she assumed was the same Katniss was slowly working on, filling in the details of past tributes.

She chose not to dwell on it, even though she was here on the same vein. It seemed the past could never escape them.

“How is your bakery – “

“Why are you here?” Haymitch cut in.

He had always been direct, refusing to hide behind small talks and polite niceties. He pushed the glass of wine in her direction.

Taking a sip of the drink, she said, “Perhaps it will be more prudent to wait for Katniss. This concerns her too.”

“It sounds serious,” Peeta frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything will be explained soon but there’s no cause for concern,” Effie said in a placating manner.

Haymitch merely remained seated, watching her so Effie took it upon herself to assist Peeta in serving them all the stew from the pot. They heard the front door open just as Peeta removed the loaf from the oven. The heavy footsteps drew closer until it stopped completely. Effie glanced up and smiled. Setting down the bowl in front of Haymitch, she met Katniss halfway, hugging the girl fiercely.

“Oh, I do miss you,” Effie whispered. “All of you.”

She meant it too, Haymitch included. Regardless of the manner in which they had parted, she had known him the longest and the months apart had made her missed his company.

“Then you should visit us more,” Katniss pointed out.

They caught up over lunch, exchanging stories and anecdotes of post-war rebuilding in District Twelve and in the City. She was glad to know that the bakery was doing well and that Katniss was helping him out where she could. For the most part, Haymitch kept to himself, finishing off the whole bottle of whiskey by the time they were done.

“Do you plan on talking at all tonight or should we do all the talking for you?” Peeta teased.

Haymitch shot him a glare “I want to know why she’s here. No phone calls, no letters and now suddenly, you’re dropping by – must be something.”

“I do call occasionally. It’s just not you who I call.”

Not wanting to derail the conversation into something volatile and bitter, Effie quickly retrieved the envelopes from her handbag and handed it over to each of them.

“I thought I would deliver this personally,” she explained.

She watched them as they read the contents; the slight crease in Haymitch’s brows, the stoic expression on Katniss’ face and the look of puzzlement on Peeta’s.

Haymitch was the first to finish. “Didn’t know you’re working for the government – can’t seem to run away from them, can you?”

Effie pursed her lips, choosing instead to take the high road and let the remark slide. She was not here to argue. They had done plenty of that months before.

“You are in-charge of this?” Katniss asked.

“Yes. They called me in to spearhead the project.”

“They could call anyone and yet they called you for this specifically…” Peeta commented

He was always sharp and quick, and it seemed that, it did not escape his notice that there might be something more to the reason she of all people was appointed.

“Well,” she plastered a bright smile on her face. “As Plutarch would say it, I am the ‘last living escort’ and the symbolism of it is too good to pass up.”

“Bullshit,” Haymitch spat. “He had no right to dangle that over your head. “

The smile faltered, and just like that she was beginning to doubt holding on to this anger she had for Haymitch. No matter where they are, no matter how long it had been, he was still in his own way, protective over her.

“I only agreed because I believe that each of the victors should be given a chance to see to it that their arena is destroyed. With me there, should you want it, you would have a say over it. You have a right to this, if nothing else.”

She paused, letting this sink in.

“Johanna….” She smiled a little, remembering the young woman’s enthusiasm. “She is already planning on what exactly to do with hers. It is almost scary to hear her plans.”

“What about Annie?” Peeta asked, folding the letter back into the envelope. “I don’t imagine she’d want to be there because I don’t want to go back there. You’ll have crew or something, right? I’ll leave it to them.”

“Johanna will take on Annie’s and Finnick’s arena on their behalves.”

“I want to see it burn to the ground,” Katniss said fiercely. “I’m going.”

All eyes turned to Haymitch. He had always been with the Mockingjay. Whatever Katniss choses, he would always back it up. Still, this was different. They were not calling for a vote – the memory of which Effie had tried hard to scrub from her mind - and whether or not he agreed to be there, all those arenas including his will be destroyed.

“I ain’t going back there,” he declared. “I’ve got enough nightmares ‘bout that hell-hole as it is.”

“I understand,” Effie nodded. “So it will be Katniss together with Johanna and Beetee.”

“Beetee’s going?” Haymitch asked.

