#Though I think Gale knows being alone more as like...being surrounded by people and having no one regardless.

[recitedemise]

He knows how to keep a secret. As well, too, Gale's felt that blistering urgency to veil his scars. Few would grant them their kindness, and few would lend them their words, and fewer still, cruelly few, would temper their ruin when their hearts half-trembling would near their break. This renders it theirs, their blistering horrors like some burdensome tomb. Yet, Gale knows her conviction, that quavering desire to nurse pain alone, for none, he has thought, should blister in his name. None here alive should heft this coffin. He's a danger, a monster lurking ugly in his bones, and none who draws breath would deserve its teeth and clawing. None should be a pallbearer, not for his hurts.

But then, don't they deserve it, a passing glimmer of sympathy? He knows what it's like, her presence felt as he charms the water with a quaint heating spell. It isn't sustainable, truly, to clamor on stubbornly with a box for the dead. His knees are trembling and his muscles yowl, and soon enough, his spirit would surrender like the turning of the seasons. They aren't made to suffer, but they surely seem resigned to.

...even if their souls so crave connection.

 (Bury it, they tell themselves. Ensure that it's the concern of nobody else.)

"A valiant effort, certainly, but lest you forget, you're in the company of one Gale of Waterdeep. You'd have to do a great deal better than that to pull a fast one on me. I could believe that attempt an insult...but I'll take it in stride." How generous. Distantly, the rest of the party has begun to prepare themselves for slumber. Karlach's chattering could be heard, and mingled in there, Astarion is muttering, something blasé, dramatic, but utterly casual. There's worry on Wyll's part, and a staple pragmaticism on their darling Sharran, but as far as Gale's concerned, the whole of their party sounds relatively normal--a bit stunned, perhaps, but nothing so egregious. Lae'zel says something, and Gale picks up a vial as she does so. He catches Dronia in the glass, rotating it a touch to catch her face, and despite the blood and her glowing, gleaming eyes, she, stood there, seems so small. "With as much flattery as I can muster, you work yourself not unlike a rothé. You could set out and accomplish everything that would ever need doing, and by the end of it, you'll go scouring for more with which to lose yourself in. No rest for the wicked, so goes the saying. Or in your case, anyway, for those not quite."

Like an escape, perhaps. Ah. He wonders if that's partly what it's become to her. The harder she works, perhaps the farther from reality she can place herself. She hardly wants sleep, deigns to rest when he himself would buckle to his knees, and now knowing what she is, he can't honestly blame her. Imagine: the nightmares she must see. And the memory of turning. He hasn't her story in much the same manner that she hasn't his own, but between them both, something great and integral feels to shift. Like? Another chapter in their friendship. A bond of greater profundity. "Much happens in a month. Far be it from me to assume the desires of our wayward party, but I wager we're in no rush to be lost to you either." Right. They're all rather stuck. Survival, even doomed as he so feels, is what brings them together, cording them up tighter than he knows. Gale's gentle, facing Dronia as the heated water wafts behind him. It's glistening, cajoling her into its comforting depths. He invites her to take it, his smile layered and patient. "It's humbling, losing all that which was so difficult in the obtaining. Few prospects are more daunting than to stand there so profoundly bare. All the same, it's with certainty that I declare myself all the more approving of the image before me. I'm inclined to agree. You have kept your heart regardless of your story. One day soon, I should like you to see yourself in the way that I would. You have glimpsed beyond my hungers, and you would accept me regardless." He breathes, orb pulsing a twinge beneath his skin. "It gives me no small amount of joy to show you the same. We all need someone. Now. I do believe it's time for you take a well deserved respite. You've your choice among my soaps and oils. It's a luxury I reserve for an exclusive few."

Amazing how these damn little parasites can shatter the most carefully curated mask. A brave face, braver and wiser words to accompany it, and a sure stance. Shoulders squared and eyes on an uncertain future and a path to salvation. But every little vision that crossed their minds, the death, oh the death, the terror and grief she felt upon waking that first morning, all laid painfully bare, it grows obvious that the brave face was a front she'd worn for months now. She sharpened her fear and weaponized it to help her friends all at the detriment of her own mental health. Never once did she open up about her own grief, the survivor's guilt that ate at her, or the dark thoughts that muddied her mind. Thoughts that maybe she should have shared the same fate as the rest of the village. All of it was hidden so carefully behind a facade of bravery and leadership.

But no more. The mask slipped.

Her heart is still pounding against her ribs, violent and shaking like it is rattling the bars of a cage. These fucking tadpoles pulling out things she's worked so hard to keep repressed. She blinks, once, twice, three times. Seeing Gale's reaction, sorrow on his face reflecting her own, the poor man only got a taste of what she carries in her heart every moment of every day. She can't even find peace behind closed eyelids.

What a curse to have no peace.

As Gale shields her shivering and scared visage from the others, her features soften a touch, as much as they can behind a thick coat of blood and glowing red eyes. Hardly a soft visage at all when there is something so inherently wild about her. One of Mielikki's beasts: the ultimate hunter and a scared girl all in one. "My father taught me that control of the body is one of our greatest strengths. If we can master that, we can master anything. Loss of that could mean death. How could I rest when there was so much to do?" When rest meant her thoughts returned to that night? She nods, meekly, glancing past his shoulder to the others to see if they still cast those stares at her. Moving with Gale, she slowly stands, trying to regain the strength in her knees. "A guide needing a guide... it's an amusing thought. Thank you, friend."

Even after she nearly attacked him, he still believes in her. Hopefully, he has enough of that belief for both of them. "That's reassuring. It's hard to feel good about myself right now." How utterly understated.

Between Gale and Karlach, she starts to doubt her own assurances that she is just a simple hunter. Humble as her beginnings were, she's gotten them this far, leading them to victory and survival. Maybe she is more than the simple hunter and guide she puts herself out there as, she undersells herself because she was raised to be humble. As they make their way back to the camp, she can feel the eyes of the other companions resting on her, the mess she's in, those eyes glowing. She doesn't speak on it, she only makes eye contact with Karlach, a silent statement that she will need company later, but for now Gale is taking the helm. "With all the weird things that have happened to us, I wouldn't be surprised if other Gods now watch us with great interest. But, you're right, that is far more your domain than mine. I think I prefer faith in our current company, as you said." It's funny, Mielikki's hand felt like it guided her hunts more than ever, but it feels like the other gods she had paid tribute to felt more distant. Especially Tymora. As Gale prepares a bath, she simply stands there, arms wrapping around herself in an attempt to soothe herself and calm her heart. It felt like such a terrible thing lately, it felt far too much too often and broke constantly. "For a while, before I met any of you, my heart was all I had left. Barely a month had passed since I lost everything before the Nautiloid took me." She quiets for a moment, "I can't lose everything a second time. Strange as a group we are, you've all become family to me."

[thecampjuicebox]

To have and to hold Pt. 1

A couple of weeks before Tav and Gale's wedding night, Tav is having second thoughts. Seeking out a past lover before the big night, turns her world upside-down.

Pairing: Tav(f) x Gale x Astarion

POV: 2nd person (Reader is Tav)

WARNINGS: 18+ Minors DNI | gentle smut | cheating | Biting | mutual pining | angst | slow burn | porn with feeling | Fingering | light choking | game spoilers

Trying my hand at a multi-part fic. Let me know what you think! This idea was suggested to me and I couldn't NOT do it. This is gonna be a long one. Buckle up!

Dress fittings, picking out decorations, venue tours, flowers, food choices, invitations and exchanging kisses with family and friends you've neglected to speak to since the Nether Brain had fallen - all aspects of a wedding you didn't seem to take into account when accepting Gale's proposal. You love him, yes. Unconditionally. With every fiber of your being, and those floating through the weave. And yet.. Regret bubbles up in your gut while staring at yourself in the mirror, hands smoothing the bone white lace on the bodice of your wedding dress. You fumble with the top of your corset, shifting uncomfortably at the stiff boning. Shadowheart stands behind you, one hand placed gently on your shoulder and she leans in to whisper to you, your pointed ears perking up.

"There's still time to turn back, you know."

Your heart thumps audibly in your chest and you sigh, picking at your fingernails. You didn't want to admit how frightened you are. You've never considered forever. Especially not with someone like Gale. Charming, handsome, intelligence unmatched. He was the perfect candidate. The man your late mother always dreamed you'd bring home to the family, Selune bless her. You choke back tears at the thought of her. How she won't be there for the big moment anyways, so why does it matter who you wed? You'd also never been to Waterdeep. You and Gale decided to stay in Baldur's Gate briefly while you made the preparations. It was easier that way. Gale had traveled back to Waterdeep for short bursts of time, mostly to see that Tara, his tressym and trusted friend, was well taken care of. You decided to stay back every time, much to Gale's dismay. Something about making the trek to your soon to be forever home made you uneasy any time he'd ask. You've traveled all over Faerun and back. Hells, you'd even plunged into Avernus more times than you'd be willing to admit. The idea of spending your days in a tower with a tressym, a husband, and an endless supply of books was not how you thought you'd end your travels, though. Mrs. Dekarios. You'd take his last name, obviously. Wear it as a badge of honor. Meet his family, bare his children. Gods.. Children. The idea makes you nauseous, hot bile threatening to fight its way up your throat. Shaking your head, you tune back in to the sounds of the quaint Baldurian dress shop. You were no stranger to Figaro's. You came to enjoy the lavish clothing he offers. Textures your fingers never felt before the cult of the Absolute forced it's way into your life. You were reborn, newly cultured, and so very exhausted by all of it. Karlach stands, making her way over to the small platform you stand on and she meets your eyes in the mirror.

"Everything okay, Soldier?"

You chuckle at the nickname. Soldier.. You feel like anything but a soldier right now. Her warm hand reaches down to capture yours and she gives it a reassuring squeeze. Tears well up in your large brown eyes and you lower your head once more to ease the burning in your tear ducts. You feel so hopeless. Surrounded by the people you love most, but so entirely and devastatingly alone. Your thoughts swirl in your brain, engulfing the area the tadpole once lived. How could you be so ready to give up on Gale? You know he loves you just as much as you love him. If not more. Definitely more. A quiet sob escapes you and you crumble onto the platform, startling Shadowheart and Karlach. In confusion, the two kneel beside you, each one grabbing a hand.

"Gods, Tav.. What has gotten into you?"

Karlach's voice is stern and low, her fingers tightening around yours to ground you in the moment. Shadowheart sighs and shakes her head. She knows. She understands. Small cries rattle your ribcage as a never-ending stream of tears streaks your flushed cheeks. Embarrassment burns in your throat and you quickly stand again, both hands yanking away from your companions. You want nothing more to be free of this dress and the agonizingly tight corset holding all of you in. You reach back and tug at the laces of the corset in frustration, failing to loosen anything before throwing your hands down at your sides once more.

"I'd like to be free of this death trap, please."

You mumble quietly. Shadowheart giggles and begins unlacing the corset while Karlach moves to the front of you, both hands now resting on the tops of your trembling shoulders.

"It's going to be alright. Everyone gets nervous before their wedding. Hells, I'd be fucking batshit if I were in your position. Especially with someone as grand as Gale."

You allow a giggle to pass your frown and sigh heavily in relief when Shadowheart finally frees you from the corset, the pale leather folding neatly in her gentle hands.

"Looks like you need a hefty meal and a nap, Soldier. Let's get going. Your dress fits you just fine."

Figaro scoffs in the corner and collects the corset from Shadowheart, placing it down on a velvet bench before extending his hand to you and helping you down from the platform. He leads you to a small room so you can change back into your normal clothing, quickly shutting the curtain behind him as he steps out. You sigh and quickly shimmy out of your dress, carefully folding the fancy fabric and leaving it on the small stool in the room.

...

"Where are you headed off to? How was your dress fitting? I assume you've gotten all of the details figured out with Figaro by now?"

Gale's eyes lift from the dusty tome lying open on his desk. He scans your form, taking inventory of the cloak you've draped over your shoulders. You wiggle your toes in your boots and shrug off his concerned tone.

"I uh.. Derryth needs help collecting noblestock. Baelen is ill. The fitting went.. About as well as expected. Karlach cried, Shadowheart told me I should get the dress in black, Figaro was disgusted by that idea."

Your fingers drum against your thighs and you turn to look at him, attempting the most sincere look you can muster in the moment. The wizard's eyes narrow on you and he nods slowly, placing his palms flat on his desk to help lift him from his stool. His fingers graze the page on the tome before he begins his trek across the room to you. Gale pulls you into a tight hug, one hand grasping your waist while the other smooths your dark hair against the back of your head.

"Ah yes, Figaro and his.. Closed-minded fashion sense. Well, I'm glad the shop at least didn't go up in flames. The Underdark, hmm? Be safe, my love. Send word when you're on your way back, yes?"

You nod at his words and rest your head against his chest, the gentle thumping of his heart calming the nervous fizz in your brain for a moment. The soft velvet of his robe tickles your cheek and you nuzzle against it in the same fashion Tara would, but with much less purring. Gale chuckles and pecks the top of your head, mumbling a soft "I love you" against your scalp before he releases you, his hand reaching for yours to quickly caress the finger with your engagement ring on it. A soft smile thins his lips and he motions for you to make your exit. You smile nervously up at him, pulling your hand away gently and you turn to leave, your hands coming to your front to slowly slide your ring off of your finger and into your thigh pouch, your teeth catching your bottom lip. You slip into the night, tugging your cloak hood up to further shroud you in darkness.

...

You missed the glowing alure of the Underdark. The Myconid Colony serving as a beacon of calming light. You let out a quiet sigh at the familiar surroundings and cross your arms over your heaving chest, taking a moment to drink in the atmosphere and catch your breath. You weren't here to collect noblestock, and quite honestly, you're proud of yourself for the excuse you had come up with on the spot. You're in search of something much more valuable to you. A vampire spawn. The very one you'd shared so many sleepless nights with while infected with the tadpoles. Astarion. His name sends a shudder through your entire body. After your group took down Cazador in his crypt, Astarion made the impossible decision to kill the vampire lord and stop the Black Mass, freeing his fellow spawn to live in the shadows for eternity. Unfortunately, he was doomed to the same fate once the Nether Brain was defeated. You blink tears away from your eyes, rubbing your palms into the sockets to ease the slight burning. The thought of him cowering at the sun just after the final fight, running off never to be seen again, it makes your heart ache in a way you didn't think possible. And it has been exactly that long since you've laid eyes on the spawn. But you remember him so vividly. His pearlescent skin. His crimson eyes. His silvery hair that always rested in perfect curls, even after the roughest of battles with goblins.

Continuing your walk through the Underdark, your eyes fall on more familiar territory. The Duergar camp, nestled just on the edge of the black water you fondly remember sailing to Grymforge. However, the camp is... Inhabited. Rebuilt. Much more beautiful than you remember, large purple crystals growing in tall pillars around the quaint wooden houses peppered around the area. Long rope bridges connect the homes and buildings on the higher cliffs, chasm creeper and mushrooms speckled about on the rock. Your tired legs seem to will you towards the new found civilization, the promise of sleep fogging your brain. Taking a step into the camp, your eyes scan the surroundings, a few faces seeming oddly familiar to you. A tall, long haired vampire spawn with the scarring of runes scattered about his face approaches you, his crimson eyes cutting through the dark gloom. The purple glow of the crystal pillars around you grants you just enough light to make out his facial features.

"Tav..?"

"Sebastian?!"

Your eyes widen at the sudden realization. Sebastian is one of the Spawn your group freed from Cazador's crypt. A bright smile adorns your tired face and you sprint towards him, quickly embracing him in a tight hug. You nearly knock him off of his feet, your hands gripping the soft fabric of the back of his coat. The spawn chuckles and catches your short frame, gently lifting you from the dirt and giving you a playful twirl, earning a giggle. You inhale deeply, the scent of lavender and deep earth filling your nostrils.

"It's lovely to see you. Astarion hasn't stopped talking about his adventures by your side. I do believe he's around here somewhere. But what are you doing here, Dear? "

Your breath catches in your throat at the mention of his name. He's here. He's really here. You traveled all the way beneath the ground on an inkling that he might have followed the other spawn to the Underdark to seek refuge from the burning sun. Your heart thumps in your chest and Sebastian inhales your excitement deeply. He places you back onto your feet and takes a step back, smoothing his coat down before motioning for you to follow him. You nod and make haste, trying your best to keep up with his quick strides as he leads you in, what you assume to be, the direction of the spawn you initially traveled here to see. Sebastian stops in front of a large wooden door, tapping a few knocks onto the surface with the knuckle of his index finger. He holds his free hand out to you, motioning for you to wait outside once he hears a quiet "Enter" from the dark room behind the door. He carefully opens the door and steps inside, blocking the being within the walls from seeing you.

"Pardon me, Astarion. You have a visitor."

"A visitor? I thought I told that wretch that it was a one time thing! Gods, these deep gnomes are needy. Very well, send him in."

Sebastian stifles a chuckle and steps aside, revealing your presence to the the vampire. You step forward into the dim candlelight of his home, bottom lip caught nervously between your teeth, biting impressively hard on the sensitive flesh. Astarion looks even more beautiful than you remember. His hair a touch longer than before, but still arranged in that intoxicating mess of curls. A sparkling silver chalice rests between his pale, slender fingers and he swirls the contents in it with finesse. A familiar metallic tang lingers in the air along with the soft scent of bergamot and rosemary. A scent you grew very fond of when you were traveling alongside the spawn. One you often find yourself craving back home. Astarion is lying on a small velvet love seat, one leg outstretched and the other bent with his foot resting firmly in the plush cushion beneath him. Piles of dusty books and candles speckle the tables and floors around him, the room still tidy, but certainly lived in. His back rests against the armrest and he stretches for a moment before his eyes drift towards the front door. As he slowly turns his attention to the new intruder, he takes another sip from the chalice and he chokes suddenly, sputtering the red liquid. You stand in the doorway, hands clasped behind your back and you watch his reaction, a light smirk building on your lips. Astarion hurries to his feet, setting the chalice down with care to not spill any more of its contents before moving towards you swiftly.

"Tav is.. Is that you?"

You nod quickly and he whisks you from the floor, his face burying into the crook of your warm neck. You shudder at the sensation of his cold nose nuzzling your skin and you snake your arms around his shoulders, hands finding a comfortable spot in his soft hair. He groans at your touch and tugs you impossibly close to his frame, inhaling every bit of your scent that his nose will allow. Sebastian excuses himself, quietly closing the heavy door behind him.

"I've missed you, little star.."

"Where the hells have you been?"

You cling to him tightly, tears threatening to spill over your cheeks at his question. You shake your head and slowly slide from his embrace. His face contorts into a look of confusion, large eyes glimmering in the candle light when he focuses on your change of posture.

"Little love.. What ever could be the matter?"

You couldn't possibly tell him here. Not now. Not in this moment. You palm at your eyes once more before lifting your head to meet his gaze. He reaches out a gentle hand and cups your burning cheek, lovingly stroking the bone there with his thumb. You tilt your head into his touch and savor the feeling of his skin on yours again, finally. You've missed the vampling so much. Your heart pounds like a goblin war drum behind your ribs. He takes a step closer to you, his free arm gently snaking around your waist. Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, the salty taste of your sweat making his pupils dilate. A quiet whine slips past your lips.

"Speak to me, Tav. You're never so tongue tied, you poor thing. What has you so rattled?"

Shaking your head, your arms fly around Astarion's neck, taking him by surprise. He stumbles backwards, bumping his calves against the ornate wooden frame of the loveseat and he sits down to catch himself, a small grunt breaking the otherwise harsh silence of the room. You collapse on top of his thin but toned frame and gasp at the impact. Wet eyes meeting his, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and bite at it, drawing blood. Astarion senses the metallic hint in the air and groans, your very familiar and intoxicating scent making his grasp on you tighten in a primal fashion. He mumbles a soft "Gods.." and reaches one hand up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You strain your eyes in the candlelight, releasing your bottom lip, the skin there now bruised, little rivulets of your life's essence staining the skin there.

"Astarion I..."

His grasp on you loosens and his gaze softens. He flashes you a gentle smile and cocks his head to the side. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, and though he revels in the idea that he can still fluster you this way, you feel his intentions have changed. The way his hands rest respectfully on your lower back now, the gentle drumming of his fingers against your spine. He's hungry, but he's doing so well restraining himself. The Astarion you met after the Nautiloid crash and the Astarion seated beneath you now are so incredibly different. It only makes you want to explore him more, to learn his new ways. And it feels so, incredibly wrong.

"Yes?"

"H-Have you eaten? Lately, I mean. I can't imagine there's much to feast on in the Underdark.."

Your question makes his eyebrows knit together for a moment, his expression twisting at the thought of just how hungry he is. Sure, he's eaten. Feasted upon a deep gnome here and there, their blood burning the inside of his mouth as he drinks. He hasn't, however, had anything nearly as delicious as your blood since the death of the Nether Brain. You were the last of your kind that he fed on, and he missed the taste all the same.

"I have eaten, yes. But, you know I am a man of.. Tremendous appetite."

His velvet words send a shiver down your spine and you press to him tightly now, closing the small gap that was left between your torsos while you straddle one of his legs. His knee presses into your mound and you try your best to block to feeling out of your mind. His eyes meet yours, full of lust. Full of hunger. Tinted with the gentle flicker of.. Love. You were his first mortal, after all. And he would be a liar if he told you that all of those nights of honeyed words and sweet nothings weren't how he truly felt about you. You offered yourself to him in a way no one ever has. Not with the intent to sleep with him. Just with the intent to make sure he was taken care of. A debt he, to this day, has no idea how to repay. His thought process is halted when you lean in close, bloodied lips grazing the length of his earlobe and you mutter quietly.

"I-If you're hungry.. Feed."

You back yourself up to meet his gaze once more. His eyebrows furrow and he growls, the deep noise causing your insides to ignite. Without hesitation, Astarion leans forward and flicks his tongue out against your sensitive bottom lip, lapping at the blood that has begun to dry there. He earns a whine from you, his pointy ears perking up at the sound. He smirks, determined for more noises and he sucks your bottom lip between his own, sinking a fang into the already abused flesh. You moan quietly, tilting your head back to tug your lip away from his grasp and your hands meet his chest, fingers toying with the ruffles around the collar of his silk shirt. The vampling's breath stutters at the encounter, your hands on his chest making his hairs stand on end. You instinctively grind your hips down into his, your leathers making a quiet noise from the friction. "Please.." you stutter, hands pulling at the front of his shirt now, your begging making Astarion's head swirl. Nose first, Astarion nuzzles into the side of your neck again, this time with much more intent, tracing the length of your perfectly soft skin. Baring his fangs to the open space, he quickly drags the flat of his tongue to prime the area for the sensation of the sharp pricks. His teeth sink into the flesh there, like ice shards. The pain is delicious and dizzying. You roll your hips again, this time Astarion's hips bucking upwards to meet your already wet core. You ache for him and you hate yourself for it. He laps the now steady stream of blood he's drawn from your neck, a low groan ringing in your ear as he drinks. In the past, he would drink while you were unconscious. Now, you wished you'd have been awake every time you had offered your neck to him. The little noises he makes, the way he gently cradles the back of your head while he feeds.. It's intoxicating. You're drunk off of the pain and the pleasure. Drunk off of Astarion. His lips leave your skin, tongue tracing the new pierce marks he's left in the crook of your neck. His hands remain where they are, one cradling the back of your head, the other tightly gripping the back of your shirt. He sighs to himself, tilting his head back as he cleans the crimson fluid from his lips.

"By the Nine Hells, you're just as delicious as I remember. I need more of you.."

His hands both slide to meet the tie of your cloak, making quick work of undoing it, the dark fabric sliding to the floor at his feet. Your body trembles beneath every movement, every feather-light touch from his fingers. As much as you love him, this was a feeling Gale has never been able to give to you. You love him.. Differently. You love his intellect. You love how much he adores Tara. You love his affinity for books and the way he talks about the weave. But your love for Astarion.. That was leaps and bounds deeper than anything you've ever felt. His touch sets your skin on fire. Your name sounds like a lyric on his tongue, soft and melodious. You crave him. His presence. His existence. You crave all of it. Tears threaten your eyes again and Astarion notices immediately. His hands quickly cup your cheeks and his soft lips crash to yours, your entire body falling limp against him. Arousal boils your blood, bubbling up into your throat, escaping as a soft moan against the vampire's lips. You're unraveling right there in his arms. He kisses you in a way you never in your life have been kissed, teeth knocking, tongues wrestling for dominance, the slight copper taste of blood lingering in his mouth from his meal. Your hips find a steady rhythm, rocking back and forth against his lap, the two of you moaning in tandem at the fiery friction building between your bodies. His right hand snaps upwards to grab your throat, thumb and fingers pressing harshly into the sides of your neck, your breath labored by the force of his palm against your trachea. Hungry red eyes meet your gaze and Astarion's lips slowly form the words that will be your undoing.

"Your body keeps no secrets, my love. This is what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?"

You moan at his words, jaw falling slack. His hand moves upwards to press his thumb into your mouth, a quiet "Suck." commanding your lips to close around the digit, tongue lapping at his fingerprint. He watches you, pupils blown out with desire, hair disheveled from your previous kiss. You continue to suck on his thumb, his free fingers tapping rhythmically against your cheek bone and he purrs in delight. Your bones vibrate, your core aches, walls fluttering around nothing. He slips his thumb from between your lips with a gentle "pop" and replaces it with his middle and index finger. You obediently take the new fingers just as you did the thumb, moistening them with your saliva. He presses down on the flat of your tongue and you stick it out, allowing him to swipe his fingers around in your spittle. A devilish grin thins his lips as he watches you.

"So good.. Let's put this to good use, shall we?"

He slides his wet fingers down towards the waistband of your leathers, using his free hand to tug them forward. You curse under your breath, unable to do anything but watch. His fingers hastily meet your core, swiping teasingly slow between your think folds and you collapse against him, shaky little moans ringing in his ears. He groans at how wet you are, wasting no time to dip two digits into your aching cunt, finally granting you the pleasure you've been seeking. His thumb presses tightly to your clit and he moves it in agonizingly slow circles, first clockwise, then counter clockwise, and suddenly, in no particular pattern. You writhe against his hand, gasping and whining.

