#clove's au: path through the woods

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Presence

The Presence lingers, a creeping, cruel remnant of a shattered potential that gave nary a scream. He doesn't plan to give you the chance, either.

The Presence is the representation of the Voice of the Cold in Path Through the Woods. His foil is the Voice of the Drifter.

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view. 

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof. 

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories. 

Sometimes she needs rescuing. 

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts. 

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace. 

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana. 

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze. 

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath. 

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls. 

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite. 

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain. 

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers. 

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence. 

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–” 

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip. 

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion. 

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating. 

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.” 

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then. 

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

[javistg]

A Second Chance CH 4.

Chapter 4 is ready!

I want to thank you all for your messages and support. I can't believe you've stuck with me and my story for this long and I'm incredibly grateful.

Also, I have added one more chapter to the story.

The next chapter is almost ready, but it won't be very long. It's just a short epilogue. Still, I hope it will be enough to answer all those questions I haven't answered so far.

In the meantime, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy. ❤️

Based on prompt 110: A time travel AU: Katniss from Mockingjay, (any part of the book, it's up to you), winds up back the day before her sister's first reaping. What does she do now that she knows what's coming? Now that she knows how Peeta feels about her, and she knows how desperately she needs him, and what they could share? What on earth could she, or should she, even do/change? And what is she should lose it all again? [submitted by @wingletblackbird For EFE 2019]

Want to read from the start? Go to AO3 or FF.net

CHAPTTER 4. 

Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms all around the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”




As soon as the clock runs out, Katniss jumps from her platform and makes a beeline for the nearest backpack.




She’s almost at the tree line when she feels the impact of Clove’s knife sticking into her bag.

Right on cue, Katniss thinks as she slips into the woods.




Relying on her memory, she runs through the narrow paths and slopes until she reaches the lake. Getting on her knees, she shrugs the backpack off her shoulders and makes a quick inventory of its contents.




One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of night-vision glasses. And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap.




After filling her water bottle to the brim, Katniss starts walking again. She doesn’t want to go too far from the water —she refuses to deal with dehydration once more. Still, she tries to keep to the route she followed the first time she was there.




As she retraces her steps, she eventually comes across a familiar tree. A willow that’s not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in its long, flowing tresses.




She climbs up, sets her sleeping bag, straps herself to the branch, and waits.




The sky has already gone dark when she sees a small fire begin to bloom.




Katniss curses under her breath. Even now, she can’t bring herself to feel any sympathy for the tribute who’s decided to advertise their location in a place full of predators.




A few hours later, the Careers come traipsing through the forest. They’re about ten yards from her tree when an argument breaks.




Katniss grabs onto her branch and holds her breath in expectation.




Peeta’s words cut the bickering. “We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”




Up on her tree, Katniss presses her lips together to contain her smile. The cameras are on her, watching her every move, and she stubbornly refuses to let the Capitol see her relief.




As Peeta walks away, she tries to conjure up all the anger and hurt she felt during her first Games so she can glare at him as he disappears from view.




XXXXX




Katniss runs through the woods, crushing branches and trampling down leaves and flowers in her rush to escape her nightmares, but it’s no use.




As the tracker-jacker poison courses through her veins —turning the world into a big shimmering bubble— Katniss berates herself for her carelessness.




She can’t believe her bow and arrows ended up stuck in Glimmer’s hands again; or that she needed Peeta’s warning to start moving.




Now, as she rushes through the forest trying to fight the ever-growing hallucinations, she knows that, once more, her clumsiness has placed Peeta’s fate in Cato’s hands.




Katniss turns a bend on the road. The earth shakes beneath her feet with the force of an explosion. She knows it’s not real, but she can’t fight it anymore. She sinks to her knees, exhausted, doomed.




Her nightmares have found her, and all she can do is give in.




XXXXX




Katniss wakes up a few days later to find her bow and arrows placed neatly by her side and Rue hiding behind a tree.  




Together, the girls hunt and forage and --just like the first time-- their fast, easy friendship blossoms.




When the time comes for Katniss to leave to blow the Careers’ supplies up, she hesitates. Maybe I should take Rue down to the river, she thinks. We could dig Peeta from the mud and start treating him. The three of us could hide in the cave and…




With a shake of her head and a heavy heart, Katniss gives up. Thanks to Peeta’s intensive training for the Quarter Quell, she knows how that story ends. Alliances in the arena never last.




She would only be postponing Rue’s death. And for what? So that she can end up holding her mutilated body after a strange mutt kills her? The thought makes her shudder.




I need to weaken the Careers, she reminds herself as she walks towards the Cornucopia. Otherwise, Peeta and I won’t stand a chance.




XXXXX




Katniss is perched up on a tree, waiting.




A part of her mind is still consumed with Rue. Images of her, bloody and speared, play on a loop behind her eyes. She tries to block them out, to distract herself with something else, but she doesn’t have the strength; she’s too disgusted with herself.




Overcome by despair, Katniss hates the choices she’s made.




She hates that, despite having a second chance, she’s still helpless to do better, that she still thinks she has to put her life first.




As the sun sinks behind the trees, her mind flies back to Peeta. He’s somewhere out there, hurt, slowly bleeding to death by the stream.




She wants to drop this stupid pretense and rush to him, but she can’t.




There is one way out of this arena, and she needs to stick to her past actions to find it. So, Katniss wraps her arms around herself and waits.




She’s almost reached the end of her rope when the sky finally lights up. No deaths.




Her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she hears the trumpets. Eager, she perks up in anticipation.




Claudius Templesmith’s voice blares down from overhead, congratulating the six tributes who remain. “There’s been a rule change in the Games. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared winners if they are the last two alive.”




Claudius pauses, giving his audience time to digest the news. He repeats the change again, “Two tributes can win this year. If they’re from the same district.”




He’s barely finished speaking when Katniss reaches for her belt and begins unbuckling herself. The last time she was there, she waited for day to break, but she can’t do that this time. Not when she knows Peeta needs her.




With quick fingers, Katniss packs everything in her bag and slips the night-vision glasses on.




“Hold on, Peeta,” she says as she shimmies down the tree. “I’m on my way.”

XXXXX




As soon as she reaches the edge of the water, she realizes her mistake.




It’s a cold night. A bright round moon bathes the arena in pale light but, even with her glasses, that's not enough to make her way through the slippery mud.




Muttering obscenities under her breath, she backtracks until she finds a tree to spend the rest of the night.




With the first light of day, Katniss heads downstream.




After a while, the stream begins to curve to the left into a part of the woods where the muddy banks, covered in tangled water plants, lead to large rocks that increase in size.




Keeping her eyes to the ground, she spots a bloody streak going down the curve of a boulder.




Her heart picks up speed. Hugging the rocks, she moves, as quickly as she can, in the direction of the blood.




The blood trail stops. There’s no sign of Peeta.




She knows he’s close, though.




Crouching down, she whispers, “Peeta?”




The voice that answers back is hoarse and weak, but she would recognize it anywhere. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?”




Katniss whips around.




“Peeta?” she whispers, biting back a smile. “Where are you?”




There’s no answer. So, Katniss creeps along the bank. “Peeta?”




“Well, don’t step on me.”




Katniss jumps back.




His voice is right under her feet. Still, there’s nothing.




Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves.




Katniss’s gasp is rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs.




“Close your eyes again,” she orders.




He does, and his mouth too, and completely disappears.




Katniss kneels beside him. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.”




Peeta smiles. “Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.”




“You’re not going to die,” she tells him firmly.




“Says who?” His voice is so ragged it makes her chest hurt.




“Says me. We’re on the same team now, you know,” she tells him.




Peeta’s eyes open. “So I heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me.”




Katniss pulls out her water bottle and gives him a drink. “Did Cato cut you?”




“Left leg. Up high.”




Her heart drops, she had hoped Peeta would fare better this time around, but it seems that they’re exactly in the same situation as before.




At least I didn’t leave him lingering here while I had breakfast, she thinks as she helps him take a few more sips. “Let’s wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got.”




“Lean down a minute first,” Peeta says. “Need to tell you something.”




She leans over and puts her good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”




Katniss bursts out laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”




Remembering how hard it was to move him, she decides to skip that part and strip and clean him right where he is.




“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says as she begins digging into the mud and plants which seem to have imprisoned him.




To her surprise, Peeta shakily pushes his upper body away from the ground. A little push from her, and he’s sitting up.




His new position doesn’t last long, though. With a pained grunt, Peeta slumps against a nearby rock.




“How do you feel?” she asks, brushing the matted hair from his face.




“Woozy.”




Using her two water bottles and Rue’s water skin, she begins cleaning him up. It’s slow going. The water is cold, and he’s so caked with mud and matted leaves that she can’t even see his clothes.




When she’s done, she gently unzips his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and eases them off him.




His undershirt comes next. It’s stained, but at least it’s not stuck to his skin.




“Can you lift your arms?” she asks.




Peeta complies, lifting one arm at a time and dropping them limply by his side as soon as he’s done.




With one last tug, Katniss pulls the undershirt over his head.




Tears well up in her eyes when she takes him in.  




He’s badly bruised. There’s a long burn across his chest and a superficial cut on his arm. There’s also a bit of good news, though.




Only one of his tracker jacker stings looks bad. The skin around it is swollen and angry. The other three have been treated, Peeta's covered them with wads of chewed-up leaves.




“Did I do OK?” Peeta asks.




“You did great,” she tells him as she gently peels the dried leaves from his skin. “You only missed one.”




Peeta closes his eyes. His head lols back. “Where is it?”




“Right under your ear.” Carefully, she pours some cold water on the spot to clean it. Just looking at it makes her chest hurt. “Hold still,” she says as she digs the stinger out of the lump.




Peeta winces, but the minute she applies a fresh batch of chewed-up leaves, he sighs in relief.




Cleaning his clothes seems pointless right now that the sun isn’t hot enough to dry them. So, she uses the cleaner side of his undershirt to pat him dry and applies some burn cream to his chest.




His skin is warm but not excessively hot. This feels like good news but, Katniss isn’t sure. They’re out by the stream, and the nighttime chill hasn’t dissipated yet. The cold weather could be masking Peeta’s fever.




Since they can’t afford to waste any time, Katniss keeps going. Standing up, she shrugs off her jacket and gently drapes it over Peeta’s shoulders to protect him from the cold. Then, she digs through the first-aid kit she got from Marvel until she finds the pills that reduce temperature.




“Swallow these,” she tells him. Peeta obediently takes the medicine. “You must be hungry.”




“Not really,” says Peeta.




“We need to get some food in you,” she insists. Remembering what happened last time, she forgoes the groosling and gives him the dried apple instead.




“Can I sleep now, Katniss?” he asks after he’s had a few bits.




“I need to look at your leg first.”




Gently, she removes his boots and socks and then very slowly inches his pants off of him.




Her heart plummets when she sees the tear Cato’s sword made in the fabric over his thigh. Gritting her teeth, she keeps going.




As Peeta’s leg comes into view, Katniss gasps.




The wound isn’t exposed. Just like the tracker jacker stings, it’s been covered with leaves.  




With trembling fingers, she carefully removes the green plaster.




The wound is terrible, a deep inflamed gash, but Peeta’s done a better job of taking care of it. It’s not oozing as much blood or pus as it did the last time.




“Pretty awful, huh?” says Peeta. He’s watching her closely.




Katniss shrugs. “I’ve seen worse,” she tells him honestly. “I just need to clean it well.”




Scooting her square of plastic under him, Katniss begins washing down his lower half.




Except for Cato’s cut, Peeta’s legs have fared pretty well. There’s one more tracker jacker sting, which he’s also cured, and a few minor burns that she treats quickly.




After pouring a few water bottles over it, the wound doesn’t look any better but, at least, it doesn’t look any worse.  




Katniss applies a handful of chewed-up tracker jacker leaves to the wound. Within minutes, pus begins running down the side of Peeta’s leg. She repeats the process. This time, very little pus comes out.




“What next, Dr. Everdeen?” Peeta asks.




“I have a bandage I can use, but there’s something I need to do first.” Reaching behind her, Katniss pulls out Rue’s backpack. “Here, cover yourself with this, and I’ll wash your shorts.”




“Oh, I don’t care if you see me,” says Peeta.




Katniss sets her jaw. Anger and humiliation rush through her veins as an image of Johanna --stripping in front of Peeta-- comes to her mind.




Fixing him with a blistering glare, she growls, “I care, all right?”




With an aggravated huff, Katniss stands up and turns to look at the stream.




As she waits for Peeta to shimmy out of his undershorts, his words come back to her. “For the Capitol, you’re pure,” he had said, clearly trying to mollify her. “For me, you’re perfect.”




Placated by the memory, Katniss sighs.




As soon as Peeta’s undershorts splash into the current, she turns to look at him.




There he is, her boy with the bread, so strong and fierce and brave. He looks small right now, pale and weak and vulnerable, but she’s not worried. Peeta's done better this time, and he’s going to push through. Just as he always does.




Katniss walks over to him and puts a few dried pear halves in his hand. “I'm going to wash your clothes. In the meantime, you eat these,” she says before heading down to the stream.




XXXXX




Katniss holds the small vial of sleep syrup in the palm of her hand. She doesn’t like what she’s about to do, but she knows she has no choice.




Peeta’s condition is not as critical as the last time. She’s managed to keep his fever from spiking, but the wound on his leg isn’t getting any better.




Besides, if she doesn’t go to the feast, Thresh won’t kill Clove.

With grim resolve, she gets to work. She mashes up a handful of berries and adds some mint leaves for good measure. Then she heads back up to the cave.




“I’ve brought you a treat,” she tells Peeta, “I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.”




XXXXX




“You better run now, Fire Girl,” Thresh tells her.




Katniss doesn’t need to be told twice. She flips over, digging her feet into the hard-packed earth, and runs away from Thresh and Clove and the sound of Cato’s voice.




She reaches the woods and keeps going. Blood pours into her eye, but she just swipes it away.




After a few minutes, she hears the cannon. Clove has died.




When she finally reaches the water, she slows down. She’s fairly certain Cato headed out after Thresh. Still, she doesn’t want to waste any time.




Katniss pulls off Rue’s socks, which she’d been using for gloves. Setting them aside, she splashes water over her forehead to clean the cut.




Moving quickly, she presses the socks to her forehead to staunch the flow of blood.




She knows the socks will be soaked in minutes. So, she reaches for the bandage in her small backpack and wraps it, as tightly as she can, around her forehead.




That should do the trick, she thinks, standing up to continue her trek downstream.




She makes it back to the cave in record time.




After squeezing through the rocks, she pulls the little orange backpack from her arm, cuts open the clasp, and dumps the contents on the ground—one slim box containing one hypodermic needle.




Without hesitating, she jams the needle into Peeta’s arm and slowly presses down on the plunger.




Exhausted, Katniss sighs. Her head is throbbing.




Her hands go to her forehead. When they drop back on her lap, she sees they’re clean.




After taking one of the fever pills, Katniss snuggles next to Peeta and drifts off.




XXXXX




Cato rushes through the woods, making a beeline for the Cornucopia.




Without question, Katniss follows him.




Her hands have just landed on the metal at the pointed tail of the Cornucopia when she turns back to look at Peeta. He’s not that far behind, but the mutts are closing in on him fast.




She sends an arrow into the pack, and one goes down, but there are plenty to take its place.




Peeta waves her up the horn, “Go, Katniss! Go!”




Katniss starts climbing, scaling the Cornucopia on her hands and feet. The pure gold surface has been designed to resemble a woven horn, so there are little ridges and seams to get a decent hold on. But after a day in the arena sun, the metal feels hot enough to blister her hands.




Cato lies on his side at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground, gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge.




Katniss stops midway up the horn, loads another arrow, and points it at him, but just as she’s about to let it fly, she hears Peeta cry out. She twists around.




Peeta’s just reached the tail, and the mutts are right on his heels.




“Climb!” she yells.




Peeta starts up while Katniss keeps her eyes on the mutts. When one of them places its paws on the metal, she shoots her arrow down its throat.




Peeta reaches her feet. She grabs his arm and pulls him along.




Remembering Cato is waiting at the top, she whips around. He’s still doubled over with cramps and apparently more preoccupied with the mutts than with his fellow tributes.




This is my chance, Katniss thinks. She’s replayed this moment hundreds of times in her mind. She’s ready.




At the bottom of the Cornucopia, the mutts are beginning to assemble. Katniss can hear their calls for blood. She knows they won’t stop until they get it.  




She tugs Peeta’s arm to get his attention. “Think you could push him over?”




Peeta glances at Cato. He still hasn’t regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing. Soon he’ll be recovered enough to come for them and hurl them over the side to their deaths.




“Shoot straight,” Peeta says before taking a step in Cato’s direction and crouching.




Katniss aims her arrow at Cato’s head.




In. Out. Katniss breathes as she tries to block out the sounds of the mutts sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws over the surface, and making high-pitched yipping noises to one another.




Smirking, Cato pushes himself up and ducks his head under his arm to deflect the attack.




Katniss’s arrow flies and reaches its mark, piercing right through Cato’s unprotected hand.




Cato cries out and doubles over in pain just as Peeta slams against him.




Knocked off balance, Cato plummets to the ground.




XXXXX




“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” Claudius Templesmith says. “Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”




Katniss looks at Peeta in dismay. She’s exhausted. She just wants the whole thing to be over.




“If you think about it, it’s not that surprising,” Peeta says softly as he pulls the knife from his belt and throws it into the lake.




Katniss doesn’t falter. She immediately drops her weapons.




“No,” Peeta says, reaching for her bow and pressing it back into her hand. “You need to use this now.”




“I can’t,” Katniss says, shaking her head. “I won’t.”




“Do it.” Peeta tightens his hold on her wrist in a silent plea. “Before they send those mutts back or something. I don’t want to die like Cato.”




“Then you shoot me,” she says furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. “You shoot me and go home and live with it!”




“You know I can’t,” Peeta says, discarding the weapons.




He turns to look at the lake. Frustration drips from his voice as he says, “This is why I didn’t want you to go to the feast, why I didn’t want you to risk your life for me. I knew it was pointless, that in the end, they were going to make us choose.”




Peeta drops on one knee and begins untying his shoelaces.




Katniss scowls; this is something new. “What are you doing?”




“I think I’m going to go out for a swim.”




Panic rises within her. The lake isn’t too deep, but Peeta doesn’t know how to swim. What if the Gamemakers decide to create waves or a strong current?




She needs to think. Fast.




Katniss kneels next to him. “Peeta, please don’t!”




“Katniss,” Peeta reaches for the end of her braid and gives it a little tug. “This is my choice. It’s what I want.”




“You’re not leaving me here alone,” she says, reaching out to grab a fistful of his jacket.




“Listen,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me.”




Katniss swallows thickly. This is the opening she was waiting for.




Her fingers fumble with the pouch on her belt, freeing it.




Peeta’s eyes widen. His hand clamps on her wrist. “No, I won’t let you.”




“Trust me,” she whispers.




He holds her gaze for a long moment, then lets go.




Katniss loosens the top of the pouch and pours a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm.




She fills hers. Her heart races in fear and anticipation as she asks, “On the count of three?”




Peeta leans down and kisses her once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says.




They stand, their backs pressed together, their empty hands locked tight.




“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” Peeta says.




Katniss spreads out her fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun.




She’s not afraid this time. If the Gamemakers call their bluff, she and Peeta will have a quick death. Protected by their anonymity, Prim, Gale, and the rest of District 12 will be safe.




Still, as she gives Peeta’s hand one last squeeze as a signal, she hopes it’s not a goodbye.




They begin counting.




“One.” Did she get it right?




“Two.” Maybe this do-over is not for her but for Snow, who’s wanted her dead from the start.




“Three!” She’s about to find out.




Katniss lifts her hand to her mouth.




The berries have just passed her lips when the trumpets begin to blare.




The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. “Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of District Twelve!”

XXXXX




The tribute train speeds back to District 12.




Alone in her compartment, Katniss washes the makeup from her face and puts her hair in its braid.




As she stares in the mirror, she tries to remember who she is and who she isn't.




My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me, but I came back. Peeta is safe. Our families and our district are waiting for us.




With a steady hand, she pins the mockingjay back on her shirt and adds, Snow’s days in power are numbered.




The train makes a brief stop for fuel, and they’re allowed to go outside for some fresh air.




There’s no longer any need to guard them, so Peeta and Katniss walk down along the track, hand in hand.  




As soon as they’re out of earshot, Katniss leans into Peeta’s side and asks, “Have you talked to Haymitch?”




Peeta shakes his head. “About what?”




Remembering how poorly this conversation went the last time, Katniss grabs his arm to keep him close. “He told me the Capitol didn’t like our stunt with the berries.”




Peeta’s body tenses under her touch. “What?”




“He says it seemed too rebellious.”




“Seemed?” Peeta deadpans.




Katniss’s jaw drops open. This is not the reaction she was expecting.




“Come on, Katniss, you can’t be that surprised. We basically forced their hand into doing what we wanted. It’s no wonder they’re upset.” Anger and suspicion quickly flash through his eyes. “Why didn’t he tell me anything?”




Afraid that he’s going to storm away, Katniss tightens her grip on his arm. “Because he didn’t want me to mess up in front of the cameras. He was afraid I’d be all prickly and aloof. So, he told me I needed to act like I was so madly in love that I wasn’t responsible for my actions.”




She knows she’s messed up the second Peeta takes a step away from her. “Act?”




“For the interview,” she quickly clarifies. “Only for the interview.”




The explanation seems to placate him, but he still asks, “So, what you did in the Games, was that—,”




“That was not an act,” she tells him. This time it’s the truth. Her only hidden motive was to bring him out with her.




Peeta nods but, before he can say anything, Haymitch appears by his side.




Even in the middle of nowhere, the old mentor keeps his voice down. “Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be OK.”




“Thanks for the update,” Peeta growls under his breath.




A deep frown settles on Haymitch’s face. “What’s up with you?”




“I just told him what you said about President Snow,” Katniss whispers.




“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” Peeta asks.




Haymitch lets out an exasperated sigh. “Since when do you need coaching on how to act in front of the cameras, kid? You’re smooth and personable, and you always know exactly what to say.” Hunching closer to the two victors, he adds, “Besides, the walls have ears, even here. I didn’t have that many openings, you know?”




Mollified, Peeta nods. Katniss knows it's just a reprieve, though. Peeta's never liked being kept in the dark, and he'll probably go after Haymitch once they're back home.




“Alright,” Haymitch says, “fun’s over. Time to hop back on board.”




The three victors head back.  




Katniss is already on board when she notices Peeta has fallen behind.




Alarmed, she whips around to look out of a window. Peeta’s just a few steps away. A smile splits her face when she notices the bunch of wildflowers in his hand.




As soon as he climbs up the stairs, he presents the pink-and-white flowers to her.  




Katniss bursts out laughing. Her eager hands reach for the offering. “You brought me lunch, how thoughtful!”




Peeta tilts his head in question. “Lunch?”




Katniss nods. With soft fingers, she traces the edge of a pink petal. “They’re wild onions. Gale and I gather them sometimes.”

Peeta’s face turns serious. “Katniss, I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to snap—,”




“No,” she cuts in, “I get it. We’re a team. We’re in this together.”




Peeta reaches for her hand, interlacing their fingers to bring their palms even closer. Hope lights up his face when he asks, “Together?”




Katniss nods. Standing on the tips of her toes, she presses a soft kiss to his lips and whispers, “Together.”




XXXXX




The Tribute train pulls into District 12.




Katniss and Peeta stand side by side, watching their grimy little station rise up around them.




Through the window, Katniss sees the platform’s thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching their homecoming.




Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Peeta extend his hand. His eyes are warm and soft, her safe place in the storm that’s about to be unleashed.




Smiling back at him, Katniss takes his hand and holds on tightly as she prepares for the cameras. Her heart feels full, grateful for the fact that she won’t ever have to let go.  

XXXXX

On the first Sunday after the Capitol cameras leave, Katniss sneaks out of Victors’ Village.

Partially hidden by the dim light of dusk, she quietly walks to the Seam.

A part of her wishes she could sneak under the fence and go to her and Gale’s meeting place like she did before. She mises the sounds and the smells of her woods and longs to hold her father’s bow, but she knows the rock ledge isn’t safe. Not today.

President Snow has eyes and ears everywhere, and she can’t afford to repeat her past mistakes. Not when what she has to say is this important.

Two blocks away from Gale’s house, she finds the perfect spot; a narrow corridor that stretches between two shacks. Despite being open on both ends, it’s dark and much too small for foot traffic or lampposts —which makes it a perfect hiding place— and it faces the street Gale uses to go to the woods.

She’s only been there for a few minutes when a silent silhouette walks past.

“Gale!” Katniss hisses as loud as se dares.

Gale stops on his tracks and turns towards the sound, leaning slightly into the small dark corridor.

Smiling fondly at her friend, Katniss lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers in greeting.

The glimmer in his eyes tells her he’s surprised to see her there, but he doesn’t hesitate. In two long strides, he’s by her side with open arms.

Just like she did the last time, Katniss jumps into his embrace.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers crying —sobbing in Gale’s arms until she began to hiccup and tremble— but she doesn’t cry now. She doesn’t have time for that. Instead, she buries her face in his jacket and breathes him in, letting his fresh, clean scent comfort her and give her the strength she needs to carry on.

Pulling away from her friend, Katniss smiles. “Hi!”

“Hey!” Gale points his thumb back towards the woods. “I was on my way out to meet you.” Dropping his hand, he turns around and inspects their tight hiding place. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d pass by.” Her smile drops. “We need to talk.”

A dark cloud passes through Gale’s eyes. “What’s wrong, Catnip?”

Grabbing a fistful of his jacket to keep him from storming away, Katniss begins to talk. As quickly as she can, she tells him about President Snow’s anger.

“He’s mad at us for showing the Capitol up in the arena and turning it into the joke of Panem,” she says. “It’s something that wouldn’t have mattered much before, but Snow’s control over the country is slipping. His enemies are gaining strength, and he can’t afford to look weak in front of them.”

Anticipation lights Gale’s eyes. “His enemies?”

“Rebel forces are organizing all over the country,” Katniss says, “even the Capitol has a few dissenters, but Snow’s biggest problem is District 13.”

Gale takes a step back. “Thirteen? There’s no Thirteen. It got blown off the map.”

“No, it didn’t,” Amused with the look of shock on Gale's face, Katniss smiles. “District 13 is still there. That footage we’ve seen, with the rubble and the ruins, is always the same shot. The Capitol just uses it as a backdrop for its TV presenters.

“The people of Thirteen have spent the last 74 years living underground, and they're done waiting. They’re eager to get rid of Snow.”

Gale shakes his head, still too disconcerted to fully grasp what’s happening. “How do you know all this?”

“I heard about it while I was in the Capitol,” she lies, convinced that this is the only possible explanation she can give him that will make some kind of sense. “I overheard some conversations during my training, and then, while I was recovering, I was... approached.”

“Approached?”

Katniss nods, hoping Gale won’t press any further. She’s ready to tell him what she knows about Eight and a few other districts, but she doesn’t want to go into any specifics in case someone decides to check up on her info later on.

Luckily, Gale is a man of action, and his hatred for the Capitol runs deep. He has all the information he needs. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Well... All eyes are on me right now, so there’s not much I can do —not if I want to keep my family safe— but I was thinking...”

Katniss looks up, silver eyes bright with trust and hope. “Nobody knows who you are, Gale. No one is following you. You could go. You could just sneak under the fence and march down all the way to Thirteen and tell them everything I know."

"Wait a second," Gale says, raising his hands as if to shield himself from her plan. "If what you're saying is true, District 13 must have agents in every district. So, why would they need me to relay your information?"

Katniss shakes her head. "Thirteen is in contact with a few people, but they don't have access to every district. My information is not very detailed, but it comes from every corner of Panem. The leaders of Thirteen might be able to use it to band the rebels together before Snow sends his Peacekeepers to start cracking down on us."

Pulling his shoulders back, Gale backtracks until his arm touches the cold cement wall. Looking past Katniss, he stares at the empty street at the end of the corridor.

Enveloped by silence, she sees his mind working, turning, and churning ideas as he tries to come to terms with what he’s heard.

“What about my family?” he finally asks.

“I’ll take care of them,” Katniss promises, “just like you took care of mine.”

When Gale looks back at her —full of fire and determination— she knows, clear as day, that she’s made the right choice.

Gale Hawthorne wants the revolution more than he wants anything else.

“I’m going to need a few supplies,” he says, his mind already thinking ahead.

“That’s not a problem. I’ll help you get whatever you need.”

Crossing his arms, Gale tilts his head to study her closely. Uprisings and rebellions are far from his mind when he asks, “So…you and the baker’s son. How long has that been going on?”

Katniss shrugs. What should she say? A year and a half? A month? A week? She doesn’t really know when to start counting. So, she sticks with the vaguest thing she can think of. “A while.”

A mirthless chuckle escapes his lips. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“Well," Katniss slips her hands into her pockets. Discussing Peeta with Gale --or Gale with Peeta-- has always made her uncomfortable. Luckily, her friend's tone is a lot more subdued than it used to be.  "We weren’t exactly shouting it over the rooftops, you know?”

Raising a questioning eyebrow, he locks his gray eyes with hers. “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

“I changed my mind.”

