#good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor

[iguessitsjustme]

I’m running on no sleep and my brain making radiator noises so I’m choosing violence.

[codename-adler]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Katniss Everdeen & Rue, Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen & Primrose Everdeen Characters: Katniss Everdeen, Rue (Hunger Games), Peeta Mellark, Primrose Everdeen, Gale Hawthorne, Haymitch Abernathy, Effie Trinket Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, MCD, Alternate Ending, the tris prior treatment if you know what i mean, Character Death Summary:

What if Rue survived until the end of the 74th Games, but Peeta died, and suddenly Katniss was left standing with Rue? Who would she choose: herself, and going home, or the little girl from District 11 that she can't help but see her sister in?

[sparks-chaotic-cove]

dude I have a thing Friday night PLUS something all saturday. You people ain't seeing me until the 19th I am NOT touching this platform in fear of spoilers :[

[danger-tits-lute]

Hmm a date with Lute, well how does starting it off with music, either a show or a concert, of course dinner and drinks if she wants the drinks. and a moonlit walk either thru a botanical garden or alongside a river. The end of the date would be fully up to Lute.

On anon, describe a date that your muse would take mine on and they’ll say if they’d be interested based just off of the description. II Accepting

"How it ends would be entirely up to who you are but that sounds nice. I like the botanical gardens, especially lit up at night."

That sounded like a lot of stuff for just one date though; she'd be exhausted by the end of it. At least they were respectful and left a lot of choice up to her, she appreciated that. A solid 6/10 suggestion.

[themosthatedbeingg]

“Psst sera can you make sure they picked up any trash they may have left in purgatory before you get them isn’t littering a sin or whatever ?”

@high-seraphims

[uc-beepboop]

^the winners of polls 1,3,5,6, and 9.

I tried to not have Hayley be put against herself 3 times, and not have Annie vs Bombyx because they’re from the same arc.

So here we are folks. Welcome to Semifinal #1. May luck ever be in your favor.

[corvidaenightcrawler]

y'know, sure!! odd opinions. Right.

by the way, I think something might be wrong with your... Can we call this what it is? Wine doesn't settle like that.

Or make you feel ill.

Awwww, you don't like my little concoction?

I made it just for you! Is it working?

That iron aftertaste, the woozy feeling with only one glass.... Let's be honest, Moth.

You knew from the beginning.

[destourtereaux]

just a little bit of hope - peeta mellark x fem!reader

⤷ summary: with katniss and gale both gone, peeta steps in as an unlikely hunting partner for y/n. ⤷ wc: 2.6k ⤷ requested? yes. see request here. ⤷ follow @lovebirdupdates and turn on notifs to be on my 'taglist'!

⤷ a/n: two things - one, peeta has dimples here, it's just how i imagine him, so please bear with me; two, pretend gale's father is alive please, i didn't think our girl would be able to support two families, no matter how strong she is.

___

The day is horridly warm, exacerbated by a heavy humidity. As you wake, hot air suffocates your surroundings, and the sun glares through the window, hung on a span of blue sky. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, your bare feet find the ground, then immediately retract. The floor is burning hot, baked by the sun. You grit your teeth and force your feet back onto the wood, ignoring the searing heat. You have things to do.

You make a bowl of porridge, watery, but edible. You drink half, and leave the rest for your mother. Your father is off to the mines already, his boots absent. You get dressed, pulling on the prettiest dress you own. You're ready. Or, as ready as one can be. 

Today, there will be no hunting with Katniss and Gale, no trading at the Hob. Today, there is only the reaping.

___

You spot Katniss at the edge of the square, gripping her sister's hand. Your friend looks nothing like she normally does. Gone are the boots and hunting jacket, replaced by a simple blouse tucked into a modest skirt. You nod grimly at her; neither of you feels like smiling.

Gale is over on the other side of the square, across from the stage they've set up. Your eyes meet, and he mouths "good luck".

After a few minutes of the routine announcements, Haymitch is introduced, then Effie. By now, the crowd has settled into an air of grimness, despite the clear blue sky overhead.

You don't hear Effie's jokes, and nobody laughs. She finally stops smiling, looking extremely awkward – you almost feel bad for her. Almost.

Then, she sticks her hand in the ball of names, each carrying a life, and pulls one out. Her smile is back on her face when she announces, "Without further ado, our female tribute is: Katniss Everdeen!"

You freeze, repeating her words in your head as if hoping they'd sound different. Your oldest friend – determined, brave Katniss, given a death sentence.

But Effie doesn't wait. Her next words are just as devastating. "And for our male tribute: Gale Hawthorne! Come on up now, dear, don't be shy."

Peacekeepers erupt through the crowd, grabbing your two best friends in the entire world by the shoulders, and forcing them up to the stage. Katniss whips her head around, looking at you with pleading eyes. You know what she's asking for.

"I'll take care of her, Katniss. I won't let her die. And you can't let yourself die, okay? Promise me. Katniss! Promise me!"

Your last words are hysterical, but ironically, Katniss is not. Having heard your commitment to Prim, she is satisfied. She yanks her arms free of the Peacekeepers and walks by herself, her head held high and her face serene.

