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we-were-so-beautiful · 1 year ago

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4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit.

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#whump #pet whump #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu #box boy universe #vanessa + juniper #disaster caretaker #imperfectly consistent #tw dehumanization #tw conditioning #tw illness #tw injury #tw infection #do I like... need to tag for language?#I know using swears is pretty standard for bbu/pet whump stories #but I also use them kind of a uh. non standard amount.#I kinda feel like vanessa's house needs a tw of its own lmao #I honestly have fun making up all the increasingly ridiculous rich person shit #anyway I've got a decent bit of the next chapter written already (wrote it at some point back when I was working on 2 or 3 tbh)#and that's more or less it for stuff I have fully written out in advance #(from the main storyline at least)#but a lot of the stuff that follows that is stuff I've had in my head for ages #so hopefully it won't be too hard to write out! knock on wood #sometimes the things you think about that much come easily when you finally write them #and sometimes they're nigh on impossible bc you get obsessive with doing them justice #or at least just like. remembering all the ideas you've ever had for them when you finally sit down to write #hello it's me writing a novel in the tags again #anyway I've been falling asleep since somewhere in the middle of proofreading so I should probably wrap this up lol #if you read all this for some reason hi!

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jassrain · 2 months ago

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Flint sat in the section of the stands reserved for new and unknown gods, deities that have recently come into existence. The arena was built like the Roman coliseum, round with box seats for the roman, greek and norse gods and sections for their minor deities. Zues currently occupies the throne over the gods. Jupitor would preside next month. In the arena Thor was fighting with the Aztek war god, or was it mayan, Flint was annoyed with himself that he couldn't tell the difference. Not that it mattered asThor won the match with a ring-out by throwing Mjolnir. Now Thor circled the ring enjoying the praise, Flint offered token applause. Now Thor saw him and pointed at him in challenge. The norse god wore a wicked grin as the crowd encouraged Flint to accept. At first Flint stood to decline as usual and did at first, he then nodded agreement, Flint knew he had to accept or not be permitted in the arena eventually. With a great show Flint removed his black long coat and suit coat, folding them on the bench where he sat with his hat on top of both. He made his way down pushing the cuffs of his black shirt to his mid forearm, his boot heels clicking on the stone steps. As he walked his appearance shifted from suit slacks and tie to jeans and a button down shirt, jumping the rail to the arena floor his boots became biker boots.

“Aren't you afraid I’ll ruin your shirt and shatter your glasses?” Thor boomed, laughing after the cheers for Flint died down. Really Thor had little room to talk as his chosen appearance was that of a musclehead you’d see on Muscle beach, with braids in his beard and hair. He wore jeans slashed at the knees and high tops with duct tape holding the soles from flopping.

“My glasses and shirt are the least of your worries, thunder god,” Flint grinned as lightning played across his black wrap-around sunglasses. While he didn’t need them, wearing the glasses had become an old habit, much like the hat and long coat he left in the stands, or even the leather gloves.

At this point Zeus sat forward to watch, waving away his attendants. Flint had piqued Zeus’ interest on first arrival, now was a chance to see what this new lightning deity was capable of.

The announcer had just finished the rules, the basic no dirty fighting rules, Flint and Thor nodded agreement and began loosening up and stretching for the match. The arena would remove the loser if a killing blow was about to land and that would end the match, both could use their deity powers.

Thor charged with a haymaker, intent on a quick win, no testing or probing. Flint ducked the attack and aimed a punch to Thor’s gut, then dropped to sweep at Thor’s legs. Thor rolled as he landed and charged again this time aiming a kick at Flint’s mid section. Flint took it and trapped Thor's leg against his side, there was a very audible cracking noise and breath escape from Flint. With a visible grimace Flint pulled and spun Thor launching him at the wall. Thor gave a surprised yell and laugh as he flipped mid air and launched himself off the wall at Flint. Flint seemed to anticipate this and stood his ground, there was a loud crunch as the two collided. Flint remained standing one arm now limp at his side, Thor now had blood trickling from his nose into his beard.

Thor wiped his face and looked at the blood in his hand with a grin, “been a long time since I’ve seen my own blood,” Thor boomed, “how’s the arm and ribs?” Thor shook the blood off and wiped his hand against his jeans leaving a smear.

“Better than your face,” Flint rasped, spitting blood out, he flexed his fingers and raised the arm that was moments ago limp, “see? Good as new.” he thumbed his nose and wiggled his fingers at Thor.

The gesture infuriated Thor, instead of more hand-to-hand fights, Thor grabbed Mjolnir and flung it at the man with a roar. Laughing, Flint doubled over just dodging the hammer’s first pass and return to Thor’s hand.

