#Effie<33

[incorrect-hunger-games-quotes]

Peeta: I need advice.

Haymitch: with what?

Peeta: Love. How did you find out you were in love with Effie?

Haymitch: ...

Haymitch: I'm in love with Effie?

[deadringers2023]

@gifhungergames event ◈ day four: favorite character ↳ Effie Trinket (in/sp/o)

[rennarita]

[lem-argentum]

to all four, please tell me your favorite of cos's ocs :3

🎼: OH, oh, he has this musician character named Lyra? Very cute, she reminds me of myself a bit. :-) And Cleo!!! Cos has a lot of passion for his story, so the effect is contagious, ehe. <3

🍂: it’s WAY contagious. one of his older ones… pero. meant a lot to him, and he was fun, so. him, i guess. and did he never tell you about his oc boyfriend???? their name is fifyr. don’t tell cos i told you. but they’re cool too (even though i’m way cooler than them and he doesn’t need to make up boyfriends ‘cause i’ve got like, a gazillion cool boyfriend points. off the charts over here).

📸: he’s never really told me about them, actually… there is this mysterious cloaked person he puts in his paintings sometimes? i’ve always wondered what they’re all about. i should totally ask him…

[mxllitiam]

a comprehensive chronological list of every heart effie trinket has broken. and the respective song lyrics that could have been written about her, because effie trinket is someone you write breakup songs about.

do me a favor and ask if you need some help / she said, "do me a favor, and stop flattering yourself" / and to tear apart the ties that bind / perhaps "fuck off" might be too kind /

she's nineteen when she leaves marlin lowrock. he tries to change the way she dresses and the way she speaks. he doesn't like how loud her laughter booms across the room. he doesn't like that she walks with a pep in her step. he doesn't like her. she throws a punch on her way out of his life and holds her face immaculately still even as pain shoots up her knuckles (she broke one, her finger is still crooked). his nose bleeds. this is the one where she learns not to settle. 

but i'm a creep / i'm a weirdo / what the hell am i doing here? / i don't belong here / she's running out the door /

she's twenty when she leaves caesar flickerman. it's not so much as a leaving, really, as it is never walking into anything. she goes on precisely two dates with him. it's only to please her parents, he's from an influential family and it'd be nice, they say, if the kids dated. she holds back her grimaces whenever he laughs over the dinner table and she only agrees to a second one because she enjoys torturing herself, it seems. she leaves after thirty minutes of the second date, excuses herself and never answers his attempts to contact her again. this is the one she's most embarrassed by. 

i won't cover my scars, i'll let them bleed / so my silence, so my silence / won't be mistaken for peace / am i wrong for wanting us to make it? / tell me your lies because i just can't face it /

she's twenty-five when she leaves cypress lockhart. he is the perfect man and she is the imperfect bride-to-not-be. her grin is wide and filled with panic any time someone makes a funny little remark about the lack of a shiny ring on her finger. he kneels to the ground on a hot summer night and dread fills up her throat until all that comes out is a choked sound. he knows the answer as soon as he asks it. she has known it from the moment they started dating. she is not a bride, she is something else, something in-between, something that aches and longs for things she has never known. this is the problem, she has dreamed of a luxurious wedding, she has yearned for the sound pattern of little feet running all over her house, she has wanted a marriage and a family, but not with him. effie trinket seems to be searching for an impossible thing. everyone says she must be mad to turn him down. his mother's ring is pocketed again and she pretends to feel guilty. he runs a quiet smear campaign on her for years. this is the one that people still whisper about.

got a girl with california eyes / and i thought that she could really be the one this time / but i never got the chance to make her mine / 

she's twenty-seven when she leaves osage blossom. a young stylist born on district four that made it to the capitol to work, not a dime to her name and a bag heavy on her shoulders. effie adores her. her parents don't approve of their daughter dating a nobody. months later, after some suspicious rebellious acitivity, osage is found dead at her apartment. this is the one where effie's heart breaks too.

god dammit amy, we're not kids anymore / you can't just keep waltzing out of my life, leaving clothes on my bedroom floor, / [...] / you should mean more to me by now than just heartbreak and a short skirt /

she's twenty-eight when she leaves glinte wellbrand. the end of her twenties have come on too fast and too slow all the same. effie finds herself a wild animal, an awful thing; she clings to her tall stone walls and shoots daggers at anyone close enough to see. for once she doesn't want to be seen, heard, understood. for once, the ground could swallow her up. glinte is a welcome distraction, a thoughtless call in the middle of every lonely night. they don't want anything more than casual, either, but they're also fed up with her antics after months of it. she's too much, they say. they exist under each other's skins like poison. their argument ends with a broken bottle and a hole on the wall. this is the one she doesn't talk about much.

you got big plans and you gotta move / and i don't feel nothing at all / and you can't feel nothing small / honey, i love you, that's all she wrote / oh, ophelia / you've been on my mind, girl, like a drug /

she's thirty-one when she leaves saffran farshire. they don't see eye to eye anymore, and she's learned to jump back in the water before it all sinks. there isn't much to write home about. he wants to keep trying, but she insists against it. the cold night mocks her emptiness when she walks out of their place, bound to let her own loneliness hold her to sleep for the next however many years. although admittedly such a crier, she doesn't shed any tears. there's a hollow in her chest that fills up eventually with her career, her friends, her team. this is just the one that happened last.