"That's it. Such a mess."

He pumps his fingers in and out of you slowly, relishing in the beautiful noises he earns in return. You're at the precipice now. You grind into his hand feverishly and throw your head back, whining into the open air, his name coming out in little yelps and moans. However, he keeps the slow pace. Taking his sweet, sweet time with you. It's been so long since he's touched you. Made you moan like this. Made you drop all defenses and absolutely lose yourself in him. He loves every second of it, his own pleasure coming solely from pleasuring you. He wants nothing more than to deliver you the ecstasy you so greatly deserve. It's the only way he knows how to repay you for the kindness, love, and support you've shown him in this lifetime. You'd never be up front about asking him for sex, let alone to touch you like this. You're the only person he's ever known to respect how he feels, what he wants, what he needs. For this, he has grown to love you with every ounce he's able to give. The time apart from you was agonizing and he spent many nights, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, praying to whatever gods would hear him that you would return to him. That you'd crawl into his bed once more so he could hold you and drink in your warmth. However, he knew you were somewhere else, with someone else. He didn't have the heart to approach you about it in this moment. All he wanted was to be here, with you. To enjoy you for as long as he possibly could before you slipped away, more unknown amounts of time passing before he'd be able to lay eyes on you again. To take in your sweet scent, one he has tried for months to recreate in a perfume. Vanilla, sandalwood, and woodsmoke. A tantalizing combination that leaves his brain all fuzzy and warm. He snaps back to reality, focusing harder now on your moans and the wiggle of your hips. The knot in your belly tightens with each stroke of his fingers against that heavenly spot within your walls, your arousal soaking his entire hand and the leathers that separate your skin from the cold air. His free hand grasps your hip, stilling your desperate grinding.

"Come for me, pet."

The movement of his fingers keeps a slow, steady pace. His thumb continues to rub into your clit, pressing a little harder now to throw you over the edge. You tighten around him, the knot in your core finally snapping, ecstasy making your eyes roll into your buzzing skull. The loud moan you let out surprises even you as you come undone against his hand. He grins proudly, working you through your climax, whispering sweet affirmations of how well you're doing during your comedown. Carefully sliding his fingers from your leathers, he pops one into his mouth, savoring your warm slick. His lids flutter in enjoyment and you watch him closely.

"You are.. Filthy.."

You giggle and wrap your arms sleepily around his shoulders, burying your face into the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you up to straddle him now, hands cupping the supple meat of your ass. You close your eyes tightly, the reality of tonight's events creating a pit in your stomach. You fight with yourself internally. Should you tell Astarion? Should you tell Gale? Should you even go home? A quiet sigh leaves you and your breath coasts along Astarion's pale flesh, making him tremble momentarily. He rests his chin on your shoulder and mumbles quietly. His next words make your stomach drop, your eyes shooting open suddenly.

"Well, this should be fun to explain to Gale.."

[cosmicjoke]

adding to that earlier discusion abt morality

one of my fav characters is jesse pinkman and while he does bad things like killings i dont think he is a good person he kind of reminds me of levi because they both never enjoy hurting other and both care a lot about kids

so when jesse (spoilers ahead) killed this guy gale he was shown to really be affected by that and he spiralled into toxic behaviours. he didnt want to kill him but walter make him do so. so while yeah he did a bad thing he isnt a bad person.

Hey there, and as always, thanks for your asks!

The thing that's being claimed about "Attack on Titan" by people making this argument, that killing is always wrong, and so killing automatically makes you a bad person, is that the story itself pushes this message, but it doesn't. AoT doesn't actually present any, definitive answer on the question at all. It doesn't show us or try to convince us one way or another that killing is right OR wrong. All it does is present scenarios in which violence breaks out, and the various reactions to that violence and the subsequent outcomes of those reactions. It doesn't condemn or approve either reaction, but simply presents the circumstances and lets the audience decide for themselves what they feel is right or wrong based on those circumstances. Levi conveys this idea, and really encapsulates the nonjudgmental nature of the story itself, when he tells Jean that he doesn't himself know what's right or wrong, but only knows what the factual reality of the situation was, that reality being, if Armin hadn't killed the woman from Kenny's squad, Jean himself would now be dead, and the rest of them might be as well. He thanks Armin for his sacrifice, but also tells Jean that he should decide for himself what he believes is right and wrong. He doesn't try to impose any definitive answer or opinion on any member of his squad regarding the moral question of killing.

Armin says "we're bad people now" after they've killed other people, but Armin also refuses Reiner's offer to sit out fighting the Yeagerists at the dock just to keep his hands clean. Armin in that moment is acknowledging that it would be selfish to refuse to engage in violence only to preserve his sense of moral comfort and righteousness. The situation was desperate, and if Armin had refused to fight the Yeagerists, they never would have managed to obtain the airplane, and so they never would have been able to engage with Eren and, as a result, countless millions of people would have died.

So does that make Armin a bad person, because he engaged in violence to save millions of lives? Does this question even need to be asked?

Similarly, if killing is always wrong, and if killing someone automatically makes you a bad person, regardless of circumstance, does that mean it was wrong to kill Eren in the end, and does it make Mikasa and the others bad people for doing so, even though it saved millions of lives?

Instead of asking Armin if he thinks he's a good person or a bad person based on his actions in these situations, maybe it would yield a more accurate answer to ask the millions of people who were able to go on living because Armin chose to kill.

My point is, this question of what makes someone a good person and what makes someone a bad person can't be boiled down to ones actions alone. To judge the worth of someone's character based on their actions, without taking into consideration the mitigating circumstances surrounding those actions, the intent behind those actions, or a person's genuine feelings about those actions, is completely unfair and reductive. That sort of thinking and judgment only leads to making unfair and unjust generalizations and assumptions about others, which, as AoT shows us itself, can lead down some very bad roads indeed.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Morality is not a static concept. Calling someone "morally grey" is stupid, because morality itself is grey. No question of morality is set in stone. No question of morality is immutable. Like everything in life, morality and questions of right or wrong are dependent, always, on circumstance. How we measure ones morality isn't based on their actions alone, but on the reasons behind those actions.

Are we meant to accept that Levi is an immoral person because he kills other people? Regardless of the reasons for him killing? Regardless of his intentions or feelings? Are we supposed to condemn him as a monster and a bad man because he kills, and just ignore the motivation behind the action? Does Levi's kindness, compassion, selflessness and genuine desire to help others not count for anything simply because he's taken another person's life? Are Levi's positive qualities rendered worthless because he's engaged in violence?

That's what people who claim that killing another person automatically makes you a bad person, regardless of the reasons or circumstances, are saying.

They're saying, that because Levi has killed other people, it doesn't matter what the reason was, and it doesn't matter what his intention was, and it doesn't matter how he feels about it, he's bad for the act alone, and nothing else about him counts or redeems him. He doesn't get to qualify as a good person anymore, because he's violated some other persons fantasy about the immutability of moral principles.

It's stupid to try and make definitive statements on moral principles at all, because, again, morality isn't contingent on principle itself. It's contingent on circumstance and intention. If you kill someone because you think it's fun to do so, then that's morally wrong. If you kill someone to save your own life, or someone else' life, then that's morally right. Killing on its own can't be deemed morally right OR wrong. It's simply an action, one which alone does not reflect a persons moral values or worth.

Levi can be stated to be a moral person because he only kills in self-defense or in defense of others. He doesn't kill for personal pleasure or satisfaction. He doesn't kill out of petty revenge. He doesn't kill to win himself accolades or glory. He doesn't kill to hurt anyone. He kills when either himself or someone else is being threatened, and that's it.

Levi is irrefutably a good person because he contains within him multiple qualities which by any standard would mark him out as such. He genuinely cares about and wants to protect other people. He's deeply empathetic and sensitive to other people's feelings and wishes. He's incredibly kind and shows immense compassion toward other people and their circumstances, and does all he can to alleviate their suffering. He's selfless to a fault. He values life more than anyone else, and wants and tries to do all he can to preserve life.

To dismiss all of that, simply because Levi has killed other people to defend his own and other people lives, is not only unfair, it's frankly disgusting.

[silentspectres]

I would like to know about your disaster tiefling! Backstory, current romance, what drives them, anything youd be excited to share!

thank you for indulging me! I cannot express enough that I am like a vampire in that I have to be explicitly invited to do something, so I'm grateful

This is my disaster tiefling Mercury, they're a mephistopheles tiefling rogue (assassin specifically) and they're allergic to making wise decisions

I have a hard time grabbing good screenshots from my console sometimes so a few of these are Crunchy™ but I genuinely love the range of lighting the game has that makes them go from somewhat well-adjusted looking to mostly just glowing eyes. I'll put the rest about them under a read more!

Mercury usually sticks to decisions that will benefit themself or their friends above all else (and usually not through honest means), but they've been known to freely help children with no clear end gain. They had a great time around Mattis, the tiefling child, out-conning him. It's probably the closest to playful their group has come to seeing them be playful (save around Scratch/the Owlbear), since Mercury was using it as an opprotunity to teach the kid rogue techniques that would benefit him later from someone who's been at it for quite some time. It'd be cute if they weren't such an awful influence

Mercury's backstory is admittedly not something I've been able to work out past large overtones or some general character defining events, but they're a character that likes to keep their privacy and hold things that matter to them close, so I think it works out in the long run. They were fiery and loudly defiant against the world and its cruelty when they were younger, but as they grew older and realized that the only person they could rely on was themself, they grew more cunning, quiet, carefully composed, and discarded the intense emotions that once drove them. This change most likely came from being used + discarded by a disguised devil, and they have an extreme discomfort and distrust for devils or the Infernal as a result

I like to call Mercury a mirror - they're a reflection of the general harshness the city had on them (being a scrappy tiefling with nowhere to call home), but once they're surrounded by people who offer them kindness (Wyll/Karlach/Gale particularly being huge influences) they actually almost habitually return kindness + favors to the small group close to them. Their friends are one of the only noted exceptions, though; they still don't really do great in the empathy department otherwise

I could write several pages about Mercury's romance, BUT I'll try not to ramble too long (narrator voice: this was a lie). Mercury is romancing (spawn) Astarion + their dynamic drives me up the WALL. The two of them had a weird push and pull to their early relationship - Mercury was well familiar with the song and dance Astarion was performing when he targeted them and knew he certainly had ulterior motives, but they... truthfully, between the empty meaningless void that had become their existence and the inevitable certain death they would now be facing as a result of being tadpoled, and the fact that they could never remember a single moment in their life in which they were wanted (let alone desired by someone), they didn't care. So they let him use them and they played along as coyly as he did, fully aware that the more that they got involved with him or the others the higher the chance they might end up walking away caring. Which, unfortunately, happened.

A lot of factors contributed to changing Mercury's apathy toward the group and ultimately swayed the change to caring romantically about Astarion, almost none of which was even Astarion's doing himself. It started with Wyll, who was always kind and selfless without a second thought, who willingly chose to risk losing everything against Mizora because he'd rather stand by Karlach. And Karlach herself was easy to get along with - she cared deeply and loudly about those around her and wasted no time or consideration into treating Mercury with the same warmth as she did the others. Gale, maybe surprisingly, was the ultimate catalyst, though. He had formerly been a wizard Mercury kept at the same distance as everyone, one of the companions Mercury actually thought less often about despite traveling with him among the most, before they met Elminster along the roads to the Shadow Cursed lands. Mercury is hard to sway, but a goddess telling her most devoted follower that he only stands to make something meaningful of himself by killing himself ignited some long since extinguished anger in them - anger at the gods, anger at the world, anger at the shitty hands they and these people they're around were dealt - and Mercury drunk themself to sleep that night following the realization that fuck, this anger in place of apathy meant they cared. Astarion was next to show them a little vulnerability by letting them read his scars to him (and it drives me insane thinking about the level of trust he would've reasonably have had to have in them to turn his bare back to another rogue), revealing that he is only one part of an unknown whole, and that that unknown whole could very well be an Infernal pact. And so it goes - suddenly, Mercury was in over their head. Suddenly, they cared.

They both end up stumbling through figuring what a relationship (and even the full scope of what either of them truly want) means later, when they're both forced to face the fact whatever was between them is now real (and dangerous, Mercury reasons, because to admit they want to care and be alive means they have to invite back in all the hurt it could bring - hurt they're intimately familiar with - but they can't deny that what they have is nice.) Mercury is very much a deeply touch starved person, so they offer Astarion a lot of small, quiet moments of physical intimacy like leaning against him in camp, resting their hands on his, soft touches against his face to brush against his hair, stuff that, in general, he probably has no lasting memories of ever having. In turn, Astarion offers them a quiet sanctuary - a gentle reminder - that they have others they can lean on and rely on and that they don't have to bear their burdens alone. There's a lot of push and pull in this stage of their relationship, too, but it's less about a game they're performing and more about learning boundaries, limits, and the depths that they're both willing to admit to themselves about whatever it is they have.

By act 3, Mercury has no doubts about where Astarion stands to them, and truthfully I don't think Astarion does about Mercury either, but it's a bit harder for him to think about with certain looming disaster hanging over his head. Reasonably. He sort of lashes out the closer they get to dealing with the inevitable, not in the way he's harsh, but in the sort of defensive "I feel like a cornered animal so I'm reverting back to trying to pull the strings (new strings at that!) to use/manipulate you into doing what (I think) I want because I genuinely can't believe in a kinder future for myself" sort of way. Mercury by this point can see right through him and offers a constant, steady pressure by always pointing out "If you do this, you'll have to do a lot of difficult things, are you sure you're prepared to do that?" and by the point of the crypts, it's clear he'd be really fucked up by carrying through with it now that he's had to come face to face with both what he's done and what he stands to become by taking Cazador's power, especially after finding the scroll about the other vampire masters. So Mercury stands firm and becomes his reminder that things don't have to end in bloodshed, lashing out, and bared teeth - a lesson Mercury themself was taught by the kindness (a kindness they had always lacked) their companions (now friends) never gave up on. Their relationship is stronger for it and they're genuinely good influences on each other (somehow, Astarion has become some sembalance of the voice of reason and is a good 90% of the reason Mercury has stopped doing things with no regard to their own self preservation now) and they're both extremely well adjusted partners despite the so many issues both of them have. Who would've thought the local pair of murderers are an exceptionally sweet couple???

I have rambled for far too long and I have a thousand more things I could say about Mercury but I'll spare you because it is very early in the morning, but thank you for letting me speak a little about them!! I have a playlist and a pinterest for them if anyone is seriously further curious about them and my inbox is always open for more questions but I must sleep for now

[katnissmellarkkk]

Oh I love this part ngl. I have the exact section right here but since I’m bored atm I’ll also annotate it for fun!

I want to ask them more, but lunch is announced. I look for Peeta, but he's hanging with a group of about ten other victors, so I decide just to eat with District 3. Maybe I can get Seeder to join us.

(Katniss being like “my fiancé is too popular for me, I guess I’ll just sit with the weirdos”)

When we make our way into the dining area, I see some of Peeta's gang have other ideas. They're dragging all the smaller tables to form one large table so that we all have to eat together. Now I don't know what to do. Even at school I used to avoid eating at a crowded table. Frankly, I'd probably have sat alone if Madge hadn't made a habit of joining me. I guess I'd have eaten with Gale except, being two grades apart, our lunch never fell at the same time.

(I love how Katniss just casually accepts and is content with the fact that they’ll be eating separate but Peeta’s group is like “nope” and she’s like “great 🙄 I’d rather have eaten without you at all than in a crowd, Peeta”. Also it’s my headcanon Peeta suggested dragging the tables together 😂 idk why)

I take a tray and start making my way around the food-laden carts that ring the room. Peeta catches up with me at the stew. “How's it going?”

“Good. Fine. I like the District Three victors,” I say. “Wiress and Beetee.”

“Really?” he asks. “They're something of a joke to the others.”

(Peeta : “babe, can you not bond with the weirdos please? Bad for my rep”)

“Why does that not surprise me?” I say. I think of how Peeta was always surrounded at school by a crowd of friends. It's amazing, really, that he ever took any notice of me except to think I was odd.

(Lolololol Katniss suddenly remembering she’s engaged to the prom king jock.)

“Johanna's nicknamed them Nuts and Volts,” he says. “I think she's Nuts and he's Volts.”

(Peep Peeta’s already budding friendship with Jojo)

“And so I'm stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because of something Johanna Mason said while she was oiling up her breasts for wrestling,” I retort.

(The last part is so unnecessary??? Like Katniss are you jealous??? Girlllll)

“Actually I think the nickname's been around for years. And I didn't mean that as an insult. I'm just sharing information,” he says.

“Well, Wiress and Beetee are smart. They invent things. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to have allies, I want them.” I toss the ladle back in a pot of stew, splattering us both with the gravy.

(Katniss : “stop picking on my little weird old blorbo people!”)

“What are you so angry about?” Peeta asks, wiping the gravy from his shirtfront. “Because I teased you on the elevator? I'm sorry. I thought you would just laugh about it.”

(Peeta finally snapping lololol “what’s your problem, bro/babe” but for real, Katniss’ still being butthurt over the elevator scene is super relatable)

“Forget it,” I say with a shake of my head. “It's a lot of things.”

“Darius,” he says.

“Darius. The Games. Haymitch making us team up with the others,” I say.

(Not mentioned here but this part reminds me, I find it interesting that Katniss said the night before that “Darius and all the sadness towards him being made into an avox belongs to her and Gale and maybe Haymitch but not Peeta. Peeta doesn’t get to be upset because he didn’t know Darius that well because Peeta was a merchant kid.” Because after Mockjngjay, after Peeta is held captive with Darius and witnesses his and Lavinia’s brutal murders, I’d say Peeta is more connected to Darius than Katniss or Gale or Haymitch ever could be.)

“It can just be you and me, you know,” he says.

(Peeta : always can be counted on to charm her attitude away)

“I know. But maybe Haymitch is right,” I say. “Don't tell him I said so, but he usually is, where the Games are concerned.”

(“Let’s listen to Haymitch. Let’s not tell him we’re listening to him though.”)

“Well, you can have final say about our allies. But right now, I'm leaning toward Chaff and Seeder,” says Peeta.

(A little sidebar but I love how Katniss and Peeta both somehow separately grew a fondness for Seeder. They’re both attracted to good people. 🥹🤧 I mean, obviously. That’s how they found each other.)

“I'm okay with Seeder, not Chaff,” I say. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Come on and eat with him. I promise, I won't let him kiss you again,” says Peeta.

(Okay, on one hand, adorable how Peeta says he’ll protect her 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹. We love to see it. 🥰 On the other hand though, I always hated how Chaff kissed her that one time and no one, including Peeta, did anything about it? Or even said it wasn’t okay or it was creepy? Idk that’s one incident where I’m annoyed with even Peeta. Like babe, cute that you say you’ll protect her here but you didn’t last night??? Anyways, I digress)

There’s a lot of things that I love about the hunger games but one of them is that the main romance, at its core, is the ‘weird girl/cool guy who’s obsessed with her’ trope

[genshingarbage]

Hiii, Good Morning/Good afternoon/Good evening Mod Kaeya,Mod Diluc^^, It's my first time requesting, Can I request? Angst with any Genshin Impact characters?,Soo The genshin characters are much more spending time with Lumine? Then the reader asks why they aren't spending much time with them and the genshin characters snaps and said the readers are weak ( reader is already insecured because they can't fight) and they have work to do then the reader leaves to fight hilichurl camps and unfortunately there's 2 Mitachurls ,luckly the genshin characters were on time to save the reader? Then they apologized to them? (It's Gn reader^^) sorry if it's alot and sorry if my grammar is wrong you both can disregard this ask stay safe ^^

Good afternoon dear Traveler!! Well done for making your first request! And such a lengthy one too oh my~ Your grammar is fine don’t even worry about it. Sorry for the long wait, Mod Diluc and I have been busy on the Kuzuha banner haha but I hope you enjoy this tear jerking tale (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧- Mod Kaeya

Recommending this song for this oneshot!

Go checkout Anna_drw01 for more art like this!! Here’s her artstation!

The distant scientist, renowned for being hard to get close to was someone you used to consider one of you closest friends. The two of you spent day and night together, hellbent of cracking open every single challenge you possibly could together. Many considered you two to be able to solve any mystery put in front of you together.

The keyword was together.

There was a mystery you yourself couldn’t solve; Why was Albedo’s time with you slowly becoming a rarity?

You’d been wondering why he’d been spending so much less time in the lab he’d meticulously built over years of his life or on site where his precious research was being buried little by little by crystalline flakes, tending to his experiments and recording time sensitive data that would be valuable for months to come for the research team. Albedo had been gone so long both you and Sucrose had designed a plan in order to cover the work he’s left unattended whilst managing your own on top of the store. It was beginning to get concerning. If the leader of the investigation squad was absent constantly then what did that mean for the rest of you? Surely he was only gone for the sake of something important he’d found, something he placed above everything else he was researching. That’s what you lent yourself into believing.

That is, until you saw him with her.

You couldn’t blame him honestly, Lumine was gorgeous. Her golden hair and fiery eyes are what a lot of men probably look for in a partner, even more so was the mystery behind her origins and the raw power she held in her fingertips at any given moment.

You didn’t have to have a vision to be able to tell that.

Maybe that was another thing he sought in her.

A traveling partner that could wield the powers of the elements, a traveling partner that could hold their own against the world. Maybe that wasn’t all he was looking for but also a romantic partner.

He finally came back to the investigation camp briefly one night, it was during a particularly rough blizzard ravaging across Dragonspine and the areas surrounding it a little like a turbulent child tossing snowflakes across already painted, buried monochrome peaks. He trudged into the camp with her rambunctious adventuring party, shouted something over the whipping wind about how they should get warm inside one of the communal tents dotted around the sparse camp halfway up the summit you inhabited and then ducked into the burgundy tent you were working away in with nothing but the clinking of vials harmonizing with the bubbling of flames. It was nothing but candle light right then in the morbid lonely night, only the sounds of the howling gales outside of the ones in your lab. If you’d felt like you were being watched during the night before now, Albedo’s piercing analytical gaze did nothing but soothe the loneliness you’d held inside yourself all night.

“I need a strong multi use Geoculus locator, if we have any.” The blonde said

He must’ve seen your shoulders perk up because he waited patiently as you searched through the shelves upon shelves of prototypes you’ve developed. After somehow finding one, you patted over to him. He seemed pleased with your work, if a bit distant as usual. He was in a good mood so you guessed would be the best time if any to ask. “Sir… with all due respect why have you been away so long?”

Albedo’s pale face was blank as usual though he blinked as if surprised you spoke, “Lumine needed someone with a sufficient Geo vision, I happened to be the one she knew the best to get the job done.”

“So you’ll be returning?”

“I never said that.”

You tried not to take it harshly, this was just how he spoke after all. “…could I come along then?” It was a long shot yes but you still missed his company, if it meant having to deal with him getting buddy buddy with that Outrider then you would suffer. 

It was quiet for a moment between you two as you stared him down and he observed the locator thoroughly. After he was pleased enough with the golden glowing device it was packed away into his back pocket without so much as a second thought, the man was obviously stalling while he thought carefully over the question but the result wouldn’t be to your liking evidently. You were about to make  a point you hoped would be convincing before he spoke, his voice sharp and words cold like the very ice being tossed around the blackened sky.

“No, you’re not a skilled enough fighter so you’d only slow us down more than we can handle to be right now. You’d be useless to us.” He put a hand to his chin for a moment in thought, “If you’d had been able to development a synthetic elemental burst like Sucrose’s swirl mark II…I would have considered but you can’t even do that.”

Watching him leave with them the morning after was torturous, they rushed off into the snowy landscape with barely a goodbye and never a second glance from Albedo beyond that. It stung.

Maybe that’s why when hilichurl camps, specifically ones becoming a nuisance to caravans as well as supply lines along Dragonspine almost avidly to the near point where there would be commissions called in, were brought up in conversation you elected to take a weapon and simply clear them out yourself. You could barely fight one off but usually they were smaller towards the base of the mountain so you figured it would be alright. You would just patch yourself up if you got a bit injured. Surely the pain of the injures would busy your silly little heart long enough to forget about Albedo and his cruel words to you, surely you would barricade your feelings of pining behind walls of broken bones and struggling through the snow. Maybe that was the remedy, the answer you needed to your mystery. Your pleas would probably be hidden by the snowstorms anyways.

Mitachurls unfortunately inhabited bigger camps. Thankfully, Frost Lawlichurls tended to live alone. The former happened to find it’s way to you, charging with the might of a bull on ozmanthys wine. As you were bowled over you heard an abrupt shout, maybe saw a brief flash of familiar golden light as the battle grounds around you erupted further into chaos but it didn’t matter that pale arms were abruptly gripping you to a panicked sword user. Your vision was to blurry, the shouts of attacks and spells too muffled and faint, your body felt too limp to comprehend even the though of moving. You could barely breathe.

Someone was muttering, crouched around you and holding you close, muttering something over and over again. Something important. The feeling of their lips pressed against your forehead, his quiet gut heaving sobs as he rocked you back and forth. Albedo’s pleas for you to just hang on a moment longer—

Where were you again?

There was sunlight and it was warm, a pleasant warmth that almost lulled you back to the sleep you’d fallen into. The only thing that kept you awake was that this was indeed not your bed.

Where were you?

Sitting up hurt, your whole body ached and you were certain something must have been rearranged or was missing because the pain shot through you like an arrow. Your sharp exhale alerted the two others in the room, one who immediately sprinted to get a nurse in an emerald and navy flurry of skirts and capes.

You were dizzy, only steadied by a gentle hand on your limp shoulder. Ah, when did you turn to face him?

The blonde man infront of you asked if you remembered what happened, his voice was soft but didn’t hold any emotion. The smoky circles around his beautiful striking cerulean eyes did nothing but worry you slightly as they implied a long period of time without sleep. You’d imagine him to be the sciency type who didn’t really know what to think of other people so he stayed nose deep in books to pass the time, though there was a deep sadness in the way he held himself you couldn’t understand.