“Gotcha,” Flint whispered to himself as he dodged two more throws of the hammer. Flint dodged the next throw and on the return pass grabbed Mjolnir stopping its flight to Thor’s hand. There was a considerable struggle on Flint’s part to hold the hammer in place, that struggle could be seen in the lightning playing across the lenses of the wraparound sunglasses. Thor was struggling to call Mjolnir and that could be seen in the lightning arcing between his fingers. “And now!” Flint gave the hammer the slightest of tugs and Thor came flying towards the hammer. The whole crowd gasped as a thunderous sound erupted from the arena and Thor landed on the ground and moments later vanished, transported to the infirmary, Flint released the hammer allowing it to follow after its master.

“Well done!” Zeus boomed, actually walking onto the arena floor to Flint, “to Flint!” Zeus raised Flint’s good arm in a victory pose, Flint was breathing heavily, almost gasping for air.

“Thank you Lord Zeus,” Flint rasped, “I hadn't had a challenge like that in a very long time, though probably not as long as him.” he pointed in the direction of the infirmary.

“Not since Heracles lifted Mjolnir and knocked a few teeth loose,” Zeus laughed, “a story for another time, now join me, lightning god for a drink.”

“Who am I to refuse a king of gods? It would be a pleasure,” Flint accepted, the rasp gone from his voice.

#cupofmagic #preposterousrp #landsoffthemap #writers #writers on tumblr

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sillymarigolds · 2 years ago

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Between the Lines

I'm back writing fanfic after many years away from the wonderful community of writers and readers! This is my first THG fic and was inspired by the prompt "This Would Have Happened Anyway" on @promptseverlark but I just never got around to writing it in time for the challenge.

Also posted on my ao3 here (I'm sillymarigolds there, too!)

Synopsis: If the 74th Hunger Games had never brought them together, perhaps the 75th Hunger Games would bring Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark together instead. A canon-divergent AU fic based on the “This would have happened anyway” prompt on @promptseverlark

~*~

Early Summer

Crouching in the scrub, I strain my ears listening for the rustling of leaves that might give away any game. The chorus of birds is absent today, leaving only the hum of insects emanating from the trees.

I watch the shadows of the trees grow taller on the forest floor and sigh. It’s time to go.

I trudge back to the hollowed tree stump where I carefully wrap my bow in oilcloth to protect it against the elements. Readjusting my game bag with only two hares and some wild greens to show for my afternoon, I pick up my pace to a trot, making my way towards the fence. I stop briefly to listen for the hum of electricity. Hearing nothing, I wriggle under a loose section close to home.

The streets of the Seam are quiet, still awaiting the next layer of coal to be deposited off the backs of the miners toiling underground. I make this journey alone most days now. Since Gale has turned nineteen and started work at the mines, we are hunting partners only on his weekends off.

I have started to feel very envious of Gale sometimes. He no longer has to go to school and listen to lessons on the importance of coal production to Panem. He can finally support his family financially without relying on selling game at the Hob. And most of all he has survived the reapings.

The only place where I don’t have those terrible thoughts is the woods. Because in the woods there is no District 12. There is no Hunger Games. There is only green and bird song.

From the street, I catch sight of the clock atop the Hall of Justice and realise I am late to pick up Prim. Sliding my father’s hunting jacket off and dumping the game bag in front of an angry Buttercup who yowls in response, I cut through backyards to make it back to the schoolhouse.

The schoolhouse has apparently not changed in anyone living’s memory. It is only one room, built of whitewashed wood harvested from the forest that now lies outside the fence. Prim was supposed to wait outside on the front steps for me, but I can’t see her.

I fly up the steps, my braid swinging like a crazed pendulum behind me. Two of the long desks we sit at during classes have been covered in old cloths stained in many colours. The long bench seats have been pulled either side making it look more like a formal dinner setting than a classroom. Old jars stand filled with opaque shades of brown, grey, blue and violet atop the table. Pencils and charcoal are dotted between them. Darius, one of the younger peacekeepers is napping on a chair in the corner of the room, his hands resting on a folio stuffed with paper. The late afternoon sunlight casts a bright orange glow onto the crown of his head which rests on the window. The room is otherwise empty, but I see the back door is open, so I slow to a walk and make my way out the back.

I see the backs of Prim and Miss Flora our old schoolmistress standing over a tub together washing out paintbrushes quietly singing a folk song that calls for a good harvest. I take the stairs two at a time and walk around to stand opposite so as not to scare them knowing I have a light tread. “Prim, you said you would be out front,” I say hands on hips. Prim’s eyes widen pleading forgiveness. Miss Flora turns looks at me through her grimy spectacles and I swear I can almost see a hint of a smirk on her lips. She looks over to Prim and exclaims, “I’m sorry dear, time must have gotten away from us both. Thank you for all your help, I can take it from here.”

“But Miss Flora, Katniss and I could stay for a little…”

I open my mouth to rebut that no, we do not have time and that we need to make it home so I can cook dinner, but Prim continues:

“We still have to take all the paintings inside!”

