#but with a technicolor processing

[erased-blankfish]

I’m so tempted to write my English one-page interest topic on Omori

I’m weighing the costs and benefits of how depressed I want my professor to think I am

[mariocki]

Doctor X (1932)

"If you ask me, I think Dr. Xavier is using very unethical methods."

"Necessity has no ethics, sir."

[landofequestria]

casually flexes my ml.p collection

[simonh]

Technicolor logo by Heather David

[fallout-lou-begas]

the thing about tumblr is that it is absolutely vital and optimal that you follow at least 2-3 gays obsessed with classic hollywood. you need to get at least a few posts per day about how actors named like Clyde Burton and Elizabeth Nape were LITERALLY FUCKING ON SCREEN despite the Hays Code in movies called The Boulderderry Bonanza or Ho, Giraldo! because it's good for you. it'll keep you cultured. it's like going to public music performances in the park except instead of music it's vociferous lamentations that the Technicolor process has gone extinct and male actors aren't all open-secretly bisexual anymore

[lizardsfromspace]

I've looped around from finding the belief that The Wizard of Oz was "the first color film" or "first technicolor film" understandable if wrong to finding it deeply annoying

Like. I get how it feels true - how the transition from sepia to technicolor in the film feels epochal, and how it's a springboard to people imagining how AMAZING and how AWESTRUCK audiences must've been at the time, but it just isn't the case, and no one in 1939 would've thought it was the first color film.

I mean, you've probably seen Snow White (1937) and Adventures of Robin Hood (1938). At the time color features were becoming more common, and they had been common in cartoons and shorts for years.

On a base level, if The Wizard of Oz was such a monumental moment in film history, giving people something they've never seen before, why did it only break even at the box office? By all accounts while not a flop it did decently but not great, and it only became a Cherished Classic thanks to TV airings later on. I mean, 1939 saw what is still, if adjusted for inflation, the highest grossing film ever made, and it wasn't The Wizard of Oz

Here is the actual history of color: most silent films were tinted, most commonly with different scenes being all tinted different colors, but more rarely hand-coloring. But back then people started experimenting with many different "true" color film systems, most of which failed for one reason or another, and there were a couple silent features made in two-strip technicolor, which had a more limited palette. At the start of the sound era, some black & white scenes would have color segments; this stage has been largely forgotten bc in many cases, the color segments don't survive & we only have them in black and white. Then three-strip technicolor began and became the dominant form of color until the late 1950s, with the first full-length three-strip technicolor film being 1935's classic...Becky Sharp. Which did decently, and got one Oscar nom for Best Actress, but didn't really become a classic. And then color films became more common until they became the norm in the 1960s

But it has to be a classic, right? It can't just be some random movie that ushered in technicolor. It has to be a famous movie everyone's heard of. It can't have been a gradual process touched by many individual artists, it has to be something one Great Man ushered in overnight, and the crowds were amazed, bc they had just been waiting for someone to Do Color Film so they could ditch black & white forever. It couldn't have been the case that they rejected many previous attempts at color film bc they sucked. Nothing can ever be the result of many people making many choices in many works of art, it has to be the work of one Great Work of Art that Changed Everything Instantly, and all the little people and failed experiments and less-enduring ones just have to be erased to make way

But it isn't. The transition from sepia to color in The Wizard of Oz did dazzle audiences, and still does, but that's because it's a incredibly well-done visual effect and a creative choice within the story to show the change from Kansas to Oz. We don't have to say it was important bc it was the first to do something technologically; it can be important for just being a really good movie

[getaapologist]

Flow Backwards to Me.

A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know. Some people are gonna hate this. But there are some of us out there that can't handle this look. And Sam isn't the real name for the person the character is based on in the movie, so I'm using 'Sam' as just a made up person. I have seen the movie and this contains no spoilers. Timeline-wise, if I had to place it, it's before the movie.

Pairing: Sam [Warfare] x reader

Summary: Sam has orders. You two are a bit melancholy about it.

Warnings: 18+ only. Goodbye sex. That's all. A slight smattering of plot.

“Hey, eyes on me.” A strained whisper.

Rough fingers pressing at your cheek. 

A fever. Sweat, damp sheets below proof of the exertion. The effort spent to get here, right here.

Your eyes meet his and you’re plunged into their dark depths, his face, his torso lit by the muted tv, some show long abandoned. 

The harsh light flickers over his features, like he’s submerged beneath the surface, hints of light reaching these depths. Casting over the focused expression he wears, the cut of his musculature. The light similarly bathes you in blue, and he commits it to memory.

A technicolor sea.

You see a flicker of relief in him at the eye contact. His grip on your hip tightens. 

His discipline doesn’t leave him, even here. Lips parted. Steady, measured thrusts. Driving deep, almost too deep.

It’s normally quite subtle, but not now. Because things are bubbling just beneath the surface.

He leaves in the morning. Doesn’t know when he’ll be back. Doesn’t know where he’s going. 

Well, he probably does, but he’s not going to tell you. 

He knows you. He knows everything you’re thinking. He doesn’t want you to worry. Doesn’t want you to flinch if the city gets named on the nightly news.

You would spiral.

It’s what he signed up for. What he’s trained for. And by extension, it’s what you signed up for too.

It doesn’t make it any less terrifying to give him up.

“I need you here with me, please,” Sam begged, covering your body with his, his nose pressing against your cheek. “For now.”

He’s trying to survive the weight of the reality that awaited. Pretending things are normal. 

Pretend with me, he wants to ask. But how could he? It’s too much.

Your hands find the soft velvet of his freshly buzzed hair and hold him close. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head, his lips finding yours in the process. 

There’s a level of detail in his every movement. Things that might normally get glossed over in the rush of chasing down that delicious morsel of pleasure are studied, taken apart.

It’s almost clinical.

He’s made it his job to map your features, to view you like this, to memorise the sounds his fingers elicit. Selfishly, he would draw on it later. But above all else, he needs to impart upon you just how much he cares. 

Just in case. 

So he takes his time. Well-versed in you, like it’s a vocation. His lips find your neck. His fingers dive low, drawing desperate, keening moans from your throat that he feels the vibrations of in his lips.

Your body chases his touch.

The tide pulls back. Threatens to wash you away. 

And right when things are too much, there he is.

“Breathe,” he urges, lips ghosting over your cheek as he lifts his face, watching you come undone.

Tense muscles, strangled cries, grip burning as the tide rushes back in all at once. 

Your legs clamp his hips in place against yours, keeping him trapped, your tremors bringing him close, too close, and he’s panicking. On the verge of relief, but he needs more friction.

Whines leave his throat, his fingers wrapping around one of your ankles, freeing his hips from your vice. And he moves.

Just a few seconds more, that’s all it takes. He’s buried deep, as deep as he can be, feet pushing off against the mattress, desperate to meld with you permanently.

The recovery is slow. It needs to be, this time.

For now.

The crush of him on top of you is welcome. Your eyes draw lines between the freckles on his shoulder as you both just breathe.

It’s easier now, after. Easier to forget about tomorrow.

“Sam,” you whisper. 

“Hmm?” he hums, his head turning so his lips brush over your cheekbone.

“It’s not forever.”

He allows himself a smile. “Right.”

The current changes. It reverses. Passing over the threshold. To acceptance.

He rolls off of you, staying on his side, his eyes still focused on you, but there’s a comfort in them now. A weariness, too.

“You’ll be fine without me,” he mutters, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

You force yourself to smile. You can be sad later, after he’s gone. “I don’t know, who else will remind me to get up on time after I’ve snoozed all my alarms?”

He laughs. “Sounds like it’s time to sink or swim, baby.”

He grins at your show of frustration, his heart a fraction less heavy. He needs the levity, craves it. 

He reaches out, pulling you into his chest as you pretend to push him away. But once his lips find your skin, the jig is up, and you’re melting again.

“Hey,” he says, cutting through the noise, the thoughts. As you focus on him, he smiles, big and bright. It’s meaningful. Something worth searing into memory. “I’m gonna miss the fuck out of you, you know that?”

It could’ve been sad. Depressing, even, to acknowledge. But oddly it doesn’t feel that way right now. 

You’re just grateful. Grateful to have him so close, to get to watch him smile, to get to hear his laugh. 

“I’m gonna miss you too, Sam.” It was a guarantee.

Distracting him with little touches, talking through the next few months you’ll spend without him, it all gets a fraction of a percent easier. 

Waking up will be hell, but it’s all temporary. Eventually, he will be returned to you, and you’ll be waiting to help him get back to this.

A/N: Hope this was okay. I had something more lighthearted in mind when I first started trying to write anything for Sam, but tonight his just kind of fell out. Hope you find something to like about it, and if not, that's fine. If it's terrible, please tell me. Thank you!

[avengerstowerarchives]

some protector | haymitch abernathy x reader

word count. 9.9k 

pairing. haymitch abernathy x fem!reader 

summary. overwhelmed by the feeling of caring for someone and fearful that snow will notice, haymitch drives you away. in the years that follow, haymitch still finds himself looking out for you. based on “some protector” by role model.

warnings. sotr spoilers. normal haymitch trauma stuff? mild violence. references to sa within the context of capitol prostitution/slavery (like with finnick and the other victors). mentions of vomiting? 

notes: jumps between present and past–might get kind of confusing, sorry! flashbacks are in italics. if haymitch seems ooc it’s probably because i wrote this when i was sad and didn’t have access to any source material.

part two. | read on ao3. 

—--------------------------

At least he didn’t throw rocks this time. Alone aside from a cluster of empty beer bottles, Haymitch leaned back against his couch and smiled wryly to himself. Getting you to leave without having to resort to violence had been a victory—he knew you’d be more stubborn than the Everdeens. 

His mind briefly returned to Asterid Everdeen and a stone hurled in drunken desperation, and he ignored the shame rising in his throat. It was far from his finest moment, but it was a necessary one. 

Shaking his head, he cracked open another beer, hoping a fourth drink would be enough to help him forget what it felt like to have company.

Every time you came around, curtains stayed open to let the light in and the kitchen smelled like fresh bread, but the alcohol stopped working. Haymitch felt something he hadn’t felt in years—protective. He finally had something worth taking. 

Then the nightmares intensified, and he saw faces he spent a decade too drunk to process—Ampert, Maysilee, Wyatt, and Louella—his sweetheart. But somehow, Lenore Dove and her ballad stopped coming around. 

On his worst nights, all he could see was you: your trembling hand at the District 3 reaping as you volunteered for a weeping twelve year old, your sunshine yellow dress in the Capitol parade, and you and the male District 1 tribute balancing on a thick tree branch, two of your knives attempting to push back a sword. 

In Haymitch’s dreams, you didn’t win that fight. As it had been every year prior, his flask was his lifeline through the 59th Hunger Games. But years afterward, he dreamt of your arena in technicolor anyway. 

And when he dreamt of flames, instead of his Ma and Sid, he saw your third-floor Capitol apartment, too far gone for the firefighters to reach. So Haymitch kept drinking. 

You’d chided him for his alcohol dependency, but he upped the intake—whiskey, wine, vodka, rum, even Teddy Branson’s moonshine again—anything he could get his hands on. Still the nightmares kept coming. 

He mustered up his gruffest facade to drive you away, but you still appeared on his doorstep bearing fruit for the disgusting protein smoothies Effie wanted him to drink and an insistence that his twelfth-floor windows had the best view. You deflected his sharp insults with quick retorts and freshly baked muffins.