[olivers-cocoapuffs]

I slept roughly four hours last night, I have a head ache, my throat hurts, I want James Potter to hug me

[taigastyle]

KISSES!!!

[elcctrified]

been a bit under the weather //: but WILL be getting to some replies and whatnot tonight, i swear it!

[riordanness]

tolerate it — [p.mellark]

wordcount: 3.9K

warnings: slight death mentions, but bro it’s the hunger games what did you reallllllly expect

requested: yes!! @ornellastreet <33

I didn’t think it was possible for my mood to get worse after being reaped, but hearing his name called out over the loudspeaker definitely made me feel like hitting something.

“Peeta Mellark!” The chipper lady, Effie, is way over the top about all this. I mean, I get that it’s her job and all, but we’re kids, fighting to the death. We aren’t lottery winners or something.

I watch as the all too familiar blond boy’s face goes pale, then stare as he slowly makes his way towards the platform, toward me. He doesn’t look me in the eyes at first, just simply takes his place beside Effie.

“We have our tributes!” Effie squeals excitedly. “Now, shake hands, you two.”

Great. I clench my jaw as I hold my hand out to Peeta. He hesitates for just a second, but when he sees my expression, he quickly shakes my hand.

“Excellent!” Effie claps, and I feel the ridiculous urge to slap her wig off.

“Come along, both of you.” Effie waves us into the back rooms of the Justice Building. As I follow her and Peeta, I glance back over my shoulder, at what is probably my last look at home.

I sit beside Peeta, my fingers tracing the soft blue velvet of the couches in this ridiculously extravagant train car. I stare out the window, watching the world flash by faster and faster, till I get dizzy and have to stop. Then I stare at the floor.

Every part of me is aware of the boy only a few inches away. If I leaned even slightly, I would be brushing shoulders with him.

After noticing this, I quickly lean the other direction. I rest my hot forehead against the cool glass window, close my eyes, and try to pretend this is all a dream.

“Well, well, well.” A drawling male voice comes from somewhere above me, and I wake with a start. I must’ve fallen asleep in my chair, which almost impresses me because I was sure I’d been too scared to sleep.

I squint up and recognise Haymitch, the only living victor of District Twelve. He had a glass of alcohol in his left hand, and is waving the other hand at me. “Up, up!” he insists.

I get to my feet uncertainly, glancing around for a sign of Peeta.

“The boy’s already gone,” Haymitch says. “We’re arrived.”

“Arrived?” I ask. “Where?”

He spreads his hands, like ‘are you stupid?’. “The Capitol, sweetheart. Now come on. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Honestly? It wasn’t how I’d pictured it. I haven’t ever seen much of the Capitol, but the image in my head was way off. Everything was way more extravagant and expensive and ridiculous than I could ever have imagined.

We’ve been here almost two days now. Last night was the parade, where me and Peeta were basically lit on fire and forced to hold hands while all the Capitol citizens stared at us like we were circus animals. I hated every second of it.

I stand now in my room, on Floor 12 of this stupid tribute apartment complex. I stare out the windows, watching the Capitol go by. My fingers fidget with the satin sleeve of my new top, the most fancy thing I’ve worn to date.

I glance at the clock on the wall, and remember I’d better get going to dinner. Effie, Haymitch, Peeta, and apparently our stylists will all be waiting for me.

I hurry.

At the table, I’m forced to sit beside Peeta, much to my annoyance. He leaves me alone, though, which is more than I can say about Effie, who is peppering me with questions. I answer as little as I can, refusing to give this woman any information worth hearing.

“So.” My stylist, Cinna, gives me a smile. He’s nicer than I thought any Capitol people were capable of, but I didn’t exactly like him, not yet. “Ready for your interview tomorrow?”

“No.”

“I have your outfit ready to go. You’ll prepare with Haymitch and Effie all day, till four, then you’re mine. I’ll make you gorgeous.”

“Okay.”

Effie makes an exasperated sound in her throat. “Can’t you just try to be excited?”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. I can’t believe this. “What, excited to die?” I fake an extremely over exaggerated smile. “I can’t wait!”

Peeta kind of laughs, then immediately tries to hide it with a cough and a glass of water.

I ignore him. I’ve become pretty good at that.

Haymitch smirks. Effie sighs. Cinna gives me a knowing little wink, and Peeta’s stylist, Portia, doesn’t look at me.

I sigh and shove my chair from the table. “Night,” I announce, and storm to my room. I collapse instantly into my bed, curl into a ball, and let the tears come. I fall asleep like that, crying for home, for safety, for comfort.

The next morning, I’m woken by Effie’s ridiculous ‘It’s going to be a big, big, big day!’ The entire day sucks from that point onwards.