Miss Flora pulls her hands out of the tub and wipes them on her apron, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “I would certainly appreciate it if you two would do that, my knees aren’t quite what they used to be. If you could stack them all against the wall next to the blackboard.”

My stomach growls as I go to frown at Prim, but she is already wiping off her own hands on her skirts and skipping around the side to the building.

Miss Flora looks up at me and says, “Thank you Katniss, see you tomorrow morning,” and goes back to washing up, whistling the chorus of the song.

I follow Prim around the side of the schoolhouse to where the canvases are lined up to dry in the late afternoon sun. She has already got one in each hand and is heading inside with them. “Thank you, Katniss,” she says sweetly, and my face softens. I could never be angry with Prim.

As we pass one another, I catch sight of one of the paintings —a portrait of a man opening the door as he comes home from work in the mines. It is every bit a beloved father painted by an adoring child. But everything in it is too clean – the house, the father’s face, his clothes. One thing strikes me as true though, and that is his smile. I can remember my father always having one on as he walked through the door, bending down to hug me as I clung to his knees, and then he would scoop up a baby Prim to plant a kiss on her temple. Always the left one, where she has a birthmark so close to her hairline it is almost invisible. Sometimes I see her touching it when she looks at the photo of our father on the mantlepiece. Suddenly my chest feels tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the emotion swelling in my throat from spilling over into tears.

When I close my eyes, I can still see President Snow’s face pulling that letter out of the wooden box, his eyes cold as he reads out the words: “On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the beauty and peace they enjoy at the generosity of the Capitol is still young, each district will send their youngest eligible male and female as tributes.”

The art was Snow’s addition. That “all the potential tributes should showcase their district and the generosity of the Capitol in art to be displayed in the Capitol before the Games.” There have never been proper art classes at school before. Only ever graphite pencils and plain paper which were already scarce. Most of the children in Twelve had only ever drawn on frosty windowpanes when there wasn’t enough money to keep the fire stoked with the coal their fathers toiled underground to mine during the long, harsh winters.

The day after President Snow’s announcement, a peacekeeper-guarded train arrived filled with coloured pencils, paints and paintbrushes in all the colours I could imagine and some that I couldn’t. There had been an announcement to all parents that children were to stay on Friday afternoons until the reaping to work on their pieces that would be considered for the “great honour” of travelling to the Capitol and representing our district. Of course, that should have include me, but I was excused by Miss Flora on account of my inability to think of anything I was remotely grateful for that the Capitol had given me. How could I be grateful to people who killed my father and left me and Prim to starve? Who will take away twenty-four twelve-year-olds to fight to the death for entertainment?

What I love about Twelve has nothing to do with them. I love Prim and my mother. I love Gale and his family. And I love the woods. Besides, my artistic abilities are limited to drawing hunting maps in the mud with a stick.

I blink my eyes back open into the afternoon and rub my eyelids with the hem of my shirt before Prim comes back. I grab two more canvases trying not to look at them and head back into the schoolhouse to lay them next to Darius’s chair with the others. Darius is still snoring softly, but has been joined by Purnia, another of the peacekeepers who is sitting on the opposite side of the room. We nod politely to one another having seen each other around the Hob. Prim and I continue this dance, passing each other with paintings in each hand, until I see Prim heading for the last two and I wait inside for her while Purnia starts collecting up the art materials from the tables into a large metal box with a lock. Purnia has almost cleared the tables and Prim still hasn’t come back inside, so I head back through the door and around the side where I see her standing perfectly still.

I walk towards her, my steps quickening as she fails to look away. “Prim,” I say from a metre or so away, but I get no response. She is so enraptured by the canvas she is looking at.

I reach for her shoulder placing my hand on top of it and eyeing her with concern. “Katniss,” she whispers quietly in reply, never turning her head to look at me. And so, I turn my head to see what has struck her almost dumb.

I recognise the scene immediately — it is the woods at the outskirts of District 12; the woods I left to come here. The leaves are the perfect shades of green with streaks of gold reflecting the sun overhead. There is even the dappled shade that covers the ground in the afternoons. I have this strange feeling of wanting to reach out and touch the leaves and hear them rustle under my fingertips. And then I focus on the figure in the middle of the painting, a girl with her face turned away and a long braid of black hair resting down the middle of her blue, floaty dress. Birds are perched in all the trees like a silent audience. Their beaks are shut, and they watch intently as if they have been held entranced by the girl.

“Katniss it’s you.” Prim says quietly, finally turning to look at me with tears in her eyes. It’s my turn to be struck dumb because I know she is telling the truth. My tongue feels like it has swollen up to the roof of my mouth and my throat feels as dry as if I hadn’t had a drop of water all day. Prim reaches out to me and takes my left hand in both of hers. She knows I can’t express whatever I’m feeling and not to make me try. She lets go of my hand to walk over and pick up the canvas with both hands, treating it with the utmost care, and starts walking it inside. I look over to the canvas next to it and see a warm hearth with a large scruffy yellow tabby cat and goat curled up on a rug and I smile knowing that Prim can always see the good through the grime.