But the meadow was the final straw. The night after the 65th Reaping, Haymitch woke up with a drenched brow and his heart thundering in his chest. He blinked away visions of crimson gumdrops and coughed up blood staining blades of grass. Visions of you. Not Lenore Dove, you. It felt like betrayal. 

Haymitch couldn’t let you hang around after that. 

The next time you let yourself into his house—today—he ensured it would be the last. Instead of hurling insults, he resorted to bluntness. He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag you out the door or chase you with a bottle in hand. 

He told you point blank that you weren’t wanted, calling you a bother and admitting that he’d finally had enough. He was lying through his teeth, but his grave expression caught you so off guard that you didn’t think to question it. 

You left his Capitol suite living room with eyes sad enough to make a grown man cry, but all he felt was relief. I’m sorry, Lenore Dove. She’s gone now. 

Though the apology eased his mind a bit, he still couldn’t shake the foreign feeling of guilt. It was like a pebble in his boot—too small to be significant, but still inconvenient enough that it couldn’t be totally ignored. 

Haymitch shook his head again to clear his mind. The condensation on the neck of the bottle dampened his fingers as he tightened his grip. The sensation reminded him of your tears, but he told himself he’d much rather see tears on your cheek than blood on your temple. 

Haymitch glanced at the empty beer case on his coffee table. Should’ve gotten more than a five pack. 

| (Am I guilty? Am I sorry?)

  (Do I miss you at the party?) 

  Yes I am, and I always will

A trio of Capitol women with varying shades of neon green hair shrieked with laughter at the sound of crashing glass. Haymitch barely batted an eye as the horde of Capitol elites jeered at the 65th victor, some teenaged boy from District 4 sitting in an ornamental fish tank. 

Haymitch hadn’t bothered to learn tribute names during the games–he’d learn the winner’s from the victory propaganda. There wasn’t a point in learning the rest anyway. 

“Finnick! Over here!” A man clothed in polar bear fur rapped on the glass of the tank, grinning wildly. “I sponsored you in the games—I sent the steak!” 

“They always—” Haymitch glanced to his left to make a jab at the Capitol elite when he realized the stool beside him was empty. His mouth drew into a grim line before he threw back the contents of his glass and signaled the bartender for another. 

In his defense, you used to stay glued to his side at functions like this since you were the Games’ newest victor. Swapping sarcastic comments with you had become a reflex. Even before you began inviting yourself into his house, you crashed a multitude of his parties. 

On the night the two of you meet, Haymitch finds a spot in the darkest corner of the room before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt. 

Once he feels like he can breathe again, he takes a large sip of the brandy in his glass. 

“Heard you know your alcohol. Which one’s the strongest?” Without warning, you appear by his elbow, stumbling into the cocktail table he stands behind. 

If Haymitch wasn’t wasted, he would’ve startled at your voice yelling in his ear to overcome the music blaring overhead. The alcohol makes him immovably apathetic. 

Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll just go away. He did not want the Capitol’s newest darling following him like a lost puppy. Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll leave him in peace. 

The impracticality of your heels have you gripping the edge of the tabletop to prevent it from tipping over. Your stylist had dressed you in an obnoxiously voluminous green tulle dress that was meant to make you look like a forest fairy, or whatever Elodie had called it. The sheer material doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Your tiara slides slightly as you tilt your head, waiting for his response. 

He simply grabs his glass and takes a long sip, rescuing it from the wobbling table. 

Your eyes narrow, accepting the challenge. You needed this advice. Your mentor warned you about what Snow did with the Capitol’s favorites, and you knew only drinking would get you through it. 

Leaning in closer, you raise your voice slightly and force him to acknowledge you. “Just give me a drink to order and I’ll leave you to brood in peace.” 

Haymitch wonders what he possibly could’ve done to make himself look approachable. Was he losing his edge at twenty-five? “Didn’t your parents teach you about ‘stranger danger’?” 

“Bold of you to assume they lived long enough to teach me.” 

Haymitch doesn’t dignify your quip with platitudes, nor does he spare a glance at your ridiculous ensemble. He returns to ignoring you. You kind of respect that. 

Shrugging, you explain, “Look, Beetee refuses to come to these things, but he said you’d be the best drinking partner of the lot.” 

The mention of Ampert’s father has Haymitch’s shoulders stiffening. You notice how his fingers twitch around his glass, but don’t pry. “Come on, Abernathy. Just say a couple words and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Boy, were you stubborn. “Did it ever occur to you that Beetee might’ve been making a joke?” 

“Do you really think Beetee would make a joke?” 

Haymitch sighs, “Meeks, get the kid a vodka soda. And you—get out of my face.” 

“You ordered me a pop? Seriously?” You ignore Haymitch’s demand that you leave him alone and wrinkle your nose at the drink set before you. He gives you a pointed look, and you raise the glass to your lips, downing half the glass in one go.

Big mistake. 

Haymitch watches, slightly amused at your naïveté as you lean over, coughing violently. “You’ve never drank before, have you? That should teach you to stop bothering me.” 

You send him a nasty look in response, and in a miraculous moment of kindness, he orders you a glass of water. The hit on your pride is immense, but at least you didn’t throw up all over his shoes. “Just you wait, Twelve—I’ll be able to drink you under the table in no time.” 

After that first night, you ran into him at enough parties that you made good on that promise. By the next time you saw him, you could handle your high heels and your alcohol. 

At a sponsor’s party celebrating the 62nd Games, you maintain your tradition of joining Haymitch in the corner. 

“Hey, Twelve.” Once again, you materialize out of nowhere, this time with a whole bottle of bourbon. You know the nickname bothers him–an obnoxious reminder that he is the lone victor of the twelfth district. You use it anyway. 

When he doesn’t respond, you say simply, “Haven’t seen you since the last one.”

Haymitch sighs. “What do you want, Princess?” 

You hardly bat an eye at his biting tone. Somehow his rudeness makes the Capitol’s nickname for you slightly more bearable. 

“Still as charming as ever.” You uncork the bottle before pouring a generous amount into your glass. When you twist it toward him, he accepts your offer grudgingly. “I brought my own drink. Tophir never gives out anything strong enough—he’s stingy.” 

Haymitch raises his glass to you mockingly before taking a sip, but says nothing. Once again, he wonders what in the world you could’ve possibly seen to make you want to talk to him. Finally, he asks, “Did Mags send you over here to bother me?” 

“I’ve noticed that people tend to steer clear of you, and I wanted to use those bad vibes for good.” You roll your eyes before adding, “I love Mags, but not enough to do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I doubt anything you do comes from the goodness of your heart.” An image of you volunteering at your reaping pops into his brain. 

To his annoyance, you shrug it off. “Like anyone else here is different. Well, maybe Mags.”

 You finish off your glass and reach for the bottle. Haymitch grabs it before you can, refilling his cup and setting the bottle back down on the table. 

Eyes narrowing, you shoot him a look, though there isn’t any fire behind it. “You couldn’t even pour me one?” 

“Property tax, Princess.” 

“Your company is not worth that much.” 

Haymitch shakes his head. “You’re the one that came over here.” 

Suddenly, a hand rests on the small of your back before trailing up to the back of your neck, cutting off your response. You shudder as one of your regular clients whispers in your ear, “I paid Snow for the rest of the evening, Princess.” 

 He catches you so off guard that you flinch before you can stop yourself. You hope he’ll dismiss your shaking as excitement. The corseted blue dress Elodie tied you into earlier feels suffocating, and you take a slow breath. 

Haymitch remains expressionless, but he feels disgust bubbling in his stomach as he examines the man behind you. The Capitol man’s designer blue suit and slicked back hair reek of arrogance. 

For the first time in ten years, alcohol fails to make Haymitch numb. The worst part of it all is your expression. Immediately, you fix your face and any trace of discomfort is gone, replaced by a forced smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“At least let her stick around till the bourbon’s done,” Haymitch slurs, attempting to play the alcoholic card. 

The other man eyes him warily, tightening his grip on you. You understand what Haymitch is trying to do, and deep down you both know it isn’t going to work. 

Unflinching, you bare your teeth into a forced smile that the man behind you doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s fine, Twelve, I’ll leave the rest of it here with you.” 

It doesn’t matter that Haymitch can’t find words to respond with because then you’re gone. You avoid his gaze, and he looks away as you let the man lead you up the stairs. 

Haynitch downs the rest of the bourbon straight from the bottle, not bothering to pour it into his glass. 

The next morning, you find a brand new bottle waiting outside of your door. No note is tied to its neck, but you know who sent it. Miraculously, your lips crack into a half smile. Maybe Haymitch Abernathy has a heart after all. 

The neon-haired women scream again and more glass shatters, snapping Haymitch out of his reverie. He tore his gaze away from the empty seat beside him before grabbing a full bottle of bourbon by the neck and retreating to his apartment. 

None of the other guests noticed except for one. After watching him slip out of the room, you stepped out of your hiding place and stood near Finnick, who had been moved from the oversized fishbowl into a gilded fishnet. 

The whole affair has you feeling nauseous, but you push aside your panic to slip your hand between the gaps and give his fingers a comforting squeeze. The fourteen year-old shoots you a brief half smile, but you can feel that he’s shaking. 

There’s nothing you can do except comfort him in the morning. Your mouth sets into a grim line. 

Haymitch had the right idea with the bourbon. 

| (Am I dragging this forever? 

   Am I thinking 'bout September?) 

Haymitch kept leaving bourbon on your doorstep on what he knew to be your worst nights, but after he kicked you out of his life, the amount of bourbon on his shelves never returned to normal. He never minded drinking for two…or five. 

His drinking habits remained the same, but his house had certainly changed. Takeout boxes increased, as did piles of dirty clothes. The curtains stayed drawn, the kitchen cabinets sat empty, and he set a personal record for the most alcohol bottles ever accumulated in his living room with every passing day.

All the while, Haymitch pretended he didn’t notice, and his biweekly trips to town to restock his alcohol cabinet increased. 

Victor’s Village had never felt so isolated, despite the fact that he’d been the only resident for fifteen years. Well…for the most part. 

After the 63rd Games, Haymitch spends exactly one relatively peaceful week in solitude before he jolts awake to the sound of a fist pounding on his front door. 

Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Haymitch takes his sweet time getting to the door. If the Peacekeepers want to see him this early in the morning, he plans to make them wait. Haymitch pulls on a shirt slowly, scowling as the knocking grows louder and the throbbing in his skull increases accordingly. 

When he whips open the door, instead of standing face to face with a district peacekeeper, he’s met with the sight of you grinning in a zip-up hoodie and sweats and surrounded by a multitude of paper bags. You lift your chin as a greeting, adjusting the duffle bag on your shoulder and waiting for him to let you in. “Haymitch.” 

“What’re you doing here, Kid? And why so early?” His anger falters slightly at the initial surprise, but it returns at the sight of the slowly rising sun. 

You don’t appreciate being called a kid, but you let it slide. After seeing your interaction with the man at Tophir’s party, Haymitch decided to never call you “Princess” again, and you quietly returned the favor by tossing the nickname “Twelve.”

“Mags sent me. ‘M here out of the goodness of my heart and all that.” You slip past him into the house before he can stop you. 

Haymitch’s neutral but sleepy expression hides his mental calculations. After concluding that sending you away will be more difficult than scaring off the people of Twelve, he crosses his arms and waits for you to explain yourself. 