“I don’t…who are you?” You thought you saw him flinch but figured it was a trick of the light.

“No one important, nevermind me.” The man sat up with an unreadable expression even for how blank it had been for this whole brief conversation after you had awoken, getting up from his chair to begin walking to the door when he stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“…for what?” You didn’t understand.

“Nothing that would natter now, please. Rest.”

You didn’t remember.

[therealvinelle]

What would happen if Katniss was stuck in a time loop from the beginning of Mockingjay to the end ?

I’m afraid I don’t remember Mockingjay well enough to give you an especially detailed answer to this one. I forgot Prim died while writing this. I’ll try, though.

Round one

Katniss finds herself thrown back through time, and she’s just tired. She’s been so much already, Mockingjay depleted her in every sense. At the end of the book she’s broken in a very irrevocable sense of the term. She just wants to retire with Peeta and be safe and left alone for the rest of her life. Waking up in a District 13, then, to find that Peeta is captive and being tortured all over again, Coin is alive, Snow is alive, and the Rebellion is back and she’s their figurehead... on its own, this is all bad enough, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke down completely.

But then she sees Prim again, Prim who is alive and healthy.

Finnick, too, is alive again. He’s a mess, just as he was originally, but he’s alive.

For them, Prim above all, Katniss can’t give up.

She pulls herself together, or tries to. She’s hollowed out after the events of Mockingjay, and to go through it all again? Unimaginable.

More, how is she actually going to save these people?

Prim wants to help people, she’s not going to agree to stay out of the Capitol when the invasion comes about.

Gale hates the Capitol with every fibre of his being, he’s not going to stop making weapons because Katniss told him people will get hurt. I think even if she laid out the scenario of «say that Prim goes to the Capitol to help and your bombs fucking kill her» he’d remain resolute - that’s not gonna happen, Katniss. (And even if he silently agrees there’s the possibility, this won’t change his mind. Prim will be a casualty of war, the important thing is to defeat the Capitol.) As for Finnick, he was pure bad luck. There was nothing Katniss could have done there, save for maybe keep him home. But if she does, someone else may die in his place.

But, Katniss isn’t going to sit back and say «yup, nothing I can do to save these two people I care about. See y’all in heaven, fellas». As she goes through the motions of Mockingjay, doing the photo-ops and listening to Finnick’s interview, Katniss comes to fear that there’s just no road ahead that will lead away from Rome. All she can do is tell Prim about Gale’s bombs and plead with her not to go in when the Capitol is invaded.

It’s no surprise, not really.

The Hunger Games is not about Katniss Everdeen the brave heroine taking up the mantle of revolution, it’s about Katniss the girl becoming a game piece in someone else’s chess match. And so, her prescience won’t make as much difference as it would someone like Harry Potter or Bella Swan, as her choices simply don’t matter all that much.

This is what she’s forced to realize.

Peeta is rescued, it’s easier and harder than last time. Easier because she knows what to expect, harder because she’s seeing him suffer all over again, just as original timeline Peeta was returning to himself.

The invasion of the Capitol comes around, and Katniss is no more able to save Finnick than she was last time.

Prim refused to stay behind. Then, seeing her fellow medics rush towards bombs she knows could go off at any second, and injured people lying helplessly nearby, she runs in hoping to stop her colleagues and maybe drag someone away from the scene before it all blows.

She fails, and Katniss watches her die all over again.

The time loop doesn’t stop there.

Katniss goes to see Snow, only to go through the motions, and then shoots Coin. There’s no point to any of this if she doesn’t still shoot Coin, right?

More broken than ever, Katniss returns to District 12 with Peeta.

She just wants to rest.

Round two

A part of Katniss isn’t even surprised.

Her sister is alive again, but not for long. Katniss almost wishes they could skip to the part where Prim is dead, just so that she wouldn’t be in this horrible limbo of wanting to save her sister but not knowing how.

This time, Katniss devotes all her energy to Prim.

She neglects all her other duties and relationships, everything else that mattered. She never develops her friendship with Finnick.

She’s going to save Prim.

She tells her about the time loop, about what will happen if Prim isn’t careful. Prim listens.

This time around, Peeta isn’t rescued, and when Katniss invades the Capitol he’s the one who kills her.

Maybe Prim survives this time around. She hopes so.

(This is the timeline where Finnick survives: with Annie never rescued from the Capitol, he never became well enough to participate in a military operation.)

Round three

Katniss tells Prim about the time loop again, leaving out what happened at the end of round two. She befriends Finnick and campaigns for Peeta to be rescued. On the night of the invasion, Prim tells her teammates what she learned about the bombs before they land in the Capitol, leaving out how she found out. She’s accused of espionage and leaking military grade secrets, and shot. Her body is left in the streets, and Katniss is told the Capitol did it.

Katniss suspects what happened, and she hopes she’s right, because the other option is that her interference did this, that Prim died because of something she did.

Finnick dies, of course, which tastes all the more bitter now that Katniss knows she saved him in one timeline.

She speaks with Snow, or more to the point she walks into his room of roses and says nothing.

She shoots Coin.

Round four

She kills Coin on the first chance she gets.

She’s swiftly executed.

Round five

She waits until the night of the Capitol invasion before killing Coin.

Again, she is executed.

Round six

She makes it all the way to Snow’s office. Prim and Finnick are dead again. Peeta, too, this time around.

She tells Snow about the time loops. He seems to think she’s lost her mind, but she doesn’t care. She asks him about poisons.

Round seven

Coin dies suddenly.

Things are better in some regards, but the invasion still happens. Once again Prim and Finnick die.

Round eight

Katniss has nothing more to give.

She spends the round in her hospital room, curled up in her bed and refusing to be disturbed by anyone who isn’t Prim or Finnick.

Round nine

She has nothing more to give this time either.

She tells Finnick everything, about the time loops, the bombs, and the invasion, and asks him to try to save Prim and himself.

Finnick dies pulling Prim away from the bombs, and Prim succumbs to her injuries shortly after.

At Snow’s execution, Snow is shot.

Round ten

Katniss tells Haymitch.

They still end up in Rome, with Finnick and Prim dead, only now Haymitch is dead too.

Round eleven

Katniss for the first time starts to wonder if maybe this has all been an elaborate torture brought on by the Capitol. Or maybe her own side, who knows.

Because, really, how does she know she hasn’t been hijacked?

Katniss starts telling the people around her that she knows they’re not real, and quickly gets herself locked up in a psychiatric cell.

Round twelve

Still convinced she’s been hijacked, Katniss quickly gets herself locked up in this timeline too.

Round thirteen

Katniss poisons Finnick, Peeta, and Prim, not much, but enough to force them to stay behind when the invasion happens.

This time it works.

They’re all safely at home, and Katniss knows the invasion well enough by now that survival isn’t as hard as it once was.

She shoots Coin, then returns to them after.

This time, Peeta can’t trust her again after this. Nor, for that matter, can Prim or Finnick. They still love her, but Prim chooses to take a job in District 3 a little too easily, and Finnick quickly becomes a friend who stays in touch nominally, but never visits. Peeta moves back to District 12 with her, but they live in separate houses and the intimacy and trust between them is now gone.

Katniss, for better and for worse, is alone now but surrounded by people.

There are no more time loops.

[everlarkficexchange]

Full Circle

Written by: @emilia206

Prompt 26: Mockingjay canon divergent - Prim was never killed. Gale and Katniss try to get back to how they were before the war, but he realises that he’s already lost Katniss’ heart to Peeta, heart, mind, and soul. Any POV. Submitted by anonymous.

Summary: The prompt is pretty self explanatory, and I did my best to stick to it, however I was not prepared to completely write Gale out of Katniss’ life. Sorry? This is from Katniss’ POV.

Rating: Teen and up audiences.

Word count: 12,567

Thank you to my wonderful beta @melting-starlight. She’s more active on ao3 though, where she’s Starlight_Wren.

Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s all I’m doing. And for once, it’s enough. It’s enough if I just stand in the midst of lush greenery surrounded by the flutterings and scuffles of animals in springtime, just breathing and listening. My bow hangs limp in my hand and in the other I idly twirl an arrow. I’ll make my shot, eventually. When I feel the time is right, I’ll open my eyes again, to a world that’s coming to life once more, and I’ll aim and shoot. Dinner served. Not yet though, the time is not right.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Over and over again. It feels good to be out in the sun, to have it warm my winter chilled body. Perhaps it shall thaw out my heart too, but that can’t happen. Not yet, the time is not right. As the day warms up and begins to start in earnest, the animals become more loud in their search for food, shelter, and perhaps even a mate. They ignore me, standing as still as I am, not making a sound. I even briefly feel the tip of a wing swoop so low overhead it ruffles my hair. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s almost time. Time to open my eyes and find my mark. I have to be quick about it, but these animals have become idle with their hiding skills in the time I’ve been away. No longer looking out for traps and flying arrows. I’ll use it to my advantage. Somewhere in the distance, a group of birds start up a melody. Conversing in short little tweets and chirps. Almost - I twirl my arrow once more in my fingers - time. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. My eyes snap open, letting the bright sunlight shine into them. I squint momentarily before I set my eye on my first mark. A wide-eyed rabbit, that stares at me from behind a protruding tree root. It doesn’t even try to run, it just stares right at me, until I lodge an arrow into its eye. A still comes over the clearing, creatures waiting with bated breath for the next arrow to fly. It doesn’t take me long, two squirrels, oblivious to the still around them, squabbling over an acorn. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. I bag tonight’s dinner, clean off my arrows, and am on my way. I’m not even ten metres away from the clearing when it comes back to life. Stupid things. I don’t know why, but it peeves me. Gale and I only stopped hunting regularly in these woods a little over six months ago, and already the animals have forgotten our presence. It’s ironic that with one tyrannical leaders fall, so did mine and Gale’s rule over these woods. Dr. Aurelius tells me that that’s OK, with a chapter closing within my life, another can begin. Then again, of course Dr. Aurelius can say these things, he’s not the one who actually has to let the chapter close. I don’t want it to - part of me still longs for days spent foraging and hunting in the woods, my partner by my side - but I know it has to.  

Breathe in. Breathe out. I’ve made it to the fence. Here comes the tricky part; making it back to the Village without letting myself slide into a mental vicious circle of passing the blame. Don’t look. Even as my rationale tells me not to, it’s impossible not to stare at the charred remains of my people being tipped into a gaping black pit that used to be the Meadow. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. No need to cry. My tears won’t help them now. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t cry. As soon as I think it, though, the tears burn at the back of my eyes, and my nose stings and flares. I move my feet faster up the hill. No point in hanging about. The gate to Victors Village looms up in the distance, towering above the carnage of my fallen District. It stands tall and proud, and I subconsciously shrink before it, though the wrought iron lettering looks rusted and dilapidated. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. I stand among the overgrowing gardens and sunken houses. Families are living in them now, and the entirety of the Village hums with life, all but Haymitch’s, Peeta’s and my own. In Haymitch’s resides only the old drunk with a sea of liquor bottles to wade through on the floor. Peeta’s house waits cold and unlived in, standing by until his return. In my own stands nothing but a few boxes waiting to be shipped off to District 4, where we will be greeted by my mother and Prim. 

Breathe in. Brea - a tremendous crash comes from within Haymitch’s house. I’m standing at my own front door, hand resting on the handle when another crash comes from his house. I might not be particularly fond of the old man, but I still care about him, enough to start running like a madman towards his house. He’s drunk most of the time so it wouldn’t surprise me if he accidentally threw himself down the stairs.

Bursting in through his door I yell his name, “Haymitch!” 

As expected, I get no response. I walk on soft feet through to his living room where he lies prone on his sofa, one of his arms hanging limply to the floor where a bottle of half finished liquor sways a little. No doubt he fell asleep like this. 

I give him a rough shake, and for once it’s enough to rouse him from his slumber. He sits up, giving me a disgruntled look, before taking another swig from the bottle. I snatch it from his hands, and he looks up at me, clearly pissed off.

I narrow my eyes at him, “Do you have a guest Haymitch, or have the racoons finally taken over?” 

“Wha-?” He continues to stare at me nonplussed.

“Jesus, how out of it were you Haymitch?” 

“I’d say he’d been out cold for a couple hours when I came in,” says an achingly familiar voice behind me.

I jump, and both mine and Haymitch’s head snap towards the source of the voice, where a blond boy - no, man - stands. He’s smirking slightly, I imagine at the shocked expressions our faces are wearing. I can’t help it, it’s a reflex really, one that I hate to have developed, but I take a step back. Peeta looks at me, and his smile drops, if only by a fraction.  I wince, I don’t mean it, just a precaution.

He looks well, and his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. As I stare unabashadley at him, he frowns slightly. 

“So, what, you just let yourself in and started doing god knows what with my kitchen?” Haymitch grouses. I finally manage to snap my attention away from him, and become very interested in my shoes. 

From the corner of my eyes, I watch as Peeta scratches the back of his neck and bounces his foot nervously, “Guess I’m more of a self-imposed guest then.” 

Following his comment, a silence falls over the room. I can’t really remember the last time we were all together alone like this. It must have been some time before the Quell happened, when we were training. Less than a year ago then, yet it feels like a lifetime. 

Quietly, I clear my throat, trying to think of something to say that will break this awkward tension that’s settled over the room. I should have left earlier. Instead I just say, “Well seeing as you’re OK, I’ll be on my way.” I point lamely to the front door, and start making my way over there. 

I’m just about out of the whole stinking house, hating them both for ruining what was looking to be a good morning, when Haymitch calls after me, “Hold it sweetheart, what’s in the bag?” 

I huff, yanking the whole bag off before throwing it at his face. As hungover as he is, his reflexes are still remarkably good and he catches it before it hits him. He gives me a pointed glare before taking a look inside. Giving me a satisfied smirk, he throws the bag back and announces, “We’ll have dinner at yours then.” 

I’m about to protest when he comes lumbering over to the door and slams it in my face. I stand dumb-struck, face inches from the door, hunting bag hanging clenched in my fist.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s all OK. 

———————————————————————-

I stand over my stove, grinding my teeth and staring resolutely out of the window, only occasionally looking down as I stir the mediocre stew I’ve concocted.  I worry my lip between my teeth, not caring if it starts to bleed. There’s so much that has been left unsaid between Peeta and I, a thousand apologies and explanations owed both ways. And I don’t even know where to start, or if I even want to open that conversation yet. But I’m wracking my brains and I can’t find anything else that Peeta and I really have in common, other than our horrific experiences. I decide that I’ll simply try and get through this dinner with as little talking as possible. 

I spent the rest of the day after the rude encounter with Haymitch and surprise reunion with Peeta cleaning up the entirety of the house and packing away the rest of the clutter, making space for whoever was going to move in after I left. I find that the menial chores of everyday life, such as cleaning, cooking, washing, help to alleviate some of my pent up frustration and have quite a calming effect. As dull and repetitive as they can be, focusing my brain power on such an unimportant task helps keep me centered and grounded in reality. 

It’s around that time of day when the afternoon is coming to an end, and the sun is starting to lower in the sky. The sun is coming in at an odd angle, blinding me, when I hear a firm knock at the door. I huff, stomping down the hallway to the entryway, rubbing my eyes to get rid of the white spots in my vision. Thinking it’s Haymitch coming early to give me some sort of lecture about behaviour around the newest inhabitant of Victors Village, or to watch me cook and tell me I’m doing it wrong.  I yank open the front door and say in a rather impatient voice, “You needn’t have come early, I know perfectly well how to cook without burning my house down.” 

I’m still squinting slightly, but when my vision finally clears I see only a broad chest standing in front of me. Looking up, I’m met with Peeta’s  face, once more frowning at me. “I know that,” he says, “I just thought I’d come early to help out a little, I brought some bread,” he sheepishly lifts his left arm showing me a small basket filled with rolls and buns. 

“Oh,” I stammer, “right, well come on in then.”

I turn my back and start marching back to the kitchen, scrunching my face and resisting the urge to bang my head repeatedly against a wall. Of all the ways I could invite Peeta into my house, that has got to be one of the worst. “Mind the boxes,” I say as an afterthought, conscious that most of the front of this house is littered with them, and not wanting him to trip over one. 

He hums behind me, and I can hear his heavy tread picking over the little maze that I’d inadvertently created when piling them up. 

I plant myself in front of the stove again, stirring the simmering stew - even though I know full well that it doesn’t need stirring anymore - and yank the curtain closed. 

He enters the kitchen and out of the corner of my eye I see him glance back down the hallway furrowing his brow slightly, I silently beg for him not to ask about them. 

“You can put the basket on the table,” I rush out, as soon as I see him open his mouth. He nods his head, and places the basket on the corner of the table. I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I don’t think I’ve ever wished for the arrival of Haymitch, but right now I really hope he comes waltzing in.

“What’s with the boxes?”

No such luck.

I sigh, and hunch myself over the countertop. “I’m, uh, leaving.” 

“Oh,” he says it quietly, and I’m not sure if I was even supposed to hear it. 

“District 4,” I elaborate, even though he didn’t ask, “My mother got a job there, and there’s a school with a good training program for Prim.”

“That’s good, I guess,” he says, his leg has started to bounce again, “I was wondering where they were.”

A silence falls over the room, and my breathing starts to pick up. Just say something! My brain scrambles for something to say, because there is no way I can stand here in silence with Peeta. “I only really came back here to, you know, pack up, and uh… say goodbye.” 

As I pull out the drawer to look for a good bread knife, I see Peeta nod, digesting this information. Still he says nothing, nothing about what he thinks of this, what he feels about me leaving. I don’t know why I should care, but I find that I do. Where is Haymitch? Can’t he for once in his life be on time? I’m drowning here, helplessly floundering around.

“Well you know how it is,” I continue, “needing a fresh start, after everything that’s happened…” I don’t know why I’m saying all of this, to Peeta no less, but the words won’t stop pouring out of my mouth. 

I take a deep breath to steady myself, and consider clamping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from saying any more. Peeta stands stock still in the entryway of the kitchen, I don’t think he knows what to say, which is a first. I’ve rendered Peeta Mellark speechless. 

To fill the quiet, and desperate not to say anything else, I begin scurrying around the kitchen. Wiping off countertops, and rinsing already cleaned and drying dishes. I’m frantic, and I have no clue as to where to go from here. What to say to this man standing in my kitchen, someone I know so much, and yet so little about. 

I’m banging open cupboards and drawers, searching for a knife to cut the bread with, when Peeta comes to stand beside me. I’m searching through a drawer, which I know doesn’t hold a bread knife, my hands are shaking and I can’t make them stop. That’s when he reaches over, and clasps my hands in his. I freeze, and look straight ahead at the standard kitchen tile, willing myself to breathe.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, “look at me.”

I blink slowly, and my lip trembles, but slowly I turn my head to look at him. He’s so close, and he’s looking at me with such intensity that it should make me nervous, but it doesn’t. 

“It’s OK,” he smiles, in what I think is supposed to be a reassuring way, but I’m transfixed by his eyes, and they’re not smiling with him. I sag slightly, I want so badly for it to be OK, every morning I trick myself into believing it’s OK, just to be able to get up. It isn’t though.

“No, no it’s not OK,” I whisper, “None of anything that happened was ‘OK’.”

I look down, fascinated by the way his large pale hands seem to engulf my own smaller darker ones. He doesn’t seem to have a response to that either, so we just stand there in silence, until Haymitch finally comes strolling through my back door. 

Quickly, I yank my hands from Peeta’s and take a step back, brushing away non-existent wrinkles in my clothing. Haymitch, seemingly unaware of the strained atmosphere in the room, plonks himself down at the table before rambling on about some phone call he received from Plutarch. Peeta tries to catch my eye, but I move swiftly away, collecting bowls and spoons, and finally procuring that wretched bread knife. Carrying them over to the table, I give Haymitch a withering look, it isn’t exactly his fault that I’m unable to be in a room alone with Peeta and have a normal conversation, but he didn’t have to invite everyone round to my house for supper either. 

He quirks one of his eyebrows in amusement, catching on to my annoyance. 

“I hope you didn’t stare at the food with such a sour face, you might have spoiled it,” he says, eyes narrowing at me in challenge. Goading me into saying something I might regret. He thinks I’m stupid, he thinks I don’t understand why he’s doing this to me. I fully understand that this is him punishing me for leaving, he doesn’t want me to know it, that he doesn’t want me to go, but unfortunately for him he told me once when I was escorting him back to his house after another one of these damned dinners. 

He’d leant in close to my ear, breathing sour fumes into my face, and said, “You shouldn’t leave, you can’t leave, Twelve is your home remember. And anyway, what’re you gonna do without your favourite resident drunk.” It hadn’t been the first time he’d tried to guilt me into staying, but at least he’d shown more finesse before, using Peeta’s inevitable return against me. This was the first time he had actually shown any indication that he was remorseful of my decision to leave. He’d then belched loudly, and fallen asleep right there, with me holding him up in the middle of the road. 

I stare him down, daring him to say another word, but he reaches over the table and grabs the bread and knife. “Well at least I can know that one part of this meal won’t give me food poisoning,” he exclaims loudly, I only roll my eyes and stalk over to the stewpot. Peeta tries once more to grab my attention, but I studiously avert my gaze from his and busy myself with finding a tea towel to carry over the steaming dish. I sigh quietly in relief when Peeta finally makes his way over to the table and takes a seat opposite to Haymitch.

“We’ve missed your bread around these parts,” Haymitch proclaims, “haven’t we, sweetheart?” He looks up at me, daring me to deny this sentiment.

I place the pot down onto the table with a little more force than necessary, causing both Haymitch and Peeta to jump in their seats. I give each of them my best glare, effectively shutting off all conversation for the next five minutes. 

As we eat in awkward quietude, the only sounds that fill the room are the clink of a spoon hitting a bowl or a crunch as someone bites into a roll.

The silence suits me just fine, and the glowering looks that Haymitch sends me from over his bowl don’t bother me in the slightest. At first I don’t realise, but Peeta starts to fidget on the other side of the table, tapping out an erratic beat on the table and holding his spoon in a death grip before releasing it slightly. 

I watch in fascination as his knuckles turn white from the effort, I know it’s a horrible thing to think, but I begin to wonder if it’s my throat he really wants to grip in a chokehold. I give an involuntary shiver, and stare down at the stew that I so hastily threw together, ashamed of my line of thought. 

I’ve just about finished my bowl, when Haymitch clears his throat. I inwardly groan, does the man never take a holiday? 

To my surprise, however, he only leans back in his chair, levels us both with a look, and says, “Thank you, that was… lovely,” his features, so hardened by years of having children die on his conscience, soften slightly and he turns his focus to me. I shrink back a little at the scrutinisation, but his eyes hold no malice, they just look right into my soul and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it, “You did good, sweetheart.”

Even though I knew it was coming, my breath momentarily stills in my chest. I look back at him and my face crumples. Haymitch knew exactly what he was doing when he said it, he’s reminding me that we were, and still are, a team. That as much as he doesn’t want to be, and I don’t want him to be, he’s here. And I am forgiven. 

“Boy, would you give us a moment,” Haymitch says softly. 

I’m barely holding myself together, the flimsy strings that have been holding my already fragile psyche together all these weeks are about to fail, and I’m once more grateful for the fact that Haymitch understands me so well, because as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t fall apart in front of Peeta.  

I hear rather than see Peeta hastily vacate the room, and though I was expecting a floodgate to open and for the tears to stream from eyes as if a dam had been broken, none come. The kitchen isn’t filled with my howls and sobs, it’s filled only with the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. Within me though, an inferno rages. Filled with the screams of the far gone dead, and me at the center gasping and retching. 

They are bursting to be let loose, they are threatening to tear at the very seams of my sanity and being. Some are my fault, some happened on accident, and some happened because I wasn’t watching closely enough, but they all shout the same. It starts with my father and ends with Squad 451. It’s pent up somewhere inside me, all the hurt and anguish, under lock and key, and it’s writhing and scrambling to be let loose. For me to let it go. But I’m scared that if I do so there won’t be anything left. These people’s deaths are what define me, and I have no idea where I lay in the mess of faults and debts.

In the kitchen though, silence still reigns, I’m staring stoically at the tiny amount of  watery liquid that remains at the bottom of my bowl. Haymitch takes my clenched fists in his own roughened and grubby hands. He doesn’t bore me with trite platitudes, he just sits in silence waiting for me to either release my torment, or push it back down. 

We stay like this for what seems like hours, but eventually my tense muscles relax slightly and I remember how to breathe normally. My ghosts are silent again. I look up at Haymitch, exhausted and emotionally rung out, and I wait for his ‘sage’ advice to come. All he offers up though is;

“You got off the train, sweetheart. Stop trying to get back on.” 

He rises from the table, and for once he carries the dishes over to the sink. He pats me once on the shoulder before leaving. I watch as he hobbles from my kitchen and down the road to his own house, looking years older than a man his age should.

—————————————————————————–

After the somewhat disastrous dinner, I made sure to isolate myself from anyone who might cause me some sort of distress. It wasn’t hard, seeing as I’ve never been the most sociable of beings, and I had plenty to do before my departure. I packed the remainder of the house up, and left a bottle of liquor on Haymitch’s doorstep, with a hastily tied bow wrapped around its neck. I then ventured into the woods, I didn’t bother with getting out one of my bows and arrows, I just wandered through the dense foliage, silently saying goodbye to all I used to know, and with it my childhood. 

The people came, as arranged, to help move the boxes to the train station. I boarded the train in the dead of night, with only Greasy Sae there to bid me farewell. The train moved out of the station with little ado, and I found myself a spot in one of the corners, sat on a crinkly tarp. 

It was decided that if I was to be travelling from District 12 to District 4, it couldn’t be on one of the new passenger trains, it would cause too much ‘excitement’ as Plutarch so eloquently told me. I was to travel in one of the trains filled with building materials, and rations. I agreed, as I see myself as being rather intimate with small cramped spaces.

The train chugged along, rocking me into a state of tranquility. I breathed in, and I breathed out, hoping with all of me that it could finally be OK.