Reaping Day - Part I

The sun is high in the sky, glaring off the windows in the square. There is no wind to flap the flag of Panem or the banners that have been hung on the Hall of Justice.

Prim and I have scrubbed ourselves to a healthy looking pink. My mother laid out her blue dress for me again, but at the thought of the painting I folded it and left it on the end of her bed. Instead, I am dressed in my favourite green blouse and skirt with my signature braid coiled up into a bun that sits on the nape of my neck.

My eyes flick between the stage and the younger girls a few rows ahead where I see Prim standing in her pink blouse and brown skirt. I have to keep reminding myself that she is safe. This time, my mind adds.

There is no need for the reaping balls this year. Everyone has known who will be going since the announcement or soon afterwards. The little girl Nona’s body shakes with her sobs. The boy Martin is trying to be brave, standing as tall as he can, but I can see the fear in his eyes. They are both Seam children — he the eldest of five, she the youngest of four. I walked past their parents: one mother sobbing like her only daughter, the other completely silent as if she had no tears left to cry as the baby slung across grabbed at her chest for comfort.

The paintings going to the Capitol have been hung behind the stage on a large piece of red fabric that I learned is called velvet. Prim’s painting is there amongst a dozen or so others. The painting of me is there as well. Together they tell a very different story of District 12 — one with fathers who always make it home, where there is always food to eat and coal to burn, where we are all surrounded by cleanliness and greenery.

Effie Trinket is back for the televised broadcast of the reaping. As usual she sports the bizarre fashions of the Capitol, with a gold wig teetering atop her head and red jewels stuck on her face. I adopt as neutral an expression I can through the proceedings. The entire district is silent apart from the wails of babies and the soft wooshes of fans held by adults to keep them from fainting. I can see the faces of the peacekeepers starting to falter as they too are struggling with the prospect of sending our youngest away to die far from home for the amusement of strangers. They end up having to restrain Nona as she tries to run for her parents. The only person whose resolve seems not to be tested is Haymitch Abernathy which I think is simply because he is too drunk to be aware of what’s going on.

When Nona and Martin have been taken to the train along with the paintings, the crowd slowly disperses. Prim comes and takes my hand, rubbing circles with her thumb over the back of it to soothe me. I can feel the tension in my jaw loosen a little. “What should we do, little duck?” I ask her, pulling my mouth into a closed smile.

“Can we go and look at the cakes in the bakery window?”

“Of course.” I know Mother will have already gone home to lie down.

Hand in hand we walk over to the bakery, an old brick building painted white and kept meticulously clean. I know the baker, Mr Mellark, well as he is one of my best customers. He loves squirrel, although I can only sell them to him when his wife isn’t around. She is a proud woman who thinks it is beneath them to eat game since they can afford “proper” meat.

I catch sight of the baker at the counter through the glass in the door and he dips his head at me in greeting, his eyes twinkling. Prim drags me towards the window, her nose mere inches from the glass, eyes roaming hungrily over cakes we could never afford.

As I stand there bent over holding Prim’s hand, I notice a new tray being pushed into the cabinet. Small cakes decorated with bright iced flowers on top. They remind me of the paint boxes from the Capitol. I stand up expecting see the baker, but instead my eyes meet his in a different face, that of his son, Peeta Mellark. His reaping clothes are covered by a well-used apron that bears splotches in many colours and a dusting of flour. I notice Peeta’s hands are covered in the same bright hues.

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, I feel like he wants to ask me something. But then I hear his mother call out for him and his shoulders sag slightly and he turns away and disappears out the back.

Peeta the painter. It must have been him. Which just begs the question, why Peeta who has this comfortable life choose to paint me in the woods?

Reaping Day - Part II

Later that evening, out of our reaping clothes, we are drinking mugs of dandelion tea in candlelight in front of the empty hearth. I am oiling my boots to keep my hands busy and Prim is sitting cross legged with Buttercup on her lap. Instead of turning in to bed, Mother has fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. She dipped into her emergency stash of Ripper’s white liquor, which means she found today more distressing than usual. Father’s photo looks down on all of us from the mantle. The only sounds are my cloth rubbing against well-worn leather and the purr Buttercup eminates as Prim’s nails scratch his scalp. The broadcast of the reaping is at last over, each face of the tributes flashing before my eyes making me rub harder, my knuckles turning white.

A gentle knock on the front door brings me to my feet. Prim’s eyes are wide and worried as she stays rooted to the ground. Mother continues to slumber on.

I tiptoe over to the door and take a deep breath in as I open it into the cool night breeze unsure of what I will find.

A young man stands outside half in shadow, his head tilted down. “I’m sorry to come by so late,” he says, moving towards the light.

It's Peeta Mellark.

