#i’d scrub it from the world for another day.

[t4tozier]

fabian and bill’s scenes always fucking get me.

[azzibuckets]

now that we don’t talk part 1 [paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige break up and neither of you know how to move on properly with your life

a/n: decided to go for some angst again…didn’t really have an aim or a direction when writing this so not sure if i should turn this into a series or not ? lmk what yall think

word count: 1.5k

masterlist | next

The First Week

In the first week, Paige had fallen into her daily routine. Her moments of forgetfulness were instinctual; she’d laid a dollop of minty Crest toothpaste on her blue toothbrush before doing the same thing to your red one, leaving it hanging over the edge of the counter.

The first time she did it, she’d hadn’t even noticed. It was only when she’d turned her mouth to catch the water under the faucet that she’d spotted your toothbrush that she’d set up, ready with Crest, as if you’d pop in any moment to stick it in your mouth and start scrubbing. Paige had almost choked on the water she’d been gurgling, grief worming its way up her throat and making it hard to breathe.

Heaving, she’d stood over the sink, hand gripping both sides of the counter to support herself until her knuckles turned white. It took all her strength not to buckle over from the precipitous wave of agony that had collided into her with gut-wrenching speed.

But for some reason, Paige had stuck your toothbrush under the stream of water then placed it carefully back in its cup. And so she’d made the same mistake the day after. This time, when she realized what she’d done, it wasn’t the weight of sadness that compressed her lungs, but a brewing storm of fury. Her vision had gone red, and she’d grabbed the toothbrush and hurled it against the wall as hard as she could, with a strength that she didn’t even know that she’d still had. And this time, when Paige stared at the toothpaste dripping slowly down the wall, mocking her as it made a mess on the floor, the counter couldn’t save her. She’d succumbed to the force of her fury dragging her down, and had crumpled to the floor, sobs racking her body.

The First Month

Your room was dark, in almost sub-freezing temperatures with the windows wide open to welcome in the frosty, bone-chilling winter air that Connecticut was known for. The only light in the room came from the dim glow of your laptop screen, opened live to the UConn women’s basketball game playing live on ESPN.

At first, you’d attempted to be nonchalant whenever Paige sunk yet another basket with ease, making the crowd and commentators going feral as she celebrated with her signature moves. But as the game between UConn and Stanford got closer and closer, you couldn’t help but smile when Paige crossed over her defense, sending them flying to the floor and leaving her wide open to score yet another 3. It reminded you all too well of the Paige you’d met and fallen in love with, whose confidence on the court had made you start viewing her as more than just your teammate.

But any trace of smile on your face quickly vanished once you watched Paige’s post-game interview during the livestream. “You’ve had quite a run this season despite being out for most of your sophomore and junior year due to injury. Who would you like to thank for your unpredented comeback?”

“I’d like to thank God. He’s been with me through everything, given me trials to test my resilience. In fact, he’s made me stronger than ever.” Paige had paused. You’d recognized her hesitance; the way she nibbled her bottom lip, her mouth half open as she debated a response, the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered. But she seemed to recover from any reluctance, and what she said next made your heart drop. “I’d also like to thank my girlfriend, Leslie.” She motioned to someone off camera, and soon the frame was filled with tousled brown hair and soft green eyes.

Paige pulled her in close, and your world spun as you watched Paige, your Paige, press her lips against the brunette. Your hands had reached up to tear your headphones off your head, unable to further listen to the claps and hoots of the crowd along with the cooing of the commentators without feeling the need to throw up. But before you could, Paige had started speaking again. Your hands froze. You hated yourself for it, but you had to listen.

“She’s been with me through everything, from freshman year to now. She was my number one supporter when I got injured.” She wrapped her arm around Leslie’s waist, staring intently at the camera, and never before had you been this sickened staring at the blue eyes you’d once adored, could’ve spent hours getting lost in. “But even outside of my injury, Les has been on my side. Especially with all the immature drama that happened on the court last year, she was really a clear voice in all of that. So I’m pretty grateful for her.”

Leslie’s mouth split into a grin, and she turned to pull Paige in for another kiss, and that was when you slammed your laptop so hard that when you opened it the next morning, you were surprised to see that the screen hadn’t shattered.

You were not someone who cried. Your family members, your friends, Paige could all attest to that. But the torment that was clawing its way through your body, threatening to suffocate you, finally exploded. Tears had surged from your eyes, seemingly never ending, and you’d cried so much that night that it suddenly made sense why you’d almost never cried before; it was like all the tears in your life had been pent up, waiting for this moment, for when the pin fell.

That night was the lowest you’d ever felt in your life, and possibly even the lowest you’ve ever acted - blinded by a jealous rage over the girl that Paige had always promised you not to worry about, the girl Paige was basically making out with on live television just one month after you guys had broken up (and when it’d taken her two years to show PDA with you), you’d gone on all your social media accounts and blocked Paige on every single one of them.

Then an idea came to you. An act of retaliation that would hurt Paige as much as she hurt you. So you’d reopened Twitter, unblocked Paige. You’d scrolled until you found the perfect tweet. Your thumb had hovered for a split second over the like button, haunted by images of Paige’s hand trailing your stomach, her hair brushing your eyes, her mouth on your neck, before it was violently replaced by the image of Paige locking lips with the brunette flooding your mind, causing you to jam your thumb down with ferocity on the like button. You’d slammed the final nail in the coffin by deleting the app so that you couldn’t go back and undo your action before word got around to Paige.

The First Year

You thought you knew grief. You thought you’d familiarized yourself with every aspect of mourning: the realization in the morning, when your eyes open and you lose the blissful state of dreaming and you’re confronted with the harsh truths of the world. Or the late nights, when you’re restless and can’t sleep because of jealousy plaguing your mind. Even the deep longing of missing someone’s touch so bad that you swear that you can almost almost smell their perfume.

So you thought you knew grief - until your grandma died. It had been a matter of time. She’d had breast cancer, and for years now the doctors had been saying any time. But that still didn’t prepare you for the overwhelming pain that consumed all your senses, making it hard to think or eat or sleep or even breathe.

The first few nights after you received the news, you stared at the ceiling, unblinking until the early hours of the morning when the sun started creeping up through your windows. But you couldn’t even cry; you felt like a broken faucet. What the fuck was wrong with you? Sobbing over your stupid ex that you’d broken up with an entire year ago, but unable to shed a tear for your grandma, the woman who had single-handedly raised you. You were exhausted to the point of no return. When would everything stop hurting?

You’d only torn your eyes from your ceiling when your phone had lit up. It was 4 AM, and you wondered who it could be. You checked your phone, and every part of your body froze when you read the notifications.

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I’m so sorry

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I just heard the news

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

Don’t know if you’re even active on here anymore but it’s the only way I could reach you. If you see this, I just want to ask you to not keep your grief to yourself. Isolating yourself won’t make the pain go away. Make sure to talk to someone

Your heart had ached, your phone trembling in your hand. Because Paige had cared enough to send you a message, on the same app where you’d given the tabloids a wet dream and caused the UConn fandom to go into a spiral by liking a hate tweet about Paige. She’d cared enough to disregard all that to make sure you were okay. But she still hadn’t cared enough to offer to be that someone that she wanted you to talk to so bad.

So you’d left her on read, without responding. Had slipped back into your sheets, your head pounding and your lungs aching. This time the tears fell out easily.

[luveline]

May I request more Eddie and Roan? I love and miss them. 🥺

“Roan’s in the bathroom.” 

You look up from your book quizzically. “How can you tell?” 

Eddie can tell because his fiendish spawn has been quiet far too long this morning, that and there’s a strange groan of the floor whenever someone stands near the sink. 

“I thought she was still sleeping,” you say, closing your book around your fingers. “Free time is over?”

Eddie laughs at you. It’s weird for him to get to lie here and do nothing, but weirder to do nothing with you (weird in the best way, the only way he’d ever want it). You’re just sitting there in your rumpled pyjamas looking as beautiful as the day you asked him out, and he looks about as underdressed as he did then, he’s sure, his t-shirt rolling at the neck and his pants stained with jelly. He wonders if this is the best part of domestic life, getting to sit and know Roan is safe if naughty, and you’re with him. Not doing anything in particular, just sitting with him, your thighs and calves touching, two (three) against the world. 

“You can stay and finish your book,” he says. 

“I’d be here for hours.” 

Eddie takes your wrist and drags you toward him for a kiss too brief to bother closing his eyes. “Mm, if you want to. I’ll go see what miss is up to.” 

You shake your head strangely, so he waits before standing. The sheets are pushed to the bottom of the bed, your bare calves peeking out of ridden pants. He reaches for your ankle. “What?” he asks, giving it a squeeze. 

“Can we… can we try to spend as much time together today as possible?” 

Eddie doesn’t need to ask you what you mean, but he does, he wants you to feel heard, “You feel like we’re not spending much time together?” 

“Not as much as I want.” 

You look embarrassed, and there’s no need for it. He can hear a tap running in the bathroom and he needs to investigate sooner rather than later, but he thinks this is pressing too. “Okay. Deal, babe.” He remembers how badly he wanted you at the beginning. He still wants you, but there was this unsure nervousness that ate him every time you came around, wondering when you’d stop. You never did.

Eddie holds up his pinky. “Shake on it?” 

You wrap your pinky around his and shake. 

“You better get up then,” he says. “We gotta go see what trouble’s doing.” 

You beam and hold his hand, letting him lead you to the bathroom, where the door is open, and Roan is washing her arms in the sink. 

“Whatcha doing?” Eddie asks her. 

She turns with wide eyes. “I got too much soap on my hands!”

“Oh no!” he says, your scratchy laughter behind him. “How did that happen?” 

There’s soap on her sleeves, on the floor, bubbles all over the sink and even on her cheek. Eddie lets you go to come up behind her, to her adorable relief. 

“I was trying to get my hands extra clean because Uncle Steve said germs live on the toilet,” she says. 

“They do,” Eddie says, guiding her hands under the water, messing with the faucet when the water comes out cruelly cold. “Here we go, nice and warm for you, bub. Don’t scrub anymore.” He holds her hands apart. “Let’s just wait for it to wash off.” 

You drop a towel by their feet. Roan and Eddie step onto it. He can see her socks are soaked, as are her sleeves. “We’ll get changed,” he says, holding his arm back for another towel, which you give quickly. “Let’s just dry you off, sweetheart. Way too much soap. There are lots of germs on the toilet but one squirt of soap is enough for next time.” 

“Ohh-kay.” 

Eddie dries her hands, her arms, and kisses her cheek. “Good morning.” 

“Yes! Good morning!” she says back, turning in his arms for a hug. 

Eddie pulls her up into his chest. “Listen, me and Y/N have agreed to be stuck together today,” he whispers.

“Are you not stuck together most of the time?” she asks. 

You laugh again. “We are.” 

Eddie hikes her up onto his hip and drags you in on his other side. This is how you stay for much of the day, hip to hip, hands intertwined. You sit in thankfully dry pyjamas around the kitchen table eating dinner with your chairs unreasonably close together, Roan included. Eddie doesn’t find it suffocating for even a moment. This is how he likes it, his girls, their quirks, and a salad absolutely loaded with roasted bacon bits. 

“Yum,” Roan says as she grabs a cherry tomato off of his plate. 

Eddie squirms at her. “Not cool, babe.” 

You drop two of your tomatoes onto his plate. Roan steals another one as he leans down to give you a thank you kiss, but it’s fine. She giggles as she eats it.

Eddie goes princess style with it and cups the back of your head to feel you smiling into his lips. “Sick of me yet?” he asks. 

You murmur a sweet no and close your eyes again. Eddie kisses you quick and pulls you in for a hug, ignoring the fork in your hand. 

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | July 29th-August 4th 2024

Against my best intentions, I've been seduced by the dark side 🙈 (the infideleddie/buckfidelity trend).