As soon as the words pass her lips, she knows they’re true.

She still doesn’t want to have children. If her trips to the Games have taught her anything, it's that Panem is not a safe place to live. But she doesn’t want to be alone anymore, not when she can be with Peeta.

Hoping to put the conversation to rest, she lifts her chin and adds, “Peeta changed my mind.”

Gale nods, slowly taking her in as if he's seeing her for the very first time.  

In the small space, Gale offers his hand. "OK, Catnip, I'll do as you ask."

Smiling, Katniss reaches out to shake it and seal their deal.

Katniss heads back to Victors' Village feeling lighter than she has in weeks. Her plan is in motion. Gale is going to District 13.  

As she reaches the steps of her new home, a thrilling thought crosses her mind.

She's back on uncharted waters. The future is about to become uncertain once more.

[the-ineffable-demon-crowley]

A Bargain Struck

Mesopotamia!AU. Trapped in an arranged marriage, you beseech the demon Crowley to find a way to release you from it. He offers you a simple bargain, one that is far too tempting to resist. 

↝Pairing: Anthony J. Crowley (ft. luscious long curls) x f reader

↝Length: 6.6k

↝Warnings: Oral (f receiving), virgin!reader, sex, dirty talk, praise kink, sacrilege lol - this is not meant to be set in any particular historical place or peoples 

Cross-posted to AO3 here

There was once a man with yellow eyes and curling red hair. He had a sharp smile, and a smooth voice. He was tall, lithe, and lean, and mostly kept to himself. He had a small home just beyond the border of the town, where it seemed only the darkest of clouds would hover above. Rumours flooded the town: sometimes people would talk to him, and then they would disappear. Others would look him in the eye, then days later fall dead quite suddenly. Otherwise devoted husbands and wives would catch a glimpse of him, fall besotted, and renounce their vows.

Livestock would die. Crops turned turned to ash. Water turned to dust. Any unlucky turn of the wind, no matter how explicable, they blamed on him. They said he was a demon, a man borne of hellfire with brimstone in his soul, and the village would see no blessing from the lord until they cast off his wicked presence. Trouble was, there was no evidence of any of it. Apart from always wearing his hood up and hardly being seen in public, thus becoming the inspiration for many a children’s tale, the man was never caught doing any sort of witchcraft. People had long been burned for less, but everybody was afraid of him.

Truth is, so were you. But God had ignored your prayers for too long now, and you had to take things into your own hands. If He could not help you, then you would seek out someone who could. Even if you ended up in a great stew for the demon to gobble up, it would be a better fate than the one awaiting you now. There was someone else you feared more than any demon, and it was for this reason that you chose to follow the stories.  He was said to be called Crowley, and it was in his alleged claws you put your hopes.

So once the day darkened to dusk and the village prepared for bedtime, you slipped out, quiet as a mouse, and made the journey to his home. Having never been there yourself, your path consisted solely of the details you’d heard in stories. You travelled through the trees, thickets, and even crossed a small stream you remembered one person mentioning, once they’d stopped screaming about having seen a demon in the woods. You could only imagine it was Crowley, and though fear gripped your heart, your feet kept moving until - finally - you spotted it. 

Amongst the trees, a squatting little hut built of stone and wood came into view, with sagging front steps, and windows that looked blackened as though from a fire. You didn’t know if he could already hear your racing heartbeat as you tentatively walked towards the door, or if you were going to be a surprise snack that showed up to your door, but either or... it was worth it. 

You raised your hand and gingerly knocked. Is that what one does when visiting a demon’s house? Do demons have a sense of social etiquette? You took a step back and regarded the threshold, all rotten wood and gnarled vines. The cottage looked one wistful sigh away from tumbling. You waited another moment, then another. Nothing.

“Hello?” You called, tilting your head to try and see inside the windows. “D-demon?” The windows reflected nothing but your face, the blackness of the inside making the image as clear as a mirror.

You felt mad. If the man were just a regular old bloke, you’d be the one awaiting the match. Still, if you were right, it was too late to turn around now. Perhaps he was a more formal demon, you thought. You straightened your back and lifted your chin, and spoke as commandingly as you could, as though you were speaking to the house itself. 

“I am here to beseech the demon Crowley.”

A pause. Then a soft creak. The door then swung open quite suddenly, revealing a hooded figure as it banged against the limits of the hinges. The person stepped forward. A few long curls of red hair betrayed the personage underneath. You stepped back with a quiet gasp.

“Go on then. Beseech me.” The tone was almost playful in nature, but there was an undercurrent of power in his words. You thought it best to not anger him.

You swiped your foot back and began to lower yourself onto your knees. Before your legs could touch the ground, his voice halted you.

“No, love. A woman as beautiful as you should never be on her knees. Not like this.”

You straightened your posture, confused and flushed from his words. His demonic charm seemed to already be taking its hold on you, despite having only shared a handful of words and no knowledge of what lay under the cloak.

“I... am here to beseech the lord Crowley to release me from the bonds of my fate.”

The hooded figure was so still, you thought he’d magicked himself into a statue. Then you heard the smile in his words.

“And what fate would that be?”

You let out a soft breath, eyes falling to his feet. “An arranged marriage.”

“Brilliant! Do come in.” The man drifted to the side to let you pass. You tried to peer inside before entering, careful not to allow your foot to cross the threshold for him to pull you in before you’d properly decided. But you could see nothing. Just darkness.

A hand appeared from underneath the cloak, skin smooth and soft, and offered itself to you. Seemingly harmless. You took it tentatively, stepped over the threshold and let the darkness consume you.

The dimness was warm, but not stifling. Then, a few feet away from you, a spark. And another. Then a flame burst to life within a stone pit, and the room was bathed in light. You twisted and turned to try and get an idea of your surroundings, but it looked nothing like what you’d supposed. It was... grand.

The home was lavish; handsomely carved furniture bedecked in thick furs, low tables covered in spreads of foods you’d never even seen before on shining plates. Books and and small statues and curious instruments dotted a few stone shelves jutting out from the walls, with plants and herbs claiming every spare surface you could spot. 

You blinked and he was there, standing over the fire, heating something in a pot. The stew, you thought shrewdly, you were the last ingredient.

“Now then,” he murmured, placing the pot onto a stone ledge nearby. He tipped it slowly and allowed the hot liquid to pour into two matching goblets. The smell was warm and spicy, the smoke of the fire bathing the room in a haze. He stood, goblets in hand, at which point his hood slowly fell back.

The man in front of you was devilish and beautiful. The rest of his curls tumbled forward, a fiery red shade with undercurrents of gold. The yellowness of his eyes was even more striking in the firelight, but they didn’t frighten you like the stories said they would. He was tall and lithe; you could tell from the way the cloaked draped over him.

“Here. A wine of my own creation.” He handed you one of the goblets, warm to the touch, and you cradled it between your fingers as the heat traveled up your arms. Though you hadn’t intended on eating or drinking anything the demon gave you, the smell was so divine it was nearly impossible to resist. You tipped the cup towards your mouth slowly, the sweetness of the berries and the richness of the cloves and ginger flooding your senses instantly. You lowered the cup from your mouth, careful to not overdo it, and found him looking at you intently. Placing the cup on a table nearby, you sighed, ready to make your plea.  

“Please, I need your help to release me from this betrothal.”

“You do not want this union?”

“No.”

“And why is that, love?”

You sat down on the furs with a huff. All of the arguments with your family went swirling through your head. It was hard to pick just one reason.

“I’ve been putting it off for years. Now they want me to marry a man who’s... cruel. I’ve seen it, he’s an evil man. I cannot belong to a man like that. I simply want to live freely without the bonds of marriage, to love freely... I’ve prayed to God asking why I must do this, and he has ignored me. They tell me it is his will, but what of my will?” Your eyes widened and you placed your hand against your mouth. “I- that was sacrilege.”

“And beautifully said, might I add. But what do you suppose I can do?”

“Well, you are a demon, aren’t you? Can’t you... kill him?”

He laughed then, a warm sound showing off two rows of beautiful teeth. You thought you’d seen two shaped like fangs, but when you blinked, his smile had already faded.

“I s’ppose I could, yes, but I made a promise to a... colleague of mine- er, not the point. What’s to stop them from finding another bloke if this one dies? And I certainly can’t kill off every eligible man in your village. You lot would have my head.”

“Then I’m trapped?” Despair filled your voice at the thought. The demon shook his head.

“No, love. We will simply have to think of a more eternal solution.”

You blinked. “And that would be?”

“Give yourself to me.”

You stuttered, the words dying in your throat. A red flush climbed up your throat to your cheeks like the tongue of a flame. “Wh-what?”

“Give yourself over to a higher temptation, and no man, no covenant will be able to pull you from it.” His voice adopted a low, velvety timbre, and your thoughts swam as the warmth and haziness of the room settled upon you like a thick blanket. However,  you still felt clear-headed, so it hadn’t the wine affecting you so; it was the weight of his words that rushed over you like a tidal wave. “With your soul in my possession, you could not offer it to be bound in the sanctity of matrimony. Along with your mind, your body... Of course, your reputation might suffer. Not to mention your status regarding more... eternal fates.” 

“My soul in the hands of a demon! I’d be ruined for eternity... but I’d be free.” You whispered, fingers aimlessly playing with the tassel of a cushion. You fixed him with a hard look, your human gaze unable to penetrate the attractive mask that his face presented. His words were tempting, his face desirable, but he was a demon after all, and you’d be an idiot to take his offer at face value.

“What’s in it for you?”

Crowley smiled then, his snakelike eyes glinting in the firelight; he looked as though he’d eat you whole right there and then. You shifted a bit on the bundle of furs, uncomfortable with so blatantly desirable a stare. You’d certainly never been on the receiving end of one before. He still did not reach out to touch you, but with one word, his wants were clear. 

“You.”

“So you wish to possess me- how is that any different than a marriage?”

“Anybody ever tell you that you ask too many questions, angel? You’ll simply have to see for yourself.” He grunted quietly, raising a hand with long and delicate fingers. He touched your wrist gingerly, turned it over, and traced his fingertips along the exposed skin. You felt goosebumps pebble your skin. and you let out a shaky breath.  His touch was light, delicate, but you felt his power thrumming inside of you. It almost felt as though the blood inside your veins was drawn towards him and his heat. 

If you gave yourself to him, he would possess you, own you, mind, body, and soul. He’d turn out all hope for glory in the eternal kingdom, ravish your lust and tarnish your soul irreversibly. It was not that you simply assumed these things; you saw them. Images flashed in front of your eyes of heat, darkness, pleasure, depravity, want, satiation, and... protection. Freedom. A bond that would keep you and yet set you free. An unstoppable force. 

The images slowly faded from your eyes, but his fingers did not release your wrist. His touch was feather-light as the firelight threw shadows over your skin. Your heart was racing, and it felt as though your skin was lit aflame from the moment he touched you. You felt the edges of your soul singe from the hellfire he imposed upon you. 

“Make your choice.”

You felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. Heart hammering, you closed your eyes and breathed in through your nose and out of your mouth to steady yourself. Your soul was rejecting this devilish influence, but your heart, your mind, wanted nothing more than to give in. Even your body had less than pure intentions, as you felt yourself grow hot between your thighs. Nothing else could make you feel like this again. Not for all of eternity, and it wasn’t worth letting slip away. 

“Yes.” You said, and the haze slowly began to clear. You found strength in that one word. 

“Yes, what? I need to hear you say it, love.”

“Yes, I give myself, body, mind, and soul, to the demon Crowley. I surrender myself to you.” 

The smile on his face was wicked, and his eyes fell to the smooth skin of your upturned wrist as his fingers made quick work of it. He traced a pattern along the visible veins, just for a few seconds, and you felt your blood answer the call, singing at his touch. Moments later, something began to appear. Rising from within your flesh came a mark on your skin; pink at first, then red, then you watched with bewilderment as the colour darkened to the deepest black. It was then that you recognized the shape - a coiling black snake. He released your wrist gently and you clutched it, cradling it in your other hand and staring as though it was someone else’s. You rubbed your thumb over the mark, but no ink stained it. No pain throbbed through your arm. No burning. It was just... there. As if it had always been.

You looked up at Crowley, understandably shocked, and his eyes gazed upon you, pleased. His features were so beautiful, yet chiseled with the intent to tempt unsuspecting prey. Like you. Even his hair acted as a temptation, soft curls tumbling forward from his hood. You fought the urge to reach out and touch them, run your fingers through them - maybe pull them, and instead watched as he raised a hand, finger tapping against his temple. The same black insignia marking his skin. 

“It’s... beautiful.” You surprised yourself, but honestly, it was. The detailing on the snake was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, and as you rolled your wrist between your fingers, you could’ve sworn the scales gleamed like a real snake. Suddenly, the tail twitched, and a slippery tongue lashed out, and you gaped at your own hand. 

“How-”

“Little bit of an illusion.” 

“Will other people see this? Will they know what I have done?” 

“No. The mark can disappear if you wish. But they will know, regardless if they see the mark or not.” 

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s a mark of protection, angel. Those who would otherwise have ill intentions will be forewarned.”

“So they can’t force me to marry?”

“Not unless they’re ready to take on hell itself.” 

A feeling of relief suddenly flooded through you. You were beginning to understand what this bond meant; you’d given yourself to him, and yet you were still free to pursue your own will. If you had to be bonded with someone, you’d always choose the one where you’d given yourself willingly. 

You looked down at the mark emblazoned upon your wrist, a smudge of ink staining your skin. Like he used the ashes of hell itself to imprint his mark on you. You’d never felt safer in your life. Your eyes flickered up to Crowley’s, drunk with the feeling. 

“If my choices will now be wholly mine, I choose to take everything in my hands-” You straightened your back, fingers beginning to unlace the front corseted portion of your dress. It began to fall slack as you shifted your shoulders, revealing a white shift dress beneath it. “-including you.”  

Crowley’s eyes flickered darkly. He had never seen a human give themselves so willingly to the hands of hell, but you were something different. You were temptation incarnate, and it was time that you tapped into those strengths. With his help, of course.

“Not wasting any time, are you?”

The outer layer of your dress was now pooled around your waist, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to rip it off to avenge your hips for being so tragically hidden from him. He watched your trembling hands reach forward for him, as each deft finger unknotted the bindings that held his cloak together. You pushed it off his shoulders slowly, revealing a lean, lithe figure clad in only a tunic. 

“This will mark your downfall, angel.” He murmured, taking one of your hands by the wrist to stop your movements. The trembling stilled instantly at his touch. “There is still time to change your mind.”

“I said yes, Crowley. I want you. My choice.” 

“Then let it be damnation upon you.” 