The left side of his face is covered with an ugly hand-shaped welt that has swollen his left-eye half shut. He is still dressed in his clothes from the reaping, his hands awkwardly holding his elbows.

My brain struggles to pass words to my mouth, so I instead wave him in and lock the door behind him. Prim’s hands are over her mouth. Peeta winces knowing what a sight he must be.

His blue eyes meet my grey ones. “I thought maybe your mother…” his sentence trails off. Of course, he is here for Mother.

I go to her and squeeze her forearm, but get no response, so I move to squeeze her shoulder. “Mother, wake up,” I say, my voice a little shaky. She screws her nose up but resists opening her eyes. Prim comes to stand next to me, taking Mother’s opposite hand, “Mother, please, there’s a patient here to see you.”

Prim has said the magic word. Mother’s eyes fly open, and she pushes down into the armchair to stand, smoothing down the front of her dress. She turns to see Peter still standing near the doorway. She gives no hint of pity in seeing his swollen face or his broken spirit.

“Come, sit,” she says like someone who was asleep only moments before. “Prim grab my bag. Katniss, boil some water.” She takes Peeta by the arm and leads him to our kitchen table, settling him in one of the chairs.

As instructed, I head outside to fill the kettle from the pump in the backyard. Seconds later I hear Mother come out behind me, and in my peripheral vision I can see her outline heading for the outhouse. The liquor must have caught up with her.

We head back inside together, not speaking until, as we are a foot away from the back door, she whispers almost inaudibly, “She always did have a nasty temper, his mother.” I almost stumble and fall behind her, closing the door behind me. In the dim light, I catch my reflection in the glass panes of the door and feel like I am looking at a ghost.

I put the kettle on the stovetop and sit down at the end of the kitchen table, watching Mother and Prim working together like a well-oiled machine. They grind up herbs and roots out of jars kept in Mother’s leather apothecary bag to make a poultice. The train of thoughts in my head stretches on without end:

How could his own mother do this?

On a day she was able to keep her son?

I must have lost track of time as I am broken out of my reverie by the order “Katniss, make Peeta tea with some willow bark,” as the kettle whistle crescendos in the background.

I make my way over to the stove, shifting the kettle off the hot plate. “How do you take your tea?” I ask without turning to face Peeta.

“No shu-argh-no sugar, thank you,” he replies, wincing at the sting of whatever Mother is applying.

I steep the willow bark with the tea leaves in one of our nicer mugs, listening to Prim ask Mother questions about the ingredients in the ointment she has applied. When the tea is ready, I make my way around the table to stand in front of Peeta. He is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap, looking down.

I hold out the mug to him with both hands. He lifts his head up and I get a better look at the mark his mother’s hand has made. If I had a paintbrush, I could trace the outline of each of her fingers. There is a small section that is deeper and jagged where a ring has torn into the milky flesh of his cheek. Peeta reaches both of his hands out for the mug and his fingertips brush mine ever so gently. I want to yelp as the feeling of an electric shock runs up my arms, but I end up biting my tongue.

Our eyes meet again, and I look away.

Every time I see his eyes, I am back there, sitting in the rain outside the bakery.

“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers quietly.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “Excuse me,” I say to the room as I head back outside to rinse my mouth out.

When his tea is finished, Mother sends Peeta home with a small jar of the ointment and a poultice to keep on it to reduce the swelling. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, so I sat there awkwardly with my stomach twisting and turning on itself.

She tidies up and heads to bed without saying another word. Prim gets into bed with her, pre-empting the nightmares she will have after today.

I crawl into my own bed alone, pulling the thin, woven blanket over me. I stare up at the ceiling and feel like the world is moving around me ever so slightly, pitching my stomach side to side even as I lie as still as possible. I feel so unbalanced and all I want to do is sleep to make it go away, but I also don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to watch the reaping replayed in my dreams. I don’t want to trace the outline of the mark on Peeta’s face. I can’t tell which is worse anymore, being awake or being asleep. I exhale all the air in my lungs and try to focus on the sliver of sky I can see through the roof, hoping sleep will take me by surprise.

Late Summer

I take every opportunity after the reaping to disappear into the woods.

The weather is still warm, but I leave my father’s hunting jacket on and stick to the shade cast by grandfather trees. The song of invisible birds rings out through the small clearing not too far from the fence. There is no need to hunt today, but I carry my bow out of habit. “If you aren’t prepared to fight then you have already lost,” as my father used to say.

As my eyes wander through the trees, I am reminded of Peeta’s painting — all those birds perched, listening. I feel silly, but I want it to be real, so I lower my bow and clear my throat. The words are tucked deep into my memory, and so as I start to sing, I close my eyes to help bring them to my lips:

“Down in the valley, valley so low, Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The train, love, hear the train blow. Late in the evening, hear the train blow. Go build me a mansion, build it so high, So I can see my true love go by. See him go by, love, see him go by. So I can see my true—" I swirl around as a twig snaps behind me.