Complete

i swear it will get easier by lecornergirl/ @clusterbuck (Post-S7, Chris&Buddie | 1,8K | General): “Chris texted me last night.” Tension slams into Eddie’s body. “Is he okay?” “He’s fine,” Buck says quickly. “There’s nothing wrong. He just—” he looks up, meets Eddie’s eyes. “He asked me how you’re doing.” Eddie’s face falls. “I’ve been texting,” he says, voice small. “Just—checking in, you know? Every day. But yesterday I thought—maybe I should give him some space—” he scrubs a hand across his face. “Did he think—” He doesn’t complete the sentence, but Buck fills in the blanks. Did he think I’d given up on him?

Jeep Talking by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Chim POV | 2K | Teen): A ride in the backseat of Buck's Jeep with Buck and Eddie in the front gives Chim new perspective on his brother-in-law's strange dynamic with his so-called "best friend.' And Chim is sick of them being so oblivious.

I'm falling apart (and all I want is to trust you) by diaz_evan (3x03: The Searchers | 2K | General): OR Eddie and Christopher's reactions to Buck collapsing in 3x03: The Searchers.

unless you're choosing me by bucksclipboard/ @excuseme-greentea (Post-S7, Misunderstandings | 4K | Teen): “Could you check that?”, Eddie called from the kitchen. He had insisted to make something for them tonight instead of ordering their usual pizza and ice cream dinner. “Sure”, Buck replied and snatched the phone off the coffee table. He knew the pass code – it was the day Eddie had started working at the 118. There was no new text, just a message from his phone provider, but an earlier conversation was still opened. Before Buck could place the phone back on the table, something caught his eye. Why was Eddie talking to Hen about him? or: buck reads a text he wasn’t supposed to read

can't ignore the crazy visions of me in la by wafflesofdoom/ @capseycartwright (Post-S7, Getting Together, Pride | 4K | General): Margarita-drunk Buck ruminates on how beautiful Eddie Diaz is while his best friend is dancing to Chappell Roan. That's what LA pride is for, right? - or, alternatively: Eddie spends his first pride as an out queer man in a gay club, and Buck is in love with him about it.

the one where buck finds out by weewooforever (Post-S7, Misunderstandings, Getting Together | 5K | Teen): “You’re — You’re over me?” Buck manages to choke out, looking towards Eddie with wide eyes. “When were you… “ He says, his voice barely above a whisper as he tries to make sense of this whole situation. “When were you under me?” or the one where buck listens to a voicemail that turns his whole life upside down.

nothing wrong with me loving you by cranberrymoons/ @cranberrymoons (Post-S7, Cheating, Sexting | 5K | Explicit): He’s not thinking about it. He’s not. He’s definitely not. Buck leaves for the night, gets in his car and drives away like everything’s normal – normal because it is, it literally is, it’s the most normal night in the world, and Eddie is the most normal he’s ever been, and then maybe an hour later, he gets a text. * buck and eddie watch red white and royal blue together; one thing leads to another (aka: the sexting fic) (Part 1 of 🔥buck and eddie's red hot infidelity summer)

i'll come to you and drop my bags (you'll help me unpack them) by farfromthstars/ @doeeyeseddie (Post-S7, Media fic | 5K | General): eddie has some important conversations via text over the course of the worst(?) summer of his life.

🔥Down to the Bones of Me by giselleslash/ @gigi-gigi (Post-S7, Road Trip | 5K | Teen): The morning after Christopher leaves Eddie gets in his truck and drives. Buck lets him go, and Eddie fights to come back for both of them.

Oopsie Daisy (Never Knew That Was Your Boo, Baby) by ameliahart (Post-S7, Cheating | 5K | Explicit): The first time it happens, it’s Tommy’s fault. Maybe that’s unfair, all things considered, but Eddie certainly isn’t going to blame Buck for it. And Eddie’s single, so it can’t be his fault. But Tommy sent Buck a dick pic while Buck was at Eddie’s house, so Eddie feels secure in blaming Tommy for everything that happened after. * Or, five times Buck cheats on Tommy with Eddie, and one time he doesn't.

I Always Wanted My Own Spark by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Future Fic | 5K | Teen): In 2040, during the midst of a family crisis, Christopher Diaz and his younger brother butt heads. (Part 5 of 🔥Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home)

it's a small crime (i got no excuse) by justhockey (Post-S7, Cheating | 6K | Mature): It’s a dangerous game they’re playing. Buck doesn’t care. He’d like to blame it on the alcohol running through his blood and loosening his inhibitions. On the rough shift, or the even rougher week he’s had. He’d like to blame it on Eddie, or Tommy, or anything at all that could absolve him of what he’s about to do. But the truth is, Buck just wants. He wants, and he wants, and he wants. So he takes.

hang me up on your bedroom wall by hrudayam/ @eddiegettingshot (Post-S7, PWP, Cheating, Breeding kink | 6K | Explicit): “You’re going to be a great father someday,” Eddie says eventually, because he’s worse than he used to be and Buck’s reverent eyes make him feel—they just make him feel. “Eddie, I—” “You are,” he repeats, firm. “Don’t you think I’d know better than anyone?”

drink up (you're wasted on me) by okanus/ @buddieism (7x06: There Goes The Groom, PWP, Cheating | 9K | Explicit): Or: Eddie and Buck hook up at the bachelor party. Difficulties ensue.

close ain't close enough (til we cross the line) by cranberrymoons/ @cranberrymoons (Post-S7, Cheating, Sexting | 10K | Explicit): Eddie thinks about it for a minute. He really does, because he’s more clear-headed now than he was last night, so he thinks better of it for maybe thirty seconds. Remembers the inarguable fact that Buck has a boyfriend and that Eddie is – well. Learning some things about himself, maybe, but is very specifically not Buck’s boyfriend, so. He shouldn’t. Right? Except. (Part 2 of 🔥buck and eddie's red hot infidelity summer)

all my little words by youbetsya/ @maddiebuckettebuckley (Post-S7, Epistolary | 11k | Teen): Eddie: Did you just send me an email? Buck: yeah lol. Eddie: Why… I dont think you’ve ever emailed me actual words before. Just stuff to print when your printer is broken Buck: did you read it? Eddie: Not yet. Too busy trying to figure out why the fuck you’re emailing me. Buck: just read it dude 🙄

🔥treat an opportunity like it's treating you by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Post-S2 | 12K | Teen): After losing his leg as a result of the fire engine bombing, Buck is presented with the opportunity to have a service dog donated to him.

🔥 Operation: Keep Eddie Diaz Busy and Annoyed by giselleslash/ @gigi-gigi (Post-S7, Getting Together | 15K | General): Or, the one where Buck forces Eddie to keep busy while Chris is gone, but ends up catching a bad case of The Feelings in the middle of Eddie learning to love pickling things to irritate Chim and charming old ladies through square dancing.

🔥I think if you're lucky by colonoscopys/ @colonoscopys (Prince Buck/Firefighter Eddie | 19K | Teen): Evan hits him with his car.

mask over my eyes and an arrow through the heart by youbetsya/ @maddiebuckettebuckley (Post-S7, Cheating | 35K | Explicit): “Look, you’re my family, a-and I want you guys to be on board with this.” Buck is tense, anxious. Eddie should really say something. Be supportive. “But it’s happening either way. So.” Bobby leans over to clap Buck on the shoulder, staring him straight in the eye as he does. “I am happy for you, Buck. As long as you’re sure.” Some of the tension falls away from Buck’s posture. He smiles. “I am. Sure. I’m super sure.” “Alright then.” Bobby pats Buck’s shoulder once more before he pulls away. “Congratulations, kid.” Buck visibly exhales in relief, which Eddie finds solace in despite the fact that he’s currently being stabbed with a thousand tiny knives. Or: Buck is getting married. He is.

drift past the flowers. by dylaesthetics (Post-S6, (Un)requited Love | 45K | Teen): OR Buck and Natalia get engaged, and Eddie flees the state about it. A petty email correspondence ensues.

WIP

Where there's smoke by rainbow_nerds/ @rainbow-nerdss (Multiverses | 4/31 | 5K | Teen): His eyelids are heavy. His lungs ache. The smoke is dense and thick, slowly suffocating him. Eddie feels himself drift as Buck’s voice penetrates the smoke, cuts through the fog in his brain. “Eddie, stay with me. Stay with me, Eds.” Eddie wants to stay. He wants to open his eyes and see Buck. He doesn’t want to leave. But he’s so tired, and sleep is calling him. Maybe it will be okay. Maybe his dreams will be sweet. Maybe there’ll be peace, there. And maybe, if he just rests for a little while, he’ll be able to find his way back.

E & E: A Buddie Drabble Collection by Tizniz (Prompt fic | 108/? | 24K | General): A collection of drabbles for Buck and Eddie.

Best Case Scenario by lesbianrobin/ @lesbianrobin (Podcast, Multimedia fic | 2/? | 4K | Teen): Buck and Eddie start a podcast. a multimedia epistolary fic

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briar / @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, Divergent Post-S6 | 132/? | 419K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

[hotshotsxyz]

hi abbie! from the prompt list: buddie, ” i miss you. i miss you so much it hurts." please?

(buddie) (656 words) i have, once again, taken this in what is almost certainly a different direction than intended

“Hey, Shan,” Eddie says softly.

The air is crisp and cold, unseasonably so for early November, but the sun shines bright against a cloudless blue sky. It’s a perfect day to spend outside, and a perfect day to have a conversation he should’ve had years ago.

Eddie brushes a few errant leaves from Shannon’s headstone then sits in the grass beside it.

“It’s been a while since I came here without Christopher. He—he’s so much like you, Shannon, you have no idea. But I…”

Eddie scrubs a hand down his face and sighs.

“I need to talk to you about something else. Tell you some things that I wish I’d figured out a little sooner. Things I wish I could’ve told you face to face.”

Eddie closes his eyes and tips his face toward the sun.

“I still don’t really know how to say any of it out loud, but I’m going to try,” he says.

A soft breeze blows through the cemetery, ghosting across Eddie’s face like a gentle caress. The corners of his lips tick into a small smile.

“I miss you,” he admits. “I miss you so much it hurts. But I… I think you were right.”

This is so much harder than he thought it would be, but every word comes a little easier than the last.

“We were kids when we met. The same age Christopher is now, can you believe that? And we were still kids when we had him. I don’t think either of us really got that at the time.”

Eddie pulls his knees to his chest and rests his folded arms on them.

“Neither of us had the chance to figure out who we would’ve been on our own. These last few months have been the first time I’ve ever even lived alone, you know? And I—I’ve finally realized that I’m not the person I’ve been trying to force myself to be.”

There’s a thread coming loose along one of the seams of Eddie’s jeans. He picks at it until another stitch pops free.

“I’ve been holding onto your ghost almost as long as I knew you, Shan. I think it’s about time I set both of us free.”

Eddie takes a shaky breath.

“I kept you on a pedestal, because if you were the one great love of my life then I wasn’t—”

His eyes begin to sting.

“I loved you so much, but not the way I thought I was supposed to. You were my best friend. Think that might be a thing for me,” he laughs wetly.

“I wish you could’ve met him for real. I think you’d’ve gotten along. And I… I wish we’d gotten the chance to be friends again. You probably would’ve told me to get my head out of my ass way sooner.”

A tear slips down his cheek, followed quickly by another.

“I’m gay,” Eddie says.

It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. Something that feels like the weight of the entire world lifts from his chest.

“So you were definitely right about the divorce,” he jokes, and then the joke turns into a laugh, and the laugh turns into a sob.

A gust of wind blows, knocking a few leaves loose from the nearby tree. One of them drifts slowly and softly through the air until it lands gently on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Shan,” Eddie whispers.

He sits with her a while longer, long enough for his tears to dry and his thoughts to quiet.

“I’m going to try,” Eddie says when he stands. “I’m going to try to be happy. I promise.”