You grab Prim's hand. Her whole body is shaking, wracked with sobs. You don't hear Effie's last words, but you know what they are.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

___

It's been two weeks since the reaping which stole your best friends. It's shocking how quickly you fell back into routine, as if nothing has even changed. The only indicator of their absence is an added part of your day: splitting your earnings between your family and Prim's.

There are now double the mouths to feed, so you spend double the hours in the forest hunting. Villagers are sympathetic – that may be the only reason you're all still alive. They love Prim, and they trust you. Everything you hunt manages to be traded.

But still, you're cracking. It's just too much, and you don't know if it'll ever get better. You have no idea what Katniss and Gale are going through right now, and you don't let yourself think of them. It would break your heart.

___

Peeta Mellark has always been observant. His teachers told his parents this, back when he was a child. It's this trait that makes him notice you. The girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, killing herself day after day to provide for not one, but two whole families.

He doesn't understand how no one else sees it. But maybe they do – it's just that no one in District 12 is really in a position to do anything about it. Still, the fact remains that you're close to breaking. You can't keep doing this alone.

Peeta Mellark has never been brave. His mother yells at him, beats him, and he takes it. He has never talked back to teachers, or dared disobey the Peacekeepers. So when he offers to hunt with you, he surprises even himself.

"What?"

"I'm Peeta Mellark. We were in the same class, and my parents run the bakery. I was wondering if I'd be able to hunt with you?"

So you weren't hallucinating. The baker's son – a boy you didn't think could kill a fly – had just asked to hunt with you. Your shock translates into a small laugh, not that anything about the situation is funny, really. Hurt flashes in Peeta's eyes, and you quickly backtrack.

"I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm Y/N L/N, I know who you are. I just didn't think you'd be the hunting type," you explain. Because you're gentle, and kind, and I've never seen you hurt anyone, with your words or physically. But you don't add that last part. 

"I've only ever hunted with Katniss and Gale, you must know them, they were reaped this year." Your voice cracks a bit with those last words, and Peeta acknowledges the fact with a nod. His hand twitches; he wants to pat you on the back, or grip your shoulder, anything to stop the melancholy leaking into your eyes, but he doesn't.

"But you're welcome to join me," you end with a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

___

The new partnership starts early the following day. You meet a groggy Peeta near his home, and the two of you begin the walk to the Meadow.

You hear no electrical hum from the fencing, which means it's safe to touch, and you guide Peeta across the boundary which separates the Seam from the forest. This is all illegal, you know, but you're too used to it to even notice. Peeta, on the other hand, feels an exhilarating sense of rebellion as he crosses the barbed wire, following your figure into the woods.

"You've never hunted before, have you?" you probe, although it's more of a confirmation than an actual question.

Peeta nods. "But I'm a quick learner. And I won't get in your way, I promise."

You smile, a genuine one this time. "We'll see about that, Mellark."

Over the next hour, you go over all the traps you had set from the day before, collecting from Katniss and Gale's traps as well. True to his word, Peeta picks it up quickly, and even has a great eye for camouflaging the traps. This becomes his task, using grass and twigs and flowers as his medium, painting a deceptive scene which looks safe and welcoming to the many squirrels and rabbits in these parts.

You also start him on foraging. Only one type of berry is poisonous in the Meadow, and it's easy to identify. You make sure he's clear on which to avoid, and leave him to it, while you head to the hollowed out tree where you've hidden your knives. The familiar sight of Katniss' bow and arrows within the trunk brings a pang in your heart. You leave them nestled within and retrieve only your daggers. You were never a good archer.

Another hour passes, and you return to Peeta with a deer. You're happier than you have been in weeks – this will be enough for almost a week's worth of food. Peeta is not empty-handed either, he has two buckets of progress, one filled with strawberries, the other with raspberries. He gives you a soft smile – he has dimples, you think. He then immediately turns a faint shade of green, having noticed the dead deer. 

You're seized with the desire to laugh, "Why'd you offer to hunt with me if you get queasy from the sight of game?"

He looks at you with an indignant pout, and you can't stop the giggle that tumbles out, then the full on laughter. 

"I'm not like this with all game, just, you know, the larger animals. I can look at dead squirrels just fine – stop laughing!"

Making your way back, within the District, you stop just outside of the fence to split your gatherings.

"Take the squirrels and rabbits, and the bucket of raspberries. I'll keep the deer and trade the strawberries with the mayor," you offer.

"No, you take it all," he crosses the barrier carrying the buckets, and you follow after him, shaking your head.

"I can't, Peeta. That wouldn't be right. This is a fair split."

"I never said I wanted to keep what we hunt. Only that I wanted to hunt with you, Y/N. Take it. I know you need it more than I do. I'll see you next weekend?"

And with that, he pops a strawberry in his mouth, smiling at the sweetness, and walks away.

You're left with your mouth open, unable to process what had just happened.

___

The next morning, you show up at the bakery. His bakery. You earned a few dollars from selling your strawberries to the mayor, and you figure that if Peeta won't take anything, you should buy from him instead.

A few dollars is enough for two loaves of good bread, and so you head to the bread aisle. But your gaze catches on the beautiful cakes on display, decorated with multi-colored icing and swirling script written in melted chocolate.