The corner of a blue shirt and brown boot catch my eye from behind the trunk of a red oak.

I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears as I raise and draw my bow.

“Who’s there?” I ask. The birds are silent like curious onlookers.

From behind the tree Peeta steps out his hands raised in surrender. The mark on his face has vanished.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up past me to the trees, “I’m just here to paint,” he leans his head over to his left shoulder which carries a canvas bag. “I was going to move along but…” his voice trails off.

“But what,” I snapped, my bow still raised at his throat.

“But you really can make the birds fall silent.” He gestured up at the trees and I turned around to see the birds had come out into the open, onto the edges of the tree branches like spectators in the highest stands of an arena. They all stood perfectly still as if Peeta and I were Covey midway through an act.

“I remember you singing that song when we were in music class.” Peeta adds.

“My father always said your father could make all the birds fall silent too.”

I am glad I have my back turned to Peeta at this point because I don’t know what to say. I just stand their silently, making eye contact with each of the birds in turn.

“He wanted to marry your mother you know, my father that is. I don’t think my mother’s ever gotten over feeling like a second choice…” He adds.

“I’ll go,” Peeta says after the silence between us grows, he shifts his weight with the resultant rustle of leaves.

“Peeta, I’m sorry.” I blurt out as I turn back around and narrow the gap between us.

Now it’s Peeta’s turn to be confused. He looks at me with a furrowed brow, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes making them outline his eyes in gold.

“I’m sorry your mother did that.” I clarify, tipping my nose towards his left cheek.

Peeta’s brow relaxes, and his face twists into a sad smile. “She was so angry when she saw that painting,” he explains.

“But this was what I thought of when I thought about everything good and pure in District Twelve.”

I duck my head and feel the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks.

Peeta’s voice picks up where I left off:

“—so I can see my true love go by.

Go write a letter, send it by mail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.”

There is a commotion as the birds prepare to take flight, jostled by this new voice that sings in a slightly off-key tenor. To settle them, I join him to finish: “Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. Know I love you, oh, know I love you, Birds in the heavens know I love you.”

The last note of our voices intertwined seems to hang in the air, vibrating slowly.

Something different is in Peeta’s eyes when I meet them this time. It is both steely and determined, soft and enveloping. The trees behind him seem to shift back and forth despite there being no wind.

I feel myself drawn towards him and reach out for the same place that ugly welt marked his face. As lightly as moth wings, I place my hand where his mother’s lay. His skin feels like it is burning my fingertips.

Peeta reaches up to encircle my wrist.

“Katniss,” he says softly, looking straight at me.

And to make everything straighten out I press my lips against his.

#thg fanfiction #the hunger games #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3fic #everlark #this would have happened anyway #sillymarigolds

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the-banana-0verlord · 6 months ago

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No Matter What

In which Malleus tries to win a plush for Lilian at the fun fair.

"Bleeeuarghhh"

Malleus grimaced as he held Lilian's hair from falling into her face while she puked into the trashcan. Just minutes ago, they were riding a fast rollercoaster up and down. Needless to say, Lilian's heart and stomach didn't take it well.

Malleus held her hand as she sat down on a nearby bench, her face still as pale as a ghost's. The fae wiped a few of the puke left on her lips with a tissue and threw it away.

"I'm really sorry for ruining the moment," Lilian smiled weakly. "I really thought that after all I went through I could take it."

"Nonsense," Malleus squeezed her hand lightly. "As long as I'm with you, no moment is truly ruined."

Lilian smiled again and rested her head on Malleus's shoulder, who had come to sit beside her. The girl let out a small sigh, closing her eyes.

Malleus was distraught. His girlfriend was feeling down and guilty (he thought she had no reason to, but Lilian's mind felt things differently and he knew that), and so in turn he was feeling bad as well. Just a single of her tears could turn into a hurricane for him.

The fae's piercing eyes wandered across the fun fair, until it landed on a game booth. A few plushies hanged from the roof, while children played darts in hopes of winning one. Malleus found it strange that they would not simply buy the toy, but then again it was human nature to feel satisfied with a bounty they earned through hard work.

Suddenly, a lightbulb lit up in Malleus's head (figuratively, even so if he wished for to it could appear above his head for real it would). He would win one of the plushies for Lilian! Now he understood the vigor the human children portrayed as they shot the target. It was a challenge to prove your worth, like a knight fighting the dragon to deliver the princess.

Except Malleus is in reality a dragon.

And it implied that he was romantically involved with the plushie.

...

Alright, the allegory was bad, but the point still stands.

"Which plush would you like?" he asked Lilian. The girl slowly opened her eyes. It appeared that while Malleus had gotten his bright idea, she had slightly nodded off.

"...Huh?..."

"I would like to win you one of the stuffed toys. You can choose one of them."

"Are you sure...? Those games are usually hard to beat. I don't want you to feel disappointed because of me."