——————————————————————–

It isn’t until a few days after my arrival in Four that I see it, a small piece of paper on my floor. It must have fallen from one of the boxes whilst I was unpacking. Frowning, I pick it up, 

If you ever want to talk.  - Peeta

Underneath is a number, a phone number, Peeta’s phone number. I clutch the paper in my fist, crumpling it a little. I’m standing stock still in my room, the sunlight is filtering in through the window. It isn’t particularly special, in fact, the writing is scrawled, as if he was rushing to get it done. But it’s still from Peeta, and it’s rattled me. 

There’s so much to do, I promised Prim we could go for a walk on the beach, Gale is visiting, I said I’d go see Annie for tea. But right now, none of that matters, because the world has gone still with me, and I don’t know what to do.   

I yank open my desk drawer, looking at the crumpled piece of paper one last time, before placing it in there with all of the other things that I no longer know what to do with, but can’t get rid of; a locket, a pin, a pearl, and a spile. I then slam the drawer shut, hoping that the sounding finality of it will echo across all time, time to say goodbye to all that. I close my eyes against the desperate want to open it again and cradle all of these things in my trembling hands. There’s just so much to do. 

——————————————————————-

I manage to stay away from the drawer, and the objects inside that call for my attention. I take walks on the beach with my mother and Prim, listening to all my little sister has to say. She looks so happy and content as she jumps and twirls on the sand and it makes me happy. I sit with Annie, in the surf or on her porch, holding her hand through her grief, or letting her talk about all she wants. Sometimes we prefer the sound of the waves though, letting the reliable sound of it coming and going fill us with a sense of security. Because even if it goes, it always comes back. 

Gale visits, and we try our hand at fishing and sailing. We fall in a lot, and the cold water is shocking and sobering. It’s good to be back on familiar ground with Gale, the uncertainty and mistrust that plagued our friendship over the past year still hangs over our heads, but we don’t talk about it. Sometimes, though, I’ll catch him looking at me a certain way, or a silence will fall over us, and I’ll curse the war for nurturing such a blank space in our friendship. 

I look into the Capitol archives, at my mothers request, to look for pictures of myself and Primrose from when we were younger. 

The pictures I find are black and white, standard for the mandatory pictures we had to take in school. In mine, I look about ten years old, I’m wearing two braids with ribbons in them. I don’t seem too pleased about this, in fact I look about ready to tear off the head of anyone who says anything about the ribbons. I’m staring at the camera with mild curiosity, but mostly apprehension, though the small smile I’m wearing suggests differently. Primrose looks so young, still carrying a meagre amount of baby fat, her blonde hair falling only to her small shoulders. I can practically hear her giggling at the camera, all blue eyed and dimpled. I forgot that she used to look like that, and my heart aches for the family of four who lived in a small shack in the Seam. I even find a picture of my mother, from when she was younger, and what people said is true. She’s beautiful, around fifteen or sixteen in her picture, and she’s giving the camera a sweet smile, her beguiling eyes are clear of all sorrow that plagued her later years.  

For a while, these pictures take pride of place on our mantle, next to my mother and fathers wedding picture, until Prim declares we must take new ones. So, we do. And their lively colour fills first our mantle, relegating the others (apart from the wedding photo) to my mothers bedside table, not quite forgotten, but no longer the center of attention anymore. Then our fridge, and eventually Prim and I create little collages on the wall. 

My phone calls with the good doctor dwindle to once a week. He tells me that whilst I might always ache for the ones I have lost, making new, happier, memories is a ‘damn good way to honour their memory’. 

———————————————–

All of this ‘moving forwards’ business comes to a grinding halt, however, on the 4th of July. My forced abstinence from the drawer of trinkets that I can’t make sense of, ends. It’s Reaping Day. And I feel so alone. 

I’m awake before dawn, having screamed myself awake from the nightmares that won’t ever leave. I don’t bother with going back to sleep. I slip out of bed and make my way to the kitchen, where I boil the kettle for something to do. 

The tide is in, licking its way further up the sand, coming closer and closer to our house. It never reaches, but a part of me always thinks that it will. I seat myself on our window seat, watching as the water encroaches further up the beach, swallowing sand as it goes. I curl my feet up underneath me, and drink slow tentative sips from my mug. 

Though I try to focus all of my attention on watching the water, my eyes keep on finding their way back to the phone that hangs happy and yellow from the wall, just out of reach. If my eyes aren’t staring holes into the phone, they start fidgeting over to my closed bedroom door, searching for the strength to stay where I am.

My tea goes cold, the tide starts to move back out, and the sky begins to go pink. And still my attention is focused only on the phone and the whiteness of my bedroom door.

Eventually, my will bends, and I can’t stand the stillness of my indecision anymore, I abandon my mug on the table and shuffle over to my room. I find the note exactly where I left it, crumpled in a ball and left to collect dust. A part of me was starting to think that I might have imagined its existence. 

Smoothing out the crumpled paper in my hands, I promise myself only once. 

I dial the number before I can lose my resolve and back out, and wait, impatiently tapping my foot. The phone seems to dial forever, and I’m sure that it’s about to ring off when I hear the click of the phone being picked up.

“Hello,” the voice that crackles through the speaker sounds remarkably tired and my heart sinks like a stone, “Peeta Mellark speaking, who is this?” 

I open my mouth, but my voice sticks in my throat and I can’t get the words out for the life of me. 

“Hello?” 

I close my mouth and breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to calm the nerves that are causing my heart to bang incessantly against my ribcage. I feel as if I have run a marathon. My head is pounding and my palms are sweating. 

“Alright, well I’m going to hang up now.”

I panic, scared that he might actually hang up and then I won’t be able to get a hold of him again; “Wait!” 

“Katniss?” He sounds so shocked and mildly confused. When I hear him say my name, I realise how desperate I’ve actually been to just hear his voice again. I want to talk to him, so I force the rest of the words to unstick from my voice box.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I say, taking another deep breath, “Katniss.”

There’s no sound from the other end of the line, and for a moment I’m scared that he might have hung up the phone. 

Almost as if he was reading my mind he says, “Sorry, just grabbing a chair.”

“Oh.” The relief is tangible in my voice.

Once more a silence fills the line, with only the crackle of static and white noise filling it. I’m filled with a sudden sense of guilt, why did I leave it so long? 

“So…” Peeta starts, “you called.”

“Yeah,” I reply, searching for something to say that won’t outright tell him that I only called him because I was feeling lonely. Isn’t that why I called him though, because I’m so alone, even when I’m around people. I shake the thought from my head, Peeta doesn’t need, let alone want to hear about that. 

He’s about to say something, but I jump in before he can, “Peeta, I’m sorry for not calling you before,” and as I say it I realise that I mean it, I really am sorry for shutting him out of my life. Because as much as I want to move on, I can’t if I leave whatever we have unresolved. I take a deep breath and manage to squeak out, “It’s Reaping Day, and I can’t get through it without you.”

I lean heavily against the wall, suddenly weak in the knees from my confession, scared that it won’t be enough to start to make up for all the harm I’ve caused him. 

Turns out that it is though, because he tells me to take a seat, and he starts to talk. Distracting me from the paranoia I’m feeling, how am I supposed to get through this day every year for the rest of my life. I have a sudden vision of resurrecting snow from the dead, just so I can kill him, for all the suffering he has caused me, everyone really.  

He talks about nothing at first, but then I join in, and I realise it’s not that bad. It’s actually good, I feel good talking to him, like a weight has been lifted from me and I’ve finally reached the surface of deep deep water. Breathing in deep, clean breaths of air. 

“Tell me, what’s happening in Four, right now I mean,” he asks.

“Umm,” I turn my head to look out the window, “the sun is starting to rise over the houses.” 

“Oh?” he says, interest piqued, “that must be pretty, describe it to me.” 

I do, stumbling over my words and trying to tell him just how gorgeous it is. How the pinks wash away the greys and blues of twilight, how the sun looks so yellow and bright, delighting in the fact that it is rising once more, how it makes me feel as if the world is being given permission to awaken by the sun. And once I’m done I can feel that Peeta is smiling on the other end of the line.

“The sunset is even better, you should come see it,” I whisper without really thinking about what it is implicating. 

A silence settles over us once more, and it isn’t awkward even though my last sentiment is hanging in the air. 

Peeta either didn’t hear what I said, or chooses to not say anything to it, because what he says next is so completely off topic that it takes me off guard; “Katniss, why did you vote for there to be another Hunger Games?” His voice is grave, and I can tell that this has been on his mind for the entirety of our conversation, if not longer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, following my prolonged silence, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” I say, quick to wave off his apology, “you have a right to know.”

I’m quiet whilst I try to collect my thoughts, and Peeta doesn’t interrupt, already sensing that this will open up a larger conversation, one that I wasn’t anticipating when I decided to pick up the phone.

“Coin didn’t like me because I didn’t trust her. She wanted my support when it came to electing a new leader, and she wasn’t sure that she would get it from me. So, she wanted me gone, I had served my purpose as the Mockingjay, and now I was more useful as a martyr than anything else. That’s why she sent you out onto the field, and had you join Squad 451, she was hoping that you would kill me,” at this I hear Peeta’s sharp intake of breath, and I can already hear him try to start to apologise, but that would only open up a whole other can of worms, and I only want to say all of this once, so I continue heedless of Peeta’s attempt to interrupt with an apology.

“I guess she wanted to get it on film or something, to prove what a horrible monster Snow was, turning two lovers against each other, and all that. As we both know, that didn’t really work out for her when we went off the grid on our own mission. She could no longer control what I did, and had no one supervising me, she could only hope that one of the many pods in the Capitol would kill me off. When it became clear that I wasn’t dead, and in fact very much alive, despite much of our Squad not being so, she needed to get me back under control. Rope me back in as it were.”

I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself for what I would next confess. I have only spoken of this once, shortly with Gale. Long enough to know the gist of what happened, and understand what exactly needed to happen next. Peeta sits in silence on the other end of the phone, I have his attention, “Coin needed to break me, she needed me to be so worn down and desperate that I would go for the easy way out. The people would now follow me into anything, and if I did not lead them to Coin they would not go on their own.”

“So, she authorised Prim to be sent into the field. Only thirteen, she would not have been allowed otherwise. That day, in the City Circle… Primrose was supposed to be there, by chance her hovercraft got held up with some sort of technical difficulties, and only made it in time to see the aftermath of the second round of bombs going off.”

“I voted for another Hunger Games because I could see no other way out, nothing was going to change. Ever. Not with Coin around, anyway. I needed her to trust me, to think that I was on her side.” 

I hear Peeta suck in a sharp breath on the other end of the line, digesting all of this information, and understanding what I’m implicating. That Coin’s assassination wasn’t just me going slightly off the rails. 

“Guess the odds were slightly in my favour on that one,” I add with a wry smile. 

The line is quiet for a while, but Peeta catches on faster than I expected, and asks; “Does anyone else know?”

I debate on telling him names, but decide against it. He already knows enough, and if there ever is a deeper investigation on the matter, I don’t want Peeta to be implicated. “As far as I know, only three, and one of them is dead anyway.” 

In my mind’s eye, I see Peeta nodding his head, understanding that he won’t be getting names and shouldn’t press me on the matter. 

“Does, uh, Prim know what could have happened to her?” He questions in a soft voice.

“We’ve never really talked about it, but I assume she does. She was part of the crew that helped rescue myself and a few others from the carnage.” I look out the window, curling myself tighter into my ball on the window seat, picturing what my sister must have seen that day, I shiver involuntarily, my voice trailing off. The sun has risen fully now, and I can hear my mother and Prim rousing, getting ready for the day. 

“Listen, I - uh - have to go, my mother and Prim are awake, and Prim will probably want to be with me today.” I chew nervously at my nail, wincing out how it might sound to Peeta.

“Oh, right, of course,” he replies hastily, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Frantic that he might disconnect the line, and I won’t get the chance to speak to him again, I rush out; “I’ll call again, I promise.”

“OK, that’s… good.” he states.

I can hear some shuffling on the end of the line, and I know he’s standing up to hang up the phone so I hastily add, “Oh, and Peeta, take care of yourself.” I then rush to hang up the phone before him, with a smile as bright as the sun on my face. 

Later that day I receive calls from both Johanna and Haymitch. Johanna tells me she’s planning on visiting soon, and with a chirpy voice that drips with sarcasm trills down the phone, “Happy Hunger Games, brainless!” Then hangs up the phone so fast I have no chance to get a word in. Haymitch calls rather late in the evening, already buzzed, and slurs some well wishes down the phone that make hardly any sense. 

I spend most of the day with Annie and Prim, who clings to my side and holds me at every opportunity she gets, sitting on the warm beach, sunning, and listening to tales of the sea that Annie murmurs to us whilst stroking her steadily swelling tummy.

Gale visits in the late afternoon, though it wasn’t planned, stating he won’t be staying for long. We sit next to each other on an abandoned pier that’s become our new spot, and he lets me lean my head on his shoulder. We sit in silence whilst I doze in and out of a light sleep, and he stares steadfastly out into the ocean, intermittently stroking my hair. 

That evening, my mother, myself, and Prim sit on the porch, listening to the wind whistle through the reeds, and the waves crash against the shore. My mother brushes and braids my hair, and I let her. Prim sings silly songs that our father used to sing to us when we were little, whilst she strokes a rather disgruntled Buttercup. 

I’m not surprised when that night Prim curls up into bed next to me, hugging me tightly. She whispers into my neck, “I won’t let them take you from me, not ever again.” I stroke her hair and back, murmuring assurances into the top of her haid, fighting the urge to cry. 

When she asks if I’ll sing the Meadow Song to her, I do, but I have to stop when the tears start  streaming down my face. Prim, so young, and yet so wise, understands, and tells me in no uncertain words, “Rue is safe now, they’re all safe.” And with those words accompanying me, I fall into the first dreamless sleep I’ve had in months.

——————————————————————–

I make good on my promise to Peeta a week later, breaking my silly promise to myself that I would only call him once, and call him. We only talk for about ten minutes, where he tells me all about the rebuilding in Twelve and how Haymitch has adopted some wild geese, and I tell him about the comings and goings of Four. The conversation isn’t a long one, and we don’t touch on any touchy subjects, but I realise it’s enough. It’s enough to hear his voice, and to know that he’s OK. Eventually, our calls go from every other week, to once a week, to twice a week, to every other day. We have a few false starts, but I come to realise that that’s OK too. Sometimes, our conversations are lengthy, and other times, they are a mere five minutes of us sharing meaningless conversation.

Dr. Aurelius continues to call, and gives me new ways to deal with and think about everything that happened. Usually half of what he says is complete jargon, but if I listen closely enough I can pick out the little nuggets of advice that are worth my while. 

Buttercup finally ventures further out onto the beach when he realises that that’s where all his fish dinners are coming from, and ascertains that he’s still scared of water after what I did to him as a kitten. It amuses Gale and I though, to watch the cat find a fish in one of the many rock pools, and hiss at the unyielding water whilst stalking around the pool. 

Johanna does come and visit, in late July, and she has me lead her into the sea bit by bit. It takes two weeks of some tears, lots of swearing and cursing at the Capitol and Snow, coaxing from myself, and shouts of encouragement from both my sister and Annie before Johanna manages to stand before me, salty water up to her armpits. She’s gripping my forearms in a vice hold, and she’s standing mere inches from my face.

Gritting her teeth she hisses out, “Say something, anything, to distract me.”

I think for a moment before telling her, “You know that weird lumpy thing on my forearm that you were commenting on earlier,” she nods at me, “You gave me that ugly scar, you bitch.” 

It has the desired effect, and she starts cackling, before adding, “A thank you would have been nicer.” She then dunks herself fully underwater. When she comes back up, Annie and my sister are cheering from the beach, my mother is leaning against the railing on our porch stairs smiling. Johanna coughs a few times, before shaking the water from her short choppy hair like a dog, and embraces me fiercely, wheezing into my ear, “We don’t talk about this, ever again, alright.” 

I only smile, and pat her on the back a few times, before leading her back onto the beach, where the sun dries our chilled bodies. 

Later that day, when my sister has gone off to one of her classes, Annie, Johanna, and I sit on the sand watching the waves rolling in and out. It has a calming effect, and the hypnotic sounds cause both myself and Johanna to yawn and lay back, looking up at the clear blue sky. 

Johanna’s almost dozed off and I’m beginning to feel heavy headed, when Annie unwittingly plants a seed in our heads. She turns and looks out at the unrelenting sea, and says, “Have you ever wondered what else might be out there? I used to, I still do. Finnick used to tease me for it, said there was no point in wondering about the what ifs of this world, I don’t know though.” 

Johanna and I both look at each other in bewilderment, to be truthful I had never really considered the wider world around me when I was younger, too concerned with the here and now and the immediate obstacles facing me; such as getting enough food to live through the week. I think the younger me would have sided with Finnick on this, why ponder about something so out of reach and fantastical. Sure it might have been a fun thing to wonder about, but at the same time a little hard to wrap one’s head around. But now… the possibilities seem endless, and the thought of there being more people out there doesn’t seem so worrisome and out of reach anymore. 

Johanna says something first, “Nope, never wondered. And even if there were other people out there who’s to say they wouldn’t be ten times worse than us.”

Annie shrugs, and says with a little smile, “Who’s to say they’re not terribly nice, and maybe even awfully rich,” She looks down at us with an intense look in her eyes, “My mother used to say there were people, from way back when, who would pillage and steal from other ships and cities, they were called Pirates and they sailed the seven seas in massive wooden boats,” She sighs contentedly, obviously thinking of some sort of happy memory that we’re not privy to, “Doesn’t that sound amazing?” 

I try to imagine this, stormy seas and troubled skies with big ships rocking back and forth on the waves, but I can’t quite envision it. We abandon the conversation and the sun begins to set. I sigh contentedly, watching as the sky turns a blood red and the few clouds are stained orange.

Johanna nudges my arm, “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s things with lover-boy? Is there anything happening between you two?” 

I’d managed to avoid this conversation with basically everybody for the past couple of months. My conversations with Peeta were a private matter and it was a luxury that I was extremely grateful for after our relationship in the past being shoved under a microscope for all to see, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to let anyone in on this yet, if ever. I’m pretty certain that my mother and Prim are aware of whom I’m talking to on the phone, but they’ve never asked me about it, for which I am thankful.

I ring out the ends of my hair, which are still a bit damp from the sea, and gnaw at my lip, “Uhhh, nothing much to tell really…” 

Johanna makes a disbelieving sound and raises her eyebrows at me, “Sure there isn’t, brainless,” she turns to look back out at the sun setting, and I think she’s going to drop it when she adds, “You’re still an awful liar, by the way.”

I splutter, trying to seem cool and indifferent, but clearly they both see right through me. Annie pats my shoulder sympathetically, before proffering her opinion; “It’s alright, Katniss, you don’t have to tell if you don’t want to… but if you are talking, I think you should invite him for a visit, he’s probably awfully lonely in Twelve with only Haymitch and the reconstructors for company.”

This last comment gives me pause, I’d never really considered what Peeta does when he’s not on the phone to me. I just sort of assumed that he painted and baked and did other Peeta-ish things, I don’t really surprise myself with this either, for I am once more reminded of how self-centered I am, especially when it comes to Peeta. 

I scratch at my ankle absentmindedly, “Yeah, maybe I will.”

We sit on the beach even after the sun has gone down, Annie’s words still ring in my head and I actually begin to consider inviting Peeta. At the moment, I’m completely fine with keeping our friendship as an over-the-phone thing, I know it’s always there waiting and I can always come back to it.

 Annie is a good distraction from these thoughts though, as she points out a few constellations. I’ve never been much of a star gazer, my father used to try and show me the shapes they made in the sky, but I could never make them out, so instead of showing my inadequacy I just pretended I didn’t care. 

She likes these sort of things though, myths and legends that her mother told her when she was little, passed down from mouth to ear for centuries. We used to have an old man like that in District 12, he would hang around the Hob telling stories from an overturned crate to the miners’ children. My father used to describe him as ‘away with the fairies’ and I find that that analogy fits Annie rather well.

Eventually, Annie bids us a good night and clambers up the beach. Johanna, still lying next to me, turns her head to face me. Her eyes are hard, and her face looks serious, I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she holds up her hand to stop me.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend to know what type of relationship you have with Peeta, but I’m gonna tell you this straight because I know Annie would never. You are the only one out of us Victors who got out of the war relatively unscathed, the rest of us kind of lost everything and everyone we ever knew. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but you should be aware of this.”

She sucks in a breath, clearly quite desperate for me to understand, “You care for him to some extent right? Like enough to risk your life for him, repeatedly?” she asks me. I nod slowly, wondering where she is headed with this impassioned monologue. “Then cling to it, and don’t ever let go. You have him now, you could have him now if you chose to do so. I’m not saying in that way, because I have no idea where you are at with that hot cousin of yours, but you have a choice. Which is not something the rest of us have. Your months of pining after him in District 13 are over, brainless.”

“I wouldn’t say I pined after him,” I say defensively.

“Oh whatever,” Johanna replies, borderline aggressive, “and that is so not the point anyway.”

“No, I know.”

“Just think about it, alright?” she says as she pulls herself up from the sand, waiting for me to follow.

We’re walking up the beach when Johanna adds, “Also what the fuck is up with Annie and her crazy stories? I have not once thought that there might be something else out there,” she waves her hand out dismissively at the ocean, “Is that just me?”

I snort at this, she might be one for cultivating awkward situations, and she loves uncomfortable lines of questioning, but she never really gets so earnest about it. I decide to play along, “No, I never did either, until this evening of course. I guess when you live next to the sea though, and you can see where the horizon ends, it makes sense that someone like Annie would wonder about what came after.” 

Johanna nods at this, adding in a conspiratorial voice, “I think we would make great pirates, don’t you brainless?” 

I laugh a genuine laugh at this, “Sure we would be.”

———————————————————————– 

Summer wears on, and things happen as usual. Buttercup learns that he can scare the fish into leaping out of the water, so that he can catch them in his mouth. I help Annie in buying things to prepare for her baby. Her tummy is swollen, and looks quite uncomfortable. When she walks, she does the signature pregnant woman waddle. I continue my calls with Peeta, and eventually I decided that it wouldn’t be half bad if Peeta came to visit. It takes me a while to build up the nerve to invite him, remembering the last time I made an off-hand comment about it, but I do. We speak at length about it, and eventually I convince him. It takes the incentive of a break from Haymitch, and a sunset to remember for the ages to get him to agree, but in time he does. A date is set in September, which according to Annie is when the sea is at its warmest. I find that I’m actually looking forward to it, and when I tell my mother and Prim about it, I can’t help but grin like an idiot. My mother gives me a knowing smile, that I try not to let grate on me, and Prim gives me a brief but excitable hug.

I knew the conversation would have to happen at some point, even so, I’m not prepared for it when it comes. I was hoping that the conversation wouldn’t have to happen at all, but I know that if Gale and I are going to have any sort of relationship in the future I need to start being honest with him. I think I owe him that much. 

We’re heaving ourselves out of the water, onto the pier. We went deep sea fishing, and on the wooden planks awaits a healthy pile of clams, muscles and oysters that we’ve collected over the morning. Gale is busy separating them off into separate piles and counting them up, whilst I’m wringing out my hair and tying it up into a bun so it doesn’t drip too much down my back, when he casually asks what I’m doing next weekend. I freeze, deliberating on how I should best tell him this.

I decide I should just be bluntly honest with him, “Uh, Peeta’s coming to visit,” I try to keep all inflections of emotion out of my voice, nonetheless I still choke on the last part of the sentence as it comes out. 

Out of the corner of my eye I see Gale freeze in his sorting, but he recovers quickly and continues, asking in a level voice, “I didn’t know you were in touch with him?” 

To his credit, it doesn’t sound like an accusation, more of an enquiry. “Yeah well, most people don’t. I guess after so long of having everyone paying attention to us, I just wanted to keep it private.”

“That makes sense,” Gale replies easily.

I’m a little confused, and perhaps even a little peeved that Gale is acting so reasonable. A part of me wants him to freak out on me, or become acidicly jealous. I’m not really sure why that is, but it’s the truth. 

Gale gets up to grab his shirt, and it seems that he is wholly done with this conversation. This confuses me even further, what is he playing at? I try to read his face, try to understand what he actually thinks about this, so I know where to go next. But his trademark scowl is absent from his face as he reaches for a towel to scrub at his hair, it’s neutral and passive. 

“We’re not an item you know,” I blurt out.

Gale stills, and looks up from underneath the towel, “OK?” 

I once again try to read his expression, but come up short. Losing my patience with him I cry out, “Oh for fucks sake Gale! Would you just tell me what you’re thinking, instead of acting like a… like a block of cheese.” 

He raises his eyebrows at this, “A block of cheese? Really, Catnip?” he chuckles, and I feel myself blushing furiously.

“Well you know what I mean, don’t you? You’re acting so… so… Oh I don’t know, you’re just being annoying!” I huff out, standing up and reaching for my T-shirt as well. 

There’s quiet for a moment, and I think my outburst will just be ignored like so many others I’ve had, but then I hear Gale sighing behind me, “What do you want me to say to you Catnip? Be careful? Congratulations?! I know for a fact that neither would go down well…”

My back is still turned to him, and I’m scowling out at the sea cursing whatever deity decided that I needed to care about whatever the fuck Gale thought. I could almost growl for the frustration of it. 

“Katniss,” Gale starts, “Where exactly is all this coming from?”

I whirl around to face him, ready to tell him all the things he should be doing right now, saying in this situation, because I have about a thousand nasty things that I could hurl at him. But I see his face and it’s asking for me to be open and honest with him, so I am, “I’m scared I’ll fuck it up, like I did before… like I did with you.” 

“Well… I can’t promise you that you won’t,” he smiles at me, “but even if you did, he’d come back to you, like I have, and like he’s done a hundred other times.”

“I don’t know, Gale, I’m pretty screwy in the head, and well, so is he. What if I do or say something that… sets him off?” 

“Well you’ve been talking to him over the phone I assume,” I nod in confirmation, “and has anything you said or done set him off on a violent rampage?” 