"I did those," comes a voice from behind you.

Whipping your head around, you see Peeta himself, looking at the cakes with fondness and a bit of pride.

"You did what?"

"The cakes. I decorated them. My mom bakes, but I decorate. I like doing it – it's like painting, just on a different canvas."

"They're really lovely. You have a talent for it," you confirm, "I bet that's why you were so good at hiding traps yesterday. You can see nature's patterns."

He gives you a soft smile in return, and you can see the dimples again. They're adorable, you think. I want to see them every day.

He gives a small cough, looking at you questioningly.

You startle, and blush a deep crimson. "Sorry, I lost my train of thought. I'm here to buy bread. Two loaves," you say as you lower your head to stare down at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

It's only when you hear a chuckle that you lift your head back up. Peeta's eyes are sparkling, and his dimples are clear as ever.

"I'll give you three."

___

Two months after the reaping, your partnership with Peeta is still going strong. Every Saturday, the two of you head to the woods, and spend half the day fishing, gathering, and hunting. Originally silent company has evolved into true friendship, with witty banter, fleeting touches, and shared smiles.

You have come to know Peeta Mellark. He isn't just the baker's son, the one who decorates cakes and hates seeing dead animals. He's the boy who saved you, when no one even knew that you needed saving. 

Day after day, he has shown up, offering kindness, companionship, and warmth, without expecting anything in return. You care about him more than you thought you could ever care about someone who wasn't family. You care about his messy blond hair, and you care about his broad shoulders. You care about his blue eyes which sparkle when he tells a joke, and his beautiful heart which leads him to give the occasional customer an extra free loaf. Most of all, you care about his dimples, which come out when he smiles at you. You care so much about him, that it scares you.

And Peeta cares about you. He cares about your hands, calloused but nimble, lethal when holding onto your twin daggers. He cares about your face, how it glows when you laugh at his jokes in the woods, but dims a bit when you're back in the district. He cares about your hair, always tied in a ponytail when in the Meadow, but left to flow freely down your shoulders when hunting's over. Most of all, he cares about your smile, which comes out when Prim thanks you week after week for your help, and forces you to take bottles of goat milk and pet Buttercup. He cares so much about you, that it scares him.

___

This hunting day, Peeta comes with news from the Capitol. A few weeks back, he started giving you updates on the Games, after you told him that you couldn't stomach the thought of watching your friends fight to the death.

"Y/N! Good news!" he greets, exiting the bakery. As the two of you begin your walk, he adds, "I'll tell you when we get to the Meadow."

"You're insufferable, Mellark. You can't just hook me like that, and not tell me what it is."

Peeta doesn't answer, so you start walking twice as fast, ushering him toward the edge of the Seam so you could figure out what exactly he wanted to tell you.

Once in the grassy plains of the Meadow, between the forest and the fence, you turn back to the boy, the impatience evident in your face.

"Tell me, Peeta, or I swear I'll –"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, "but it's not really good news, per se. It's just a little bit of hope."

You nod, urging him to continue.

"It's about the Games. About Katniss and Gale."

The last traces of your smile fade. Concern is etched onto your face, and your eyebrows scrunch up, your jaw tightens.

Noticing this, Peeta pulls you in by the waist, so that your head lands on his shoulder. "It's good news, Y/N. Don't look so defeated. They're both still alive, and they're fighting."

"But at least one of them won't be coming back," you whisper into his neck, so quietly you wonder if he even heard. But Peeta always hears you.

"Y/N. That's the news. They could both come back. Caesar Flickerman has just announced that they will be changing the rules this year – allowing two victors of the Games, provided they're tributes from the same district!"

You look up at him in awe. A change to the Games. Katniss and Gale, not one or the other. Both could win. Both could come back.

You choke down a sob, staring at Peeta's brilliant smile and those mesmerizing dimples. And before you can process what you're doing, you wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his in a bout of bravery.

Peeta's frozen for a second, before he begins to reciprocate the kiss in earnest. He pulls you in, one hand holding your neck and the other wrapped around your torso, pressing himself impossibly closer. He tastes like icing and strawberries, and you can smell the comforting scent of warm bread.

The kiss ends far too quickly for your liking, and you're suddenly impossibly shy, all bravado gone. You lower your eyes so you won't have to meet his eyes, but realize that you're practically sitting on his lap, having moved there at some point during the kiss. This observation brings a flaming blush onto your cheeks, and you scramble to move away, but you're held in place by Peeta's arms, forming an iron-tight cage around your figure.

He brings a hand to your chin, lifting it up, and kisses you again, more gently this time.

"Don't go all shy on me now, Y/L/N," he teases, and holds the back of his hand against your forehead, as if feeling for a fever. "You're burning up, darling."

"You know damn well that's not a fever–", you start, but you're cut off by his laughter, and once again distracted by those dimples of his. 

Maybe Peeta was right. Maybe there is just a little bit of hope left for you.

___

interested in other works of mine? see my masterlist!