Both Haymitch and Effie are at their wits ends with what to do with me during my interview.

Effie has me first, and for the first hour, she keeps her optimistic outlook on my potential. Two sarcastic words from me and fifty-seven minutes later, she looks ready to wring my neck then and there. She hands me over to Haymitch looking ready to cry. I have a tiny bit of satisfaction from that, I’ll admit.

Haymitch looks, I don’t know, preoccupied, the entire of our session. Everytime I say anything, he seems almost jumpy. Eventually I give up and sit there in silence until he lets me go. I have a shower per Cinna’s instructions and wait for him in my room.

I have to admit, Cinna is a genius. His handiwork is incredible. I stand in front of the mirror and smooth my skirts, a hint of my smile on my face.

Luxurious clothing, especially dresses, were never something I even thought of back in Twelve. But it felt pretty damn good to wear one.

The dress is gold, with little pockets of white and yellow and orange and red and silver and black, like fire. When I move, it’s almost like flames are flicking over me.

“This is amazing, Cinna,” I tell him. “Thank you for making me feel pretty tonight.”

Cinna gives me a hug, and a kiss on the forehead. “I’m not allowed to bet,” he says in reply, “but if I could, I’d bet on you.”

This time, I really do smile.

I officially want to die then and there the instant I’m up on that brightly lit stage. I have no idea what to say, or how to act, and I fumble my way through the entire interview. Even Caesar Flickerman, who never seems to run out of funny things to say; who always knows how to keep the conversation flowing effortlessly, is at his wits end with me. It seems to be my only talent; making people exasperated at me.

I leave the stage to the quietest round of applause the world has ever known.

I pass Peeta in the hall, and he gives me the smallest look of acknowledgement. I wish we could just stop pretending to be friends. Nothing has ever hurt me as much as Peeta Mellark has, and I don’t know how to forgive him for it. There’s a tiny part of me that’s almost glad we're going into the Hunger Games. No matter how it goes, I won’t ever have to deal with Peeta again after this.

I go to stand beside Haymitch and Effie, and prepare to watch Peeta’s interview. I wonder what he will talk about.

I kind of feel annoyed at him the longer the interaction goes on. He and Caesar bounce effortlessly off each other, talking and joking about… showers? Anyway, the crowd seems to love it.

Then, everything changes.

Caesar leans in to Peeta conspiratorially. “So, Peeta,” he says in a whisper, but directly into the microphone of course. “Is there a special girl back home?”

“Uh, yeah, Caesar, there is.” Peeta looks a little red at the confession.

I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. We’re about to be slaughtered, and they’re discussing crushes? How ridiculous is that?

“Oh do tell.” Caesar sounds more like a teenage girl than a grown man. “We’d love to hear about her.”

Peeta clears his throat, and looks uncomfortably at the cameras. From my position inside, it’s like he’s staring right at me.

I quickly look away.

“Well,” Peeta begins, “she’s amazing. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known, and I stuffed it up with her once. I’ve never forgiven myself for that.”

I glance at the screen uncertainly.

Peeta stares right back out at me. “I’m sorry for what I did. I want to do everything in my power to fix it. I promise. I love you.”

Caesar makes a squealing noise. “How adorable!” he exclaims. “You’ll have to get back to District 12 and she’ll have to forgive you.”

Peeta laughs uncomfortably. “That wouldn’t work, in my case.”

“And why not?”

“Because…” Peeta shifts in his seat. “Because she came here with me.”

I remember very little of the aftermath of Peeta’s comment. I know a flash of fury, disbelief, and shock ran through me at once. I know I dashed off to my room. I know I got out of my insane getup and collapsed into bed. I know I wanted to hit Peeta Mellark for that comment.

But after that, I know nothing.

I wake the next morning feeling sick to my stomach. I have a headache, my body feels stiff, and I’m still irrationally angry at Peeta. Well, it’s not irrational. It’s perfectly fine to hate him for what he did. And ‘apologising’ on live tv? It was like a sick joke.

I slowly get dressed in comfy pants and a loose, light blue blouse. I tie my hair up in a ponytail, and head for breakfast.

Everyone else is already there, But I ignore them all, pile my plate with as much food as I can, and sit myself down on the floor as far as possible from Peeta.

Effie huffs. “Good morning to you too, young lady.”

I answer by shoving a bread roll into my mouth whole.

“Ugh!” Effie is more than annoyed with me, but when I catch Haymitch’s eye by accident, he has a small smirk playing at his mouth, so I figure it’s not all bad.

“Hey, y/n,” Peeta tries.

I don’t reply, don’t even acknowledge him. I’m still so angry, so hurt from all those months ago. His words from back then mix with the ones from last night in my head, giving me a headache to match my heartbreak.

“You’re not… I’m sorry… I stuffed up… she’s amazing… I don’t want to… she came here with me… you mean nothing to me… not like that, y/n… I love you…”

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, trying to block it all out. All the memories.

It was a dark, depressing day. The weather sucked, but I guess that just meant it matched the rest of District Twelve.

