#my favorite book is a fanfic

[gender-thief2]

i’m not obsessed guys i promise

[romanticatheartt]

Why people don't like 3rd person pov? Genuinely asking because as a non native I prefer 3rd person. And tbh it doesn't matter to me anyways, sometimes I read books till the middle and realise they're 3rd pov (maybe I shouldn't say that💀) but my point is both are easy for me to understand and doesn't matter to me.

[emjee]

I’m dipping my toes into bookbinding/fanbinding so here’s a project I finished last week! I’m very pleased with how it’s turned out and now I have an edition of Revelations of Divine Love in barely edited Middle English, which is how I prefer to read it! Cat shown for scale.

[starry-bi-sky]

'Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings' doodles, because Pathetic Wet Cat Danny is the best Danny to practice drawing young faces with (and expressions).

[the-golden-comet]

✨Thankful Thursday/Favorite Fiction Friday✨

Hi everyone! This week has been kind of crazy, but I haven’t forgotten. June’s a fantastic month for many different reasons: Pride, end of the fiscal year, for some it’s the end of the school year. But, there are many things to be thankful for.

I will start with, a MASSIVE thank you to @autism-purgatory , who made me fanart of Peter Hart that I am still gushing about and showing to my husband. You took time out of your day to draw my characters and make me smile, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I know how much joy it brings to see your characters come to life, and really inspire people. Thank you, G.J.

HUGE thank you to @thatuselesshuman who made me laugh from this meme about my stories, because it is entirely accurate and hilarious. Another one for my collection ✨

Gigantic thanks to @gioiaalbanoart, @wyked-ao3 and @sunglasses-in-the-bentley , who are reading Peter Hart for a second time (anyone else who is, please let me know too!) To read my works the first time is a gigantic honor; to go through the adventure again is one of the highest praises for an author, next to receiving fanart, fanworks, and fanfiction.

Thank you to this kind stranger, who made me beam all day from this comment. And thank you this community, who has shown so much kindness and support that I wonder why I’ve kept my talents hidden so long. Well, NO MORE. You will get art, you will get stories, you will get support, the best way I know how. I will do my best

Okay, enough gushing. Here are my favorite authors, and my favorite fiction from them:

@autism-purgatory — Loop Of The Hollow

@alinacapellabooks —The Tengu and the Angel

@gioiaalbanoart — Too Far Gone?

@justabigoldnerd — I Am Your Lover (I Am Your Jailor)

@fortunatetragedy — Doom Metal Love Story

@wyked-ao3 — Tuesday event or is it

@poorreputation — Dimples

@sunglasses-in-the-bentley — I Won’t Hurt You

@pippinoftheshire — Sing Me A Lullaby Before I Go

@lychhiker-writes — Snippet Dump

@brigidfromthecelts — The Devil’s Sonata

@dyrewrites — Before Deluca

@froggy-pposto — oblation

@deanwax — Cycle’s End

@far-cry-from-finality — The World’s Not Ending As Long As We’re In It

@theverumproject — The Verum Project

@snugglesquiggle — Hostile Takeover

@zackprincebooks — Dear Heart

@bookish-karina — Your Average Fangirl

@glasshouses-and-stones — The system’s breaking down

@thatuselesshuman — Bloody Hands are Kind

@piscesapplelady35 — As Lethal As Holy Water

@shards-things — Meant To Be

@sic-sempervirens — Taarasthari

@katenewmanwrites — Whispers In The Moonlight

@noblebs — Everything With Teeth

I’m most likely missing a few, but if YOU know of some amazing authors and literature, feel free to add to this list and spread the positivity!

For everyone reading this: Your fiction is fantastic, your stories are inspiring, and you are an amazing writer, artist, and human on this planet. Thank you for everything. 💫

[evilasiangenius]

He didn't so much hear Armand come in as he felt Armand come in. Like a moment of nullity moving through the room, a presence that was not a presence. A ghost.

“Daniel...” Armand sat down on the bed, his weight depressing the mattress lightly.

“No...go away.” Daniel tried to turn away but he was sweating and shivering, too cold, too hot.

“It's all right, Daniel. I'm here.” Armand shifted, bringing his legs up and lying down beside Daniel, moving into Daniel's arms. “I'm here.”

“You feel good.” Daniel pressed his cheek against Armand's cool forehead, sighing. He wrapped his arms tight around Armand and it was as though he could feel the heat melt away from him, soaking into Armand.

“My poor Daniel.” Armand stroked Daniel's pale hair. Daniel had only the faintest roughness of stubble clinging to his jaw, and his mussed hair had been cut and clipped in a slick modern style that suited him. Even his ruined clothes were new. That man had taken good care of him.

Daniel shifted, so he could move closer to Armand, so he could press his entire body against Armand. The fever was burning up inside Daniel, and Armand felt the twinge of that old fear, the fear of sickness and the death it brought. So often over the years he had seen Daniel shrug off coughs and chills that it had made him wonder at the strength of these modern mortals.

Death. His fingers brushed through Daniel's hair and Daniel sighed, turning so Armand's hand moved against his cheek. Just hiding under the skin, just beyond the bones. He wondered if he pressed his ear to Daniel's chest, if he could hear the little cells inside of him slowly dying, bursting and floating away.

“I won't let you.” Armand kissed his eyelids, speaking so softly that it was more for his own sake than Daniel's. “Not right now.” And he made that little cut on his throat and guided Daniel to to it. Daniel's dry lips moved against him, at first sluggish, but then he caught the taste of it and his mouth moved hungry.

x

[wonder-and-wildflowers]

Physical media is so dear to me

but not always in the cute

"Look at my collection!! Look at how well organized it is!! Look at all I've got and am getting"

kinda way

But sometimes in a very feral, stars-in-eyes, foam-at-mouth

"Look at my collection!! Look at how well organized it is!! Look at all I've got and am getting"

kinda way

[urfavoritedcwhore]

the russian boy//part eighteen

chapter two

warnings: unprotected sex, smut, swearing, “pulling out” as “bc”, !minors DNI!

not proof read

lowercase intended

part eighteen, chapter two: the beginning of something new part 2

boris is still laying in between my legs looking at me with stupid sexy fucking grin. "come here.", i say in a more demanding tone then i intended. he chuckles softly and crawls up me, his hands on either side of my shoulders as he hovers over me. i push him over so that he falls on his back on the bed. before he has the chance to say anything, i climb on top of him and sit right on his clothed dick. his eyes open slightly wider and his grin grows, "eager eh?", he says lifting an eyebrow and propping himself up on his elbows. i think about responding, but like i said, it's my turn to tease him. i roll my hips back and forth, letting my bare center rub against his clothed cock and let out a small moan. the grin of his face is quickly wiped away with a groan from him, "fuck", he breathes out, his eyes glued on my my movements against him. he scoots back, grabbing my hips and moving me with him as he props his back against the headboard. one of his hands disconnects from my hip and begins to reach out for my pussy. i grab his wrist quickly, still moving my hips back and forth, "not yet.", i say with a moan. when i tell you this man whines, im being dead fucking serious. he literally lets out a whine from the back of my throat as i hold his wrist back. "want to touch", he says in a desperate voice that i've never heard him use before. i chuckle softly before being cut off from another small moan that escapes my lips, "you had your fun, let me have mine.", i say back shakily. the way his bulge is hitting my clit is genuinely driving me crazy. i speed up my movements letting out a throaty moan as he returns his stray hand back to my hip, looking at me in what i can only describe as awe. his hips buck up and he groans softly, "driving me crazy.", he mumbles. i don't respond, instead i lift up from his lap. "take them off.", i say trying to sound demanding but instead sounding desperate. he nods quickly and slides off his pants in a flash, revealing his black boxers, raised up in a tent over his cock. i moan again looking down at it. he slides off his boxers as quickly as he slid off his pants, throwing them to the floor and looking back up at me. my jaw drops, like drops so hard i feel like there are weights in my mouth. it's true what they say about skinny tall boys. it's so fucking true. this man is packing. his cock rests on his stomach, and if i had to give an estimate of his size i'd say it's at least 7 or 7 1/2 inches. and holy fuck. maybe this is tmi but i don't care, he's girthy you guys. like truly the girthiest man i've ever seen. i let my eyes trail back up to his. "boris, what the fuck.", i say in disbelief of his size. he chuckles, "yea?", he asks like he already knows my answer. i nod quickly, "yea.", i say back. "lay down.", he commands as he keeps his eyes on me. i'm not one to take orders from a man but, within two seconds i'm on my back laying beside him. he moves to hover back over me with a serious look on his face, "i go slow.", he says looking in my eyes. i shake my head, "no.", i say back instantly. he chuckles, "yes. want to feel ever inch of me go inside you.", he says dragging his cock up and down my slit. i'm in no position to argue with him. to be honest i would agree to anything this man said to me right now with the way the tip of his cock is running up and down me. i let out a moan and nod, "okay okay.", i agree frantically. he grins and nods before looking down and lining himself up with my entrance, "ready?", he asks looking back up at me. i nod my head quickly swallowing my own spit in anticipation.

he keeps his eyes on me as he pushes himself in, painfully slow. he groans loudly as i gasp, letting my eyes roll back. my legs involuntarily wrap around his waist and push his full length into me. i swear i can see his eyes roll back as i let out a long moan. "oh fuck", i moan out as i keep my eyes on his. he slowly begins pushing himself in and out of me, his breath shakey. "o cholera, chcę ci wypierdolić mózg.", he mumbles out in a groan. hearing him speak polish or Russian or whatever the fuck that was only makes me moan louder. he picks up his pace slightly as he study's my face intensely. "boris that's so fucking good.", i whine out in between moans. "so tight, so perfect.", he says back to me as he groans shakily. he brings his hand down in-between our bodies as he finds my clit a circles it with his thumb gently. my back arches, i mean for real, it literally disconnects from the bed. there is no way in hell he's only been with one girl before. i moan loud, "oh fuck boris", i say in a moan. he moans loudly, his thrusts grow sharper, "want you to cum.", he says continuing to look down at me, "want you to cum so bad".

i nod frantically and let out a throaty moan, "fuck keep doing that.", i say breathlessly. he picks up the pace of the circles he's tracing on my clit, his thrusts remaining sharp and calculated. now real quick, i remind you all im not a girl who *usually* cums fast. i'm the kind of girl who needs about, 15-20 minutes of foreplay, and a good 30 minutes of fucking. that being said..... "oh fuck i'm gonna cum", i whine out as i grip his shoulders tightly. "cum, please please cum.", he says in a dominant yet begging voice. when i say i have never came harder in my damn life. i grip his shoulders even harder and let my eyes roll back as my walls clench around him. my veins feel as if someone's pumping warm water into them, and my lower stomach practically explodes. i moan loudly as i cum on his cock, "fuck!!", i yell out loud enough that theo in boris's house can hear. he studies my face, his own contorting in pleasure as his slightly smirks, "co za dobra dziewczyna", he mumbles. he thrusts into me three more times before pulling out quickly and wrapping his hand around himself and pumping himself. almost immediately he cums all over my stomach, groaning and panting. i lay and watch him, like a love struck idiot. he has never looked so beautiful. his chest moving up and down rapidly, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his hand still wrapped around himself as he hovers over me. "holy fuck", i breathe out, in a trance from the sight of him and the remainder of my high washing away. he turns his body and flops beside me, taking his hand away from himself and turning his head to look at me. "jesteś cholernie niesamowity.", he says with a disbelieving smile.

i chuckle softly, "english boris.", i remind him as my breathing evens out. he shakes his head, siting up and running his hand through his black curls as he chuckles. "so amazing. you're just...amazing.", he says still looking at me. he leans down and grabs the towel i took off from my shower on the ground beside my bed. he gently wipes his cum off my stomach and kisses my softly and passionately. he disconnects from my lips a whispers against them, "i want to do again". i chuckle and sit up as he leans back, "later, i promise.", i look down at my twitching legs. he follows my gaze and places a hand over my right thigh gently as he narrows is his eyebrows, "is okay?", he asks concerned. it takes everything in me not to burst out into laughter. okay i totally believe him now, he's definitely only been with one girl. i place my hand on top of him and he returns his concerned gaze to my eyes. "it's okay, i just came really hard so im a little sensitive.", i explain to him with a soft smile. his concerned expression automatically turns into a proud expression and a smirk, "i do that, yea?", he says proudly. i chuckle deeply and nod my head, "yea". he nods his head slowly and moves his hand from my thigh to around my waist, pulling me as close as possible to him. "so beautiful lucy, so pretty", he says tracing circles with his thumb on my waist, "you taste like cherry.". i raise my eyebrow and chuckle. i lay my head on his shoulder, "im so damn tired", i say truthfully. i feel his body vibrates under my head as he laughs, "always tired.", he says back to me. well fuckin excuse me for being tired after getting absolutely undone by your cock. no no, this is a sweet moment. i nod my head and yawn, "mmm lemme sleep for a few minutes.", i say back closing my eyes. he lays back down flat taking me with him. he moves his arm from my waist to around my shoulders, pulling my head onto his chest. "sleep anioł", he says softly rubbing my shoulder. "kocham Lucy", i hear him mumbling to himself and chuckling as i drift off. the final thought i have before my dreams take over my mind? i fucking love this man.

a/n: hello my lovely readers, i’m sorry for making you wait so long for this part. also i know it’s not the longest part but don’t fear, i have no intentions of ending this story anytime soon. also, currently working on two henry winter fanfics that were requested today, so those will be out soon. thank you to the people who requested those, and thank you to the people who are still invested in this story:)))

[likes-words-and-shrimp]

Seeing that one post going around that's just basically 'say if you ever read fanfictions that are better than published books' and it's like, yeah of course there are some that are better, because some people are genuinely good writers, but also there are good books too, and then seeing people say things like, 'I have never read a good book I only prefer fanfictions' and it's just?? Seek out some books? There are so many different kinds, for so many different things. It just sounds like you're reading for an easy serotonin boost than really engaging with the work.

People who write books and people who write fanfics have one thing in common: they write. They are doing the act of writing, and each person is going to have different styles and come at it with different experiences. Also, if your favorite fanfic writer comes out with an original work that's not just filing the serial numbers off, will you read it? Or are you only there because they're writing your favorite characters from another piece of media (which might even be from a book?). Speaking as a fanfic writer who is happy when people compliment my writing, please read some books I'm begging. Not everything is from booktok.

[kazz-brekker]

me when a book has either a fake historical figure or a fictional celebrity and the narrative engages with this conceit by including fake nonfiction documents about them in the story

[justastrugglinghotchocolate]

Ya’ll I used to jokingly consider this, but nah, there is enough evidence in the book to suggest:

Henry ruins Dorian out of spite and jealousy towards Basil for moving on from him.

Let’s get right into this. 

I went back into the book because I wanted to review the post I made about Henry and misogyny earlier. Besides the usual annoyance at Henry’s dumb stupid rant, I noticed this line:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

And then it hit me that Henry’s worst rants about women only come after the topic of marriage, but more specifically, commitment. Which then led to an even more interesting idea: I’m pretty sure Henry mostly uses ‘women’ as cover to complain about Basil and Basil’s ‘lack of commitment to him.’

I want to note that there’s a lot of interesting things in regards to Henry and his relationship with women that I’d love to go into, but this will focus solely on him and Basil.

Here’s what Henry says in his misogynistic ass rant after Sibyl dies. (This is from the 1891 ver):

“But [Sibyl] would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully  dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay for.”

Basil is often considered ‘unfashionable’/‘dowdy’ by Henry’s standards. This is only further proven in what he says about Basil’s disappearance:

“Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art.”

But that isn’t all. The last part of that quote matches one to one to Henry’s claim about women (or Sibyl, specifically). Basil was not only ‘dull’, but his only ‘fashionable’ attribute, his art, grew ‘dowdy’ once he discovered Dorian’s indifference to him.

Henry also says this about women:

“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil.”

And later:

“But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.”

Guess who makes resolutions regarding goodness? Basil, who refuses to believe that Dorian is nothing but a good, pure man. 

“[Basil] could not bear the idea of reproaching [Dorian] any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.”

Basil’s arc traditionally should have ended once Dorian rejects him. Between that chapter and the chapter where Basil dies, there is no mention of Basil in any form. By all means, Basil’s role in the story is over—and then he demands the ‘sixth act’ to confront Dorian.

And finally:

“Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”

“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.

“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own.”

Now before I point out the obvious irony of Henry literally 'taking someone else's admirer' (henry actually has a lot in common with his 'criticisms' of women), I want to bring your attention to a key part we don’t discuss enough about in the book.

““Life has always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

So I’m gonna make an educated guess and say Henry is lying his ass off here. He did not have a ‘romance’ with a woman. He certainly did not get an emotional, romantic attachment with a ‘woman’. I feel comfortable saying this because 1) his general distaste for women literally points to this being bullshit and 2) a significant change that was made from the 1890 version of the book to the 1891 version.

This is the quote in 1890:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die.”

This is 1891:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die.”

Well, well, well, who is the arti—It’s Basil. He’s literally talking about Basil here. AND GUESS WHAT VIOLETS MEAN IN VICTORIAN FLOWER LANGUAGE?

A couple of things actually, but the top three are:

‘Faithfulness, Modesty, and Love.’

Henry emotionally had been faithful to Basil. While I doubt he was monogamous in anyway, Basil held a special place that no else would ever have. Not even Dorian.

And this brings me back to the quote that originally sent me down this rabbit hole:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

In the 1890 version, it says:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of poppies.”

Poppies are known to mean death and would have fit perfectly if Henry was saying he felt nothing for the relationship, but what does asphodel mean?

‘Love Beyond The Grave’, ‘Remembered Beyond The Tomb’ and sometimes, ‘My regrets follow you to the grave’. 

(NOTE: please keep in mind floriography could mean certain things based on the color and the type of flowers. That being said, considering Wilde described the shit out of every setting he wrote, the lack of detail about the flowers suggest the most broad meaning is meant to be taken.)

Henry isn't over Basil. He couldn't kill the love, so he buried it and took Dorian as a consolation and revenge. He will never be able to get over Basil until Basil or himself dies.

BOY DO I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR HENRY/s

[andreawritesit]

GRRM coming in clutch and saving his book from the HBO fanfic is my one last path to salvation.

[changelingart]

Me, throughout college, writing stories for professors: “meh, no one will notice this historical/cultural inaccuracy, I’m fine”

Me, two days after graduating, writing a fanfic: “if I cannot find out what the EXACT most BENIGN MEAL these two would eat at a tense dinner in a diner in northern Massachusetts during the early spring, I will hold an archivist hostage.”

[wander-wren]

presumed death literally the trope of all time. you’re telling me i can have the grief and horror of character death AND have the happy ending too??

not to mention the possibilities after “dead” character turns up again.

maybe they have no idea their loved one thinks they died, and they show up all nonchalant only to realize things have gone horribly wrong. maybe their loved one thinks they’re a ghost/hallucination/trick and won’t accept them.

maybe they do know their loved one thinks they’re dead and they’re choosing to keep up the facade for their safety. watching from afar, unable to comfort them.

maybe they faked their death and believe their loved one is in on the scheme when actually that message was never received.

maybe, in the process of whatever almost killed them, they forgot about their loved one/old life/etc, and aren’t aware they have anything to return to.

maybe they “died” thinking no one would notice their absence, leaving their loved one full of regret for things unsaid. perhaps their loved one heals and moves on, only for “dead” character to return.

and just, augh, the aftermath. waking up to find “dead” character gone and assuming it was all a dream/they really did die. the codependency. the anger, even, that they didn’t come back/let themself get hurt/lied. maybe guilt if their body was abandoned by their comrades, only to learn that they were alive all along.

name me a trope that does more i’ll WAIT.

[waywardangel-wilds]

Cyclamen

I've decided to make this a short story with maybe 3 chapters. I finished the first one:

“Oh hush, you.”

“Stranger tales have been woven.”

“What can a no-good fool know about such things,” the woman hmphed, “To speak of them.”

“I may be a fool, but I’m no less wiser,” the man winked. His eyes were riddled with cataracts, but they sparkled. The children huddled close by; their little heads eagerly tilted with the promise of a story.

“Papa, please tell us,” One of them begged, her little hands pulling insistently at the old man’s knee. “Please!”

“You’ve done it now,” his wife turned back to her knitting needles.

“Well, it’s as they say. Once, long ago, on a winter night just like this one, old man Everdeen heard it.”

“What did he hear?” one of the youngsters gasped.

“Three knocks,” he whispered and slowly, so slowly, brought a fist aloft.

“One,” he struck his knuckles against the arm of his chair.

“Two,” the children’s eyes followed his every movement.

“Three.”

The howling winds were ferocious that night. They screamed and scratched against the walls, rattling the window shutters, and pushing up against the door. The cold was like no other. The cruelest winter in three generations. With it, hunger and illness stole in, unwelcome guests to every household, perfumed with the stench of death.

The house was small, a cottage of just one room. There was a fire, a table for eating, two beds, and nothing else. That was all there was, in those days. All there could be.

Old Man Everdeen had a wife and two children. Two lovely daughters, one fair and golden and one bronze and ebony. He loved them, dearly. They were all he had. He would have done anything, sacrificed anything, his health, his life, his sanity, but that was not what the bear wanted from him.

Old Man Everdeen had a daughter made of iron. She took care of him and their family without complaint. Every day, without fail since the mineshaft took his legs. It troubled him, to be so useless, to be cumbersome. But his daughter, his lovely daughter, she was as radiant as the sun.

That evening, desperation was their guest. The cupboards were bare, and the coal would run out. The wind kept screaming, screeching, all around, as they huddled close to the fire. Waiting. For death? For an unknown guest?

And then it came.

The knocks were heavy. Final. They sucked the air out of the room and hushed the blizzard. He ceased breathing.  Even the mice paused. It came once, twice, three times.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Papa,” his youngest daughter whispered. “Who’s there?”

“Everdeen,” the voice spoke inside his mind. “Everdeen. We must all pay our debts.”

His iron daughter stood.

“No!” he reached out, but she was a step too far. “Katniss!”

“They might need our help,” she replied earnestly. Innocently. Kindly.  He would have stood if he could. “I’ll be alright, Papa.”

“Everdeen,” the voice spoke to him again.

His daughter’s feet whispered against the floorboards. She never made a sound. His little lynx. She was his little hunter, his little Katniss bloom. She already had twenty summers, but to him, she’d always be his toothy girl, bobbing in the river, all sharp knees, and elbows, shouting Papa! Papa! Look what I can do!

The door creaked open, but only slightly, to keep the cold air out. His daughter gasped and scrambled backwards, tripping over a chair. She fell hard on the ground, but that was the least of their concerns. The door swung open as flurries of snow blanketed the wooden floor. His wife cried out at his side and his other daughter screamed. But he didn’t make a sound. Somehow, he had known. He’d always known things would end like this.

The white bear took one step and then another into the house. It stared at him, unblinking, with eyes the color of the northern sea. Yes, he’d known, how could he have forgotten? We must all pay our debts.

“You are a poor man, Everdeen.” The bear spoke to him alone. “What have you for me?”

“Nothing,” he whispered in reply, to his wife’s bewilderment.

“Spruce?” she asked, staring at him as he remained calm before the bear. She stood, shaking, but with their youngest hidden behind her. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Ah!” His eldest daughter screamed, rushing up behind the bear with one of their hunting knives above her head. It was reckless and desperate, but just like her to try and protect him once more.

“Stop!” he exclaimed, and she did. She stood wild-eyed and panting, the knife still brandished in her hands. “It means no harm.”

The bear turned its large head and gazed down at his daughter. She stared back defiantly but she was afraid. And how couldn’t she be? With a bear in their home and a debt to pay?

“I have nothing.” He insisted once more. “No gold, no riches, not even bread to break. Oh, Great Northern Bear, have mercy on my family, and take me alone.”

“What?” His wife shouted just as his eldest daughter gasped.

“You are an honest man.” The bear spoke again without moving its jaws. It remained speaking to him exclusively. “But my master demands fair payment all the same.”

“I understand,” he nodded and closed his eyes. “Please, Great Bear if you must strike me down, allow my family the peace of ignorance. Do not take me here.”

“Your life is not payment enough, Everdeen.”  The bears’ words rocked him to his core. “You must give me your greatest treasure. From your two daughters, chose one, so I might take her with me.”

“Never,” he declared. “Strike me down where I stand, but never, not my daughters.”

“Papa!” His youngest exclaimed.

“You are a poor man, Everdeen.” The bear repeated. “Give me your eldest daughter and I will bathe you in riches. Your wife and child will have enough to eat for the rest of your days. But you must give me the eldest Everdeen, and never see her again, so your debt will be repaid.”

He choked on a sob, “No.” He insisted. “Take me and wipe my old debt clean and never darken my door again.”

The bear made a growling noise and turned its great head once more. His daughter gasped and he knew, it spoke to her alone.

“Katniss,” he begged. “Don’t.”

His daughter took her time straightening her spine and putting down her knife. She fixed her hair. She glanced at the bear once and strode up to her mother.

“I love you,” she whispered and embraced her once, doing the same to her sister a moment after.

“Katniss,” his voice turned desperate. “Please.”

She came up to him last. He was sequestered to the sofa unless someone else moved him first. She embraced him and his sobs escaped. His daughter was made of iron, and he knew nothing would bend her.

“Goodbye, Papa.” She whispered, squeezing his shoulders. “I love you.”

“Katniss!” He cried after her, his voice bouncing off against the walls long after she was gone.

[chameleon8]

Super tempted to write a fanfic about this one book that has actually zero fanfics on it. Like I looked everywhere and could not find a single one. Not even on ao3, which has more fanfics than any other fanfiction website I know. my only problem is that I know that if were to write a fanfic on it, I’d have to go all out and it would end up being multichaptered and I don’t know if I have the time for that rn Even so, I am ⚡️cͭlͪoͥs̾e⚡️ to writing my own fanfic about it