He lingers a few moments longer, then heads back to the cemetery’s entrance.

Just beyond the gate, sitting exactly where Eddie left him, is Buck. He looks up from his book as soon as Eddie crosses the threshold.

“Ready?” Buck asks softly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I think I am.”

[timetoletmyimaginationfly]

Just Let Me Love You

Nanami Kento x Reader

(Song Inspiration: Daddy Issues Remix by The Neighborhood, Syd)

Some suggestive between you and Nanami.

Some cursing, mention of suicide.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him. You questioned why you got yourself involved with him in the first place. Was it because of his soft, blonde hair? The intense look in his brown eyes? Or maybe his height and built physique? And the voice? His deep voice just sends shivers down your spine. And his soft touch? It made your skin tingle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cursed quietly to yourself on your way home from work.

He was all you ever think about all night at work. It was unlike you to mentally be in another world at work. But him? He got you in a different way that you can’t explain. You hated it. It was new and you didn’t like the unknown.

“You’re back on time again.” You wondered if it was your imagination when you opened the door to your apartment. But seeing him next to you with his beige suit, orange-black spotted tie, and blue button up made you realize that you weren’t in your own world. He was really there, about to leave for work.

“You’re leaving early,” you said. Nanami smirked.

“Trying to avoid overtime hours,” he said.

“I’d think that you’re following me around,” you said back, hiding the nerves in your voice. “This is being common for a while now, Kento.” Nanami shrugged and leaned in closer to you.

“Maybe it’s because I just like seeing you before I leave for a long day of work,” he said softly by your ear. You felt the shivers, but this time, you felt your body shake from his warm breath. His hand reached up to your face and he stroked his fingers down gently on your cheek. “I missed you.”

“I can’t say the same myself,” you said, your voice slightly trembling. You mentally cursed to yourself. Nanami chuckled softly.

“I’ll pretend that you don’t mean that, sweetheart,” he said.

“I have a name,” you said sternly. The stern tone was automatic. It made you wince. But Nanami stood there, unaffected.

“I know,” he said. “But, it’s very fitting for you. Maybe darling? How about dear? Love?

“Sweetheart’s fine,” you said in slight defeat. You truthfully enjoy it. But you didn’t want to admit it to him. Nanami chuckled as his lips trailed close yours.

“I’ll see you later then, sweetheart,” he said softly and slightly seductively. You lost control and pulled his tie to crash his lips to yours. You pulled him inside, before eagerly removing his jacket off his shoulders.

You woke up to the sunlight shining through your curtains. You groaned, feeling soar in between your legs. When you opened your eyes, you found a small note on your nightstand.

I knew you missed me, sweetheart. Sleep well.

Kento.

You groaned, your face buried in your pillow. You know you give in too easily. It wasn’t often, but you let Nanami take you that easily to bed. And he’s the only one who knows what you needed in bed. He knew how to arouse you in ways you didn’t think could arouse you.

You shook your head. You don’t want to admit your feelings. Even when you first met him a year ago, you didn’t want to admit it. But he stayed consistent. Always greeting you when the two of you passed each other. Always offering to help you when you were carrying groceries, even if it’s just one small bag. Always throwing in sweet compliments that you respond back in a negative way but still blush and secretly feel good about.

You heard your cell phone go off with a text notification. You covered your body with your silk robe and walked over to the kitchen counter where the thrown scrubs were now neatly folded on to the chair and your phone on the counter.

Father: Spare me some money?

You scoffed, immediately deleting the text message. The only time he would contact you. And you kept your word years ago to ignore him.

Anger was building up. You hoped a cold shower would help. But after the shower, you still felt the irritation in the pit of your stomach. The way he hurt your mother emotionally as he constantly saw other women. But you also hated how she stayed. So many opportunities to leave, but never did. And you could’ve leave her even though she left you.

“Bastard!” You slammed your fist against the counter. A few seconds later, a knock on your door was heard. You quietly gasped to see Nanami. You can see the concern and worry in his eyes. You couldn’t tell if you hated that look. Almost like the way he made you feel. You hated it too.

“You alright?” he asked. You checked the time on your phone.

“You’re early,” you said, avoiding his question. Nanami gave you a soft smile.

“I left early after our rendezvous so I can leave early,” he replied. He leaned in and gave you a soft kiss on the forehead. It was quick yet you can feel the warmth lingering. “But, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you answered curtly. He could see how tense your body is. Your expression was too serious. Your voice sounded a bit cold. So in response, he nodded.

“I’m ordering take out,” he said. “You want?” You shook your head.

“Thank you, though.”

“It’s sushi.” You couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh.

“How cruel to use my weakness against me, Kento,” you said teasingly. He lightly laughed with you, his hand rubbing the back of his head and neck.

“Well, I’m going to wash up before I order. If you’re not over in 20 minutes, I’m ordering without you. My door will be open for you. See you later, sweetheart.”

Another forehead kiss before he left. You watched him walk further down the hallway before turning to his door. He didn’t look back, and you took the opportunity to adore him until he entered inside and closed the door.

Don’t go. Do not.

But you’re not one to listen to your advice as you walked inside his apartment in a pair of shorts, long sleeves, socks, and slides. Nanami smiled and greeted you on the couch where he looked over at the menu. You took your shoes off and took a seat next to him, leaning in closer to him so you could read the menu. Your head rested on his shoulder as you did.

“I want those two rolls,” you said. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“It’s on me,” he said with a smile. “Appetizer?” You softly smiled.

“Dumplings. And I’m still paying you back.”

“Money doesn’t have to be the only way to pay me back, sweetheart,” he mentioned.

“I can’t pay you back with sex.” Nanami lightly laughed.

“I’ll let you know what you can do for me, sweetheart.”

His hand rested on your thigh as he made the phone call. Your head remained on his shoulder. Your eyes were closed, enjoying the sound of his voice. All the irritation you felt simmered away. You sighed with relief and let your arms wrap around his.

Just for tonight.

You kept your word. Back to being “friendly” and yet sleeping together when the opportunity occurs. You tried to keep your emotions in check. You tried to lock it away and never officiate anything with Nanami. But the moment you see him, you were willing to unlock those emotions but use sex to make up for it.

You were off from work for a week. Despite the torture of working several 12-hour shifts in a row, it felt rewarding. A long week off is what you needed. Music played in the background in your apartment. You showered once you woke up, wearing a pair of shorts and a grey crew neck. You suddenly decided that it was time to deep clean.

It took you a good twenty minutes to create the perfect playlist for your cleaning mood. And then another fifteen minutes to gather your cleaning supplies. And why not, you wasted another ten minutes figuring out where to clean first.

Living room!

The sudden knock on your door made you jump. You paused and looked at the time. Early for Nanami to arrive home, but he is the only one that comes over.

“Coming!” you yelled and put everything down. You washed your hands before opening the door. Your eyes widened at the sight of your father. Your heart raced. Your palms got sweaty. Your body trembled.

“You little shit,” he cursed irritably.

“H-How did you find me?” you asked with fear and hesitation.

“I have my ways,” he mumbled darkly. “Too busy fucking with guys to even give me your time of day?”

He hit a switch, and the fear suddenly left. Memories of how he mistreated your mother. Memories of how he mistreated you. You felt your anger boiling in the pit of your stomach. How you wanted to yell at him but didn’t want to cause a scene. How you wanted to slam the door at his face but felt it wouldn’t do justice for you.

“You were too busy fucking with other women while my mother was suffering because of you. You yell and hit me when I make small mistakes or misheard you. Your cheating made my mother depressed that she overdosed and killed herself. Do you even deserve my time of day?” you said calmly, almost too calm. You were surprise yourself. Not even the hard slap to the face that came after surprised you.

“You little—what the hell?!” He looked up to see Nanami coldly stare at him while Nanami held his wrist tightly. Nanami towered over him that made your father cower.

“I called the cops,” Nanami said when he looked at you. You looked up, appearing stoic as if the whole situation didn’t bother you. The sound of the elevator was heard and Nanami turned and smirked. “Perfect timing.”

And you watched your father trying to escape the policemen’s grasp. He yelled and cursed at you. It was nothing new. You grew numb to it.

And it somehow made Nanami worry. The two of you stood there in silence. He didn’t know what to do nor say. It felt like forever, but eventually you looked up at him. Your expression soft like it usually is.

“How long were you standing there?” you asked curiously while gesturing him to come inside. Nanami walked inside and took his shoes off before walking towards the couch.

“When you asked him how he found you,” he answered. “That’s when I called the cops.” You sat down next to him. You kept your distance, the two of you sitting on the opposite ends of the couch. “Is that why you keep a certain boundary from me? Abusive father? You, a little girl, that doesn’t know what it’s like to have one?” You swallowed a large lump in your throat and gave him a smile that almost irritated him.

“It’s like you know me so well, Kento,” you replied. But as quick as you smiled, you frowned. “And my mother got too depressed to pay attention to me. I took my turn to protect her until she died. Once she did, I left. This is my sixth apartment.” His eyes widened in shock.

“He kept searching for you for that long?”

“He’s an alcoholic. He ended up using women for money,” you said. “And he knows I have money. I used to give him money for the first year. But why should I? Right?”

“Right.” It was silent again.

“How was work?” You couldn’t stand the silence. It only made you assume that Nanami pities you. It was the last thing you wanted from him. Because you were okay.

I’m okay. I’m okay.

“Busy,” he answered.

“Mentoring? Or missions?” Nanami chuckled. Despite your lack of cursed energy, you find his job to be the most normal thing ever. You always thought it was a cool job. Despite how scary it can be.

“Both,” he answered with a soft smiled.

You appreciate Nanami. He spends time with you as if that day never happened, despite the slight protectiveness you noticed from him. But it never bothered you. You quickly grew accustomed to it.

And right now, the two of you lied naked in his bed. He held you tightly, your back pressed against his strong chest. You had a rough night at work. He decided to comfort you when he came back from work. You never asked for it, but you let him.

“When I was fifteen, my father cheated on my mother and divorced her,” Nanami said. “He wasn’t the best father but he wasn’t a bad one. I took care of my mother and I swore to myself that I need to love and protect the ones I love.”

“Where is she now?” you asked. You could feel your heart race and you wonder if he could feel your racing heart. Nanami softly kissed your bare shoulder.

“She is back in Denmark with her new husband,” he answered. Nanami smiled.

“Wow, new husband,” you said with a small smile on your face. “She must be so happy.”

“She is. The happiest she has ever been.” You turned around to face him.

“You’re implying something, Kento,” you said. Nanami softly chuckled and kissed your forehead.

“You’re too observant, sweetheart,” he said.

“You’re too obvious, darling,” you replied teasingly. “Why me?” You were suddenly serious. You were too vulnerable right now. He can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice.

“I just know, sweetheart,” he answered. “I couldn’t pull away when I first saw you. You wore your navy blue scrubs and you unlocked your door tiredly. And even though you were tired, you greeted me as cheerfully as you could. Your hair messy in a bun, uniform wrinkled, eyes tired yet bright. You were so beautiful.”

“Sweet talker,” you mumbled, hiding your face in his chest.

“You know I don’t lie.”

“I know that.” It was quiet for a brief moment.

“I never felt this spark before,” he said. “And I know that you feel the same. And I didn’t want to push it and just let you take the lead. Even if I was just used for sex.” You pushed yourself up and leaned against your arm. Nanami did the same, his elbow on the mattress while his head rested on his palm. You gave him a puzzled look. “You’re the most guarded woman I have ever met. You don’t think I don’t see your internal conflict?”

“It’s that obvious?” Nanami nodded. He reached out to caress your cheek.

“When you’re ready to progress our relationship, I’ll be here,” he said softly. Your heart raced. You swallowed another lump in your throat as you stared at him wide eyed.

“I-I need to go,” you whispered and quickly stood up and got dressed. Nanami watched you scrambled around the bedroom. And without a word, you left.