I was heading home after school, and trying to work up my courage to do something I’d wanted to do for years.

I was going to tell Peeta Mellark that I loved him.

Everyone knew where he lived. The bakery was a pretty, inviting little place. The window was always filled with cakes, all decorated by Peeta himself.

I skipped up the front steps, knocking twice quickly on the dark blue painted door.

A woman answered, Peeta’s mother. “Hello.”

“Hi!” I pretended not to notice her quick glance at my less-than-clean dress, or my coal-covered boots and hair. I knew I wasn't as rich as their family. I wasn’t ashamed, but her look made me sad.

“I’m here to see Peeta,” I told her.

“Ah.” She narrowed her eyes at me, then disappeared. I hear hushed voices, but don’t try to listen in on the conversation.

I just stood there and waited. Soon, Peeta appeared in the doorway. “Hey, y/n,” he says uncertainly.

“Hey.” I decided to just say it—get it over with as quickly as possible. “I like you, Peeta. Like, like, like you.”

Peeta blinked at me, stunned. “You… oh.”

I chewed my lip, suddenly feeling like this was a horrible, horrible mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve just pretended I wasn’t in love with him.

Peeta’s eyes looked conflicted, hurt, despairing. But his words, and his tone, are as hard and cold as ice. “I don’t like you. Not like that, y/n. You… you’re not… anything to me. Just a friend, an acquaintance even. You’re worth nothing to me behind that.”

I physically felt the pain of my heart breaking. I wanted to cry, run, hit something.

“Oh.” I managed. “That’s… that’s cool.” I turned on my heel and ran all the way home.

It’s been over a year since Peeta Mellark broke my heart, and I’ve never gotten over it. Even now, eating my breakfast, knowing we are both probably likely to die in the arena, I still can’t find it in myself to forgive him.

I don’t believe his little stunt last night. It was for the cameras, to make a statement and gain sponsors. He doesn’t love me. He made that pretty damn clear a year ago.

I slam my plate on the ground so hard it cracks in two. A mute, red-haired girl rushes over to help me clean it. I apologise to her, but I can’t stay in this room for a moment longer. I feel trapped, like I can’t breathe.

I find my way to an out of the way part of our complex, sitting against the wall in a little window alcove. I’m overlooking the Capitol central, the citizens milling about in their celebratory days before the Hunger Games.

I feel sick at the sight.

How can they be so enraptured by the horror that is the games? How can they find actual joy and pleasure watching kids die?

“Hey.”

I start, and turn, and see Peeta a few steps away from me.

“Hi,” I say back, a little stiffly.

He gestures at the ground beside me, and I nod. He gently sits down, looking slightly nervous.

“What’s up?” I say dully.

“Uh—nothing much, thanks.”

“What are you doing here?” I have no patience for small talk, especially not now.

Peeta licks his lips and doesn’t meet my eyes. “I actually came to apologise.”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised. “As opposed to your apology earlier?”

Peeta grimaces. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. Haymitch made me promise not to—and, I guess I just didn’t stop to think how you’d feel.”

I look away, trying to ignore the sudden lump in my throat. “Yeah, well.”

“I’m also here to tell you the plan,” Peeta adds.

My gaze snaps back to him. “The plan?” I ask incredulously.

He nods. “This… star crossed lovers angle is really good for getting sponsors. It’ll help us gain friends in the Capitol—people who will want to help us.”

“Because it’s my goal in life to be besties with the Capitol,” I say flatly, and Peeta almost cracks a smile.

“If it’ll help to keep you alive, it is your goal.”

I shrug. “Whatever. What’s this plan?”

“Act like we’re in love.”

I stare at him for a second, then realise he’s dead serious. I deflate a little, but I know deep down he has a point. We need sponsors if we want to have any chance at all of winning the Games.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

Training goes for three days, and it mostly sucks. I have zero talents, apparently, except for differentiating deadly plants from safe ones. Oh, I can also tie some knots. Not super helpful. I can’t throw a knife, shoot a bow, lift anything heavier than a couple kilos, or climb ropes very well.

As the third day comes to an end, I feel incredibly useless, and exceptionally hopeless. I’m going to be dead in a day, I can almost feel it.

Peeta actually had a pretty good chance. He’s very strong, and can lift even the heaviest of weights. He’s also a whiz at camouflage and starting fires. All bakery skills, I’ll wager.

As per Haymitch’s instructions, we stick together throughout the training, steering clear of the other tributes. We also touch whenever possible, holding hands, hugging, me letting Peeta touch my hair.

It’s all rather infuriating to me, but if it might help to keep Peeta alive for longer, then whatever. He needs to win. He needs to stay alive and get home to his family.

It’s finally the night before the Games, and to say I was completely terrified would be the absolute truth. I lie awake, goosebumps everywhere. I’m so scared I couldn’t eat anything at dinner, even though I know I should be trying to get up my strength. Who knows how long it might be before I can eat again.

I might be starving in that arena, or dehydrated, or freezing to death. Who knows? Maybe I’ll die right away, in the initial bloodbath.

I sit up in bed, sick of tossing and turning. I climb out, and head out my bedroom door. Surprisingly, it’s not locked. I guess they do have cameras literally everywhere, so they’d know if I was actually trying to escape. Which I’m not. That would be pointless. I’m going to die anyway.

Across the hall is Peeta’s room, and without thinking, I knock on his door. He opens it a second later, and his brow crunches together at the sight of me.

“Y/n?” he asks. “What are you—?”

“Can I come in?” I’m suddenly awkward, realising how weird this is.

Peeta nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Come in, please.” He steps aside and lets me pass. His room is indentical to mine.

I walk over to his bed and sit myself down on the silkily sheets. “Can I stay in here tonight?” I ask, not looking at Peeta.

I hear his bed creak beneath me as he sits too. “Yeah, ‘course you can.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he adds, in a much softer voice, “Anytime.”

I wake up to the sun shining into the room, and for a moment, I forget entirely where I am, and what’s about to happen. I just sink into the pillows and close my eyes.

Then, I remember. The Games are today.

“Hey, you,” a voice says behind me, and I roll over in surprise. Peeta.

“Morning,” I say back, for some reason grateful he’s here. Having a familiar face to wake up to is much nicer than rising alone, facing the Games all by myself.

“Todays the day, huh?” Peeta asks, sitting up and frowning a little.

“Guess so,” I reply, rolling back over to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t want to get up.”

Peeta laughs, and it’s a pretty sound. Too pretty for such an awful day.

There’s a knock on our door, and Effie’s voice filters through: “Het up you two, it’s going to be a big, big, big day!”

“How does she know I'm here?” I ask, sitting up straight.

Peeta shrugs. “The Capitol has a crap ton of cameras, y/n.”

I roll my eyes in annoyance. Do they really need to know every single thing about us, before we die? It’s all so ridiculous I almost have to laugh.

“I’d better go get ready and stuff,” I tell him, sliding out of his bed. “Thanks for letting me stay here last night.”

Peeta looks at me for a second, like he’s going to say something big, but just replies with, “See you in the arena.”

“Good luck.” And I’m gone.

“Ten seconds til launch.”

I take a deep breath, feel Cinna’s reassuring squeeze on my shoulder, and I step into the glass tube that will be taking me up into the arena.

“Bye, Cinna,” I half whisper. “Thank you for everything.”

He gives me a smile, that somehow is genuinely caring. “Good luck, my dear girl.”

Something inside the tube clicks, and it slides shut, locking me into my fate. It begins to slowly rise, and so does my anxiety. I come completely out of the tube, and bright, blazing sunlight temporarily blinds me. When I can see again, my throat squeezes in terror and anticipation. All of us are the same distance apart, standing on little pods that I know we can’t step off of without being blown to the sky.

In the middle of the tribute circle is a metal cornucopia, with various weapons and supplies arranged around it, trying to tempt us. I remember Haymitch’s advice to leave it all alone and just run to the woods.

That’s when I remember Peeta. I glance left, seeing a girl from District Seven, I think, who’s also looking in my direction. Beyond her is a tall, dark boy I’ve never really paid attention to other than to get out of his way. I think his name is Thresh.

I squint, frantically trying to locate Peeta. I finally spot him, the farthest tribute I can see to my right. He’s already got his eyes on me, and is shaking his head. Why? What’s he trying to tell me?

Suddenly, the bell is sounding, and there’s a flash of movement as the tributes all simultaneously leave their pedestals, most heading right for the cornucopia. I freeze, my body not reacting at all. I force myself to move, running in just close enough to snatch up a small blue backpack, and then I sprint in Peeta’s direction. I just manage to catch a glimpse of him disappearing into the woods, so I head that way.

About an hour later, I still haven’t caught up to Peeta, or seen any other tributes. Sounds of the bloodbath behind me have faded away now, and nothing but the occasional animal or bird or wind sounds now echo through the forest.

It would almost be peaceful, if I wasn’t where I was.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, someone grabs my arm from behind. I let out a scream, and a hand slaps over my mouth. I struggle, but I’m not strong at the best of times.

“Calm down!” It’s Peeta’s voice. “It’s just me, y/n, jeez.”

I twist him off me and whirl to face him. My glare is almost enough to murder him right then and there. “Don’t scare me like that!” I hiss. “You idiot!” I hit him, half out of the fear bubbling inside of me and half out of relief he’s here and alive and with me.

“Sorry, my love,” Peeta replies, cracking a flirtatious smile. “I won’t do it again.”

I narrow my eyes at him, half annoyed and half embarrassed at how much relief is flooding inside of me at this sight of him, alive and well and here.

“Allies?” Peeta asks.

A laugh bubbles up, and surprises both of us. Peeta laughs too, but then shushes me. “Let’s not get killed just yet, okay?” he suggests. “I’d like to hang out with the love of my life first.”

And for some reason, I don’t even disagree.