"Don't bother yourself with such casualties. I never lose."

"Well, if you say so."

Lilian stretched to ease the tension that had built up in her muscles while she had nodded off, then her blue eyes closely inspected each of the plushs before settling one of them.

"Do you think you could get me that one?" she pointed towards a slightly large black cat plush with green eyes and an adorable grin. The sign said you had to win the game three times to be able to claim it.

"Child's play," Malleus smirked. "Stay seated to rest, I shall get you your prize."

Malleus got up and presented himself at the counter, where he asked the bag-eyed employee to let him attempt the challenge. He gave the amount of money that was enough for roughly three tries. He was given 15 darts, five for each try.

With a confident smile, Malleus approached the target section. Except when he tried the first time, it failed. And the second time. The third one also. And every one that came after that, until he was left with no darts.

The fae's brows furrowed in frustration. Lilian, who had watched him fail miserably, walked up to him to talk to him.

"It's okay if you don't get it," she reassured him.

"But you want it, don't you?" Malleus asked, turning to her with the same energy as a puppy who had not achieved to bring back the thrown stick.

"I mean, yes, but you don't have to push yourself too much for me. I'll live without it."

At that, Malleus's ego found itself a bit vexed. He wasn't pushing himself. If anything, he was the one going easy on the fragile human invention. And no way he was going to let Lilian believe this was the extent of his capacity. He slammed another few dollars on the counter and turned to the employee.

"No. I shall be trying one more time."

The employee stared a few seconds, and reached to get five other darts with a sigh before giving them to Malleus.

The fae came by the target once more, but this time, he was more determined than ever. He took one of the darts, brought it close to his eye to aim, stretched his arm, and then launched the dart.

Some say they heard it break the sound wall. Other said they didn't witness a dart, but rather a bullet. All things for sure, Malleus had reached the middle of the target. And while he did that, he also broke it, broke the booth, and nearly impaled the person who was walking behind it.

Security was called.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Malleus stomped out of the fair, Lilian close behind him, trying to catch up with her smaller legs.

"H-hey, wait up!" she called out, nearly tripping on an uneven brick. Malleus stopped in his tracks and let her stand by his side, even though he still had that frown on his face.

Lilian rested her hands on her knees, catching her breath. Malleus had really long legs.

"You know, it's not all that horrible that we got kicked out. We can surely find something else just as fun," the girl spoke out, trying to ease the situation.

"No we won't," Malleus shook his head. " Not only did I not get you that plush and failed to cheer you up, but I also got us thrown out of the fair. This day was ruined because of me."

"No it didn't. We still had a good time before it happened, and I didn't care that much for the plush anyways."

"Yes you did. And I wasn't able to offer it to you."

"To be frank, I cared more about how you wanted to cheer me up after I felt down. That was really kind of you."

Malleus blushed slightly, feeling embarassed. His frown was replaced with a puppy-eyed look.

"So you're not upset?" he inquired meekly.

"Of course not! And who cares if we can't go to the fair anymore. We can go somewhere else! I saw a cool ice cream parlor on the way, we could always go there."

The fae's elongated ears perked up at the mention of ice cream. It was truly his favorite.

So, they walked up to the ice cream parlor, ordered their favorite flavor and sat down on the stairs to get to the door. As the sun was setting down, you could hear their laughs as they spoke about anything and everything.

In the end, the day wasn't that bad. Malleus still swore internally to buy the plush at another place, though.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

#mallilian #bananawrites #twst oc #twst yuusona #self ship #self shipping #self ship fic

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davidsscalemodels · 9 months ago

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WEEK SEVEN – 1/48 Academy CH-46A/D – Cockpit Finished!

Arriving at the seventh week I finished the illuminated instrument panel and assembled the cockpit. I was also informed by a fellow modeler that the crew bench seats were not correct. Instead of one long bench they are in sections. I modified them into the correct sections and then scratch built the seat belts. Finally I installed the interior walls into the fuselage and mounted the side…

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callmebliss-got-swamped · 2 years ago

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“Corporations are the soulless brains of rat-filled people.”

Context under cut. Content warning for gore

In my dream last night I was somehow managing to buy a house. Massive, rambling, old, lots of antique furniture in and flourishing plants still there. Was taking a tour with my ex, god knows why, who was excited about things in the place for me but his presence drove me to explore faster than I wanted so as to not be in the same room.

Gorgeous…greenhouse? Conservatory? Lofty glass-ceilings room with potted plants all around and quite a few in pots suspended by chains from the ceiling. Warm and bright, all my plants would love it.

A beautiful study with a fireplace taking up a whole wall, dark wood built-ins with glass-front cabinets. One of those clocks with the perpetually spinning orbs under a glass dome.