You slide your sunglasses onto the top of your head and set down several grocery bags before assessing the damage. You note the remnants of sleep in his eyes and the half-conscious scowl on his face. This might just be the most sober you’ve ever seen him. 

Dirty dishes are spread out on the table and overflow in the kitchen sink while empty bottles surround his couch like a barricade. The kitchen looks unused, and there’s even a cobweb growing in one corner of the ceiling.

“Seriously, Abernathy, how can you live like this? You got back from the Capitol last Tuesday!” 

“Mags sent you to babysit? At sunrise?” Haymitch ignores your questions, too shocked to do anything about your unwelcome entrance. You are one of the first people to see the inside of the house since he moved in thirteen years ago. 

“Well, the sunrise part was my fault–I’m an early riser.” You begin emptying the grocery bags, placing ingredients in the refrigerator and cabinets. “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t swallow your tongue or something like that.” 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face. Now he definitely needs a drink. He pushes past you to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

“At seven in the morning? Seriously?” Your left eyebrow rises in disbelief. Shaking your head with a slight grin, you roll up your sleeves and turn on the sink before lathering soap with a sponge. “Mags is right, you really do need an intervention.” 

“Hey!” Haymitch snaps. “You’re in my house at this godforsaken hour and I didn’t tell you to come in, so shut up and get out.” 

Shouting doesn’t scare you anymore. Instead of running out the door, you smile more widely and the glint in your eyes has Haymitch internally bracing himself. “You’re horrifically hungover, aren’t you?” 

His frown deepens as he reaches for a glass of water. He did not like your tone. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll try to speak more quietly,” You promise, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. Just as he takes a sip from his glass, you bang two pots together, the clang loud enough to fill the room. “Oops.” 

Haymitch scowls, letting out a curse as he lifts his free hand to clutch his head. “Get out of my house!” 

You ignore him and continue scrubbing the dishes. Little does he know that your dispatcher wasn’t Mags at all–it was Effie. The escort admitted she was at her wits end trying to make him presentable during the games, but recently she had begun to worry about his drinking problem and what it meant for his odds of survival. 

She didn’t find your quip that “at least Haymitch is consistent” very amusing. Instead of laughing, she insisted that you might have a better chance at helping him than she did. The bourbon had to count for something, after all. 

Between your growing curiosity about Haymitch’s life outside of the Capitol and Effie’s promise that she would get you out of your night work so that you could watch Haymitch in District 12, you found yourself with an offer you couldn’t refuse. 

While you begin scrubbing a grimy cast-iron skillet, Haymitch’s thudding footsteps leave the room. 

“Keep drinking water!” You call over your shoulder. You start humming quietly while you do the dishes. 

Once you’re finished, you step into the living room and round up his collection of empty bottles. 

Unsurprisingly, Haymitch is nowhere to be found. 

“It’s honestly not as bad as I thought it would be,” You declare loudly. You’re met with silence. A backhanded “compliment” isn’t enough to provoke him this morning. Unbothered, you pull back the curtains for some natural light and get to work cleaning the windows. 

Later, over eggs and toast, Haymitch grudgingly engages you in conversation. He’d hoped that if he ignored you long enough, you’d leave, but he should’ve known by now that you were too persistent for that. 

He scowls, “Did your folks in Three finally have enough? How’d Mags get you here?” 

“Free vacation.” You pointedly ignore his question about your family. 

“Twelve is no vacation, Sweetheart.” The scoff slips out of him so quickly that he doesn’t process the nickname till after he’s said it. 

“This is an intervention, not a proposal, Abernathy.” You dismiss the moment flippantly, and he’s grateful. 

His slip of the tongue has him ready to kick you out of the house again, but before he can usher you out the door, you’re on your feet, venturing further into his house in search of laundry. 

He barks your name from the kitchen. You hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it away from the table, followed by the slam of his glass as he downs more vodka before following you. “What’re you doing now? Don’t go upstairs!” 

You stop at the base of the staircase, hanging onto the railing as you lean back to look at him. “I’m threatening to do your laundry so that you feel insulted enough to do it yourself. Mags said it might work.” 

That was actually all you, but it was worth a shot.

Haymitch huffs, “You wouldn’t. No vacation is worth that.” 

“Watch me. Anything’s a vacation compared to the Capitol.” As usual, your biting sarcasm reveals a bit of truth. 

Haymitch runs a hand over his face, sighing again. He has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot. If you’re going to insist on staying Twelve, he’s going to make you pick another house to stay in. Preferably as far away as possible.

Half a bottle of scotch later, Haymitch attempts to bargain, suggesting that you stay in Twelve but lie to Mags and leave him alone.  

His suggestion falls on obstinate ears. You clutch imaginary pearls. “I can’t believe you would cross that line, Abernathy. Mags is an angel, and anyone who lies to her is going to hell.” 

Haymitch can’t tell if you’re serious, but none of it really matters because you’re still here and he has no idea how to get rid of you. He can’t afford to make too much of a scene, and he doesn’t have the energy to bury a body. “Fine. If you’re staying in Twelve, just keep out of my hair.” 

“Are you sure? You look like you might need help wash—” 

“Watch it, Kid.” He cuts you off, shooting you a nasty glare before lifting his glass. 

You smirk, but don’t finish making the jab. “I’m going to take a look at the garden. If I’ll be stuck here babysitting you, I might as well get a new hobby.” 

Haymitch makes no move to stop you, letting out his hundredth sigh of the day as he swirls the liquid in his glass. 

You seem to think that he’s all bark and no bite, and it’s not like he can carry out a threat of violence because you’re a victor for crying out loud. Your handlers have every inch of your body insured. 

You’re stubborn, and Haymitch decides he isn’t sober enough to deal with you right now. Hopefully you’ll grow bored in a couple of days and you’ll leave on your own accord (you don’t). 

Even so, he realizes your position as one of the Capitol’s most prized victors should keep you relatively safe. And it’s not like he cares about you anyway. That’s as safe as you can get. 

One morning in mid-September, Haymitch jolted awake at the crack of dawn. He’d forgotten to close his curtains all the way after falling asleep on the couch, and the early morning sunlight shined through the window enough to disturb his sleep. 

As he watched the sky turn from a dark charcoal to a mix of hazy pink and fiery orange, he found himself half-expecting a knock on his front door. Once he processed the thought, he pulled himself to his feet to retrieve his first beer of the day. 

Muttering to himself, he blamed it on a lack of alcohol rather than the loneliness that had arrived in your absence. 

| (Am I wrecking reputation while you're making reservations?) 

When you suddenly found yourself freed from the responsibility of looking out for Haymitch, you resolved to dedicate all of your energy to your mentees. 

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the most efficient and profitable way to do that was to take advantage of the networking opportunities Snow unintentionally but literally dropped into your lap. 

If the Capitol was going to auction off your body every night, you might as well take some of the profits. So you did. 

Haymitch first witnessed your tactics during the 66th Hunger Games. You’d done your best to fulfill your promise to never bother him again, but the thought of you still left a tightness in his chest. 

At one of the Capitol viewing parties, he caught a glimpse of you from afar, cozying up to a man in a gold suit. Haymitch immediately recognized the heterochromatic blue and brown eyes and cobalt blue hair. 

The sponsor whose wallet you were trying to service is Hyraclis Roman, one of Panem’s wealthiest businessmen. 

Businessman was a generous title, Haymitch thought, because all Hyraclis did was moderate one of the Capitol’s largest betting systems during the Games. He took a steep cut off the wagers and made enough to live less than a mile from Snow’s mansion. Worst of all, Hyraclis Roman used his profits to buy a night with the victors—the children—he bet on, and everyone knew it. 

You hated Hyraclis Roman, so when Haymitch noticed your legs draped across the gambler’s lap and the possessive hand on your leg, he thought he might’ve finally drank his max and gone to hell. 

Haymitch grabbed hold of the vodka bottle on the table to his right before taking a long drink. 

When you threw your head back in a laugh before resting your hand on Hyraclis’ chest and leaning forward slightly, Haymitch’s jaw clenched.

In response, Hyraclis grinned eagerly at you with dark eyes and moved his palm a bit higher. Haymitch shuddered with disgust, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two of you. 

Though Hyraclis did his best to monopolize your attention, you could feel Haymitch’s eyes on you, and your cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and frustration. 

While you’d prefer for Hyraclis to never have his hands on you at all, Snow made that an impossibility.

If these men were going to put their hands on you regardless of your consent, you were going to take as much of their money as you could. 

You knew that if you could only explain it to Haymitch, he would understand. But you couldn’t, so you sat there and pretended you didn’t see him staring with a bottle of vodka.

Haymitch felt ready to bash Hyraclis over the head with it given the opportunity, but you mistook the blond’s protectivenesss for judgment. 

Naturally, Hyraclis interpreted the red tinge on your cheeks as excitement. When he leaned forward and pressed a long kiss on your neck, your stomach lurched and you turned away from Haymitch. 

Later, you leave the party with Hyraclis’ hand pawing your waist and consider telling Snow that you’ll never do this sort of thing again. 

But when you wake up the next day and Hyraclis writes you a hefty check for you to use for your tributes, you force yourself to be pleasant. 

After a month full of nights like that one, the District 3 male tribute wins the 66th Hunger Games, and somehow you find the strength to endure Snow’s exploitation. From then on, you appeal to the affections of more clients, and Haymitch watches. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

When the male from District 8, Kross, thrust his javelin into the heart of your tribute during the 69th games, you screamed. 

The sound was enough to jolt Haymitch into a state miraculously close to sobriety, and his gaze immediately shifted away from the footage on the flatscreens. 

After ten years as a mentor by the age of twenty-eight, the losses shouldn’t have caught you off guard anymore. Everyone in the room knew that, which is why you’d earned disgusted looks from the sponsors. 

Sure, the kindest mentors like Mags cared for their tributes and equipped them for survival as well as they could, but the seasoned veterans learned how to guard their hearts early into their lifelong sentence. Snow labeled emotional outbursts from mentors as inappropriate behavior. Capitol citizens could cheer and weep; Mentors could not.

Scandalized gasps filled the room as you crumpled to your knees, and a horrified whisper observed that your mascara was running. The lack of decorum wouldn’t do you well in the next support raising cycle.

Your fellow District 3 mentor and District 3 escort froze, unsure what to do, but definitely unwilling to compromise their positions.  

As you stared at the screen, you forgot everything Beetee and Mags had ever told you about shielding your emotions. You were too distraught to realize how this would nullify your flirtation with the sponsors, much less how it might provoke Snow. 

This wasn’t the first time one of your tributes had made it to the top five and been killed, but this kill was particularly brutal. This year’s reaping sent your former classmate’s daughter into the arena—an eighteen year old girl named Tesla, who had been one year away from escaping the reaping forever. She was the same age you’d been when you won your Games.  

Instead of letting one thrust of his spear be enough, Kross wrenched his javelin out of Tesla’s chest before going in for another strike. And another, and another, and another. He used so much force that you could hear it. 

You pressed your palm to your mouth to quiet your screams, cringing at the feeling of bile rising up in your throat. 

Though it had been years since you had spoken more than three words to Haymitch, he found himself crouching by your side as the other mentors looked on, their faces a mix of stoicism and pity. 