[welcometoaurorashell]

I ain’t going to no damn store

pro insider tips for black friday from a retail worker

stay home

stay home

stay home

stay home

stay home

stay home

stay home

dont even think about going to a store

[charlunday]

Welcome to Charlie's Summer Commissions ✨️Raffle!✨️

You know I like to keep things exciting for you guys, so this time around I will be offering a commission raffle. To enter, simply donate to my ko-fi and leave your @ in the comments!

https://ko-fi.com/charlunday

Every dollar = 1 entry, and after donating, you can reblog this post for 1 extra entry!

I will be taking the final tally on August 19th, and however much money we raise will be the parameters of the commission piece. (If I somehow raise more than I would do for one normal commission, the pool will be split into two and there will be two winners!)

Remember, I don't just do THG pieces! Any fandom is welcome.

Even if you can't donate, I want to thank every one of my followers, and everyone that has ever supported my work. You all mean so much to me. Whenever I feel like I'm not good enough to be a professional artist, you remind me that's not true.

And if you don't feel like waiting until August 19th, my regular commissions are still wide open!

Good luck everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor!

[atelierlili]

Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms into the arena. “Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked.Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” he says. “Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Reimaging the rule change scene from the first Hunger Games book, but in a visual novel/video game style.

Vanillaware’s 2d storybook-like art style in their games has always been a large influence on me as an artist, so I thought it’d be fun to merge my two favourite things together. It was very fun, but also very challenging 😭

[juneberrie]

i don't want you like a best friend - cato hadley

₊˚ʚ 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ. cato hadley x fem!reader

author's note — ꩜ oooooh my first cato fic!! i hope you guys like it ♡

word count — ☆ 1.2k

warnings — ✦ooc clove probably, cato calling reader "shortstack"

the world stopped when his name was called. my lungs seem to shrink in my chest and my surroundings start to spin. he can't go, he can't go into the games. he can't leave me.

cato steps up to the stage, weaving through the crowd of people. he stands there as some capitol person rifled through the other glass bowl, searching for some poor girls name. he locks eyes with me and shakes his head ever so slightly.

"clove kentwell," the announcer says. a young girl starts to walk forward but before she even made it three feet i scream.

"i volunteer! i volunteer!" i push forward, risking a glance at the girl, clove, who glares at me before realizing why i volunteered. she sighs and gestures for me to proceed.

on wobbly feet, i step up to the stage next to cato. he doesn't even listen to the announcer's speech about the honor we'll bring to our district and what not. he turns to me with a look that says i'm going to kill you and thank you at the same time.

we're ushered into the building and corralled into separate rooms. cato looks back at me with an unreadable expression before the peacekeepers shove us both behind doors.

two minutes pass, but nobody comes in to say goodbye to me. i sigh and turn to the window before hearing the door open. through the reflection in the window, i see clove standing there, flanked by peacekeepers.

i turn to face her and we size each other up before she says something. "so, you and cato?"

immediately i feel my face heat up. "no- i mean, we're friends, is all. nothin' else."

she laughs and takes a step towards me. "sure. anyways, i wanted to wish you luck."

"you're not... mad? that i volunteered for you?" her name clicks and suddenly i register who she is. clove kentwell, one of the academy's top fighters. she's on track to volunteer and become a victor before she's even 17, and she would've become one of the youngest victors if i hadn't volunteered.

"i mean, i'm kind of pissed, but i get more training. better odds of winning next year," she states. one of the peacekeepers informs us that her time is up, and as she walks out of the room, she calls over her shoulder, "may the odds be ever in your favor, lovergirl."

after a while, the peacekeepers escort me and cato into the train station, where his family and clove stand at the front of the crowd. as the train pulls out of the station, cato's little sister screams his name, waving her arms wildly at her brother, and he waves back with a giddy smile. clove catches my eye and winks, and i roll my eyes and turn away from the window.

enobaria stands behind us, along with the announcer, whos name i learn is florentino. she quickly explains what will happen when we get to the capitol; the parade, the training, the interviews. she tells us to start thinking of ideas for angles we could use in the interviews, then instructs us to get something to eat and rest before we arrive.

she and florentino disappear behind a door, leaving me and cato alone.

i make a beeline to the mini-buffet laid out on the table and grab some sort of roll, which when i bite into it, is actually a cheese stick wrapped in fried bread theres a little label beside the plate that says "tequeños". these are the best things i've ever tasted in my life. i moan as i bite into another one, letting the flavor explode in my mouth.

i hear cato laugh behind me and reach to grab one. "are these really that good?" i nod fervently, grabbing a glass of water.

we eat in silence for a few minutes before i get up, announcing that we might as well try to sleep. cato agrees, but he doesn't move.

"hey, uh." i turn back, my hand on the door handle.

"yeah, cato?" something in his face changes when i say his name, but its gone before i can register what it is.

"don't let the bedbugs bite, shortstack," he says with a smirk. he follows me to the hallway where enobaria told us our rooms would be. our rooms are right across from each other.

i step into the room and shut the door behind me. then, i jump face first onto the big soft bed. it feels like heaven on earth, with its silk sheets and fluffy pillows. i kick my shoes off and rummage around in a drawer, finding a pair of silk pajamas to change into before i burrow under the covers. just as im drifting off to sleep, someone knocks at my door.

i groan and get up to open it.

cato's standing there, shirtless and wearing a pair of grey sweatpants. "hi shortstack."