I shake my head, “No, but there are times when he just goes silent…”

Gale is quiet for a while, and he’s looking at me strangely, when I raise my eyebrows at him in askance, he says, “Sorry, just wondering how I got into this situation.”

I smile sheepishly and tell him, “I’m sorry, I’m such an ass.”

Gale smirks at me and says, “Now that is something we can agree on.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say playfully, but then I add in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry I couldn’t, don’t, love you the way you wanted me to,” thinking that whilst we’re at it I might as well apologise for this as well.

Gale looks at me for a few moments, seemingly contemplating what to say next, “Don’t be, having you as my friend is one of the greatest privileges of my life,” he shrugs, “And it’ll pass.”

I look at him, and I too wonder how we got here. Johanna’s words from a couple weeks prior ring in my head; You are the only one out of us Victors who got out of the war relatively unscathed. A sudden wave of nostalgia hits me, and I rush forwards to embrace him. He might not be the same kid I met all those years ago in the woods, but neither am I. I might not agree with all of his opinions, or the things he’s done, but I forgive him for it. And I need him to know this.

“I do love you though,” I say into his chest.

And like the idiot that he is, he replies, “I know.”

I look up at him in mock outrage, and he’s smiling down at me. I can see it too now; It will pass, and he will get over it. I lean my head back into his chest, smiling secretly at how glad I am that I still have him too.

—————————————————

The next weekend arrives far quicker than I would have liked, but it arrives nonetheless. The day is balmy and warm, and the walk to the station has my clothes sticking to me. I shrink into the shadows as much as I can on the platform, wanting to see him before he can see me. The unnaturally warm day seems to be getting to the people of Four as well, who are usually quite personable, they hustle and bustle around me not even looking back when they accidentally bump into me. 

I’m all jittery with nerves, and I can’t stop bouncing on the balls of my feet, twisting my fingers in my other hand. The train pulls into the station and I feel as if I might puke, I get the overwhelming urge to run before it’s too late. But then he’s stepping off the train steps, he has a small overnight bag in his hands, and he’s looking round the station for me. 

I watch him for a few seconds, take in how he’s filled out in the past few months, his blond hair a little too long on the top as it falls in his eyes. The station, so busy only a few moments before, is now emptying out as people get off the train to attend to business or board the train to be whisked off to who-knows-where. 

Finally, it looks as if it is only him and I on the platform. I step forward, off of the pillar I’ve been shrinking into, making myself more visible to him. As soon as he notices me, my heart stills in my chest. There’s no going back now. He smiles warmly at me as he comes up to greet me. Was he always this tall? I look up at him and am greeted with his startling blue eyes that seem to almost glitter in the sun.

“Hey,” he proffers.

“Hi,” I return.

We’re silent for a beat, and I rock back and forth on my feet waiting for him to do something.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing for me to go.

We walk in relative silence on the way back to the house, only exchanging a few words with one another as we leave the station. Otherwise I let him take it all in, District 4 is pretty different to Twelve. Architecture and landscape wise, but also in that it wasn’t hit that hard during the war. The things that were bombed, a few fisheries and a port, have long since been rebuilt. 

It’s an uphill trek towards the Village, as all Victors Villages were always built apart from the actual District. I guess in a show that Victors were no longer a part of normal District society, and should be regarded as something other.

The afternoon passes with easy chatter, and before I know it the day is cooling off from the initial midday heat. The sun is beginning to lower in the sky and I realise all we’ve done today is sit in the surf, toes in the sand, talking. I did briefly go into the water to splash around and cool off, and Peeta went in up to his waist, but refused to go any further into the constantly shifting water. 

I can already tell that the sunset will be spectacular, there’s a little bit of cloud coverage and the sun is shining brightly. My father used to say that this type of sunset is a ‘shepherd’s delight’ I have no idea what that means seeing as I never bothered to ask. 

There’s a slight lull in the conversation, and I stare wistfully out at the horizon and not for the first time since Annie asked, I wonder if there is anything out there. I start untangling my knotted damp hair and turn to Peeta who is also staring out at the sea, though I have no clue as to what he’s thinking about. 

“Have you ever wondered what else could be out there?” I ask tentatively, rousing Peeta from his thoughts. 

His brow furrows as he considers my question, “No, not really. I mean we were always told that everywhere else became uninhabitable after multiple natural disasters and nuclear war,” he recites the things that were told to us every week in class. “Why’d you ask?”

“I don’t know, just something Annie talked about when Johanna was here, I just keep on thinking that if Panem survived then maybe some other civilisation could have as well. I feel like if we ever did do some sort of… expedition, I would want to be a part of that.” As I’m saying it, I’m trying to yank my hair apart, the trouble with salty water is that it makes everything feel sticky and hair is no exception to that.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Peeta offers, holding up his hands. I shrug and hand him the knot, trying not to finch away when his hands travel conspicuously close to my throat, though I can tell that he is making his movements as deliberate as possible. We sit like that for a while, my sentiment hanging in the muggy air, whilst Peeta disentangles my hair. 

“You’re not thinking of leaving again, are you?” Peeta asks quietly.

“No, I mean if the opportunity arose, then maybe,” I murmur, “I just feel like everyone has these things going for them; Prim is studying to become a doctor, Annie has her baby, and I’m fine with helping with all that, but it’s still her baby, you know? And Gale is off doing his thing in District 2 most of the time, which I’m alright with. I’ve just sort of become his weekend hobby. I mean I’m happy for them, of course I am. It’s just I don’t have any real purpose anymore, I don’t even have to worry about bringing food to the table either, because my mother has a steady job with a steady income and then there’s still the Victor’s earnings that I get,” this is the first time I’m admitting all of this out loud, or even formalising these feelings into coherent thoughts, but I realise that this feeling of ennui has been plaguing me for some time now.

“I just, there’s no purpose for me anymore. I served my job and now I’ve just been cast off, and am expected to ‘figure it out’. How am I supposed to know what I want to do with the rest of my life?” I come to the same conclusion that Peeta must have come to before the Quell, “Nobody needs me anymore.”

I look down at my nails and start picking at them even though I’ve already bitten them down to the quick. It’s a nervous habit of mine that I just can’t seem to shake. Peeta’s fingers still in my hair as if he’s debating on something, finally he says something though, “I do, I still need you.”

I twist around to face him, and I swear if only for a second his eyes shift down to my mouth. I find myself almost subconsciously leaning towards him. I’m about six inches away when I check myself, our friendship is still fresh, and so, so precarious. There’s no space for me to mess this up with a choice that I make on a whim. I shake my head a little and move back, looking away from him in embarrassment. It’s then that I notice that the sun is about to set, and I really want Peeta to see this. In all of its glory. Because the weather here can switch from unbearable muggy heat, to thunderstorms and clouds the next day. 

I stand up, brushing the sand from me, and look down at Peeta whose eyebrows are raised in askance. “Come, there’s this really good place we can watch the sunset from.”

It’s a cliff I found in my earlier ventures of District 4’s landscape. The ground is a soft mixture of sand and mud, the grasses stand tall even when the blustering wind bends them. The sea crashes around below, as it hits the rocks and foams and sloshes around. It’s wild up here, but also oddly quiet. 

We get there just as the sun begins to dip lower and lower into the sky, staining the clouds pink and orange as it goes. I’m watching Peeta as he watches the scenery, and I can see a faint smile touch his lips. He must feel my eyes on him, because he turns to look at me and says, “I get it Katniss, I do. To keep on trying to find your place in this world, the nagging thought that you should just start over somewhere new. I understand why you think about what comes after the horizon… and if there ever is an opportunity where you get to go figure that out, I would support you.”

I look at him a little astounded by what he’s said, but wanting to forget the whole rant form before, I dismiss it with, “Yeah well even if I wanted to go, I’m not sure they’d want me. I can’t follow orders for the life of me, and I’m pretty sure that’s a trait that they’d want.”

“Ah, well I can’t disagree with that,” Peeta says teasingly.

He’s smiling down at me, and I find that I’m grinning like an idiot. I keep on wanting to tell him to watch the sunset, but I’m mesmerised by his smile and the way his eyes laugh with it. And it feels so good to know that I put that there. So, I think fuck it, and pull him down by the shoulders to kiss him fully on the mouth. 

It only lasts a mere few seconds before we break apart. Peeta is holding my jaw in his hands, and is breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against mine. And for a moment I’m scared that this was the wrong move after all. That in my attempt to make this day perfect for him, I’ve inadvertently messed it all up. 

But then he smiles again, and relief courses through my veins causing me to almost slump against him. He breathes out, “I’ve been waiting for you to do that all day, I thought I was actually going to have to ask you if you didn’t catch up on all my hints.”

I chuckle lamely, trying to think of when he dropped any hints, but before I can think too much about it, Peeta’s lips are once more brushing up against my own. It starts soft, but the kiss quickly intensifies, and I think I may have whimpered into his mouth. As Peeta sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, I think that this is right. That with the sun setting the sky ablaze, making it seem as if the world is once more on fire, this was the perfect time for Peeta and I to share this moment. 

And as I reach up to tangle my fingers into his too long hair, I know it without a doubt. That even if I did move away to Four, that even if I did sail away in search for something more, I’d come back to him. As reliable and predictable as the world coming back to life in spring, as the tides moving in and out, as the waves crashing against a shore, retreating but always returning, as the sun rising and setting, or even as simple as breathing in and out. I’d come back to him. Always. And as I come to this realisation, I know that with this knowledge, things could finally be OK.

- Fin -

[deafeninggardenerpanda]

"Eheheheh ... hehehehe ... ahahahaha!" Magolor couldn’t stop laughing. "My plan was a huge success! I'm a genius!" Even when he looked behind him, there was no pursuer to be found. He stopped and looked up at the sky.

The skies of the Town of Wind were always hazy with smoke emitted from factories and steam locomotives, but in that smoky sky, there was a beautiful dream-like ship floating so high up it was invisible from the ground.

"Please wait, Lor ... " Magolor murmured. The Lor Starcutter, a mysterious ship made from ancient technology.

Although the truth was hazy due to various legends surrounding it, it was said that if the pilot’s heart was true, they could cross over to a different world. 

But the Lor was broken. It could not move because some of its parts were missing. Magolor had long sought parts to move the Lor, but the ship was made from the power of an ancient civilization and thus could not be repaired with ordinary parts. It needed gears from that ancient civilization. Such precious items, how would someone obtain them?

Magolor, at a loss, heard a rumor. A millionaire in Diamond Town was secretly looking for someone who could read ancient characters. Apparently, an ancient machine had been found in the mines and was currently being investigated.

 ...  Maybe, there would be parts for the Lor there.

Thinking so, Magolor rushed to Diamond Town. The ancient machine was more powerful than he had imagined. If he could find the extracted gears, his dream would surely come true. He would be able to move the ship of dreams, Lor. Thus, Magolor began to come up with a plan to gather the gears.

First, he needed to find their locations. Recalling a story that Kirby, an airplane pilot, had received the Star Compass, Magolor decided to use him. Once the locations were known, next, he had to choose someone who was likely to get the three gears. If Magolor left it to Kirby alone, he might gather the gears in the blink of an eye and deliver them to Mr. Fugo immediately, so he decided to split up the information between several people. 

Magolor chose President Dedede, next. Although President Dedede had lost many times in a row to Kirby in the races, he still seemed to have good skill as an airplane pilot. He would be perfect for finding the gear on the clock tower.

And finally, there was Meta Knight in the Town of Light. It was unusual for an aristocrat to be so adventurous, so he should have an interest in the ancient machine.

Magolor’s operation was a great success. All three of them got the gears beautifully. He worried when Meta Knight had deciphered the description of the ancient machine, but in the end it wasn't a problem. No, that, in fact, was why everyone got together, and why the three gears aligned in the box he now held. It was rather convenient for him.

Now, all that had to be done was for the gears to be delivered to the Lor. If it took in the ancient power of the gears, the Lor would finally be able to wake from its long slumber and move again.

Before that, though, he had to first escape the town before he was found by his pursuers.

Magolor had started running again on the road leading to the town gate when several men suddenly appeared and blocked his path. He stopped quickly. The men dressed in black and wore matching badges. Fugo's subordinates, Magolor immediately knew. He winced. He couldn’t afford to let the gears he had be taken away. Somehow, he had to deceive and dodge them. Magolor waved one hand and laughed amiably.  

"Wow, Mr. Fugo’s men! Did you all come to meet me~? I’m glad, thank you!"

" …………… " 

The men were expressionless and silent. They gradually approached Magolor. Then, from behind the men, someone began to emerge—it was Mr. Fugo.

"There you are, Professor Magolor. Where are you going in such a hurry?" he said with a smile. Magolor looked at Mr. Fugo's face. That gentle smile ... he could not tell what Fugo was thinking.

(—I fooled you, are you aware ... Have you not noticed yet ... I wonder?) 

Magolor did not know. Now, it was all or nothing. He mustered all of his might and spoke in a cute voice.

"Ah, Mr. Fugo! I got the gears! I was just about to deliver them to you ... " However, at that moment, a big net dropped from above and enveloped him immediately.

"WAHHH!?" Suspended by the net, Magolor was trapped.

"W-w-what are you doing!?"

Mr. Fugo gazed at the suspended Magolor with a cold smile. "I never trusted you from the beginning. I knew you were strange and kept an eye on you. After all, my eyes were right." 

" …………… " 

"Trying to escape with the gears. You have good courage, plenty, I’ll have you know. Now, hand them over."

Magolor looked up at the sky. The lie had been exposed from the beginning ... Mr. Fugo had been examining him too closely. It was too late, but—when Mr. Fugo's men tried to remove the net, a bright red sports car came rushing in at incredible speeds. It screeched to a halt. Mr. Fugo’s subordinates jumped out of the way.

Of course, the one driving the sports car was Meta Knight, and in the passenger’s seat was Daroach. Daroach jumped from the car and lifted Magolor up, still wrapped in the net. 

"Oh, Mr. Fugo, he’s caught the guy before us. Thanks, that saves us a lot of trouble." Daroach threw Magolor into the back seat of the car and jumped back into the passenger seat. 

"See you!" The car tried to start suddenly, but Mr. Fugo came back to his senses. 

"Oh, you guys! Don’t be ridiculous! Take the gears!" he shouted. Mr. Fugo’s subordinates quickly surrounded the car. One person threw knives at the car’s tires. They were flattened instantly. Meta Knight raised his voice in anger.

"What are you doing! What if you scratch my car! And my tires! Those were custom-made products that had intensive research put into them to produce the fastest speed in the world!"

"Hey, hey. This isn’t the place to get angry," Daroach said. "Fugo's minions are vicious. We need to take them seriously!" The men in black suddenly attacked. Daroach swiftly put on his top hat and cloak, then grabbed his cane.

"Silk, red top hat and cloak ... You! You're the thief who snuck into my mansion and stole the material on the ancient machine ...! " Mr. Fugo shouted.

"I’m not just any thief. I am the great thief, Daroach! Remember it!" Daroach brandished his cane. A fierce cold wind and a wave of ice were expelled from its tip. Mr. Fugo's subordinates faltered, but they weren’t going to stand around to get done in. 

"Don't flinch! There are only two thieves!" 

"Catch them!" They attacked, yelling. One of the men jumped from behind Daroach. Meta Knight quickly picked up the rose in his chest pocket and threw it.

"Augh!" The rose hit the enemy's hand. He winced and stepped back.  

Daroach sighed in relief. "I was saved. That rose, isn’t it just a decoration!?" he shouted.

"It's not a decoration. It's a gentleman's grace." Then, Meta Knight pulled out the feathers attached to his top hat and threw them.

"Ugh!" Weapons fell from the enemy's hands. Daroach whistled.

"You're the best! You should scout for the Squeak Squad!" However, the number of enemies became overwhelming. Like the heads of a hydra—even when you defeated one, it was as if two more took their place. They came one after another. The tires of the car had been flattened; they could not leave. The pair were gradually cornered and began to be put at the disadvantage.

"This is bad ... at this rate ...! " It was when Daroach yelled out—there was a roaring sound and a strong wind blew. Daroach, Meta Knight, and Mr. Fugo's men were all staggered by the intense gale. Flying overhead was the Warp Star!

"Kirby!" Meta Knight shouted.

"Have you finally caught up? It's about time!" Daroach said, relieved. Then, the roaring sound was heard again. As if chasing Kirby, the Great King DDD XX appeared. The two planes diverted to the square nearby. Kirby and Waddle Dee jumped from the Warp Star, and President Dedede jumped from the Great King DDD XX. 

"Daroach! Have you caught Magolor!?" President Dedede asked.

"Not quite," Daroach loudly replied. "As you see, we could use some help!" 

"What!?" President Dedede glared at Mr. Fugo's subordinates. "They won’t take the gears! I’ll fight alongside you!" In the hands of the president was an oversized hammer; a weapon that was loaded onto his plane in case of an emergency.

"TAKE THIS—!" President Dedede swung the hammer. The men in black were blown away all at once. "Wahaha! Did you know my true capability!?"

"You bastard!" New subordinates rushed in without delay. They drew their weapons.

"I won't let you do that!" Kirby shouted. He spread both hands and took a deep breath. Kirby’s forte, Inhale!

"Aughhhh!" The men’s weapons were sucked into Kirby's mouth one after another. The odds turned in their favor! 

"W-what are these guys!" 

"Too strong ...! " The subordinates paled and stepped back. President Dedede turned and laughed out loud.  

"Wahaha! Weak, weak! You are no match for this President Dedede!" He swung his hammer around and bashed away the enemies in front of him. It was then—

"WAHHHHH! HELP ME ..! " a scream resounded. Waddle Dee.

Waddle Dee, hidden behind an airplane, was found by the enemy. A man in black held him up with one hand. 

"Look! I've caught your companion!" he shouted in an unfeeling voice. Kirby froze.

"Waddle Dee ...! What are you going to do, you ...! " President Dedede shouted.

"I’m sorry, President ... " Waddle Dee shook as he was gripped by the enemy.

"Stop! Let Waddle Dee go!" Kirby said, but the enemy was unresponsive. Waddle Dee shut his eyes tightly. Mr. Fugo stepped forward with satisfaction. 

"—It seems the game has come to an end." 

Kirby and the others glared at him, but there was nothing they could do. Waddle Dee had been taken hostage. "Drop your weapons," he said with a smile.

The group looked at each other. 

"I told you to drop them, didn't you hear? Then, this will be painful." Mr. Fugo gave a signal to the subordinate holding Waddle Dee.

"STOP!" It was Kirby who shouted. He raised his hands. "We lost. Please, release Waddle Dee!" he said.

"Kirby, you ...! " Meta Knight tried to stop him, but President Dedede dropped his hammer and spoke.

"Your weapons ... drop them. Meta Knight, Daroach."

"What did you say!?"

"I'm sorry. This is all because of my stupid subordinate ... " President Dedede hung his head. Kirby was shocked. He had never seen the president like this before.  

"You’re going to surrender? You're just going to give him the gears!?" Daroach said, frustrated. 

" ... Yeah ... I am ... "  President Dedede said in a weak voice. "Waddle Dee, we can’t abandon him ... " 

"President Dedede!"

" ... I’m sorry! Please!" He couldn’t raise his face. Seeing that, Meta Knight put his red rose back into his chest pocket. Daroach sighed and dropped his cane on the ground as well. Mr. Fugo’s eyes shone.

"Good! Then, let's get the gears!" His subordinates walked over to Magolor and removed the net. Magolor could not resist. Mr. Fugo was then handed the box containing the three gears. He checked the contents and burst into laughter. "Alright! I’ve got them! Now, the ancient machine is at my disposal!"

A black luxury car pulled up. Fugo got in and began giving out orders.

"To the mine! Head to the discovery site of the ancient machine! Take the hostage, too." He looked to his subordinate who held Waddle Dee. He nodded, and got into the car with him in hand. 

"Release Waddle Dee!" Kirby said.

"I’ll release him once the ancient machine is activated. Until then, he’s coming with me." 

"That’s ... so underhanded!" 

"Mmhmhmhm ... " Mr. Fugo then ordered the driver to start the car.  

"I'll chase you!" President Dedede yelled. He jumped into his plane. Daroach quickly followed him.

"Give me a ride, President. Meta Knight’s car had its tires punctured." 

"Alright, get in." The Great King DDD XX carried the two and soared high into the sky. "By the way, Daroach. What’s with that outfit?" President Dedede asked as he watched Mr. Fugo's car traveling below.

"Hm?"

"That red, silk top hat and cloak—I’ve never seen it before. What happened? Is it to match with Meta Knight?" President Dedede didn't know what Daroach was yet. Daroach put a hand on his hat and laughed.

"Well, I just wanted a bit of a change. When all this is over, I'll return to my café manager self." 

" ... Hmm. I don’t really get it," President Dedede said and shook his head.

    At the same time, Meta Knight and Magolor were on board Kirby's Warp Star. 

"Thank you, Meta Knight. For putting down your weapon for Waddle Dee," Kirby said as he flew the plane.

"In that situation, I wouldn’t have done anything else. And, Kirby—" 

"It’s okay, Kirby!"

"Kirby. Is there a strategy?" 

"Huh? Strategy?" 

"’I feel like if we get the gears, there will be some kind of big change.’ That’s what you were thinking, right?"

"Ehh!?" Kirby was surprised. "Amazing! How did you know what I was thinking, Meta Knight?" 

"I wonder how, too. With you, I don't feel like this is the first time we’ve met."

"Really? I do too. It's mysterious."

"Me too!" Magolor, sitting alongside Meta Knight in the back seat, shouted. "Kirby and Meta Knight, it’s as if you’re old friends. Strange!"

" ... And you ... " Meta Knight looked disgusted. He tried to say something, but Magolor quickly continued. 

"I pretended to trick you and run away with the gears to lure Fugo, and hey! It worked! "

" ... Lies." 

"It’s not a lie. I put on that act because I wanted to help everyone." But Meta Knight didn't seem to trust him at all. He turned away from Magolor and looked up at the sky.

"Airplanes are much faster than cars. They’re quite good ... Maybe I'll buy some ... " he murmured.

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[wolf-and-bard]

The Edge Of The Edge Of The World

Prompt: Human Shield

Relationships: Jaskier/Filavandrel

Rating: M

Content Warnings: some violence, not graphic; implied minor character death

Summary: When Jaskier starts to have the same apocalyptic dream from Filavandrel's point of view over and over again, he decides to go a-looking for the elven-king. He finds Filavandrel in the valley of flowers, finds also that his old crush has not dampened. Just when they are reuniting, they are disturbed by a hired assassin... In which: Filavandrel bears the weight of the world upon his shoulders and Jaskier is drawn to him, helpless to fix it, but willing to try anyway.

Word Count: 4.6k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​ I AO3-Link

It's the dreams that ultimately bring Jaskier back to Dol Blathanna. After everything was said and done - the clutches of the elves escaped, his song written, Geralt pestered - he swore himself not to meddle with Filavandrel and his sundered court ever again. Out of respect, yes, and out of fear, and out of a strange mixture of both. The latter concerns a part of Jaskier that is all lust and greed, and would have been strip-dancing for Filavandrel if it hadn't been for the imminent threat to his and Geralt's lives. Jaskier finds no shame in that, he was eighteen then, but he also isn't quite so certain that upon meeting the elf again, he wouldn't fall prey to those same desires. His heart has a strange way of becoming stuck in time like that. And Jaskier wasn't going to give in and go. He wasn’t going to return to the Valley of Flowers, no matter how often he thought back to his time among the elves, no matter how many sonnets he dedicated to the stern eyes, proud figure, golden locks, and tragic history of one Filavandrel aén Fidháil. He wasn’t. But then the dreams start around the same time that Geralt starts being tossed more prophecies than coin and Jaskier has to attribute some significance to that, right? Destiny tends to meddle in heaps like that and while Jaskier is no firm believer in higher powers, he can see clear as day the strain it puts on Geralt, avoiding it day and night.

On top of that, the dreams repeat. Jaskier never has the same dream twice. He just doesn’t. Only this one, he goes through every night for a fortnight straight and it comes to the point that even Geralt - who's still treating Destiny like his lavatory - calls him out on it. "You've been crying through the night again," he grunts one morning by way of greeting and when Jaskier gently brushes his own cheeks with sweat-sticky fingers, they come away wet. Salty air clings to his nostrils and he sniffles, still caught in the undertow of the great melancholy that suffuses every moment in that other world. The inn room around him feels thin, see-through, and Geralt wavers around the edges, fuzzy like smoke so much so that Jaskier doesn't dare reach out to his friend for fear of him dissolving.

“It seems I have,” he mumbles to himself and glances at his lute. The instrument sits idly in its case, having caught dust as they’ve been away on a three-day hunt for a rabid, enchanted bear, and the ornamental swirls glitter in the first sunlight of the day. Jaskier can feel her like a presence, the same way Geralt can feel his medallion, he suspects. She hums with a similar sort of magic.

A treasure from Filavandrel himself. More than a kingly gift, the instrument serves as a constant reminder. To remember and shut the fuck up about it. Jaskier gets up and ignores Geralt’s confused grunts. He’s in nothing but his smalls still, but this cannot wait.

“Jaskier, are you awake?”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says, waving Geralt’s inquiry away. Careful not to upset her – something Geralt would roll his eyes at him for, no doubt – Jaskier picks his lute up by the neck and props his foot up on the chair the case sits on. He balances her on his knee and puts his fingers down on the neck to play the first chord he ever strummed on her. Jaskier does and it sends a jolt through his body.

The notes go straight to his chest and he sobs out loud. More tears stream down his face and he knows he has to heed those dreams. Filavandrel needs him. Jaskier is sure of that.

“There is something I have to do,” Jaskier says and puts the lute back into her case, then turns, scrambling about for his clothes. “A journey I have to take.”

“Jask, you’re crying. Is there… are you… do you need my help?” Geralt’s head is cocked, his eyes wide. Jaskier shakes his head. This is something he has to do on his own. Jaskier gets dressed and wolfs down the breakfast Geralt orders for the both of them, then disappears. He only notices when he’s two days out of town that he forgot to tell Geralt where he’s going. Destiny holds his life in her hands then and Jaskier find he doesn’t mind.

