mxllitiam

[mxllitiam]

a comprehensive list of scenarios

feel free to combine multiple prompts or add  “ + reverse ”  to switch roles !   for reference, the one sending in the prompt is the one committing the action.

1.  GUEST :  for one muse to offer the other a place to stay. 2.  STORM :  for both muses to find shelter from a severe storm. 3.  MEDIC :  for one muse to show up at the other’s doorstep injured. 4.  SURPRISE :  for one muse to come home and find the other already inside. 5.  TRIP :  for both muses to road trip or travel together. 6.  BABYSIT :  for one muse to help the other home while they’re drunk. 7.  INSOMNIA :  for one muse to find the other still awake at 3am. 8.  AMBUSH :  for both characters to come under attack by the same enemy. 9.  DANCE :  for one muse to ask the other to dance at a party. 10.  STRANDED :  for one muse to help the other who’s stranded on the road. 11.  SERVICE :  for one muse to cover the cost of something for the other. 12.  SAFEGUARD :  for one muse to save the other from being hit by a vehicle or from some other life-threatening event. 13.  DAZE :  for one muse to wake somewhere and find the other hovering over them. 14.  STOWAWAY :  for one muse to find the other hiding on the same ship. 15.  TAXI :  for both muses to share the same taxi ride. 16.  MAKEOVER :  for one muse to help the other with a new outfit or hairstyle. 17.  LIFEGUARD :  for one muse to rescue the other from drowning. 18.  DISASTER :  for both muses to work together to escape a fire, flood, or other disaster. 19.  TRANSIT :  for one muse to sit next to the other on a public transport. 20.  SPRAIN :  for one muse to carry the other after spraining their ankle. 21.  EMPLOY :  for one muse to be hired as the other’s bodyguard, tutor, assistant, etc. 22.  QUEST :  for one muse to help the other with a task in exchange for compensation. 23.  SOOTHE :  for one muse to calm the other during a panic attack. 24.  RECOVER :  for one muse to return the other’s lost belonging. 25.  UMBRELLA :  for one muse to share their umbrella with the other on a rainy day. 26.  HEAL :  for one muse to nurse the other back to health from a sickness or injury. 27.  NIGHTMARE :  for one muse to comfort the other after a nightmare. 28.  REUNION :  for one muse to run into the other again after a long time. 29.  PRIZE :  for one muse to win the other a prize at a carnival. 30.  NUDE :  for one muse to walk in on the other while they’re changing. 31.  BED :  for both muses to wake in the same bed, naked or fully clothed. 32.  TRAIL :  for one muse to notice the other has been following them. 33.  EVADE :  for one muse to pull the other into an alleyway to escape their pursuer. 34.  THIEF :  for one muse to confront the other after having something stolen by them. 35.  CAUGHT :  for one muse to walk in on the other singing / dancing. 36.  FESTIVE :  for both muses to decorate for a special occasion. 37.  PRESENT :  for one muse to give the other a  (birthday)  gift. 38.  WEARY :  for one muse to wake up after falling asleep on the other. 39.  CAPTIVE :  for one muse to hold the other against their will. 40.  SNAP :  for one muse to yell at or push the other out of frustration. 41.  SLEEPOVER :  for one muse to stay the night at the other’s place. 42.  TRESPASS :  for one muse to trespass on the other’s property. 43.  BREAK-IN :  for one muse to discover the other robbing their place. 44.  MERCY :  for both muses to come across an injured animal. 45.  UNKNOWN :  for both muses to wake and find themselves in a strange place. 46.  ACCOMPLICE :  for one muse to assist the other at the scene of a crime. 47.  ASTRAY :  for both muses to take a detour and lose their way. 48.  RELAX :  for both muses to share a hot tub or hot spring. 49.  MUSE :  for one muse to model for the other’s art project. 50.  ACCOMPANY :  for one muse to give the other an extra ticket to an event. 51.  SALVAGE :  for one muse to retrieve the other’s belongings from a thief. 52.  MEAL :  for both muses to prepare and share a meal together. 53.  CEMETERY :  for one muse to find the other at a gravestone. 54.  REFUGE :  for one muse to shelter the other from enemies. 55.  ARRANGED :  for both muses to date or marry out of convenience. 56.  FAVOR :  for one muse to owe the other a favor. 57.  VACATION :  for both muses to book the same hotel on vacation. 58.  DEFEND :  for one muse to save the other from one or multiple assailants. 59.  CATCH :  for one muse to return the other’s pet that escaped. 60.  RESTRICTED :  for both muses to sneak into someplace they’re not supposed to be.

[mxllitiam]

The discomfort she had felt on herself had now been transported to Zelus, who found his shoulders stiff and neck cramped. The ghost of Cato with a wig spoke, which was always haunting in itself, not helped by the way she seemed set on pulling him into small talk. He would've liked an evening on moping by himself, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to keep his ears open. He didn't have the pressing desire to entertain a grieving kid when he had his own weight of things in his mind.

Still, it'd be uncouth to leave now when he'd just come outside. And perhaps it didn't have to be the worst thing ever, wasting some time outside and getting the fresh air he'd needed, before he ducked back inside to the mouths of the lions awaiting. "I find it quite boring, actually." He gestured vaguely towards the sky, the view, the city around them. Uninspired was how he'd found the scenario, after living here and there for so many years. The Capitol had lost its charms after the first few years of his apartment, with its rounded corners and bright lights and empty rooms.

"Forgive me," he said, angling his body slightly towards the girl, accepting that he were to make proper conversation now, no longer set to his own devices in the empty nightfall, "what is your name, again? I'm Zelus." He had half a mind to call her Cata, Catoa, any variation of her brother's name in a feminine version -- he was positive they were similar enough, he was just abysmal with names. A hand stretched out to her. "Bad memory, I swear. Don't think we've been properly introduced before."

Calista had been surprised when she started to receive invitations to Capitol parties. Even though she was living with Domi and spending time with Xio, she still felt like she was nobody important. Her claim to fame was a dead brother. Cato had been popular in the Capitol, and now she was receiving invitations. Was it because there were fewer people in the Capitol so they wanted bodies at their parties? Or had she actually made an impact during her short time there? Calista wasn't sure which one she would prefer. She wasn't used to people wanting her company, people had always preferred Cato over her. And Calista always preferred Cato's company to the rest of the world.

Dressed in one of the outfits that she had picked out with Xio, she felt a little bit more like herself than when she had been dressed by Domi. Calista knew that Domi would probably insist on dressing her for the next party she was invited to, but she was trying to find the balance between dressing as herself or dressing for the Capitol. It was still overwhelming, living in the Capitol, amongst people that she didn't know and felt unfamiliar with. She may have been in the Capitol for several weeks at that point, but there was still so much to learn.

