#the purple is gorgeous (dyed or lighting--either way its beautiful). and it looks so nice and silky and textured. its styled so nicely

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

!! PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT !! look at the cool art my friend made :3 and the accompanying band AU :3 its good you wont regret it :3

~so go ahead and hate on me and run your mouth (so everyone can hear) hit me with the worst you got and knock me down (baby, I don't care! keep it up and soon enough, you'll figure out you wanna be a loser like me~

Luz, for @mymanyfandomramblings band AU

Willow | Hunter

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IV

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A new chapter for my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the amazing @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

____________________________

When he wakes, it’s still early morning. 

His head feels much more clear than it did last night and Geralt almost chuckles at his own impressionability but somewhere deep in his chest, he still feels that pull of uncertainty, of a “what if”.

Before long, however, he’s back on the Path. 

Finding his way back to the mansion isn’t hard, he still remembers the directions the alderman had given him for the nekker contract and remembers also where he needs to leave the main road in order to find what he’s looking for. 

The sun is just starting to get properly warm when he stops Roach in front of the gates. 

“I won’t be long,” he tells her, jumping down from the saddle and running his hand over the mare’s neck. “A few minutes at most.”

Roach snorts at him, flicking her ears to indicate her disinterest. 

Geralt leaves her be, taking the brush and the dog collars wrapped in black cloth out of the saddlebags and walking up to the gates. Surely, he thinks, It’s going to be Arthur that’s going to come to see who’s there. 

He barely raises his hand to push open one of the arches of the gates, assuming that they’re open just like they’ve been the last time, when, seemingly out of nowhere, Lucio appears, his ears perked up in interest. There are only a few steps between them, and it’s a matter of seconds before the dog is right at the other side of the gates, its long nose sticking out between the intricate metal bars and sniffing at Geralt’s extended hand. 

Geralt isn’t really expecting to be recognised, but Lucio doesn’t bark and doesn’t bare his teeth, just inspects his hand for a moment or two, and then turns back towards the mansion, quickly disappearing somewhere between the rosebushes. 

Something deep inside Geralt tells him to wait, and so he does, shifting from one leg to the other a little awkwardly. 

It doesn’t take long. 

“Who is there?” he hears Julian’s voice, addressed to Lucio. “Arthur didn’t tell me someone was coming.”

Fuck, Geralt thinks. 

He’s suddenly hyper-aware that he’s got no real reason to be here other than he couldn’t get his own thoughts in check, and now facing Julian feels like facing the consequences of that. If it had been Arthur, like Geralt had hoped, it would’ve been so much easier. He would’ve given him the collars and asked to hand them over to Julian together with his gratitude and maybe a greeting, but now… Now he has to actually make sense of his being here. 

It’s way too late to leave, for even if he was able to make it to Roach in time, Julian would see him riding away. And in the end, well, how scary can it be. If he lets his own uncertainty get the best of him now, his brothers are never going to let him hear the end of it. 

“Geralt?” he hears, and now there’s no turning back. 

Julian emerges from behind one of the trees planted at either side of the gates, both his dogs close at his side. His snow-white chemise with voluminous sleeves pinched in at the wrists and embroidered with an intricate pattern of gold thread really does make him look like a prince, and for a second Geralt is overwhelmed with an irrational desire to bow, last night’s conversation with the innkeeper coming back to him. 

“Julian,” he says, giving up on himself and inclining his head like he’s at court. 

The younger man smiles at him, bright and open, like he’s an old friend, and opens the gates, gesturing for the witcher to come in. Geralt half-expects the dogs to run outside, into the forest, but they don’t take a single step, staying close to their master like guardians. 

“Why are you here? Another contract?” Julian asks, and Geralt knows that just standing there when the door has been opened is impolite, so despite his own better judgement, he steps through the gates. 

His throat is suddenly dry. 

“No,” he says finally. “No, no contracts. I-- I took this, on accident.”

Julian takes the brush from his extended hand, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to figure out if Geralt is messing with him, and the smile on his lips only grows wider. 

“I didn’t notice at first, but then I did, and I wanted to return it,” Geralt falters for a second, looking at the bundle in his hands. “And I also wanted to give you this. In gratitude for the kindness you’ve shown me.”

Julian’s eyes light up and he takes the bundle from Geralt, running his fingers over the soft black cloth.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he says, undoing the lace holding it together. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“No,” Geralt says, almost too quickly. “Not anyone. I think you know that.”

Julian darts him a quick look from under his long lashes, and as the fabric unwraps in his hands, gasps. An endless second goes by in silence, and Geralt is more than aware of his inability to take in a proper breath, but then Julian is smiling again, even brighter somehow, and his heart starts beating once more. 

“They’re beautiful,” Julian says, picking up one of the collars and running his fingers over the dyed leather, the metal of the eyelets and the little quartz details that shine in the sun. “Oh, they’re absolutely gorgeous.”

He leans down, petting Lucio on the head, and fastens the collar around his neck, the purple a sharp, beautiful contrast to the white fur. It’s a perfect size, tight enough not to get lost but also not digging into the fur and disrupting its flow.

Lucio doesn’t budge, and neither does Asra, when Julian puts a collar on her, as well. Once he straightens his back again, though, the dogs sniff at each other in interest. 

“Oh, would you look at them, they look gorgeous,” he says, turning back to Geralt. “Thank you. That’s so thoughtful of you.”

And then, before Geralt knows it, Julian reaches out and takes his hand, holding it in both of his. It’s only a second, how long it lasts, but his mind short-circuits. 

“Will you stay for lunch?” Julian asks, indicating to the front door with a move of his head. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to leave so soon.”

Geralt stares at his hand, half-expecting there to be imprints of Julian’s fingers where they touched the leather of his glove. His touch burns on Geralt’s skin, and for a few long moments he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything else. 

Finally, he clears his throat and meets Julian’s eyes. 

“I wouldn’t want to distract you from--” he starts but Julian cuts him short. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he smiles, already turning towards the mansion. “Come on. Arthur will take care of your horse for you.”

***

Somehow, Geralt allows himself to be convinced. Again. 

He gives Roach an apologetic look over his shoulder, as if trying to tell her that he’s helpless in this situation, and follows Julian to the front door, still feeling like he doesn’t belong here. 

It was so self-indulgent of him, coming here. Finding something that would justify him coming back, riding for three days with barely enough rest, asking about the mansion back in that little town, and now - following Julian to the front door after promising himself that he would only stop for a moment before leaving. 