---

Jaskier doesn’t know the way to Filavandrel’s halls exactly. It takes him a week or so to travel to Posada where he stops for a rest. The people there remember him, well they remember the white-haired witcher that took care of the devil, but they also remember the bratty bard they threw bread at once prompted, and Jaskier gets a chance to update his reputation with beautiful renditions of his top three songs. They earn him a hearty dinner and a feather-stuffed bed for the night. He sleeps like a rock for the first time in forever, and once more wakes with mournful tears staining his cheeks, his skin thin. The dreams have been more intense, more vivid and real. Jaskier can barely remember what it felt like to wake up without this great grief weighing him down and still, he pastes on a smile. Whistles a tune as he gets ready to search for the elven-king.

Jaskier leaves his horse with the lovely innkeeper in Posada, as well as the rest of his belongings – spare clothes, spare lute strings, his journal – all save for the instrument herself. The woman will keep them save in exchange for his promise to play at her establishment some more to draw customers once he returns. Before he knows it, Jaskier’s out in the valley again, by himself this time. Without Geralt there, the pervading aroma of onion doesn’t subtract from the rich smell of the flowers that are in full bloom all over. It seems Jaskier just about managed to capture the right season for his visit. Colour explosions burst to every side as far as his human eye can see. He is not here for those though, he is here for a very particular flower, and he finds Filavandrel not among his peers, not in the caves that are hidden, interspersed in the jutting hills.

He finds Filavandrel on the edge of the Edge of the World, keeping watch over the valley atop a steep peak. The wind gently ripples through his hair and the beige cloak he wears over his clothes to blend in with his surroundings. His feet are bare, his stare solemn and distant, and Jaskier watches him from behind a boulder for half an eternity.

“Come out, bard. You need not hide nor cower before me ,” Filavandrel says eventually. His voice is soft, low, but the gale carries it to Jaskier’s ears as though the elf was standing right beside him. Jaskier’s heart picks up and he swallows before yielding his spot. He approaches Filavandrel from the side and sinks to one knee when they are mere feet apart, chin pressed to his sternum. To show his enduring respect and to get his facial muscles under control because his eyes prickle as though he’s going to cry again, but his lips want to slip into a grin and his nose itches. Filavandrel is a marvel, even forlorn and lost as he currently stands. Jaskier decides to strike the word beautiful from his vocabulary the moment that Filavandrel places a crooked index finger under his chin and bids him to look up.

The word ought to be reserved for the sight that greets Jaskier, and that sight alone. Filavandrel peers down at Jaskier from under hooded lids, his eyes dark and mysterious. His hair glows molten yellows and golds, tinged orange from the descending sun, and specks of that light dance on his pale cheeks. His long lashes cast shadows, his lips are parted ever so slightly, pink and wet. His throat is sinewy and strong, shifts with the long inhale he draws. Jaskier blushes, thinking that this is not a king, this is a god, and he should be captured in paint and music, and yet, each medium trying to depict his splendour would undoubtedly be a shallow caricature of the true beauty that is before Jaskier. He is about ready to swear an oath of servitude, but his voice fails him.  

“Why do you kneel?” Filavandrel asks, breaking the spell with the bitter undertone of suspicion his words carry. “I am not your king.”

“Common courtesy,” Jaskier says and rises to his feet, dusting off his breeches. Filavandrel merely raises a brow, then goes back to staring out at the crashing waves of flowers below. Jaskier takes it as an unspoken invitation to remain, to join him in gazing out at the world. It feels so small, so far away from up here. With bated breath he waits for Filavandrel to say something, anything. Where usually, Jaskier would burst from having too many words, he finds himself coming up short. How does one breech this topic?

‘Yes, hello, I’ve been having terribly crushing dreams from your perspective for the past month. Do tell why, if you please.’

That’s no good.

So, Jaskier waits. And Filavandrel gathers his words and speaks, still so softly, as though he doesn’t want to disturb the peace of Dol Blathanna with crude human words. Falling from his lips, they sound like small caresses, but they still break the clandestine atmosphere.

“What did you do with the life I spared?”

Jaskier glances sideways, gazes at Filavandrel’s set profile for a breath before he answers the question. This is something he has endless words for. How he travelled with Geralt and gained renown for both witcher and bard, how he returned to Oxenfurt to teach and research, start writing papers, and comments, and reviews, and essays, how he’s been trying to appreciate perspectives other than his own and has not been brilliant at it.

“… but first and foremost,” Jaskier concludes on a small smile. “I’ve been pouring my heart into song.” This time, Filavandrel doesn’t hesitate with his answer and his hands clench into fists at his sides, something which Jaskier did not anticipate.

“Tell me then, little scholar,” the elf says. His voice is lightning that crackles under Jaskier’s skin. “Are all of them as deceitful as the one you wrote about our army? Or do you only lie when it caters to the ideology of the masses?”

“Nothing quite so political, I assure you. I sing what I want,” Jaskier replies. If Filavandrel would just look at him, he might be able to read what Jaskier feels. No hostility, no inclination to cause harm. Yes, Toss A Coin was a selfish piece of writing, meant to entice and enthral, embellishing the events in order for it to spread more quickly, but Filavandrel has to realize that it was never meant at the expense of the elves. It was drama, poetry, a story.

“I see.” Jaskier jerks around, half his body turning at Filavandrel’s tingling laugh. What in Melitele’s name?

“Beg pardon?” he asks and finally, Filavandrel meets his eyes. His are pure mirth, lip curled in mischief. He is so fucking divine that Jaskier’s mouth dries up.

“You are a creature of selfish lust, then?”

“Quite,” Jaskier says, grinning and bows his head. He was right about one thing at least, right in his hunch that in the presence of Filavandrel, he would be reduced to a bashful eighteen-year-old boy who is unable to tear his eyes off anything even remotely pretty. With Filavandrel, he thinks he’ll find anyone else lacking.

Filavandrel opens his mouth to say something else, but right then, a hiss cuts through their amusement and they both whirl around to find that they are no longer alone. Someone has joined them, a massive man with a silver medallion gleaming atop his breast. In each hand he holds a knife and his teeth are bared in a growl, his head bald. Two swords, strapped to his back, gleam in the sun.

Oh fuck.

A witcher.

And he doesn’t seem in the mood for talking.

Jaskier’s body takes over for him and he builds himself up between the approaching figure and Filavandrel.

“Stop right there,” he says and mentally pats himself on the back for how steady his voice comes out. The witcher halts, staring at Jaskier with his head cocked and his form blots out the low-hanging sun. Jaskier stands his ground, arms and legs wide, but his only weapon is his glare, the set of his mouth. Don't, he thinks. Don't. They don't stand a chance. Geralt already has the capability to crush Jaskier's neck in a strong grip if he so wishes, this man looks like he could lift a leg and flatten Jaskier to the earth with one precise step. Filavandrel wouldn't fare much better even if he had steel on him. They are doomed.

“I’m here to kill a king,” the witcher says and his voice rattles like a cart full of armour being pulled across a cobbled street. “Step aside, human, and your life will be spared.”

“I will not.”

The witcher musters him for another long minute, then shrugs. Tucking one of his knives under his beefy bicep, he shoots out his hand. A blast of air hits Jaskier and he’s thrown backward into Filavandrel. They’re not close enough to the edge that they fall off, but the blow forces them to the ground. Jaskier is quick to get into a crouching position before the fallen king, arms open wide once more. The witcher approaches, his glare punctuating Jaskier’s resolve. But no, he will die if he must, die if it means preserving that which he cherishes so.

“Bard,” Filavandrel says under his breath. “You’re being foolish.”

“No such thing,” Jaskier replies. The witcher stomps ever nearer, blades raised, but before he can attack, a whirring noise fills the air and a dagger buries itself in the witcher’s left eye socket, buries itself to the hilt.

“HNNN FUCK,” the witcher yowls and pulls the knife out, casting it aside. He stumbles about blindly, his hands pressed to his face and Jaskier jumps to his feet. This is about the only opportunity they will have if they want to come out of this alive. He hurries over to the witcher and shoves. There is no way a bard like him has enough power to topple over a giant like this, but the witcher is already off-kilter and he doesn’t expect the push. He barely catches himself, still howling through his pain and Jaskier follows the few steps he takes backward and in doing so, gets caught by the flailing arm of the witcher. He winces as pain breaks out across the side of his face, but he pushes again.

The witcher teeters where the hill falls away sharply, and Jaskier has no time to think about how he’d rather not be hurting this man. He gives one last determined shove and with a yelp, the witcher tumbles over the edge and rolls down the mountainside in a cacophony of crashes and dust, branches breaking and rocks rolling after him. His cries fill the valley until, with a suddenness that is jarring, they stop.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, panting hard. Fuck. Fuck, he might have just killed a man and he doesn’t feel guilty one bit. He is here to protect Filavandrel, he understands that now. Understands that that’s what the dream was about. To protect Filavandrel and to be his advocate. It’s an unsettling certainty, one that only Destiny can have created. Jaskier sighs, thinks up a silent prayer for the fallen man and mentally apologizes to Geralt for hurting one of his kin.

“That was an impressive showing of determination,” Filavandrel says. Jaskier opens his eyes again and squares his shoulder. The elf has picked up his dagger and is cleaning it on his cloak which he has pulled off to reveal a simple set of faded blue linen clothes. He looks at Jaskier, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth and Jaskier bows low.

“My king,” he says.

“Come with me.” A hand on his arm that tugs lightly. Jaskier’s blinks, but lets himself be guided by Filavandrel. “I know somewhere were we will not be interrupted again.”

---

Filavandrel’s rooms – which section off from the ones Geralt and Jaskier were held in last time – are barely more than a hollow in the mountains, furnished with a narrow cod and few planks of wood that have been nailed to the stone opposite it. The elf has Jaskier sit down on the hard straw mattress, then disappears for a short time to retrieve a wet cloth. “Who was he?” Jaskier asks when Filavandrel returns and crouches before him so that they are on eye-level. His face aches properly now and he suspects that a plethora of bruises is already blooming on the side the witcher caught with his fist.

“You are the one who congregates with witchers,” Filavandrel replies. Jaskier huffs indignantly. “I only really know one of them and we don't congregate so much as keep company.” “Really?” Filavandrel raises a brow as he dabs Jaskier's jaw with the cool cloth. It soothes some of the sting and he sighs. “Does that shock you? Geralt wouldn't let me touch him with a fishing rod,” Jaskier laughs. It’s not true exactly, they have touched of course. It is inevitable when travelling together, but the kind of touch they’re referring to has been strictly off the table. “How very unreasonable,” Filavandrel laughs and brushes back Jaskier's hair to access his forehead. His hands are gentle, his smile shy and Jaskier finds himself blushing. This is another Filavandrel altogether. Not the rageful king that almost had him and Geralt executed, nor yet the solemn figure atop the hill. He’s sweet and teasing. Oh, dear. “Tell me, little scholar, do you want to touch him?” “Are you asking me if I want to fuck him or if I have feelings for him?”

“Both. Either. No matter.”

“Ah… well, I find myself tempted ever so often, but the feeling does not endure and any sexual draw I feel to him is not worth risking the friendship we share. Of course, his attractiveness stands in no comparison to your beauty.” “It is a non-human fetish then?” Filavandrel asks. He wipes Jaskier’s forehead one more time, then puts aside the cloth. “Brought that upon myself, didn't I?” They both laugh, Jaskier shaking his head, Filavandrel privately, behind his hands. Jaskier wants to pry it away, wants every bit of that laugh for his eyes and ears to feast on, a remnant of the bells of the elven towers of old, wants this beauty, but for once in his life, Jaskier practices restraint. He basks in another few seconds of shared delight, then catches Filavandrel's gaze again. “Who hired that witcher?” “Doesn't matter who hired him, there's always a price on my head,” Filavandrel grumbles and Jaskier could kick himself for killing the light chirping laughter, for turning this conversation back to a serious avenue. But he had to, didn’t he? Because a witcher almost killed them both and the dreams are still in the forefront of his mind. “Always a price.” With that, the elf gets up and starts to pace the small perimeter of his room. Jaskier watches every step. "You can share your pain with me,” he offers. "So you can fashion pretty rhymes from it? No thank you. I will pay you in gold,” Filavandrel snaps, eyes distant now. So very changeable, strange for one so old. But Jaskier supposes that Filavandrel lives in extraordinary circumstances. "Pay me?" he asks weakly.

“That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? More… of us. More of our artefacts, our names, our stories, our emotions. More for you to accessorize and capitalize on, more to feed your disgustingly human greed with. I gave you your life and your lute and you stayed away for how long? Nigh on two decades. What will it take for the next two?”

Both elf and human glance at the lute that is propped up in the corner upon Filavandrel mentioning it. The instrument has survived the scrap without harm, not even a speck of dust on it. Jaskier’s fingers itch for it, but he folds them in his lap. Two decades, yes, twenty years in which he’s had time aplenty to think. Churn over the events of those days when Geralt was but a stranger and Filavandrel an enemy, an outlandish creature sprung straight from Jaskier’s lecture notes. Now, Geralt is Jaskier’s oldest friend and Filavandrel is… a god descended. A god that has been battered and beaten, treated like a dog. Fuck, but Jaskier is not here to uphold the tradition of exploitation and near-to-kin-slaying. He is here because after traversing the maze of his thoughts and closing the covers on his books, Jaskier cares. He cares, he treasures, he worships, he loves. He loves so much. Jaskier looks up at Filavandrel until the elf can’t help but return the gaze. His eyes are wide, wild.

"Have you had dreams of late?"  Jaskier asks simply.

A breath. And then: "What do you know of it?”

"Let me paint a picture for you, golden one, then you can decide what I have come here for.”

Filavandrel considers him, inclines his head a fraction as if to listen for the backstabs Jaskier is trying to veil with his words. The cavernous halls are eerily silent and finally, Filavandrel gestures for Jaskier to speak. Jaskier clears his throat.

“It is like this: You open your eyes and you stand upon the very hill we just got attacked on, all by yourself. Before you, you see a firmament in bleeding reds and yellows into which the grey ink of the end days has been spilled. At your feet, a vast desolation, hundreds turned to dust, obliterated by your hands, and it still does not satisfy your hatred for the humans. You feel as though upon your shoulders, you carry the weight of all those who have come before you, all those who are yet to perish. Each step you may take, in whatever direction, feels like the last. There is thunder in the distance, but it is not of this world. It rumbles off-key, distorted and cacophonous, and you try to catch that sound in your own throat to guess at its origin. You can’t. There are cries of woe also, just beyond the next peak, and you are determined to absolve those souls of their agony. You begin to walk, are weighed down, your limbs burn and your knees tremble. No matter how badly you try to reach that place from whence the pain stems, you make no progress. Your back aches so much, so fucking much. All you want is to lay down your crown and die. The world may well splinter and vaporize around you and still, duty would bind you to remain and see your people safely through the gates of heaven. You feel alone. So very alone,” Jaskier concludes, the last words naught more than a whisper. Tears stream down him his cheeks.

"How?" Filavandrel sobs and claps a hand over his mouth.

"Trade secret."

"Who are you?"

"A friend.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“To share some of your burden as I have been sharing in your dreams. To save your people.”

“There is no salvation for us, little scholar, none at all,” Filavandrel says, voice trembling.

“Filavandrel of the edge of the world,” Jaskier says and stands up. “Filavandrel of the pain of the gods.” He takes a step towards the dumbstruck elf. “Filavandrel the kind-hearted and trustworthy.” Another step. “Filavandrel of the old tragedies.” A foot separates them and Jaskier reaches out to gently cup Filavandrel’s jaw. “Filavandrel of the dawn of a new age.” He brings up his other hand, cradling the elf-king’s face in his lute-worn hands as though it is a precious piece of china. Jaskier smiles softly and wipes at Filavandrel’s tears with his thumbs. “Just take your pick and I will write you into the stream of history,” he finishes. Filavandrel squeezes his eyes shut.

“You don’t have that kind of power,” he says. “You simply cannot change our fate.”

“I can make you beloved. Immortal.” Jaskier leans closer, ever closer, but he doesn’t dare break the barrier between them, not when Filavandrel looks so very pained. More so when he softly utters his next words.

“That is what you don’t get. What would I be but an exception to prove the rule? Even if you turned the tide of human hatred in my favour, they’d still murder my kin and I would stand alone because I had been dubbed friend-of-men. You would make my dream turn reality.” “I don’t-“

“I do not begrudge you the ambition,” Filavandrel cuts in and the sun of a chuckle breaks through the heavy tapestry of clouds over his face. He shakes his head as his eyes flutter open, and one hand comes up to wrap around Jaskier’s wrist where’s he’s still cupping the elf’s cheeks. “I was perhaps wrong to judge you by the standards of your species when the crime you have committed is a rather personal one.”

“And what crime is that?”

“That fetish we spoke of, of course. Though I cannot tell whether your infatuation is genuine or whether you are but a magpie.” Jaskier's mouth feels dry and his gaze drops to the pretty curve of Filavandrel's lips. He lets go of his face, touches one of Filavandrel's silken curls and wraps it around his pinkie as he holds the king's gaze. He can’t think of a retort to that, not even an earnest one. "Is this your wit's end, little scholar? Is this where words fail you?" "Kiss me," Jaskier replies in a surge of confidence. It's insanity, even with the weird carnival of feelings they've gone through today. Insanity. It's also the right thing to say, apparently. Filavandrel leans closer and kisses him softly, holding onto Jaskier's shoulders and Jaskier reaches for the elf's hips to steady himself. He inhales sharply when Filavandrel deepens their kiss. The poet in Jaskier hoped he would taste like flowers or honey or sunshine or anything worth putting in a ballad. The romantic in Jaskier rejoices in how perfectly sweet and slow their kiss is, how they both close their eyes and lose themselves in the simplicity of the connection. The realist in Jaskier – and he is very quiet and small – knows this is fragile. A moment suspended in time and bound to pass. After a while, Filavandrel pulls back, a small smile playing about his features and he traces Jaskier's reddened lips with his thumb. "I could be your consort," Jaskier blurts out. Filavandrel laughs and steals another kiss. "The valley isn't entirely safe at night so you may stay until the morning," he says and lets go. "And after that?" "After that you return to your books and your songs and your witcher." "And you?" "I will try to make sense of these dreams. I will find a way for my people to survive. And I will cherish the sentiments you offered, useless though they may be. Come now, little scholar, come to bed." 

[1-800-imagine]

autumn’s song

sero x reader

✎ genre: angst, pro hero au? 

✎ warnings: angst, major and implied death

✎ word count: 2.5k

✎ inside scoop: this fic is inspired by autumn’s song by stephen day for more than obvious reasons, and i personally recommend you listen along as you read (you can click here for that). of course you don’t have to if you don’t want to -- whatever optimizes your reading experience. 

on a separate note, i’ll probably get some more time to finish up some pieces this weekend that’s honestly debatable but we’ll see. so if you’d like, you can go ahead and request something. 

✎ synopsis: fall had always been a tough time for sero, seeing that it had always reminded him of you.

the last thing sero ever wanted to do was get so hung up on the past -- it was the last thing you ever wished for him. though it’s tough when everything seems to bring back so many memories. 

even the entire season of fall brought him back to times when you were around. afterall autumn was just filled with so many great memories of your relationship. 

swinging through the awfully familiar city of musutafu, sero can feel the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes -- threatening to roll down his cheeks at any given minute.

the tape hero stops at the next post available. he lifts off his helmet in order to take in some of the fresh air. that cold, crisp atmosphere hits sero’s tear-stained cheeks, along with reels of unwanted memories.

he does his best to suppress those reminders of what once was -- at the very least keeping them tucked in the farthest part of his mind so that he can finish up his patrol. 

“great,” he utters. just as sero thought he could escape his little swamp of thoughts, he realizes his surroundings -- far too familiar for his own comfort. he looks down, only to see your favorite, seasonal spot, surprised that it was still running its usual business after all this time. 

right as the hero boarded up those old memories, the floodgates seem open right back up. this time hitting him harder than the bullet trains running all through japan. 

sero felt the wind cascade through his long hair, tickling the back of his neck. he felt your hand in his own -- fingers intertwined. the sound of leaves crunching filled his ears with every step along this newer, unknown path. 

your destination, to you, was a mystery -- a surprise actually. sero had always seemed to cross paths with this little cafe on his way to pick you up from your hero work. he was actually quite alarmed, when you said you hadn't heard of it since you passed by almost everyday. 

well, sero gave you the benefit of the doubt considering it was a small place -- family-owned he assumed. a quaint little shop, lodged between two much taller, corporate buildings. in short: it was very easy to skip past the place. 

when the two of you had stepped inside, you were greeted with a sense of shelter from the cold, bitter outside. that smell of sweet pastries filled your numbed noses. the space was a lot smaller than it appeared to be.

it was empty too, the only other people inside were an older couple, but they didn’t seem much older than the two of you. 

the older man wore a mossy green cap, despite there being no sun needed to be shielded from. a narrow, grey streak weaved through the woman’s hair, contrasting its natural, dark tones. it was pretty, representing the wisdom she gained in her years of living. 

“ah welcome,” a voice called out. it was the older woman’s voice -- smooth and sweet like honey. “what a lovely young couple,” she mentioned, “you two must’ve been dating for quite a while, yeah?”  her question earned a rosy shade from sero’s cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears; and a nervous chuckle was all you could seem to muster up. 

“you don’t have to answer her,” the older man, who was presumed to be the woman’s husband, interrupted. just by listening to the tone in his voice alone, sero could tell the man was clearly displeased with the woman’s antics. 

the older woman gestured for the two of you to come inside. “we don’t get too many people coming by,” she spoke. “i think that’s obvious,” her husband interjected. 

the wife gestured to you two to come in, she made the both of you feel very welcomed -- like a part of their little family. “we’re glad you chose to stay” the husband observed, “we’re the kokawa’s by the way.”

the lady maneuvered around the tables, claiming that the one directly in the center was the most perfect. she handed you two some paper menus as you sat down and got yourselves comfortable. “thank you kokawa-sama” sero thanked, scanning over some of his options. 

“please, call me chiyoko,” the older woman requested, “and that is isamu.” she was very casual, inviting you to use both her and her husband’s first names. in return, you had offered your names to the couple, “i’m (y/n), and that’s hanta.” sero felt so giddy inside when you pronounced his name, like a little kid on the swing set. it was just that he always loved how his name rolled off your tongue. 

chiyoko shared some of the couple’s favorite items with the two of you, “i recommend the yuzu honey, it can be served hot or cold,” she explained, “the hojicha is a favorite of isamu’s; though, i would only indulge after a big meal.”

your eyes seemed to have lit up at something chiyoko recommended, and sero knew exactly what it was. given the two of you had been dating for a year or so, he was able to read you like the back of his hand. 

“i think the yuzu honey sounds great,” you ordered -- just as sero predicted, a silly, little smirk gracing his lips. he knew how much you loved that sweet, citrus tea rain or shine. “and what about you?” chiyoko had seemed to catch sero off guard. “i, uh, yuzu honey as well please,” he uttered. 

“so the two yuzu honey? that’s all?” chiyoko affirms. you respond with a small nod. 

the older woman takes the menus and walks to the back, leaving the two of you alone for a moment. “thank you hanta,” you expressed. “what for?” the male asks, hints of confusion littered in his voice. “this,” you answered, “we haven’t spent quality time like this in a while.” 

there was a pause in your words, and you reached out for sero’s hand across the table. “i’m sorry,” you muttered. when you looked up, your boyfriend noticed the glassiness layered over top your eyes. 

“don’t be,” he assures, “we’ve been really busy lately, you know, saving the city.” his signature proud, triangular smile lit up the room. “but i’m glad we can spend some time together every now and then,” sero adds, giving your hand a tight squeeze. 

you found so much comfort in his words -- it was like he knew exactly what to say. 

“ahem,” isamu grunted. he was holding a small tray with two cups of tea balanced on top. from the background you could hear chiyoko scolding her husband, “isamu, quit being so impatient. can’t you see they’re having such a sweet moment.” you watched as she discarded a lonesome tear. 

isamu took the cups from the little tray and gently placed them on the table. “don’t worry about it,” sero assured, followed with a light-hearted chuckle; your lips shifted into a simple little smirk. 

you took a small little sip of the tea from the cup, your expression perking up almost immediately -- like a small dog wagging their little tail. the steam from the cup warmed up your face as well. sero took a swig of his tea, and he tasted the bright flavors of the yuzu, which contrasted the duller shades of autumn. 

“enjoy?” the older woman asked. your small, little smirk spread into a smile. “very much,” you responded. 

while you continued to sip on your drinks, chiyoko even brought out albums of countless, old photos of the life her and isamu had shared. it was a life sero only wished he’d be able to share with you. 

but things aren’t always so simple -- they always say all good things must come to an end, right?

it was the first day of fall following summer -- the weather was much cooler than the previous days. some people even claimed it to be an ominous sign. the wind threatened to pull trees from their roots, the fog made it difficult to see nearly five feet ahead.

but sero continued to fight the both wind and the fog. he rushed through the city, because he knew what was at stake. cellophane had been called onto the scene to support a mission gone awry -- your mission that had gone awry. 

the closer sero got, the more he could see how disastrous the mission had gone. what was once a tall standing building, now turned to nothing but rubble. heroes from all over the board came to offer any sort of assistance.

though he could barely recognize them, but sero even saw some of his old high school classmates coming to the rescue. 

he watched as the tentacle hero, tentacole, brought the leftover civilians to safety, being sure to shield them from any of ground zero and gale force’s uncontrollable blasts of power. uravity, sugar rush, and battle fist had been maneuvering larger masses in order to find anyone hidden in the debris, while alien queen melted away the concrete and steel. 

even sero’s former teacher, eraserhead, worked with the underground hero, mind jack, to round up the last of the villains. 

as soon as the tape hero swung onto the scene, he found the nearest person he could ask for help. he figured top hero creati was sure to know where you could be. “mo-creati,” cellophane announced, granting him the creation hero’s attention. “have you seen them?” he questioned.

the least she gave him was a shake of her head. “i’m sorry,” the creation hero began, “we don’t know of their whereabouts as of right now.” though she made it seem that she was composed under the frantic situation, creati was just as scared as cellophane. 

from then sero did one of the most unprofessional, irrational things a hero could do and run straight into the chaos without any other instruction. it was against protocol -- it was against his own rules, but he was desperate to know if you were safe.  

“cellophane!” another hero called out. it was red riot, a former classmate and a close friend. the bmi hero, fat gum, followed close behind. 

sero gripped both of his red-haired pal’s sturdy shoulders. “please,” the hero’s voice began to grow desperate, “please tell me you’ve seen them.”

“no,” the red-head answered. sero began to drown himself in his own thoughts. where on earth could you be? were you even alright? you had to be. he thought. “but the last anyone has heard or seen from them was over that away,” red riot pointed out.

cellophane gave his buddy a simple nod as a sign of appreciation, before proceeding down the path he had pointed out. 

as he continued in that direction, the tape hero stumbled across a body, which laid dormant and defeated in front of him. he recognized the definable features to be yours, eyes growing wide at the sight. despair washed over sero at his discovery. 

‘no it isn’t,’ he thought, ‘it can’t possibly be them. is it?’ sero knew there was only one possible way to answer that question -- a question he wished he would never have to answer. 

it was almost like his legs took root in the ground below, his knees pulled him to the ground like heavy rocks. sero felt himself sinking into the ground. 

“(y/n)?” he whispered. the warmth of his arms contrasted that of the body held between them. 

a silent bubble formed around the two of you, but all sero wished for was to hear your voice. he wanted that voice to tell him that everything would all be okay. that things would soon go back to normal -- though he knew they wouldn’t. 

“hanta, say something. please,” you begged, your words filling that silence, “let me hear your voice once more.”

nothing. unlike the countless times before, sero didn’t know what to say. he simply just didn’t have the right words. 

you had brought your hand up to hold onto sero’s cheek, and he felt the warmth begin to fade. “hanta,” you spoke out, barely even whispering. every breath containing less and less life in it. 

“(y/n). . .” he whimpered, but it was too late. your hand dropped due to the lack of life in it. “(y/n)” he continued, “(y/n), please, (y/n)!” the tears finally began to fall, with no sign of stopping anytime soon. 

“don’t leave me,” he pleaded, “don’t leave me without saying goodbye.” 

there was no response. 

“you promised,” the words echoed through the open space, “you promised.”

that day japan lost a strong hero, and sero lost an even stronger love. 

just about two autumns have passed since your incident, and there isn’t a day that goes by where sero doesn’t think about how things might’ve been if you were still around. 

he wonders if you would still have been the same person you were back then. he wonders what would have changed. what would have stayed the same?

but sero knows he can’t get so hung up on the what if’s, because they aren’t the reality -- a reality without you around anymore. 

the wind hits the back of sero’s neck, and it brings him back to that first time he walked down this once familiar path. however, this time he can only wish that you were still by his side, accompanying him. 

when the male stepps inside, he’s hit with that same warmth once more. just this time he can tell that something was the slightest bit off. 

a voice calls out -- isamu, “long time no see.” a long time it indeed had been -- just about two years to be exact.

since the tragedy had struck, sero hadn’t come back to the little cafe; however, the male figured he’d stop by while he was already in the area. at least to say his hello’s to the couple if nothing else.

the older woman, chiyoko, emerges from the back room, a tray in her hands. her eyes grow wide, like she some sort of apparition stood in front of her. “welcome back,” chiyoko greets. a relieving smile shifts onto her face. it makes sero feel at home -- the most at home he’s felt in a little while. “please come sit,” isamu insists. 

sero does as he’s told, walking toward the center of the cafe -- the best seat in the house. it reminds him of that first time he visited with you. 

chiyoko comes by the table with a small cup in hand. “yuzu honey?” she offers, “it’s on the house.” sero gives the woman a simple little nod, taking the offering from her. as he sips on what once was your favorite beverage, he tastes that bright, citrus flavor. that flavor you had fallen in love with all that time ago. 

“how’s (y/n) doing?” chiyoko questions. she was always a very curious woman and probably couldn’t help but ask. sero could hear isamu grunting from behind, attempting to signal to chiyoko that she may have overstepped her boundaries. 

“it’s alright,” sero utters, “they-” 

he can’t even give the older couple a proper answer. so instead, sero put on that signature, triangular smile -- like a mask, covering the deep, twisted despair inside. he took a deep inhale and lied.  

“they’ve been doing well,” he wished.

[seasonsofeverlark]

Apple Cinnamon Buns

Author: @hutchhitched​

Prompt: visual prompt [submitted by @mandelion82​]

Rating: T

Summary: Katniss and Prim enjoy a late fall day at a Christmas market when Katniss discovers a booth that sells the most delicious treats and run by a delectable man with deep blue eyes and wavy blonde hair.

Author’s Note: Visual prompt under the cut.

_________

Katniss shivered and tugged her fleece jacket tighter around her shoulders. She was used to being up this early but not surrounded by people at this hour. The sun was barely over the horizon, but Panem’s Harvest Festival was already in full swing. Prim, her little sister, bopped along beside her, a grin on her face, as the Everdeen sisters prepared to take the world by storm.

Or attempt to get ahead on Christmas shopping, at least. It wasn’t that serious.

“Who do you have to shop for?” Prim asked, yawning as she spoke. She wasn’t a morning person, and the fact that she’d pestered Katniss for weeks to attend as well as gotten up early when she didn’t have to was evidence enough the Harvest Festival was important to her.

“Not too many,” Katniss answered, rolling her Christmas list like a movie trailer in her head. “Gale, Mom, Uncle Haymtich, you. The usual.”

“Gale, huh? Is that because…”

“We’re just friends, Prim. I’ve told you that a million times,” Katniss insisted. “I’m not interested in anything else. Neither is he. I’m like his little sister. He doesn’t look at me that way.”

“Maybe you’re not interested in anything else, but I’m about a thousand percent sure that he wants more than friendship from you.”

“Whatever.”

Katniss didn’t mean to be dismissive, but what Prim said just wasn’t true. Gale and she had been best friends for years, and there’d been nothing between them other than a deep friendship the entire time.

“Agree to disagree,” Prim chirped, thoroughly unconcerned. “I have to get something for Mom and Haymitch, too. Let’s work on those, and then we can take off on our own to finish shopping. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

They ambled together, strolling through the stalls, checking out crafts and decorations and all sorts of unusual things Katniss would never have thought would make good gifts until she saw them. They decided on an antique brandy snifter for their uncle and a basket of pampering products for their mother before separating to shop for each other. Katniss had just found and purchased a really cool pocketknife for Gale and the softest pair of cashmere gloves for Prim when she turned the corner and spied a refreshment stand. Her stomach rumbled at the sight.

“Oh, I need some of that,” Katniss murmured, her eyes wide.

She approached slowly, reading signs and sniffing the different aromas that wafted from the stand. Drawn by the promise of something delicious, she drifted close before stopping and staring. She could almost swear she was under a magical spell. Another customer jostled her as she stood, and she shook herself. Just then, she heard a deep voice, sweet and spicy like pumpkin pie.

“Can I help you?”

Katniss locked eyes with the man behind the counter, her eyes captured by his deep blue gaze. Kindness danced there and life and contentment. She wasn’t sure what he was selling, but she wanted all of it.

“I’m— I’m not sure,” she answered, moving a little closer and returning his wide smile. White teeth glimmered behind full, pink, kissable lips. Ashy blonde hair flopped in waves over his forehead, and he tossed his head to get it out of his eyes. Sapphire eyes deep as the mines from which they came sparkled. She wanted to tumble into them and fall forever.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” he asked.

“Yes,” came her immediate response before she blushed bright red. His smirk indicated he understood she’d been talking about another kind of hunger.

“If you want a little something of both, I can make suggestions.”

She nodded, eager for him to keep speaking, craving the sound of the rumbled baritone that filled her ears when he addressed her. Her eyes roved over broad shoulders under red and baby blue flannel sleeves that were rolled up to reveal strong forearms ending in masculine hands with long, tapered fingers. Artist’s hands, she thought. They had to be. When they gestured, she remembered he was talking and snapped to attention.

“Do you like sweet or savory?”

Katniss gaped at him, unable to speak. There was something about the way he’d said the word sweet that made her want to climb over the counter and jump him. Since that was completely inappropriate, she forced herself to answer.

“It depends. I like a little of both.”

His pupils contracted, and he cleared his throat. “Well, we’re known for our apple cinnamon buns, which you can see on the sign down in front. I’d suggest trying one with a scoop of ice cream, but we also have cheese buns if you’d rather try something savory.”

She hesitated, tempted by the idea of cheese buns because they sounded overly delicious, but if they were known for something else, who was she to turn it down?

“I’ll take the apple cinnamon bun, please.”

“Ice cream?”

“I guess?”

He studied her. “Yes, I think so. You’ll enjoy it more that way, I think. Very creamy. Evens out the texture and mixes well with the tartness of the apples. Or we have apple crisp, if that’s more to your liking.”

“No, I like buns,” she blurted and felt her face grow even hotter.

“Funny,” he said with a smile, “so do I. Now, for the drink. That’s harder. We have so many options, and you look like you’d appreciate several of them. My first instinct is apple cider, but that’s a lot of apple going on at once. What about hot chocolate? I think that could be more your thing.”

“I love hot chocolate,” she admitted with a grin. “It’s my favorite.”

“That doesn’t surprise me somehow. You have that look.”

“What look is that?” she asked and was mildly surprised it sounded a little bit like flirting. “Hot? Or Chocolate?”

Blushing furiously, Peeta stammered an answer. “N-no! Just…you… I meant… Yes, hot— That’s not what I meant. More like sweet. With some substance. God, kill me now.”

“Please let me have my bun and sweetness before you’re murdered.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed at her brazenness. What was up with her? This wasn’t her modus operandi with men. Usually, she kept as far from them as possible unless it was Gale. But there was something about this guy. He was gentle and funny and interesting, and she wanted to keep talking to him forever.

Unfortunately, the woman behind her coughed, indicating her impatience, and he hurried to get her food. His co-worker finished with his customer and motioned to the person behind Katniss in line who flashed a glare as she moved up to the register. Katniss didn’t bother to respond, she remained focused on the man warming up the apple cinnamon bun, topping it with a dollop of ice cream, and pouring a cup of hot chocolate. Before he turned back to the register, he counted out a few marshmallows and then added two more to her drink.

“Here you go,” he said. “That’ll be $7.50.”

Katniss fished in her wallet, produced her debit card, and tried to hand it to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry, but we only take cash.”

Her face drained. She didn’t have any on her. She rarely carried it, and she hadn’t even thought about pulling out any to bring with her today.

“I-I don’t have any. I’m so sorry.”

The other customer left with her food, and his co-worker, likely a relative since they were so similar in appearance, slipped out the back of the booth leaving them alone.

“Don’t worry about it,” he urged softly. “It’s my treat.”

“You can’t!” she protested. “I’ll find my sister and see if she has cash. I’m… This is so humiliating.”

“Hey,” he said, his tone gentle, “it’s my treat. I know you’re going to love this, and word of mouth advertising is worth more than the cost of a bun and drink. Take it. Please.”

“I couldn’t. Seriously.”

“Please. I insist.” She hesitated for several moments, until he confessed, “Please, because if you wait much longer, my brother’s going to be back, and he’ll see what I’m doing. He can be, uh, a bit of a jerk, so you’d really be doing me a favor.”

She inhaled and held it for a beat before accepting his offering. “Thank you, uh…?”

“Peeta,” he said with a smile. “Peeta Mellark. This is my family’s booth.”

“Katniss Everdeen. Merely a customer at Panem’s Harvest Festival.”

“Well, I’m glad you chose to patron us. It’s been a highlight of the weekend, so far.”

Peeta’s brother returned, and he straightened, standing upright instead of leaning toward her over the counter. “Come by again before you leave,” he suggested. “I’d love to meet your sister.”

Katniss backed away with a nod of thanks. He obviously didn’t feel comfortable continuing the conversation with his brother next to him, so she decided to take the win and go. Glancing at the time, she realized she should be thinking about meeting up with Prim soon. First, though, she was going to eat her apple cinnamon bun and drink her hot chocolate.

The first spoonful melted on her tongue, and she released an indecent moan that would have horrified her if she hadn’t been in the throes of an orgasm in her mouth. There wasn’t a word to describe the explosion on her taste buds, but it was something to the effect of every superlative she could imagine. The hot chocolate was even better. She briefly considered selling herself on the street to get another cup.

“What are you doing?” Prim asked when they met up again. Katniss sat in a stupor, high on sugar and calculating how much more she could eat without quadrupling her daily caloric intake.

“How much cash do you have on you?” she demanded, eyes rolling.

Confused, Prim stared at her. “Why?

“There’s this booth. Best thing ever. Have to go back. They only take cash.” The words tumbled out in a half-coherent babble, but she didn’t care. She needed more of what Peeta had given her.

“Okay,” Prim agreed, although she flashed Katniss a look that indicated she thought her sister was losing it.

Katniss bounced to her feet and grabbed her purchases. Dragging Prim along by the hand, she wound through the stalls until she found Peeta’s booth again. He was still there, helping customers with a friendly smile.

“Oh,” Prim breathed. “I get it now. He’s gorgeous.”

“His buns are better.”

“Well, I can’t see them from here, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Katniss smacked her on the arm. Indignant, she snapped, “His apple cinnamon buns! Get your head out of the gutter.”

“Hard to keep the thoughts pure when a guy looks like that.”

“You know what, Prim? You’re absolutely right. He’s stunning. Let’s go get some of that.”

Katniss had every intention of laying her hands on more of Peeta’s buns. With any luck, she’d get his phone number, too.

[legolaslovely]

Sticks and Stones

A/N: Happy Kíli Ktuesday! It’s been too long since I spent some alone time ;) with this sweetheart. This was not meant to be smutty, but alas! He demanded it. Hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Thank you to @dreams-of-wander​ for indulging my Kíli love in our long chats and prompting this Iron Hills journey! <3

Pairing: Kíli x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,338

Warnings/Tags: Rated Explicit, sappy smut, comfort, fluff

Summary: Kíli is welcomed home after a long month away.

Link to this photoset

She did not expect Kíli to make love to her tonight.

He’d returned only yesterday from a four week trip to the Iron Hills. It was more than just a family visit. Kíli was sent alone- as alone as he could be with a full entourage behind him- to discuss extra tariffs on traded goods and tolls on the routes between Erebor and the Iron Hills. He and Fíli agreed that the two realms should have a friendlier relationship between their craftsman and merchants. Dain disagreed and, despite being family and a superb leader of his own people, was incredibly stubborn. Ironfoot indeed. Because of prolonged discussions, the planned week long stay warped into two. 

“Then you should have seen the winter storm Mahal threw at us halfway through the journey home,” Kíli had told (Y/N) in their bed the night he’d returned. He only divested details of the trip after two rounds of passionate, bed creaking, linen ruining love making. She wrapped her arms around him as if to warm him from the treacherous gale in his story as he continued.

“You would have loved all the snow, amrâlimê. But it was troublesome- so deep not even the ponies could trudge through it and so heavy no dwarf could clear enough of it to make a hair of headway. The only option was to wait out the storm.” He looked down at her in his arms. “I know you love the snow but I despise it for keeping me from you for so much longer than planned.”

“You’re here now,” she said. “Safe.”

He kissed her. “Safe in your arms, yes.” He relished her laugh as he tucked his head down into her shoulder, playing at the affection he always felt when she held him so close.

The tales and intimacy were expected and welcomed on the night he returned. However, the next night, after weeks of travel, endless early morning council meetings and a late night together, (Y/N) planned to allow Kíli some time and space for some well deserved rest. 

He’d left before dawn that morning for the throne room where he, Fíli, Thorin and his advisors would discuss plans for the upcoming spring. Crucial preparations must be carefully made for the busiest time of the year when market days turned into full weeks, trade blossomed, and the heavier hunting season began. 

(Y/N) knew there was much to do and yet concern coiled in her gut as she watched the setting sun pass by her window. She ate supper alone. That’s what she would tell Kíli, but truthfully, she only nibbled, unable to shift her thoughts from what her love must be doing. Had he any chance to eat today? Or was he too distracted by laws and finances and resources to notice his nauseous stomach rumbling? She set most of her own dinner aside for him in the ice box to eat if he so desired when he returned.

She lit the candles alone. She bathed alone. It was as if Kíli had never returned. 

She did not, however, turn down the bed. Instead she sat on the neatly made furs and caught up on some reading. She would tell Kíli exactly that- she was so invested and distracted by this incredible book that she couldn’t bear to close it and sleep. She would not tell him that she refused to lie in their bed one more night without him, that it was too cold and too lonely. She’d simply wait for him and ignore how weak it all made her feel.

It felt as if hours had passed and she had turned the page of her book just twice. She’d memorized the first sentence of one of the paragraphs after reading it over and over again when she caught her mind wandering. 

She read of birds. She thought of a raven. Raven hair she twisted and tied back every morning, clasping it with a silver courting bead. Stubborn dark locks that fell over eyes like feathers- never blocking, only framing. Rough stubble that scratched her cheeks and fingertips. Curls that traveled over porcelain skin and peeked around clothes and tickled her nose. 

She read about castles. She thought of protection. A sharp mind and strong body that fought to keep its people safe from any threat in or outside of the realm’s borders. Broad chest and tapered back that held a bow string taught with enough resistance to speed straight through a warg’s skull. Arms that surrounded her, holding his body just above hers for long hours of the night and into the morning.

It was when she read about music that she closed her book, but the thoughts crept through the cracks in her worn shield and attacked her heart and pulled at her core. Belly laughs that shook his entire body, morning growls about early meetings that could rival a grizzly’s, soft hums and content sighs that celebrated her name.

She rolled off the bed in defeat and replaced the book on the shelf. 

“What are you doing awake?”

Kíli was standing in the doorway. He’d had a silent entrance, careful not to wake his love, but the effort was all for nothing. She wasn’t asleep.

“I was just going to bed,” she said, extinguishing some of the candles. “I was reading.” She watched him fold his robes over the chair by his desk and kick his boots to the side. He crossed the floor to her like a sweet predator. 

“And what have you been reading?” he asked. His cheek met hers, warmly scratching, and his arms wrapped around her waist. He kissed her neck as she spoke.

“I could have been reading the story of your life with how often my thoughts strayed to you.”

The cool tip of his nose drew a well worn trail up to her ear. “And my council notes could have had your portrait drawn on them with how often I dreamed of your lips. And your cheeks, your nose, your eyes.” He landed light pecks on every feature as he said the words. “I could think of nothing else.”

“Kíli-” Her admonishing faltered when his hands fell to her bottom. She drew away, taking his face in her hands. “You look exhausted, my love.”

“Thank you. And you look absolutely gorgeous.” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Do I?” he asked between kisses. “Because I’ve taken offence. And now you must find a way to seek forgiveness.”

“Kíli-”

“I have a few ideas if you’re lacking.”

She pushed at his chest. “Sit on the bed, you insatiable heathen.”

He gave her a short laugh, though she longed to hear more from him. “Throwing more sticks and stones. Is this how you beg for forgiveness?” He took off his trousers with no further suggestion from her and settled on the bed where she herself was sitting only moments ago, longing for exactly this.

“A lady never begs.” She shed her winter robe, leaving only her soft, thin nightgown to somewhat cover her.

He watched her crawl across the furs to him. “Oh, how easily you forget your words from just last night. ‘Please, Kíli, please, m-’ ”

She kissed him if only to shut him up. Kíli pulled her into his lap, draping her legs over either side of him while his rough fingertips caught on the gown around her hips. She immediately discarded his tunic, leaving him completely bare under her, but Kíli took his time with her covering. 

For a few moments, he enjoyed the thin wall between his thumbs and her peaked nipples, the barely there curtain between her skin and his. He could feel her warmth even through the gown. The thought that he could take it off whenever he wanted was a satisfying thrill until she shifted and the hem tickled and teased his full erection. It made him twitch and it was then that he noticed her lack of underclothes and abundance of arousal. 

He growled her name, bunching the fabric in his fists. He whipped the barrier between them away and even before his hands could return to her, his cock was completely sheathed inside her.

She kissed him through his moan before gently pushing him down to lay back in the pillows. “Relax, my love.”

He fought her. “Amrâlimê, do not make the mistake in thinking I am ever too tired for you.”

“Am I not allowed to admire my own heathen while I make love to him?” She led him down again, this time leaving marks with her lips and teeth along his jaw, neck, and chest. At this new angle, she was able to pay special attention to the tip of Kíli’s length. She teased him the way she knew he loved best: only allowing his soft, wide head in and out of her folds as she kissed, touched, and caressed every inch of the dwarf she cherished.

Kíli, though he savored the attention, the feeling of being treasured, could not take this teasing for long. He thrust up into her, desperate for more, and who was she to deny him? She sat back on him, taking him as deeply as she could, curling her hands into his belly at the sensation. So full. 

But it was Kíli’s expression of desire that sent bolts of arousal through her. This was the face she’d dreamed of all the weeks he was in the Iron Hills. Eyes like pools of ink on the pages of her books. Ravens, castles, and music all before her, right at her fingertips. She stared. Watched as she moved on him and felt his hands reach and tease and knead and caress. Though she set out to be the lover tonight, Kíli always managed to make her feel adored.

His ministrations led her to the edge and neatly pushed her over it. He sat up before her- closer- and she clung to him, using every ounce of strength and determination to continue moving on him. Her walls strangled his cock and her kiss took his breath, but it was her emotion that led him to the highest of peaks. His body contracted and shivered, but he managed to lift her from his length and wrap her hand around his throbbing member.

“Please, amrâlimê, make me come,” he ground out.

She stained his neck with her mark and whispered words of praise and encouragement as she stroked him to completion. Even with her forehead pressed to his skin, she watched his claim on her spatter over her hand and both their bodies. She tenderly wrung him dry and kissed his skin as he glued his body to hers and trusted her to keep him upright. Heavily lidded eyes watched her lick her fingers clean.

“Amrâlimê,” he said, breathless.

“Yes, my love?”

“I forgive you your name calling.”

“Good.” She moved off the bed, ignoring his grabbing and slipping hands. Her legs were wobbly and her knees sore and tired. She chuckled at herself, waving away Kíli’s concerned noise.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Do not move,” she said, swiping more come off her belly. “I won’t have those furs ruined all because I couldn’t turn the bed down. Stop moving!”

“Wha- (Y/N), it is not your job to clean up my mess.”

She left anyway, ducking into the washroom to dunk a cloth into the basin. “The mess that I made, thank you very much.”

She heard him laugh. “Yes.”

As she crossed the cool floor of the chambers, the patter of her feet cued Kíli to open his eyes. They barely obeyed him and drooped like an old hound’s. Now that she wasn’t distracted by the desire there, she noticed the dark circles just above his cheeks. Since she and Kíli began their courting, she’d learned to dread the coming of spring. This was the time of year Kíli’s sense of duty came before any inkling of self care. 

She reached for him, but his hand stopped the cloth from touching his skin. Before he could say anything, she cursed him. “Will you just sit there and let me do this for you? You’re so exhausted you look like the undead. You look like Thorin.”

His eyes blew wide and looked more like they actually belonged to him. “How dare you?” 

“It’s true!” she laughed. “And these days you’re getting more and more like him, you stubborn thing!” She pinned his hands down the best she could and swiped away the stickiness. When she was done, Kíli threw the cloth in the general direction of the washroom and pulled her body over his and onto the bed in a flourish.

“Good gracious, amrâlimê! As soon as you clear the slate, you insult me again. How will you make it up to me this time?”

“I will think.”

“It better be good.” He kissed her.

“Well, it will only happen after you get some rest and I’m much too lazy to turn the bed down now, so you’d better get used to sleeping on furs.”

“Good thing you kept them clean, then,” Kíli said, pulling one of the heavier blankets over them both and taking (Y/N) in his arms again. “I was surprised to see you hadn’t climbed in bed yet. I know how you enjoy reading under the covers when it’s cold like this.”

She hummed.

“Why didn’t you?”

She deflated, feeling as pitiful as she did when Kíli first went away and left her in their bed alone. “You weren’t here.”

Under her head, she felt his chest freeze as his breath caught. Then he rolled over her and ran his fingertips down her cheek. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

She made a show of a sigh. “Yes. But it’s been hours since.”

He kissed her. “I love you very much, amrâlimê. Name calling and all.”

“And I love you very much, you stubborn, insatiable heathen.”

***

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[hockeysweetheart]

Peeta, Who spends much of the night roaming the train, Hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then climbs into bed to told me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But everynight I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other’s arms, guiarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else Happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train.

When Effie brings it up to me , I think, Good. Maybe it will get back to President Snow. I tell her we’ll make an effort to be more discreet, but we don’t.

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home.

My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I'm so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs. He tucks me in and says good night but I catch his hand and hold him there. A side effect of the sleep syrup is that it makes people less inhibited, like white liquor, and I know I have to control my tongue. But I don't want him to go. In fact, I want him to climb in with me, to be there when the nightmares hit tonight. For some reason that I can't quite form, I know I'm not allowed to ask that. "Don't go yet. Not until I fall asleep," I say. Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. "Almost thought you'd changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner." I'm foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I'd made a run for it, maybe with Gale. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?"

"I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies.

"Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.

It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows.

"No nightmares," he says.

"No nightmares," I confirm. "You?"

"None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.

We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled.

"Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves."

"It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully.

"Who says we can't?" he asks.

The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.

No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask.

"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.

Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."

I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?"

"I'll allow it," I say.

His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says.

"Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.

We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us.

"I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.

We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.

The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest. Cinna and Portia arrive with the dawn, and I know Peeta will have to go. Tributes enter the arena alone. He gives me a light kiss. "See you soon," he says.

You love me real or not real. Real

[cinna-wanroll]

"it's okay to cry in front of me, you know. you don't have to carry this alone."

You know that feeling when you’re so tired that you know you can’t make yourself get up, can’t force yourself to move, but there’s that nagging discomfort that continues to return, over and over again until you have to give in? 