"cato," i grumble. "its like, 2 am. what do you want?"

he looks around before stepping into my room. "just wanted to talk."

"and it couldn't wait until morning?" he shakes his head and sits down on my bed. i join him and flop onto my back. i almost fall asleep with the silence stretching between us until he clears his throat.

"the rooms are nice, huh?" he says. filler talk. "way better than the dorms at the academy." the dorms we have in the academy are standard issue, with a twin size bed, a window, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe. nothing like the opulent gilded queen size bed and dresser with an en-suite bathroom the train has.

"yeah," i yawn. "they are pretty great." i close my eyes. i feel cato put an arm around me.

"sorry for waking you up," he offers, letting me curl up into his side. i throw an arm over his chest and make a sound of assent. "y'know, you didn't have to volunteer."

"i wanted to," i defend. "its not like i was going to let you go into the arena alone, cato."

"i would've preferred that," cato snaps. he sits up and rubs a hand over his face. "i don't want you to.."

"to what, cato? to leave my best friend?" i retort, opening my eyes and shooting up. the words pain me to say; i know thats all i am to him. a best friend. "i thought you would've been glad that i volunteered. the games are all we've talked about since we were ten. and what better alliance than best friends?"

"exactly! i don't want you like a best friend," he yells. he stands up and starts pacing. "you're much too special and kind and pretty and strong to be my 'best friend,' n/n. i don't want to see you get hurt. how would i be able to live with myself if you got hurt in the games, huh? how could i call myself a victor and be happy if the one person who actually made me happy wasn't with me?"

we stare at each other for a few moments. his heavy breathing and my short sniffles are the only sounds in the room. slowly, i stand up and take tentative steps towards him.

we stand face to face, chests almost touching but feeling miles apart. my hand brushes against his for the barest moment and he grabs it, locking our fingers together.

"you mean it?" i whisper, looking up at him.

"i mean every word when it comes to you," he breathes.

[nebulaedaniel]

good luck today phannies 🫡 may the odds be ever in your favor

[aggro-my-beloved]

The Character Bracket: Redacted Audio Week Five

lovely fandom, it all comes down to this. with our final two contestants duking it out, one week from now we will finally answer who, in fact, is the best redacted audio character. good luck

may the odds be ever in your favor…

Week One Polls

Week Two Polls

Week Three Polls

Week Four Polls

↓ Week Five Poll ↓

Porter v. Milo

[craykaycee]

Message received.

...

hey!

...

pssst!

...

What if-

shhh

what if...

hehehe

what if

all of us

begin to fluster paper-lilypie with lily x monty...

like how you've had a week of springtrap x spacie...

hehehe

-mystery mutual

hehehehehhe.....ueyes.....YEEEEEESSSS GO FORTH BEASTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CAUSE THE RECKONING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[marinas-drafts]

Crawfever 1

Plot: You weren’t the first war widow to indulge in this, and young Elvis wasn’t the first young man who justified it…

SUMMARY: I adore the notion that Elvis Freakin’ Presley himself might have shown up at your doorstep to fix your electrical problems in the early 50’s. The concept that all that untapped charisma and talent and beauty could be found just going about his business, helping housewives with their glitches…well, this came out of the imagining of what one such call might look like. And if it devolved into poorly written Southern Gothic literature, blame Eudora Welty. 🥰. Also, A Streetcar Named Desire may have influenced my artistic choice of copious descriptions of sticky southern summers and the *feelings* they can provoke. This hasn’t been proofread by any eyes except my own exhausted ones.

Note: there were three other parts to this but I lost them with my old blog, alas. You can find them on tumblr still on my main blog. 💋

An Electrician Named Elvis

Summer in Memphis is a sticky, windless, oppressive thing, only relieved by the occasional swim, creaking fans and a chilled beverage held to the throat. The ice box is revered as a savior during these months and those nights the electricity shorts out due to the thunderstorms rolling across the Mississippi are spent in anxious fretting that it would turn on again by morning. But by ten o’clock this morning there’s no such luck, even though the lines have been fixed you’ve been told it’s a problem closer in.

Probably in the house.

Exactly the sort of problem your Billy would have solved himself with no extra cost but the odd washer or wire.

But Billy’s not here so instead you’ve got Crown Electric sending out whoever they deem expendable enough to waste on fixing a housewife’s ice box.

If it’s Marvin they send, you just might flip -you appreciate the man but haven’t any patience for that or him. Not today, not on top of milk going rancid and your baby girl having a pathetic breakfast before school. You can’t mend Marvin’s pants any faster for all that he mows your lawn. The lawn you pay him to mow. The lawn he owns as your landlord anyhow -oh and there’s the sound of the Crown truck coming to a stop on the drive.

You recognize that staring at the ice box won��t do much good so you go to the screen door in time to see a whole lotta leg swing out from the drivers seat.

You’re not sure you’ve ever appreciated a pair of legs so much as you do this blazing morning, and as they stretch out you have an epiphany of sympathy for the wolf whistles you yourself have received on windy days.

This pair goes on for miles, and they’re owned by an eager, doll-faced boy.