Kross’ mentor, Cecilia, sent you an apologetic look that you couldn’t see, and Finnick’s eyes shone with relief at Haymitch’s unexpected display of empathy. 

After Finnick won his Games, you made him vow to never get into trouble on your behalf, but at eighteen, the resilience hadn’t been crushed out of him yet. If Haymitch hadn’t moved when he did, Finnick’s brotherly instincts would have moved him to your side. 

The room filled with loud whispers, but Haymitch cast aside any worries about what they might be saying. His main concern was to get their attention off of you so that Snow would have less to punish you for. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen, so he grabbed your elbow and pulled you to your feet. “Come on, (Y/n). You gotta move.” He spoke quietly enough that only you could hear. 

He assumed you wouldn’t accept his help, but your body reverted to the old habit of treating him like someone safe, and you weren’t present enough to remember that you avoided him now. 

All of the eyes in the room were on the two of you as he guided you out of the spotlight with an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side to hold you up and shield you from view. To the rest of the room, this uncharacteristic softness is almost more scandalous than your screaming. 

Once the two of you made it toward the back of the room, Effie appeared on your other side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as she whispered words of encouragement. 

If you hadn’t been on the verge of a breakdown, you would’ve acknowledged her kindness. Effie prioritized propriety, and emerging from the crowd to comfort a hysterical woman was the opposite of that. 

You gagged, “I’m going to throw up.” 

To Effie’s credit, she didn’t flee. Her brows furrowed in concern, and she began ushering you to the nearest bathroom. 

Without loosening his grip on your arm, Haymitch used his free hand to reach for a bucket of champagne on a nearby table, shooting its patrons a forced smile before dumping its contents onto the floor and handing you the bucket.

Just in time. Though your hands were shaking, you were grateful to have something physical to ground you. Unable to shove down the nausea anymore, you raised the ice bucket closer to your face. 

In normal circumstances, you would’ve scolded Haymitch for making a pointless mess for an Avox to clean. Now, you’re too occupied with making sure you don’t throw up on the carpet.

Since the footage had shifted to a different tribute, the attention had been diverted from you. But even if it hadn’t, sickness was more normal than weeping. Viewing parties were no stranger to vomiting caused by alcohol or gluttony. 

Once you made it to the bathroom, you heaved the contents of your stomach into the toilet, shoulders shaking as you gripped the porcelain. You felt fingers lightly brushing your scalp as they gathered up your hair and held it away from your face. You wanted to think it was Effie, but the hands were calloused and free of acrylic extensions. 

The situation felt horribly reminiscent of others from years past. 

“When will you admit that you have a problem?” You wonder aloud as you kneel beside Haymitch, who is currently emptying his stomach in Caesar Flickerman’s guest bathroom. 

Over the last week, Haymitch’s alcohol intake had increased drastically, which was especially alarming when you considered the large number that was his typical average.

You and Effie chalked it up to Haymitch’s characteristic lack of self-preservation, and he didn’t correct you. In truth, his nightmares had gotten worse, but there was no way he was going to tell you that—especially when those dreams featured a certain District 3 victor during the 59th Games.

“Haymitch, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Effie’s losing her mind.” You resist the urge to smack him on the back of the head. 

Haymitch grunts in response, and you pause your berating to brush his hair out of his face with your fingers and lift it out of the way. He tries to shrug you off, and you chide him. “Don’t be difficult, Abernathy, you know I’ve seen you look worse. This is only partly emasculation–I’m mostly doing Effie a favor.” 

If Haymitch hadn’t been throwing up his dinner of bourbon and scotch, he might’ve let out a grudging laugh. 

When your hand begins to rub his back soothingly, he told himself that he was too drunk to tell you off, even though most of the alcohol in his body had been ejected in the last five minutes.

A few seconds later, he has a moment of respite. After taking a small sip from the bottle of water you offer him, he rasps, “Don’t you have someone else to bother, Kid?”

“Effie booked me for the night to keep you from choking on your vomit.” Despite your flippant tone, you hold his hair back with surprising gentleness. “You know she can’t handle this kind of stuff.” 

Effie really couldn’t handle that kind of stuff, Haymitch scowled. He willed her to come back soon so he could take his hands out of your hair and distance himself again as quickly as possible. 

As usual, Effie didn’t adhere to his will. Her whereabouts remained unknown, and he redirected his attention to you as you stopped retching and began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright, Kid. Breathe.” Haymitch’s voice broke through your panic, his tone soft. He gingerly turned you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders in an attempt to ground you. 

You struggled to follow his instructions, inhaling a sharp breath through your nose and gasping an exhale through your mouth. 

“Come on, Sweetheart, you can do it.” He dismissed the use of the nickname as a byproduct of the alcohol again. 

While he slowed his breathing for you, you closed your eyes, trying to match his pattern of a four second inhale followed by a four second exhale. 

“It’s called box breathing,” Haymitch overhears you whisper softly to the fourteen-year-old girl who is the 62nd Hunger Games’s female District 12 tribute. 

Though there were no direct rules against mentors speaking to tributes from different districts, the nature of your interaction pushed against unspoken rules. 

If Snow’s in a bad enough mood, it’s something you can be punished for. Haymitch knows that would be his fault. 

A week earlier, you had lost it on his front porch, demanding to know why he never even tried to give his tributes some advice and railing that he never even offered them basic empathy. 

You even accused him of being just as heartless toward the weak as the rest of Panem. 

Haymitch hadn’t been able to come up with a response, so he remained silent and kept his face as unreadable and emotionless as ever. That night he dreamt of Wellie and the Doves. 

Once the two of you are back in the Capitol, though, Haymitch regrets not telling you off. Though your efforts to help the child are subtle, Haymitch knows that Snow will see the small act of unity as a threat. 

Haymitch tells all of his tributes to steer clear of you after that.

By the time you had your breathing under control, you were too tired to think about Kross or Tesla, much less sit up straight. You slump back against his shoulder, too drained to move. Surprisingly, he doesn’t push you off. 

The two of you sat on the tile floor, the room silent aside from your uneven breathing. Despite himself, Haymitch didn’t want to leave until you felt well enough to curse him out and push him away yourself. 

After what felt like years, Effie reappeared with a glass of water, and once you had taken a small sip, you finally spoke. “Thanks, Effie. Should’ve had more bourbon this morning.” 

You didn’t say anything after that, not even about what had happened after the 65th Reaping. 

| Yes I am, and I always will

  Be some protector

Though Haymitch’s actions at the 69th Games were an indisputable contradiction to the words he used to get you out of his life, neither of you addressed it afterwards, nor did you attempt to revive your friendship.

Haymitch would die before he let Snow use you to hurt him, even as a platonic bond. 

Meanwhile, your motivation for maintaining your distance stemmed more from self-preservation. Your pride prevented you from showing up on his doorstep again, chalking up his actions at the viewing party as an anomaly. 

You reasoned that although Haymitch Abernathy had a heart, he only acted on it every decade or so, and he had just reached his quota. 

The next six games passed with the two of you as acquaintances. When you happened to make eye contact with him at parties, you simply nodded in acknowledgement and kept walking. 

You learned how to barricade your heart during the games. You continued to buy your own bottles of bourbon after rough clients, and Effie replaced you as the person trying to reign in Haymitch’s drinking habits. She proved to be far less successful than you were. 

Haymitch avoided watching you leave parties with horrid Capitol elites, he never acted on the “intrusive” thoughts that dared him to show up at your doorstep, and he never attempted to make contact.  

He didn’t seek you out after the failed rebellion of Johanna’s games, though he secretly wondered what your reaction might’ve been like behind closed doors. 

Likewise, you didn’t knock on his door after Katniss and Peeta left the arena together, despite the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from studying Haymitch’s expression at the viewing parties. You watched him charm partygoers and round up sponsors, which Mags confirmed was something he’d never done before. 

The relief on his face when the Gamemakers called off the games after the Nightlock stunt had something lightening in your chest, grateful despite yourself that something had finally gone right for Haymitch Abernathy. 

Still, you wondered to yourself if things might have turned out differently if he had fought this hard for his tributes in the years past. You couldn’t work up the courage to ask him yourself.

You don’t bridge the gap, and neither does he. 

Until the third Quarter Quell. 

After Snow announces his vision with a sneer, Haymitch hurls his full glass of rum at the television. True terror pierces his heart at the thought of returning to the arena. Although his rage boils over as his mind goes to Peeta and Katniss, the first face he pictures is yours. 

Peeta and Katniss make respective visits, each begging him to save the other, and he comes to a realization that completely knocks the wind out of him. 

If Wiress’ name is drawn, you’ll volunteer in her place, just as you’d replaced a child in your first games. Beetee will certainly try to stop you, but Haymitch knows it would be futile. 

Haymitch’s plan to volunteer in Peeta’s place won’t work in your situation either. Wiress’ mind is too fractured for her to volunteer in your place. Even if it weren’t, Haymitch knows you would never allow her to go back into an arena.

He runs his hands over his face roughly, dread washing over him when he realizes that there’s no solution. 

Since you and Wiress are the only remaining female victors from District 3, there are no other options. 

Haymitch fumbles in the dark for a full glass of beer. You’re doomed, and he knows it. 

After reflecting on Peeta and Katniss, Haymitch figures out what he has to do. When Peeta’s name is called, Haymitch will volunteer in his place and do everything he can to protect Katniss. And you.

 This is his only solution, so he doesn’t stop to consider what would happen if Effie reads off his name first. 

Meanwhile, when you hear the news, you find yourself praying that Haymitch doesn’t end up in the arena. If the involuntary alcohol detox doesn’t kill him, you’re sure Snow’s mutts will rip out his throat. 

You don’t want to guess who might win the Third Quarter Quell, but something in your gut tells you it won’t be Haymitch.

You hardly stop to think about yourself; sending Wiress into the arena isn’t an option. You crack open a bottle of bourbon and try to distract yourself from the anxiety rising within you. 

You manage to suppress the urge to weep until your mind goes to the rest of your friends, especially Beetee and the victors of District 4. You know that Finnick’s odds are high, but the knowledge that either Mags or Annie will be his partner in the arena has you sobbing till you can’t breathe. 

You jump at the sound of your telephone ringing—no one uses that number anymore. If anyone needs to send you a message, they’ll use their communicuff. 

You grasp the neck of the receiver and twist the cord around your finger. “Hello?” Despite your best efforts, your voice sounds watery. You breathe in shakily before asking quietly, “Hello? Who’s there?” 

You hear a sharp inhale, before the other end of the line clicks. Is this some kind of sick prank? Was it Snow? 

Back in District Twelve, Haymitch slams the telephone receiver back onto its base and tears a trembling hand through his hair. 

He has no idea what had possessed him to call you, but hearing the fear in your voice only worsens the sharp pain in his chest. 

On the day of the Reaping, Haymitch stands stone-faced between Effie and Peeta. While tears fall down Katniss’ face when Effie reads off her name, Haymitch braces himself for Peeta’s name to be called. 

Effie steps lightly toward the glass bowl in her gigantic heels and monarch butterfly dress, and Haymitch wonders frustratedly if she could possibly go any slower. 

When she unfolds the paper, Effie’s eyes flutter with shock. Anyone who didn’t know her well would’ve missed it, but Haymitch notices. That can’t be good. 

There is a nearly imperceptible tremor in her voice as she breathes, “Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. Haymitch’s jaw clenches. His name being called hadn’t been an option—Peeta couldn’t be the one going back into the arena. 