In one room there was a bench sized and shaped structure, turned akimbo mostly toward the wall. The seat area was round wooden rails, with actual wooden seat platform on it large enough for one person at one end. My ex declared it to be a shoeshine bench; there were foot supports in front of the seat for such an activity so I had to presume he was right. Couldn’t test whether the seat could still slide along the rails, though, because there were four 80s-90s era mini electric keyboards on the rails. Collecting dust in a house where everything else was clean.

I moved on without finding the kitchen, climbing the stairs. The upper floors were a little more dim, and had a stranger layout, with half-flights of stairs. Went up one to find a room with the doorway filled with two panes of glass on hinges; the one on the stairs side I had to press and release to have it spring out and swing toward me. The one on the other side did the same in the other direction. It led to a playroom with toys mostly put away but others still scattered on the far side of the room. The glass door was, apparently, so a parent could glance up the stairs and see the kids still safe and playing in there.

I left through a door to one side; coming up the half stairs, the ceiling had slanted sideways over me, indicating another set of stairs above running perpendicular.

This was when I ran into the small man. Somehow it did not bother me he was there. He reminded me of The Old Man Of Hoy from Sense8, but much more compact, only three feet tall at most.

At one point I discovered an oak and wrought iron built in foldout stair made to let me climb to open some sort of door. I pulled it out using the round safe-door type handle, climbed up, but the door was locked.

“Don’t have the key.” The old man said. “There’s another way to the fifth floor.” He sounded unsure of himself but I followed his swift pace around to the bottom of a staircase that climbed through a space that got smaller as we went up, to a door that was 1/3 height and also locked. But I had a piece of flat metal and a Bobby pin I could bend, and a rudimentary experience of basic lock picking, and I got it open.

The old man and I were hip to hip as we shoved our top halves through the doorway. The other side was dark, so I pulled out my phone and set it to flashlight. To the right, the ceiling slanted down in two sections; eaves, flat wood surfaces painted a violet-tinged grey with white accents. On one end the floor opened up to a sharply dropping ramp that disappeared into shadow. At the time it struck me as a bad slide for a person to go down, but now I think it was a slide to move boxes from eaves storage to rooms below without having to carry them downstairs/through rooms. Like a dumbwaiter with the simplest of physical mechanics.

We turned our heads and my light to the left, and the ceilings rose to full height, picking out open doorways to very still rooms, objects and doorknobs thick with dust and some furniture draped with cloths. The old man crowed with delight. “You found it - The Cousins’ House! The house within a house!” We scrambled through and to our feet, and somehow I know this section was just that - a whole ‘nother house, attached and separated, from days long past when folks might come visiting for months at a time.

We explored here slowly, for this house was dark as midnight and even more maze like than the main house. I rounded a square pillar with piles of abandoned items around its base all dusted and cobwebby, and there was a hint of movement at the edge of the light. I moved closer - it was a doll, perhaps the size of a standing American Girl Doll, no taller than my knees as it stood there. It’s head moved, turning away, and a little-girl voice said something I do not now recall. My friends standing behind me (I do not know who, but they were there) were terrified, so I said, “oh look, a baaaaayby! Get the baby!” in a playful singsong voice. I stopped toward it to scoop up the doll, to show my friend it was perhaps a really good windup doll.

That is when the doll ran. That little girl voice was repeating,” don’t catch the baby!” While I chased it through the maze of rooms and halls, barely keeping it in my shaker flashlight, calling out, “catch the baaaayby!” My friends were yelling to stop, no, don’t try to catch it. Wet came back round to where they stood and I snatched the doll up, swaddling it in the blanket that was wrapped around it and cradling it in my arms to show my friends. It’s face was turned away.

“Who’s a baby?” I asked jovially, stroking the fringe of its bangs. My friends were relaxing now. The doll’s head swiveled to face me—

ABRUPTLY I was no longer in that place, that situation, those people. I was staring from very close up into the face of 90s era pixie-cut Winona Ryder. Her pale skin was glistening with moisture, her teeth perfectly white as she hissed, “Corporations are the soulless brains of ratless people.” She took a deep breath, ragged, as if talking was an effort, and said it again. “Corporations are the soulless brains of rat-filled people. Corporations are the soulless brains of ratless people. Corporations are the soulless brains of rat-filled people. ” Over and over again she repeated it and slowly my view drew back like a camera pulling away she was still gasping and hissing it as I saw that she had no arms, rough-edges of flesh around wet pits where they had been pulled off. She wore nothing, she was in a bath, deep cuts down her body that was dappled with moisture - from sweat, from steam. There were long streaky tunnels of blood down her skin. Finally she could speak no longer, her head lolling in a deathless silent scream, the inside of her mouth blackened. Her legs were torn away the same way as her arms. The bath water was milky. When I was far enough away I could see a thick ruddy cephalopodean tentacle rising from the bath, lashing toward me.

I awoke. Full of What The Fuck?

#last night i dreamt #I need to write the story #The Cousins House #o to have a ranking home with a greenhouse study and weird built-ins

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