You quickly entered inside your dark apartment. When you closed the door, you slid down to the floor and hugged your knees tightly to your chest. You let your tears fall. Somehow, it was too overwhelming for you.

Nanami’s confession.

And you knew you liked him back. Probably even more. The more you were accepting your feelings towards him, you became fearful. Fearing that he will up and leave you. Fearing that you could end up like your own mother. The fear that made you want to stay alone but can’t because of Nanami Kento.

You breathed heavily in your sobs. You placed your hand on your chest. You felt panicked.

One…two…three…one…two…three…

One more deep breath and you quietly sat there. You took in the silence and the darkness. You focused on your breathing. You felt your body slightly relaxing.

“Sweetheart?”

You jumped. You weren’t that ready to confront him. You wiped your tears away and turned on the lights before opening the door. Nanami immediately kissed you. An urgent yet passionate kiss that was different from the previous shared ones.

Just let him. Just do it.

Your body relaxed and you melted in the kiss. One of the best feelings you felt in a long time. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you stood on your toes. Nanami pulled away and let himself inside your apartment.

“I want you,” you said. “Not just for sex.” You mumbled the last statement and avoided eye contact. You took a deep breath.

One…two…three…one…two…three…

“You’re right. You were right about everything. I’m just scared. Scared that you’ll leave me. I’m scared that I’ll end up like my mother so if I stay alone, I won’t be like her. I keep my feelings bottled up. But whenever I’m with you, I want to tell you I want more. But I use sex to stop myself to make anything more intimate. Everything’s so overwhelming, Kento.” You felt smaller than ever as you stood close to him. Nanami gently cupped your face so you would stop avoiding his eyes. When you looked at him, all you could see was his soft smile and happiness in his eyes.

“We’ll make things work,” he said. “I will stay patient with you. Everything that I do now won’t change. I can do more for you. All I need you to do is to let me in. I’m not going to push you unless I need to.” You let your tears escape your eyes that Nanami immediately wiped them away with his thumbs. You nodded, the lump in your throat preventing you from speaking. Nanami leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“Promise? Don’t give up on me,” you said so quietly. If he wasn’t so close, he wouldn’t have heard you. Nanami softly kissed your lips.

“I promise sweetheart,” he said. “Now, would you like me to set up a hot bath for you?” You couldn’t help but chuckle. You wiped the rest of your tears away and nodded.

“Will you join me?”

“Of course sweetheart. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do. Okay?” And you nodded. You held his hand to lead him to the bathroom but you immediately stopped.

“Kento?” Nanami looked at you curiously. Your heart raced. You wanted to say more. But you were at lost for words that you hugged him tightly. Nanami enveloped his arms around you. You took in a deep breath, feeling everything you thought you never could feel.

Comfort. Safe. Love.

I am okay.

[taintedges]

“And if I had to choose between you and all the places that my name is written, I’d scrub it from this and every world for another day.”

Fabian and Bill are out here healing my inner child.

[sunwarmed-ash]

Ah Fuck it, Friday

Alright I made the executive decision that Love bites, but so do I will be getting the Sinful Sunday slot this week! BUT I've also been working on alot of older wips this week. Like Silence isn't golden for example!

Here's a little sneak preview of the next chapter! It's not enough for me to make it a standalone chapter yet but I know this one has a few very dedicated and sweet fans 💚 this is for yall!!! thanks for sticking with it!

TW's: kidnapping/torture mention

Fanom: Harry Potter- Post HBP, Drarry, first person POV, heavy angst fic

Finally, FINALLY we have a lead.  Ron, Hermione, Dobby, and I burst through the doors of the Edinburgh flat without feeling the wrath of any of the spells that hurt Dobby.  “That cannot be a good sign,” I sigh irritability as the four of us split off in the small flat for any clues we can find.  There isn't much, this place has been scrubbed clean, metaphorically and literally with magic. And that’s more suspicious than if they had just left it.  There has to be something else here. Something to help us.  “This is the room I found him in,” Dobby says, pointing to a room I hadn’t initially seen. Once inside, I realize its barely a few cubic meters bigger than the bedroom I grew up in. The only difference is this one has a bathroom.  It's also the only thing in the house that still has remnants of any proof of life.  When they fled, Snape scrubbed any proof of himself from the premises. The same extension did not apply to Draco. All of his things were still here. Clothes, books, empty potion bottles, small trinkets stashed behind the bed for safe keeping. Things Draco treasured enough to keep around and Snape made sure they leave behind.   My hatred for Snape grew stronger the longer I looked over the room. It didn't take a master aurour to piece together some of the atrocities that went on in this room based solely on the state of things. If I wasn’t so desperate to preserve the scene in efforts to find Draco faster, I would have blown the room apart.  

Azkaban

Snape slinks through the prison easily and without attracting any attention. It’s a true testament to how snake-like the slytherin truly is. Moving silently and efficiency through the shadows had started as a defence against school bullies but now serves him in the real world, hiding from forces much, much stronger.  “Lucius?” The hollowed out shell of a man blinks up from his cell, his pale, empty eyes growing wide when he sees the other man’s face.  “Severus!” “Silence!” Snape bites, because his invisibility only extends so far. If Lucius screams his attendance it doesn't matter how fast he moved past the guards.  “Yes, sorry, sorry my friend, it's just- so good to see you! You don’t know what it's like here.” “I've been working on your case,” Snape maneuvers past pleasantries onto the task at hand. “Crafting alibis. It hasn't been easy.” “And my son, how, how is he?” Lucius asks, face obviously fighting to will down tears that wish to spill.  Severus doesn't blink when he lies.   “He’s dead.” “W-What?” “Slain, by Harry Potter. I tried to keep Draco hidden. But you know him, his disobedience has never been able to be reigned. He snuck out, and was executed.” “Draco- Draco is-”  Snape grabs Lucius’ hand through the bars.  “Yes, but you are not, Lucius. We don’t have time to grieve, every minute we wait, is another day closer to your execution.” “You're right, you're right,” Lucius sniffles, squeezing Snape’s hand before breaking away to wipe away his tears. “Thank you my friend, I don't know where I’d be without you.”

Edinburgh flat

I'm still not sure what pulls me in the direction of this evidence, whether it's my intuition or something magical but im both infinitely grateful and horrified to have followed this instinct to fruition.  The notebook I found was buried under a magical spell ive never seen before. Thankfully, brilliant Hermione has, and after a moment, the chest is unlocking, revealing a single book. Theres no outside descriptors, and the magic glamour on it is making it look older than it is. Another disguise to shroud its contents.  The bad feeling grows stronger as I leaf through the parchment pages.  - I’m barely through week two of Draco’s retellings of his torturous days in Snape’s care before my guts are spilling all over the floor of the flat.  “Oy! Gross Harry!” Ron scolds, which is fair, I nearly hit him with it.  “Are you alright?” Hermione asks, rushing to my side.  I drop the book and shake my head. I can't look at it any more. I know I need to. To help find Draco. But I can’t right now.  “What is that?” Ron asks and I can't make my mouth move.  He moves to pick up the book and I snap. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THAT!” Ron’s hands go up in reflexive surrender, “Whoa! Hell Harry! Okay!” “Harry,” Hermione asks again, her own fear and concern growing stronger, “what is it?” I close my eyes and exhale.  “It's so much worse than we thought…”

See you sunday! 😘

[cellarspider]

11/30: Full steam ahead

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We return to Body Desecrator 2093, Prometheus. There were no post this weekend because I felt like it. Now I feel like it even less, because it’s this scene.

The horrors do not end here. The movie hasn’t even got to what it considers horrors, but I’d already screamed quietly at the screen by this point several times, so it’s safe to say that me and the movie were not simpatico.

There are times when a movie will do things that fall entirely outside your personal beliefs or understanding of logic, and you just roll with it. Magical realism does this all the time, as do movies reaching for the psychedelic. 2001: A Space Odyssey eventually dissolves reality itself around the protagonist as he travels through another dimension. On the first sit, you have no way of knowing what you’ll be shown next, but if the movie’s got you, then you go with it.

Then there are movies where everyone is acting according to some sort of logic, but it feels twisted, like things are happening for a reason, but the logic doesn’t connect. Horror movies love this, particularly ones with cultic antagonists–Midsommar being the most notable modern example, and the original Wicker Man being another.

I mean, the Nick Cage movie also has that, but sometimes it has that because Nick Cage is in a bear costume, punching a woman in the face and stealing bicycles at gunpoint like he’s in GTA.

Prometheus, unfortunately, unintentionally places itself somewhere between the two Wicker Men. The characters’ decision making is a shambolic mess. The movie intentionally invokes religious fervor in Shaw especially, and might intentionally invoke that plus megalomania in Holloway, but it doesn’t draw a line around those characters and their bad decisions. Everyone is just going with their bullshit. This suggests to the audience that in the movie’s world all scientists behave like this.

I mean, in our world, scientists sometimes try to fit entire oranges in their mouths (source), but I should like to think that The Orange Incident wouldn’t have happened if that guy had been on board the most important scientific expedition in human history.

Things just kept happening in this movie that made me feel like I was dissociating. The cast is back at the Prometheus, with their stolen artifacts and mortal remains. Cool. They need to be decontaminated. Like, inside and out.

Next, we see Shaw and Holloway in a lab, along with Maybe-Chemist-Lady whose name fell right out of my head as I watched, because she’s never given a character to speak of. They are wearing scrubs, hairnets, and blue surgical masks, which tells me the movie thinks this is appropriate personal protective equipment for handling an alien head. Holloway is sitting on a counter in the corner, getting drunk.

So many things have just hit me here. How long is this since they got back? Apparently no more than a couple hours. These people took their helmets off in an active alien biosphere, with worms in the dirt and an alien corpse on the ground and who knows what else. They should be quarantined forever, or at least for a couple weeks. 

When the Apollo 11 crew got back to Earth, they were quarantined for 21 days. NASA didn’t consider it likely that anything lived on the moon, but they were taking no chances. Here’s Nixon getting a chance to see what good people look like!

But no! No quarantine for Prometheus! The guys who breathed moon dust? Into the quarantine trailer. The people who stuck their faces near an alien corpse? Nah! It’s all good!

What about the head they looted from the structure? These people already got a dramatic reminder that altering the conditions around sensitive artifacts can cause them to degrade. I’ve already rambled at length about how NASA still sterilizes their equipment to not contaminate anywhere probes are sent to. Hell, as a geneticist, I can tell you that there is a very strict hierarchy of sample isolation and biosafety deployed when it’s appropriate–either you work fucking hard to protect the samples from you, or you work hard to protect yourself from the sample. 

But the crew of the Prometheus have scanned the head with a little light and declared “Sample is sterile. No contagion present”, which is an odd thing to declare now, after they already breathed all over it. Trusting their all-knowing (and wrong) computer, they take their surgical masks off. Fully sealed suits? A glovebox? Even movies show people using a glovebox sometimes!

NOPE! HAIRNETS AND A LABCOAT, LET’S GO

Do we kick out Shaw’s boyfriend who’s in his casual clothes? NAH, LET THE MAN BE COMFY. Are we going to pry the bottle away from him, because bringing drinks into a lab breaks basic safety standards? Standards that I’ve only ever seen broken by one place that also allowed open-toe sandals in a lab where boiling hot gel and mutagenic chemicals were regularly mixed? NOPE, LET HIM HAVE HIS BOOZE, HE’S SAD HE DIDN’T GET TO MEET GOD.

Don’t worry, that one lab doesn’t do the sandal thing anymore. And Holloway will pay for his crimes against laboratory safety.

But I can't stress enough how utterly uncanny this scene felt, unintentionally on the part of the movie. Every decision felt wrong. Everything everyone was doing, saying, and wearing was wrong. They’re not even wearing the right kind of gloves! They should at minimum be wearing nitrile gloves! They’re wearing PVC gloves, which have stupid high leakage rates, even if you double-glove! They’re not even more comfortable than nitrile gloves! This is my nittest of picks, I know! I’m doing it anyway!