Katniss’ head whips toward them. Do something, her eyes plead. 

Peeta’s chin tilts upward, avoiding Haymitch’s pointed gaze and Katniss’ wide eyes. “I volunteer as tribute.” 

Katniss fails to mask her face when her heart drops. 

Haymitch grabs the seventeen year old boy’s arm and attempts to pull him back. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“You can’t stop me.”

Haymitch sees your face in his mind. To him, this is about so much more than just the star-crossed lovers of District 12. “Peeta—“

Peeta’s brows draw together as he wrenches his arm out of Haymitch’s grip. “You can’t stop me.” 

The words hit like a death sentence. 

Haymitch feels more helpless than he’s felt since the 2nd Quarter Quell. Desperately, he hopes there will be some kind of miracle in District 3.

Once they’re on the train, Haymitch storms around like a madman. After the tablet in his hands is unable to pull up the District 3 Reaping, he hurls it across the train car. “Effie, turn on the TV!”

Peeta and Katniss snap out of their mournful stupor, exchanging a look at Haymitch’s hyper-irritability. This seems like more than just a side effect of being weaned from alcoholism. 

Peeta wonders briefly if he’s the cause, but when Effie follows Haymitch’s instructions with pitying eyes, he senses there’s something bigger he’s missing. 

Effie fast-forwards through a highlight reel of the Reaping broadcast, and Haymitch snaps at her when she passes District 3. 

Instead of chastising him, Effie rewinds the clip and rests her hands in her lap. She twists the ring on her pointer finger distractedly, her posture uncharacteristically tense. 

Effie can usually poker-face her way through a crisis, but not this time. 

As he sits on the edge of the couch, Haymitch grips a glass half-full of brandy, his knuckles turning white. 

Peeta wonders where he got it, but Katniss shrugs it off. They’d spent weeks attempting to get Haymitch to sober up during training, but the last thing they needed now was to deal with detox symptoms. 

Onscreen, the District 3 escort makes his usual quip about ladies going first, and Haymitch feels a wave of anticipatory nausea. 

It feels like years before a slip of paper is selected and a name is called. “Wiress Wright.” 

Before Wiress can move, your hand is already up. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Wiress moves toward you to protest, but Beetee grabs her arm to keep her from stepping forward. He gives you a grim nod that you return with a forced smile. 

The camera pans to you, and you keep your head raised, staring directly at it with a look of quiet defiance. You don’t shed a single tear, and if Haymitch hadn’t been so sick to his stomach he might’ve felt a twinge of pride. 

He can’t watch after that. He thunders to his feet, chucking his glass at the carpet before stomping off to his quarters. He finds it dissatisfying that the cup shatters so easily. 

Stricken with fear on your behalf, all of the color leaves Effie’s face. She wordlessly turns off the television and lets him go. 

In the distance, a door slams and more crashing follows. Peeta leaps to his feet, starting to follow when Effie stops him. “Peeta, just leave him be.”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Peeta shrugs off the hand on his shoulder. 

“Peeta.” He freezes at the firmness in Effie’s tone. She refuses to leave any room for an argument. “He’ll wear himself out eventually, but there’s no use in trying to reason with him now.” 

The look in her eyes tells him that she speaks from plenty of experience. 

“What’s special about the District 3 tribute? Why does he care?” Katniss speaks up in a flat tone, but she levels Effie with a piercing gaze. She asks not because she’s worried about Haymitch, but because she knows this unknown variable matters. 

If Haymitch has a conflict of interest, it might be the tipping point for Peeta’s odds of survival. 

“She’s an old friend.” Effie says carefully, not wanting to spill open the can of worms, but unable to fully dismiss it all.

“I didn’t think Haymitch had friends.” The words could’ve been a joke, but coming from Katniss, there isn’t an ounce of humor in them.

Effie sighs, shaking her head disappointedly. “He doesn’t.”

Another crash comes from Haymitch’s room. 

 “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t finish destroying his things and start going after my perfumes.” Effie avoids Peeta’s searching gaze, and he and Katniss are left alone. 

| Some protector

That night, after Peeta and Katniss have gone to bed on the Distinct 12 floor of Victors Tower, Haymitch grabs a bottle of bourbon and slips away.  

Against his better judgment, he steps into the sleek elevator and hits the button labeled with the number three. 

He grips the metal railing till his fingers are sore while the elevator makes the nine floor descent. 

He takes a deep breath before hitting the buzzer outside of the District 3 tributes’ apartment. 

Beetee opens the door, unsurprised to see the disheveled blond wearing a horrifically wrinkled shirt with slumped shoulders and dark shadows under his eyes. 

Gruffly, Haymitch says, “I need to see her.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Beetee remembers the months that followed your final return from District 12. You hadn’t been that withdrawn since your first night with a Capitol client, and it killed Beetee when you refused to explain what had happened. 

Beetee may not be able to spare you from the Games, but he resolves to do his best to shield you from this. “I can’t let you do that.” 

For a moment, Haymitch’s liquid courage falters, and his thoughtless audacity is replaced by some semblance of shame. 

As Beetee starts to shut the door, the weight of the bourbon in Haymitch’s left hand reminds him of his original purpose. “I need to see her, Beetee. We don’t have much time, I can’t—“ 

“It’s okay, Bee, I’ll handle it.” Suddenly you’re in the doorway instead, and Beetee leaves the two of you alone with one last frown sent toward Haymitch. 

“What do you want, Abernathy?” Your voice is tired, but not friendly. This is the first time you’ve really looked at him since he held you against his chest in the sponsors’ penthouse bathroom. 

He doesn’t answer for a minute, distracted by his need to see how you’re carrying on. He notices your hair is let down and unkept, while the bags of sleep under your eyes give away the state of your sleep schedule.  Your pupils are rimmed red, and your shoulders slump. You’re already so different from the bold persona he’d seen on TV the day before. 

“Haymitch.” When you say his name, it’s a warning instead of a question. 

Instead of answering, he drops the bottle of bourbon and pulls you into his arms, all in one motion. One arm wraps tightly around your upper back while the other winds around your waist. 

You freeze, and even though he fully expects you to push him away he holds you more tightly. 

You don’t have the energy to fight him, and you let your forehead drop onto his shoulder. Something in his chest tightens as you practically go limp in his arms. 

The hand he rested on your shoulder slides up to cradle the back of your head, and he rests his chin on the top of your head despite his better judgment. 

Later, he plans to blame it on alcoholism. Now, he forgets about future consequences and focuses solely on you.

You sniff pitifully in response and he stiffens in surprise when your arms wrap around him to return the hug. He softens when he feels your tears dampening his shirt. “I’m so scared.” 

The brevity of your confession and the smallness of your voice reminds him of your surroundings. He gently guides you into your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

He doesn’t miss the fact that he left the bourbon behind, but he’s shocked to realize that he truly couldn’t care less right now. 

Once the apartment door is shut, it’s like the floodgates are opened. Your soft crying turns into sobs, and he holds you up, whispering what he hopes are comforting words into your hair. 

Blanching, Haymitch realizes that you really have carved out a soft spot for yourself in his heart, and he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t even know how to comfort people anymore. 

He doesn’t get picked as a shoulder to cry on, and he certainly doesn’t have any recent experience with being on the receiving end of that either. 

The last time he’d cried in front of anyone was when Burdock led him to Lenore Dove’s grave, and that really didn’t count. 

Haymitch’s pulse is racing, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s terrified for you or of you.  

Once your weeping has eased a bit, you pull back, cringing. “Sorry, your shirt is covered in tears and snot.” 

Vulnerability is a death sentence in the Capitol, but aren’t you bound for death anyway? You do your best to shake off that thought. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and his heart twinges when he realizes it’s damp with your tears. Gruffly, he remarks, “Just try not to do it again.” 

You can tell that he’s joking with you, in his strange Haymitch way. You shoot him a watery smile. “You think you can go get the bourbon you left in the hallway?” 

He scoffs, “Of course you noticed that.” 

The room settles into a more familiar rhythm after that. Alcohol and banter—that’s something you and Haymitch feel better equipped to handle. 

Once you’ve each had a glass, neither of you acknowledge that you’d spent the last fifteen minutes clinging to one another like it was normal even though you hadn’t hugged once during your fourteen years of complicated acquaintanceship. 

By the time you two finish the bottle, the clock tells you that it’s two in the morning. 

Your styling team will arrive in three hours, and you both know that it would be best if they don’t catch Haymitch here. 

“You should get some rest,” He says gruffly, trying to muster the strength to get up and walk out the door. 

You tilt your head thoughtfully, “I think I only slept through one full night before my first Games.” 

Haymitch’s jaw sets and he fights to keep his fury toward Snow and concern for you from getting all tangled up. “(Y/n), I need you to team up with Katniss and Peeta. We need you to take care of yourself, or you guys won’t have a shot.” 

“You know I’ll protect your kids with my life.” You stare at your empty glass, fighting the urge to disassociate. You intend to remain light, but your words sound more like a surrender.

“No.” That isn’t what he wants. 

Your head shoots up at the forcefulness of his voice, and your eyes meet as you watch him silently. 

 “Not with your life. I—we can’t let Snow have that victory. He watches you with your tributes, and you know he’s seen what you’ve done for the other victors.” 

Even if Snow hadn’t punished you for your small acts of kindness, it was common knowledge that he knew every move that the victors made. 

You hadn’t been dragged off for torturing after coaching Finnick through his first panic attack or helping Cashmere recuperate from a cosmetic surgery, but you should’ve known that Snow would respond eventually. 

Haymitch is floored by a sudden realization. Had your name even been in the bowl at the reaping? Snow might have orchestrated it all, knowing that you would always volunteer for Wiress and making it impossible for her to do the same for you. 

“Haymitch—“ You start to argue, but he cuts you off. 

“He can’t do anything when you’re out here because your clients…like you too much, but once you’re in there? Snow’s gonna do everything he can to get you, (Y/n), because you haven’t let him win. You’re still good.” After saying it out loud, he realizes it’s true. He needs another bottle of something. 

Meanwhile, you’re shaking your head bitterly. Is that really how he sees you? You scoff, “You do realize that I’ve killed a lot of people, right? I also raise two new killers every year.” 

Haymitch is taken aback. Did you really see yourself that way? You, a woman who had been pulled into two Hunger Games but never reaped?

His fingers curl and uncurl from the fists he’s subconsciously made at his sides. Between gritted teeth, he spits out,“That blood is on Snow’s hands, not yours.” 

You raised an eyebrow, “You seriously expect me to think you believe a single thing you’re saying? After who knows how many bottles of that?” You gesture toward the empty bottle dismissively. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be drinking yourself to death.” 

 Your lack of understanding triggers a sharp defensiveness in Haymitch.

The bourbon no longer warms Haymitch’s system, and the buzz is gone. There’s only numbness in its wake. He wants the ache to stop, and reflexively, meanness slips out. “You’re nagging now? I forgot how much I hated having you around.” 

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that for much longer.” You throw back the retort in a flat voice. It’s the morning in Haymitch’s apartment all over again. You’re not even hurt anymore, just tired. You blink, as if to ward off tears, but you realize you haven’t got any left. “You should go before someone else sees you.” 