[ddejavvu]

oh friend,, i have so many headcanons,,,

> james potter who is the biggest football/soccer fan, after figuring out what the hell the muggle rules to this silly little ball game are

> sirius black absolutely had a mullet era. i will not be convinced otherwise.

> remus lupin, aka, youtube deep dive video addict. i don’t know why, but that man gives off such “i watch 3hr videos for fun” vibes

> james potter who loves to cook (especially to podcasts? idk, it just makes sense)

> sirius black who can speak five languages fluently, but only these skills when necessary (e.g. helping a confused stranger or flirting)

> remus lupin with a thick welsh accent.

> james potter who never had to wear braces, but had to have his teeth magically fixed at some point (because the boy didn’t always have perfect teeth!)

> sirius black who loves perusing different lipsticks with you, and sometimes wearing them

> remus lupin has a dimple!!!

ugh, i have more absolutely useless and random headcanons that no one needs, so please let me know if you need more 😮‍💨

send me your headcanons!

--

soccer boy james!! mhm, he likes the game but in all honesty he started looking into it just because he thought the ball was pretty <3

men with mullets are my weakness for some fucking reason so yeah i second that <3

remus watches video essays but consider: remus makes video essays. he has such a loyal fanbase and he reports on only the topics most dear to his heart <3 sirius always pops into frame when he's recording

effie taught james how to cook for sure!!!

the rest of the boys don't even know sirius can speak most of those languages until one day he's flirting with someone and he breaks out a different language like it's no problem and they're ????

yes remus who comes back from every summer absolutely unintelligible and sirius and james who can't understand ANYTHING

man james has bad eyesight, bad teeth, WHAT'S NEXT (bad life support !)

omg you two go cosmetics shopping together eeee and he helps you try them on, swatches them on you, kisses your cheek with it on <33

and i kiss remus lupin's dimple every day <3

[0anonnymouslyours0]

hellooo!! can i request james potter x reader, where reader is meeting euphemia and fleamont (james' parents) for the first time and they love her

yes effie and flea my bbys <33

no warnings all fluff ( like major fluff )

"are you sure you look alright?" you ask anxiously, smoothing out your dress almost aggressively.

"you look great love, i've told you my parents will love you." james soothes, squeezing your hand for emphasis.

"but are you-"

the old wooden door swings open, and a women stands in the doorway, a wide smile on her face. she looks kind, very kind, and although you know shes in her mid-fifties, she still looks thirty.

"james! your late." euphemia scolds, hurrying you both in.

"and you must be y/n. can't believe we've had to wait so long to meet you." she says, offering you a hand. you smile politely, taking it and shaking.

"good to finally put a face to the name. james talk too much about you." a man, who you presume is fleamont, says as he enters the room.

"dad!" james says, flushing red as effie and you giggle softly at him.

"you look gorgeous, has james told you? please tell me my son hasn't forgotten his manners." effie says, hooking an arm through yours and leading you to the sitting room.

"oh he hasn't, the perfect gentleman." you confirm, smiling at effie.

you glance back at james and his father, seeing fleamont pat james shoulder, an act that makes you smile fondly.

"well, i'm not usually overbearing but we'd love to hear all about you-"

"she is-" james cuts in under his breath, and you stifle a laugh.

effie swats his shoulder with a tea towel, though that large smile is still planted on her face.

"do tell us about yourself- oh and about how you and james are! is he treating you right?" fleamont says, and james dramatically sighs, burying his face in his hands.

"well.. i hate to inform you but-" you begin, laughing at james aghast expression.

"lies! all lies!" he cries, pouting at the 'injustice'.

effie calls in some tea, as you sit on the couches of the potters cozy living room, and you feel rather at home in a place you've only spent a few minutes in.

[sweetmaggie]

"Effie, don't be a stranger." <33

[cressthebest]

Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 19

chapter 33:

1. awwww being close to sirius again is the best part of reg’s life now

2. “James nearly breaks his fucking neck to do a double-take as soon as Regulus is led out again. If he was a dog, his ears would be standing straight up in intense interest. Sirius whacks him on the back of his head in what seems to be a reflex, most likely because James is doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he's currently undressing Regulus with his eyes.”

😭😭😭 james, keep it in your pants

3. i love that when people are jokingly mean to james, the first thing he does is call for his mum. he’s such a momma’s boy

4. james and reg being dressed up pretty <3333

5. effie and monty 💕💕🥰🥰

6. i love everyone teasing james and regulus for their crushes. they’re so funny 😭😭

7. oh. james leaving a flower at the door everyday is reg’s reason for getting up in the morning

8. their disabilities are not being ignored!!!!

9. i- they’re gonna have to visit the districts of all their friends from the arena, knowing that they walked those same streets and breathed that same air, and have to be fine

10. 😧 district twelve was where remus lived. i- sirius is not gonna do well

11. plsss lyall is so scared of why sirius would be knocking at his door

12. stop, this conversation with lyall is making me cry

13. lyall is gonna write remus a letter. i’m SOBBING

14. sirius missing remus is making me miss him too

15. “"You just found out my son is a murderer," Lyall informs him, raising his eyebrows slowly.