His lips pressed against the mark on your wrist, then slowly moved up to your forearm, up to your shoulder. At this point, he had pulled you so close that you were nearly flush with his chest. His fingers were apt and skilled as they pulled off the wadded remnants of the dress, tossing it aside as though it offended him. You were left in a white undergarment, shivering, nipples pebbled from the cool air, though you felt like you were burning up inside. 

Crowley’s large hands cupped your breasts, and you let out a soft moan at the feeling. His thumb ran over one of your nipples. “So sensitive already, angel. I’m going to take my time with you.” 

You felt yourself grow wetter between your thighs, and an accompanying heat you had never felt before flared in your stomach. You felt an arm snake around your waist, and you were pulled to your feet. The outer layer of your dress fell from your hips, which pleased Crowley as he placed a searing kiss against your lips. Every touch made you feel feverish, which did not bode well for you once he’d had his way with you. The thought made you drunk with desire. 

He took you into the bedroom, a handsomely carved bed standing right in the centre. A few books and candles dotted the shelves, all of which came alight with a swing of his arm. You swore you would never get used to that. 

“Lie down for me.” Chills seemed to overtake your body at the sound of his low voice rattling deep inside your ribcage. Not wanting to remove yourself from the heat of his body, and yet wishing to comply, you stepped away from him and sat up onto the edge of the bed. You sank in the softness of the sheets, falling back with a soft sigh. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked with that same tone of playfulness. You smirked to yourself, allowing your eyes to close for a moment. 

“Isn’t that the point?”

The sudden feeling of his mouth on your inner thigh made you gasp. You moved to buck your hips at the sudden sensation, at which point he pressed his hand down against your lower stomach, holding you down. He kissed either thigh softly. “I realize this can be overwhelming for you humans, so if you tell me to stop, we stop. Yes?” You felt his teeth scrape against your sensitive skin, and your hips fought against his hand, seeking the heat of his mouth once more.

“Yes, Crowley.” You swore, eyes closing again. 

“There’s a love.” 

You didn’t know when he had bunched your underdress around your hips, but you had been far too distracted to even realize it was still adorning your body. Your thoughts were cloudy beyond the most instinctual drives: Crowley, touch, heat, pleasure. Luckily, he was eager to oblige. 

“Please, please, Crowley..” You whimpered, feeling his hot mouth draw closer and closer to your centre. You had no previous knowledge of carnal relations, but you’d heard so many stories of how stiff, pleasureless and lifeless it could be. So far, this was by far exceeding your expectations.

His large hands gripped your thighs and spread them further apart. You flushed, the heat from your traveling all the way up to your cheeks to colour them pink. He held them firmly, leaving all hope of preserving your dignity in the dust.

“Hm. Gave yourself over so easily, didn’t you, little one?” His voice was hot and smooth as velvet, just like the way his tongue licked a trail over your pussy. You couldn’t help the small yelp that escaped you, and you clapped your hand over your mouth. How embarrassing. Crowley chuckled wickedly, his tongue prodding against your folds, and lips coming to encircle your clit. Pleasure and heat spiked up within your blood, hips squirming from the overload of sensations. He held you fast, dipping his tongue in and out of you with practiced efficiency. You were beginning to quiver beneath him, fingers slipping into his flaming red hair. 

“Crowley, I-I-” A coil tightened inside of you, and tried as you might, you pushed your hips against him to chase the feeling. His grip prevented most movement, but he was determined to let you feel the extent of his prowess. His tongue encircled your clit, and it was then that you felt one of his long fingers slipping inside of you. You were soaked, you could feel it; he slipped another finger in without much issue, and he set a brutal pace almost instantly. 

Your back arched, fingers tugging on his hair. “Crowley!”

Your panting was the only sound in the room you could hear for a few seconds. You blinked in the darkness of the room, the candles flickering and throwing shadows over the walls. Crowley stood from his place at the foot of the bed, wiping his mouth with leisure. His smile was wicked. “Came so prettily, angel.”

You quickly sat up on the bed and tugged him closer by the tunic he was wearing, pressing your lips to his in a searing kiss. He matched the force and heat, overpowering you easily as your tongues battled. You could still nearly taste yourself on his tongue, and the depravity of such a thing nearly had you fainting. But his arms wrapped around you, strong and corded with lean muscle, and you remembered that you were safe here. He broke the kiss, his fingers slowly returning to worship your breast, fingers rolling against your pebbled nipple. 

“Do you still want this?” He lowered his mouth and enveloped the tip of your breast in it, and you shuddered at the feeling of his hot, wet mouth.

“Yes.”

He hummed. “You’re a virgin, little one.”

You couldn’t help but smirk a bit. “You know that, don’t you?”

“We-ell, I just can’t help but find it so... irresistible. Your tight little pink pussy, taking all of me in, right to the hilt.” You bit your lip at his dark words. “A virgin defiled mercilessly by a demon. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, love?”

“Yes!” You sighed, hips wiggling, eager to feel his weight on top of you again. He slowly began to crawl up over you, his arms caging you in as he hovered above you. 

“Yes, what? You know my policy. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you to ruin me, Crowley. Defile me, ravish me until I’m screaming your name, praising you like a god.” 

Desperation began to flow through you, but you were too far gone to care at this point. Crowley seemed ready to give you what you wanted, and you couldn’t have been more eager. He kissed you again, his arms slowly slipping up the sides of your body until he reached your forearms. Gripping both arms, he raised them above your head and held them there. 

“Don’t move, little one. Or you won’t get anything.”

You swallowed, clutching the carvings of the headboard. One of his hands fell from holding your wrists to push your thigh down, and the other guided himself inside you. With one smooth thrust, you were full of him, hard and heavy and thick. Tears pricked your eyes as the sting pinched your most sensitive areas. He didn’t dare move, and his large hand came up to clutch your cheek, his thumb brushing away the crystal tears that hung from your lashes. 

His body covered yours, and he pressed his forehead against yours, absorbing your whimper with his kiss. “D’you feel alright?” 

You took a breath, the sting beginning to dissipate. Instead, tiny sparks of pleasure began to replace them, and your even softly bucked your hips to show your desperation hadn’t lessened in the least. 

“Take me.” 

“So ready to surrender your innocence to the likes of me.” He smiled, pressing another kiss to your lips. His mouth trailed down towards your jawline, towards your throat. You felt his teeth enclose around your skin, and you sighed at the feeling, fingers tightening around the carving headboard. It was then, when your guard had fallen, that he moved. Hips rolling against yours in a positively snakelike manner, you gasped quietly at the newfound pleasure that began to build inside of you. 

Your fingernails dug into the wood as he began to set a faster pace, his cock hitting you in the same delicious places as his fingers had. Crowley’s mouth found your breasts, and he enveloped his hot mouth around a nipple as your body shook from his thrusts. His long hair tickled your skin as he moved. 

“Crowley,” You groaned. “Can I touch you?” 

“Oh, yes. I think I’d much prefer your nails digging into my back anyway.” 

You smirked at his smugness, and your hands fell from the headboard to trail over his shoulder blades, angular bones underneath soft skin. He punctuated his next thrust as if to prove a point, and your fingernails dug into his skin. You heard him groan in pleasure, and his pace quickened still. You tried to roll your hips up to meet him, but it was impossible to keep up. He slowed down slightly to achieve the friction of his pubic bone rubbing against your clit, and you moaned at the feeling of it, still sensitive from his previous ministrations. 

“You’re so pretty like this. You belong with us sinners.” 

Your hands slipped up his back into his hair, the fiery curls feeling warm and soft between your fingers. You tugged experimentally as he pounded inside of you, and you heard him moan at the feeling. You grinned to yourself, finally having found a pleasure point in the grand demon. 

But judging just by the way he looked at you, you were his pleasure now. 

His thrusts were growing hard and uncontrolled, and you felt anticipation building inside of you, threatening to spill over at any moment. But something was missing. Crowley knew exactly what it was, and when his thumb pressed over your swollen clit, you keened into him, back arching to meet his chest. 

“Much better, innit?” He teased you, thumb rubbing slow circles as his hips rolled against yours. You were becoming a mess of sweat and moans between the sheets, hair mussed and cheeks flushed. Of course, you had been warned about your wedding night since the day you were betrothed, and you’d heard stories from the other married women, but nothing could have prepared you for this. Submission and procreation were the only things a woman was capable of, but not you. Not with him.

“Are you going to cum for me, angel?” He lowered his mouth to the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin, and the growling, gravelly timbre of his voice sparking heat in your core. 

“Mm-hmm,” You whimpered, unable to form words at this point. He was pleased at what he’d done to you, a trembling, writhing, blushing mess in his bed. The picture of innocence corrupted. And you were his. “Please-”

“Say you’re mine.” His grip on your hips tightened, and you groaned. His thumb on your clit didn’t stop, and the overstimulation was beginning to sting, but you could feel his hips beginning to stutter against yours. He was close too.

“I-I’m yours. Mind, soul...” You gasped as his thrusts deepened, one of his hands pushing your thighs down. “- and body.”

“Cum.” In desperation, you thrusted your hips up as best you could under his grip, desperate to satisfy the ache that plagued you. Once the word hit your ear, the cord inside of you snapped, pleasure and warmth spreading through your nerves like a fire. Hellfire. Heat sizzled through your blood, burning up any last hope of salvation as you gave yourself over to the demon. You felt the mark on your arm singing - there was no other word for it. A triumphant pleasure that came from within your heart at the feeling of being so whole in his arms. The pact was fulfilled; you had done the unthinkable, the irreversible. And damn if it didn’t feel good.

Crowley pushed his hips against yours once, two, three more times, his thick cock thrusting up inside of you, propelling your release further. Then his rhythm stuttered, and you felt him fill you up with his hot seed. He pressed his hips against yours, allowing you to milk him for every drop, then he collapsed onto the bed beside you. 

Panting heavily, you stared up at the ceiling, and you smiled. 

You felt him shift in the bed, and suddenly felt a cloth wiping at your inner thighs, slightly dampened. You found that you weren’t even surprised at this little trick, and began to close your eyes. His arms encircled you in a band of warmth, and you pressed your cheek against his chest, feeling the gentle patter of his heartbeat underneath. You were a little surprised to find that he even had a heart, being a supernatural being, but of course, he was still flesh and blood. That much was clear. Your breathing was beginning to even out, and your eyes wanted so desperately to close now that you felt safe for the first time in months. But there was something in the back of your mind, a sobering thought that threatened your peace.

“Crowley?”

“Mm.” He grumbled, clearly having nearly fallen asleep. Your fingers traced over his skin, leaning your head back to look up at him, jaw and throat exposed to you.

“Did you mean it? When you said you’d protect me?” Your words were quiet, breath barely escaping to tickle across his skin. You saw his eyes pop open, dark jewels glinting in the night.

“Of course, angel. It’s an unbreakable bond, not to be taken bloody lightly.” You felt his chest shift as he chuckled. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” 

The next morning, Crowley was still slumbering away. You had been awake only for about ten minutes, and spent the entire time staring up at him, admiring his features. His skin was pale and smooth, his jaw and nose angular like they’d been carved from stone, with his flowing hair spread out among the pillows. He looked every bit the demon he was, and yet with his eyes closed, his snakelike gaze no longer visible, he was just a man. A man who’d saved you by damning you. 

You slipped out from his arms and picked up your underdress, then followed the trail of clothing out into the sitting area until you were fully dressed. In the daylight, you were able to see the details of his home a bit better, and the opulence of its treasures were not lost on you. All sorts of trinkets that shined like jewels and books in languages you’d never seen stared back at you, and you, yet another thing he’d collected along the way. You wanted to stay here and take your place among the pleasures that Crowley had amassed forever, and that was exactly what you had to leave. Just for a bit.

The daylight was even more intrusive when you’d stepped outside, the white sunlight shining even stronger on you as though it tried to wash you clean of the nights from the night before. But there was no saving you now. You looked down at the mark on your wrist, and tugging your sleeve over it, headed back towards your village.

As expected, whispers arose the moment you stepped foot in the boundary of your village, the rows of little huts coming alive with whispers of people staring through their windows, even some stopping work in the fields some distance away as they caught sight of you. Crowley said the mark wouldn’t be visible, but it was as though what you’d done was written all over you. You held your head high and continued walking towards your home, ready to face the consequences. The only thing keeping you strong was knowing that you could run back to Crowley’s arms as soon as it was over. 

It was a fool’s errand to think that you could slip in, grab some clothing and essentials, and disappear before anybody had a chance to question you. It was even more foolish of you to think that your betrothed wouldn’t be waiting for you outside your home, calmly whittling a spear. You silently hoped it was for a hunt and not meant for you.

He stood from his seat on a nearby boulder, eyes narrowed either from the sun or from suspicion, you weren’t certain. You tried to maintain your posture even with every step you took towards him, but a small part of you regretted not telling Crowley where you were going. 

“And where have you been?” He spat at you, tossing his handiwork aside. His hands were large, just like Crowley’s, but they were not kind. You lifted your eyes from him, his overpowering body and his cruel sneer that twisted his features. He was still a young man, yet evil had corrupted any innocence of youth within him, making him look more sinister than any demon. “Playing the role of a harlot, have you?”

“I sought the consolation of a friend. You will have no reason to worry about me again.”

“No? And why’s that?” He grunted, fingers flexing. From your peripheral, you saw that most of the townsfolk had returned to their duties, but you also knew they were paying attention, listening intently to every word. 

“Because I’m not staying. I only came for some things.” You made a move to go into your home, only to have him grasp your arm to stop you. His grip did not hurt you yet, but you felt the barely restrained anger thrumming beneath his touch. It would be well within his rights as a man to strike you, but he seemed to be waiting for the opportune moment. He was egotistical enough to want a dramatic performance; the noble husband betrayed by the evil wife. 

“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going, hm? You’re to be my wife and I’m not about to let my property leave.” His grip then tightened and he pulled you towards him, and it was then that you felt fear. Real, cold fear exploding within your veins. Your eyes closed and your body tensed. 

But his strike never came. Instead, you heard the concerned and frightened shouts of the townsfollk, and the world darkened behind your eyelids. You opened your eyes and looked at your betrothed, entranced. The skies had blackened almost instantly, heavy thunderclouds rolling it with sharp zaps of lightening. Red flashed within the puffs of the clouds, like the heated core of a volcano underneath the earth. 

“What- what is this? Witchcraft!” He bellowed, hand releasing your arm. It was then that you felt another pair of hands seize you, hurriedly but gently. As the thunder and the lightened rolled over the town, the winds tore through the buildings, shaking everything that wasn’t tied down. It looked like the end of the world. You fell back into a cloaked figure, the strong, warm hands a comforting presence. Crowley.

“Hear this now!” A voice boomed from within the shadowy figure, one unlike anything you’d ever heard before. Even as you stood behind him, unable to appreciate the entirety of the terrifying figure he’d become, you trembled at its power. “This woman’s soul is forever bound to me. Any man or force that threatens her being shall come to face the wrath of hellfire!” The thunder clashed to punctuate his sentence. 

Your former betrothed fell to the ground, agape and horrified at the vision in front of him. You smirked a bit at the sight of him, a pitiful worm writing in the dust. Crowley’s power thrummed you, the mark on your wrist coming alight at its presence. 

A wicked laugh tore from the demon, and with another clash of thunder and lightening, a bombardment of drums and flashes, you blinked and all was quiet. A small fire crackled across the room, and something delicious turned on the spit above it. A goblet of wine stood on the carved table below you. You were back in Crowley’s home. 

You turned around to find him, and in doing so, immediately found yourself nestled in his arms. You pressed your cheek against his hard chest, feeling the warmth of that aforementioned hellfire licking against your heart. His arms were strong around you, and his long curls brushed against your cheek as he tucked you underneath his chin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going.” You murmured into his robes. You felt him shrug against you. 

“Thought it might be a bit of a laugh.” He chuckled. “And I’d show you what that mark is capable of. What I’m capable of.”

“Well, I know what you’re capable of.” You replied knowingly. You pulled away from his arms and stared up into his green gaze. “Thank you.”

“We-ell, comes with the territory, doesn’t it? Now then, I’m making breakfast. Your things are in the bedroom exactly as you left them.” You nodded and removed yourself from his embrace to go and look through your things. 

“What happened? Did you kill him?”

“What? Me? Perish the thought!” You giggled at his outrage.

“We struck a bargain, you could say. He won’t be bothering you again, you can return to the village whenever you like.”

“Not a bargain like ours, I should hope.” You teased, folding one of your frocks. Crowley was quiet for a moment, but only for the second it took for him to appear behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and lips positioned just behind your ear. 

“Why, no. Ours is a sinner’s paradise. Reserved only for me,” He pressed a kiss to your neck. “And my angel.” 

[pain-somnia]

Akatsuki Gift Exchange 2020

Title: a pack comes calling Rated: General Audiences Disclaimer Prompt: “Anything with Sarada and Itachi and or Madara would be lovely, like any interactions at all between them”; some fave genres: Family/Friendship, Fantasy Day’s Notes: here’s my fic for the @akatsuki-gift-exchange 😊 I was selected to be the secret santa for @lorna-likes-skittles I hope you like it a lot. I wrote the Uchiha family as a pack of wolf shifters and made this a modern fantasy au~ AO3 Link

a pack comes calling

The air was beginning to have the sharp quality that marked the change of the season. It bit at his skin when the wind blew, stinging his cheeks.

There had been many winters in his life, but they all blurred together as he got on in years. Madara sighed as he lifted his head in the direction of  the tree line of his pack’s territory. He could hear their breaths, smell their unique scents.

The burning sage of Fugaku.

The fresh balsam that blended with the cedarwood of Obito.

The lavender and vanilla of Izumi.

The smokey cloves and orange of Shisui.

The bergamot of Itachi.

The Uchiha clan had dwindled in numbers through the years. Some had been lost as they fought for their decreasing territory. Others had forgotten who they were and lost their way.

The floral notes of wisteria marked the approach of Mikoto. She dressed him in her comforting sweet scent as she wrapped him in a blanket. Unlike the others in his clan, he was more susceptible to the cold and it had gotten worse as he aged.

“Would you like your tea now?” Mikoto asked him as he felt her adjust the blanket around his body to block out the cold.

“I will wait until it’s closer to sundown.”

It was the night of the full moon and as an older wolf, the shift took more out of him. His bones could no longer take the transformation and a tea with monkshood as an ingredient had to be made to ease the pain. Running in the woods was a game for a younger man. He mostly spent the nights he was forced to shift curled up on the engawa, letting the breeze ruffle his silver streaked fur.

The rest of the clan members were in the forest, marking trees and getting rid of hidden dangers. It wasn’t the Wolf Moon, which was tradition, but tonight marked the first night that the new pup would join them as they frolicked in the forest and  learn the Uchiha land.

And there it was, the unmistakable stench of human mixed with apples and daffodils paired with the dewey grass and earthy green tea scent of the former youngest in the pack. Swirling between them was that same sharp human scent━although much more muted━blended with black tea and cinnamon.

“Madara-ojiisan,” chorused the pair of voices, one low and husky and the other sweet and soft as petals. He bowed his head slightly in response, waiting for the third voice.

“Hello, Madara-ojiisan,” came the clumsy trill of a toddler, followed by the uneven steps that children take, heavier on one part of the sole in a way that made them graceless.

Keeping his head bowed, Madara waited for the press of a tiny nose against his own. The contact was soft but carried the warmth of a fire that all of Izuna’s descendants carried in their blood.

“Sarada,” he murmured in greeting.

With his sight lost to him, Madara could not see the markings of the Uchiha in the pup, but it was there in the delicate note of dying embers that none of them could escape.

Madara once believed it was his duty to fan the flames and watch his clan rise, to strengthen the sparks. That it was his duty to make sure his family was strong enough to answer the call.

Little hands braced themselves on his knees and a small form settled into his lap. Madara wrapped the blanket around the both of them, trapping the warmth Sarada brought with her.

The marriage of her scent with his crisp mountain air and black pine scent brought memories of past winters during the few moments of peace. It was the scent of a time when he and Izuna were still children and taking in the comforts of their grandmother’s home when they took shelter from the snow.

It was the smell of family.

.

.

Flurries of snow stuck to his lashes. Itachi had been outside in the cold long enough for his body to be too cold for the snowflakes to melt when they touched his face. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky, reveling in the peace the snowfall brought.

“Itachi-jisan!”

The peace had to come to an end, but the interruption wasn’t unwelcome. He turned his face back in the direction of his parents’ home and opened his eyes. Bundled up for the cold weather, his niece waddled toward him. If she heard the calling━which was likely━all of the layers would become unbearable in a few hours.

“It’s snowing!”

“Did you greet our uncle?”

“Yes!”

Sarada leaped into the air when she got closer to him. Itachi lowered himself in order to grab her from the air, lifting her up higher by the armpits. She squealed in delight, giggling as he lowered her so she could kiss her nose to his in the submissive gesture of pups.

“I missed you,” Sarada cooed in her high, child pitch. Itachi looked down at her with fondness. When the dark of night settled in, and the full moon there would be a forced shift and he could already hear the way she would yip in her wolf form.

“You should get your dad to bring you out to the country more often.” Itachi had raised his voice so his younger brother, Sasuke, could hear him from where he and his wife were walking on the edge of the forest.

Sasuke lifted his head towards him, mouth opened and ready to retort, when a red blur leaped from out of the woods, narrowly missing him and Sakura. Itachi sighed as he watched the russet wolf slipped from a crouch onto her back, presenting her stomach in a sign of submission towards Sasuke.

“Why are you already in wolf form, Karin?” Sasuke snapped, holding Sakura up by her elbows from behind her.

If the Uchiha pack was dwindling, the Uzumaki clan was practically nonexistent. Uzumaki Karin and her cousin Kushina were the last of the Uzumaki wolves. Kushina had one son and he never felt the call━a risk she had taken when she had decided to mate with a human. Karin had joined their pack a few years ago, not seeking to be part of a breeding pair, but the option was there whenever she and Itachi decided that was a path they wanted to take.

“Karin-neesan!” Sarada waved her arms around excitedly from Itachi’s hold.

“Karin-neesan?” Itachi frowned, cocking his head in confusion.

“Yup! Karin-neesan said she’s a big sister not an auntie.”

“Of course she did.”

Itachi followed the wildflower splashes that Karin released with her excitement. She bounced around Sakura, pressing her snout into Sakura’s midsection.

“Does your mother have something to tell us?” He whispered into Sarada’s ear, pressing his nose into her cheek and making her giggle. Karin had a much stronger sense of smell than he did so he wasn’t upset that she had made the discovery first.

Sarada cupped her hands around Itachi’s ear and attempted to whisper back to him. “Sarada is going to be a big sister.”

“That’s exciting.” Itachi adjusted his hold so the four year old was sitting on the cradle of his left arm. “You know what else is exciting?”

“I get to stay up past my bedtime tonight?” Sarada gasped excitedly, clapping her hands together.

“Yes, you do.” Itachi guided her into the woods, taking care not to trip over any raised roots. “And do you know why?”

“Hmm,”  Sarada hummed, rocking her head side to side with the sound. She raised her hands up and flexed her fingers. “Is it because of my nails?”

Itachi took one of her small hands in his own and rubbed his thumb along the small digits, tracing the curve of her sharp nails. “It’s because of your claws.”

There had been an incident in a playground where Sarada had accidentally scratched another child. The mother had been understanding and had actually offered Sasuke a pair of nail clippers to use. Sasuke apologized again and took Sarada home as quickly as possible.

Examining her hands when it was safe, he discovered that the top of Sarada’s pudgy toddler hands were covered with thick black hair and her nails elongated and sharp.

It demanded a call home. His real home.

“I like it here, Itachi-jisan.” Sarada sighed, lifting her head skyward and closing her eyes. “It smells so good.”

“It’s better than the city, that’s for sure.”

Itachi remembered his childhood. He remembered running through the woods and lying in clearings with Shisui and Izumi. He remembered playing tag with Sasuke to teach him how to shift from human to wolf and back.

It was all done here. This was home, this is where family should be together.

When he was younger, all Itachi wanted was to run away to the city. He wanted to live with the humans and never shift. He planned on taking the monkshood tea every full moon, and just sleep through the call that sang in his blood.

And for the first few years of adulthood he did just that. He went to university in the city and ignored the feeling of homesickness he figured was normal for all uni students. Visits home were rare, mostly done for holidays, and they were enough for him.

But there was a loneliness he could not shake in crowded places.

It wasn’t until he had to take a trip for work that had him in the mountains that he realized what had been missing.

“Mama said we might move here,” Sarada murmured out of habit. They never raised their voices in the woods, especially not during the day.

The two of them walked deeper into the forest. Itachi walked with Sarada as a guide as she sniffed the air and patted tree trunks and called out the names of different family members that had marked them.

“This is grandpa.” Sarada pressed her chubby cheek against the tree and drummed her fingers along the bark. “It smells like the gray-ish leaves Mama uses in tea sometimes.”

They continued walking, Shisui and Obito having joined them when they reached the creek that marked the boundary they had set up for Sarada’s first night in the woods. It was as the sun was setting lower that Sarada began to complain about feeling too hot.

“I don’t like it,” she whined, her hair sticking to her cheeks from all of her sweat. Her face flushed red from her fever despite the fact that Itachi had removed her coat.

“I know, I know,” Itachi attempted to soothe her, rubbing his hand on her back.

Despite the insistence from everyone that her facial features were just like her mother’s, Itachi was reminded of a time over two decades in the past where he was doing the same for his younger brother. With her tiny face scrunched up in discomfort, Sarada reminded him so much of Sasuke when he had first shifted. He had complained so much about the heat and stripped himself in their backyard long before the sun had set.

Sasuke had also been an early bloomer. He had heard the call before the Wolf Moon and had shifted three months earlier on the Harvest Moon. The Cold Moon was only a month early, but Sarada was proving to be her father’s daughter.

Brushing her wet bangs out of her face, Itachi smiled softly at his niece. “How about we get you some tea?”

His mother was ready with a pot of monkshood tea on the engawa when they made it back to the house. Madara was already drinking his first serving.

Sakura perked up from where she was bringing out another blanket for Great-Uncle Madara. She set it by him and placed his hand on the blanket before rushing towards them, arms outstretched.

“My poor girl.” Sakura took Sarada from Itachi’s hold and Sarada pressed her face into the crook of Sakura’s neck, grateful for the feel of her mother’s cool skin.

Itachi grabbed a second teacup from the tray his mother had brought out and filled it. The tea was an Uchiha family recipe that helped young pups and the elderly with the effects of the forced shift that came with the full moon. It also helped when they had to hide their shift in populated areas. A strong brew made one drowsy and sleep the night away so that they didn’t run the risk of falling victim to their instincts in a dangerous place.

“Some of the monkshood tea might help.”

Sakura eyed the teacup warily but took the offering regardless. Itachi had to resist rolling his eyes in annoyance. He was sure if it had been anyone else, she would have taken the cup without any hesitation. His relationship with his sister-in-law wasn’t the best━they were tolerant of each other, but she still hadn’t gotten over the way he had tried to drag Sasuke back home and away from the life he had built for himself in the city. Itachi wouldn’t have pushed the matter if he hadn’t believed it was what was best for Sasuke.

But tonight wasn’t about them or even Sasuke. It was about Sarada.

“Maybe,” Sasuke fell back on his butt and took a seat next to him, not caring for the snow, “you need a pup of your own?”

Itachi scoffed around the hair tie he held between his teeth. He had been in the middle of braiding Sarada’s hair so that it would be away from her face and neck. Sakura had placed a cold compress to her forehead, but there wasn’t much else they could do.

“If I was worried about my own pups, I wouldn’t have time for Sara-chan.” Itachi pinched at Sarada’s cheek and blew a raspberry against the other, making her giggle. “Right?”

“Right!” Sarada chirped, nodding her head seriously.

The temperature dropped with the sun and Sarada finally relaxed, the chill of the winter breeze a relief on her overheated flesh. The relief came but so did the excess energy building up within her. Itachi had to keep her from running off toward any rustling distraction.

Her excitement sent splashes of black tea and cinnamon into the air. Itachi always enjoyed how their scents related through tea, even if it was a loose connection.

“Will you show me how to hunt?” Sarada raised her hands up to mimic claws and pulled back her lips to show off her gums in a snarl. She growled playfully at him until he reached for her ribs and tickled her.

“Not tonight. You’re still too young.”

Sarada sighed in disappointment, her small shoulders drooping. Pouting, she fell back so she was seated in Itachi’s lap, her back to his chest. They enjoyed the silence and the snowfall for a moment until Sarada sat up, alert.

Itachi could feel the rise of his hair on his arms as his flesh rippled with goose pimples, but he kept his eyes on Sarada. He knew what this feeling was, had years of this feeling, but it was new to her. Sarada’s head moved from side to side as she searched for the source of what made her so jittery. It had been so long since Itachi had seen a new wolf pup feel the call.

Itachi had dealt with the forced shift for over twenty-seven years. That was over 324 moons of turning into what Madara called their true form. The heat that had once been too much to bear, he now embraced and let it settle inside of him.

There was high pitched whine and Itachi turned to the source and found a much larger black wolf than him nuzzling the curled up form of his niece. Sarada was trembling, the change a much slower process for her as she didn’t know what to expect and was fighting against it even with the sedation properties of the monkshood tea.

The large wolf━Sasuke━pressed his snout against Sarada’s cheek and made small, reassuring grunting sounds deep in his throat. Matching the sounds, Itachi pressed his own snout to the underside of Sarada’s jaw and licked. Slowly, Sarada’s whimpers ceased and her trembling settled to a few odd twitches. She was still in the half human, half wolf state but she was much calmer.

As much as she reminded Itachi of Sasuke, he needed to remember that Sarada was her own person. Sasuke took to being a wolf much easier and he had embraced his shift immediately. As excited as Sarada was to be with her family, the shift was frightening her.

“Pa...Papa…” Sarada’s voice was swallowed by canine whimpers as her snout and throat fully formed. Sasuke tore at her clothing as her limbs transformed into those of a wolf and she became entangled in the fabric. Itachi helped speed up the process by ripping at her leggings.

By the time they had freed Sarada of her human clothing, she had finished shifting. She shook her body, spraying snow everywhere and shaking off the remaining pieces of her clothes. Sarada spun in circles, chasing her own tail and when she tired of that she nipped at the air around Sasuke’s and his tails.

She ran around the yard, stumbling over her own legs, but righting herself up and running as if she never fell over to begin with. She circled around her father and Itachi before bounding up the engawa and rubbing against the sleepy form of Madara. Madara lifted his head and nipped at her ear in warning and then snuggled under his blankets when Sarada scooted away from him.

Sarada crawled towards her mother and threw herself at Sakura’s lap. Sakura cooed at her daughter, scratching at the space between her ears. Sarada enjoyed the affection until she no longer could stay still. She leaped off of the engawa and dashed towards her father and uncle, yipping excitedly.

A howl came from within the woods. The others had already made their way into the forest when they felt the call to shift. Howls soon followed from other members of their pack. Sarada looked towards the trees and back to Sasuke and then Itachi. She nodded towards the tree and bounced around them in excitement. Sasuke bowed his head in a nod and Sarada shuffled into a proper sitting stance. Raising her head towards the sky, she howled━high and at some pitches weak, but it was a howl.

From the forest, howls were returned.

Itachi nudged Sarada with his snout, pushing her towards the forest. She needed no more encouragement and raced towards the tree line where the howls carried on.

Family was beckoning her forward.

[everlarkficexchange]

The Lake

Written by : @thegirlfromoverthepond

Prompt 92: Modern AU: Katniss is present when her father dies a traumatic death. She doesn’t just stop singing. She stops speaking completely. Desperate to help her daughter heal/express herself, Mrs. Everdeen enrols her in art therapy where she meets Peeta Mellark. Submitted by @wingletblackbird

Beta-ed by @jroseley (thank you for your quick work !)

“Just know that here, you can do whatever you want, Katniss. Even if this means doing nothing at all.”

The look she gave Cinna, their art therapist, made Peeta’s heart squash a little. He had seen that look so many times before, in his own mirror. Empty, aghast, lost.

“I know from experience, that one hour goes by quicker if you do something. I hope you won’t mind?” Cinna asked, looking at the four of them, all sitting at tables, as if he expected an answer. Peeta knew damn well nobody would talk as usual, that no syllable would be spoken because sometimes words just weren’t enough to describe what they went through.

He sighed, before he looked at the newcomer, Katniss. He could see the pain in her features, an echo to his own, could see the traces left by the tears, the hollow in her cheeks, the layers of clothes that tried to cover her thinness.

She looked back, as if she was assessing him before she shrugged, a mere jolt of her shoulders, an indication that she didn’t care.

Or maybe was she giving him permission? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t hope for anything. Hope was for the people passing by the windows, carefree and happy.

Not for them.

“Pick whatever tool you want. You’re free to do as you please here.” Cinna’s soft voice took Peeta out of his thoughts.

He picked a pencil along with a sketchbook, looking out of the the windows. He knew Cinna would expect him to produce something, as he had done during the previous cessions. He glimpsed at the newcomer, knowing she would  need some time to get used to her new surroundings, to feel at ease with the band of broken persons in the room.

It wouldn’t be easy. She just had to try.

He knew that was the hardest part. It had been for him. Starting to get in touch with the world again, hoping to be a part of it, again, after all he had gone through. Learn to move on without forgetting, to use the past to build a better future.

It would be her call, though. She needed to want to do it.

It was a long path to recovery.

Peeta  focused his attention on the landscape outside, the familiar view of the town’s life, hoping to find something that would catch his attention. He wasn’t ready yet to draw about his past.

He could hear the soft voice of Cinna. The therapist moved along the patients, taking the time to talk to every one of them. Peeta knew his time would come. He had to start drawing something.

He settled on a leaf passing in front of him - even if his fingers itched to draw her.

There was something that had caught his artist’s eye, something he couldn’t pinpoint yet, that he hoped he would narrow down in the coming weeks.

When she would come back.

If she wanted to come back.

—-

She came back the next Tuesday. Peeta almost believed she wouldn’t, as she showed up a few minutes late. She didn’t pick a pen, or a paintbrush. Not even a paper sheet. She looked around, before sitting down on the old armchair, next to the windows, her eyes lost in the life passing and coming.

She didn’t talk either nor react when Cinna passed nearby, trying to engage her in a conversation, without any answer coming from her.

Cinna didn’t seem to mind, though.

Peeta felt the now familiar hand on his shoulder when the therapist came nearby.

“What will you do today, Peeta ?” Cinna asked, in his warm voice. “Want to give a try at the clay? You could mold something …”

The rest of the sentence was lost to Peeta. Mold. Form. Bake.

Bake. Bread.

Fire.

Fire.

FIRE!

He closed his eyes as he felt the memories coming back.

The fire, that took his family.

His entire family.

A part of his body too.

His life was broken.

“They are a part of you, Peeta, don’t let them take you over…” Cinna’s voice was an echo to the good words of Peeta’s therapist, Dr. Aurelius. He damn well knew all that. Problem was, how to be sure the memories wouldn’t take his life over again - he couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t -

A hand on his hand. Small, soft and cold. Unexpected.

He opened his eyes, to be caught in a sea of hundreds of shades of gray, that played with the light coming from the window.

He tried to focus on her eyes, on her hand, on Cinna’s voice - the things that seemed to ground him in the place and time, to not get lost in the flow of memories.

Finally, after several minutes, as his breath started to calm down, Peeta felt his body relax, the tension leaving him, the memories of the fire finally dissolving into the recesses of his mind.

As soon as he shook his head, trying to get his mind back on the present, Katniss’s hand flew back in her lap, leaving him with a feeling of emptiness.

He looked at her, again, only to find her staring at something through the window, her right hand under her chin, as if lost in thoughts.

“Are you okay, Peeta?” There was concern in Cinna’s voice, as he crouched in front of him, his gaze insistent.

Peeta could have nodded, just like he always did when an episode happened.

He could.

This time, though, he didn’t.

“I’m okay.”  Peeta said, simply.

Three little words.

More than everything he’d ever said in all the sessions.

“Good.” Cinna’s smile was as radiant as the sun, yet Peeta couldn’t care less. His eyes were still trained on Katniss, who seemed still lost in her contemplation of the street. He couldn’t miss the hint of a smile on her lips.

It made his heart skip a beat.

—————

“Katniss? Is that you?”

He hoped he wasn’t mistaken by the same color of hair, the same shape of a neck.. there was something in him that just knew it was her, her fellow patient by Cinna’s sessions.

Where she still hasn’t spoken a word.

Not that Cinna minded, though. It was as if he could read their minds, knew exactly what their feelings were at any time of the sessions. Peeta could remember how their therapist had announced that Clove wouldn’t come to the sessions anymore, or how Cato had relapsed and was currently treated in a psych ward, so it would only be him and Katniss now.

Because apparently, the other patients weren’t as advanced as they were.

That was something Peeta didn’t understand. He had only spoken three words in the sessions, three words in a six months period, yet that was too advanced for other patients ? As for Katniss, she still spent her hour looking through the windows, sometimes drawing a pattern on the wood, sometimes lost in her thoughts.

Yay for progresses.

Seeing her here, out of the Art therapy room was … strange. Peeta had gotten accustomed to seeing her there, a permanent fixture in his otherwise very hectic world… being totally on his own from one day to the other because he was legally an adult, yet having to deal with the aftermath of the fire, the death of his whole close family, the emptiness.

When she turned her head at the sound of his voice, he saw the stream of tears on her face, her shiny eyes circled with red that she promptly hid behind a Kleenex.

He didn’t dare move forward at the sight of such display of sadness, didn’t dare move his eyes from her face, didn’t dare look at the tombstone in front of her.

He didn’t need to. He understood.

The pain, the loss. The tears.

He heard her sobbing. He had gotten so accustomed to her silence, the sound startled him, prompted him to move forward.

He would never be able to remember how long it took him to get to her, just that something in him told him it was the right thing to do. Without thinking, as soon as he got close to her, so close, maybe too close, he held out his hand to engulf her in the lightest hug he had ever given.

Peeta Mellark had always been known for his hugs. Whether the bear-hugs he shared with his brothers, or the lighter ones with his friends, there was the Delly-hug, which mostly consist of extricating himself out of his best friends embrace.

It was the first time though that he felt a shiver run through him as he hugged Katniss, something that came from the somewhere deep down inside of him, something he couldn’t explain, something … primal, laced with the urge to protect her.

Peeta felt her tense at the first touch of his arm, which he expected but seconds after she all but crumpled onto him, quickly soaking his shirt with her tears.

He had no clue what to do, what to say to help her out. He knew from experience that telling her things would be alright, that she would feel better one day were useless.

“I know a place, deep in the woods, where I go to forget about the world. A place where I can cry and be sad, where I can be …me.” He whispered for her ear only. “It’s away from the Hob woods - you just have to walk a little and there’s … there’s this lake. My family …”

His voice broke at the thought of his parents, of his brothers. Peeta took a deep breath, closed his eyes, before starting again.

“We own the land around … my grandfather got if from my grandmother and they built a caban there… we often came for the family barbecues … we spent so many times swimming or fishing….”

For a few seconds, Peeta was lost into his memories of another time. He didn’t notice the small smile that appeared on his lips at the thought of the epic games he had with his brothers, or with friends that came with them.

“But the most beautiful thing at the lake, is the willow tree on one side… when there’s a slight breeze, you can see the branches touching the surface of the water, playing with it … it’s beautiful.. I’ve tried so many times to draw it, but so far it’s all bad … There are flowers, too, and when the lake is calm, you can see their perfect reflection in the water, it’s beautiful ….”

As he opened his eyes, Peeta realized there were tears coming out of his eyes, that he had been crying too.

For the first time in months, he realized he felt better after crying, that remembering the good times had felt good.

“Can you take me to your lake?” she asked, in a voice raw with sorrow, with hurt, with the lack of practice.

He nodded, speechless at her talking, while he watched her bending down, kissing her palm before she lifted her hand to the three names engraved in the granite.

Her name was Everdeen, Peeta read. He held his hand out to her when she rose.

They had a lake to see.

[ravenkings]

Would’st Thou Like to Live Deliciously?: Part 1

Michael Langdon x Fem!Reader, AHS: Apocalypse x The Witch (2015) AU

Summary: Based on the 2015 film “The Witch”. Alone in the vast wilderness of 17th Century New England after your family has been killed off by witchcraft, you, a Puritan girl, are faced with an impossible choice: death or signing your soul away to Satan and becoming a witch. Black Phillip, the family goat, has been looking at you strangely, and you wonder if he is exactly what he seems to be...

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: AU, Dark!fic, MAJOR spoilers for the ending of “The Witch” (2015), Historical Setting (1600s New England), Fem!Reader, Lapsed Puritan!Reader, Dom!Michael, Matricide, Violence, Murder, Poor attempts at writing linguistically accurate 17th Century English dialogue, Shape-shifting Michael Langdon, Michael Langdon is Black Phillip, Nudity, Slight Glove Kink, Sensuality, Selling your soul to Satan

Note: So this is my first fanfic that I’ve actually published on the internet. I’ve tried writing them for years, but I’ve never actually posted them online, so this is a first for me! I obviously own nothing, and I did pull major sections of the dialogue directly from “The Witch”. I’m open to any and all feedback, and stay tuned for Part 2!

You lay on the dirt in shock, breathing in gasps as you felt your mother’s corpse weigh heavily on you. Her blood was sticky on your hands and face, staining the front of your dress. You still held the knife that you had thrust in your mother’s face as she had pinned you to the ground, screaming and raving, choking you with her bare hands, her grief over your dead siblings and your dead father sending her spiraling into madness. The madness that had consumed your entire family since you had all been banished from the Colony due to your own father’s indomitable, sinful pride. 

She would have killed you, you knew, if you had not defended yourself. And yet, in saving your own life, you knew that you were irrevocably damned. With this most blackest of sins, not only of murder, but the murder of your own mother staining your hands, you were now beyond any hope of ever seeing God’s mercy. You were most truly a sinner now, and more alone than you ever were, even in your most despairing, isolated moments. God had abandoned you entirely. It was this, more than even the horror of the act that you had committed that caused you to start sobbing. You lay there on the ground for several minutes, sobbing harder than you ever had before. After a time, you knew not how long, you extricated yourself from under your mother’s body and stood up on unsteady legs. You found yourself wandering back into the house, where you stripped off the top layer of your dress, leaving you only in your bloodstained white shift. You then sat down at the kitchen table, head in your hands.

You began to cry again. As you sat there sobbing, you chanced to glance out through the open front door and saw that goat, Black Phillip, staring at you with his yellow, horizontal-pupiled eyes. The creature who had gored your father through the stomach with one of his horns and left him bleeding on the ground. He was a gorgeous if monstrous beast, larger than any goat you’d ever seen and pitch black with enormous ribbed, curved horns. You remembered your father leading him home the day before you’d left the Colony, boasting of the bargain he’d acquired from one of your neighbors.

“I had to implore the good woman to accept my coin. She claimed she would take not a penny for the beast and that she only wanted him gone. For the life of me, I cannot begin to fathom why. I wager thou hast never seen such a magnificent beast. God indeed smiles upon us.”

As you locked eyes with the goat, you felt a strange chill run up your spine. There was something alien yet sentient in his gaze. Otherworldly, but with a human intelligence. Demonic, in other words. You thought back to all the events that had led you to this moment. The banishment from the Colony. The disappearance of your baby brother Samuel from before your very eyes. The bewitchment of your brother Caleb. The poor harvest. The lack of animals to hunt in the woods. And finally, the disgusting old hag who had killed all the livestock and spirited away your little twin siblings Jonas and Mercy. 

You’d had your suspicions for weeks. You’d seen how Jonas and Mercy whispered and giggled with the goat, sang songs and danced in its honor, accused you of witchcraft before your mother and father while grinning maliciously behind their backs and scampering off. And you’d felt the eyes of the goat on you in private moments when you thought you were alone and unobserved: washing the linens in the stream by the cabin, daydreaming by the well when you were supposed to be retrieving water, feeding the chickens and the pigs. 

In that moment, you knew what he was, and your heart almost stopped. An audible gasp escaped your lips, and the chill morning air suddenly felt even colder. Still, you could not take your eyes from Black Phillip. After what could have been seconds or minutes, he nodded his head up and down in what could only be called a distinctly human gesture, as if to confirm what you knew to be true. He then turned and trotted away back towards the barn. You sat there, the shock rendering your mind a blank slate.

You stared down at your hands, at the blood drying and cracking on your fingers and under your fingernails. You were entirely alone, you knew. And you were no longer yourself. There was no hope for survival in this tiny cabin in the middle of the forest, the source of a seemingly endless stream of dangers. And you could not go back to the Colony. You would be tried and found guilty, either of witchcraft or murder, and hanged within a fortnight if not sooner. Every path that revealed itself to you ended in death. All except one. 

You shivered again, trying to erase this idea from your mind and made your way upstairs to the little straw mattress that you slept on. The moment you closed your eyes, you were lost to velvety, dreamless sleep.

When you awoke, it was nighttime. The silvery light from the full moon shone through the little window in the loft. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, slowly coming to accept the decision that you knew you had already made. The decision that had been made for you the moment you and your family had been banished to this wilderness. You stood up, lit a candle, and took it with you as you made your way downstairs, stepping outside and shutting the front door for what you knew would be the last time. You took a deep breath of the cool night air to steady yourself. Looking to the stable, you saw the goat standing in front of it, staring at you, just as you knew he would be. You walked towards the barn, and once you were within a few feet, the goat turned and went inside through the slightly open door. You followed him. Black Phillip stood before you, his yellow eyes glistening in the candlelight. 

“Black Phillip, I conjure thee to speak to me.” Your voice trembled, but the words came out clearly. “Speak as thou dost speak to Jonas and Mercy.” Silent, the goat continued to stare at you. 

“Dost thou understand my English tongue?” Silence.

“Answer me.” The goat’s eyes were glassy like marbles. You began to wonder if this was folly, if you’d gone as mad as your mother, if you’d doubly damned yourself now without any hope of being rewarded for it. Heart sinking, you turned away. In that moment, you felt an almost imperceptible shift in the air. 

“What dost thou want?” asked a silky masculine voice. You turned around and almost gasped. The goat was gone and in his place was a tall man dressed in black with long luxuriant honey blond hair. He was handsome, handsomer than any man you’d ever known, with a narrow face, a sharp jaw and cheekbones, a straight nose, slanted clear blue eyes that were narrowed, and plump lips that were curled back in a very slight sneer. His beauty was unearthly and dangerous, a weapon in and of itself. You gaped at him for a moment before regaining your wits.

“What can’st thou give?” you asked. The man’s pouty lips twisted into a smirk, and he stepped closer to you, his riding boots clicking on the floor.

“Would’st thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Would’st thou like to live...deliciously?”

He leaned in, inches from your face. You could smell him, his scent a heady mix of clove and pine and something musky that you couldn’t name, a scent meant to draw you in. The Devil is the great tempter, the great seducer, you had been told since you were a child, and looking from his sky blue eyes to his soft lips, so close to your own, you knew you were lost. 

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly. His smirk grew wider, and you thought you saw his blue eyes turn black for half a moment. He leaned in closer to you, a graceful, sinuous movement, until his lips were at your ear, his body practically touching yours. 

“Would’st thou like to see the world?” he whispered, hot breath brushing your ear. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you felt melting heat rushing throughout your body. 

“What will you from me?” you whispered.

“Dost thou see a book before thee?” You opened your eyes, and in front of you, on the floor, lay an open leather-bound book with weathered, yellowing pages. The letters that you couldn’t read swirled across the page, entwined with illustrations of flowers and animals in gold leaf, scarlet, indigo, all sorts of bright rich colors that you almost felt that you had never seen before, so accustomed were you to drab grays and browns and blacks. 

The man, Black Phillip, Lucifer, whatever he went by, stepped behind you and placed his gloved hands on your shoulders. You could feel the unnatural heat radiating from his body, and it warmed your icy cold skin. You instinctively pulled closer, and you heard him chuckle slightly at your display of neediness. He gently brushed a lock of your long hair over your shoulder and brought his lips to your ear again.

“Remove thy shift.”

You felt your heart pound and heat pool between your legs. His grip tightened on your shoulders. With trembling fingers, you undid the buttons down the front of the bloodstained shift and let it fall to the floor. You were completely exposed, shivering from the cold, but even more from a sick sort of anticipation, not that you could admit it to yourself, not even now. He let go of your shoulders, and you felt his eyes run up and down your body, blatantly appraising you like he was a rich man you had once seen back home in England, forever ago, who was purchasing an Arabian steed. He walked in a circle around you, his eyes lingering on your breasts, your legs, the apex of your tightly clenched thighs, humming approvingly. The heat between your legs grew, and you felt yourself starting to grow wet.

Having seen enough to satisfy him, the man stepped behind you again and took a firm hold of your shoulder with one hand and the back of your head with the other. He, gently but firmly, pushed your head down so that you were staring at the floor in front of you. You saw the book and understood what he was asking you to do.

You were to sign it, the Devil’s book. It was the book that all witches signed. Once you had done this, your soul would be locked away into his possession, and he would be your master for all eternity and even beyond that. Your mouth ran dry as you saw the one empty line on the page, the one undoubtedly reserved for you. 

“I..I cannot write my name,” you said truthfully. You had learned to read simple prayers and Bible verses but never to write. You had always been told a girl had more useful things to learn, like needlework and spinning wool and how to keep a good, clean, God-fearing household. The man chuckled again. 

“I will guide thy hand.”

You looked back at the man’s face, which was so close to your own, at his full, soft, smirking lips and longed to kiss them, longed for that more than you had for anything else in your life. He seemed to know what you were thinking and shook his head, amused at your desperation. He ghosted his thumb along your bottom lip, just barely touching it.

“All in good time, little dove. Now sign,” he murmured. You averted your eyes and nodded. You knelt down on the floor and picked up the quill pen, which had just appeared lying on the page. You felt the familiar burning heat against your back as the man say behind you and then, to your surprise, pulled you into his lap. The book then levitated, as if a pair of invisible hands had picked it up, and floated towards you until it was hovering right over your lap. 

Black Phillip took your small shaking hand in his own large one, guided it and the quill down to the page, and, in one quick motion, signed it for you. You watched with strange detachment as the ink flowed from the quill, signing away your life and your soul. You shed no tears, and you suddenly felt a strange peace, gazing at the cursive flourish that you knew was your name. All of the anxiety, the self-doubt, the self-hatred, the suffering that you had experienced in your futile quest to be a good, pious Christian were no longer of any consequence. You could now be your truest self and taste fully of the pleasures of life that you had always secretly craved. 

You were shaken out of your thoughts when the heavy book slammed shut of its own accord and vanished into thin air. You blinked, surprised, and turned around to look at the man. His beautiful face had an expression of feline satisfaction.

“Is it done?” you asked. The man stared at you for a long moment, looking for all the world like tomcat who had cornered a particularly juicy mouse. He shook his head.

“Not quite.”

And before you could react, his tongue licked a hot column up your neck while his gloved hands reached around either side of your body and pinched both your nipples. 

[kitsunebi-uk]

All That We See or Seem outtakes #3: The original first kiss

Another example of me trying to run parallel to canon and feeling like it didn’t really work. I think this romantic evening they have makes for a pleasant read, but it’s lacking the emotional punch I wanted. When I was writing it, and again in the edit, the kiss felt flat, sort of anticlimactic, for me. I decided I liked their kiss the next day in the office better. And THEN I decided I liked it so much better that it ought to be the first kiss! Was this whole ‘date’ scene actually needed in the fic? No. Though to be honest, I kind of miss the mention of the transparent hovercraft over the bay at night :)

(Read the text under the break)

(Read the story on AO3 here)

Even though there was a T station at the airport, and Victor could be back at his apartment in two quick train journeys, Yuuri said he would meet him when his flight came in. He lived so close to the airport himself that it was only a short walk away; fortunately, over the years the noise and pollution from commercial planes had lessened to the point where this wasn’t the annoyance it used to be. Besides, after everything that had happened, he just wanted to see Victor.

           Yuuri waited within a small crowd of people outside of customs. It always felt strange doing this, as if they were an audience waiting for entertainers to appear onstage. Weary passengers pushing trolleys emerged in a trickle – and then there was Victor, in black slacks and a dark blue T-shirt, a plain black jacket slung over his arm, and his travel bag over his shoulder. He’d obviously packed lightly. When he spotted Yuuri, the fatigued look on his face melted away, and he beamed and strode forward.

           Yuuri hadn’t been prepared for the way his heart suddenly leaped and began thrumming. He reached out, once Victor was close enough, and enveloped him in a hug; and Victor quietly did the same. There was the hint again of cloves from what must have been his aftershave, and sweat, and Victor, that Yuuri had noticed when they’d stood together on the mountain. He breathed in and then sighed against Victor’s neck, feeling the heat of their bodies through their thin shirts.

           I love you.

           Oh…wow.

           It was completely, undeniably true, he knew. And both frightening and intoxicating.

           He wished the moment could last forever, but eventually they pulled apart. Victor’s cheeks were pink and his eyes bright.

           “Good flight?” Yuuri said, for lack of anything better. His brain seemed to have stopped functioning. With a quick check, he was relieved to find that his chip was OK at least.

           “We made good time after the delay. Well, I’m sure you realized. Thanks for coming, Yuuri. You…you didn’t need to.”

           Yuuri started walking, and Victor fell in alongside. “I just thought…after what happened, you know…it’d be nice to say hi. I’m glad Makkachin’s better.”

           “Me too,” Victor said with a little smile. “I made my dad promise to keep chocolates well out of reach from now on. After all this time, he didn’t know Makka could open the cupboard.”

           “Dogs will get into anything.”

           They fell silent; and when they arrived at the stairs that led down to the T station, Victor paused and looked at Yuuri. “I haven’t had a good meal for hours. There’s not much food in my apartment either, unless I want yogurt or a packet of cheese for dinner. I’m tired, but I’m hungrier. Would you like to join me somewhere?”

           “You want to go out to eat?”

           “Sure. And you went to all the effort just to come here and see me for a few minutes, so – ”

           “It wasn’t any effort. I got home from work a while ago and walked over.”

           “How about steak? That’s paleolithic, isn’t it?”

           “About as paleolithic as it gets,” Yuuri laughed. “And I love it. I haven’t eaten yet, either. Um…Joe’s is really good, downtown on the harbor.”

           “Sounds very American. Perfect. I could just do with getting back to my apartment and showering and changing, so why don’t I meet you there at…eight o’clock?”

           Yuuri grinned and nodded. “OK. I’ll get us a table and meet you inside.”

***

What do I do? What do I wear? How do I behave? Christ.

           Yuuri’s head was still in a whirl. He told himself that nothing had changed with Victor, apart from his awareness of the depth of his own feelings – despite what he’d promised himself about standing back and admiring. Well, he was still doing that, wasn’t he? Just admiring very much.

           And not exactly standing back, either. That was twice now that they had embraced. And when they did, in the warm stillness of the moment, he found himself wanting so much more.

           This never ended up how I was hoping it would when I was attracted to someone before. It was humiliating. But things were different now…weren’t they? He was different. Even so, he really had no clue how to negotiate these waters. They could drown him so easily.

           This is Victor. My best friend. My research partner. Not some random guy I’ve hit on. Get a grip.

           So, what to wear to Joe’s? Jeans – too casual. Work clothes – out of place. He decided on dark brown woolen pants, a red-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and brown loafers; then laid them out on his bed, had a quick shower, and put them on. The shirt was a little on the hot side right now, but according to the Friday, the temperature was already dropping outside as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

           He took the T downtown and arrived in plenty of time, having called beforehand to book a table. The interior of the restaurant was on the dim side, the walls paneled with dark wood, the seats upholstered in brown vinyl. Soft white light played from little lamps with shades ensconced along the walls, and sitting on every table. They’d given Yuuri a booth, and he slid in, plucking a menu from its stand but only giving it a cursory glance, having been here before and knowing more or less what he wanted. He didn’t usually wait this late to eat dinner, and his body was starting to protest at the fast, though at the same time the butterflies inside of him strove to chase all vestiges of appetite away.

           It’s just Victor. That’s all. If I can’t handle this now, how are we going to carry on researching together? Get a grip.

           He was beginning to think he was a poor source of rather repetitive advice. After all, he wouldn’t say such things to anybody else, and they never helped anyway.

           Passing the time by browsing scientific news sites on his chip, he looked up not long afterward to discover Victor had appeared and was slotting into the booth across from him, carrying a dark jacket which he tucked in the corner. Despite the circles under his eyes, he looked pleased to be there, and gave Yuuri a little smile.

           “If the aroma in here is anything to go by, this is going to be a fantastic meal,” he said.

           “It always is.” Yuuri watched Victor’s head droop while he read the menu. “Sure you’re up to this? You look like you could do with a good long sleep.”

           “I won’t sleep on an empty stomach. Let’s see…hm.”

           Yuuri couldn’t help but look. The gentle light setting Victor’s soft pale hair aglow. His pink lips, pressed together as he tried to make a decision. He was wearing a black cotton long-sleeved shirt with the first several buttons undone, exposing a gorgeous expanse of white throat, smooth and curved and muscular. Yuuri wondered what it would be like to kiss and taste it.

           Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I’m not a vampire. Get a –

           “Steak, baked potato and a salad – that’s what people usually order in these places, isn’t it?” Victor said brightly, putting the menu down.

           “Haven’t you been to steak houses in New York?”

           “Not very often. I’m used to getting ready meals and freezing them, or getting pizza delivered at work, that kind of thing. It’s only since I’ve been here with you that I’ve tried so many amazing new foods. Though the ones you cook yourself are the best.”

           “Flatterer,” Yuuri chuckled. He’d cooked them a grand total of one meal. Putting his own menu away, he interfaced with the screen on the wall next to him via his chip and selected his order. Steak, rare, au jus, with sweet-potato fries and a salad.

           When the food arrived, Victor laughed and commented that if Yuuri’s steak was any rarer, it would get up off his plate and walk away; then they ate in easy silence punctuated by small talk. Yuuri was curious to hear more about Russia. Victor’s father’s workshop sounded fascinating. And St. Petersburg must be beautiful this time of year. He wondered if he would ever be there to see it himself.

           After dinner, Victor asked Yuuri if he would like to take a walk along the harbor. Yuuri had refrained from suggesting anything else himself, knowing how tired Victor was, but he was happy to accede. He hadn’t brought a jacket, his shirt keeping him warm enough for a summer evening, though Victor was wearing his black jacket again with the embroidered gold dragon, which glinted under the street lights. They were on a gray-bricked path with tall old trees to the left and the water to the right, bordered only by decorative short iron posts linked to each other with a chain. The city lights glimmered yellow, orange, red and white as the breeze rippled gentle waves.

           “Is this good enough to get you to stay and finish the research with me?” Yuuri asked. “I know it’s not New York City, but…”

           Victor’s brow wrinkled as he looked at him. “I never intended to do anything else.”

           “It’s just that…well, we haven’t talked about what happened on Tuesday. How I almost fucked up the presentation, and went and called you when you were halfway across the world, worried about Makkachin. I thought…” He shrugged. “I don’t know, that it might put you off.”

           Victor huffed in surprise and was poised to reply when he spotted something a little distance down the path. “Yuuri, look – a hovercraft.” His eyes sparkled. “Let’s go for a ride.”

           “What?” Yuuri said, taken aback. “Um, well I guess the view would be pretty from up there, but I wouldn’t know. Those things are expensive to go on.”

           “It’ll be fun. I’ll pay.”

           “I don’t – ”

           “Come on, Yuuri,” Victor said with a smile, taking his hand and then starting to run. Laughing, Yuuri dashed behind him, still holding his hand. Yuuri had never been on a hovercraft before, and discovered it was completely chip-controlled. There was a sign with instructions; Victor paid for twenty minutes, and they both climbed through a hatch into the vehicle, which at the moment was transparent, though Yuuri knew it could tint to whatever opacity you required, like office windows. It was saucer-shaped with a dome, reminiscent of a water ride at an amusement park, made to seat perhaps six people around its circumference, though no one else was around to join them. The hatch closed, and the hovercraft lifted vertically out of the water with a quiet humming noise. Yuuri could see through the seats, through the floor, and all around, almost as if they were floating, surrounded by nothing but empty air.

           “Wow,” he enthused, squirming around to take in the whole of the view. “Where is this thing taking us?”

           “I picked a route that goes a little distance over the harbor and back,” Victor answered, tilting his head up and looking at the sky, then at the buildings and twinkling lights and shimmering waters they’d quickly left behind at what Yuuri reckoned must be about half a kilometer below, just higher than the tallest building.

           They sat next to each other, quiet for the most part as they briefly flew further out to sea, over several islands, and then back the way they had come. Yuuri decided he had rarely experienced anything so peaceful; though his proximity to Victor was making it impossible to completely relax. His pulse was racing again. The only light in the hovercraft was what entered from the city lights, limning them both in silver shadows, though their faces caught the warm glow of the lights as they drifted at a leisurely pace back to the harbor and the pier.

           “Yuuri…” Victor said, looking at him earnestly, “about what you were saying before…How could you think I’d be put off by a phone call?”

           Yuuri blinked. “Um, well it felt like I was intruding. I didn’t want to – ”

           “How could you ever think that?”

           Yuuri paused again, unsure of what to say, surprised at the feeling in Victor’s words. “I told you I was going to do the presentation by myself. That I was confident and prepared. But I got anxious, and then my chip blew – ”

           “That wasn’t your fault.”

           It kind of was. “Still…I just wanted to do better. It felt like I was letting you down.”

           Victor shook his head slightly, looking as if he couldn’t believe what Yuuri was saying. “Then you might be surprised to hear that I didn’t feel that way at all. Not for a moment.” He smiled, and Yuuri couldn’t look away from those eyes, so blue even in the shadows. “I was surprised when you volunteered to do the presentation on your own in the first place, because you’ve said how much it bothers you. And then, even when you were so upset on Tuesday, and your chip and tablet were both damaged…I wanted to help, Yuuri, I really did. But in the end I thought the best solution might be to cancel the presentation. There wouldn’t have been any harm done. You found the strength somewhere inside of you to do it, though.” His eyes were shining, and he added quietly, “It must have been good, too. Doctor Zhou called me and told me how impressed he was with our research, and how much he enjoyed attending the presentation.” At Yuuri’s gasp of surprise, his smile grew wider. “I think you did better than a lot of people would in that situation, Yuuri.”

           Yuuri just huffed in amazement, then returned his smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the pier approaching; the ride was almost at an end. He tilted his head to watch; and when he turned it back to look at Victor, a jolt of shock raced through him as he was quickly and tightly embraced. He barely had time to notice how Victor closed his eyes and parted his lips before Yuuri felt them pressing firmly against his own. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around Victor, though his eyes remained wide open in stunned silence; and then the moment passed, the hovercraft splashed lightly into the water, and Victor drew back so that their gazes met.

           “That was the only way I could think of to show you how much you impressed me,” he murmured.

           It took Yuuri a moment to find his voice. They still had their arms around each other. “Really?” he said quietly.

           A polite knock on the hatch of the hovercraft brought Yuuri’s attention to the fact that other people were waiting for them to untangle so that they could have a ride. He and Victor both gave a soft laugh and stood up, the hatch opening for them.

           “Your bag?” Victor said, holding it up as Yuuri began to step out.

           “Oh…yeah. Thanks,” he said with a sheepish grin, taking it and shrugging the strap over his shoulder. Victor hadn’t been carrying anything, but Yuuri had a habit of taking certain possessions with him wherever he went.

           They stood and faced each other, Yuuri fingering the strap, struggling to form a coherent thought or decide what he should do. Fortunately, Victor seemed to sense his confusion.

           “I’d better get back to my apartment; I can barely keep my eyes open.” He laughed softly. “But I’ll be at MIT in the morning. I wish I didn’t have to go to New York this weekend, but well, two weekends in a row…”

           “I understand,” Yuuri said, though he didn’t, because he didn’t know what Victor did there. “Thank you,” he said fervently, grasping for words.

           “Walk with me to the T station?”

           Yuuri nodded, and they strode next to each other over the short distance. When they arrived, they each needed to board from separate platforms.

           Victor’s hand gripped Yuuri’s briefly, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Yuuri.”

           “Good night, Victor.” Their eyes held for a moment longer while they exchanged grins, and then they parted.

           There was a train already waiting on Yuuri’s platform, but he let it go, feeling dizzy.

           He kissed me.

           Victor Nikiforov kissed me.

           Suddenly he rummaged in his carryall and pulled out the biochem monitor, switching it on and waiting for it to take a reading. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, testosterone, endorphins, all high. Pulse rate 46.8% above average.

His heart gave a leap, and he laughed and did a little twirl.

***

Yuuri had a class to teach the next day, but for once his mind wasn’t on it as he jogged to work. By the time he was downtown, he realized he didn’t even remember crossing the bridge over the harbor to get there.

           The fact that Victor had kissed him put paid to his fears that Victor did not want a romantic relationship with him. That in itself had kept Yuuri in a drunken stew of endorphins and happy hormones since the previous night. It felt like his feet were hardly touching the ground as he flew over the sidewalk.

           When he thought back on what had happened afterward, however, he suspected he hadn’t made his feelings very clear. He’d been too surprised to do anything decisive at the time, and then almost before he knew it they’d said goodbye at the station. Had Victor been wondering all this time whether he’d made a mistake; that Yuuri hadn’t liked what he’d done? He had to show him that wasn’t the case at all.

           He felt a conflict inside of him, however – because of course I can’t let anything good happen to me without trying to make a mess of it, he thought to himself – in the sense that part of him had been longing to be in this situation, while the other part was worried that it would be Victor who’d decide he had made a mistake, when he found out how anxious and inexperienced Yuuri really was. He’d never been in a romantic relationship and knew he would be questioning everything he did. It might even feel like that first day in Boston with Victor all over again, wondering if he was doing and saying the right things; telling himself Victor was out of his league.

           Fucking hell. I am my own worst enemy.

           Victor had initiated this. Yuuri was going to continue it, and he was going to be brave enough to face the uncertainties, taking each one as it came. As long as Victor was willing to be patient with him. Uncertainties could be unsettling…but not impossible to negotiate. Every day was full of them, after all.

           As he passed through the front door of Building 46 and into the atrium, however, there was a sick flutter in his stomach. How did one go about kissing someone – making that moment happen, rather than waiting for some perfect romantic opportunity? Without it being awkward or embarrassing? A smooth operator would know just how to touch, and what to say, in the right tone of voice. But if Yuuri had known how to do any of those things, he might have tried kissing Victor himself long before now.

           What if Victor was sitting at his desk when Yuuri walked in? Should he walk over there, bend down, and kiss him? No. Too weird. He needed him standing. So while he waited for him to stand, should he just say he really liked the kiss last night, and put him at his ease? No, that wouldn’t work at all.

           Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

           Well he winged his presentation, didn’t he? He could wing this. He could.

           His hand was shaking when the Friday clicked the office door and he pulled it open.

           No Victor.

           He took a deep breath, draped his suit coat over his chair, and went to make himself a cup of tea. He ought to be thinking about the work they were planning in the lab for that day, anyway. That would be the professional thing to do.

           The water was boiled, and he’d just dropped a peppermint teabag into his mug, when he heard the door open and close behind him. He swallowed as a wave of trepidation swept through him. Could it be Phichit? No, he’d bound straight over to his desk and say a cheerful hello. This person was quiet, more deliberating, as they hung their coat on the hook and paced softly across the room. Victor.

           Yuuri smelled his aftershave before he actually saw him. Then he was standing next to him at the little counter, wearing a plain white button-down shirt like Yuuri’s. “Good morning,” came his gentle voice. “I don’t suppose I could have a cup of coffee? My body doesn’t know whether it’s in Boston or St. Petersburg, which means it probably thinks it’s somewhere in the middle, like Iceland.”

           “Sure.” Yuuri poured water into the machine. Victor placed a palm on the counter, centimeters away from Yuuri’s hand. He was standing very close. Yuuri could hear his breaths.

           “How are you?” Victor asked him. Those eyes were on him; he could feel it.

           “I…I’m good,” he said, his voice hitching.

           “Yuuri – ”

           “Victor,” Yuuri whispered, turning and gripping his shoulder, quickly eliminating the remaining space between them as he tilted his head up and captured his lips. They were soft and pliant, unlike the quick hard kiss of the night before. Then Victor was wrapping his arms around him, one hand moving up and down his back in a slow caress. Yuuri wasn’t sure if he was trying to do the right things with his mouth, dredging up memories of brief half-drunk fumbles in bars, but he followed Victor’s lead, feeling like he could float away while at the same time a delicious warmth radiated through his body. He stroked Victor’s cheek with his palm, then with the outside of his fingers. There was a small puff of air on his skin as Victor breathed out through his nose. Then he caught Yuuri’s upper lip, lingering briefly before pulling back.

           “I wonder what your biochem monitor would be showing right now,” he said with a little laugh.

           “I’m going to find out. Seriously. Just, um, wait here a minute.” Yuuri dashed over to his carryall on the floor next to his desk, found the monitor, and brought it back over to the counter, where Victor was giving him an indulgent smile. His cheeks were the most beautiful rosy pink.      

           “Well?” Victor asked with a raised eyebrow.

           Yuuri laughed as he looked at the readout. “Heart rate 32.6% above baseline. The rest…” He lowered his voice, raising his eyes back to Victor’s. “…thoroughly indecent.”

           “Hm. Let’s see if we can’t improve that,” he said, tilting Yuuri’s chin up delicately with the tips of his fingers. Yuuri was practically quivering with anticipation. He put the monitor down on the counter, forgotten, as Victor’s lips found his own, light and teasingly exploratory at first, then more insistent. Yuuri edged closer, until he could feel the hard muscle and bone under Victor’s shirt, and then they were embracing again. Yuuri reached up to trail his fingers through the fine silky strands at the back of Victor’s head – how he’d ached to do this, for so long. Victor swiped Yuuri’s lower lip gently with the tip of his tongue, and Yuuri instinctively deepened the kiss to give him access.

           This was so, so different from Dominic and his tonsil hockey at the club. It was…melting, drowning in red heat. He felt a moan escape his throat, and heard a similar noise in response from Victor. Where were they? He couldn’t even remember.

           The snicking sound of the door opening caused them both to start and then jerk back. Yuuri just stood there looking stupidly at Victor as Phichit entered the office and headed to his desk. He smiled knowingly over at them both.

           “I’m not, um, interrupting anything, am I?”

           They both said a hasty “no” at the same time, Yuuri picking up the biochem monitor and going to sit down in his chair, while Victor poured himself some coffee.

           “I just came in to get a couple of things from the drawer here,” Phichit said, opening it and grabbing some metal components.

           “Don’t leave on my account,” Victor said politely. “If you need to use your desk – ”

           “No, it’s fine.” Phichit gave them each another smile, waggling his eyebrows at Yuuri while he had his back turned to Victor. “I’ll let you two get back to what you were doing.” Then he disappeared out the door.

           Yuuri took another reading from the biochem monitor. “Heart rate 47.7% above baseline,” he said, huffing a laugh.

           “I bet mine’s higher,” Victor said in a low voice, giving him a hooded gaze. He put Yuuri’s mug of tea on the corner of his desk for him, then sat down with his cup of coffee. “We could aim to keep breaking our records.”

           Yuuri let out a breath, feeling a flush of heat to his face, and Victor chuckled.

           “But we do have a lot of work to do, too.”

           “Yeah,” Yuuri agreed with a sigh. Though god knows how I’m ever going to be able to concentrate on it.

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Charlatan

The Charlatan is always one step ahead of you, it seems. He has more intentions than he lets slip, and always has one hand behind his back.

The Charlatan represents the Voice of the Opportunist in Path Through the Woods. His foil is the Voice of the Faithful.

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Paralyzed

The Paralyzed is highly alert and often fretting over one thing or another. He isn't vicious, but he isn't fully kind, either.

The Paralyzed represents the Voice of the Paranoid in Path Through the Woods. His foil is the Voice of the Solace.

[artificial-radiance]

doodles of paralyzed

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Afflicted

The Afflicted is feverish and frantic, looking out for you at the expense of his own health. He clings to his beloved like he needs them.

The Afflicted represents the Voice of the Smitten in Path Through the Woods. His foil is the Voice of the Dove.

[artificial-radiance]

the runaway and the narrator

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Discordant

The Discordant is more than willing to let you leave, though his guidance and demands lead you to go in circles. He seems to be playing up a character, though his mask has cracks beneath the surface.

The Discordant represents the Voice of the Contrarian in Path Through the Woods. His foil is the Voice of the Splintered.

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Presence (ref)

he's meant to be something of a shadow

[artificial-radiance]

Path Through the Woods: The Lashed

The Lashed is meek, perhaps timid. He hardly wants to lay hands on you, but he insists you return to the cabin, even as he flinches under your gaze.

The Lashed represents the Voice of the Broken in Path Through the Woods. He is foiled by the Voice of the Exalted.