“Only to watch. Katniss…. It won’t be easy,” Effie warned. “The Capitol has turned the arena into -

“Some entertainment?” Katniss asked snidely. “Don’t they always twist everything for their pleasure?”

XxX

The garden was small and modest but the love and care that went into it was evident. She spotted primroses and lilies. At the corner of her eye, she noticed a creature prowling and turned to see Buttercup. She wasn’t aware that Katniss still kept the cat but she supposed, since they both loved Prim, it made sense to.

The sound of footsteps crunching against the earth made her pause. She knew it was him even before she turned around.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, propping a hand on the fence casually as he watched her.

“Haymitch.”

“What’s your plan with the arenas?”

Effie bit her bottom lip before letting out a breath. This was a safe topic as any between them.

“We will begin demolition in two weeks' time, starting with first arena. I – I thought that perhaps you might want to destroy Mag’s arena. She was your mentor, after all.”

He tipped the silver flask back, licking his lip to catch a drop of whiskey that escape. Effie averted her gaze.

“But, of course, I understand your decision.”

“Chaff’s?”

“I was going to offer it to you as well,” she answered.

She was going to but he made it abundantly clear that he had no desire to step into his arena and she assumed that the aversion extended to the other arenas as well.

“You doing okay?” he asked out of the blue.

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

He exhaled in frustration, gripping the flask tighter. “Does it have to take this to get us to talk again? The fucking arenas…. It’s the only damn reason you’re even here in the first place or I wouldn’t be seeing you at all.”

“You could have tried to keep in touch,” Effie couldn’t help the retort.

“I could. Would you have answered my calls or write me back?”

He had a point but still, he didn’t try. He left the Capitol and he left her, and then nothing but if he had tried to call or write….

“I would eventually when I’m worn down.”

She fished the cigarette from the pocket of her bag and lighted up, drawing in a breath shakily. This was not a conversation she was prepared for.

“I don’t want you worn down,” he growled. “That’s not - Look, Effie, we said some mean shit to the other but – “

She turned to him, raising her eyebrows.

“- I don’t mean any of it.”

“I do,” she whispered quietly. “I wished I had never met you.”

That struck a nerve in him. She watched the way his jaws clenched, the flash of something violent and furious in his eyes and then he simply… settled. He fixed his gaze on her and the calm on his face made the hairs on the back of her neck stand.

“I’ll do it. What you came here for… I’ll do it. Put my name on it, Trinket.”

Effie spun, startled at his sudden change of mind. The cigarette dangled between her fingers and Haymitch smirked as he took a sip from his flask. Surprising her and catching her off-guard had always been his favourite thing.

“You said you will never step foot in the arena.”

“I said I will never step foot in mine,” he corrected. “I’ll do it for Mags’ and Chaff’s and I’ll do it for all the others who aren’t here no more. I trust you, sweetheart, but I want to see for myself that every single fucking arena is gone.”

“I – “

“Besides,” he shifted his weight, “I don’t imagine Plutarch’s against that. He’s attaching some warped meaning by specifically appointing you, yeah? The last escort destroying something the Capitol created… I’m a Victor, sweetheart, shouldn’t I be there for those who can’t?”

“I only came to invite you for the 50th arena, together with Mags’ and Chaff’s. I do not need you for all… There are seventy-five of them,” she said and the slight panic in her voice was telling. She was not prepared to have him as a representative for the victors for the duration of this project. “You are not… part of the team.”

“I’m always part of your team, Effie,” he whispered in her ear and the rare use of her name send a shiver running through her. “You haven’t forgotten that, have you? You want me to wear you down… I’ll wear you down.”

“And what will happen when we get to your arena?” Effie demanded, clearly clutching at straws by this point in time.

“I’ll cross the bridge when I get to it but for now, get excited about working with me again,” he winked and her blood rushed at the audacity of it.

“I hate you.”

His laughter echoed as he retreated back into Katniss’ house, and from the window, she could see him getting on the phone no doubt to call Plutarch.

Alright! Effie went down to Twelve and our hayffie met, finally. What do you think of Haymitch changing his mind? Or what is it that caused a wedge between them? Let me know in the reviews!

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #everlark #wiping history

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