Heavens, is this his first job? At least it isn’t Marvin and you won’t be pestered about rent or mending, but wether or not a man who favors pink socks under his drab olive work-suit can fix a problem that’s befuddled many a handyman before him -well, that remains to be seen.

He’s halfway up the drive when he catches sight of you behind the screen door, his face animates and he jogs up the rest of the way. Taking the front steps two at a time.

You push the door open.

In the shade of your doorstep his complexion looks softer than any of your sister’s and you’re greeted by the same expression you see each morning when you wake your young daughter up -a desire to please. The effect is a little unsettling on a grown man, so obviously well proportioned, towering over you and decked out in a rough handyman’s attire.

“They said you’ve got an outage ma’am?”

“Yes, couldn’t fix it with the lines apparently.”

“Probably just the lightening shorted somethin’ out.” He assures you, voice going ever so gentle, like he’s comforting someone deeply bereaved.

Like he’s gonna fix all your troubles by turning the ice box and fans back on.

That won’t cure all your troubles, but it would be a start, a way for you to handle the rest.

“May I come in?” He adds softly when you say nothing.

You’re still standing in the doorway, unconsciously guarding it as you’ve been doing since you got that wretched telegram in ‘44. Nine years ago. Nine years and no one but relatives and Marvin when collecting the rent have crossed the threshold since.

Certainly no long limbed boy with hair as black as Billy’s and the intention of helping you around the house. Fixing the house, rather. No, damn it, just the electricity like it’s his job to do.

Just as Billy would have done if Billy were here.

This ain’t Billy, Billy had an earnest, sweet face and none of this boy’s ripe prettiness. Billy never talked softly either.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, right this way -what’s you’re name?”

“Elvis…Presley, ma’am.”

“Welcome to the oven, Elvis.”

The house has become a swampy inferno and though the windows are open the curtains hang limp, there isn’t a breeze between all these houses packed close together. It’s stifling under the low ceiling and whatever fresh look he had maintained flying down the road in his aired-out truck is melting now.

“Downright nasty in here.” He comments, and then he grins at you as the sweat begins to collect atop his cupid’s bow. “No wonder you’re out of sorts.”

“Yeah that’s gotta be it.” You manage to return the grin, ignoring the insinuation, “And spoilt milk always makes me testy.”

“You kept your ice box closed?”

“Sure have.”

“Then it might be alright. Only been off a few hours, right?”

“Since midnight.”

“Well, then, should be fine.” He’s got that comforting voice going on again and you reckon that either there’s an old soul in that daisy fresh face or else he’s spent most of his young life reassuring somebody. Reassurance flows from him naturally, and for once, you don’t feel like shrugging the comfort off.

And there’s a strange clench in your heart at how long it’s been sense you let someone metaphorically pat your back and tell you everything will turn out right. You’ve got lots of relations and a few friends who busy themselves and you with worrying about how you’re gonna manage to raise your daughter, earn a living and climb far enough out of the fog of widowhood to be considered socially acceptable again. It’s nice that some boy who’s never had his guts ripped open overseas wants to restore your ice box to you and make everything alright again. It’s precious that he thinks that’ll do it.

You’ve been pondering too long and now you’ve got a frog lodged in your throat and it ought to be awkward but he doesn’t look away, he just shyly peaks down at you under copious lashes and smiles encouragingly. “The electrical panel is in one of the bedroom closets, I’m guessin’?”

“In the Master.”

“Alright then.”

You usher him back to the stuffy little room that's glowing orange from the drapes trying to block out the noonday sun.

You’d pulled some clothes out of the closest beforehand to make it easier for him to reach the panel. When you’d done that you were imagining Marvin or man of his stubby frame working on it, but Elvis is unfazed, he just gracefully folds his long limbs into a squat in the tiny cubby and cranes his neck until he level with the panel. He’s got his tool kit balanced on one thigh and he gives you a thumbs up to suggest your presence is no longer needed. He is starting to look as miserably sticky as you feel, his black hair turning somehow darker with sweat.

His lips pucker up as he starts unscrewing a bolt. It’s rather obscene.

“Would you like some lemonade?” You’re offering as you need some yourself.

He looks startled you’re still standing there but after a minute’s hesitation he asks: “is it pipin’ hot?”

You laugh and he immediately looks pleased with himself. Damn, he’s so young. “I’m gonna crack open the ice box” you explain.

His humored look flees and earnest blue eyes go round in protest. “Ma’am I haven’t fixed this yet! I just got in here!”

“I know, silly,” you swat the air at him, “take it as a sign of faith you’ll manage it.”

He grins back, and a man squatting in a sweltering closet oughtn't to look that alluring. You assure yourself it’s just the domesticity of the whole thing. Billy changing a bulb or scrubbing a dish or hanging Christmas lights that one Christmas you had him to yourself -that’s the stuff that made you throw yourself at Billy in the mid afternoon of a balmy work day.

Raven haired young Elvis might work for the electrical company and be earning a commission with each moment of his work day you waste but if you squint a bit, he could be a beautiful boy who wanted to wife you up and give you babies and rub your feet when you’d been on them all day.