And all of that, for what? 

To talk? To feel like he’s more than just his medallion and swords? Or just to feel the warmth of the younger man’s fingers on his skin again? 

The answer was right there, turning restlessly in Geralt’s chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn his attention to it, not yet. He knew it was stupid, spending an entire month with his mind slipping back to this mansion whenever he would loosen the grip on his self-control, and at first he did keep it all at bay but the further the Path took him, the more contempt glares he felt on himself and more whispers he heard behind his back, the brighter burned that fire of longing in his chest. 

He wasn’t sure if he could be blamed for it but then again, it’s always the easiest option - to justify yourself in your own eyes. 

Suddenly, that fire in his chest flares and Geralt can feel the heat run through his vein only to freeze into ice once it reaches his heart. What if he’d misjudged? What if Julian was just being nice because he was afraid, just like everyone else always was, and him returning here was the single worst thing he could’ve done? 

What if he read into his smiles and fluttering touches wrong, made it all up because he was tired and hurt after the hunt? The lingering effects of his elixirs were still wearing off by the time he’d stumbled upon the mansion, and even though they weren’t affecting his appearance anymore, they could still have been playing tricks on his mind without Geralt even realising. 

The witcher stops dead in his tracks, just a few steps away from the door, his heart beating hard against his ribcage. 

He never should’ve come. If he wanted so bad to give Julian the fucking collars, he could’ve hired a messenger boy in town, it would’ve only cost him three or four crowns. But instead, he’d decided to make the trip himself, how lost in his own delusions he was. 

Geralt is already turning away, ready to leave and then, somehow, make himself forget about all of this, but before he can turn his back to the door, Julian’s voice breaks through the haze in his mind. 

“Are you going to stay on the doorstep?” he enquires, a teasing little smile to his voice. “You know, Witcher, I’ve once read that vampires cannot enter a building unless they’re invited in. Are you, by any chance, one of those, seeing that I seem to have to do that every time?”

Geralt turns to look at him, leaning against the doorframe, and the smile playing on Julian’s lips gets right under his skin in a wave of warmth. And just like that, the spell is broken. 

The witcher blinks, bringing himself back to the present, and all the thoughts that were making his mind race but a second ago, fade into a faint echo. 

There is nothing in Julian that indicates fear or resentment. He smells of sweetgrass - or is it vanilla? - and cinnamon, just as sweet and home-like as he did the first time they met, and Geralt finally takes in a proper breath, letting that scent fill his lungs. 

“Nonsense,” he chuckles. “If vampires needed an invitation to get into a building, I wouldn’t have a job. And, well, even that was the case and I just happened to be one of them, disguising myself as a witcher, you’ve already given me access once, so there would now only be so many places that you could hide in.”

Julian gasps theatrically, pressing a hand over his heart, but then just laughs, eyes sparkling as he steps aside to let Geralt through the door and into the sunlit hallway. 

“Well, that’s a rather romantic way to die,” he says.

Geralt doesn’t mention that vampires - aside from the Higher ones - tend to rip their prey apart and not just bite them on the neck like he’d seen described in a few books.  

Julian takes him down the endless corridor, ducking into the dining room by the staircase and then peeking into the kitchen to tell someone that the lunch should be served for two. 

It’s still strange, being in the mansion, but Geralt makes himself forget about it. At least to a degree. 

“It’s still a few hours until everything will be ready,” Julian says, letting go of the door and letting it slowly swing shut. “But if you want anything--”

“It’s alright,” Geralt says quickly. “I wasn’t expecting to stay in the first place, really. Thought it was going to be Arthur that would come see who’s at the gates.”

Julian brushes past him, close enough between the wall and a large cupboard that Geralt can feel the warmth of his shoulder where it touches his own. 

“Ah, well,” he smiles, running the tips of his fingers over the polished surface of a long dining table on his way back to the hallway. “He would, usually, but Asra and Lucio are both trained to inform me when there is someone at the gates that I already know. I prefer to meet guests myself.”

Geralt follows his lead without a word, making his way through the labyrinth of rooms all the way into the library, which now feels familiar in the enormous house. The wide table by one of the windows is covered in pieces of parchment, perfect lines of runes written on them in ink. The structure of them looks like poems or songs but Geralt doesn’t want to be caught looking, so he averts his eyes before he can read anything. 

In some strange way, it’s almost comforting, being here now. The first night he came across the mansion the library seemed too big and too dark, illuminated by nothing but the fireplace, but now, filled with sunlight streaming in through the large windows, it’s almost something that Geralt could get used to. 

For what seems like the thousandth time in the last month, Geralt thinks back on the feeling of Julian’s warm fingers on his skin, stitching up with wounds with practised ease.  

“How is your shoulder?” Julian asks, as if reading his thoughts.

He settles down into his armchair, indicating to an identical one next to it with an incline of his head. Geralt hesitates for a moment but then sits down, setting his swords aside. 

“It’s healed,” he says, reaching his hand out unconsciously to touch it to his shoulder, the thin scars left from the wounds hidden under the leather of his armour. “With my regeneration, the scars will be barely visible in a few months.”

Julian smiles, pleased with what he hears, and nods. 

“I was a little nervous, patching you up,” he confesses, and there’s a hint of blush that creeps over his cheeks. “The only times I usually need that skill is when one of my gardeners or one of the ladies from the kitchen cut themselves on accident, and need help. And, well, I needed it a couple of times with Aiden and his inability to keep himself out of trouble. But you’re rather--”

He falters, the colour of his cheeks growing a deeper red. Geralt doesn’t interrupt him, intrigued. 

“You’re rather-- built, you know,” Julian says finally, his gaze slipping over Geralt’s broad shoulders. “More than Aiden, he’s closer to my body type. And certainly more than the ladies.”

He laughs, shaking his head. 

“Forgive me,” he says. “It’s inappropriate of me.”

What is this, Geralt thinks, The Cintrian court?

“You had me half-naked in this very chair half an hour after meeting me last time, and now it’s inappropriate to talk about my physique?” he asks, teasing.

The tension slowly bleeds away from his shoulders, just like it did that morning in the arbour, and he feels himself relax, let go of his constant self-control, at least a little. 

“It’s not like I was looking,” Julian objects, defending himself with a glint in his eyes. “I’ll let you know that I’m a very responsible man and I was only focused on the task at hand.”