Haymitch pales, immediately regretful. He reaches out a hand, but you’re already pulling away. “(Y/n)—”

Suddenly, Beetee is there. “You heard her, Haymitch.” 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”Haymitch doesn’t stop the nickname this time, desperate for reconciliation. 

You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Abernathy.” 

“(Y/n), I—” Before Haymitch can try again, Beetee ushers him toward the door, disappointment and anger rolling off of the older man in waves. Haymitch turns to look back at you, but you’ve already disappeared into your room. 

Beetee sends Haymitch into the hallway without another word. The apartment door shuts softly behind him. 

Once he’s in the elevator, Haymitch slams his hand against the wall. Back in the District 12 apartment, he cracks open a beer, on the verge of officially ending his semi-sobriety. 

As he watches the sunrise come up through the window, he scowls. Seventy-five long years of the sun rising on a reaping. And this one had been yours. 

Setting the beer down, he recalls a conversation with Plutarch and fatal affairs discussed in code. Haymitch decides that even if you can’t stand to look at him, he’ll do anything to keep you alive. 

A 75th reaping. If they get this right, yours will be the last. 

| Be some protector to ya

[anim-ttrpgs]

Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy by A.N.I.M.

Allow us to introduce ourselves, we are The Agency of Narrative Intrigue and Mystery, or “A.N.I.M.”, a very small TTRPG studio based out of the southern U.S. but ultimately made up of people from many different walks of life.

Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, our debut TTRPG, is a neo-noir investigation-focused RPG with (as you can probably guess from the title) a supernatural twist, that is currently in production after an extremely successful crowdfunding campaign on Kickstarter.

How far would you go to learn the truth?

Play amateur detectives caught up in things they barely understand, and explore how the lives of your characters unravel as they push themselves to dig deeper into the unknown!

Eureka innovates on and revolutionizes investigative gameplay, TTRPG combat, and what it means to play as a monster as a character in a TTRPG, filling several voids we have noticed in the TTRPG space. Eureka supports investigation to a degree never before seen, ensuring that searching for clues is a granular and player-driven process, but also ensuring that the whole story doesn’t grind to a halt after one single failed investigation check.

Character-driven gameplay!

Stats and abilities are based on who your character is as a person. Freeform character creation allows you to build a totally unique little guy, and have a totally unique gameplay experience with him! This is supported by the backbone of the Composure mechanic. Stress, fear, fatigue, and hunger will wear your investigators down as they trudge deeper into the unknown. Food, sleep, and connections with their fellow investigators are the only way to keep them going!

Secrets inside and out! 

Any investigator could be a monster, helping their friends while trying not to reveal their true natures. The party will learn to trust and rely on each other, or explode into a tangled net of drama!

Though most PCs will be mundane humans—or perhaps because most PCs will be mundane humans—Eureka also supports playing monstrous PCs, such as a vampire, in a way never seen before. This isn’t just a watered-down stat bonus, it’s like playing an almost entirely different game, with all the monster’s strengths and weaknesses to account for while solving the mystery, plus the added incentive to keep it a secret from the other PCs as well as their players.

(You can also play as something like The Thing from John Carpenter's The Thing!)

If you like or are interested in Call of Cthulhu, Monster of the Week, Dresden Files, X-Files, Kolchak: The Night Stalker, Apocalypse Keys, World of Darkness, or Gumshoe, you’ll probably find something in Eureka to really enjoy.

Intense, tactical combat! 

Hits are devastating, and misses are unpredictable–firing a gun will always change the situation somehow, for better or for worse!

Now in Technicolor!

Evocative artwork from talented femme-fatales @chaospyromancy and @qsycomplainsalot and the mysterious @theblackwarden paint a gorgeously-realized portrait of a world with shadows lurking in every corner.

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but you can still check out the public beta on itch.io to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, etc.!

You can also follow updates on our Kickstarter page where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more, you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy earlier, plus extra content such as adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[alchemyfreak321]

Wish You the Best

I wanted to read some angst and had this brilliant (questionable) idea to write it myself. But somewhere down the line this became a bit too self-reflective and honestly I'm too embarrassed to admit just how much of these thoughts are my own.

This is my first attempt at writing in over two decades so go easy on me. I blasted Lewis Capaldi while clobbering this together. If nothing else at least you'll hear some good music while slogging through this. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Paring: Gaz x lowselfesteem!Reader

WC: 1.7k

"I can't do this anymore." Kyle whispers so softly you almost don't hear him over the sounds of the telly. You glance at him but he's still looking at the telly, sunk low into the couch next you. He almost looks too engrossed in the generic action movie you've put on, but his eyes are unfocused, his knee slightly bouncing.

"The movie? Yeah it's pretty bad, last time I take Robin's recommendation." You blabber while reaching over to the coffee table to grab the remote. Kyle stops you and grabs your hand, pulling it to his lap. The warmth of his palm feels wonderful against your perceptually cold fingers. You push his words back, not yet ready to process what he meant, instead you lean back into the cushions and focus on his large warm hands dwarfing yours, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your palm, the almost intoxicating scent of smoke, leather, bergamot and something spicy that rolls off him and re-stains your apartment.

You missed him. It's hard to put into words how empty your world feels when he's off saving the world for months on end. Even the mundane routine of work, dinner, doom scrolling, sleep, rinse and repeat becomes almost technicolor when he's next to you. You wanted to curl up around him, but wasn't sure if he'd welcome that yet. The first few days after a mission always left him a little jumpy.

He shifts on the couch and sits up, your hand still clutched in his. Sensing something serious you follow suite but he still isn't looking at you, instead he just looks at your hand in his. The corner of his mouth turned into a small frown, his fingers tracing the lines along your palm, "I can't do this," he repeats.

Slowly it dawns on you what he's talking about and you snatch your hand away, the pleasant warmth now scalding. He finally looks up and meets your wide eyed gaze. His deep brown eyes normally filled with mirth and love now just look spent. The sound of the telly fades away, drowned by the buzz in your ears. Surely you've misunderstood him.

"Why?" you whispered, anxiety clawed up your stomach and made itself home in the middle of your chest, where seems to grow with each breath. Was it someone else, did he finally have enough and get sick of you? Did he finally realize what you've known all along, that he can do infinitely better.

He looks down at his hands, his shoulders slumped and all the weariness seems to catch up."I can't -"

"do this anymore, yeah you said. Why? Is it-is it someone else?" you choked out.

"No, no!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he looks at you with disbelief. His brows knot together as he takes a deep breath, opening and closing his mouth, trying to find the right words. "I can't keep being the only one who tries." he finally admits.

Kyle looks at you head on now, the tick on his jaw getting worse. His knees bouncing worse than ever. You want to reach over and still him but the knot of anxiety in own your chest is getting bigger, you can feel tendrils of it running through your veins. You wish you didn't know what he was talking about but you did.

"We've been dating for almost a year now yeah? And I still feel like I'm chasing you. Hell half the time I'm still wondering if you even like me! " he confessed, the crease between his brows deepening. "I'm the last person to know what's going on in your life, I'm the last person you make plans with…I got home two days ago and you didn't even come to see me!" his voice rose with each word. He took another shuddering breath, rubbing his palms over his thighs, as if to sooth himself. Blinking rapidly, his glassy eyes focus on a spot over your shoulder.

You sit on the edge of the couch, wrap your arms around your soft belly, feeling too exposed. How do you explain you spent the day before cleaning your apartment, grocery shopping, begging your coworker to cover your demo so you can take a day off to spend curled up with him. How you spent the night before rubbing your skin raw, priming and preening so he doesn't see your flaws. Doesn't see dark marks, or how your belly protrudes more than before. How do you explain to someone as perfect as Kyle how you used the day to hide all your shortcomings.

His hand twitches as if to reach out and reassure you, instead he mirrors you, gripping the edge of the couch to keep from folding you into his arms. He continues his confession, tongue tripping over the words spilling out all the dark thoughts he's had, "I'm tried of being the only one who tries. You never even call, I got what three texts while I was away?"

"You're mad I didn't text you while you were on deployment? When you couldn't even see them?" You snapped, immediately regretting your words when you see Kyle's heckles raise. The imploring tone vanished, replaced with defensive anger.

"Didn't stop Simon's girl, hell Johnny's bird sent him nudes whenever there was reception." he snarled.

Heat rose to your face in embarrassment and the anxiety gave away to anger, "Nudes?! That's what it's about? That I won't put out enough for you?" you hissed out.

"Christ are you even listening?" he swore as he rose to his feet, rubbing a hand down his face. "I wish you'd call me sometimes because you want to hear my voice because you miss me! Because you want to know if I'm alive! Why is that so much to ask for?!" he retorted, breaths coming out heavy. His face twisted into an expression you've never seen before, one you hoped you would never see. Disappointment and disgust, and it was directed towards you.

He's not wrong, you rarely reach out to him, afraid with each text you'd come off as too clingy, too smothering. You wanted to be the cool girlfriend, the one with her life together, successful career, beautiful. Most of all worthy to be seen standing next to him. One no one would see and wonder what he sees in her.

"…I didn't want to bother you…" all the anger seem to fizzle out and leave you just as quickly.

He looked at you incredulously, "You think my girlfriend remembering I exist would bother me?" He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "Christ, I'm not asking for a public declaration…I-I deserve better" he whispered his final confession, his arms dropping limply to his side, defeated.

You blink and blink again, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Okay."

Kyle stares at you in disbelief and wonders if he misheard you, his face crumbling for a second at how quickly you give in. Did he mean nothing to you? "Okay? that all you have to say?!" His voice low and thick.

"What else can I say? You do deserve better."

"That's not what-" he spluttered, you cut him off before he can continue, your voice soft and filled with false confidence, not betraying the heart that's fracturing.

"No, you do. You think I don't know what people say when they see me next you? You look like you stepped out of a GQ magazine!" A small sad laugh escapes your lips. You turn back to the movie, unable to meet Kyle's sad gaze anymore. "You're the smartest man I know, you're out there saving the world! I can…I can never measure up to that, I'll never be enough…" You confess, the lump in your throat painful, your vision blurring.

Kyle wanted to swoop in and reassure you that you were more than enough but he held himself back, finally understanding no amount of reassurance would convince you of his love for you. But his hands seems to have a mind of its own as they reach out towards you -

The door bell goes off.

The rest of the apartment blooms back into focus.

You let out a sigh of relief and jump up from the couch, almost running to get the door, glad to put some space between you and Kyle. The few minutes it takes to get the takeout (Thai, from his favorite restaurant) you hope cools down both your emotions. As you fish for some change from the bottom of your purse, it gives you some reprieve to gather your thoughts and find the correct words and hand the delivery girl a tip.

You'll apologize, you decide, take back your words, promise you'll be better, promise you'll make more of a effort to tell him how much he means to you. Words never come easy to you, the ones that you manage always feels ungainly and clumsy. They never quite encapsulates your thoughts or feelings and always leaves you feeling like a child trying to string sentences together.

But you'd try. You'll even call him as often as he allowed. Risk him getting sick of you, you know he will, what's a boring life like yours compared to his. You'll do it all if it meant keeping him in your life for just a little bit longer.

Kyle is putting his coat on when you walk back to the living room. You stare at him wide eyed but both say nothing as he walks up to you. You see his adams apple bob as he swallows thickly. He reaches out and cups your face and you cup your hand over his. You want to beg him to stay, but your tongue feels too heavy to move.

Umber eyes implore yours to say the words, to ask him to stay but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead you turn your head and press a kiss to his palm. Imploring him without words, but it's not enough. He wraps his arm around you and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head before stepping around you and walking to the door.

"I'll see you around love." he mummers closing the door behind him.

As the soft click of the door closing sounds, the tears finally fall.

[rogerdeakinsdp]

Academy Award Winners for Best Cinematography: 2005 — Robert Richardson, ASC The Aviator (2004) Directed by Martin Scorsese Aspect Ratio: 2.39 : 1

“Prior to my involvement, Marty designed a color timeline that influenced every creative department. He wanted the progression from a two-color palette to a three-strip palette to approximate the technological advances of the film industry at that time, but more importantly, he felt it would mirror the characters’ emotional evolution. The first act, which covers Hughes’s early career in Hollywood, was supposed to have Technicolor’s two-color look. With the second act, which begins after Hughes sets a speed record flying across the continental United States [in 1937] and goes with Katharine Hepburn to Connecticut, we transition to that vibrant, three-strip look that most of us associate with the glorious Technicolor years. Then, when Hughes almost dies crashing the XF-11, we were going to cut into a more contemporary look without either Technicolor process applied.”  — Robert Richardson for American Cinematographer, January 2005

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hi there! Thank you so much for your amazing blog. Really appreciate the time you put into this.

Do you know of any sterek fics where Scott is a bad friend and he does not get redeemed? He faces some real consequences for his choices?

Thanks so much!

I think so, @riverwood87!

Thunderstorms & Polish Lullabies by Whispering_Merely

(1/1 I 10,057 I Teen)

Boyd is there, hovering over his claws, Isaac looks devastated, Jennifer looks bewildered and concerned and horrified, Kali looks smug, the twins are carefully keeping their faces blank but they're playing along, and- Gods, he's really going to be forced to do this, isn't he? Pack, his Pack, the make-shift family he'd all but accidentally gathered is going to die by his hand, and even if it's forced, it'll still be his fault, for wanting them, for needing them, for biting them.

Loving them.

He wants to close his eyes but he owes Boyd more than that.

And then, abruptly, in this saturated technicolor still-picture moment of chaos and violence- the eye of the storm- the door to the loft crashes open. With the water and the metal and the force of it, the sound is almost guttural, and far too loud- even Kali seems startled.

[Or, the one where Stiles time-travels just in time to save Boyd and Derek from the Alphas, and manages to heal everyone, including himself, just a little in the process.]

Stop Crossing Oceans by greenleaf

(1/1 I 11,654 I Mature)

“There are no absolutes, Scott! No hard rights or hard wrongs! The world doesn’t fucking work that way and we can’t afford to think like that, because people are going to die! We signed up for that the moment we got involved with all this!”

“We? We?” Scott hisses. “Don’t you think you? Don’t forget that you’re the one who dragged us into that forest the night it all started, Stiles. So if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours.”

Something inside Stiles cracks, so strong and so deep that he practically hears it.

Bring my heart to heel by Heyokaooohshiny

(30/? I 126,991 I Explicit)

Derek Hale leaves Stiles bereft after a one-night stand. After exposing his heart to the older man, someone he trusted intrinsically to at least remain friends, Stiles finds himself unintentionally abandoned by the last person with which he had any hope. With nothing left to lose Stiles uses the cover of a school trip to run away from the pack. He finds out soon after that Derek left him with more than just painful memories. He meets a witch who becomes a much needed friend.

[tomicscomics]

02/23/2024

Oh, God, you incorrigible goofball!

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY: In this Bible story, God asks Abraham to kill his beloved son as a sacrifice.  Abraham is surely mortified, but does as he's told, bringing Isaac to a mountaintop and setting up an altar.  However, just as he's about to slaughter his son, a goat appears, and God says Abraham can sacrifice that instead of his son.  For Christians, this story is both a test of Abraham's faith in God, as well as a foreshadowing of Jesus's sacrifice on the cross.  While mankind deserves death for their sins, a Lamb appears -- Jesus -- and is sacrificed in our stead.  While Abraham's son was spared, God's own Son faces death and triumphs.  Anywho, this cartoon reimagines the moment God asks Abraham to slaughter his son, in stunning technicolor!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'Tis the season, it seems, for yet ANOTHER "Tomics Resurrections," where I've redrawn one of my older comics.  Much like most of my original comics, the old one is very desaturated with lots of grays and browns, and while the same essential tone is kept in the new one, I've altered the dialogue to give it a little extra zing.  The only part I regret having to change is "burn him alive."  It's such a jarring phrase, but it's not quite correct, as God's asking for a "burnt offering," and as the custom goes, a sacrificial burnt offering would be killed before being burned, not burned alive.

So how does the new compare to the old?  In this case, the old version is truly ancient (cartoon #29 according to my filing system), which I think makes it about... 10 years old...?  That can't be.  I still remember writing "2014" on stuff.  Oh my gosh... This is a lot to process... I, uh... um... Where was I...?  Oh, yeah... "Tomics Resurrection"!  Woohoo!  Haha...!  Yeah, so the funny thing about the old version is that even IT was technically a resurrection, 'cause it was based on a cartoon I drew in a notebook back in college... before Tomics was a thing... in 2012... oy... Sorry, I have to sit down for a second...

[sissylittlefeather]

Wait for Me: A One Shot

A/N: I had a ROUGH day yesterday, so I processed my feelings by writing a fic 😂. Needless to say, this one has a lot of feels. Enjoy.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, kissing, p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, infidelity (Elvis is married), angst I guessss

Word count: ~2.7k

Songs: Weirdly enough, the songs that inspired this fic are not by Elvis. I know Elvis sang Unchained Melody, obviously, but in this fic it's The Righteous Brothers' version.

*************************************************

You never stopped loving Elvis. Not when he broke up with you. Not when you found out he was engaged. And not even when he got married and became a father.

You've loved him since you met him on a movie set in the mid-sixties. Your romance was a whirlwind that started hot and heavy and only got hotter and heavier as time went on. You'd never met someone who could light you up like he did. His energy was electric and you thrived in each other's presence. He told you once that he felt like before you his life was black and white and you made it technicolor.

You thought you had finally found the person you were meant to spend your life with and you were convinced he felt the same. But it all came crashing down when he came to you in '66 and said it was over.

He was crying when he said it and it nearly broke you to hear it. You begged and pleaded and screamed and cried, but he said he had no choice. That didn't make sense to you, but he was pretty insistent. Finally, at the end of the conversation, when you had no more tears left and a numbness had settled in your heart, you asked the question you didn't want the answer to. Was there someone else? He looked at the floor and nodded. The room began to spin and your hearing went out and you were pretty sure you were going to faint. He caught you and carried you to the couch. Then he kissed your forehead, your hand, your cheek, and your lips, and apologized. After that, he left, and you cried for the next month.

What you didn't know was so did he. Even though there was technically someone else, she wasn't someone that he wanted more than he wanted you. But his hands were tied by a decision he made so many years ago. He never dreamed you would come into the picture.

Either way, he married her and tried to make the best of it. And you bounced from meaningless relationship to meaningless relationship always searching for someone who could make you forget him. No one ever could.

You spent the next few years avoiding places where you thought he might be. But eventually you realized you had to live your life.

That's how you ended up at a party in Vegas with your most recent boyfriend in 1971. You're nervous because you know Elvis is in Vegas right now. It's not outside the realm of possibility that he could be here. Still, you've missed enough events. It's been five years. It's time to accept the fact that it's over and you might have to see him. And that you'll survive it even if you do.

******

You're nursing a drink with your boyfriend's arm thrown around your shoulders when you spot him. He's here with her, but of course he would be. You look down at your drink quickly and try to turn so that you're out of his eye-line, but you're too slow. You feel his eyes on you before you look up and meet them. There's something in them that you recognize, a hunger of sorts, and it shoots straight through you. You take a deep breath and try to turn away again. Your boyfriend notices your change in demeanor.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"Nothing, I just, let's dance."

You haven't told him about Elvis. There's really no reason to and besides, you don't talk about Elvis. Luckily, he's not curious by nature, so he walks you to the dance floor without thinking too much about it. As you dance, you try to focus on Mike and his sweet smile and chestnut hair and round brown eyes. He's a good man, a photographer, and he has the soul of a poet. The sex is satisfying and you enjoy his company. You should be in love with him. You're convinced if you try hard enough, you will be.

As you slow dance, though, you feel eyes on you again. You make the mistake of peeking over Mike's shoulder. Elvis has you locked into a look that's so intense you feel like you might burst into flames. You clear your throat and look away, trying to ignore all the old feelings that are bubbling up. Why does he keep looking at you?

You're not sure whether to feel the immense sadness or the anger that's starting to grow. You take a third path and look up at Mike, trying to convey a look of adoration. This is very purposeful, since you hope that Elvis will see it, read it, and assume you've moved on. But just then, Mike looks down at you and smiles.

"Hey, baby, I'm going to run to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

"Oh..." He gives you a quick squeeze and then moves towards the door. Left all alone, you go back to the bar to get another drink, praying Elvis doesn't notice. You're not sure what you'll do if he approaches you. Once you get your drink, you move to the side of the bar and try to focus on your drink until Mike comes back.

You feel him before you hear him, his scent overwhelming you with memories. He stands close behind you, but not too close. It's obvious he's trying to think of something to say and you stand there trying to keep yourself from turning and throwing yourself on him.

"Are you not even gonna look at me, honey?" You close your eyes at the sound of his voice. It's comforting in a way you haven't experienced since it ended between you. You turn slowly and look up into his face, making a concerted effort to blink away your tears. He holds his fingers up to your cheek but doesn't touch you. Instead, he drops his hand back down to his side. Every move he makes is like a form of slow torture for both of you. Finally, you speak.

"Why should I look at you?" You watch as your words cut through him. For a second, his perfect facade slips and you feel the anguish radiate off of him.

"I don't have an answer for that." He leans forward ever so slightly, seemingly trying to breathe you in. "I just..."

He trails off as Mike makes his way back to your side. Elvis secures his facade and they shake hands and chat politely. When Mike throws his arm around your shoulders casually, you feel the energy roll off of Elvis. You can't tell if it's anger or jealousy or sadness or all three. For a second you worry that he might throw a punch at Mike, but that fear fades as quickly as it appears when Elvis nods, smiles, and excuses himself from the conversation.

Your heart breaks when he walks away, but you know he has to. You look down at your shoes and try to will the tears away.

"Are you okay, baby?" You sniffle and look up at Mike, shaking your head enthusiastically.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine."

"You know, I've always heard that Elvis was a real down-to-earth guy, but he truly is. Have you met him before? He seemed to know you?"

"Yes. We've met before. We made a few movies together."

"Oh, that's right! I always forget you were in those." You're teetering on the edge of a full on breakdown, desperate to keep your composure.

"Let's go back to our dance!" You say a little too enthusiastically. He nods and leads you back to the dance floor just as they play a slow ballad. Mike holds you in his arms, not suspecting a thing. But the song, the song is Unchained Melody. It's something Elvis used to sing to you and you feel like you could scream, it hurts so bad.

You fight to keep the tears from falling and you think you just might pull it off until you see him. Over Mike's shoulder, you find him. He's got his wife in his arms, but he's looking at you.

That's it. That's all you can handle. You mumble some excuse to Mike and practically run out of the room. You make it outside before you completely fall apart. It's pouring down rain and dark, so you take full advantage and let the tears stream down your face. You're lost in the emotions when you hear him.