Living in District Two, things were simpler. But was that because a rebellion hadn't been hanging over them? Calista felt like she had to watch every single word that she said out of fear that she would be dragged back to that interrogation room. The pictures of her brother's mutilated body were seared into her mind. She didn't want to end up like her brother. She didn't want to end up like Domi's avoxes, who she had tried to be as kind to as she could.

Calista had been glad when the Gamemaker she had been talking to got called away. He had been talking about Cato and had been completely oblivious to her discomfort. She grabbed a glass of champagne and found her way outside, glad that the balcony was empty. She took a sip of her drink and looked out over the Capitol. It was beautiful, all of the lights, but she was starting to miss her home. She heard the door open behind her, and she turned, hoping it wasn't the Gamemaker from before. Instead, it was Zelus Saint Laurent. She smiled.

"Hello," She greeted. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

[mxllitiam]

Gale doesn't think anything can ever beat this, the feeling of having his family all up in his arms after grieving them, after mourning what he hadn't yet lost, after considering himself an orphan the moment his mom stepped into the Games. The thoughts had weighed on him then. Everyone had insisted on being so fucking positive about it, mouths full of shit that gave him empty reassurances that she could win this, she could make it out, but all he could see was his mother's walking corpse on the screen. He'd felt like the grim reaper himself, as if he'd been the one following his mom through the arena with her impending doom, as if he'd been wishing for it. He had never wanted anything less. And then his siblings, huddling them out of their home, keeping them in the woods for days, he'd been scared to death again that he would fail them somehow, that he would lose them, too. So many thousands of small deaths, a dozen funerals he'd attended in his head, over and over, for the past two weeks.

And now they're here. The weight is off his shoulders, he's light enough that he could float a few feet above the ground, he's sure. Sitting on his mother's hospital bed, holding her alive and well, might be as close to it as he can get. "Ezra," he repeats, nodding along, drinking in every word Hazelle says with attention. He remembers that one, remembers Chandler's death, he couldn't guess in a million years that a career would be a rebel. He'll wrestle with his own stubborn thoughts about it much later, when he finds the man to properly thank him, at some point.

He'd known about the arena explosion, of course, though he hadn't gotten any details yet. He'll make sure to ask around and hear about it from the people who executed it, and from the people who could watch on with clearer eyes; people who didn't have that much skin on the game. It's almost exciting that, now that his family is safe, he gets to be a better soldier for the rebellion, too. Not that his mother needs to even dream about him having these thoughts yet. "I don't know who else came out, either. I ain't seen shit," he breathes, hearing his siblings giggle at the curse word that slips out on accident. He allows himself the ugly snorted sound that comes out of his mouth, a choked out laughter-like thing, and he rubs at his eyes, collecting the lasting water from them and spreading a mess of soot all over his cheekbones when he drags it out. "We're all lucky. Lucky doesn't begin to cover it, ma." His voice chokes again, catches on something in his throat, and he's not one to talk about his father in vain -- not one to mention Baron much at all because it hurts something deeper in his chest, even on a good day, and he's so unsure if he believes any of the afterlife crap he's heard --, but this time it comes out easily. "Dad must'a been watching over us." 

It's like he's six again, and the house has groaned in some way that scared Gale right into her arms late at night. Hazelle's not sure what had happened in the first four years of his life to make him so very anxious when he was a little boy, but she's done everything she could to keep him from letting that feeling harbor into his adult life. But there was nothing she could do to stop the death of his father, and even less she could do about being sent into the arena except survive it — so it doesn't shock her that Gale is now acting like a scared little kid again, only for her and his siblings to see. She holds him close through it, taking in his soot stained clothing and how dirty his hair's gotten. He's just done the bravest thing she could think of, and it's the very least she can do to ensure he's now got a safe place to land in the aftermath.

She wants to ask him about what's happened — how many are alive, how Gale managed to grab his siblings and get them out of Twelve before it was blown to bits when he was supposed to be in the Capitol. How he'd even known it was going to happen in the first place. Hazelle knows she won't like the answer, it's likely dripping in dangerous admissions of rebellion that she's rather not hear come from her own son's lips. But she reminds herself that they are safe in Thirteen now, a place where revolting against the Capitol seems to be encouraged, and since he hasn't gone and let himself get killed she'll allow herself to feel the small semblance of pride that's been bubbling up under the surface of her worry. Calloused hands find Gale's face so she can swipe away his tears once he finally pulls himself away from her, matching his smile as if it might further his sense of relief. "M'really here. A little banged up, but here."

A little is an understatement, but Hazelle quick to shift in her bed in an attempt to hide just how banged up she really is — though she's mindful of the little bodies that surround her. Her fingers brush through Gale's hair and over Posy's back, squeezing Vick and Rory to her before nudging them to return their brother's embrace. "We love you too, baby." It's quiet, muffled by limbs and hair but it's full of the pent up love for her children that she'd managed to hold onto. Being able to express it to them now is a gift she never thought she'd get again.

After the tearful display of reunion, Gale's questions remind her that of all people, she has Ezra Klair to thank for that gift. "I'm okay, really. They got us out before it could get too bad," she begins to explain, her mind looping back to the end of her time in the arena. It's hazy, certainly, and confusing — but she's been given enough pieces of the puzzle to know at least most of what happened. "They had the arena blown up somehow. The man from Two, Ezra — he cut our trackers out so they wouldn't scoop us up to the Capitol, I guess. Next thing I know I woke up here." She leaves out the fact that she'd nearly been on the brink of death thanks to the claws of a few deranged mutts, because if his tears and the state of him are anything to go by, Gale's been through enough in the past few days without reliving that — if he'd even witnessed it happen at all. "I'm lucky. Don't know if everyone else in the arena made it to Thirteen with me."

[mxllitiam]

ROBERT PATTINSON Dior Homme Sport (February, 2023)

[mxllitiam]

Did one of the doctors tell you that. Gale tried not to focus on her accent, amusement sparking in his chest at the way her voice curled around the you, so unlike his own way of speaking. This wasn't the point -- the point was that her best friend, or whatever else Peeta was to her, had just been confirmed to be alive. Even if he didn't like the fella (and he really didn't), there were a dozen confused fireworks going off in his brain with the pure shock of it all, let alone the second-hand triumph he got from knowing other people were elated about it. Katniss, for one, and he could see the same glint in Delly's eyes now. Hope, even if they all knew what being held captive at the Capitol meant. Gale would first wish death upon himself.

"No. I've had it broken before, this ain't it," he assured, dabbing at his upper lip with a sleeve again, making sure it was properly dried out now. He had half a mind to pretend otherwise, to say he went to the medical wing and had been dismissed, but while he was well-practiced in the art of white lies that kept his loved ones from worrying, it didn't feel right to lie to Delly. "It was an accident." Not entirely a lie, he doubted that Boggs had really meant to smash his nose in -- though, upon second thought, he wouldn't hold a grudge if the man had wanted to let some anger out. "Things got... heated in the other room, 's fine."