Geralt knows it. He knows that Julian didn’t look. Remembers the way it twisted something deep inside him, for the first time. But backing down now would’ve been a horrible omission. 

“Of course,” he says, raising his hand in a mock-conciliatory gesture. “Very focused on me and my built shoulders.”

He expects Julian to keep his own line of argument, but the younger man just narrows his eyes at him slightly like he’s testing him, and smiles charmingly.

“Well,” he murmurs. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

Oh, that is not something Eskel or Lambert are ever going to let him forget if he chooses to tell them. Getting beaten at his own game, what an event to remind him of for the rest of his life. He can already see Lambert’s shiteating grin that makes Geralt want to kill him every single time without fail. 

But Julian’s eyes sparkle an impossibly bright blue, and maybe it’s not that bad, after all.

Geralt raises his hands again, genuine this time. 

“Alright, alright,” he says. “You win. All hail Julian the Victorious.” 

The younger man clasps his hands together and shakes them above his head in a gesture that Geralt has seen at tournaments. He expects some kind of a smug comment, since the victory is rather flawless, but instead, Julian says:

“You can call me Jaskier. Julian is really only a name that pretentious nobles and my employees use.”

Pretentious nobles, Geralt thinks and his mind suddenly snaps back to thinking that the man in front of him might very well be the prince of Redania, legitimate or not. 

“Jaskier,” he echoes, instead of asking any questions.

The younger man nods.

“In my first year in the Academy, we were supposed to come up with pseudonyms for ourselves for one of the subjects, and I chose Jaskier. I read it somewhere, I can’t even remember where exactly, but I’m pretty sure it means something like “buttercup” in one of the dialects spoken in Toussaint. It was just a pseudonym at first but by the end of the year, everyone including my professors were referring to me by that name alone, because I started using it everywhere.”

The Oxenfurt Academy, Geralt thinks, Would he be able to attend if he really was the king’s illegitimate son? Could they just hide it, so that no one knows who he really is? 

“What did you study in Oxenfurt?” he asks, trying to tell himself to stop thinking about it. 

Jaskier’s entire face lights up, like he’d been waiting for that question. 

“The seven liberal arts,” he says, nodding towards a framed diploma above the parchment-lined desk. “We weren’t obliged to study all of them but I wanted to try a little bit of everything. However, it was music that captured my heart, almost immediately. I loved astronomy, too, but not nearly as much.”

“Astronomy with professor Linderbrog?” Geralt enquiers.

Jaskier nods.

“I’ve been to a couple of his lectures,” the witcher says. “He’s rather… popular with the ladies on the course, isn’t he?”

The younger man snorts, covering his lips with the back of his hand. 

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, he is. I honestly don’t know what they see in him, he’s like fifty-five. But like half the Academy was dying over him and his beard. It’s still beyond me how it’s still dark in the middle but grey on the sides.”

Geralt notices a quick little look Jaskier darts at his hair and averts his eyes, letting it linger for a moment longer. And the question in the younger man’s eyes is so obvious that Geralt can’t help but answer before it’s even spoken:

“Yes, when I grow a beard, it’s also white.”

There’s a momentary, fleeting confusion that slithers over Jaskier’s face but a second later, his cheek flush with colour.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t staring, I just-- didn’t know how to ask.”

Geralt chuckles, letting his shoulders fully relax as he settles into the armchair more comfortably. His armour is still restraining but he’s not sure what it’s going to look like to Jaskier if he just starts undoing the buckles, so he brushes the thought aside. 

“I’ve lost pigmentation after the Trials,” he says, and it feels almost liberating to know that he doesn’t have to explain, that Jaskier knows enough about witchers to know what the Trials are. “My hair turned white and my skin got much more pale than before. My tutors thought that it’s temporary, that the hair will just grow out, but it’s been very long now and, as you can see, it’s still white.” 

Jaskier gives him another look, more tentative. 

“You’re not doing yourself justice,” he finally says. “My dogs are white. And your hair is silver.”

Geralt rolls his eyes in mock-exasperation. 

“Alright,” he nods. “If that’s what you say.”

***

Time goes by fast. 

Jaskier tells Geralt about his years at the Academy, asks a few careful questions about the witcher’s own training, and somewhere in the middle of the conversation Geralt suddenly realises that he can’t remember the last time he talked so much to anyone other than his brothers. 

When Arthur appears in the room to call them for lunch, Geralt knows that it’s been an hour or two, but it feels like minutes. 

The dining table is enormous, and though there are only eighteen chairs set around it, it could probably fit twice that amount of people. Jaskier offers Geralt to choose a seat with a wide move of his arm, and, after some hesitation, the witcher chooses the end of the table opposite to the door. 

Jaskier takes his place at the head of the table and Geralt, trying desperately to remember court rules, finally takes a place to his right. 

There is a large painting of a hunting scene next to the table and Geralt asks Jaskier about it, even though there isn’t much that he understands about art. Usually, he wouldn't ask about something he doesn’t know because he’d had people looking down at him for that one too many times, but Jaskier wasn’t like that. He explained things to the witcher in a way that made him want to listen, a way that didn’t draw a line between them. 

He told Geralt about the painting in the dining room and about some of the other ones that he’s got in the mansion. Overall, he said, he’s got about a hundred. Some of them are bought, some of them are gifted, some of them - though only a few - he painted himself. 

“You paint?” Geralt asked then, taking another sip of what might be the best wine he’s ever had.

Jaskier shrugs with one shoulder. 

“We were obliged to take two additional courses in the Academy,” he says. “Mine were Elder Speech and fine art. Of course, I’m no van Rogh, nor am I de Varvari, but I do enjoy it.”

Somewhere under the table, Asra and Lucio poke their cold noses at Geralt’s knees every now and then, and it’s still completely beyond him how the dogs manage to appear wherever Jaskier goes. 

“Didn’t we leave them outside?” Geralt finally asks when Jaskier clicks his tongue to get the dog’s attention and feed them a few pieces of meat from his plate. 

“We did,” the younger man nods. “But they have their ways. I’ve had them for a little over four years now and anywhere I go, they follow. Even if it feels like they materialise out of thin air.”

Materialise out of thin air, Geralt thinks and concentrates just a little, listening to his senses and trying to figure out if there’s magic involved in this. He does feel the pull of it somewhere deep in his chest, has been ever since he crossed the gates, but if it really were the dogs, it would grow much stronger with them near. 