Sirius blinks. "Mr. Lupin, I'm also a murderer. I've killed twelve people."”

😳 they’re both on thin ice but that exchange is also unnecessarily funny

16. 😭😭😭😭 sirius, buddy, you just told lyall that you and remus had sex. my boy, pls think before speaking next time

17. 😭😭😭 he just rambled more and admitted to being in love. sir 😭😭

chapter 34:

1. DORCAS SEES MARLENE FROM THE TRAIN

2. DORLENE HUGGG!! FUCK YEAH

3. i’m so mad at the riches that victors and the hollow receive, while there are literally people in starvation

4. god, they’re so gay. dorcas just gave marlene her ring

5. i can’t fucking deal with this. james sees vanity and hodges’ families

6. i knew i couldn’t deal with it, cause james’ speech to the families is making me cry

7. 😬 shit they just did the hallow is hollow chant. shit shit shit

8. james, stop being so harsh on yourself. you deserve the same grace that you gave sirius

9. 😧 evans only friend was regulus. i- i am not okay at all

10. sobbing, shit shit shit. they’re looking at evan’s tree

11. “They talk a lot, him and Evan. Or Evan's ghost. Regulus tells him secrets that he's never told another soul. Evan is his best friend, so why shouldn't he?”

deep breath. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

12. 😭😭😭 regulus deciding that he must climb the tree even tho he doesn’t really want to

13. !!!! progress!! reg wants to sleep in james’ room!

14. “He won't see Evan in his dreams again for a long, long time.” 😐 i want to stare into author’s soul cause i hate them for this line

(also, if anyone knows author’s pronouns and could let me know, that would be great. idk if it’s something they shared or not, but if it is, i’d like to know)

[rennarita]

[starmanlupinn]

my attempt at an ACCURATE effie potter

Anne Hathaway is great and all.. but it's 2024. let Euphemia be older and desi!

now we all know marls is IN LOVE with this woman, so she's obviously gotta be stunning

the picrew I used: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/644129

because I don't rlly like the fancasts for effie, I decided to do my own personal twist on our fave mum <33

[mxllitiam]

@fatefought sent five times flirted:   ( five times effie flirted with haymitch ) 

one.

it's the 70th.

effie waits by the elevador doors, perfectly manicured hands tapping out a rhythm to ward off boredom against the wall. their stylist has come and helped her with the last touches on her outfit, a pompous orange dress that sheds its boa feathers every once in a while. she's accidentally spread a couple of them throughout the kitchen of their tower floor.

"we're going to be late!" she calls out under a roll of her eyes. there's a distant grumble that she thinks might be haymitch responding from another room.

and then, at last, he emerges. the stylist has definitely been the one responsible for this party's outfit, because he walks out sporting a maroon suit, mostly unbuttoned, with no shirt underneath. it's a look. it's strange to see him in such capitol-like attire when she knows what he wears on his days off, but he still looks undeniably good. she's only being objective about it! she has eyes.

a wolfish grin graces her lips and she raises her eyebrows. "oh, someone cleans up nice." her voice is a tease, something much more comfortable than the previous year, when they were still on terribly bad terms. she's decided to make the experience pleasant for both of them, this time, and she's been forcing some kind of friendship towards the mentor. and she'll force it until it sticks. "come on, we're going to be late."

if he notices, he doesn't make a comment on how she walks a bit too hastily away from his exposed chest, flushed cheeks thankfully hidden by the layers of makeup.

two.

it's the 70th, again.

effie usually doesn't drink -- the irony is not lost on her. tonight is one of the nights she does. caesar has thrown a party to celebrate the beginning of the game season this year, certainly an empty excuse just to party with the rest of his little friends. he made sure to invite all of the escorts, mentors and stylists, leaving the tributes out of it, this time.

and he made sure to invite about half of her exes, too.

she wouldn't be so self-centered to imagine this was done on purpose, but oh, wasn't it? downing a few champagne flutes is the least she can do to bare the rest of this evening.

it's luck (maybe bad luck, for him) that haymitch ends up in her line of sight and she walks to him decidedly. countless champagne glass is forgotten by one of the tables on her way and she straightens her back and fluffs up her wig as she reaches him.

with calculation, a hand is placed on his upper arm and her voice is sickeningly sweet when she asks, "will you dance with me?"

he doesn't. rightfully so, he never lets her live this one down.

three.

it's the 71st.

she knows well, by now, that haymitch hates these capitol parties. she's starting to see the bad side of them too, after hearing one too many drunken late night rants from him. he's drunk a lot of the time, but she doesn't blame him for leaning on substances when his hatred for parties runs this deep. she'd gotten her share of this poison last year, when she'd famously made a fool of himself to him.

the thing is, they usually stay away from each other in these things. she has other escorts to chat with, and sponsors that she has to butter up. it's decidedly easier to let her voice get all high-pitched and her eyelashes bat cutely at some old prunes when she doesn't have haymitch's judging eyes anywhere near her performances. this night, they end up converging (it will become a thoughtless habit to do so, after this year).

he's drunk, as usual. he seems to sway at his feet, which effie is unsure is actually happening or if she's just predicting his balance to worsen as the night goes on. she puts hands on his shoulders to steady him, steady herself. 