The movie had lost me, but part of me was still hoping it would come back around, that something in it would be the movie I’d thought it would be.

Next time: the movie will not do that, and I will, paradoxically, find myself in more of the frame of mind the movie seems to want from the audience: not giving a shit about its characters. 

Stay tuned for some bonus workplace hazards below the citations.

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1. https://youtu.be/P1gn06np-7g  2. https://youtu.be/KhRo2WbWnKU?t=35 3. https://youtu.be/JjCh7lTVNwo  4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airstream#Space_program  5. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronaut_transfer_van  6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umarell  7. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upgrade_(film)#Production

Alright, let’s behold some images from my institute’s safety training module on compressed gas cylinders. Please note, these were not taken at my institute, these are probably the result of the team finding cursed images they wanted to inflict on their coworkers and us.

This was how they chose to communicate the idea of “don’t let canisters heat up, or they might explode”. How else might they explode? If the canister becomes old and corroded, develops any other sort of fault, or is stored improperly, especially near cylinders of other kinds. Like so!

This is the least bombastic of the images, but it exudes a quiet menace and/or the promise that Video Game Physics are imminent.

What do I mean by Video Game Physics? Glad you asked!

Terrifying yet also compelling! Finally, here’s a video from that most terrifying of places, a Russian highway.

Video description, which I realize I haven’t been doing up to this point and now I want to: A GazpromTech company truck carrying unsecured acetylene tanks passes a motorist on a separated highway at high speed. On the side of it, “ОГНЕОПАСНО” (“FLAMMABLE”) is briefly visible as it rockets by. It makes no to minimal attempt to slow down as a bus enters its lane, rear-ending it. The viewpoint car skids to a stop, and what might be the truck driver can be seen sprinting toward the central barrier of the highway. “Scream & Shout” by will.i.am and Britney Spears can be heard playing on the radio as the viewpoint car tries to back away, complete with an audible “Britney, bitch”. At 0:54 the view cuts to a camera on the other side of the highway, which one commenter estimated as being 200 m away based on the delay between explosions and the sound of the blast reaching the camera. 

There are, in fact, MANY explosions from the fireball that has engulfed the truck. A semi tanker is being guided backward away from the explosion, while a blue box truck does the same. A silver sedan, briefly visible in the first angle, is parked within under 50 feet of the truck. Its apparent owner is dithering on whether to try and reach it, eventually deciding, as they should, that this is not worth it. The cameraperson, on the other hand, apparently thinks this is worth it, as do several others in the other lane. 

One man is filming on a tablet. Multiple times, canisters and truck shrapnel can be seen rocketing off from the wreck to distances that make it clear everybody in shot is well within decapitation range from these things, especially as explosions fling more burning cylinders onto the roadway. At 1:45, Tablet Man gets the fuck out of there, but our self preservation-less cameraperson remains. At 2:14, a flaming canister in blown clear of the wreck and lands with its bottom end pointing directly toward the cameraperson, who still does not take the hint. Starting at 2:37, the body of the truck is blasted apart, a canister goes flying off past the camera, and a piece of the truck flips and lands on a nearby road sign. 

At 3:32 another cut happens and there are more people standing in view of the camera. Are they official emergency crew? Nope! Rubberneckers, although the cop car that’s even closer than them gets a wakeup call when a canister slams into the divider in front of it and tumbles away, still spitting gas. The cop backs up, and the video ends.

End description. Also, end post.

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[trashbag-baby666]

"Every day with you is a dream." 😍

AHHHH PLS ENJOY from my Casper fd au :3 ❤️

mota masterlist!

It was probably a little late for chores, but John hadn’t been able to get to any of them since his shift started. Today had been non-stop, call after call, and yeah, he was tired. But as fire captain, he had expectations to uphold.

What he couldn’t mistake, though, was the sound of Gale’s light footsteps on the sidewalk. The glow of the firehouse lights illuminated Gale’s figure in the dark.

“Stone in my shoe,” Gale greeted with a smile, balancing a thermos between his arm and side, a paper bag in hand.

“What do I owe the pleasure?” John put the mop back in its bucket, sauntering over to his husband. He placed a warm kiss on Gale’s cheek, his mustache tickling Gale, who lit up in response.

“Thought you’d be hungry.” Gale shrugged, handing him the bag, which held a freshly baked loaf of sourdough.

John’s heart ached a bit, noticing Gale was still in his scrubs even though it was nearly nine. During these 48-hour shifts, he always felt a pang of guilt, leaving Gale to manage the girls, their busy schedules, the dogs, and everything else on his own.

"Why don't we go sit, yeah? Come on, let me take that." John took the thermos from Gale as well, "So what's in here?"

“Chicken and dumplings,” Gale replied with a smile, following John up the stairs to the firehouse kitchen.

“So thoughtful,” John murmured, turning to gently take Gale’s chin in his hand, pulling him into a soft kiss. “You know, every day with you is a dream,” he added. John poured the soup, his smile reaching his eyes as he glanced over at Gale, who sat across from him in the quiet kitchen, eyes warm with that familiar spark. The firehouse kitchen wasn’t fancy—it had its scuffs and dents from years of use, but tonight it felt like the coziest corner of the world.

Gale leaned forward, watching John take the first spoonful, his own gaze softening as John let out a sigh of satisfaction. “I’m serious, you know,” John continued, his voice low, sincere. “Every day with you is a dream. Especially when you show up here with chicken and dumplings.”

Gale chuckled, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. “Well, you’re easy to please,” he teased, reaching over to break off a piece of the sourdough, handing it to John. “And I’d say you’re the dreamer between us.”

“Maybe,” John shrugged, grinning between bites. “But I don’t know where I’d be without you reminding me of it.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing Gale’s, a silent thank-you passing between them.

They sat in comfortable silence, sharing warmth and bites of soup, until a call light blinked on the wall, signaling another dispatch. John looked up, the shift pulling him back to reality, and Gale gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Go on,” Gale murmured. “I’ll wait right here.”

John rose, pressing one last kiss to Gale’s forehead, gratitude clear in his expression. As he walked out, he threw one last glance over his shoulder, seeing Gale there, grounding him, as always.

In that moment, even with the calls and chaos that lay ahead, John knew—life could get as hectic as it wanted. But coming back to this, to Gale, made every day, every moment worth it.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot #11

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: somewhat explicit implied future non-con

Ambrose led him to their next stop. It was a small, wedged in between a large general goods store and the town butcher. 

Another bell tinkled when Ambrose opened the door. A man looked up from his work: polishing a shoe. 

Elliot glanced around the room. The interior was far different from the tailor’s clutter. The shelves were neat and orderly, one side held boots and the other shoes. There were even two shelves dedicated to dress shoes, both brown and shiny black.

“Hello, Ambrose. I haven’t seen you in a while.” The man put down the shoe, straightening it to align with its twin. Elliot did not like this man.

“To be fair, I haven’t needed to visit. Your craftsmanship holds up too well,” pointed out Ambrose.

The man smiled, sharp and smug. He leaned against the desk.

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is Elliot. He needs a pair of shoes and a pair of winter boots. As soon as you can manage.”

The man looked him up and down. 

“Well, can he manage to pay for speed? Otherwise, he’ll have to wai-”

“David.” snapped Ambrose, scowling. 

David straightened, pursing his lips. “I see. Well, come over here and sit, then. I’m a very busy man.”

Elliot came over and sat. Ambrose followed close behind.

The man had him toe off his borrowed shoes, and Elliot was very happy he’d taken the time to scrub that morning.

David measured his size, noted down a few things, and that was that.

“I’ll bill you later,” he bit out as he escorted them to the door.

“Fine.” retorted Ambrose.

They stepped outside, and the door closed sharp behind them.

“Sorry about that,” said Ambrose. “He’s sort of an asshole, but David’s the only shoemaker in town. It gets to him.”

Elliot wasn’t sure why Ambrose was sorry, but he nodded anyway.

___________________

They went back to Hearthwood for lunch.

“Tonight we can just relax,” said Ambrose. “I don’t open on the third day of the week.”

Once again he held a cup of tea, but no meal. Elliot was pretty sure it was jasmine.

“Yes, sir.” Elliot wasn’t smart, but he knew his place in the world. Master Ambrose wanted sex tonight, and Elliot’s duty was to serve. He’d always done well with men. Maybe Master Ambrose would be gentle in bed like he was outside of it, but masters needed outlets and that was Elliot’s job. It could go either way, but it was inevitable.

“How are you feeling?” Another vague question.

“I’m alright, sir.”

“Would you like to rest a little, or go back out? I’d like to get some furniture for you, but there’s no rush.”

Lying was disobedient, but refusing to please was worse. Elliot considered how tired he was. He didn’t really want to go out more, but he wouldn’t get touched furniture shopping. And staying in meant he’d have to go later anyway.

“We could um, go back out.” 

___________________

To his relief, there was only one place left to go. They met a nice lady, Jennifer, who made all kinds of things from wood and stone. There were plenty of pieces to pick from and Elliot was nervous about having so many choices. In the end, Ambrose had him pick out a cedar chest and dresser, a nightstand, and a vanity. They were all medium reddish-brown.

Jennifer was set to deliver them tomorrow. Her siblings would carry it upstairs and all Elliot had to do was choose where to put them. 

He was admittedly distracted; tonight loomed over his mind. Elliot waited for Master Ambrose to correct him, but it didn’t come. Maybe the punishment for being distracted was forcing him to think about it.

What would Master want? His mouth? His ass?

Would he strangle him or tie him down?

Would he beat him?

The belt or just his hand?

Would he slap him across the face or would he take him from behind?

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Elliot would be good and take it, no matter what.

He just hoped it would be quick.

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

[marisuugar]

Kimi no Yokogao (Your Profile)

Original song by Maeda Jun and Nagi Yanagi

Based on a translation by moonsnow

wuh woh mari got addicted to another gacha and it's all her indonesian bestie's fault.

this game is depressing btw if the fact the guy who wrote it also wrote Clannad and Angel Beats didn't tip you off

anyways here's the translation. more! jump! more! hasn't been taken out back just yet i just have severe undiagnosed adhd

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Far from the place where I was born My soul cried out for home Adrift amongst the seas and storm Washed up on the cove

Head spinning, it's a blur to me Mind clouded by fog Yet still, my world’s topsy-turvy Even standing strong

Look and you’ll see Reflecting in my eyes A lost-and-found Perspective on the meaning of life

Ticking down, ticking down, as the time passes by I endure through the “now”, as a mere passer-by If the future is nil, then I can't be upset Since I can't help it, it's my helplessness*

Raining down, raining down, a storm ceaseless to calm Violently pouring down on this man-cladden rock Yet among all the roars and the pounding torrent I hear somehow, a love-filled ballad

Those tears streaming down Softening my cheeks I gently wipe it now The profile of your voice**

For peace the beating hearts will bleed When spears are our shield*** Hearing the contradiction ring I threw what I wield

I scrub until the stains are gone Yet it won't wash away That grimy coloration from blood, sweat, fear, and pain

Look and you’ll see Slashing through my eyes Deep in the wound Are the sins I carried throughout my life

Blowing on, blowing on, the wind passes me by And the days passing on quickly blur in my eyes Hurry up, hurry up, I search urgently on In the wake of a timeless eternity

Leaving it all behind, all of my rationale The mob passed on through and they drowned my voice out Like a flash, then I knew that I was by myself Choking alone in dark seas full of doubt

Those tears streaming down Softening my cheeks Reminding me of now The profile of your voice

I won't cry anymore!

Ticking down, ticking down, as the time passes by I endure through the “now”, as a mere passer-by If the future is nil, then I can't be upset Since I can't help it, it's my helplessness

Raining down, raining down, a storm ceaseless to calm Snow and hail beating down, make me weak to the touch Yet among all the roars and the pounding torrent I hear somehow, a love-filled ballad

Those tears streaming down Softening my cheeks I gently wipe it now The profile of your voice

Those tears streaming down Softening my cheeks Reminding me of now The profile of your voice

The profile of your voice The profile of your voice The profile of your voice The profile of your voice The profile of your voice The profile of your voice The profile of your voice I fear that I’ll lose it now… --------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:

I struggled to make this line flow well while retaining the meaning. What's actually being said here is along the lines of “I can’t rely on tomorrow since i’m always nervous and hesitant”- I ended up taking a somewhat flowery approach to portraying this line and while in my mind, it still comes across closely enough, I can understand finding this line to be an overly nihilistic interpretation. I don't even know if it's really worth making this note, but I figured I’d address it just to cover my bases.

These lines and the subsequent variations seem vague and up to interpretation. While I personally interpret it as the narrator reminiscing on a past loved one, hence the first person pronouns, some translations place it in the second person, as if the narrator is wiping someone else’s tears, or they keep the ambiguity and frame the lines in the third person. Additionally, the line simply translates as “that profile”, leaving it vague if the narrator is referring to a person’s physical form or a more abstract descriptor. I elaborated on this based on my interpretation in order to maintain the song’s flow. If you wish to cover this song with alterations, this line would likely be the best place to look if you want to adjust things to fit your own interpretation.

The kanji 矛 (spear) and 盾 (shield) together form 矛盾 (contradiction). I thought of ways to portray this wordplay in English, but ultimately decided a more direct translation of the meaning would be the best option, even if it doesn't quite carry the same weight. Additionally, I rearranged these lines a bit for flow.

[koolkat9]

Royal Red Bros Week 2024 - Day 1

@royalredbrosweek

Prompt: Raining || Myth

Rating: T

Relationship: England + Canada

Word Count: 661

Read on AO3

A Little Mud Never Hurt Anyone

Mattew trudged up to the front door, head hung low. From head to toe, he was covered in mud after an afternoon of playing and getting caught in the rain. Dread had hollowed out his stomach from the moment he began heading home. And now he was here.

Before he could knock, Arthur opened the door, dressed in his coat and hat.

“Oh thank God.” Arthur sighed, pulling Matthew inside. “I was just about to go looking for you.”

“S-Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re back. Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

There was no lecture. No berating. Annoyance, yes. But not in the way like it was the end of the world. And he didn’t have to apologize?

As Matthew was lowered into the tub, he whispered out another apology.

“There is nothing to be sorry for lad,” Arthur huffed, scrubbing the soap into his hair. “It’s just dirt.”

“But…B-But…”

“Hm?”

Matthew sunk into the water more. “N-Nothing.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath. Something about a ‘bastard.’ He had made him mad.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew cried. “Please don’t be mad. I’ll clean myself, I won’t play in the mud again I–”

“Stop it, Matthew,” Arthur snapped. He sighed, face softening. “I’m sorry. And I’m not mad at you. Annoyed, yes. But with the constant apologies when you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Arthur rinsed out Matthew’s hair before moving to scrub his body. Matthew fell silent, staring at the shapes the suds made in the water.

“You know…” Arthur whispered, leaning in a little closer for Matthew to hear. “When I was your age. I always loved getting down in the dirt and mud too.”

Matthew looked up, eyes wide. No way Arthur with his pressed coats and fancy top hats and shiny shoes. Arthur who rubbed shoulders with princesses and princes, sailed around on a fancy ship, and talked with a fancy accent.

“Really?” Matthew asked in awe.

“I was a child once too, you know? And…when I would get upset I’d go out and sometimes just lay amongst the grass and dirt. Listen to the wind and the chattering of animals. I could feel the thrum of the earth, and I don’t think I ever felt more connected to the land and the people than in those moments.”

“I’ve felt it too,” Matthew murmured. “I feel less lonely. But also it’s just fun to roll in it. I like the feeling.”

Arthur huffed in amusement. “Is that so? Well, I’m not going to stop you unless I need you clean for that specific day. So don’t ever apologize or give me that kicked puppy over this. Understand?”

Matthew nodded. All cleaned and rinsed, he was lifted out of the tub and wrapped up tightly in a towel.

“All clean and warm?” Arthur asked, rubbing Matthew until he was as dry as he could be.

“Mhm!”

“And much more chipper,” Arthur grinned, “That’s a good lad.”

He got Matthew dressed then scooped him up and took him into the living room to warm up more by the fire.

“Now, dinner should be ready soon, but for right now let’s just make sure you’re warmed up,” Arthur stated, draping a blanket over their legs.

Rain continued to thrum against the window. Matthew found his head bobbing, soothed by the sound. Eventually, it found rest on Arthur’s arm.

“Do you still do it?” He asked quietly.

“What?”

“Lay in the dirt?”

“Oh…” Arthur was quiet for a moment, eyes getting lost in the flames. “Haven’t had the time. And frankly, I’d get funny looks if I–”

“You should come out with me. We can do it in the woods so no one sees.”

“I’ll…think about it…” Arthur hesitated.

Matthew pouted, looking up at Arthur with sparkling blue eyes and quivering lips. Clearly, something he picked up from Alfred.

“Matthew…Ugh. Fine. In a few days, we can go on a picnic and do that. If it’s dry.”

“Okay!” Matthew cheered.

[brainrotcharacters]

She Wasn’t Always Like That part 1 (It’s Not Enough)

ship: Ghost x reader

summary: Ghost knows you differently, but cares about you just as much. Maybe more. 

a/n: I’m relapsing into my cod era.

tags: sfw. angst comfort. reader is a member of 141. will they won’t they trope. reference to there’s only one bed trope. Ghost would rather die than acknowledge feeling feelings and honestly mood. 

part 2

She wasn't always like that.

Ghost knew that people didn't believe him when he describes you this way. They could never imagine the only woman of the 141, trained in espionage and assassination, as anything but sunlight given human form when you're off duty. You told Ghost you didn't mind, but he found the need to mention it regardless.

"Why?" You ask him at some point, handing him another washed plate to towel off. When he only stared at you sidelong, you continued. "I mean, why do you want people to know what I was like... before?"

You always sounded so ashamed, so uncomfortable, when you spoke about 'before'. As if keeping other people at arm's length because the alternative meant you were in danger was such an embarrassing way of thinking.

Put that way, Ghost was guilty of being inspired by you. The world knows you, but they don't know you, and it makes his skin crawl. But the words got cut up on the way out his mouth. He finished drying off the plate in his hands, placing it on the nearby rack. "Do you want me to stop?"

You blinked once. Unguarded, but intelligent eyes― the only times Ghost saw fear in those eyes was through camera feeds when he was separated from you, or when you were in active spy work. "I want to understand.”

He took in a breath, shoulders lifting slightly. How to say it? Better yet, how to say it without you catching on to him? Knowing you, you'd be too fucking quick with it.

You only angled your head at him, waiting patiently. Kindly.

Fuckin' hell. "You're happy running around with the boys here, yeah? For all your whinin' about Johnny, you'd kill for the man." 

"I already have," you chuckle, reaching for a mug. 

Right. Ghost's eyes tracked the way your hand gripped the cup. Firmly. "You'd be a hell of a lot happier if they didn't take your performance at face value."

Your brows furrowed. "What do you mean?" 

"It's not enough, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice was tense and unusual enough that you turned away from the sink to look at him. "They don't know what it takes for you to keep laughin' about with them. Fuck, they don't even know how much it takes you to get out of bed in the morning." 

Your eyes softened. As the person beside me in that bed, you'd know.

Ghost didn't look away. I do. "They rattle on and on about how good you are, how strong or how kind. I agree. Believe me, I'm with them. But..." 

Your thumbs slide over the now-scrubbed mug. Squeaky clean. You hand it to him, and he takes it, all too grateful for a reason to break eye contact. "Dude, I don't mind the opinions of the outside world. Yours is enough." 

Something in your mind clicked into place. It's not enough. I am not enough.

Ghost saw the realization flicker in your eyes, and rushed to speak before you managed to ask him about jealousy or self-pity or some bullshit like that. "I don't want to see you burn yourself out, is all." 

"Oh, I will." You laughed cynically. "And when I finally burn out―"

"Y/n, say if. Not when―" 

"Simon, when I burn out," you lift a serving spoon between you and him. Your hand visibly trembled. "I want you with me. The laughing and the jokes are nice, but I've been looking inward these days. Sooner than I'd like, I'm going to burn out. When that happens, I hope you're nearby." you twist the spoon in your fingers, handle facing Simon. "No pressure, but I don't know what I'll do if you aren't." 

Though he was still reeling at the sound of his name, he plucked the piece of cutlery from your grasp and toweled it off. "The thing about you and me: if I'm not with you, then it means one thing. I'm on my way." 

A small, affectionate smile lit up your face, or maybe that was the sunlight from the open window several feet behind him. The sky had the fucking audacity to have correct fucking timing― 

The door burst open, and a gaggle of your sisters-in-arms, plus Gaz, pushed through. "Y/N! Ghost, can we steal Y/N from you for a bit?" 

It was a rhetorical question; whatever you and him were, no one knew the entire story, and no one asked. Maybe Ghost was getting tired of people not understanding you the way he did, the same way they didn't understand what he was with you. Maybe not.

Simple as that, your practiced smile appeared, and you hollered. "LADIES! I told you not to bring goddamn Kyle into this." 

An outraged noise from the young man had you giggling. "Jokes, jokes. Let's go. Ah, hey Ghost?"

He turned.

"Thank you." you smiled, eyes shining. 

Ghost paused. Then nodded once. 

When the door closed behind you, and the noise of friends enjoying your performance faded away, the image and sound of you burned in his memory. 

God fucking damnit.  

[dominimoonbeam]

Holding Out for a Hero - 9

The Asher/Darlin/David bodyguard au continues!

Fic from the start is here on ao3. <3

tags: idiots in love, communication is a problem, past abusive relationship, getting together

Holding Out for a Hero - 9

David woke up slowly to the discomfort of a small bed on a tour bus. His bunk was dark even though it had to be day out by now, that thick accordion curtain holding back the light. He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving it over his mouth when the previous night came back to him, pressing a smile into his palm.

Darlin had kissed him and so had Asher. Everything still had that edge of unknown to it that he was eager to smooth out but at least it was going the right way. They liked him and he liked them. He reeled on that for a minute, feeling like his whole world had changed even though, somehow, nothing really had. They were still on tour, still camped out in the bus, still friends. It was just…more.

He heard the tap of keys on a laptop and knew that Darlin was already up.

He hesitated in a way he never had to get out of bed before, wondering what parts of their relationship had changed and what parts hadn’t. He pushed that hesitation away with the privacy curtain and rolled out of his bunk, landing on the floor and stretching, squinting against the daylight in the bus.

Darlin was there at the dining table, laptop up and an assortment of binders and notebooks spread out. They were still typing, eyes on the screen, but they smiled when he looked at them. “Morning,” Darlin said.

David bit the inside of his lip to try not to grin back like an idiot. “Morning.” He clawed his hair back from his face, retying the messy knot. Darlin had one of his hoodies on, something they’d done a hundred times before but he’d never let himself dwell on why he liked the sight so much before.

They took a sip of their coffee and then put it down, to the side and closer to him on the table than where it had been before.

David took the handful of steps down the tour bus to the table, picking up the offered cup and turning it to drink from the same spot where they had.

Asher wasn’t there, not at the table or on the couch.

He glanced back at the bunks.

“I think he’s still asleep,” Darlin said to their laptop.

David nodded, taking another drink. Asher’s bunk curtain was closed. He put the mug back down and went to the kitchenette and the coffee machine. “Hey Ash,” he called over the hum of the moving vehicle. “Do you want pancakes for breakfast?”

Nothing.

Darlin stopped typing, gaze cutting up to look past David at the quiet bunks.

His heart squeezed. No way Asher was ignoring him… but maybe he was pretending to be asleep to avoid something awkward? He definitely didn’t want this to be awkward or for Asher to hide. He closed the distance and drew back the curtain, ready to face whatever it was head on.

The bunk was empty.

David blinked and then looked around like he might have somehow missed Asher in the limited space available. He even leaned to the side to look into the narrow bathroom and shower. “Where the hell is he?”

Darlin stared. “What?” They got up but then stood there, because how could they help search when there was nowhere to search?

“He’s not here,” David said, surprised by his own panic. How could Asher be gone? They were on a moving tour bus!

He reached into his own bunk to grab his phone, hitting Asher in his contacts and holding it up, half expecting to hear the ringing somewhere around him. He didn’t.

Asher answered.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Asher practically sang, music playing on his end of the call.

David clutched the phone tighter, somehow relieved and more confused than ever. “Where are you?”

“Huh? Oh! I’m up front with Jimmy.”

“You’re…” David turned, staring at the front of the bus, at the wall. Beyond it was a cab and a driver, he knew, but he couldn’t get to it from here.

“We made a pit stop for gas and I got some snacks. Jimmy’s up here on his own so I figured I’d keep him company.”

David took a few more steps toward the front of the bus. Asher was in the cab with the driver. He was okay. At least, David figured he was? Had he even met the driver? What the fuck was going on? “Asher…”

The bus honked twice and Asher laughed on the phone. “Do you need us to get you something?” he interrupted, his smile in his voice.

Us? “Ash,” David tried again, feeling like something was caught in his throat. What the fuck? “We should talk…”

“About what, boss?” Asher asked, his voice still so easy and smiley but with that sudden attention like maybe he’d messed up on a job.

On a job.

Boss.

David felt like Asher had just thrown a bucket of ice water on him.

“Nothing,” David said, grinding his teeth on the end of the word.

Asher’s breath caught a little, like he was going to laugh but it choked off. It sounded… hurt? “Okay,” he said suddenly, smiling again. “Let us know if you need us to pick you up anything!”

Us again.

David grunted and hung up. He pressed his eyes shut.

Darlin tugged his phone from his hand before he could throw it. “Where is he?”

David clenched his teeth and pointed at the front of the bus. “Turns out he got out at a gas stop and is hanging out with the driver.”

Darlin gaped. “That… The gas stop was only a few hours after we went to bed last night.”

David winced. That did not make him feel better. So, Asher hadn’t been able to sleep and had taken the first opportunity to run?

No, it wasn’t exactly running, was it? He was giving them space, just like he’d said.

Darlin pocketed David’s phone, touching his arm. “He’s okay up there. James is a good guy and it’s not like Asher couldn’t handle himself if he wasn’t.”

David shook his head. That wasn’t the point. “He thinks we’re back here fucking and he’s giving us space.”

Darlin blinked, a splash of red invading their cheeks but not stopping the ghost of a smile. “I mean… We could be…”

David shivered at the way those words sent a cascade of feelings and desires through his body and then a wave of guilt and regret from his heart. He wanted Darlin. He had wanted Darlin for what felt like his whole damn life. But the idea of hurting Asher made him feel sick.

Darlin must have read it on his face because their smirk fell and the squeezed his arm. “He thinks you’re rejecting him…” they realized. “That we’re rejected him,” they corrected uncomfortably because they hadn’t had nearly enough conversations about this yet.

David wanted to call him back but he hesitated, because the way he’d called him boss and talked to him had made something grow uneasy in his chest. Asher worked for him. Technically so did Darlin, but he and Darlin knew exactly where each other stood. Had Asher felt uncomfortable? Had he felt pressured in any way?

David sat down on the couch and dropped his head back against the cushion, thinking over every second of last night’s interactions.

Darlin sat down next to him, his phone still in their hand and the other on his thigh. “What did he say?”

David shook his head. “He’s acting… normal, I guess. Maybe…” Maybe he misunderstood? No. Asher had told him he liked him and it had been there in the way he kissed, but he’d also made it clear he wasn’t going to mess things up between him and Darlin, like he was an interloper—like he and Darlin hadn’t been at a standstill until he showed up.

Darlin gave his thigh a squeeze. “Okay. Well, we can’t do anything now unless you want to talk this out over the phone. We’re supposed to stop again tonight and then we’re staying at a hotel and doing some interviews before hitting one of the summer festivals.”

David nodded, trying to take all of that in. He couldn’t do anything about this until tonight at the earliest. He was so close and he couldn’t even really talk to him. He wanted to get this done, for better or worse. He wanted to talk it out and just know where they all stood. Most of all, he needed to make sure Asher understood where he stood, because Asher hadn’t been a test run at something or a matchmaker to help get him together with Darlin…even if technically yes, he had done that…

Darlin frowned. “I’m hanging onto your phone. You should make us breakfast and try not to take your frustration out on my pancakes.”

David rolled his eyes weakly but nodded and got up.

-

Darlin watched him grind his teeth and head over to the kitchenette.

They went back to their desk and put his phone down beside their laptop before picking up their own.

-We’re going to talk about this. They typed out and texted Asher.

The message was received almost immediately and the bubbles appeared as he started to reply.

And then they disappeared, no reply sent.

[katnissmellarkkk]

AN : for the anon that requested it, here’s a bookcomb of Katniss and her mother’s relationship throughout the series! It’s way longer than I thought it would be so I attached a read more but I like to be thorough with these things 🥰🥰🥰.

-

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol.

-

My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

-

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

“Are you sure?” I ask. I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

“Of course. Let’s put your hair up, too,” she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head.

-

I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable.

-

My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Prim and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.

-

“You can’t leave again,” I say.

My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I couldn’t help what—”

“Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out and leave Prim on her own. There’s no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you’ll fight through it!” My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the medicine I have now.”

That part about her being ill might be true. I’ve seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t afford.

“Then take it. And take care of her!” I say.

-

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I’m saying is “I love you. I love you both.” And they’re saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

-

The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son. My mother taught Prim and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie Trinket’s comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

-

Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies. One day, I heard her singing.

Prim was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn’t trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through. Prim forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was ever the same between us again.

Now I was going to die without that ever being set right.

I thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice Building. I had told her I loved her, too, though. So maybe it would all balance out.

-

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.

-

Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had.

-

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I’m vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I’m allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I’ve been asleep a long time. My mother’s hand strokes my cheek and I don’t push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don’t trust her. Then there’s a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother’s, and I’m scared.

“Katniss,” it says. “Katniss, can you hear me?”

My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I’m not home, not with my mother.

-

By this time Gale will have clocked in at the mines, taken the stomach-churning elevator ride into the depths of the earth, and be pounding away at a coal seam. I know what it's like down there. Every year in school, as part of our training, my class had to tour the mines. When I was little, it was just unpleasant. The claustrophobic tunnels, foul air, suffocating darkness on all sides. But after my father and several other miners were killed in an explosion, I could barely force myself onto the elevator. The annual trip became an enormous source of anxiety. Twice I made myself so sick in anticipation of it that my mother kept me home because she thought I had contracted the flu.

-

“Someone's here to see you,” says my mother. Her face is too pale and I can hear the anxiety she's trying to hide.

“I thought they weren't due until noon.” I pretend not to notice her state. “Did Cinna come early to help me get ready?”

“No, Katniss, it's —” my mother begins.

“This way, please, Miss Everdeen,” says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's weird to be ushered around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it.

As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulder. “Probably more instructions for the tour.”

-

I hear my mother's light, quick tread in the hall. She can't know, I think. Not about any of this. I reach my hands over the tray and quickly brush the bits of cookie from my palm and fingers. I take a shaky sip of my tea.

“Is everything all right, Katniss?” she asks.

“It's fine. We never see it on television, but the president always visits the victors before the tour to wish them luck,” I say brightly.

My mother's face floods with relief. “Oh. I thought there was some kind of trouble.”

“No, not at all,” I say. “The trouble will start when my prep team sees how I've let my eyebrows grow back in.” My mother laughs, and I think about how there was no going back after I took over caring for the family when I was eleven. How I will always have to protect her.

“Why don't I start your bath?” she asks.

“Great,” I say, and I can see how pleased she is by my response.

Since I've been home I've been trying hard to mend my relationship with my mother. Asking her to do things for me instead of brushing aside any offer of help, as I did for years out of anger. Letting her handle all the money I won. Returning her hugs instead of tolerating them. My time in the arena made me realize how I needed to stop punishing her for something she couldn't help, specifically the crushing depression she fell into after my father's death. Because sometimes things happen to people and they're not equipped to deal with them.

-

Besides, there's one wonderful thing she did when I arrived back in the district. After our families and friends had greeted Peeta and me at the train station, there were a few questions allowed from reporters. Someone asked my mother what she thought of my new boyfriend, and she replied that, while Peeta was the very model of what a young man should be, I wasn't old enough to have any boyfriend at all. She followed this with a pointed look at Peeta. There was a lot of laughter and comments like “Somebody's in trouble” from the press, and Peeta dropped my hand and sidestepped away from me. That didn't last long—there was too much pressure to act otherwise—but it gave us an excuse to be a little more reserved than we'd been in the Capitol. And maybe it can help account for how little I've been seen in Peeta's company since the cameras left.

-

I slide down into the water, letting it block out the sounds around me. I wish the tub would expand so I could go swimming, like I used to on hot summer Sundays in the woods with my father. Those days were a special treat. We would leave early in the morning and hike farther into the woods than usual to a small lake he'd found while hunting. I don't even remember learning to swim, I was so young when he taught me. I just remember diving, turning somersaults, and paddling around. The muddy bottom of the lake beneath my toes. The smell of blossoms and greenery. Floating on my back, as I am now, staring at the blue sky while the chatter of the woods was muted by the water. He'd bag the waterfowl that nested around the shore, I'd hunt for eggs in the grasses, and we'd both dig for katniss roots, the plant for which he named me, in the shallows. At night, when we got home, my mother would pretend not to recognize me because I was so clean. Then she'd cook up an amazing dinner of roasted duck and baked katniss tubers with gravy.

-

My mother comes in, somewhat shyly, and says that Cinna has asked her to show the preps how she did my hair the day of the reaping. They respond with enthusiasm and then watch, thoroughly engrossed, as she breaks down the process of the elaborate braided hairdo. In the mirror, I can see their earnest faces following her every move, their eagerness when it is their turn to try a step. In fact, all three are so readily respectful and nice to my mother that I feel bad about how I go around feeling so superior to them.

-

I can see him swallowing his disappointment. “So, we'll go. We'll find out.” He turns back to the fire, where the chestnuts are beginning to burn. He flips them out onto the hearth. “My mother's going to take some convincing.”

I guess he's still going, anyway. But the happiness has fled, leaving an all-too-familiar strain in its place. “Mine, too. I'll just have to make her see reason. Take her for a long walk. Make sure she understands we won't survive the alternative.”

“She'll understand. I watched a lot of the Games with her and Prim. She won't say no to you,” says Gale.

-

I'm filled with awe, as I always am, as I watch her transform from a woman who calls me to kill a spider to a woman immune to fear. When a sick or dying person is brought to her ... this is the only time I think my mother knows who she is. In moments, the long kitchen table has been cleared, a sterile white cloth spread across it, and Gale hoisted onto it. My mother pours water from a kettle into a basin while ordering Prim to pull a series of her remedies from the medicine cabinet. Dried herbs and tinctures and store-bought bottles. I watch her hands, the long, tapered fingers crumbling this, adding drops of that, into the basin. Soaking a cloth in the hot liquid as she gives Prim instructions to prepare a second brew.

My mother glances my way. “Did it cut your eye?”

“No, it's just swelled shut,” I say.

“Get more snow on it,” she instructs. But I am clearly not a priority.

[…]

I can't remember a time before Cray, a time when there was a Head Peacekeeper who used the whip freely. But my mother must have been around my age and still working at the apothecary shop with her parents. Even back then, she must have had healer's hands.

Ever so gently, she begins to clean the mutilated flesh on Gale's back. I feel sick to my stomach, useless, the remaining snow dripping from my glove into a puddle on the floor. Peeta puts me in a chair and holds a cloth filled with fresh snow to my cheek.

[…]

Hazelle arrives, breathless and flushed, fresh snow in her hair. Wordlessly, she sits on a stool next to the table, takes Gale's hand, and holds it against her lips. My mother doesn't acknowledge even her. She's gone into that special zone that includes only herself and the patient and occasionally Prim. The rest of us can wait.

[…]

As the final bandages are being placed, a moan escapes his lips. Hazelle strokes his hair and whispers something while my mother and Prim go through their meager store of painkillers, the kind usually accessible only to doctors. They are hard to come by, expensive, and always in demand. My mother has to save the strongest for the worst pain, but what is the worst pain? To me, it's always the pain that is present. If I were in charge, those painkillers would be gone in a day because I have so little ability to watch suffering. My mother tries to save them for those who are actually in the process of dying, to ease them out of the world.

Since Gale is regaining consciousness, they decide on an herbal concoction he can take by mouth. “That won't be enough,” I say. They stare at me. “That won't be enough, I know how it feels. That will barely knock out a headache.”

“We'll combine it with sleep syrup, Katniss, and he'll manage it. The herbs are more for the inflammation—” my mother begins calmly.

“Just give him the medicine!” I scream at her. “Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand!”

Gale begins stirring at my voice, trying to reach me. The movement causes fresh blood to stain his bandages and an agonized sound to come from his mouth.

“Take her out,” says my mother. Haymitch and Peeta literally carry me from the room while I shout obscenities at her. They pin me down on a bed in one of the extra bedrooms until I stop fighting.

-

After a while, my mother comes in and treats my face. Then she holds my hand, stroking my arm, while Haymitch fills her in on what happened with Gale.

-

Now that Gale has drifted away on the painkiller, everyone seems to deflate. Prim makes us each eat some stew and bread. A room is offered to Hazelle, but she has to go home to the other kids. Haymitch and Peeta are both willing to stay, but my mother sends them home to bed as well. She knows it's pointless to try this with me and leaves me to tend Gale while she and Prim rest.

-

She fills a handkerchief with the snow-coat mixture and I hold it to the weal on my cheek. Instantly the pain withdraws. It's the coldness of the snow, yes, but whatever mix of herbal juices my mother has added numbs as well. “Oh. That's wonderful. Why didn't you put this on him last night?”

“I needed the wound to set first,” she says.

I don't know what that means exactly, but as long as it works, who am I to question her? She knows what she's doing, my mother. I feel a pang of remorse about yesterday, the awful things I yelled at her as Peeta and Haymitch dragged me from the kitchen. “I'm sorry. About screaming at you yesterday.”

“I've heard worse,” she says. “You've seen how people are, when someone they love is in pain.”

-

My mother eases off my boots. “What happened?”

“I slipped and fell,” I say. Four pairs of eyes look at me with disbelief. “On some ice.” But we all know the house must be bugged and it's not safe to talk openly. Not here, not now.

Having stripped off my sock, my mother's fingers probe the bones in my left heel and I wince. “There might be a break,” she says. She checks the other foot. “This one seems all right.” She judges my tailbone to be badly bruised.

Prim's dispatched to get my pajamas and robe. When I'm changed, my mother makes a snow pack for my left heel and props it up on a hassock. I eat three bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread while the others dine at the table.

-

My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I'm so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs.

-

My mother lets me sleep until noon, then rouses me to examine my heel. I'm ordered to a week of bed rest and I don't object because I feel so lousy. Not just my heel and my tailbone. My whole body aches with exhaustion. So I let my mother doctor me and feed me breakfast in bed and tuck another quilt around me. Then I just lie there, staring out my window at the winter sky, pondering how on earth this will all turn out.

-

Downstairs, the living room has been cleared and lit for the photo shoot. Effie's having a fine time ordering everybody around, keeping us all on schedule. It's probably a good thing, because there are six gowns and each one requires its own headpiece, shoes, jewelry, hair, makeup, setting, and lighting. Creamy lace and pink roses and ringlets. Ivory satin and gold tattoos and greenery. A sheath of diamonds and jeweled veil and moonlight. Heavy white silk and sleeves that fall from my wrist to the floor, and pearls. The moment one shot has been approved, we move right into preparing for the next. I feel like dough, being kneaded and reshaped again and again. My mother manages to feed me bits of food and sips of tea while they work on me, but by the time the shoot is over, I'm starving and exhausted. I'm hoping to spend some time with Cinna now, but Effie whisks everybody out the door and I have to make do with the promise of a phone call.

-

I turn on the shower and stand under the warm rain for a minute before I realize I'm still in my underclothes. My mother must have just stripped off my filthy outer ones and tucked me in bed. I throw the wet undergarments into the sink and pour shampoo on my head. My hands sting, and that's when I notice the stitches, small and even, across one palm and up the side of the other hand. Vaguely I remember breaking that glass window last night.

-

The footsteps on the stairs renew my panic from last night. I'm not ready to see my mother and Prim. I have to pull myself together to be calm and reassuring, the way I was when we said our good-byes the day of the last reaping. I have to be strong. I struggle into an upright position, push my wet hair off my throbbing temples, and brace myself for this meeting. They appear in the doorway, holding tea and toast, their faces filled with concern. I open my mouth, planning to start off with some kind of joke, and burst into tears.

So much for being strong.

My mother sits on the side of the bed and Prim crawls right up next to me and they hold me, making quiet soothing sounds, until I am mostly cried out. Then Prim gets a towel and dries my hair, combing out the knots, while my mother coaxes tea and toast into me. They dress me in warm pajamas and layer more blankets on me and I drift off again.

-

In the hospital, I find my mother, the only one I trust to care for them. It takes her a minute to place the three, given their current condition, but already she wears a look of consternation. And I know it's not a result of seeing abused bodies, because they were her daily fare in District 12, but the realization that this sort of thing goes on in 13 as well.

-

Gale squats down beside me, shaking his head. "I can't believe you let all those people touch you. I kept expecting you to make a break for the door."

"Shut up," I say with a laugh.

"Your mother's going to be very proud when she sees the footage," he says.

"My mother won't even notice me. She'll be too appalled by the conditions in there."

-

When I wake up, I'm warm and patched up in my old bed in the hospital. My mother's there, checking my vital signs. "How do you feel?"

"A little beat-up, but all right," I say.

"No one even told us you were going until you were gone," she says.

I feel a pang of guilt. When your family's had to send you off twice to the Hunger Games, this isn't the kind of detail you should overlook. "I'm sorry. They weren't expecting the attack. I was just supposed to be visiting the patients," I explain. "Next time, I'll have them clear it with you."

"Katniss, no one clears anything with me," she says.

It's true. Even I don't. Not since my father died. Why pretend? "Well, I'll have them...notify you anyway."

-

At the last moment, I remember to send a message to my mother about my leaving 13, and stress that it won't be dangerous.

-

The birds are waiting for me to continue. But that's it. Last verse. In the stillness I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing "The Hanging Tree." Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song, not knowing the real meaning of the words. The tune was simple and easy to harmonize to, though, and back then I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two. Suddenly, my mother snatched the rope necklaces away and was yelling at my father. I started to cry because my mother never yelled, and then Prim was wailing and I ran outside to hide. As I had exactly one hiding spot--in the Meadow under a honeysuckle bush--my father found me immediately. He calmed me down and told me everything was fine, only we'd better not sing that song anymore. My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

-

I guess my mother thought the whole thing was too twisted for a seven-year-old, though. Especially one who made her own rope necklaces. It wasn't like hanging was something that only happened in a story. Plenty of people were executed that way in 12. You can bet she didn't want me singing it in front of my music class. She probably wouldn't like me doing it here for Pollux even, but at least I'm not--wait, no, I'm wrong. As I glance sideways, I see Castor has been taping me.

-

My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her shoulder.

-

A soldier alerts my mother that she's needed in the first-aid station. She's reluctant to leave us, even though she'll only be thirty yards away.

"We'll be fine, really," I tell her. "Do you think anything could get past him?" I point to Buttercup, who gives me such a halfhearted hiss, we all have to laugh a little. Even I feel sorry for him.

-

Plutarch ushers the doctors out and tries to order Prim to go as well, but she says, "No. If you force me to leave, I'll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that's happened. And I warn you, she doesn't think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss's life. Especially when you've taken such poor care of her."

-

My mother and Prim take turns nursing me, coaxing me to swallow bites of soft food. People come in periodically to give me updates on Peeta's condition. The high levels of tracker jacker venom are working their way out of his body. He's being treated only by strangers, natives of 13--no one from home or the Capitol has been allowed to see him--to keep any dangerous memories from triggering.

-

On the day my father died, the sirens went off during my school lunch. No one waited for dismissal, or was expected to. The response to a mine accident was something outside the control of even the Capitol. I ran to Prim's class. […] We found our mother clenching the rope that had been hastily strung to keep the crowd back. In retrospect, I guess I should have known there was a problem right then. Because why were we looking for her, when the reverse should have been true?

-

The morning we ship out, I say good-bye to my family. I haven't told them how much the Capitol's defenses mirror the weapons in the arena, but my going off to war is awful enough on its own. My mother holds me tightly for a long time. I feel tears on her cheek, something she suppressed when I was slated for the Games. "Don't worry. I'll be perfectly safe. I'm not even a real soldier. Just one of Plutarch's televised puppets," I reassure her.

-

The rest of the squad has gathered in a protective formation around the crew and us. Finnick's attempting to revive Messalla, who was thrown into a wall by the explosion. Jackson's barking into a field communicator, trying unsuccessfully to alert the camp to send medics, but I know it's too late. As a child, watching my mother work, I learned that once a pool of blood has reached a certain size, there's no going back.

-

Foam. I really am floating on foam. I can feel it beneath the tips of my fingers, cradling parts of my naked body. There's much pain but there's also something like reality. The sandpaper of my throat. The smell of burn medicine from the first arena. The sound of my mother's voice. These things frighten me, and I try to return to the deep to make sense of them. But there's no going back. Gradually, I'm forced to accept who I am. A badly burned girl with no wings. With no fire. And no sister.

-

When my tender skin has toughened enough to withstand the pressure of sheets, more visitors arrive. The morphling opens the door to the dead and alive alike. Haymitch, yellow and unsmiling. Cinna, stitching a new wedding dress. Delly, prattling on about the niceness of people. My father sings all four stanzas of "The Hanging Tree" and reminds me that my mother--who sleeps in a chair between shifts--isn't to know about it.

-

On my family: My mother buries her grief in her work.

Having no work, grief buries me. All that keeps me going is Coin's promise. That I can kill Snow. And when that's done, nothing will be left.

Eventually, I'm released from the hospital and given a room in the president's mansion to share with my mother. She's almost never there, taking her meals and sleeping at work. It falls to Haymitch to check on me, make sure I'm eating and using my medicines. It's not an easy job.

-

As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem's new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet again, to say my final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother, who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it.

-

Haymitch hasn't assassinated anyone. He could go anywhere. If he's coming back to 12, it's because he's been ordered to. "You have to look after me, don't you? As my mentor?" He shrugs. Then I realize what it means. "My mother's not coming back."

"No," he says. He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I examine the delicate, perfectly formed writing. "She's helping to start up a hospital in District Four. She wants you to call as soon as we get in." My finger traces the graceful swoop of the letters. "You know why she can't come back." Yes, I know why. Because between my father and Prim and the ashes, the place is too painful to bear. But apparently not for me.

-

In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well.

-