It was probably nothing. Maybe an artifact or two.

It was probably nothing.

[katehuntington]

How You & I Will Be - part five (finale)

Fandom: Supernatural Main characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Bobby Singer (mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Serie summary: When a hellhound case in the mountains goes sideways, Dean and Y/N find themselves trapped in a small cabin, miles from civilization. A serious injury forces the two hunters to come to terms with their true feelings for each other. Rescue is on its way, but will it be in time? Part 5 warnings: angst, severe anxiety, nightmares, hallucinations, swearing, alcohol, description of blood and injury, possible character death. Some fluff. Music: ‘Lullabye’ by Billy Joel Word Count: 2154 words Author’s note: This is it, folks. The end of my mini series, and what a pleasure it was. Thank you @idreamofhazel and @littlegreenplasticsoldier for helping we work on this, you both are wonderful betas. Fair warning when you proceed: I managed to move them both to tears. @littlegreenplasticsoldier even made clear that I will have to hire someone to do my obit at my funeral, because I will have no friends left after this.

Find the ‘How You & I Will Be’ masterlist here!

     It turns out Y/N has a little more time on her side than they initially thought. Not that she will be able to remember much, since she laid in Dean’s arms unconscious most of the time, but somehow the huntress has made it till sunrise. Despite her brave attempt, her condition deteriorates with every minute that passes. During the hallucinations, Dean pulled her into his lap, holding the girl he loves with everything he’s got, like he would comfort an infant. The acid trip-like dreams had her in confusion and all he could do to sooth her, cradling her gently, whispering sweet words and promises.

     The nightmares seem to have passed now, setting in a new stage that is just as ominous. She has been unresponsive for quite a while, as if she has drifted off into a coma. It feels as if she’s slipping through his fingers like desert sand and there’s nothing he can do about it. Sometimes it takes over twenty seconds for her to breathe in again, which is only a weak gasp for air. Between those inhales Dean keeps her close to his chest, begging silently for her to take another breath, to stay a little longer.

     Red ashes have turned into grey charcoal overnight, causing the temperature in the cabin to drop. Now Dean’s leather jacket is the only item that can provide her some warmth; even if there were wood left, he wouldn’t let her go to restart the fire. The storm has passed quickly and it wouldn’t surprise Dean if it was the work of that witch that owed Bobby. The rescue-team was supposed to start their climb at the break of dawn; they are probably well on their way, now that the first rays of sun peek over the ridge, watercoloring the sky with pink and purple. The mountaintop of Glacier Peak is outlined with gold that glows ever brighter as the sun comes up. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Dean enjoys intently, aware that these will be the final moments he’ll have with his girl. 

     When the sunshine spreads a warmth in the cabin, illuminating the fibers of dust that float in the air surrounding them, Y/N opens her eyes slightly without Dean noticing it. The scenery outside captivates her. The view looks more like a painting from Leonid Afremov than it would seem like reality, and for a second she wonders if she’s hallucinating again. But when she observes Dean, who admires the spectacular scenery as well, she guesses it’s nature’s way of saying goodbye.

    “Well…” she rustles, words coming out raspy. “If that isn’t the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen….”

     Stunned, Dean looks down at her. He honestly didn’t expect her to ever open her eyes again, but here she is. A moment of clarity. God, it’s nice to hear the sound of her voice again, despite it not being more than a weak whisper.      “Hey, you,” he returns, smiling down.      She smiles back, glad to be able to gaze up into those depthless green eyes once more. He lovingly strokes some wayward hair from her forehead, and places a tender kiss on her skin. Embracing the moment, she closes her eyes and sighs as her grin reaches wider. When he pulls back and witnesses the satisfied expression on her face, he suddenly notices the difference; she’s made peace with her fate. It scares him deeply, he isn’t anywhere close to prepared for her coming death.      “You wouldn’t be able to squeeze out a few more hours by any chance?” he pleads. “The rescue workers are on their way.”      For a moment she opens her eyes again, clearly worn out by the fight for life. She swallows with difficulty and lets the air escape from her lips, finding it harder to inhale every time she does so.      “I’m so tired, Dean….”      Her voice fails, but he heard her. The hunter nods slowly, accepting the true message behind her words. The fight is over. She’s lowered her weapons. With difficulty, he gulps, trying to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. After all, he has to be strong for her. 

     But she’s no fool; she can see right through it. Y/N knows how hurt he is, how he’s trying so hard to prevent himself from caving. She might be okay with the fact that her hour has struck, he can’t say the same. The thought of letting her go causes the tears to pool in his eyes.      “Hey… It’s alright,” she tries to comfort him.      He scoffs, amazed by her urge to care for him, even now.      He manages a quivering breath. “I should be telling you that.”      “I’m not the one who’s about to be left behind, am I?” she reminds him.

     It’s a solid point. Who knows where she might drift off to. Heaven, the light, whatever one would want to believe. Dean will remain right here, on this spot of land without her.      “What do you think is gonna happen next?” he wonders out loud. “Lights out and that’s it?”      “Hell, no,” she chuckles, having found a little more spirit to strengthen her words. “It’s gonna be either Vegas or Hawaii. I haven’t decided yet.”      Dean scoffs through the tears, imagining it for a moment. He hopes she’s right, it makes the idea of dying a little less terrifying.      “Maybe my heaven will be driving down the road towards the sunset in the Impala, backseat to myself…” she continues on a serious note. “Maybe it’s this, this moment right here with you. This view.”

     Dean follows her thousand-yard stare through the window that portrays the colorful picture outside. As the sun rises further, it casts an golden light over the snowy mountains, and Y/N takes a moment to count her blessings. Sure, she wishes she would’ve had more time, but it isn’t the worse way to go. The man she gave her heart to is holding her close and they got the chance to spend their final moments together. The man who told her: I love you. The man she told: I love you, too. It’s not that bad, actually.      “Promise me something?”      He turns to face her again, waiting for a follow up.      Trying to speak, her voice hitches in her throat as breathing becomes more difficult. Her fragile state indicates it won’t take long now. “Promise you’ll let your friends and family help you. Promise you’ll talk to Sam. Don’t bottle it up this time, okay?”      The pressure on Dean’s chest becomes so heavy that his airway constricts. He is able to keep a hold of her questioning gaze, though.      “I promise,” he assures, choking up.      “And no deals,” she continues. “I know you’ve been thinking it.”      “Y/N -”      But she won’t have it and interrupts his attempt to object instantly.  “No, Dean. I don’t want you to get torn up by those hounds. If you make a deal, you’ll go to hell,” she pauses to catch her breath. “And where I’m going… It’s not a bad place.”      Dean sighs after a moment’s consideration, trying to blink away his tears as he admits to her conditions with a nod. “Alright.”