"you look good tonight," she offers, genuine, knowing he probably won't remember this in the morning. she's been increasingly more honest with him when he's like this, and he's never seemed to make a comment on it the next mornings, at least. her hands move over to fix his tie, a wistful sigh leaving her chest. "you look a little bit better sober, though."

she pats his chest with a smile and moves away again.

four.

it's the 72nd.

one could say effie trinket seems elated to be a part of the games at all, and that would mostly be true, except for this. the cursed caesar interviews. he is no ex-lover of hers, there is nothing to write home about there, but it's still incredibly uncomfortable to be grilled by him about her tributes every year. it might the worst part of her job, she thinks. of course sending kids off to slaughter might be worse but that's customary. part of the job description. it doesn't count.

her stomach is in knots as she stands in the wings of the stage, an unusual feeling for the usually so camera-ready escort. last year had been particularly bad for twelve, everyone has been waiting for a repeat of that. oh, how she hates them, making a laughing stock of these poor kids.

"stand still," she orders impatiently, and clicks her tongue in despair at the shoe that threatens to slip off her heel again. haymitch is there, waiting to be interviewed right after her, their big piece for this year's pre-games tv showing. she leans a hand onto his shoulder for balance and reaches down to fix her high heels into place.

he complies, begrudgingly. she thinks it must be amusing to him, to see her so out of her comfort zone, so at least someone is having fun. she stands upright when she fixes the high heels back into place, but her hand stays on his shoulders, her hold a tight squeeze as she looks down at her feet and tests out the newly adjusted step.

when she looks back up, they're standing so close. her hand lingers, even if her hold lightens.

she can see the lines on the corners of his eyes from this close, and the faint marking of the one dimple on his cheek that only shows up when he laughs. a rare sighting. he should laugh more. his hair is overgrown and terribly overdue for a cut, but she likes it like this (not that she has said it out loud). it curls over his forehead wildly and the stylists have given up on trying to slick it back. he looks handsome. in a natural way, domestic -- like it's a reminder that he doesn't need all of that capitol bullshit to make him look like this.

she gives into impulse when her hand reaches out to the alluring hairs that curl on the nape of his neck. it's fascination, and something else, maybe. she feels the strands between her fingertips and hums curiously. for someone who lives such a fast-paced high-stress existence like effie, these slow moments of stillness are uncommon.

a producer comes by to tell her it's time to go on stage and she snaps herself out of the haze.

"wish me luck!" is all she tells him, stepping out of the wings before she can hear if he responds.

five.

it is the 73rd.

their tributes are dead. they died yesterday, at the bloodbath. they couldn't run fast enough. effie didn't watch, as usual, but it still makes her feel sick enough to spend the rest of the day holed up in her room.

she decides to rejoin haymitch the next evening, looking for a distraction. it's not the first time they lose tributes like this, so early in the game, but it doesn't get easier. it gets harder, effie thinks with increasing frustration, that year after year, there's nothing they can do to help these kids win. even when they're doing their best.

they sit on the couch side by side, there's a shared bottle of something alcoholic passing between them. they're close enough that their shoulders almost brush together, and she thinks this is much more pleasant than staying in her room alone. the screen in front of them is black, mirroring their images back at them. she hasn't bothered with much makeup today, knowing she'd just be staying in their tower floor, but there's still a wig on her head, as expected.

it's itchy. she's kind of tired of it. she sighs, tipping her head back, lazily adjusting her hair so that it cascades over the back of the couch instead. "it's weird that we have to stay here after we already lost them," she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. she doesn't mind staying, she's grown used to the familiar buzz of the games every year, she prefers it to the loneliness of her apartment the rest of the year. but she imagines haymitch hates it. "would you rather be at twelve right now?"

an answer doesn't come immediately, so her head rolls to the side to peek at him through half-lidded eyes. his gaze is on her throat, before it meets her eyes.

the air buzzes around her, suddenly filled with electricity. she swallows whatever words almost formed on her tongue. the mood was something lazy and foggy before, now it feels heavy with a tension she can't pull away from. her heart throws itself into a race in her chest, and she can't help that in the silence that settles between them, she is leaning in, eyes flickering down to his lips.

she can't remember the last time she was in a moment this charged, where every one of her nerves are firing in every direction, desire burning at her fingertips, but. but he's haymitch, and she's effie. they couldn't be more different from each other and just a few years ago they spent more time at each other's throats than being amicable in any way. and yet, for a moment, she's convinced she's never wanted anything this badly.

this is ridiculous.

she must be making a fool of herself again.

she pulls away, sudden, and gets up from the couch faster than she can clear her own throat. "goodnight!" she declares loudly, heels clacking on the ground as she makes a quick walk to her bedroom.

she makes to about halfway on the hallway before she turns back around.

"i hate you," is the last thing she says before she's rejoining him on the couch and crashing their lips together.