Gale could sense it even before she opened her eyes to reveal the glittering water in them, he could feel the emotion radiating off her frame. He didn't let go of her hand, from when he'd helped her step over the glass, and now he gave it a squeeze in hopes to be comforting. The truth was that he didn't have much honest comfort to offer, just as he hadn't to Katniss -- Peeta was undoubtedly being beaten, tortured, everything worse under the sun, there was no way the Capitol was just letting him be. "I don't know," he admitted, painfully. "We'll get him back. We will." It's an optimism he wouldn't dare use anywhere else, one he wasn't sure he even believed in, one he was sure Katniss would've scoffed at, at best. But to Delly, he could make empty promises all day, if it got her to stop crying. He'd cost her her parents, the least he could do was make sure they were finding a way to rescue someone she loved now. "I'll make sure they got a plan. That we got a plan for it. Alright?"

For a moment, Delly almost forgot about the horror that she was feeling from watching Peeta and the interview. Gale's sudden appearance in the kitchen and his very clearly injured nose had made her want to jump into action. After just a few weeks of working in the infirmary, Delly felt the urge to help Gale and get him into more capable hands. She wouldn't pretend to really know how to help Gale long term, she could probably help him stop the bleeding since that was sort of easy, but assessing if it was broken? Delly had no idea what to do there.

She offered him a small smile when he reached out to help her get around the glass. Delly was going to have to clean it up when this was all done and hide the evidence too. She hoped that she didn't get into trouble for breaking the glass even though it had been an accident. "Thanks," she murmured softly.

It's not broken. Delly raised an eyebrow. "Did one of the doctors tell you that?" She questioned. Although Delly wasn't a doctor or even a nurse, she wouldn't deny that his nose looked sort of broken to her. Although maybe it wasn't. "Even if it's not broken you need to get it looked at," she insisted. "How did it happen?" A million different ideas rushed through her head to explain Gale and his bleeding nose, but each one seemed as unlikely as the last.

Did ya see it? He didn't have to clarify what he was talking about. Peeta came rushing back and she closed her eyes and nodded. Don't cry, she admonished herself. She didn't want to cry. Why was she going to cry? "He's alive," she whispered, finally opening her eyes and looking up at Gale. "We have to get him back, Gale. We have to. We... we can't leave him there. He's not right. They're--they're doing something to him. What are they doing to him?" A few tears fell down her cheeks. Saying the words out loud, admitting her fears to someone made them real. Gale couldn't possibly know what they were doing to Peeta. "When are they going to save him?"

[mxllitiam]

The calmness he felt just a moment ago, the relief of seeing his friend alive and put-together (as if he half expected her to show up as a mangled corpse kept together by strings at this point), vanishes quickly once the mood has just enough time to set in. The guards that he previously disregarded as some foolish overzealous presence now stare straight at him, their faces hard, their steps a little too quick and too harsh as they flank her. And Thea, as doll-like as she always is, looks just about ready to collapse, in a way he can only tell by the smallest of glints in her eyes.

And then, if all of the details registering in his mind weren't enough to topple over the dominos, Thea makes a decided line and throws herself at him. It's disorienting, to say the least. Zelus will pride himself in reacting quickly and effortlessly to things, keeping his icy façade at all costs, but he finds his hands hovering mid-air for a touch too long in confusion. He doesn't think he has ever stood this close to Thea before, their friendship a well-balanced act of two ghosts standing an arms' length away from each other, even if they enjoyed each other's company. The guards over her shoulder are still staring, watching, their eyes almost unblinking and the reminder of their gaze has him patting her back in what might be the most awkward movement he's ever performed.

He suspected things could be off before, but not hugging each other upon greeting off. His brain does a quick rearrangement -- he tries to look for more signals, tries to read between lines that he hadn't even noticed before. Thea is making something very obvious, he just can't figure out what it is. His fingers twitch uneasily by his sides when they part. "Right. The rebels. I'm sure you must've become... quite the target, after your interview," he nods, brows furrowed. "Are you..." a flicker of his eyes to the guards, "well?" 

For the second time, they've taken Thea somewhere other than her cell and the room with the recordings. It's funny — she'd once been terrified each time they put a bag over her head and led her through winding hallways and up elevators, but now she finds comfort in the routine and terror comes when they lead her down a path she doesn't recognize. Is it another interview? She thinks it must be, since she's been put in a room with showers and luxuries again. It's only when they shove a telephone in her face and tell her that she is to invite Zelus Saint Laurent, of all people, to join her on Two's floor, of all places, that she begins to panic — and the cold tip of the gun pressing into her neck doesn't ease any of her concerns.

Are they going to shoot her dead, leave her body on the floor for her friend to find and then shoot him too? Thea knows they aren't above it — she hadn't been able to look away the day they'd put bullets into the backs of her fellow victors' heads. Are the two of them next? And if so, why do it in the Tribute Center? Why not broadcast it for the entirety of Panem like they'd done before, why not paint them as the traitors the Capitol clearly thinks they are? Thea doesn't dare ask any questions, though — she simply does as she's told and cleans herself up, fear plaguing her to the core as she imagines what's to come.

She's whisked out of the room again when she's finished, except this time they've brought her to Two's apartment in the Tribute Center, and Thea nearly weeps at the familiarity of it all when the elevator door opens. The guards all but push her inside but Thea doesn't need much goading, she's quick to glide right over to Zelus and wrap her arms tightly around his neck. "Hey," she breathes the word out, almost not daring to say anything more in fear of rocking the boat further. He'll know — the two of them may be friends, but they rarely speak, and they certainly don't hug. Her abnormal greeting will hopefully be enough to alert him that something is off, even if she can't outwardly say what it is. "I've got bodyguards now. For my safety," she clarifies, suddenly looking wide eyed over at the guards as if to say 'I didn't mean it as a bad thing, please don't hurt me!' They remain stoic. Carefully, she looks back at Zelus. "The rebels are getting more aggressive. We need to be cautious."

[mxllitiam]

Amara was numb. Her throat was dry, her eyes were stuck in slow blinks, she felt as if the world was all hazy around her. None of this felt real. Maybe if she tried hard enough she could wake up, but the pinched skin of her forearms begged to differ.

She felt Yazmin by her side like a phantom, a reminder of her wife being ripped away from her, stuck back in their District. Amara had never considered how lonely it was, to be reaped for the Games; she'd never had to consider much of this process at all. Even as a kid within reaping age, she would push the thoughts from her mind, remembering her father's promising words that they would never get their name called -- that others were less fortunate, much to their luck. Now she was here, all alone, being talked to by an escort and mentors she only knew from afar, people she had only heard of, as if they were characters on an old wives' tale.

Juneau's voice pulled her from her mind, cutting through the haze to make sense despite the cotton that seemed to be stuffing her ears and muffling sounds. "No. No, that's not my thing," she answered, sharper than she intended. Her hands gripped onto the arms of the chair she found herself in, her eyes were wide now, like a wounded animal ready to strike if the mentor got too close. "I don't think I can... keep anything down right now." She offered, nicer, reminding herself they were on the same team.

a plotted starter for @mxllitiam

This was always the most awkward phase of the process. You'd think it would be the death of a tribute, but it actually was the moment after their reaping. When you were in the train with the escort and you had to congratulate them on their probable death.

Juneau was happy the escort left at one point. Something fairly important, he assumed. And Vesper - well, he didn't know where she was. Perhaps throwing up or shooting some numbness. He'd understand either options. Or she was simply tending to the male tribute who was, understandably so, freaking out.

Lips pressed into a.. well, could you even call it a smile. Not really. He cleared his throat like that would put some strength behind his voice. Push some courage into his shyness. He never got used to this and probably never would.

"Do you - do you need something, or?" he tried. "They've got everything here. More than what they have in six combined. Food. Drinks. Alcohol. I have some stuff they don't offer on silver platters too, if that's your thing..?" Morphling went around in six, that was no secret to anyone, really.

[mxllitiam]

Nevermind that Gale's entire face was throbbing after the unfriendly impact of an elbow onto his nose, he was determined to see a particular someone. He didn't know what to expect, not while he watched the dreaded interview before his eyes, not now as he pinched the bridge of his noise on his way to the kitchens. Peeta was alive. That was more than any of them could hppe for, and yet, somehow it was worse, too. Even Gale could tell the way the other man was behaving on screen seemed off, hatred-fueled obsession painting Peeta's annoying mannerisms enough into his brain by now that he'd know.

Or at least, he thought he knew. It was uncertain, all of it, he'd seen the uproar that his answers had caused around the room of officials, he'd seen the way only Katniss seemed to react towards the other end of the scale. The traitor vs. victim scale. He didn't know where to land himself, either.

He sniffed, tasting the copper on the back of his tongue, and called Delly's name when he was close enough to catch her attention. His eyes flickered over to the glass by her feet, the glistening pieces painting a pretty clear image of what had happened, and his hand instinctively reached out to help her bypass it on her way to him. "Hey, did ya--?" he started, interrupted by her question.

Oh. He felt the trickling warmth over his upper lip again and reached out a wrist to wipe the blood off, tipping his head back for a moment. "Ah, nothing. It ain't broken," he assured, as if already predicting what she might be concerned about. He'd had his nose broken before, and it'd surely hurt a lot more than this, despite what the swollen reddened skin might've looked like now. He looked back down, something sheepish in his eyes as he sniffed again and checked his hands for any signs of more red pouring out of his nostrils. Embarrassing, really, but it seemed under control once more. He made an effort to take the attention back to what mattered, to gage how she was feeling -- besides the apparent horror at his disfigured nose. "Did'ya see it?"

Setting: District 13 kitchen, right after Peeta's interview @mxllitiam

Delly didn't know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or smile because Peeta was alive. He was alive when everybody tried to tell her that he was dead. But a voice in the back of her head kept asking if maybe Katniss had been right after all. Maybe Peeta would be better off dead. The thought made her sick to her stomach. It felt like a bitter betrayal to her best friend. One of the things that had kept her going was the hope that Peeta was going to be okay. Now she had that confirmation. Peeta was alive, but what were they doing to him? What were they doing to him right now?

Did it mean that they were going to go in and rescue him now that they confirmed that Peeta was okay? Did it mean that a plan would be made to save him? Delly desperately hoped that they could go in and get him and bring him to Thirteen.

"Delly." Gale's familiar voice brought her out of her thoughts. It was undeniable, the immediate relief that she felt when she heard his voice. Delly desperately wanted to talk to someone about what she had seen. Did Gale watch the interview? She needed someone to tell her that it was going to be okay. Peeta was going to be okay.

"Gale!" She exclaimed, turning around, She stepped over the broken glass that surrounded her. She was about to throw herself into his arms when she noticed his nose. Delly stopped short. "What happened?" She gasped.

[mxllitiam]

Amara tried to remember her father, when she stood in the crowd. She couldn't see him then, couldn't pick him out from the hundreds or thousands of heads on the other side, didn't want to focus too hard on anything other than her wife's hand clutched in her own, too. As she waited, feet planted on the ground and breaths shallow to hear a name plucked from the bowl, she tried to remember his voice, his cocky and conceited drawl as he assured his kids they were never getting picked. He'd brag about the fact that each of the siblings only had the name in there once, while others were counted multiple times, lady luck working against them. He'd say it as if it was anything to be proud of. Amara had learned the truth behind all of that pretty quickly, but she wore it like a blanket today, snuggled it closed around her shoulders and willed it to be true -- they wouldn't pick a Silverhorn, would they?

And then they did. Everything goes by in a blur. She thrashes against the peacekeeper that pulls her from the parting crowd, if only because he doesn't let her kiss Yazmin one last time before she's forced onto the stage. She stands there, a trembling thing, catching the countless pitiful eyes directed towards her. Words are muffled to her ears, some celebration goes by, she's numb; and then she's in a bizarrely impersonal little room where she's supposed to say her hasted goodbyes.

Esme's face breaks through the fog of her panic. Esme, the sweetest thing, looking at her with those round, worried eyes and swallowing back her emotions -- always with a habit of caring more about others than herself. "Esme," she croaks, her voice cracking around the sound, suddenly feeling like she hasn't spoken in months. She takes the hand reached to her, squeezes Esme's fingers, before pulling on her sister's wrist and crumbling into her arms for a desperate hug. She's the older sister, she knows; she's not supposed to break in front of the younger one, but today, she can't help it. The way her entire frame is shaking is obvious against her sister's much more solid one, and she bites back a sob as she speaks again. "I'm sorry," she says, for no reason. Sorry for everything, sorry for anything, she just feels sorrow like a heavy lump in her chest. Sorry that she's going to die. "Take care of Yazmin for me, please." The plea comes quickly, and she gasps in a breath for air, thoughts racing as it all dawns on her. She parts from Esme, holding her sister's shoulders now, speaking with determination despite the tears steadily tracking down her cheeks. "Take care of her-- don't let them take anything away from her, okay? She has our name, she owns everything I leave behind, don't-- don't let dad take it from her. Okay? Promise me, at least."

District Six || Immediately after the 75th Reaping || with Amara Silverhorn @mxllitiam

When she looked back over the years it was easy to see that her views of Reaping days were varied and conflicting. As a child they had almost been something to look forward to - a chance for the family to put on their best clothes and take pride in the Panem that her parents lauded. Innocence had shielded her eyes from the truth of what the day she loved so much really was and so for years her only memories of it were fond. All that stuck in her mind was how proud her father had looked, the excitement of getting to put on her best dress, giggles shared with her siblings, the way her mother had smoothed an affectionate hand over her hair as she'd told her how she looked perfect. But the days when she was old enough to be reaped had been ones met with nerves and anxiety that couldn't be soothed even by her parents reassurance that her name would be lost in the sea of others. As her heart had felt like it was going to beat of her chest she'd been forced to realise that Reapings were not as benign as she'd once thought.

By the time she was old enough to no longer be at risk, the naivety that had been so indulged in her had all but faded away. Doe eyes might have still chosen to look upon the world with optimism but even she couldn't see any silver linings to the Games that she was supposed to love. The only way she'd been able to look upon Reapings in recent years was with sorrow and horror but none of them had been more horrifying than her own sister's name being pulled. Their family had been so untouched by the Games she had almost thought she'd misheard. But as Amara had walked onto the stage she thought that somehow it must have been a nightmare. There was no way that this could be her reality when she couldn't imagine having to watch Amara go through a Games, let alone a life without her sister in it.

Tears had flown freely since the Reaping, thoughts racing too much to think to calm herself as her mother's chiding words about causing a scene fell on deaf ears. The crying had only stopped as she waited outside the room where her sister was for her allotted time, using the wait to pull herself together. She knew well enough that if she went in with tears running down her face Amara would focus on her when she really needed to be focusing on herself. For once Esme wanted to be the solid one, the sister that could be leant on. Finally, it was her turn and she entered the room hesitantly, a nervous glance sent towards the guard that let her in before she focused on her sister. "I'm so sorry, Amara, I don't -" She stops herself before she begins to draw focus to her own disbelief, small shake of her head is given before she takes a few steps forward and extends a hand towards her sister. "How are you? Can I do anything for you?"

[mxllitiam]

he's grateful that he's allowed one last moment of the closeness he drinks in like a parched man. and he's sure, even as he hides it, that she can read the relief in the smallest of breaths that escapes his lips as she makes her way back to bed. they've done worse, he's done worse, sneaking out without a word before her eyes even have a chance to flutter open. no note left behind and stretching an ugly silence between them, his mind too heavy with guilt and fear that he doesn't bother naming. zelus is no stranger to running off. but he's been less careful lately, for the last few years between them. lingering. finding it harder to redress, to tiptoe out, to get anything done, really, if she's right by his side. or if she's not. his vision and his thoughts are all muddled with her, just her, all the time.

it never is, vesper assures, and he feels pretty stupid for putting the joke out there, for sounding like he was doubting this thing between them. he never does. he doubts a lot of things -- if his bloodied hands are worthy of clutching onto her so desperately, if he deserves to have a spec of her attention at all, sure --, but never if whatever this thing is between them, is real. that they both want it. his hand finds her back easily, splays out against the span of it before his fingertips toy over the closed zipper of her dress, mourning the offensive guard it keeps over her skin. he'd be a nuisance and unzip it back down, if he could pretend he didn't see the look in her eyes. that brief flash of something he can't name, something that tells him she doesn't have the time, today. 

again, not something they are strangers to, but the sudden sobriety in her voice has the idle movements of his hand stuttering against her back. concern darkens in his eyes, brows furrowing minutely, more of an open expression of his sentiments than he's willing to giving anyone else. "get out?" he echoes, feeling quite dense, an unusual feeling that he does not welcome. his eyes search her face, but there is no answer written on the bow of her lips, the freckles over her nose. his hand slides up, fingers sinking into the mess of hair by the nape of her neck for their home. a comfort more to himself than to her, if he could ever admit it, as the vague image of president's snow merciless cruelty sparks in his mind. has he been threatening her again? there's always the looming presence of his metaphorical whip cracking against their backs, making them move the cogwheels of his machinery, but that hasn't stopped them from finding each other before. it hasn't put that look into vesper's pretty round eyes, not in a long time. "what's going on?" his voice is strained now, guarded, despite their physical entanglement. "tell me." a softer plea, though he'd like to call it a demand.

his body is tense and her mind suffers a similar affliction. drawing her in and out of sleep with little remorse as it races at the anarchy the day beginning to break just beyond the threshold will bring. coupled with the immense magnitude of it all, such mounting pressure doesn’t help signs of withdrawal starting to creep in either. symptoms gnawing away at her as usual, so achingly familiar but this, vesper doesn’t mind particularly. not when she’s with him. the singular instance in which she’s come to prefer the clarity it provides. how it allows her the ability to cherish these fleeting moments they share and commit each one to memory — shading them in with the colour lacking from an existence as illicit as theirs, gilding them. now more so than ever before. taking particular care in how she peels herself away from zelus’ still sleeping form. marvelling as she often does at how hands prized for the havoc they’ve wrought always seem to reach for her with such resounding tenderness.

the morphling’s communication device has been buzzing intermittently for a while now. she’s unsure if it’s that that wakes him or the slight commotion she causes trying to slip back into the dress lying discarded on the floor from the night before. the sort of silvery, skintight number they’ve not stopped dressing her in for seventeen years. the sort she doubts she’ll ever have to wear again after today. with it on ( at last ), she has half a tired mind to up and leave at once. having reasoned a hundred times over that perhaps knowing nothing might just be the safer alternative here… but vesper can’t bring herself to do so. his survival not something she’s willing to chance. humming a pouty, playfully offended ❛ hey… ❜ as the joke he utters takes her by surprise and the conviction she had to leave along with it. the uncharacteristic nature of the thing appearing almost like an omen of what’s to come. the day promising to be a most uncharacteristic one.

bare feet soon carry her back to the bed. subconsciously delaying her departure as vesper feels compelled to be close to him as she divulges her treachery. hoping perhaps ( in vain ) that it will soften the impending blow. persuade him to the cause even. anything to help him understand and thus, assure his safety come 8pm tonight. ❛ you know it wasn’t. it never is. ❜ she finally replies, gently nudging his shoulder with hers before pressing a kiss to the very same spot a moment or two later. allowing herself time to breathe before looking up at him through pleading eyes, drinking him in like this is the last time. it won’t be. ❛ i just have to get out whilst i still can. ❜ her voice barely above whisper now, quiet words are spoken with a weight he can’t have been expecting. laying waste to the jest that’d brought a smile to her freckled face not two minutes prior. it takes everything in her not to crumble then and there, willing a particularly urgent ❛ and you should too. ❜ from parted lips as she searches his face desperately for the instant understanding she knows won’t come.

[mxllitiam]

WHEN: day 7 of the games, just before sunrise CLOSED for @snowfuls

wakefulness always greets him with little class. he struggles to surrender to sleep on a good night, though here, in the comfort of soft capitol sheets and his senses flooded with her, it catches him unassuming. he watches the flutter of vesper's eyelids, traces the sweet curve of her neck with his fingertips, counts her breaths, and he's out like a light. dreams don't always follow -- they have pills for that. asleep is always a state zelus welcomes to be in, peacefully resting a body that's often otherwise pulled taut with stress, the only time the crease in the middle of his brows seems to soften. and waking up always feels like being struck with reality like a lightning.

what registers first is that the bed doesn't have its comforting dip or the warmth of vesper pressed to his skin; second, is the noise coming from somewhere else in the room. every danger alert in his brain fires off at once. he pulls himself from slumber with a startled gasp, sitting up in bed in a flash, eyes wild until they settle on the familiar figure. the air leaves his lungs in a  relieved sigh, dizziness catching up to him then, and he has to rub a hand across his eyelids to lift some of the weight from them.

"hey. you're up early," he murmurs, voice carrying unmistakeable disappointment at the observation, too honest in the haziness of barely waking up. it's still dark out, though he won't check the clock to know what time it is, too busy keeping his eyes on her while he still can. they're no strangers to sneaking in and out, this is something he knows. "last night was that bad?" an out of character joke, overcompensating for the also familiar pang in his chest that anticipates watching her leave.

[mxllitiam]

effie still doesn't think katniss is better off kept in a coma than being able to process things herself, but she can't argue against the idea that the girl could've done something to herself. she'd rather have katniss asleep and alive than the more nightmareish alternative. she turns back when he mentions his face, eyeing the scars again. she'd noticed them when he first walked in, but there was so much to talk about, it'd hardly been a pressing matter, since they were already healing. made sense katniss would be the one to do it. "gnarly," is all she murmurs. she can't say he didn't deserve it or that she's sorry -- she wasn't there. and she'd put up hre own fight against chaff when she noticed they were leaving peeta behind, even if her methods were fass less aggressive than katniss'.

the air feels stale between them. it often feels that way down in thirteen, an effect that effie is unsure is realistic or if it only happens because she feels suffocated by the lack of windows to open. she stands, fingers clutching at her own arms, while haymitch is sat back on the cot like it's his. betrayal is still simmering on the back of her throat, stings the corner of her eyes when she really looks at him; she feels foolish, that she thought they were getting closer through these years, while in reality he's been hiding more and more things from her. it should be like looking at a stranger, and yet, he continues to be a familiar presence, someone she's grateful to have around after what felt like three days in solitary. she feels even more foolish, then.

"you could've accounted for it!" you as in the rebellion, thirteen, whoever the fuck planned it all, not haymitch himself, of course. her guilt rises as anger, uncharacteristic for the escort but pretty common for the past few days. she's been exhausting herself, floating between sadness and grief and anger and betrayal and she feels like she's been stuck underwater for years. "we could've stayed behind, we didn't have to leave so quickly," she argues, uselessly, knowing well she already yelled this piece to the guards, too. her eyes well up and her voice is choked but she keeps talking, for once. it feels useless to try to hide her tears now. "could've let me stay behind with him! i could've-- i would've been with him, at least!" it wouldn't help, everyone had told her this already, and she didn't want to hear it again. "i promised him! i promised him i'd always be there for him, and i left him, haymitch. i'd-- i'd trade places with him in a fucking heartbeat now, and i know there are a dozen people who might say the same, but none of them fucking mean it as much as i do. and we could-- we should've just waited! we could've waited! we shouldn't have left without him! there has to be something we-- i could've done. and i didn't! i'm the one who always looks out for him, and i didn't!"

" the girl is better off that way. she's less likely to hurt 'erself like that. that's my biggest concern 'bout 'er really, that she'll do somethin' she'll come to regret, " haymitch easily writes off as he stretches his legs across the cot. it's nicer than his dry room that felt so sterile and stiff. he's relieved to be out, but he longs for a drink. self harm comes in many ways. katniss throws herself in harm's way ; haymitch reaches for a bottle, something that never lets him down. " she was pretty torn up about the boy. it fucked with her so she fucked with my face. " there had been a mirror by the sink in his room. the scars seemed to be healing. he'd rather they not. it could have been some value when he next saw the girl on fire. the clawing may have hurt like a bitch, but it had faded too quickly to be of any freaking use.

effie trinket is pretty torn up about the boy too it seems. ( they all are ; abernathy failed him the most after all. ) the lady's sorrow runs deep like the mines that were in the soon to be fallen district twelve. she talks. he listens. she stumbles. his lips stay zipped. haymitch isn't the comforting type. his father was warm. maybe he could have been too if it wasn't for the games. what if's cause nothing more than empty hopes though. so it doesn't matter ... none of that shoulda, woulda, coulda shit. the last time they comforted one another, they ended up in bed together. what's the man suppose to do now, give effie a half hug ? the victor is relieved that both chaff and effie made it out alive, and he wouldn't do some trade. ( katniss would probably. ) he cannot bury the thought of whether peeta's heart is pumping or not. he's not entirely sure which would be worse for the boy at the moment, not when breathing means leverage against his wife. the anger snow feels towards the mockingjay will be felt by the golden boy who once said he had a crush on an unsuspecting girl.

" i wonder if they took the stylist too then, and anyone else on set associated with the boy, " haymitch comments finally after a long pause once effie took a break for air. " ya couldn't really do anythin' for 'im at that point, eff. nothin' could 'ave really been done when it came to the delay. nobody accounted for somethin' like that. "

[mxllitiam]

Gale cries like he hasn't in years. Sobs rack through his body, overwhelmingly and painfully so, they make his entire frame shake against his Ma's lap. He feels the familiar weight of his siblings piling on, an elbow digging into his arm somewhere and a foot catching his ribs and he's heaving out breaths, somewhere between laughter and crying, and he cries and cries and cries endlessly. They're together again, finally. It feels surreal, it feels like he's died and gone off to some greater place, like the stories they'd been told when they were little kids teetering on the edge of starvation. This feels too good, too blissful, to be his reality again. 

His mom's voice breaks past the sound of blood rushing in his ears and he gasps out a pitiful sob again, squeezing closer to her, as if she could disappear if he let go. I'm here, she reassures him, and it's like she's reaching into his chest and plucking out several days worth of stress and horror built up. She is here, it's as much a miracle as it's ever been, and he doesn't think he can ever take this for granted. He's been a corpse for over a week now, a sack of bones and meat dragging himself around, living on ridiculous hope and the duty he had towards his siblings. Now he could breathe again, he could come back to life. He could have normal thoughts and take normal steps without thinking at every passing second that his mother was caught up in a death trap, sentenced to the slaughterhouse.

He pulls back to look at her, really look at her, and his lips twitch between a smile and the painful grimace that partners with the tears that keep falling, but either way, he's so happy. "You're okay," he echoes, nodding, reaching out his hands to hold onto her arms before they move to hold her face, too. He hopes he'll get an earful about staining her skin with soot, just like he'd do it when he was coming back from the mines, jokingly grabbing her chin in passing to hear her squeal in protest and run after him with an open hand ready to smack. He loves her so much it hurts.

"You're really here," he cries, smiling through tears, feeling nearly hysterical. He commits every wrinkle to memory again, the curve of her nose, the brightness of her eyes. He almost felt like he was losing the image of her, despite seeing her on the screen every day while she was in the arena. It didn't feel the same, and being able to hold her now is worth any pain he may have endured for all of his life. "I love you. I love you," he sniffs, tries to reel in some of the desperate tears that keep falling, reaches an arm out to pull his siblings close and they don't groan in protest like they would've, any other time. "I love you," he says, to all of them, this time. His eyes don't linger on them long, though, knowing he just spent three days looking out for the little shits and Hazelle is the true star of the scene for him. He forcefully blinks the remaining tears down and takes a breath to recompose himself, the hand on his mother's face dropping to her neck, keeping her close. "How-- are you okay?" If he wasn't so content, if he wasn't bursting with energy that his mother is alive and crying into her hands, maybe he'd feel bad that he hasn't asked this before, but he doesn't. "How are you, have they treated you well? How did you get out?" He hadn't even watched that.

When Hazelle first woke, she was sure she'd crossed over to the afterlife. Everything around her was so blindingly white, so hazy and glowing and in stark contrast to the arena she'd just been subject to, it took a moment for her vision to adjust. But eventually, the machines that surrounded her came into focus — the beeping of a heart monitor letting her know she was very much alive. Had she won? Had the man from Two not finished the job, had he met his own demise? Had she outlasted all of the others left? Panic had begun to set in quickly, the fear of not knowing where she was or how the hell she got there threatening to consume her from the inside out — but as if they'd sensed it, a nurse is quick to come by her side reassuring her that she's in District Thirteen, that her family is on the way, that she's safe.

Hazelle's panic is quickly replaced by confusion, but she's taken under by the morphine before she can question it, and the next time she wakes her kids really are right by her side. The reunion is by all means tearful, and Posy's got no interest in leaving her Momma's side for a good, long bit — but there's a noticeable absence of one of her kids that Hazelle is quick to question. Again, she's reassured that Gale will be on his way, that he's apparently helping refuges from Twelve get to them as they speak (and Hazelle almost curses at this, because damn her son always putting himself in the line of fire — although her irritation is somewhat outweighed by the sense of pride that fills her). The information does little to placate her, but there's not much she can do anyway, so Hazelle waits.

She sits for days, gnawing on fingernails that have since been rid of the dirt and grime from the arena, clutching the children she can see close to her while they wait for her eldest to show up. It'd be easier if she could pace around, if they'd let her get up and move and maybe even linger around the hangar, waiting for the hovercraft that'll bring Gale to her. But she's on strict orders to remain bedridden — the deep wounds on her back from the mutts will take some time to heal enough for her to properly move around, she's told, and while the deep gash in her forearm isn't exactly hindering her in any way, it isn't helping her case either. Hazelle simply does what she's told, hoping and praying her cooperation will somehow get Gale back to her more quickly.

When she finally sees him, just a few days after waking up, it's like all the air in her lungs is forced out of her at once. She barely has time to process what's going on before Gale — her son! — finally crashes into her, and she's quick to pull him tight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his siblings pile on top. In that moment, Hazelle thinks she's never felt more solace in her entire life, the comfort and relief of having all of her babies back in her arms is nothing short of overwhelming.

"Hey there." It's all she can choke out as a few tears slip down her cheeks, despite her efforts to remain strong for her kids. "I'm here, Gale. S'okay. You're okay," she reassures him — though, Hazelle mostly knows it's for herself as her fingers grip the boy's shoulders to make sure he really is real. The moment feels dreamlike, almost unbelievable, but Hazelle won't let herself take these small miracles for granted. And mostly, she knows what Gale really needs to hear — so she lifts herself from the embrace, framing his face with her hands and wiping at his own tears as she makes sure to look him in the eye. "I'm okay, baby, see? All in one piece. All of us."

[mxllitiam]

this conversation has lasted about three sentences and effie feels exhausted. for all that she wished the girl on fire would wake up, before, those days she'd been drugged and kept under, now she knows how katniss feels about her. it's the childish desire to hide, she thinks, to crawl into her bed and hide under the covers, knowing nothing could reach her there. there's an aching reminder on the back of her head that she shares a room now, so privacy to break is not quite a given anymore. still, haymitch has probably heard her crying before and pretended not to notice, he can surely do it again. she'd take sobbing into her pillow over facing katniss' hatred any day.

she follows when she's demanded to, because there's no use in fighting and people are already staring. they always stare, even on a good day -- and on a good day, she can handle it. today, it would feel a little more humiliating, to have the audience to be yelled at, so she's grateful to go somewhere else. tears burn the bridge of her nose on the way there, and she wipes them before the other can see them. she feels small, not only for the lack of her clacking high heels, and it wouldn't surprise her if she got scolded for crying like her parents had done to her toddler self. katniss adds distance between them, even though effie doesn't need to be told she's not softening up, everything about this is pretty obvious. the once-escort holds herself, arms crossed and fingernails digging into the flesh of her arms as if focusing on the sting could make any of this better.

the questions are quickly shot at her, and she tries to take them all into consideration to offer answers. "he was--" fine? he had been, before the interview. no more or less nervous than usual to go on stage, which isn't saying much. "i couldn't see him. not after the commotion, i stepped out, he was already on stage. the second i did, they wouldn't let me back in." her voice cracks, eyes filling up again, and fingertips carry off more tears before they fall. she dries the hand off on her stupid grey clothes. "i don't know anything." if they hurt him, if they killed him, what they've done. a part of her has had nightmares about them executing peeta right then and there, on live television, in front of caesar, and that all of thirteen has just been hiding this from her.

the girl on fire's last statement has effie shaking her head, her voice something softer, apologetic. "katniss, you were the one with the berries." she knows this won't land well, she can predict that this might bring on misplaced anger towards herself in being the messenger, and her hold tightens in anticipation. she's sorry, and it shows in her voice. they never should've put the girl in such a position, but she knows it, she's heard the whispers around thirteen by now, katniss is seen as a fighter, as rebel as they come. peeta, in comparison, was just the lovesick boy who got dragged into it. 

katniss is not a heartless person — sure she has toughened her heart in face of loss, but she can not help how it bleeds at times, how kind people take root and stay there, even when she doesn't want to. she'd never have expected to think of effie as someone near her heart, but the past year has changed her, changed the escort too, made the two of them know how to handle each other, how to even enjoy one another's company, now and then. any other moment, the way effie breaks apart in front of her eyes would make katniss falter in her resolve, even in the worst moment of stress. it's different now, however. all that effie says confirms that she did leave peeta behind, by himself, and there's no reason that seem to dissuade the victor from this. she feels fourteen, watching her mother catatonic, and all she can do is stare and ignore the way her heart aches.

"i ain't care for chaff." when he kissed her on her wedding day, she had been assured it was just a friendly thing, a jest to the newlyweds, but katniss — perhaps as expected — was never able to move past that to properly enjoy haymitch's friend around the penthouse. haymitch, however, she loathes even more than his friend, and is the last person she wants to see here (she also ignores that effie has done as much as confirm to her that haymitch is here, returned from god knows where, and that this district is just big enough for them to avoid each other until one of them becomes a corpse).

what effie says is news, though. when she asked, they refused to show her any footage, speak of any details, like that would set her off, like she didn't already know that they regretted their failure only because the boy would be more compliant than she is right now (she agrees, but that's not the wounding part). swallowing, she stands up, going around the table to wrap a hand around effie's. "get up." the younger demands, low, but still enough to earn some stares. if someone is willing to rescue a cap from the mockingjay, they seem to refuse to jump into action, and their meals are soon forgotten.

effie doesn't have her heels anymore is an alarming thought to hold now, but there is none of the familiar clicking against the floor as they move, and katniss damns her train of thought as she finds herself surprised that effie is not much taller than herself. maybe it's that fragility, maybe it's the lack of an audience, maybe it's the way that everything only makes her heart hurt more, but she lets go of the capitolite with more gentleness than she intended, though she assures to add enough distance between them so effie doesn't think she's going soft for someone who doesn't deserve it. "how was he? what did you see last? did they hurt him? i just can't understand why they would —" forget him. again. "it is not me they need, they should have gotten him out first."

[mxllitiam]

@mxllitiam sent: five times touched: ( five times the receiver touched the sender (platonically or romantically or otherwise!)

hair. he has a tendency to move stray hairs out of effie's face. it's not often that she has one out of place. somehow the wigs seem to stand still. it starts as a means of picking on trinket. he'd smirk about it in the earlier years of her escorting district twelve. it feels surprisingly real. he wondered often what color was the real thing underneath. ( it's red, he finds in thirteen. )

arm. she will hold onto his arm for balance or may attach when chirping about game matters while walking beside the mentor. abernathy has different tendencies. instead, he usually grasps her arm to lead her away from others. sometimes it's because effie has a way with having endless speech ; sometimes it's a matter that it seems she desperately wants to leave the conversation. ( caesar has witnessed it multiple times. )

hands. effie has soft hands ; haymitch has rougher, calloused ones. he notices it when they dance at the star-crossed lovers' wedding. she asked. he indulged. the victor justified that it would be good for the cameras. he doesn't dance much after minerva. he used to enjoy it. ( he also notices how his hands are decently larger than effie's. )

lips. effie speaks more than she doesn't, so he looks at her lips often. he likes feeling them against his more. there's a confidence there ; effie knows she's a good kisser. the few times they've locked lips, he can feel the anger that spurred it radiating off her. it only means he enjoys pissing her off more. hands explore her body as his mouth explores hers, craving to keep effie close. ( lips remain on hers until he can't help but want to put them elsewhere. )

thighs. his fingers graze supple flesh as his rough hands spread soft thighs. he likes that a lot of effie is soft. he likes feeling those thighs on either side of his head even more. there's no need to lock him in place, he's very readily content to stay. ( he only hopes his facial hair doesn't feel too rough for her. )

[mxllitiam]

[mxllitiam]

It was almost torture, to have to stand there and argue with Delly when he could see the Capitol man behind her grinning smugly. If he could just knock a couple teeth out of that mouth, he'd be a much happier man and they could continue on their way. This was something he knew he wouldn't regret, which was another reason why it hurt so bad to have to be the bigger man. He wouldn't lay his head down on an overly fluffy pillow that night and regret making a Capitolite bleed, oh no. He would be sleeping like a baby, blissful and dreamless, knowing he'd done his part to make the world a better place, if he made an idiot shut up for a second.

But Delly was there, and she was nothing if not determined. Gale was as stubborn as they come, but even he had to admit she might win the title, if they're competing. His hands, now down and considerably less threatening, were still balled into fists by his side.

He was fuming, and even if he knew directing his anger at Delly was misdirecting it, she was still on the receiving end of his glare. Eyes quickly looked over her head again to see the drunken man now falling back, content that he had "won" this altercation, his friends clapping his back as they sway further away.

The moment had passed. Even though he'd have no problem pursuing this, chasing a stupid Capitolite through several streets if he had to just to throw the punch he had the right to, this time, he couldn't. Delly was there, and at best, she'd get herself hurt trying to stop him and then he'd feel like shit.

His stance lost some of its tension, if only because he let the air out of his lungs in a frustrated groan, one hand coming up to rub across his eyes. Annoyed didn't begin to cover how he felt. It was almost betrayal, really, that he'd been kept from the small joy of breaking the skin of his knuckles open on a Capitolite's face. Hadn't he suffered enough? Wasn't he allowed this one thing? "Fuck this," he hissed, to no one in particular, and his eyes didn't meet Delly's when he stormed away from the crowd, as she wanted.

It shouldn't have been a surprise that Gale's first instinct was to throw a punch at the Capitol guy. She vaguely remembered hearing about Gale getting into fights at school, usually followed by one of her friends making a comment about how it was 'hot'. Merchant kids didn't really fight the way that the kids from the Seam would, or at least her friends hadn't fought, so she wasn't used to it. Still, she had recognized that it was brewing in Gale, and if they weren't careful, they both might get arrested.

Even if Delly didn't lift a hand if the Peacekeepers came, Delly didn't think that she would just abandon him, so she would probably have to join him in jail. What would Peeta do? Or Katniss? Or Mr. Abernathy? Delly would blame herself if he got arrested, it had been her idea that they go out.

Why were men so stupid? The Capitolite was clearly weaker than Gale, but Gale was also being stupid because he was outnumbered. What would happen if the others joined in? It would be a mess!

Delly didn't move after she threw herself in between the two of them. She knew that Gale wouldn't hurt her. Gale was a lot of things, but she was quite sure that he would never lay his hand on her, even by accident. And she was right. He had dropped his fist as quickly as he had raised them. She glanced at the Capitolite and hoped that he would just disappear. He was drunk, she hoped that he would just forget that this had even happened.

"I'm not moving," she retorted when he said her name. She crossed her arms over her chest. She could hear the idiots behind her. "The only way I move is if we walk away from here. Otherwise, I'll stay right here and the only way you get past me is if you push me away. It's your choice, Gale."