Lately you’ve gone out of the habit of assuming someone who looks as fresh as he does would be eyeing up a sweat soaked war widow, but young Mr. Presley had either never been shamed for his lack of subtly or never bothered to hide it because while his looks were tender, they weren’t respectful in the proper sense. You only wished you could see his revering expression as you sauntered away from him back into the kitchen.

The ice box was tolerably cool for having been kept shut. The milk was safe for now but would spoil sooner for the dip in temperature. That waste didn't rankle you as much as it had an hour ago. The thought “that’s alright” actually made it past your lips for the first time in months and you couldn’t help but marvel that you might have lost a bit of your cantankerous streak on the front steps.

With a sudden swoosh and buzz the small pedastol fan on the counter top buzzes back to life and the light in the ice box clicks on.

You whooped “you’ve done it!”

Heavy footfalls came out of the back bedroom and Elvis came into view with a bewildered look on his face: “You haven’t got a A.C. unit ma’am?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh you should!” He warmed up to the argument, “They make the air crisper than anything, sucks the river mist right out the air.”

“Not gonna be able to manage that on a war widow’s pension.” You retort nonchalantly, handing him a glass of chilled lemonade which he takes slowly and carefully, eyeing you over the rim.

“So that’s what happened.” He said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You seem so sad. That’s what started it?”

If he stayed this empathetic for the rest of his life he’d end up burned out and hollow before he hit fifty. He had no business looking out to solve every hurting person’s problems, not when he was so obviously lost himself.

“Three days into the Normandy campaign, at least that’s what they told me.” You've explained your husbands absence many times in the same way, but you aren’t sure you ever had a more sympathetic audience than this boy who is pressing the beaded lemonade glass to his cheek and looking at you like he knows exactly what it’s like to have your sweetheart get burned up by a nazi flamethrower. He doesn’t say a word of comfort on the matter, he doesn’t need to, his eyes show it all and his lips part and he murmurs:

“But he gave you a child?”

“He sure did, bless him. Her name’s June,” your lips quirk up just at the thought of her “my baby girl. She’ll be turning nine, day after tomorrow.”

The sorrow has gone off his face and he looks like he’s scheming now, and somehow that’s the most alarming expression to yet grace his features. He leans in across the kitchen counter, all familiar like, and that’s worse than anything: “Tell me, Mrs. Crawford, yeah, see I caught your name in the directory -but, tell me, does your June like to swim?”

“Loves it almost as much as watermelon.” You know you must look wary, but the last time a man leaned over a bar and eyed you up in this way you ended up married to him. Actually, scratch that. Billy was a darling and a delightful flirt but he didn’t have one ounce of the raw, unconscious danger this boy holds in his pinky finger alone.

“I’ve got a heap of cousins,” he begins quite randomly, “ranging all ages, and we’ve got a watering hole we found just south of town where the trees keep it all cool and the farmer doesn’t mind us so long as we don’t upset the cows. And I’ve got a truck, you see, and I was thinkin’ when you needed to cool off you could come join us. My mama would love to make a picnic out of little June’s birthday, I just know she would. What do you say to that?”

“Mr. Presley, I don’t know you nor your cousins. And I’m sure your mama is real nice but-“

“Right, because I reckon otherwise you get out a lot these days.” You hardly expected that amount of sass coming from his earnest face and it takes you aback.

You try a different route. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you smiling and wet from something besides sweat.” It’s a sweet sentiment, if it didn’t come from a man eyeing you up like he has been these past five minutes.

“I don’t know about her birthday,” you give in a little, “my parents always like to be around for it and she likes them to be.”

“Of course, of course” he nods. “And she doesn’t know me.”

“No she doesn’t.” It kills you to turn this down but you aren’t one to go do things your child isn’t interested in in her name.

“Tell her about the swimmin’ hole, then” he says all easy and confident as he straightens himself up from the counter and chugs the lemonade down, “and I’ll be back day after tomorrow with an extra valve so this don’t happen again. No need for it going off every time the rice fields get some rain.”

You’re clutching your glass to your chest and not even the icy chill against your sticky breast can make your heart stop thumping. “You’ve gotta come back?”

“I suppose I could ask Marvin to come instead.” He shrugs a tad too nonchalant, and looks away from you as he maneuvers around you to place his glass in the sink like the good, house tamed boy that he is. Except you’re very afraid you’ve miscalculated and welcomed a wolf in when you thought you were entertaining a lamb.

“How do you know about Marvin?” You demand.

“I work with him?” He replies hesitantly, brows and lips drawn up and eyes glittering with concern at your tone.

“No, no” you smack him lightly on the bicep and realize your mistake when he breaks out into a dimpled smile, “I meant why did you smirk when you said that he could come instead of you?”

“You’d rather your landlord come by and see your still in the back?” He’s cocky now, a hip jutted out against the cabinets.

“How the hell did you notice that?” You cried out, half laughing, half outraged, “You weren’t back in that bedroom longer than ten minutes.”

“I’s just curious what type of moonshine you were makin’.” He mutters, smirk barely wavering. “I’d never judge nobody for how they make ends meet.”

“Alright, you can come back.”

“Marvin talks about you.” He tosses this piece of information out there real cooly. You nearly get whiplash from how fast he changes direction, “Told me you’re a marvelous woman who takes care of the whole block but won’t let no one take care of her.”