     She smiles slightly, glad to have his word and relieved that she got the message across. It remains quiet for a couple of minutes as her respiration slows down even further, taking down her pulse as well. Scared, Dean holds his love, watching her subside, further and further away from him.      “Dean?”      His name is barely audible, it’s more of a breath than her voice.      “Yeah?”      She forces her eyes open, taking in the hunter above her. For the first time since last night, tears stain her beautiful eyes. Dean knows exactly what she’s trying to capture, because he’s trying to accomplish the same. He takes her in, every feature, every perfect flaw. A few lost birthmarks that decorate her face and neck. That scar on her chin that she always tries to cover up with a scarf or the collar of her jacket. The slight frizz in the lock of hair that she cusses about whenever it’s rainy or windy. And damn, those eyes, those gorgeous eyes.      “I-I think it’s time….” she stammers weak.

     She’s might be okay with dying, that doesn’t mean that she isn’t scared of what lays ahead. Of course she’s terrified, who wouldn’t be scared of the unknown? Vampires, ghosts, demons; she faced them all. But with every single monster she came across, she knew a way to defeat them. Never, ever, did she show up for a fight unprepared. At the verge of battle she was armed with a weapon of choice, if it was silver, salt, dead man’s blood or the Colt. She knew her opponent, she did her research, she read the lore. But she can fantasize about casinos or white sandy beaches all she wants, the truth is that nothing can prepare anyone for what awaits on the other side.      “It’s alright, Y/N. I’ve got you,” Dean comforts, pulling her even closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’m right here. I won’t leave your side, I promise.”      She cries against his chest silently, wheezing every time she tries to inhale. Dean’s heart is beating out of his chest as hers will stop any moment now.      “Y-you know what my mom’s favorite song was… to sing to me?” she whispers, referring to their talk days ago, about music and songs sang by their mothers. “It was Lullabye... Billy Joel… She always sang Lullabye.”      “It’s a good song,” Dean gets out with difficulty.      “It is,” you smile into his shirt, before she softly whispers the first lines.

     Goodnight, my angel      Time to close your eyes      And save these questions for another day

     Dean joins in with her, cradling his dying girl to the rhythm of the song. The melody somehow makes it easier to pronounce the words.

     I think I know what you've been asking me      I think you know what I've been trying to say      I promised I would never leave you, and you should always know      Wherever you may go, no matter where you are      I never will be far away

     She lets Dean take over the vocals completely, listening to his emotional yet clear voice. It hushes her into a deep sleep from which she will never wake again. Slowly Y/N sinks further into the depths of unconsciousness. But she can still hear him, she can still hear Dean. Scientists have proved that the sense of hearing is the last one to perish when a person dies. Seems like they are right.

     Goodnight, my angel      Now it's time to sleep      And still so many things I want to say      Remember all the songs you sang for me      When we went…

     He stops mid-sentence, waiting for some kind of response from Y/N. A flinch, her chest rising, anything. But nothing happens. There’s no cloud of humid air coming from her lips, even the drum in her chest has stopped playing. When he lifts his chin off her head and loosens his grip on the woman in his arms slightly, he is able to behold the blank expression on her pretty face, eyes slightly opened, but her soul is gone.

     “Y/N…?”

     Shocked he stares at her as a lump obstructs his throat. A hole in his stomach grows larger when the harsh reality replaces his denial. Dean can’t prevent the tears from building up in his eyes and so he looks up, hoping that they won’t fall down, but they fall anyway. Unable to cope with the avalanche of sorrow that hits him like a freight train, his bottom lip starts to quiver and slowly he begins to move back and forth, mourning, as he presses her lifeless body against his.

     He lost her. For a few moments she was his and now he’s lost her. He whispers her name in her hair, tells her he loves her once more and then again. God, he would give anything to see her react to those words, by throwing him that amazing smile.      Softly he continues to sing the song. The earth turns and the sun shines its light on the both of them. His voice is shaking so badly that he has trouble getting anything out at all. Being able to hold and cradle her helps, and so he sets off again where her death caused him to pauze.

     Remember all the songs you sang for me      When we went sailing on an emerald bay      And like a boat out on the ocean      I'm rocking you to sleep      The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart      You'll always be a part of me

     Someday we'll all be gone      But lullabies go on and on      They never die      That's how you and I will be

The end, people. Thank you so much for reading my story. I appreciate every single one of you. If you would like to talk about this or if you need a grief-counselor, let me know. Feedback is very much appreciated.

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How You & I Will Be tag: @deanwnchstr @parkeret @professionalspnfangirl @tmiships4life

[veronica-rose-writer]

Team Anthony

Song Inspiration: Touch by Haux

Prompt: 

“You look beautiful today.” “Did I look ugly yesterday?”

“You look beautiful today, Isa.” I pause in the middle of pouring my much needed 5th cup of coffee to look at my incredibly annoying boss. He always felt complimenting his employees was a way to ‘boost morale’, never had the desired effect though, on me. Some of us groaned internally, but we stayed polite, while the rest all swooned over him.

I thought to myself, did I look ugly yesterday? However I gave a half smile and forced out, “Thank you Mike.”

A huge smile grew and feeling so proud that he might’ve just lifted my spirits he walks off whistling, raising his cup to someone on the floor. I rolled my eyes and finished making my coffee.

“You know that much caffeine in the span of 2 hours can’t be all that good for you, right?” I still at the sound of that amazingly sexy voice, Anthony. The kind that sounds like it’s on the verge of turning into a low growl. I love that voice, but he’ll never know that. “Considering my entire DNA is made up of caffeine, I think I’ll be just fine”, I respond casually turning to face that incredibly handsome face covered in a beard that screamed, PUSSY EATING EXPERT! But who knows really? He could be totally bad at it. Yet somehow I doubt it. He grins at me and it took everything I had in me to not groan out loud. It was completely unfair for any one human to look that gorgeous. His olive skin smooth and itchy hands wanting to touch it. His chiseled features adorned with a perfectly groomed full beard, dark thick eyebrows framing stunning green-brown eyes. I had to rein myself in because eventually I was going to forgo the coffee for his perfectly full lips. “How are you this morning, Isa?” “I’m doing better, thanks.” I pull my cup to my lips and took a long swallow in hopes to quell the moan that wants to escape my mouth. “Good to see you back in the office”, he inched closer to me and I froze. He leans closer raising his hand and reaches behind for the pot of coffee. When I realize how my eyes were glued to his lips I jump and move out of his way. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“Yeah, uh… thanks, Anthony. It feels good to be back”, I turn to leave the coffee bar hoping to make it back to my office without tripping. “Isa!” he calls out to me a bit loud to ensure I heard him.

I stop and only turn my head to look back at him, “yes?” “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask… me.” Shrugging at me he brought his cup to his lips and a smile crinkled his eyes. “Uh, yeah, sure… thanks.” Silently I ended with, I think. What the hell was that about? I hurry to my office, my special space. Being the introvert I am I enjoy the privacy of my little corner office. I close the door and leane against it. I took a couple of big gulps of my coffee and sighed. Anthony was one of the office hotties. The women, and some of the men, had a list of hot guys and he was on it. Top of the list was our boss. Ugh, that guy was such a douchebag but seemed like he was highly regarded for his sex appeal. If you liked that pretty white yuppie playboy look, yuck. I never paid much attention to the chatter of office gossip. I kept myself closed off from the rest of the folks because in order to focus on my work I needed silence. But every now and again when my door was open the few friends I did have would come visit and reveal the latest gossip to me, without my asking I should add. I always stayed quiet and nodded through their machine gun delivery of information I didn’t care about until his name was mentioned. Anthony gossip seemed to pretty much stay mild compared to some of the others. I think the most shocking was knowing the guy could sing and sing well. They had attended some office party and there was karaoke and he apparently stole the show. I was curious, but no one would ever know. So, today started with my cat knocking over every trash can in the apartment, finding that I had a flat tire, my boss telling me I looked beautiful (which was really annoying), to Anthony offering to help me with anything. I am not really sure where I was going with that line of thought. Maybe because my day seemed to start off bad, but this new development of Anthony offering to be helpful threw me off my bad day game. Suddenly it hit me… oh, that’s so unfortunate. I have a crush on the guy. I lean my head back against my door and this time I do groan out loud. I push away from the door, plop down into my chair, and lean my head on my desk. After being absent from the office, having to work from home for the last few weeks, this was the last thing I wanted to get myself caught up in coming back to work. “Fuck.” I say to myself and then reach for my phone needing to text my best friend, because she always has the answers. Me: Hey, are you free for drinks after work? Friend: Always! Me: I really need to talk. Meet me at the pub at 6? Friend: are you okay? Me: Yeah, no…  idk. Friend: ok, at 6. See you there.

I walk in the doors of the pub that is about 3 blocks from my office. It is already filled with happy hour patrons in broken down business suits. Men's shirt sleeves rolled up, ties gone, shirts unbuttoned, suit jackets on the back of chairs. Women's attire pretty similar or at least their clothing looked a little less smoothed out now that they had a few drinks in them.

The music playing is chill indie tunes. The pub is owned by former business types who decided they wanted more out of life. I envy them, the hipster couple living their dream. I love coming here, even if it at one time I wouldn't have been caught dead here. "Hey Isa!" shouts the owner Liz. She is a stunning beauty. She had a serious Chingona vibe that let her reign supreme here at the pub. Liz has long jet black hair that was typically worn in a fishtail braid. Big gold hoop earrings, a black pub merch tank top in order to exhibit her stunning tattoos all done by local artists, she is proud to say. "Hi Liz, it's good to see you", I step on the foot rest of the bar and reach over the bartop to kiss her cheek. "I'm so glad to see you out and about. You look fantastic." She enthusiastically waves a hand at me to indicate me being up on my feet. "Yeah, I am trying to get back to normal again. I hated feeling so helpless." I shrugged my shoulders as lean against the bar. The last 6 weeks were a hard recovery for me, but thankfully for a handful of friends I was able to get there faster. "Sometimes, Isa, it's okay to let others help you out. As you can see it actually works out because look at you now. No one would ever know you had heart surgery." Liz leans on the bar in front of me. She has the kindest light brown eyes, always framed by intense black eyeliner for that intense cat-eye look.   "Yeah, I know, I'm stubborn", I chuckle. "So what'll you have gorgeous?"

"Uhm, let me go easy tonight with a Jack and Coke, please."

Liz laughs, "you're one of few who call Whiskey easy. Coming right up!" I head over to my favorite spot at the end of the bar. I prefer my back to be to the wall so I can see the door. I'm not sure why, call it anxiety or being in control, but either way it's what works for me. I settle onto the barstool and look at my phone. It was ten till 6p and I knew soon Lillie would be making her entrance. She is always on time. "Here ya go, doll." Liz hands me my drink and right as she was about to say something someone came into the bar. She winks at me and moves to go serve her customer. Just as I brought my drink to my lips in walks a vision in bright purple. I grin because as soon as she steps in all eyes were on her. Lillie. She is always one to make an entrance. Her 6 foot tall frame always drew attention. Her chocolate skin was glowing, her short curls bouncing with every step. Her curvaceous body gliding its way through the crowd. The men looking at how her tight dress showed off everything she worked hard on achieving. All eyes on her is always Lillie’s goal. No matter how many stood taller as she walked past them, she had eyes only for me. My one true soulmate. We'd been friends since we were kids. Back when Lillie was once a little boy who kept himself hidden from everyone but me. Lillie was my first everything. First friend. First kiss. First boyfriend. First time. Then she became my very first girlfriend. I loved her more than I ever loved anyone. Then one day we both came to the realization that we were best friends and a love that felt like it was dying, became a big new love for friendship. She is my everything, always and forever, just now we are the very best of friends. "Hey beautiful" I grinned as Lillie leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Oh please… do go on!", she giggles loving being given compliments. "You're looking positively bright today." I look her up and down. "Oh this old thing? Girl please, I threw this on last minute." Lillie smiles at Liz as she walks up to us. "Hi Lillie, fancy seeing you here", Liz smiles at her. They always host karaoke on Wednesday nights, last night, and everyone always knew you'd see Lillie there. She had an amazing voice and everyone loved when she sang. They began to speak with each other and my mind drifted off. I don't know why I kept thinking about Anthony. I guess because it was still so new but it meant absolutely nothing right? Like, why would he even say that when he's never really shown me any interest? I can't seem to shake the smile he gave, or the intent in his words. Shaking my head I shrug it off as him just being nice. Noticing my mood, Lillie leans and elbows me to get my attention, "babe, you're a million miles away. What's going on?" I sigh and look over at her, just when I'm about to let it all pour out, in walks the devil. I didn't turn my head but my eyes shifted towards the door, there he was. He had his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up, minus a jacket, and he looks like something out of a freaking men’s fashion magazine. I close my eyes a second and take a deep breath. Lillie notices my gaze and then whispers, "who is that daddy?" "The problem." I grimace at her use of daddy. I say with a rushed exhale, "I think I could, might, possibly, definitely have a crush on that". "Uhm… Isa I don't quite think THAT is a problem, more like a solution?" Lillie has a huge grin on her face. I groan and bring my glass to my lips when he locks eyes with me. Fuck. He smiles at me. I smile back and turn to look at Lillie. I'm feeling a little claustrophobic suddenly and Lillie settles her hand on my arm.

“Breathe.” She whispers.

“Why?”

“Because he's coming.”

I slowly look over and he is walking through the crowd and they just move out of his way, like the parting of the Red Sea. Wtf, people just did that?

“Do what?” he asks as he's smiling at us.

Fuck, I said that out loud? Lillie knowing me reaches a hand out to distract him, "hi, I'm Lillie, the bff.. and you are?”

“I'm Anthony, the coworker.” He winks at Lillie.

Lillie grins and looks at me with a look. The look. I send out pleading eyes but nope she ain't having it.

“If you'll excuse me, I saw someone I need to say hi to.”

And just like that she leaves us. I turn and watch her leave and nervously look back and I'm staring at his chest. I look up and he’s smiling at me. Taking a deep breath I smile my smile, the one that makes people tell me “a real smile, Isa”. "Hi Anthony." I finally say feeling entirely ridiculous. He keeps looking at me and I start to feel even more anxious. Why is looking at me so intensely? "I'm trying to remember if I've seen you here before." He says as if he heard my thoughts. "Oh no, not for a long time. Before my surgery I stopped being able to go out. It's been a little over a year since I've been able to enjoy happy hour. But I've known Liz and her husband for a while before that, and use to come when they first opened up." I shift in my seat, my ass is starting to fall asleep or I'm just fidgety, either way I can’t sit still. "That's why, you stopped coming before I found this place." He leans sideways on the bar still smiling at me. Liz comes over, "Hey Anthony, your usual?"

He grins, "Hi Liz, yeah and whatever she's having" he points to my almost empty glass. "Uhm, thanks." I blush.

"Not a problem." At that moment someone bumps him pushing him into me. He reaches out on my legs to keep me from sliding off the stool. I grab his arm and realize how close we are and suddenly I feel my pulse rise rapidly. He smells so good! "Sorry about that," but his eyes send a different message, or is he, as he's still holding on.

"It's okay, it didn't hurt." Why did I say that? You're an idiot, Isa.

His fingers gripped a bit tightly before he releases his grip. My thighs feeling a lingering burn where his fingers had been. He leans in a little closer and begins "I was uhm… wondering if maybe", and before he could finish, a hand with long red polished nails snuck it's over his shoulder and across his chest. He froze and straightened himself. I looked at him like he suddenly grew an extra arm, a female one. Then a petite blonde with glossy red lips comes into view. Okay then… He turned and looked as if he was annoyed, "What Vicky?" She’s looking between him and me, I just turned to look over the bar. I see Lillie talking to some guy. Great no help from her. I realize that during our intense staring game, Liz had brought our drinks. I pick up my glass and begin to drink, a little too quickly. "I saw you and wanted to say hi. Can't a girl say hi?" She tosses her back over her exposed shoulder and I roll my eyes. "I didn't realize you were with a date?" She looked me over as if it was impossible for him to be with me. I freeze and then say from over my glass looking at her, "I'm not his date." Anthony stiffens and he backs away from this woman, getting closer to me. "Isa is a friend of mine." As if he needed her to know that he didn't just randomly decide to talk to me. "Well, whenever you're done here," she flicks her hand at me, "I’ll be over there with everyone." She tilted her head in a flirtatious way and spun around clacking her heels on the floor, even with the noise she manages it.   I laugh and shook my head, "damn dude, looks like you're in a world of trouble with that one". I turn my crossed legs towards him and he actually looks uncomfortable. I felt bad for the guy and so I leaned forward to whisper, "Don't worry, she didn't hurt my feelings." His shoulders relax and smiles at me, leaning back against the bar with his head turned towards me. "She's always a problem." "Women like her usually are, but some people like problems." I tap my nail against the glass rim and then take a sip. "What about you? Do you like problems?" I shake my head, and grin, "I like them easy". I said it so softly but just loud enough he didn't miss what I said. He turns fully towards, standing between my crossed legs and the bar, "is that so?" "Mmhmm… I don't like complicated. Like her," I nod towards the blonde. "People like her are messy. Leave behind destruction." "So can easy", he leans closer. I take a deep breath. What is going on? Who am I, like I have any right to be flirting with this guy? I'm not a stranger to flirting and hooking up. It's just been so long since I've entertained it. But with him it's happening so easily. Why fight it? Let it vibe and see what happens, that's what Lillie would say to me. "Not if you do it right", I let my leg brush against his crotch. He looks down at my leg. I wore a pantsuit today, the friction of our clothing did a lot to increase the current tension. He places his hand on my knee, rubbing his thumb over it in circles. "Isa, I have to admit that I'm incredibly attracted to you. Have been ever since we started working together. And normally this is easy for me, but right now I find I'm nervous being next to you." He confesses. I stopped breathing. I'm not even sure what just happened. Am I dreaming? Is this a joke? But I feel the warmth of his hand on my leg and it is surreal, how did this happen?! I’m reeling.

I lick my lips and bite my bottom lip. He watches the action, his eyes grow heavy with lust. Forgetting that we are in a public place I reach up and let my fingers drag through his beard. I needed to touch it and it felt like I knew it would. I moan slightly and squeeze my legs tighter. He slides his hand up my leg and grips my thigh. Suddenly the moment is shattered when Lillie walks up to announce she's leaving, "my friend and I want to catch up, so we are going go to eat." She winks and before I know it she's gone and I'm alone with Anthony. Anthony turns to Liz and raises his hand. He indicates that he wants to pay. She nods and he looks at me. No longer are we talking, just our bodies. I'm not sure what I'm doing, or him, but I'm going with it. One thing I learned recently is to take a chance at life because you never know when it'll end. I slid off the stool, straightening my jacket I wave at Liz as Anthony signs his receipt. Putting his hand on my lower back, we head towards the door. We both hear Vicky calling out his name. We move faster to the door. Walking briskly I turn and head towards my car and he follows my lead. After a couple of blocks walked in silence we are at my car. I took my keys out of my pocket and look at my door. He is standing close behind me. I breathe in deeply and suddenly I feel my body spin around. He pushes me back against my car, gently. He leans in, his lips hovering over mine. I realize he's waiting for an invitation. I let out the breath I was holding and reach my hands up to hold his face in my hands. Ugh, that beard drives me mad. I pull him in and suddenly I am feeling those soft lips against my own. He places his hands against my car caging me, moving in closer. His body needing to feel mine as his lips explore. I feel needy for his kiss, I pull him closer like I'm trying to bring him into me. Our lips getting to know each other, our breathing rising, our hearts beating faster. He lowers his hands to my hips and pulls me in, feeling how hard he's gotten already, for me. I moan into his mouth, his tongue making his way against mine. We tilt our heads, deepening our kiss. I feel absolutely carefree doing this, with him. I am not sure how long we've been kissing but it feels like hours. His beard scraping against my face causing my arousal to increase. It feels glorious and so incredibly sexy.

Slowly our kiss lightens, our need to breathe the main factor. He moves his lips to my jaw, down my neck. Taking his chin rubbing it against the sensitive part of my neck. I moan and push my hips up against him. "Oh god, Isa you have no idea how much I've dreamt of kissing you" he says into my neck. Moving his head up to look at me trying to control his heavy breathing. "I never knew" I whispered against his ear.

"I didn't know about you feeling the same." He lets out in a raspy breathless voice.

"I only recently allowed myself to admit it, but then being gone for 6 weeks kind of put a damper on things.” I bite his earlobe gently. He pushed himself back a bit, looking me in the eyes. Searching for something, I'm sure he sees the lust in my eyes, because I know I'm feeling it. He smiles and kisses my lips, letting them linger. He pulls away and I whimper. Wait, what, did I just whimper? He grins at me. "I don't want a one night stand with you. I want more." He says carefully, as if he's trying not to scare me off. I am at a loss for words. All I've known in the past is one night stands, a couple turning into toxic relationships. Never has a man actually said he wants more with me that didn’t imply sex. "I don't… I don’t know what to say…" I stammer.

"Just say yes to dinner with me, tomorrow night?"

"Yes" I answer instantly. Suddenly all the nervousness I felt since this day started gone. Feeling like my old confident self again. Feeling like me again. Not some broken shell of a woman.

"Excellent. I can pick you up at home, or leave from work?"

I bite my lip. "Could you get me at home?" I blush and look down.

He lifts my chin up with his finger, "it would be my pleasure."

I sigh like a schoolgirl and blush even more. What is with me?!

"I like when you bite your lip." He leans and kisses my bottom lip. "I noticed it the first day we met. When you're thinking you do it. It always drives me insane when we are in meetings."

I let out a soft laugh, "really?"

"God yes, how did you never notice me staring at you. I swear there were times you saw me."

"Uhm a little known secret about me, Anthony, I'm oblivious to flirtatious behavior if not directly shown to me. Kinda like you did tonight."

"Well then I'm glad I finally decided to bite the bullet." He laughed out loud. "When I saw you sitting at the bar I didn't even think twice, I made the choice to just walk right over to you."

"I'm glad you did, otherwise I'd be sitting in my office wondering why suddenly things shifted between us and convincing myself that I'm imagining things." I slide my hand up and down his chest. Wow, muscle, lots of it.

"Bite that lip again and I can't promise I'll stay a gentleman right now." His thumb rubs across my lip.

"No need on my account" I grin.

"No, you deserve better than a quickie in the back of a car." He pushes my wavy brown hair behind my ear. He makes me feel sexy, when I stopped believing I was anything more than just passably pretty.

"I guess I should head home. Bossy will be wondering where I am."

He raises an eyebrow at me, "my cat" I answer.

He grins, "oh yeah, you don't wanna worry him." 

He picks up the keys I dropped staying crouched down in front of me. Anthony is looking up at me, as I look down I am curious if he can tell how incredibly turned on I am, and how it'll take an hour just to let that fade away. He grins as he stands up as if knows my thoughts, he hands me my keys and I press the unlock button. He opens my door for me and I slide in. He leans in and kisses me, hard on my still swollen lips. "Drive safely, Isabella". He closes the door and I melt where I sit at the use of my full name. Oh god this man is going to make mush out of me. 

A/N: I originally wrote this about a year and half ago. It was a prompt I came across and I rolled with it. I wasn’t quite sure where it would end up, but here we are. I am not sure if I will come back to this or not but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think. 

[readbookywooks]

5 R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!" Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s. no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them. Venia makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face. "Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk. I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don't like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has crossed my lips. "You're doing very well," says some guy named Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!" Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet. The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Flavius, and they all laugh. I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. "Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in District Twelve." This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me. "But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Cinna is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!" "We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Cinna!" They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me. I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. 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 door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Cinna's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks. "Hello, Katniss. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations. "Hello," I venture cautiously. "Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?" "My mother," I say. "It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says. I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of these expectations. "You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life. "Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna. "So they gave you District Twelve," I say. Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district. "I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat." Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey. I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version. What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment? I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says. Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable. "No matter," says Cinna. "So, Katniss, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district." For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst. "So, I'll be in a coal miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent. "Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna. I'll be naked for sure, I think. "So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Cinna. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" He sees my expression and grins. A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets. "It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center. My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Cinna dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire." It crosses my mind that Cinna's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman. Despite this morning's revelation about Peeta's character, I'm actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He should know about fire, being a baker's son and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations. We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other. "What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth. "Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns. It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle." "Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" says Peeta. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say. And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, we're not acting sensibly. The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin. The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites. District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures. "What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city. The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Cinna's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games? Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. "Katniss! Katniss!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses. It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing." "Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center. The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister. I realize I'm still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands. "Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure no one noticed." "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.