"Y/n?" You turn quickly and instinctively try to wipe the tears off of your face. You know it's him.

"What do you want, Elvis?" Your voice is unsteady and your hair hangs wet around your shoulders. You stand facing each other as the rain soaks him too.

"I-I-I I just wanted to make sure you're okay." You can feel that he's desperate to touch you.

"Okay?! You think there's a chance in hell that I'm OKAY?!" You're yelling because of the rain, but also because you're filled with something you can't quite identify.

"Y/n, I-"

"No. I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

"But-"

"Go back to your wife, Elvis!"

"Y/n-"

"What could you possibly have to say to me that matters?!" You almost scream it at him. You're trembling with the pain and anger that burns through you.

It's killing him to see you like this. He had prayed that you'd move on without him and find someone to love you the way you deserve to be loved. But he never stopped loving you either. More than anything, he wants to wrap you in his arms and hold you close to him again.

"Y/n, please-"

"Please what? Please sit around and pine for you while you marry another woman? Please forget I ever loved you? Please ignore the pain of the last five years without you?"

He stands there speechless. Then, he speaks as quietly as he can in the rain.

"Please forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you." You sob openly and put your head in your hands. He looks down to try to keep himself from crying too.

"Why does it matter to you?" You say from behind your hands. He looks back at you, hoping you won't notice his tears in the rain.

"It just does."

"That's not good enough. Tell me why you care whether I forgive you or not. You're happily married. I am nothing to you."

That almost breaks him. It couldn't be further from the truth. You are everything to him, but he can't tell you. He stands there staring at you. "Just leave me alone, Elvis. Go back-"

"Do you think I wouldn't rather feel this way about my wife?!" He yells loudly. This catches you off guard and you look up at him confused as he takes a couple of steps towards you. "She's my wife! She's the mother of my child! But she doesn't make me feel like this, like I can't breathe without her. Like seeing her in pain makes me want to move the stars to fix it. Don't you think it would be easier for me if I could love her the way I love you?!"

You stand there facing each other, chests rising and falling, hearts beating wildly, rain falling on both of you.

"You love me."

"God, y/n, of course I love you!"

There's a beat of silence and then in half a second, you're wrapped around each other with your mouths pressed together, open and moving passionately. You pull on him desperately and he holds you so tightly that you'd think you were trying to melt into one another right there in the parking lot. Your heart is pounding and his head is spinning with the release of pent up energy between you. He kisses down your neck hungrily and you whisper to him.

"What car do you have here?"

"The Mercedes limousine." Without another thought, you jump and he catches you with your legs around his waist. He carries you towards the car and you kiss him madly. A few seconds later, he pulls back and hollers to the driver while you kiss down his neck.

"Keys, man!" The driver's mouth pops open, but he tosses Elvis the keys. When you get to the car, he sets you down and presses you against the door with his body as he fumbles with the lock. You feel his erection pressing against you and moan softly. When he hears you, he abandons his task momentarily to kiss you and roll his hips against yours. Then, he goes back to the keys and finally gets the door unlocked.

You tumble into the backseat together, shedding sopping wet clothes and shoes. He kisses your shoulders and your chest and rips your bra off, tossing it across the car. His hand immediately goes to one nipple, his mouth to the other. You push his dripping wet hair off of his forehead and revel in the feeling of his hot mouth on you. He drags his tongue up from your chest to your neck and then moves back to your mouth, fiercely attacking your lips with his own. Your hands tremble as you get his belt off and undo his pants, so he helps you and pulls them off. Then, he yanks your panties off with one hand and lays you down on the seat.

He teases your clit with the tip of his cock for just a second before he pushes into you deeply, filling you fully. You moan loudly and he grunts and begins to fuck into you at a steady pace. As his hips slam into yours over and over, the rainwater that coated your skin turns to sweat and the car fills up with the steamy smell of sex. He thrusts harder and harder into you and it feels like you might die from the intense pleasure running through you. The way he pounds you elicits small cries from you and guttural groans from him and you know that anyone passing by could see and hear and know exactly what's happening.

There are no words between you, just feelings and primal sounds and the constant slapping of your wet skin against each other's. You feel him begin to tense up just as your walls flutter and both of you fall over a cliff into your release at the same time. The high washes over you and it's mixed with something so much more. You whimper as he pumps weakly a few more times and then relaxes on your chest.

You both try to catch your breath and soak in the shared afterglow of what just happened. Your hands make their way to his hair and you gently massage his scalp. He closes his eyes and enjoys the small gesture of affection, a warm feeling of contentment settling inside him. You feel like yourself for the first time in 5 years and bask in the peace of his head on your chest. Neither of you wants to move and risk bringing reality back into focus. You lay there like this for a long while, just holding each other.

"I don't want this to end." He whispers. You look up to try to keep your tears in your eyes.

"They're going to come looking for us eventually."

"I know. And I can't put my wife in this car. Not now." He sits up and pulls you into his arms and then brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your fingertips gently.

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'll send the driver to get a different car and make up some excuse for it."

"Smart." You both start to gather your clothes and get dressed. He hands your panties to you and has a thought.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry; I got carried away and didn't use my mouth. I'll get you next time, I promise."

"Next time?" He realizes what he's said and looks into your eyes.

"Yes." He grabs your chin and pulls your lips to his. Then, he presses his forehead against yours and whispers.

"You know I would've married you if I could've." You nod as a tear slides down your cheek. He pulls back and wipes it away with his thumb. "No more tears, honey. I'm not leaving you this time. Never again."

"What about-"

"Let me worry about that."

He holds your face in his hands. And then he sings.

"Wait for me, wait for me.

I'll be coming home. Wait for me."

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love

[cannebady]

What if Stolas and Blitz remain friends through their teenage years?

What if Blitz helps Stolas sneak out to a party at the circus grounds for his eighteenth birthday?

What if, after indulging in cake, and dancing, and their fair share of pilfered booze, someone (it's Fizz) asks Blitz when he's finally going to ask Stolas out? It's kind of Stolas's worst nightmare, because he thinks he's been in love with Blitz since he was ten, but he's also engaged and soon to be married to someone else (someone he hates and hates him just as much) and it hurts too bad to think about.

Blitz looks about ready to make an Irish exit, and Stolas's good judgement is clouded by adrenaline and gut rot whiskey, so he laughs it off and says, "Oh Blitzy doesn't like me like that!", it hurts to say it but he knows it to be true. Something about the sudden quiet of the room and the leftover feeling of a last taste of freedom before a gilded jail makes him stupid and brash. Perhaps he can get a facsimile of what he wants. Surely the universe owes him that much.

"I'll prove it," he says, and with all the confidence of a newborn foal, he walks up to Blitz, wraps his hand around the back of his neck and connects their mouths.

Oh. Oh, this is lovely. He adores the way Blitz kisses him back slowly after a moment, like he's easing into it (perhaps this is also his first kiss). He allows himself a moment longer to feel those lips under his, to feel a tentative hand rest against the side of his neck. Then he pulls away because Blitz doesn't want this and Stolas has already taken more than his share.

Blitz looks dazed and Stolas feels dazed and the rest of the room comes back into technicolor.

"See," he starts, voice wrecked and so very obvious, "nothing. Just the best of friends."

Nothing. Like it didn't light Stolas up from the inside. Like he wasn't immediately addicted.

This was a mistake and he needs to be alone, promptly to process how monumentally stupid he can be.

The party picks back up almost immediately, a gift really, but Stolas barely notices, has already started to make his way home. He can't bare to deal with the fallout while he's so raw. While he can still feel the ghost of Blitz's hand.

He's so wrapped up in the thought that he doesn't hear footsteps until Blitz is grabbing his hand and yanking him off balance to turn around.

He's about to demand an explanation when he sees Blitz's face. It's open and honest and fucking desperate.

He's out of breath from trying to keep up with Stolas's long-legged stride, but manages to pull Stolas down so they're eyes are level.

Those expressive yellow eyes bore right into his before Blitz says, voice low and strong, "It's not nothing," and kisses him again.

[abby-the-druid]

Technicolor 9

In which Naruto investigates.

read on ao3.

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Preview:

Now.

“Sa-ahh!” Sakura’s voice was high pitched and echoed off of his bedroom walls, drilling into his ears and searing themselves into his brain. “Sasuke, harder, please.”

“You want it harder, Sakura?” he grunted as he thrusted into her. Their skin was already slapping, his dick driving almost violently into her, balls slamming against her vulva, fingers pressing bruises into the soft flesh of her hips. He watched her ass jiggle with his movements, and it fed into a warm pit in his stomach. 

“Do you deserve it harder, Sakura? Did you earn it?” 

His voice came out lower than normal, huskier. Blood was rushing through his veins, static in his ears. He didn’t know why he asked her, didn’t understand why he was here.

“Please,” she moaned loudly into his pillows, arching her back so that her ass was higher off of the bed, pressing back into him desperately seeking a particular angle to make herself come undone. “If I didn’t already earn it, I’ll do whatever you want after.”

He licked his lips. Her pussy was already dripping their mixed body fluids onto his sheets, he didn’t know how many times he had finished in her, nor how many times her walls had clenched around his cock and squeezed a burning stream of her ejaculate and his cum down the shaft of his penis and splattered into his thighs.

They were both decorated with sweat, he could see beads of it along the curve of her spine.

“You’ll be a good girl and do whatever I want?”

“Anything.” She whined. “Please Sasuke, just fuck me harder.”

He obeyed, increasing his pace, and he was immediately rewarded with a long throaty moan. The long pink strands of her hair fluttered as he rocked into her, trailing through their fluids and her sweat. Before he could think anything about it, he reached forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair to twist her neck to face him as best she could as he fucked into her from behind. Her eyes were fogged, wet at the corners, mouth open to breath and moan as she shuddered in pleasure beneath him.

“Tell me, Sakura.”

“I missed you.” She fumbled around her words, brain struggling to process everything happening to her body.

“What else?”

He swallowed thickly, readjusting his grip and the angle of his hips. Her pupils blew wide and she came undone around him, her breath froze in her lungs, entire body clenching as her orgasm slammed into her. He let go of her hair, instead cradling the junction of her jaw and her neck, pulse thundering under his fingers as his own orgasm followed her. His teeth ground and his nose wrinkled, but he kept his eyes open, focusing on her. On the delicate tilt to her kiss-swollen lips, the beads of sweat trickling along her skin, the flush to her cheeks, and the breath that she took greedily. He committed it to memory, branding it into himself.

When they stilled, he leaned into her, and licked clean a long line along the divot of her spine. She was salty, tangy, and warm. He wanted to sink his teeth into her. She shivered beneath him, and he released her hip, allowing her to collapse onto the bed beneath them.

He wrapped his arms around her torso, dragging her closer to be flush against his body as he laid on his side behind her.

“Sakura, don’t leave me.” 

“Where do you think I'm going, silly?”

“You’re…” there had been a thought there, trailing along his consciousness, but as soon as he tried to hold onto it and allow it to form, it was gone. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know how he got here, with Sakura wrapped in his arms, her long hair tickling against his skin as she squirmed slightly, pressing her ass back into him, but it didn’t matter. He was happy she was here, happy that they had somehow stumbled together through their awkward reintroduction, found themselves on the other side without any wounds or pain. It was almost too good to be true.