It was the ache in Satine’s bones as she laid across the sand in the freezing desert night, longing to curl up with something- or someone- else but not having the emotional or physical capacity. Her fingers had gone numb, her toes curled into the worn toe of her boots as she shivered, silent and miserable, in place. 

Underneath the open sky, she and her Jedi protectors laid strewn out, all too tired to have made a fire or made any sort of camp, Qui-Gon’s breathing ragged and uneven as Obi-Wan shuffled anxiously somewhere nearby. Her back might’ve been to him, but she could feel his emotions, his worry and his restlessness. In part because she shared the same feelings, but also because by now she just knew him. There was a part of him now that almost was her, a vast complex of feelings not usually expressed outwardly by the young Jedi.

She shifted onto her back, crossing her hands on her stomach and staring out at the empty darkness that swallowed any light and covered the stars with clouds. The wind picked up it’s pace, teasing her strands of hair out and across her face, obscuring her vision. She ceased her shaking, and closed her eyes against the chilling gust. She felt so alone, so forsaken by the land that surrounded her, so empty and exhausted. 

But too worried to fall asleep. 

Many nights of a let-down guard had taught her better than to let herself drift now, so she was left feeling the sting of a rough wind against her flushed cheeks and the coarseness of sand beneath her. 

Ancient Mando’a tales when she was younger had taught her that the wind would whisper secrets sometimes, if you just listened hard enough. So it was to her dreary state a simple escape from reality, if only for just a brief moment. She closed her eyes but tried not to breath in too deep, knowing that the air would certainly be clogged with gritty particles. No, instead she held her breath completely and listened. 

A storm was coming, she realized as the whistling of the wind changed to a low rumble, and a heavy tone rang across the desert. It took a moment for her tired mind to piece all the clues together, what with the towering dark clouds that clogged the sky and the speed of the gale that brushed the dunes. The low moan of it now crescendoed, and she had to turn back over and cover her ears, pressing her eyes tightly closed and hoping, just hoping, she would make it through another night without facing another disaster- whether of nature or of other force. 

Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes, and she covered her mouth with her free hand, trying hard not to make a sound. 

She was reminded of a night that took place long ago, back when she was six years old. She had been curled up with Bo in her room, while her father was off to go fight somewhere, her mother staying with the two girls. She had been holding a flickering candle, the only living source of light left for them to see by, the only thing distracting the young sisters from breaking down. The downpour pelted at the walls and some of the last desert trees broke apart and flung themselves at their home, along with the rest of nature. 

Satine was quite certain the Force simply enjoyed to watch her suffer.

But instead of worry about the hurricane that raged outside and in her heart, she had tucked herself close to mother, scanning along as D’sarra Kryze read fables and stories of far-off worlds. Stories that promised a better future, stories that told of princes and valiant knights come to rescue their true loves and of framers that became the best pilots the galaxy had ever known. And one she loved in particular, The Bread Gift. Or, in Mando’a; Te shuner dinui. It was about a young boy who learned to make bread in a poor country, and he helped the people grow into wealth and prosperity. When he died, all he asked was that his tradition of bread was kept, so that way if the country ever fell into despair once more there would always be hope for a better future.

Bo had never enjoyed such tales, and Satine could remember her sister’s fits of outrage and frustration at never being able to understand the tales. The younger girl would bang her fists on the ground, cry and cry, all because she felt put-out. Bo-Katan Kryze could scale mountains and shoot a mynock from a tree, but when it came to connections and a focus on the big picture, Satine knew her sister struggled. 

Bo always knew how to get what she wanted to in the moment, what seemed right when she needed it to be right. Leading on a whim and a fiery spirit, leading with the unrest of the people rather than thinking about if the people knew what they wanted or needed in the first place. Satine had always thought differently, with compassion and care, never rushing in and always holding true to her own vision, never stirred by the notion of doubt that she wasn’t trying her best for the people she cared for. Because she knew that she was. She’d always hoped Bo would one day discover that same courage within her, even though they stood apart on many ideas. 

But on that particular night, her mother was trying to comfort the upset girl and Satine sat alone, curled up and trying to study the picture of a young hero in a cape. That was when her light had been blown out as the wind roared even higher than before, and she could remember going still, a huge crack of lightning shaking the room. 

She felt the same fear and despair now, the images of pitch-black darkness making her curl up in on herself further. 

Alone, alone, and forgotten-

A warm presence curled up beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist.

She turned around, face-to-face with Obi-Wan, her dashing hero here to save her once more. She held back her tears, trying not to let him know how afraid she was.

“Shh,” he soothed, brushing a rough palm across her cheek, “it’s just a storm. It’ll pass. It’ll pass and it’ll all be over soon, I promise.”

She just looked at him weakly, his eyes the only lights she could find, his warmth the comfort she’d needed. 

She sniffed.

His eyebrows knitted together in concern with that, his hand reaching down to grab hers, tracing across her knuckles lightly, “What’s wrong Tracinya?”

She cast her gaze down, to where his fingers continued to brush against hers.

"It's okay to cry in front of me, you know. You don't have to carry this alone."

With that, she broke, crying into his chest and curling as close to him as she possibly could.

“Ben, Nau, I’m so afraid.”

His voice deepened with his concern, “Why? Because of the hunters?”

She shook her head, mumbling, “I’m afraid I’ll never get to be there for my people. And I’m afraid that if I am, I’ll just fail anyway.” 

He fell silent for a moment, his chest moving up and down in a deep, steady rhythm.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said finally, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

She cast him a puzzled expression, her eyes still full of tears the notion seemed so ridiculous to her, so foreign that she couldn’t even compose a complete list of why that was so wrong.

But he smiled so softly, so knowingly that she said nothing, waiting for his reassurance, for his advice.

“Satine, you have endured so much for your people. Just being here, on this mission, risking yourself time and time again but refusing to stop fighting for what you believe in- it shows that no matter what, you’ll make it through with everyone in tact. It shows above all, a rare courage that I’ve seen in the greatest of Jedi masters,” his kind gaze lingered, ever-searching as he continued, “you may let this,” he placed a hand over her heart, making it skip a beat, “get in the way of this,” he pointed to her head, grinning, “but even an out-of-control fire will blaze bright enough for even the lost souls to see.”

She smiled gently, placing her hand atop his, still pressed against her thundering heartbeat, “Well, until it gets too close for comfort. Then they just try to fight it.”

Obi-Wan nodded his head, “yes, well, I recommend you keep this,” he took his hand from under hers and brushed the tip of his thumb across the bottom of her lips, “in check then, Tracinya.”

She scoffed at him, batting him across the chest. His eyes glittered with playfulness, the first raindrops that fell upon his face adding a kind of glistening effect to him. 

Here is where she belonged, of all the places to be caught in a storm, she couldn’t complain about this one. 

Something in the back of her mind told her she couldn’t move, even as she felt her eyes fluttering closed, as she felt him draw closer. 

Her breathing became quicker, feeling his forehead press against hers. Usually this is where they would leave things off, a soft tap of foreheads and then retreating back to their respective quarters, but this time Obi-Wan pulled her closer against him, hand gripping tightly at her waist. 

She almost forgot how to operate for a moment, almost forgot about the cold and the storm, only feeling his breath against her and the racing of her heart with his, the ghost feeling of his thumb against her lips still lingering. 

If they were going to do this, she knew in her heart she couldn’t be the spark- that she would have to wait for him to strike the match and light the flame. Even though it ached as his face hovered mere centimeters from hers- almost as though she could feel every part of him against her, yet she held completely still, waiting for him. 

She felt, saw in her mind, his eyes sweeping over her face, tracing her outline and trying to make that enough. She opened her eyes to return his gaze, letting him know that whatever happened, it was alright. They laid like that for a moment, trying their best to not just feel each other, but to also understand one another. Where they both were- what they wanted, what they needed, and where both of them were going. 

They were silent in the thick of the storm, being as one and feeling as though they were all that existed, as though their shared pain, their shared love, was what threaded the very tapestry of their universe. 

And it was, as she watched all the pain and worry and uncertainty leave his eyes, almost not noticing the moment his lips touched hers, tender and deep.

She let her eyes close once more, a single delicate hand caressing his face, pulling him in closer. A final sign of surrender as he deepened the kiss, pressing as close to her as possible through their soaked tunics and wet hair.

She felt his tongue against her bottom lip and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he rolled atop her.

Her mind couldn’t seem to focus, although she felt herself smiling against his kiss. 

The stayed that way for a while, lips gliding across one another in the rain, with Obi-Wan pressing against her and Satine feeling as though she might sink into the now soft, wet sand. 

Eventually his kisses became more desperate instead of deep, and Satine knew there wasn’t much time before Qui-Gon arose and decided they should seek shelter.

With reluctance, she pushed against his chest gently, urging him off of her. 

He ignored her urge, but stopped kissing her for a moment, touching the bridge of his nose to hers, so he could feel her breath and take a moment to recompose himself.

His breathing was ragged and unsteady as he kissed her cheek gently.

“Satine,” he whispered into her ear, closing his eyes for a moment. 

She didn’t know if he was addressing her or simply saying her name, but she asked anyways, “What?”

He bent down further, placing a kiss to her neck where he knew her pulse was.

She gasped softly and he drew back, cupping her cheek, “Thank you.”

Satine felt her cheeks grow hot, and she smiled, “You’re welcome, but I hardly think you should be thanking me.”

He quirked a brow, unable to stop himself from placing one last, quick kiss to her lips, “Oh?”

“I should be thanking you- for comforting me,” she said, sitting up an placing a hand over his heart the same way he had done to her earlier, “you are my rock, and I- thank you. Just, for this. For letting us- well, I’m not sure. But, I- I do-” she paused, unsure if her next words were a part of the out-of-control fire Obi-Wan had mentioned earlier. 

But she decided she didn’t care as she pressed his forehead to his, not taking her hand away from his chest, “I do love you. Even if you can’t say it- I need you to know- I just-” 

He grabbed her hand with both of his keeping it in place and leaning forwards, “I know.”

Those two words meant everything in that moment, and she realized that they were the ones she was looking for. Not a declaration of I love you- that would tear her apart inside- but a validation that she wasn’t alone, a comfort and a reassurance. 

She saw him blush and look down, even in the rain. 

“What is it?” 

He bit his lip, his solemn look turning into a shy little smile.

“Should we- should we do this again sometime?”

Satine felt her heart stop for a moment; he wanted to do this again. 

But her heart sank as she realized the implications of any further action, of any further confessions, and her gaze darkened. 

“No.”

Shock was written across his face, he looked as though she’d stricken him. 

“What?”

She looked away, not willing to meet his gaze, “No. We can’t, and we shouldn’t.”

“But- why?”

Satine grimaced and stood, “You know perfectly well why, Be- Obi-Wan.”

“But we’ve already gone this far, Satine.”

“And that is exactly why we cannot allow this to continue,” she crossed her arms, dejected and lost, letting the heavy raindrops weigh her down and blur her vision, to paste her hair across her face and disguise her turmoil and tears as their own. 

Before he could say anything more, she walked away towards Qui-Gon, 

“Satine, Satine please wait,” he sounded like he was in so much pain and she felt her heart shatter, even as she knelt down to shake Qui-Gon awake. 

I’m sorry, she mouthed through the haze of darkness and rain and thunderclaps, I hope you know I’m doing this because I love you.

(Satine calls Obi-Wan light; Nau and Obi-Wan calls Satine flame; Tracinya)

[catboysimulator]

Story Five - Swirling Sand and Lightning Strikes

The day seemed like any regular down in the Sagolii desert, Azeyma beating down on the arid environment while the people tried to remain cool during the weather. Most of the miqo'te were within their adobe homes, trying to keep cool while others still continued to work anyway, making sure to keep hydrated as they did so. 

Dhezi was up on the roof of one of the buildings, fixing the hatching and doing some repairs on the adobe, Tani lending him a hand by passing him clay and straw, and also making sure the ladder was nice and sturdy against the building. "Ugh, thanks, primo. I owe ya some drinks, y'know? Y'really have no idea how grateful I am to ya fer offerin' ta get up there, b'cause I sure as hells can't stomach it," Tani groaned while Dhezi merely chuckled with a grin. "S'no problem at all," he assured.

Though, as they were working, they then heard a loud rumble resound through the caves. Tani stood straight as his ears perked and pivoted, listening out for further sounds before sounding out a call of alarm that rang throughout their home. Dhezi blinked and looked around, watching as everyone ran away from their work and the springs, back into their home. "-- What's goin' on? Tani?" he asked, while Tani held onto the bottom of the ladder. "Come down, primo, there's a sandstorm comin'. I'm gonna need yer help coverin' up Azeyma's watch with Maryn," she states. Dhezi wasted no time in climbing back down, rushing over to meet with the Amarila leader. 

"Papa!" Tani called out, "sandstorm comin' in, 'nd I think it's bringin' along some relampago." Approaching Maryn, the yellow-eyed Seeker nodded towards Tani. "I heard the alarm. I will cover the Watch and call in the Matron and Patron. Tani, make sure everyone else here is safe," he advises, before calling out for more assistance. A few other miqo'te came out of their homes to join Maryn, following closely behind him. 

Though, before Maryn could leave, he gazed at Dhezi for just a moment before nodding to him. "You seem like you’re pretty capable, Dhezi. Come with me, we could use your help to pull through this."

"A-ah? Yes, tio," Dhezi agreed with a nod, also following along. 

Heading outside the caves, the group then scaled the side of the mountains up to the very top, where a large slab of rock bigger than the Watch remained. "Dhezi, help the others cover the Watch, I will call for the griffins," Maryn stated, curling his hands together and bringing them up to his mouth, releasing a unique sound that carried through the desert. 

Dhezi watched briefly, before moving over towards the group to begin pushing the slab over the Watch. Previously, this took a lot of effort even with many people, but with Dhezi's strength alone they were able to quickly cover it up and make their way back down and into the caves, way ahead of the storm.

The red Seeker remained atop with his uncle, though, standing beside him as Maryn continued to call for the griffins. He frowned, furrowing his brows as his tail flicked at the tip. "They aren't answering. The storm is fast approaching... They are intelligent creatures, so they should know to take cover either way, yet this has never happened before. Dhezi, you should go back down and take cover with the others."

"-- Tio, I don't feel comfortable leavin' ya up here alone. Please-- let me stay with ya until they get here."

"You must listen to me, Dhezi, this is a dangerous situation. Go back down, I'll be alright,” he reassured his nephew with a smile.

"I--... Okay," Dhezi resigns, gulping with a nod before shifting to start climbing down. Yet, before he can do so, he hears the familiar sound of lightning. Relampago. That's what they meant. He froze up, that familiar sensation of fear clamping down on him like a maw of sharpened teeth, a sensation of dread pounding over him like turbulent waves. 

Maryn noticed this, furrowing his brows as he called out, "Dhezi! Dhezi, what's wrong? Get down there!"

Heaving, Dhezi lifted his eyes towards the approaching sandstorm, noting the bright flashes within the gritty gales. Lightning-- lightning can happen in sandstorms?! Why was he never informed?!

The sand was fast approaching now, and Maryn stopped in his calls in order to rush over to Dhezi, casting his magics in order to form a shield to block them from the storm as he knelt beside his nephew. "Dhezi, hey, what's the matter?! Take a deep breath; breathe!"

Dhezi gulped down a lump in his throat, his shoulders quaking as his paws tightly ball up into fists, his claws digging into his pads. "T-Tio-- Tio, I'm s'rry, I c-can't-- I can't move," he stammers out, squeezing his eyes shut. Maryn draped an arm over Dhezi's shoulders, rubbing at them gently while furrowing his brows, looking up to see if he can try to spot the griffins. The sand pounded against his shield and he grunted, covering his nephew and taking the brunt of the storm.

Lightning struck closer and closer to them the further the storm moved towards them, Dhezi covering his ears each time and bunching himself up further. Why? Why does this keep happening? He thought he had moved on, but no matter what he does, the lightning always holds the upper hand. Tears burned down his face as he grit his teeth, mentally cursing himself out for seizing up, for being unable to listen and do as told, for being an incompetent coward.

Yet, in the back of his mind, he remembered the Sigwa. Remembered K'ilhi and Poki'to. 

Azhi'sae.

Forcing himself, he stands up on shaking legs, brows furrowed and tears hot as they pour down his neck from his eyes. Maryn followed suit and stood with him, keeping the shield up despite the force of the storm. The hairs on the backs of their necks and on their arms stood on end, very much aware that if they do not move they will be struck, and may not survive.

"Move," Dhezi advises; warns. Maryn furrows his brows and looks towards Dhezi in concern and frustration. "Dhezi--," he begins, his voice sterner, before the red Seeker repeats, "Move."

Taking a deep breath, G'dhezi attempted to still himself; calm his heart. He has one chance to do this, or else he dies. He's very much aware of it.

He recalls that night in The Peaks with Toadie. Toadie kept him safe; protected him from a lightning shot by redirecting it northward. Dhezi has never trained on this, never attempted... but he resigned himself. Whether he lives out of pure luck or dies out of pure stupidity, he's fine with it.

But will everyone else be? 

That thought crossed his mind at the very last second-- right when lightning struck the paw he had stretched out to the skies. He cried out in pain, dragging his other paw down his chest to his stomach, before stretching it out southward, redirecting the bolt of plasma away from his uncle. 

Panting heavily, the red Seeker did not remain conscious for long, falling off the side of the mountain as he heard his uncle's cry of his name, not long feeling the sensation of feathers and a strong back before he had blacked out.

-------------------------

Slowly his eyes fluttered open, staring up at the ceiling of the caves, where the slab had covered Azeyma's Watch. The caverns were lit by lanterns and torches, yet they were spots of light in Dhezi's eyes. He felt warm, comfortable, as though surrounded by pillows and blankets.

It turned out, Rahja has curled up around Dhezi, along with her children. Her head rested off to the side while the fledgelings kept Dhezi supported up against her, resting near and against his legs. Rahja lifted her head the moment she could tell a difference in Dhezi's breathing, turning it in order to look at him. "-- Rahja?" he asked, yet his tone was pained and hoarse. 

She crooned towards him, pressing her forehead to his while her fledgelings also woke up to look up at the miqo'te worriedly. Not long after, Dhezi heard the familiar voices of his family rushing closer, Sena soon within his sight along with Tani and Maryn. "Dhezi!" Sena called out, tone full of concern and fear. "Mijo, mijo, estas bien? Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

Dhezi took a moment, but he gave a small nod. In response, a heavy sigh escaped Sena along with Tani and Maryn, yet Tani's brows were furrowed tight and her teeth grit. "Dhezi-- I ain't ever met anyone so foolish as ta do somethin' like that--! Don't ya understand how TERRIFIED we all were for you?! Ye're LUCKY ye're even alive!" he yelled, before the breath in his chest all but collapsed out of him. He shifted close to his cousin, kneeling close to him and reaching a paw out to place it atop Dhezi's head.

"Y'can't-- y'cant do that to us, Dhezi. Ta us, or ta th'people waitin' fer ya back in Ul'dah. I'm glad ye're alright, but ya can't risk throwin' yer life away like that," she states, firmly, through a trembling voice. "It is important; precious. It cannot be replaced. Do ya understand?"

Dhezi stares up at them in silence, before gulping the lump down his throat and nodding. This is not the first time he had been yelled at for nearly throwing away his life so easily-- yet this is the first time he has come to regret dancing with Nald'thal so intimately. "... Sorry. 'm sorry," he murmurs through his broken voice. 

Tani huffs lightly, nodding and blinking away their tears. "... Try not to move around too much, primo. Ye're all bandaged up. They said s'gonna take a few sennights fer ya ta recover. They're gonna take care of ya," he mutters. Dhezi blinked, yet nodded nonetheless.

-------------------------

CW: Discussions of death, suicide, suicidal ideation.

The first day Dhezi had been tended to, he had seen his wounds, his bruises. His body had the nastiest bruising he has ever developed; yellowed, purpled, and blackened skin mottled along his brown. It was the worst ever, but the medics assured him it would not last. They were bruises, not scars...except for one part. Fractal scarring bloomed along his skin, little patterns of lightning lining his neck, shoulders, chest, and arms.

It was beautiful, really, despite the bruising along the rest of his body.

Only after a few suns had passed and Dhezi was able to move a bit more without his body screaming at him, Maryn dropped by to visit him. The medics that were tending to Dhezi finished their work for the hour, excusing themselves and leaving Maryn and his nephew in private.

Dhezi's ears lowered as his uncle pulled up a chair and sat beside him, gazing at him so seriously. He normally sees his uncle smiling and laughing, fooling around with everyone in his vicinity and being playful-- but now he looked gravely serious, and it scared the younger Seeker just a bit.

"... Si, tio?" he asked meekly, his ears flattened to the sides as his eyes continued to flicker back and forth from Maryn to anything else in the room.

"Dhezi," Maryn began, taking in a deep breath before leveling his expression with the younger one. "You understand that what you did was dangerous, and even potentially fatal, correct?"

"Yes, I'm aware."

"What made you even attempt that?"

"I--... I knew we were 'bout ta get hit, so I wanted t'try 'nd protect ya..."

"Yet, you know I would have been able to protect us, right?"

"... Aye."

"So then, why?"

Dhezi fell silent at that, frowning as he gazes up towards the ceiling. "... Selfish reasons. Stupid reasons. I--," he paused, sighing out and bringing a paw up to his forehead, rubbing at it from frustration. "When I was a kid, I was raised in Ul'dah as y'all know. I was taken in by Mama Azhi when I was only a few moons old, 'nd she gave me th'name Azhi'li. But, th'same day, another kid showed up. A few years older than me, also without a name. She named him Azhi'sae, 'nd he was m'brother.

He 'nd I were two peas in a pod, y'know? He always got me outta trouble, always shared his food with me 'nd played with me. We even slept in th'same bed t'gether even until he turned eleven summers. Yet, on that eleventh summer, I saw somethin' I shouldn't have. There was a black mage outside th'gates a'Ul'dah, 'nd I saw 'em do things I know they weren't s'pposed ta, but they noticed me. I tried runnin' away, but I was caught, 'nd they were plannin' t'kill me. Seared m'side with fire, which is why I have th'scars there... Yet, b'fore they killed me, Zisi came 'round 'nd lopped off th'mage's arm with a sword he grabbed from a Brass Blade, grabbin' me by th'arm 'nd makin' a run fer it.

... We didn't make it far. He didn't make it far. Th'mage was aimin' fer me, but... Zisi shoved me outta th'way 'nd took a bolt a'lightnin' straight through his chest," Dhezi explained, taking in deep breaths here and there and swallowing lumps down in his throat.

"Ever since then I've been so scared of anythin' that sounds remotely like lightnin', 'nd whenever there's a storm or someone uses those magicks, I freeze up. I've been tryna get better, yet it's hard. Toadie told me there's no way fer me ta jus'...magically stop, it just takes time, but I've been so desperate to try 'nd get over it that I've been puttin' m'self in stupid situations that risk m'self gettin' killed. Fer th'longest time, I did not give a damn 'bout whether I died or if I lived. I actively sought t'jus' end it all after that happened with Zisi, but I stopped b'cause Mama Azhi told me to. I didn't wanna see her distressed th'way she had been, so I listened. 

Yet, that didn't stop m'apathy. If there was a situation I was in that risked m'life, I didn't care. Until recently. I've been told constantly by so many folks that care 'bout me t'stop bein' so reckless, 'nd I didn't listen. I understood that I hurt people that care 'bout me by bein' like that, 'nd I still didn't listen.

But right b'fore that lightning bolt hit, I realized jus' how ridiculous 'nd selfish I've been. Foolish; childish," Dhezi croaked out, draping his arm across his eyes as he grit his teeth.

"... Fuck, man." He sobbed, choking on his tears as he bit the insides of his cheeks, his claws digging into the pads of his paws and drawing blood.

Maryn moved a gentle hand to Dhezi's paw, prying his claws out of his paws and taking a firm yet comforting grip on his paw. 

"Dhezi... Be proud of yourself, for recognizing these issues. For being self-aware, and understanding the pains you have put not only others through, but yourself. You are not alone, mijo, you never were alone and never will be, even when there is no one around. Do not harm yourself, or beat yourself up... Be gentle with yourself, as there is only one of you. These pains of yours do not need to be handled on your own. You have your family with you, those that remain and those who have departed," Maryn states, his tone gentle and patient.

"I thank you for protecting me, but do not throw your life away so easily. It is precious, and one-of-a-kind. This sense of redemption must be released, Dhezi, for there is nothing left to redeem. You understand that too, right?"

"... Aye," the younger Seeker agrees with a nod, frowning, yet still curled his fingers lightly around his uncle's hand. 

“If you’d like, I can teach you some stuff with lightning. Because while that was a very… terrifying, incident, I can see that you do have potential with it. Have you been told that before?”

“A-ah… Haha, aye… Sure have been.”

“Hm. Would you like to try practicing, then? We will begin with small steps, and go slowly.”

“... I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Maryn gave a gentle smile down towards Dhezi, nodding. “When you are healed, then.” He went silent after a few moments, before speaking once more, "You know, mijo... We have a celebration coming up, called Dancing with the Dead."

"-- Uh? Wh-. Why is it called that?"

The older Seeker couldn't help but to laugh, grinning wider while lowering his nephew's hand from his face. "Every year during the Fifth Astral Moon is when we dance with our departed. We feast and we drink, remembering those who have moved on to greater plains, while they come to visit us from the lifestream to join us in our festivities."

"... They join us?"

"Right. We cannot see them, but we feel them. They are always around us, always there to look over us and keep us company, but we do not always feel their presence. During this celebration, we can feel them stirring our hearts; their warmth and their love. It is a reminder for us that we will never be alone, even when we have come and gone. Perhaps then, you may get the closure you have always been hoping for."

"I see... Thank you, tio."

"Of course, sobrino. Now, get some rest, you're looking worse than a bruised banana."

At that, Dhezi couldn't help but to grin and laugh, rolling his eyes. "Ay, thanks."

Maryn grinned toothily, ruffling Dhezi's hair before standing back up. 

"Sleep well, mijo."