You aren’t sure you’re comforted by the fact his tender smile is still in place. But you’re glad that he doesn’t seem to taste an awkward moment when it smacks him in the face. You find you like talking with him about these long neglected subjects.

“Marvin’s alright.” You concede. “He helps me out plenty. And now there’s you. And I thank you for fixing my fans.”

To prove your point turn from him and rest your elbows on the countertop, leaning to push your face up to the blast of the little pedestal fan, letting your hair fly wildly around you.

Somewhere behind you can hear him chuckle. It sounds alarmingly close. “It’s made my day.” You say, voice distorted by the force of the whirring blades.

That’s when you feel him drape himself over you, his chest a centimeter away from your sticky back and an elegant hand on each side of yours against the counter. His voice warbles just as funny thanks to the fan when he says: “Mrs. Crawford, I’m gonna get you a Chrysler air cooling system, just you wait and see.”

Presumably he’s draped himself over the length of you to get in the direct line of the fan’s breeze, but you doubt there’s any other man at Crown Electric who’d dare act on that impulse as he has.

“Oh are ya now?” You don’t even have to try to sound incredulous. You are incredulous he’d dare do this, that he’d read you so well to know you’re starving for a little closeness in this soggy kitchen. “Well, that’s real sweet of you, Elvis. How on earth are you gonna manage that?”

Why he, a stranger, would buy you such a thing is left unasked. Again, it feels domestic and you want to hold onto that fuzzy feeling for a moment longer. Also, you’re desperately trying to keep still, one tiny shift or move and you’ll brush up against some part of him, and at this point you’re not sure there’s an inch of this man that’s benign. Playing along seems safer than trying to disentangle.

His head dips down and the strands of his hair tickle the tips of your ear as his voice drops low:

“I’m gonna make a lotta money, mama.”

“Oh? Is there any money left in Memphis?”

He giggles then, and he never sounded more boyish than when he did that, his voice bouncing off the tinny fan. “Dunno how I’ll manage but it will involve singin” he takes one hand from the countertop and pats your hip familiarly, and right then any bit of deniability on your part goes out the window because you don’t correct him for it.

“‘Cause we’re so short in singers in Memphis?” You tease instead, wishing you sounded less interested. Less gasping.

“Yeaaaaaah baaaaaaaaby” he hollers above you into the fan, laughing again as it spooks you and you jerk back, right into the lanky breadth of him.

There’s a brief wrestling match after that involving you trying to get away from his lithe limbs as fast as you can and him trying to keep you from toppling over by wrapping his lean arms around your shoulders.

That stills you.

No one’s rested their chin atop your head in nearly a decade, and you could sob in frustration that it’s that little motion of his that makes you hungry and angry all at once.

You coulda had this. You had it for one good year. You could have it again if the whole block wouldn’t gape at the fact you were robbing the damn cradle.

Young Mr. Presley seems to have a taste for housewives pushing towards thirty and you aren't too proud to deny you’ve suddenly grown an attraction for sweet boys who just wanna make life sweeter. You two could write a sweet fiction, however brief.

“I wanna see you happy,” he mutters soft in your ear, “tell me you’ll let me come around again.”

“I’ll tell you what, Elvis,” you place your hands atop his forearms, leaning back, “you come around, meet my June, fix that washer business and I’ll feed ya a good meal while you tell her ‘bout that watering hole.”

“Really?” He’s beaming and you crane your neck back further so you can see it clearly. It’s a sight to be admired. “Day after tomorrow, that’ll work?”

“Yeah it’ll do.” His unabashed joy gives you the upper hand for a moment and you do the safe thing, pulling away and giving him a once over. “Tell me, does that nice mama of yours know you go round putting moves on widows?”

He has the audacity to blush at that, looking down at the floor, abashed for the first time since this shameless encounter. “She worries they’ll be the ones putting the moves on me.” And he rolls his eyes as if that sensible woman were delusional.

“Can’t imagine why.” You say dryly. “Now, you scoot, I’ve got mending to do.”

He wakes up at that, grabbing his tool kit and ducking his head not to hit the low ceiling as he makes his way to the front door. You trail after him enjoying the view of something so virile and alive in your house. Since when have men’s waists been so pretty?

“So, see you day after tomorrow?” He looks more vulnerable outside, not so sultry in the glow of blazing sunlight, and the anticipation of somebody wanting to see you puts a pep in your tone, brightens your face -you can feel it, and see it mirrored in his.

“Yeah,” you lean against the frame, “and after that…”

“Yeah?”

You let him fidget, “after that you’ll show me how you plan on getting me that A.C. Unit.”

He snaps his fingers and points at you, “I’ll bring my guitar then.”

“Oh yes, you’d better.”

He’s halfway back to his truck when he spins around and takes a few steps back towards you, “Say, d’you play anything?”

It’s been awhile and you’re rusty but you reckon you’re about to begin indulging in many long abandoned pastimes so you tell him: “Harmonica.”

“Ah,” he sways back on his feet, going back to his truck only to turn, one foot on the runner boards, looking at you admiringly. “You’ve got the lips for it.”

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog @aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo