#dry native flowers

[floralswholesale]

Using Australian Native Dry Flowers in Your Floral Arrangement

Almost all Australian native dry flowers are beautiful, but there are some that are really special. These include Acacia Pycnantha, Anigozanthus flavidus, and Banksia.

Acacia Pycnantha

Known as the golden wattle, Acacia pycnantha is a native of Victoria. It grows up to eight metres tall and produces large puffy golden-yellow flower blossoms in late winter. The flowers are pollinated by honeyeaters and thornbills.

The Golden Wattle is a member of the legume family, the Acacia genus. The leaves are palm-like, with dark green foliage.

The bark of the Golden Wattle has been cultivated for tannins, and is also used for honey production in humid regions. The flowers are bright yellow and are packed into globular clusters.

The flower heads are arranged in showy sprays of six to twenty heads. The golden wattle is most commonly found near Sydney in central New South Wales, but is also found farther inland near Kalgoorlie.

When the wattle is young, the tree produces yellow flower balls. It is an Australian native shrub that flowers from June to October.

It is often naturalised along roadsides and in woodlands. It grows from three to eight metres tall. It has smooth, dark brown bark. It also grows in fynbos shrublands.

Anigozanthus flavidus

Known as the evergreen kangaroo paw, Anigozanthos flavidus is a native Australian plant. This clumping plant can grow up to 1 metre wide and has strap-like leaves. It grows in sandy and drained soils. It also does well in clay soils. It grows well in pots and borders and makes a lovely cut flower.

Anigozanthos flavidus can be grown from seed. It can also be started from cuttings. It is a hardy native plant that grows well in many climatic zones. In the right conditions, germination can occur in just 21 days. It can grow to about two metres tall.

Anigozanthos flavidus has a wide range of colouration and can be very attractive. The flowers have a tubular shape and are generally yellow-green in colour. The flowers have thick red or green hairs on them that can be a problem if they come into contact with skin or eyes.

The flowers have a distinctive kangaroo paw look and are often used as cut flowers. The flowering season runs from November to February. The flowers are produced in clusters on stems that are a little shorter than the leaves.

Actinotus helianthi

Known as the Flannel Flower, the Actinotus helianthi is an Australian native dry flower that grows in southern New South Wales and Queensland. The flower is usually found growing in sandy soils or coastal heaths.

This plant is a popular choice for cut flower arrangements. The small creamy-white flowers are surrounded by velvety bracts. The flowers last for several weeks in a vase. They are also popular for garden settings and courtyards.

This plant is hardy and can tolerate a variety of conditions. However, it is not suitable for colder areas. It thrives in a variety of soil conditions, including sandy and rocky soils. Actinotus helianthi is also tolerant of mild frost once it has been established.

Actinotus helianthi is a small shrub that can reach a height of 0.5 to 1.5 meters. It can also be grown as a potted plant. Actinotus helianthi can be planted in sunny, exposed sites. The leaves are deeply lobed and crinkled, and the foliage reduces moisture loss in dry conditions.

Banksia

Using Australian native dry flowers in your floral arrangement is a fun and functional way to pay tribute to our country's unique flora. Australian native flowers are also a nice way to add texture and colour to your floral creation. They are easy to maintain and will last for months to come.

The best way to keep your dried flowers fresh is to use a glycerin solution. This is a simple process of mixing glycerin with water to create a solution. Place the flowers in the solution and leave them for up to three weeks. If you notice tiny beads on the leaves, take them out and re-pot them.

For the most part, drying your Australian native flowers will not harm them. In fact, some natives can stand the heat. For example, the everlasting strawflower is a great choice. The flower produces non-stop blooms in summer and tolerates most soil types.

The best place to dry your Australian native flower is in a dark, dry area of your home. You can also hang them in the bathroom or your bedroom.

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Thursday 11 July 2024

On the free draining growing conditions of the shingle beach in Deal, Kent, the Echium vulgare (viper's bugloss) was flowering and attracting pollinating insects. This native biennial grows in bare soil on short grassland, on heathland and on more disturbed habitats such as cultivated land, railways and roadsides, cliffs, and sand dunes. The plant has a deep and persistent root which allows it to exploit free draining, drought prone land.

Jill Raggett

[cselandscapearchitect]

Creating a Stunning Desert Oasis: Gardening Tips for the Arid Southwest

Living in the desert Southwest offers a unique opportunity for gardeners to embrace the beauty of the arid landscape and create a stunning oasis that thrives in challenging conditions. In this blog post, we’ll explore some valuable tips and plant suggestions to help you design a water-efficient and visually appealing garden. From the vibrant yellow blooms of Encelia farinosa (Brittlebush) to the…

[hydrathemes]

Natural Stone Pavers (Houston)

[uncharismatic-fauna]

The Palestine Sunbird Persists

The Palestine sunbird, also known as the orange-tufted sunbird (Cinnyris osea) is the national bird of Palestine, and often seen as a symbol of resistance and hope. This species occurs in dry climates, particularly desert, scrubland, and savannahs, but can also be found in orchards and gardens where flowers are abundant. In addition to the Levant, C. osea occurs throughout the southwest cost of Saudia Arabia and the coasts of Yemen and Oman in the south.

C. osea is a small bird, 8 to 12 cm (3.1-4.7 in) long with a wingspan of only 14 to 16 cm (5.5-6.2 in). Males weigh on average 7.6 g (0.26 oz) and females are slightly smaller, at about 6.8 g (0.24 oz). Males are quite easy to identify due to their striking plumage; their feathers are iridescent, appearing dark until they shimmer glossy blue or green, with orange tufts at the side of the breast. In contrast females are fairly drab; grey-brown with a lighter underside. The beaks of the Palestine sunbird are also noted for their distinctively long and curved, which they have developed to efficiently feed on nectar.

Although not directly part of the hummingbird family, the Palestine sunbird shares many similarities with the group. Its diet consists of nectar, and is supplemented with insects. Their tongues are long, and brush-like, and the shape of their beak allows them to reach down to the base of the flower. For flowers that are , they will use their sharp beaks to pierce the side and access the nectar directly. All this is done at very high speeds, but unlike hummingbirds the Palestine sunbird cannot hover in place, and must land in order to feed. Because of their primary reliance on nectar, the orange-tufted sunbird is an important pollinator in its native region. Adults are rarely predated upon, but eggs and young are often targets for lizards, snakes, and birds of prey.

Reproduction begins in June, and continues through October. Males establish and defend territories, and court females by singing to attract a potential mate, then chasing her until she perches to signal her acceptance. Following the pairing, the two construct a purse-like nest, sometimes with a porch-like structure, that hangs from a branch. In this nest, 1-2 eggs are laid, and are incubated primarily by the female, while the male provides her food. The eggs take 13 to 14 days to hatch, and chicks are taken care of by both parents for an additional 14 to 21 days. Individuals can live up to 5 years in the wild.

Conservation status: The Palestine sunbird has a large range and population, and is thus considered Least Concern by the IUCN. Its primary threat is habitat loss due to agriculture and urban development.

If you send me proof that you’ve made a donation to UNRWA or another organization benefiting Palestinians, I’ll make art of any animal of your choosing.

Remember, the donation can be in any amount– every dollar counts!

Photos

Jorrit Vlot

Dula Alhashimi

Rana Hijawi

[pnwnativeplants]

https://www.xerces.org/blog/want-to-save-bees-focus-on-habitat-not-honey-bees

Five reasons why honey bees can be a problem

Native plants need native bees. Native bees coevolved with our native plants and often have behavioral adaptations that make them better pollinators than honey bees. For example, buzz-pollination, in which a bee grasps a flower and shakes the pollen loose, is a behavior at which bumble bees and other large-bodied native bees excel, and one that honey bees lack.

Honey bees are sub-par pollinators. The way that honey bees interact with flowers means that they sometimes contribute little or nothing to pollination. Honey bees groom their pollen and carry it in neat pollen cakes, where it’s less likely to contact the stigma of another flower and pollinate it. They are also known “nectar robbers” of many plants, accessing their nectar in a way that means they don’t touch the pollen, often by biting a hole in the base of the flower. By contrast, many of our native bees tend to be messier, carrying pollen as dry grains, often all over their bodies where it’s more likely to pollinate the plant.

Hungry hives crowd out native pollinators. Introducing a single honey bee hive means 15,000 to 50,000 additional mouths to feed in an area that may already lack sufficient flowering resources. This increases competition with our native bees and raises the energy costs of foraging, which can be significant. One study calculated that over a period of three months, a single hive collects as much pollen as could support the development of 100,000 native solitary bees!

Honey bees can spread disease. Unfortunately, honey bees can spread diseases to our native bees—deformed wing virus, for example, can be passed from honey bees to bumble bees—and can also amplify and distribute diseases within a bee community. 

Urban honey bee hive densities are often too high. There is growing evidence of negative impacts in towns and cities from the presence of honey bees. A recent study from Montreal showed that the number of species of native bees found in an area decreased when the number of honey bees went up. In Britain, the London Beekeepers Association found that some parts of that city had four times as many hives as the city’s gardens and parks could support. The conservation organization Buglife recommends creating two hectares (five acres) of habitat for each hive, several times the size of an average residential lot in the United States.

[beguines]

Today, strawberries have replaced much of the citrus and olive trees in the strip, and despite the relatively small area of farmland used for this sector, it enjoys high economic and social value. In all of the ways that citrus cultivation has been targeted, strawberries seem designed to survive Israel's eco-colonial practices. Strawberries are able to survive on partially saline water, they have faster production cycles, are easier to cultivate and replant after destruction and uprooting, are more mobile after moments of displacement, require less space and distance between each planted crop, and enable farmers in Gaza's northern peripheries and along the buffer zones to remain visible to the observing Israeli occupation forces. As a crop with limited historical roots in the country, it adapts well and is highly versatile. The use of compost for the cultivation of strawberries enables significant increase in fruit productivity, saving Gazan farmers the use of precious water supplies and decreasing its need for the use of fertilizers.

Despite this, the conditions of Gaza's ongoing colonial isolation and erasure make it increasingly impossible for farmers to sustain their livelihoods off of the land, even with strawberry production. In today's Gaza, as the agricultural export industry is fully reliant on the Israeli permit system, strawberries are slowly being replaced with other low-growing, fast-yielding, cost-effective and high-demand fruits and vegetables. Indeed, as a colleague at the Union of Agricultural Work Committees, the largest agricultural development institution in Palestine, told me during my time in Gaza, the most recent crop to slowly begin its replacement of strawberries in this line of forced colonial transition is pineapple—with the first pineapple farm planted in Khan Younes in 2017.

Examining the conditions that make strawberry production more practical and fuel the transition from citrus production requires examining the ongoing Israeli colonization of natural resources that supplant and suppress traditional modes of relating to nature. Witnesses of Israeli neo-colonial violence, the disappearing orchards in Gaza mark its new disconnected reality. The transition from the orange to the strawberry—and perhaps later to pineapple—is more than a shift in markets and produce. They affect the history and identity of Palestinians in Gaza. The links between cultivation and national or communal identity are well-known and documented in other contexts, including their intersection with colonial nation-branding. But in the context of aggressive climate change the instabilities, tensions, and erasures that come with transitions in vegetation are growing increasingly stark. For example, in the case of the Swiss canton of Valais, global heating has resulted in the growth of cacti, Opuntia, that are proliferating on the mountainsides of the canton, encroaching on natural reserves and causing a biodiversity threat. Used to "seeing their mountainsides covered with snow in winter and edelweiss flowers in summer" warmer and drier temperatures have given way to what is named in media coverage as an "invasive species colonizing the slopes." Launching an uprooting campaign in 2022, the press release stressed that "this invasive and non-native plant is not welcome in the perimeter of prairies and dry pastures of national importance." Evidently the discourse mobilized is dominated by aggressive language of aliens and invasion, which contributes to the use of violent and war-like metaphors to push for pre-emptive and combative control. In the Gazan case, the transition, as well as local responses to it, are less pronounced and weeded through long-term colonial policies imposed by the occupation. That said, the transition to strawberry cultivation nevertheless carries a similar ecological, cultural, and socio-political impact. In place of the orange, the strawberry is surfacing as the symbol of Gaza, redrawing the boundaries of the identity of its besieged inhabitants. Whereas in the past the orange was a continuous link between Gaza and the rest of historic Palestine, with deep generational roots and a symbol of steadfast and continuous presence, the abrupt transition from oranges to strawberries distances Gaza from the constructed identity and vegetal knowledge production of Palestinian farmers elsewhere. Put differently, this symbolic and political transition at the level of fruit production can be seen as another mechanism through which Israeli neo-colonial violence reifies Gaza as an enclave: divided and partitioned from the rest of Palestine.

Shourideh C. Molavi, Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance

[charliemwrites]

Fields of Elation

Part 1

Rating: E Warnings: Dubcon if you squint

The garden has become a riot of color in the last week.

Native blooms in every vibrant color you could find, praying for pollinators to watch from the reading nook. The first butterfly fluttered in yesterday morning while you sipped tea. You could have squealed with excitement, aching to tell someone and denying the twinge in your chest when you realized who “someone” was.

You’re not thinking of him now. No. Absolutely not. Gardens are not for blood-soaked, violent men that smell like gunpowder and smoke – and neither are your thoughts. Your thoughts are to be as sun-soaked as the flowers, bleached out by warmth and light. Depthless, shadowless.

There’s soil dusting your fingers. You kneel in the flossy grass to plant wooden dowels, support for drooping stems growing too tall, too fast. You’re endeared by them, that they’re exploding with so much life that they need a helping hand. Perhaps you’re anthropomorphizing them a bit too much. This little recess you’ve carved out of the world is beautiful but lonely.

You hum a soft tune as you bow twine, some happy new pop song about summer. Heard it on the radio in the grocery store and haven’t gotten it out of your head since. The back of your neck prickles.

“Missed your voice, bonnie.”

You yelp as big, rough hands scoop you from the ground. Strong fingers grip your thigh, a wide palm supports your ribs, tugging you close to a thick, muscular body. The rough fabric of tac gear sands against the exposed skin of your stomach. You flail until your arms loop around broad shoulders, a chuckle rumbling into the hollow of your throat.

“Missed that noise specifically.”

You gasp air for another shout, but get jostled up into a fireman’s carry, wind knocked out of you. There will be no screaming for your distant neighbors this time.

“Put me down,” you wheeze instead.

“In a mo’, love.”

You grunt indignantly as the ground blurs beneath you, tools left behind as powerful legs tread the path back to your little house. Spend the disconcertingly short journey thinking of new things to call him, since you’ve been running out.

There’s a heavy wooden thump.

“Don’t kick my door!” you screech.

“I’ll fix the damn door,” he growls back.

Your head spins as you’re dropped to your bare feet on the wood floors, just inside the back door. Steady yourself on corded forearms to catch your bearings, then open your mouth to give him a dressing down he hasn’t had since recruit days.

But a hot, wet tongue slides against yours, curling expertly into your mouth. Dry, warm lips pressing hard. That same arm curls around your chest to gather you close; the breadth of him steals your coherence as much his kiss. Your venomous words are superseded by a soft noise, one that you’ll deny is the admission of pleasure he takes it as.

When he pulls away, you find your fingers curled in the muted green of his shirt, knuckles pressed against his beating heart. Its pace matches yours.

You flutter your eyes open, find summer blue gazing back. Softer than the grass you just knelt in, warmer than the sun in your hair. You swallow back surrender, blink away admissions.

“I was in the middle of something, you bastard,” you snap.

John MacTavish grins back, crooked and arrogant, the scar beneath his eye pulling. “It’ll keep.”

“Then so will dinner.”

His eyes light up. You curse as you realize your mistake.

“You gonnae cook f’me, love?”

“No.” You back away, but it’s like trying to outrun the wind. He manages to make your deliberate retreat feel like a choice he’s making, hedging you deeper into the house. Back, back, unerringly corralling you towards the bedroom. You know it, but you’re helpless to stop it.

“S’alright, you’ve been cookin’ enough, I reckon,” he drawls. “Don’t mind makin’ somethin’ fer you.”

If by “cooking” he means cobbled together snacks that level out to something like nutritional balance, then yeah. You’ve been cooking for yourself.

“Not enough ingredients for two,” you snark, eyes sliding away in a show of dismissal. “You’ll have to starve.”

He smirks, balancing you with hands on your waist when you bump the bedroom door ajar. Your stomach clenches up like you’re on a rollercoaster. Know what’s coming next but dig your heels in anyway.

“Nah, just gonnae eat now.”

Your mouth drops open just as he pounces, squealing as your back hits the mattress. The ceiling is decorated in fairy lights you forgot to turn off this morning. They twinkle brightly as John wrestles your dirty cotton “work” shorts off your thighs, leaves them hanging off one calf.

“Goddamit!” you shout as he tears through yet another pair of underwear. Nothing special, mind, but it’s the principle of the thing. They’re not his to rip.

“Gotcha more ‘fore I came home.”

That doesn’t make it better, you try to tell him. What comes out is a warbling moan as he buries his tongue in your pussy. Licks from your shamefully leaking hole to your already-throbbing clit. He grunts in reply, deep and rough in his wide chest. Drops himself onto the floor for better access, pulling your thighs over his shoulders.

Eats you out like this really is his first and last meal. Sloppy and wet and loud, audible over the sounds you try to stifle behind your forearm because your hands are still dirty. Get away with it for all of a minute (being generous) before he’s pulling back just enough to speak – even if it’s right into your cunt.

“No, no, no, we have a deal,” he growls. You whimper as his hands clamp down on your squirming hips. “I’m home now, you’re mine. This pussy, those noises, they’re all mine again.”

Your hands fly to his hair as he dives in again, tangling in dark, course strands as he laps at you like a dog. If you could rally the brain power to speak more than unintelligible sounds, you’d mock him with that imagery. But knowing him, he’d revel in the comparison. Would bark just to prove a point.

You can’t stand that you know him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “My goddess.”

You arch as he sucks your clit, flicking the tip of his tongue over the bundle of the nerves. Thumbs massaging into the plush of you. Stubble prickling a bit; you’ll have to remember to tell him off for that later.

“Missed me too,” he continues, flat of his tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. Strings of your slick web between his mouth and your pussy. “Dripping like you missed me, anyway.”

“D-didn’t,” you whine.

He chuckles, the absolute devil, humming as he curls his tongue inside you. Doesn’t believe you, doesn’t even deign to challenge it. Just keeps fucking you on his mouth, groaning when your twitchy fingers tug at his hair. Doubles his efforts, any semblance of restraint crumbling as the time and distance overwhelm his usually infallible patience. Overwhelm you too.

It’s been so long – since the night before he last left. You’re oversensitive and touch-starved and John is a feast for your body and soul. Lose everything to the tides of lust, the current of ecstasy. Washed out to a sea of bliss, floating on awful need. Tilt your hips into the next swipe of his tongue, back arching, thighs tightening as you shudder.

“John,” you keen, “John, Johnny.”

He makes a gutted noise. One hand jerking from your hip to slide two thick fingers into you. Tears gather and rebel down your cheeks as he zeroes in on that sweet, achy spot inside of you. He is a man for whom mercy is scarce and he has none to spare for you, stroking and tapping relentlessly. Your peak rushes up frighteningly fast, voice lost in the shock of it as you clamp down.

He works you through it, savoring your orgasm like the first inhale of smoke in his lungs. Keeps licking and rubbing until your sobbing with overstimulation, trying to scramble away.

“No, John,” you warble, “t-too much, please!”

The sound when he pulls away is utterly obscene. If you had any room in your empty brain for embarrassment, you’d wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. You flutter your eyes open and stare blankly at the fairy lights as you struggle to breathe.

John’s kissing your trembling thighs like he didn’t just ruin everything all over again, whispering devotion into your beard burn.

When you manage to sit up a bit on shaking arms, you find him kneeling there. A supplicant to the alter of your pleasure. Ruthlessly handsome, war-torn. His chin glistens with your slick. You reach to wipe it away, but he catches your wrist in a deceptively gentle hand. Keeps his blown-out eyes on yours as he presses a slow kiss into the center of your palm.

Words bubble in your chest, too honest, even for you.

“My hands are dirty,” you whisper.

“Never.”

You curl your fingers around his jaw. Tell yourself it’s not a caress, no matter how he leans into it. “When did you get back?”

“Eighteen hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Gather your scattered wits. “You wore your damn boots in the house.”

He huffs with amusement, leans his forehead into your stomach. “I’ll mop.”

“You’ll shower first. You smell like travel.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“I have to finish in the garden.”

He scowls even with his eyes closed. You tap-tap-tap absently at his shoulder, where your hand has naturally come to rest.

“I’ll come out with you,” he grumbles.

“You’ll scare the birds.”

“Fuck the birds.”

You tsk, but there’s no force on earth that will keep him inside. “Mean bastard.”

He grins against your stomach. “Darling wife.”

Next

Masterlist

[greenwitchcrafts]

August 2024 Witch Guide

New Moon: August 4th

First Quarter: August 12th

Full moon: August 19th

Last Quarter: August 26th

Sabbats: Lughnasadh/Lammas- August 1st

August Sturgeon Moon

Also known as: Barely Moon, Black Cherries Moon, Corn moon, Dispute Moon, Harvest moon, Herb Moon, grain moon, Mountain Shadows Moon, Red moon, Ricing Moon, Weodmonath & Wyrt moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Leo & Virgo

Animal spirts: Dryads

Deities: Diana, Ganesha, Hathor, Hecate, Mars, Nemesis, Thot & Vulcan

Animals: Dragon, lion, phoenix & sphinx

Birds: Crane, eagle & falcon

Trees: Alder, cedar & hazel

Herbs: Basil, bay, fennel, orange, rosemary, rue & St.John's wort

Flowers: Angelica, chamomile, marigold & sunflower

Scents: Frankincense & heliotrope

Stones: Carnelian, cats/tiger's eye, emerald, fire agate, garnet, jade, moonstone, peridot, red jasper, red agate, sardonyx, topaz & tourmaline

Colors: Dark green, gold, orange, red & yellow

Energy: Abundance, appreciation, authority, courage, entertainment, finding your voice, friendship, gathering, harvesting energy, health, love, pleasures, power, prophecy, prosperity, vitality & wisdom

The name Sturgeon Moon comes from the giant lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes & Lake Champlain; this native freshwater fish was readily caught during this part of summer & an important food staple for Native Americans who lived in the region. At one time the lake sturgeon was quite abundant in late summer, though they are rarer today.

• August's full moon is the first Supermoon of the year, which means that it will appear bigger & brighter than the full Moons we have seen so far!

Lughnasadh

Known as: Lammas, August Eve  & Feast of Bread

Season: Summer

Element: Fire

Symbols: corn, grain dollies & shafts of grain

Colors: Gold, golden yellow, green, light brown, orange, purple, red & yellow

Oils/Incense: Aloe, apple, corn, eucalyptus, safflower, rose & sandalwood

Animals: Cattle (bull & calf)

Birds: Chicken/Rooster

Stones: Aventurine, carnelian, citrine, peridot, sardonyx & yellow diamond

Food: Apples, barely cakes, berries, berry pies, breads, colcannon, cider, corn, grains, honey, lamb, nuts, potatoes, rice, sun-shaped cookies & wild berries

Herbs/Plants: Alfalfa, aloe, blackberry, bramble, corn, cornsilk, corn stalk, crab apple, fenugreek, frankincense, ginseng, goldenseal, gorse, grape, medowsweet, oak leaves, pear, rye, sloe & wheat

Flowers:  Clyclamen, heather hollyhock & sunflower

Trees: Acacia, apple, myrtle,oak & rowan

Goddesses: Aine, Alphito, Bracacia, Carmen, Ceres, Damina, Danu, Demeter, Ereshkigal, Freya, Frigga, Gaia, Inanna Ishtar, Kait, Persephone, Sul, Taillte, Tea & Zaramama

Gods: Athar, Bes, Bran, Dagon, Dumuzi, Ebisu, Ghanan, Howtu, Liber, Lono, Lugh, Neper, Odin & Xochipilli

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, challenges, darkness, death, endings, release & transformation

Spellwork: Abundance, bounty, fire magick, rituals of thanks & sun magick

Activities:

• Bake fresh bread

• Weave wheat

• Take walks in nature or along bodies of water

• Craft a corn doll

• Learn a new skill

• Watch the sunrise/sunset

• Leave grains and seeds in a place where birds, squirrels and other small animals can appreciate them

• Eat outside with family/friends/coven members

• Donate to your local foodbank

• Prepare a feast with your garden harvest

• Give thanks & offerings to the Earth

• Trade crafts of make deals

• Gather and/or dry herbs to use for the upcoming year

• Celebrate/honor the god Lugh by hosting a competition of games

• Participate in matchmaking or handfasting ceremonies

• Decorate your altar with symbols of the season

• Clean up a space in nature

• Plant saved seeds or save seeds to use in the future

Lughnasadh or Lammas is a Gaelic festival marking the beginning of the harvest season. Historically it was widely observed throughout Ireland, Scotland & the Isle of Man. Traditionally it is held on 1 August, or about halfway between the summer solstice & autumn equinox. In recent centuries some of the celebrations have shifted to the Sunday nearest this date.

Lughnasadh is mentioned in early Irish literature & has pagan origins. The festival is named after Lugh the god of craftsmanship. It was also founded by the god Lugh as a funeral feast & athletic competition/funeral games in memory of his foster-mother Tailtiu. She was said to have died of exhaustion after clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture.

• Tailtiu may have been an earth goddess who represented the dying vegetation that fed mankind.

• Another tale says that Lugh founded the festival in memory of his two wives, the sisters Nás & Bói. 

In the Middle Ages it involved great gatherings that included ceremonies, athletic contests (most notably the Tailteann Games which were extremely dangerous), horse racing, feasting, matchmaking & trading.

• With the coming of Christianity to the Celtic lands, the old festival of Lughnasadh took on Christian symbolism. Loaves of bread were baked from the first of the harvested grain & placed on the church altar on the first Sunday of August. The Christianized name for the feast of Lughnasadh is Lammas which means “loaf mass”.

Some believe this is the time where the God has weakened & is losing his strength as seen in the waning of the day's light. The Goddess is pregnant with the young God who will be born on Yule.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[just-your-average-cryptid]

most of us have heard of the red car game. you’re on a road trip, you’re bored, you start looking for red cars to do something.

and then they’re everywhere. you notice them nearly every few minutes.

there aren’t suddenly more red cars now, of course. you were seeing them already, but you weren’t noticing. you weren’t looking.

I am noticing things.

there is a plant I notice everywhere now, a small bushy plant in suburbs, along streets, by shops on the highways. dwarf umbrella bush is what the internet tells me when I look for it’s name. I did this because I wanted to know why,

every time I ever saw it, every place,

it was always dying. always the leaves turning yellow, the branches small and scraggly. inside out - nitrogen deficiency. their soil drained.

I am noticing how many of these landscaping plants are yellowing, how small and sickly they look in just a few years. I am noticing how often the grass outside the house is replaced when it once again turns brown and dry, how the type never changes and the cycle starts again. I am noticing how the unmowed, unkempt spaces on lakesides and roadsides look more alive than this. how the preserve I grew up next to was miles of “messy” unmanicured nature and the ground was covered in leaves instead of grass and there was life.

I am noticing the birds that come by the lake. there was a flash of blue wings and red chest - eastern bluebird, male, relatively common. I had never seen one before. there is a family of ducks that appear every spring; i cannot say if it’s successive generations or different ducks, but I can always look forward to ducklings. there are little brown birds with white heads whose names I do not know - are they some kind of piper? why don’t I already know?

why is it so hard to learn about my native plants (accurately, that is)? why are so many gardening sites littered with people who think a plants value is based on how pretty or useful it is to them, who think a tree shedding leaves is “messy”?

why is knowing about the world we live in so… odd? why is it a hobby and not vital knowledge? I learned about polar equations. I taught myself about mycorrhizal networks and species of insects.

(did you know there are shiny green bees? a special species of wasp pollinating figs? that white flowers bloom at night for moths? do you know? have you looked?)

I cannot look at a lawn and see life anymore. it is a wasteland, devoid of life, dying slowly itself. everywhere is grass, grass, doused in water that runs over into storm drains, soaked in fertilizer and pesticides and a hundred other poisons and sending one clear message:

this is a place of death. life is not welcome here.

I do not think I could live in a city. too loud, yes, too busy, yes, too many people, yes, but the plants would bother me. a tree allotted only a convenient square, surrounded by dead stone and metal.

a forest cleared for this, for burning asphalt streets and racing cars and shops whose bathrooms are “for paying customers only”.

this is a place of death. life is not welcome here.

and now I am noticing.

[sun-snatcher]

No no because I love your depiction of Jet??? Oh my god?? Like hell yeah hes a fearless leader of a freedom fighting rebellion group he built from the ground up but he’s also?? JUST A TEEN!! JUST A BOY!! Teenage boys get butterflies too!!??

🌾 ・ POCKETFUL OF BUTTERFLIES

summ. Operation: Creeping Cricket was a botch. It looks like you and Jet aren’t gonna be headed home anytime soon. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.1k a/n. ANON YOURE SO RIGHT. Sometimes we forget Jet is really just a teenage boy grappling with hormones and feelings and everything inbetween! Enjoy this short continuation to Hand in Loving Hand!

You take a mental note to thank Longshot and his squirrel-like tendencies to hide emergency stashes up in trees for times like these.

“Here,” Jet says softly, “Y’might catch a cold soon.”

The change of clothes he offers you is weathered, but a warm welcome respite from the frigid chill that’s settled into your bones. 

Operation Creeping Cricket had been a complete bust. Your narrow escape is a stroke of luck with all things considered, and at least the rain has finally stopped. It doesn’t help that both you and Jet are soaked head to toe, however, and the fact that the temperatures in the forests by Omashu can drop critically. 

Your cheeks are raw; your fingers ache— but you manage to begin peeling off the layers of your clothes one by one to dry by the campfire. From across, Jet’s already managed to change out. He frowns in concern from where he’s sitting by the fire, watching you tip over a boot of water. 

“You’re shaking.” 

“Shivering,” you correct, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth. You wonder if biting on a wheat straw like how Jet is doing right now would help. “But, yes. Same thing I suppose.” 

Then you’re untying the strings of your tunic, and pulling it swiftly over your head. 

Jet barely has time to react. 

He practically snaps his neck turning away, eyes wide. 

The whiplash, the innocent attempt at privacy, has you biting back a laugh. 

Ever the gentleman. 

“You can look now,” you finally say, after a quick minute, and Jet is careful to turn. 

The garments that Longshot had stashed practically drowns your figure, sleeves bundling at the wrists; collar wide and dipping low enough to reveal the corded necklace you never remove. And then there’s the glow of the fire, honeying you in amber light as you run your fingers through your damp hair. 

You’re… effortlessly beautiful. He’s not quite sure there’s any other way to describe you.

“That bad, huh?” you ask, pinned under his gaze. 

Jet startles. “Sorry, I— No, you just, look cold, still.”

He clears his throat as the tips of his ears burn. He hopes to the Spirits beyond you hadn’t noticed them go red. (You did.) 

“Well, so do you.” You reach back into Longshot’s knapsack and tug out a blanket from inside, before making your way across to the log Jet’s settled on. The material is tanned and threadbare, but it would do for the night.

Your hands brush as you wrap the cloth around the both of you. 

It’s difficult not to focus on just how warm Jet is. Even more difficult not to lean against him.

It hadn’t mattered much in the end, though; Jet shifts closer, and presses his shoulder against yours. 

“Y’okay?” You ask, gentle.

Under the dim firelight, his hard edges seem to soften. The fearless leader of the Freedom Fighters can be surprisingly endearing. Suddenly, Jet is simply another survivor; another casualty of war.

He shrugs lightly, careful not to jostle you, and makes a face. “Eh. We’ve faced worse, haven’t we?”

You laugh, ducking into his shoulder. Jet wonders if you can physically feel the butterflies taking flight in his chest.

There’s a spill of flowers behind you— budding Moonflowers, he recognises; native to Earth Kingdom wildlife— and has half the mind to pluck one and hand it to you. 

He chews harder on the straw in his mouth instead. 

( He knows you don’t see him that way, anyway. You’d made that clear before. ‘We’re family,’ is what you’d told him; Him and the rest of the Freedom Fighters. ‘Found family.’ And while he isn’t complaining, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t imagine atleast once what it’d be like to be something more with you. 

Even if you did, he’s not quite sure he’d act on it. He’s not quite sure he can allow himself to be that vulnerable to someone. Not when he's a wanted man; not when subjecting someone into his dangerous lifestyle is the last thing he wants— even if said someone had signed up for it. )

“I’ll take first watch.” he says, after a moment.

“Y’sure? I don’t mind doing it. I promise I’ll wake you up this time.”

He laughs at the old memory. The smile, however, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. You need rest.”

Quietly, you read him. Measure the micro-expressions that pass his face. Having fought alongside Jet throughout the years of survival made it easier. Whenever night falls, and the weight of his duties could settle if only for a little while, you could finally see all of him. Just a teenager who’s fighting for what he believed in; a kid who had to take on the world too early.

That illusion of 24/7 confidence falls around you often, though never around the younger rebels. You’ve kept the privilege close to your heart.

“You’re worried.”

He picks on the hearth for a moment, listens to the crackle of the fire.

Jet doesn’t doubt the Freedom Fighters’ capabilities. Longshot’s probably camping out somewhere in the trees with Smellerbee and The Duke, and Pipsqueak and Sneers can navigate these forests even better than him. They’ve all probably made it home already, knowing them.

And yet. And yet—

“Yeah,” he says. He didn’t like admitting it, because it implied they couldn’t protect themselves. It’d have meant he isn’t confident in them; that he, to some degree, didn’t trust them. It’s a twisted mindset, he recognises, but he can’t quite help his way of thinking these days. He didn’t like admitting he cared more than he really should— it’d be a concession. An admission. 

An admission that he might truly snap if he lost any of the Freedom Fighters; that he might truly break if, Spirits forbid, he’d lose you.

The thought sends a frisson up his spine.

That shouldn’t scare him. It shouldn’t.

He blinks, shakes his head. “That obvious?”

“No. But I’ve known you for years now,” you nudge.  “It’s okay to worry, y’know? You can care. You do care. There’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to act like you don’t for the sake of appearing calm and collected and… cool.”

He cocks his head at that, musters a playful smile. “Ah. So you think I’m cool?” 

It’s meant to derail the conversation. Fortunately for him, it’s successful. Jet watches you bow your head and laugh; the bright one, the kind that makes his heart sing.

Camaraderie, he reminds himself, swallowing thickly as he reluctantly turns away from you. Nothing more, nothing less.

[flowerishness]

Clarkia amoena (Godetia, Farewell-to-spring)

Farewell-to-spring is a summer flower. As the green grass watered by spring rains begins to dry out, Farewell-to-spring bursts into bloom. This native wildflower grows from British Columbia's coastal mountains, all the way down to the San Francisco Bay area. Farewell-to-spring is 'diurnal' which means it's flowers close at night and reopen with the morning sun. In the 1980's a number of cultivars were introduced in a variety of colors, some with large flowers and long stems. I prefer this shorter, native species myself and I think it's natural colors look just fine.

Incidentally, the name of the genus Clarkia, honors Captain William Clark of the amazing Lewis and Clark expedition to the Pacific Northwest in 1806.

[jounosnumberoneslut]

"You look so much better with my cock in your mouth"

Dazai Osamu x reader NSFW

Sorry for the grammatical mistakes english isn't my native language!!

Pairing... Dazai Osamu x fem!reader

Contains... gentleman Dazai, fluff, smut!, dirty talk, dry humping, oral (male receiving)

You've been dating Dazai Osamu, the suicidal, handsome investigator, for two weeks. You met by serendipity as you sat down at a coffee shop after work, and he asked you to join your company. It turned out that the man working at the office above the cafe and you talked so well that you two discussed the next time to meet. You were already attracted by his wit and charm.

As your relationship progressed, you discovered that beneath Dazai's enigmatic persona, there was a vulnerable side that he rarely showed to others. Despite his troubled past, his dark humor and intelligence continued to captivate you, making you even more drawn to him.

You didn't want to go ahead of schedule due to the fact that you've already been disappointed by men as well. You never told him, but you were worried that if you let him into your bed, Dazai would leave you alone like the others. He understood this and waited patiently for your small signs that your relationship was ready to advance.

Even though he was aware of how much you desired it, he refrained from acting out of respect for your request. You allowed Dazai to kiss you after the third time you two met. It was a tender and gentle kiss, filled with unspoken promises and reassurance. In that moment, you realized that Dazai was different from the others; he was willing to wait for you and earn your trust.

The kiss marked the beginning of a deeper connection between you both, slowly erasing the fear of disappointment and replacing it with hope for a love that could withstand any challenges. As your relationship deepened, he continued to show patience and understanding, earning your trust day by day. It was only when you felt completely comfortable and secure in his presence that you finally allowed yourselves to take the next step in your relationship.

After two weeks of dating, you made the decision to invite Dazai to your place. You've always met in public places—the cinema, dining out, shopping, or strolling through parks. But today is the day you cleaned your house while awaiting your partner to arrive and listening to your favorite playlists. As you put the finishing touches on your home, you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness. You had other plans with him tonight.

A bell went off. When you opened the door, Dazai was standing there with a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He wasn't wearing his trench coat and had one side of his hair pulled back behind her ears. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as he extended the bouquet towards you, his lips curving into a warm smile. Suddenly, he caught your lip. You gently placed your hands on his face while kissing him back. ''These are my favorites! Where did you know it?'' You asked him while inviting him inside. ''Just guessed, so can I come in Bella?''

You nodded and stood at the door, allowing Dazait to enter your home. You shut the front door and went into the kitchen while he removed his shoes. You took out a vase, filled it with water, and placed in it the flowers you received from him. You cooked cupcakes during the day and prepared them for your boyfriend. As you set the cupcakes on a tray, their sweet aroma filled the kitchen. You couldn't help but smile, excited to surprise your boyfriend with this thoughtful gesture.

Meanwhile, Dazai followed you and stood gently behind you, his arms from your back to your waist and his head between your neck and shoulders. His flossy hair slid to your exposed skin, and you felt as if he smiled into your neck. “Ohh cupcakes! Is them for me?” He suddenly took one and ate it. “Mmmm so sweet! Sweet like who made them!” You blushed at Dazai's playful comment and playfully swatted his hand away from the tray. "Well, they were supposed to be a surprise, but I guess you ruined that," you teased, pretending to pout. Dazai chuckled and pulled you closer, whispering in your ear, "I can't resist anything made by the sweetest person in my life."

You were just standing there with a flushed face; Dazai can even make you confused at your own home. He turned to face you and gave you a quick kiss. You licked a small piece of crumb that stuck to your lips. You tasted Dazai as well as the cupcake's sweet paste. He grabbed the cupcakes' tray, slipped his other arm around your waist, and then walked toward your living room. "Let's go in love." As you followed him into the living room, you couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth and affection towards Dazai. The way he effortlessly made you feel at ease, even in your own home, was something you cherished about him.

Dazai held your hand and placed the tray on your cigarette table before falling to the couch and pulling you onto himself. You laid on him a few centimeters from his face while he lay on his back with his legs spread out, gazing into each other's eyes. He smoothed your back with one hand and removed the hair from your face with the other. "My beautiful Bella, you are so magnificent without makeup and these comfy clothes; I love it." You blushed at his compliment, feeling a warmth spread through your body. The intimacy of the moment made you realize just how deeply he cared for you, appreciating your natural beauty and the comfort you shared together. This is the first time you didn't put on any makeup or dress up elegantly before him.

You slowly got closer to him and pressed your mouth on his own. He kissed you back; you licked his lower lip first, then entered his mouth. His hand softly grabbed your hair, while his tongue worked on yours more confidently. Your body started to move on his; your tits were pressed onto his hard chest. Dazai blushed as you, panted in your mouth, tried to restrain himself, not grabbing your ass. As you drew nearer to him, you put your mouth on his own. He returned the kiss, and you licked his lower lip before moving your tongue inside his lips. His tongue worked on yours more boldly, while his hand gently gripped your hair. Your tits were crushed against his sturdy chest as your body began to move on his. Dazai now reddened as you quietly panted into your mouth and struggled to hold back and refrain from touching your ass. "Dazai, I want to show you something." You purred, didn't break the kiss, and grinded your thigh to his half-hard bulge. As the intensity between you grew, Dazai's breath hitched, and his eyes darkened with desire. The anticipation in the air was palpable as you whispered, "I want to show you how much I crave you." With a mischievous smile, you pressed your lips against his once more, teasingly nibbling on his lower lip before continuing your tantalizing movements.

Before slowly getting off of him, I gently bit his lower lip and touched his body while crawling away from his handsome face. You didn't forget to touch his body at all, from his neck down to his chest, then finally massaged his member a little. He groaned because of your touch. "You don't have to... if you don't want it." You whispered softly, your voice filled with desire, "But I want it. I want to explore every inch of you, to make you feel good." His eyes locked with yours, a mixture of anticipation and consent shining through. "Please, sit up... love"

As Dazai sat up on the couch, you kneeled down before him on the floor. He was so speechless. I didn't expect that you wanted to suck him off the first time you invited him to your home. You ran your hands through his thighs up to his skinny hip, grabbed his waistband, and untied it. He didn't say anything; all he did was assist you in removing his pants. The only piece of clothing blocking your path was his boxer. His already hard cock was perfectly outlined under the fabric; you had to touch it. He hissed when you ran your fingers along his length. With a mischievous smile, you slowly slid his boxers down, revealing his throbbing cock. "Why are you so quiet, Osamu?" You whispered, your voice filled with desire. As you continued to tease him, he finally managed to find his voice, breathlessly responding, "I've been waiting for this moment with you for so long."

You smiled, then slowly pulled down his boxer to free his cock. It leaned down to his abdomen and twitched when you smoothed your fingers up and down on it. Not only his face but his cock too are beautiful, longer, and not so thick, with some bulging vessels. You kitten licked some places only on his length, which he rewarded you with deep but quiet moans. You sank down, gently bit his balls only with your lips, and pulled his sack a little. "Hah babe! You are so dirty; I love it." He grabbed your hair in a ponytail and looked into your eyes. "Finally, I can hear your voice." You teased him, and oh, how much he liked it. A cocky grin appeared on his face, then he gently pushed your face down to his throbbing cock. You kissed his tip, wrapped your lips around it, sucked it, and circled it with your tongue. "I had such a feeling that my Y/N is a dirty girl... ahh." He groaned as you took him deeper into your mouth; his moans grew louder and more desperate. The salty taste of him on your tongue drove you wild with desire, and you eagerly continued to pleasure him. "You don't have to restrain yourself, Osamu." You stroked his length, which didn't fit in your mouth, with both of your hands. His cum, mixed with your saliva, flowed down under his balls; these slipping noises made Dazai closer to his climax. He couldn't control himself; he was a whimpering mess; his hips moved faster; and he fucked your mouth and hands.

"I'm... I'm going to cum honey, ahh, can I?" You gagged as you sucked in as much of his length as you could and felt it throbbing in your mouth when his warm cum shot down to your throat. He pushed his head not so hard on his cock and felt his member still pulsating. "Stay a little bit, please." When his breath was restored, he let go of him. You stood up, sat on his naked lap, and touched his face with one hand. "Was it good, Osamu?" He looked at you with a satisfied smile and replied, "Better than good, my love. You know what?" You slowly rolled your hips against his still-hard cock, cocking your head in a curious manner. "I swear, honey, you look so much better with my cock in your mouth." He chuckled and slapped your ass. "I look better in other positions too; let me prove it." He suddenly picked you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist and let him carry you into the bedroom.

500 followers event

[dearmantis]

Dried Flowers

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x fem!Reader

Summary: After killing another person who tried to earn your hand in marriage, Aleksander finally manages to get you right where he has always wanted you.

Warning: murder, slut-shaming, blood, obsession, manipulation, dacryphilia (kind of? not sexual, he's just weird about tears??)

Word Count: 2k

Authors' Note: My ability to form sentences in English is slowly disappearing. What is grammar? I don't know anymore. What is logic? I don't know that either. I think I know nothing at all, actually. I also didn't proofread this at all and this isn't my native language, just fyi.

The blood tints the water a beautiful rose colour, similar to the petals of a flower Aleksander has seen you wear in your hair a few days ago.

He's washing his hands slowly, making sure to get every single drop off using the strongest smelling soap he owns in hopes of removing the metallic smell from his skin and a small brush to get the dried flakes out from under his nails.

His gaze moves over to the mirror, checking his shirt for blood splatter in the reflection, but he luckily finds nothing. There are some drops on his face, the red covering his cheek, nose, and parts of his forehead.

He has licked the ones that landed on his lips off a while ago, enjoying the taste of it like an expensive wine as he watched the man bleed out on the floor, his blood forming a small puddle beneath his body while his weak voice begged for mercy.

When he's sure that he got everything off his hands, he grabs a small handkerchief and dips it into the water before using it to remove the blood from his face. He has no time to waste, but he wants to make sure he looks right nonetheless.

In an hour, you will realize that your Lord Peter will not come to your planned shared breakfast. You will send servants to his room to check on him and they will discover the letter he forged, explaining how the Lord wanted to use you as a distraction after falling for a young woman in Ketterdam during his travels and recently decided that he loves her too much to stay away from her any longer.

It will break your heart, but sacrifices must be made, and breaking your heart now would be better than breaking it later after you truly lost your heart to him.

It was a shame, really. Lord Peter had been nice, one of the few nobles in Ravka who did not openly talk badly about Grisha, but Aleksander still couldn't let you marry him. No, you had to stay here, right in the Grand Palace, and Peter would've dragged you to his estate close to the border, never to be seen again.

And Aleksander needs you here. You can't leave. Ever.

After the blood is fully washed off his face he washes the handkerchief and places it on the windowsill to dry in the rising morning sun before opening the window and moving to dump the bloody water into the bed of flowers growing below.

Then he sits back down at his desk and moves to continue with todays paperwork while he waits, patient like a cat that knows that the little mouse will walk right into its mouth.

An hour later you are sitting on his lap, hands tightly holding onto his kefta while he uses the handkerchief he used to remove the blood from his face to dry your tears, carefully dabbing the soft, freshly washed fabric against your skin.

"I just don't understand why this keeps happening." He hears you whisper under your breath, his eyes still focused on the tears rolling down your cheeks. You look so beautiful when you cry. Ethereal. Magical. "Why am I never enough? Why not?"

He can feel a painful pinch in his heart when he hears your words. It's not you who isn't good enough for them. They aren't good enough for you.

You, his beautiful little Princess who boldly stands up for his Grisha and gets harassed with horrible rumours in return. Who gets shamed and threatened and withstands it all despite your softness, like a wild flower surviving the most destructive storms.

"She's under the Darklings spell."

"Nobody wants to marry her except the General and now she defends him to make sure he doesn't loose interest."

"The poor girl is being manipulated by him. He uses her as a shield to protect the Grisha and the stupid thing is too blind to see it."

"He must've fucked his magic into her and it scrambled her mind."

So much gossip surrounds you, but you never complain. You don't even mention what they say about you, probably fearing that he will distance himself from you as well after finding out how people talk about you. That the last friend you have left will leave, unwilling to have his reputation ruined even more.

But he would never leave you. In Aleksanders eyes, you're the only honourable otkazat'sya currently alive in all of Ravka. He will do everything in his power to make sure you stay right here with him and influence politics further. You're a sensible person. Good. Kind. And you work hard to make sure people understand and respect the way you see the world. You fight for change.

So you have to stay right here with him.

"You're more than enough." He answers softly, dropping the handkerchief onto the sofa next to you before his hands move up to cup your face, making sure you're looking him in the face and see the truth in his eyes.

"You are so much better than anyone in Ravka understands. You have a soft, caring heart, and those who do not understand it see it as weakness. But I understand. I understand your strength."

Every single word that falls from his lips is calculated, his voice soft and kind in hopes of making you more susceptible to him.

"And you understand me. You understand how I see the world. What needs to change to make sure Grisha and otkazat'sya can live together in peace. You are perfect."

You don't understand him, not yet, at least, but you will. He will make sure of it. You will understand it all. His little flower.

He lets his hands move down to your waist, and your head immediately drops to rest on his shoulder, your face pressing into his neck.

"Why can't I just marry you..." Aleksander hears you murmur, almost entirely soundless, and he has to fight the smirk trying to find its way onto his lips.

"What was that?"

An embarrassed whimper leaves your lips, a sweet, pathetic sound that he would love to hear forever. "Forget it."

"No, no. Come on, don't be shy." Aleksander encourages, carefully drawing circles on your back while you press your face closer to his neck.

"It's stupid."

The Shadow Summoner doesn't respond, instead choosing to simply wait until you manage to collect enough confidence to repeat and explain yourself. You need to make this step on your own.

"My father will not stop until I'm married. He will continue to set me up with new people in hopes of marrying me off to get me out of the Palace."

You lift your head to look into his face, probably fearing that he won't understand you if you keep whispering against his neck, forcing you to repeat this whole thing a third time.

"And the people he chooses will continue to run away from me. Even the nicest people leave me behind and instead pick a different fate for themselves. For some reason, everyone seems to agree that marrying me is not worth it, a destiny too cruel to live through. No one ever stays with me. No one except you."

New tears sparkle in your eyes, and Aleksander decides it's the most beautiful sight he has ever had the privilege of witnessing. When you cry, all of your emotions are so visible in your eyes. You hide nothing, the mask that all nobles in Ravka wear washed away by the tears rolling down your face. The fact that you trust him to see all of your vulnerability and weakness fills him with glee.

"So I thought that maybe... maybe it would be an option for us to marry."

Before Aleksander gets the chance to respond, you begin talking once more, making it clear to him that you will probably start rambling.

"Of course, that's stupid. We're friends, and I really don't want to ruin this, and I know that I just did that by mentioning that I think we should marry, and I'm really sorry. It's pathetic and honestly disrespectful to you to ask you to marry me just because I'm sick of being alone and I'm pretty sure my father wouldn't even allow it so we would have to do it in secret which isn't fair to you and I-"

He cuts you off by carefully touching your face once more, willing his gaze to soften. He needs to at least pretend to be vulnerable right now to fully get you where he wants you to be.

"It would be an honour to marry you, moya tsarevna. It doesn't matter if in secret or in front of all of Ravka. You are my best friend, and it would be a privilege to be tied to you legally and free you from this constant pain of losing every person you get close to in the same breath."

Leaning forward, he presses his forehead against yours, hoping that the physical proximity will make him seem more honest than he truly is.

"But I don't want you to marry me just because you fear that you will end up alone. I want you to decide for yourself that you want a future with me. One where we can fight side by side for Grisha and Otkazat'sya to live in harmony."

He would marry you right now if you simply ask him. It's the ideal end to his plan, after all. If you were married to him, he wouldn't have to keep killing all of your friends and possible marriage candidates because you would already be tied to him and the Little Palace. You could never leave. You would be here with him forever.

Or, well... until you died from old age. But that's a problem he can solve, he's sure of it. He will make sure his little flower will live on and continue fighting with him. You're part of this eternal battle now, and he will not let you escape it though something like death.

It really doesn't matter why you want to marry him, but it would make the future easier for him and yourself if you simply learned to love him romantically. You'd also probably be more likely to forgive him for the more controversial ideas he has if your heart is full with love for him. As much as he wants to grab you and drag you over to a church to get it over with, he needs to be patient.

The end is in sight, there is no reason to rush things and risk mistakes later. This is the foundation for a bright future.

The worst thing that could happen is that you choose to wait and get to know another Lord who your father wants you to marry.

Another person for Aleksander to kill.

And then, when his dead body slowly starts to decompose in the flowerbeds of the Little Palace alongside the other people he has killed for this, you will find your way back into his arms for comfort and decide that you will marry him. There's no reason to force you to marry him now.

"I would love to be married to you, General. It would be an honour for me as well. You are a great general and an even greater man. I respect you more than anyone else. I promise it's not just because I fear to disappoint my family and end up alone. I have always admired your protective and caring nature, and I genuinely believe that you could be a great husband. One that I can easily love."

He moves your face back to the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around your waist and pressing you tightly against his body. He can't hide the wide grin on his face.

The mouse walked into the cats open mouth. You are his.

[ilguna]

☼ my tears ricochet pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; it’s been six months since you were banished from district four. since then, you’ve been trying to lay low and keep your nose clean. one night, you and gale go to the local bar to wind down after a long week, and he helps you come to a realization that changes everything.

warnings; swearing, prostitution mention, alcohol, arson, death mention, mental health talk, torture.

wc; 6.5k

part one.

notes; hints of Gale slander but fish are friends not food!!

--

The July summer breeze feels nice against your hot skin, causing you to close your eyes to enjoy it properly. It’s even better this way. You reach back to lift the hair off your neck, which is slightly damp from sweat after working all day in the sun. A chill goes down your spine when the wind hits the spot just right.

There’s a lot of similarities between District Two and Four that you've come to notice over time, but the heat is not one of them. It’s very dry here, there’s a lot of desert and very little rain to sustain any real plant life. Any that do exist have already evolved to live off of practically no water. For miles, all you can see is dirt and half-dead bushes, 

While back home, you’re located right on the coast, allowing for more rainy days than plain sunshine. The trees, grass and flowers are always fed and healthy. Even if it doesn’t rain, there are clouds to block the heat from beating on you, making every afternoon a pleasant one. 

This weather difference alone isn’t enough to make you feel homesick, but there are so many other factors at play that contribute to it. When you first moved to District Two, you had a feeling that you’d never be able to get used to living here. It’s been six months since then, and you’re still a stranger when you walk the streets.

The only familiar thing—or rather, person—here is Gale.

Except, he isn’t from home. He’s not one of your childhood friends, or a neighbor from your previous neighborhood. You can’t talk to him about what could be going on since you got banished. He’s from District Twelve. The only thing you have in common is the fact that you’re both rebels.

You can’t even use your banishment as a way to bond with him, because he deserved what he got, and you were wrongly accused. While Finnick had framed you for allegedly giving the Peacekeepers your next steps—Gale had actually indirectly got Primrose Everdeen killed through one of the ideas that he developed with Beetee.

He might not have been the one to send out the bombs, because former President Alma Coin had to approve that order, but he was the one to suggest using it. Gale was desperate to win the rebellion at any cost, until he paid the biggest price.

There’s a good chance that Gale will never be able to go back to District Twelve after what he did. Especially since Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch have decided to stay and continue living there. Although, with how well things are going in Two with the volunteer work, it probably hasn’t crossed his mind. 

It’s not exactly easy work. Most of the time, you don’t have enough time to be thinking about anything other than what your hands are doing. It’s mind-numbing in a good way, and usually you feel pretty accomplished by the end of the task. 

The work deals with a lot of construction and beautification. Usually, you don’t get paid for it. Sometimes they’ll give out free lunch if it’s going to be a particularly long day of tearing down bricks and planting greenery. There’s been a few times where you’ve been so caught up in the work, that you went all night.

It’s gotten you a lot of recognition from the people that are native to Two, which is not what you’re striving for, but it’s nice to not have to worry about the hatred as much. When you first arrived at the train station six months ago, it was pretty clear that a lot of people held prejudice against you. Over time, they’ve gotten curious and have bothered you to ask what happened.

It takes a lot of explanation and convincing, but eventually they believe you. Or, at the very least, they take a neutral standpoint and choose not to pick a side entirely. You know that it’s a lot of he-said, she-said. It’s hard to know who’s telling the truth in a serious situation like that.

On one hand, it’d be nice to believe Finnick, because he’s the one that first came forward with the story. Plus, he’s been Panem’s darling for so long that it would be heinous for him to do something so selfish and seemingly out-of-character.

On the other, you have never done something so snake-ish ever. Everyone should know that if a situation like that happens, you would take the hit of being taken for the greater good. It’s your one life versus several. As terrifying as it would’ve been, you could’ve handled whatever the Capitol had to offer for you at that moment. 

Of course, when you tell people the real side of the story, you take a massive hit for not telling the group when you had the chance before the sewers. The issue is that Finnick had been keeping a close eye on you, under the guise that he wanted to protect you, but also to ensure that your mouth stayed shut. 

If you could go back and change the situation, you would. 

“(L/n), (Y/n).” A woman calls.

You open your eyes, briefly being blinded by the sun while you turn to face Azalea. She’s the head director here in District Two for the volunteer work, she keeps everything very organized. It’s less stressful when she’s the one taking care of things for the day.

“Yes?” You ask, finding her at the front of the crowd.

She’s a short, blonde woman with tan skin. She holds up the clipboard, showing you the paper for a second. All you can gather is the fact that it’s a signup sheet, so you begin to move forward, carefully brushing past some of the workers in the process.

“What time did you get here today?” Azalea asks, once you’re in front of her.

“Um—“ You glance over your shoulder to search for Gale, because he’s the one with the watch. He keeps track of the time and when you go on break.

“Seven-twenty.” Gale says from beside you, making you jump slightly. “We both got here at that time.”

Azalea hums, writing that down in the time slot next to your names. You look over Gale, who you haven’t seen in a good fifteen minutes. There’s a smudge of dirt beneath his eye, so you lick your thumb, reaching to rub it away. He dodges your finger, face twisting in disgust.

“You look dirty.” You tell him, wiping the dirt off of his skin. “Stop being a baby, I’ve seen you eat a potato that touched the bar floor before.”

“It was expensive.” 

“Are either of you available tomorrow for a paid job?” Azalea interrupts. “I’ve got a house call from Enobaria Golding that needs to be done, and no one is signing up for it.”

“What’s it for?” You ask.

“She’s turning Victor’s Village into a memorial, I believe she just needs help moving furniture around in some of the houses. As well as cleaning up the neighborhood’s fountain, loose leaves, and pavement.”

You look at Gale with raised eyebrows, his lips are pressed together. “What time?”

“Whenever you can, she thinks it’s going to be a three day job at the very least. She’s paying over a hundred per hour, it used to be lower, but got raised because it’s urgent.” Azalea looks between you two.

“I’m in.” You tell her, “We could have it done in three days.”

Gale sighs, “Yeah, sign me up too.”

She begins to write your names down on a separate paper. “Will it be a big deal if I close it, then? I don’t think I’ll be able to find others. No one’s keen on Enobaria.”

“That’s fine.” You agree, “I know her, we’ll get along. Is it a contract?”

“I can make it one.” Azalea nods. “Swing by later tonight, I’ll have it ready.”

“Sounds good, Azalea. Thank you.” You nod.

“Are we good to go?” Gale asks, beginning to take a step back.

“Yup. Be good, you two.” She points the end of her pen in the middle of you guys, and then turns her attention back to the group that’s waiting to sign out.

Gale takes charge on leading you out of the center square. With how tall he is and the aggressive look on his face, he clears a path faster than you can. Besides, no one wants to be more than three feet near him. And yes, that has to do with his own reputation. 

“What’s your plan for tonight?” Gale asks over his shoulder.

“Well, since we’re probably going to get a late start tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind going to the bar tonight.” You raise your eyebrows.

He hums, “Right now?”

“Sure, why not?”

With that, Gale changes direction, heading for the good bar on the other side of District Two. When you first came here, you spent a lot of time bar hopping. In those weeks, you figured out that the fancy places were not, in fact, better. They were just more expensive. 

It wasn’t until you found the dirty place on the corner of Upper Heights, did you realize that they charge less for better quality. The only perk of going to those higher-end places is the fact that you can brag that you went there. You don’t talk to many people outside of Gale, and he was the one you took with you.

Well, that’s not entirely right. You didn’t take him with you—he tagged along, despite knowing that he was unwelcome. You didn’t like him very much to begin with back in District Thirteen because you thought what he did to Peeta’s family was pretty shitty, so you tried to steer clear of him as much as possible. The way he acted during the Capitol storming just solidified your ideas.

When Gale heard that you were going to be staying in District Two, he attached to you. You tried several different ways to get him to leave you alone, ranging from practically verbally abusing him to flat out ignoring. He didn’t care, he was ready for whatever you had to throw at him.

It eventually hit the point where you figured that you might as well deal with him. At the time, it would’ve been easier to put up with Gale than to try and convince someone that you were worthy of a conversation. He was an ass to put up with, and you caught yourself wondering how Katniss hung around him for so long.

In the end, it worked out. You and Gale can talk to each other without arguing. You two have a lot more in common than you originally thought, too. Although, some of his ideas are questionable, and you usually have to stop him from talking to keep that peaceful state.

“I’m surprised you want to drink so early.” Gale remarks.

“It’s almost eight o’clock.” You reason, motioning to the sky. “It’s not my fault it’s still bright out.”

The sun is slowly setting on the horizon, getting ready to say goodbye for the night. Which is good, because you’re tired of the heat. Unfortunately, it’ll still be warm out, even with the flaming ball in the sky gone. At least the bar has air conditioning. 

Gale reaches for the handle, pulling the door open. He holds it for you as you enter first, allowing you to choose where to sit tonight. You head for the table in the corner, the one that lets you have a perfect view of the entire room, and a quick escape for the door. 

Gale begrudgingly takes his jacket off and sets it on the chair that has its back to the room. “Your usual?”

“Yes, and water, please.” You tell him, reaching for your wallet. “I’ll pay for the first round. We can alternate tonight.”

Gale holds his hand out, watching as you drop the cash in his hand. He counts it as he walks away, heading for the bar top. You watch as he and the bartender go back and forth as the drinks are made. A minute later, Gale comes over, placing the glasses on the table. 

You start with the water, parched. They provide water, but they keep the bottles to recycle them, even if you aren’t finished with what’s inside. Once half the cup is empty, you start on your mixed drink, watching as Gale takes a sip of straight brown liquor.

“Do you remember what Azalea was saying about next week?” You ask, watching as Gale’s face twists.

“You mean the beach clean up?” Gale asks.

“Yeah, she said District Four, right?”

“I think. And whatever else is beside it. They’ve got their own coordinators over there, so they aren’t taking volunteers. Trust me, I tried.”

“They would’ve denied me, anyway.” You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Azalea hesitated. She said that we’d be useful, but the deadline passed a couple days ago.”

“Any victors going?” You ask.

He scoffs, “No, the last I heard, everyone’s hands off.”

You hum, resting your head on your hand. You get about the same information that Gale does when it comes to the victors, usually in snippets. 

Enobaria’s here, obviously, in District Two. You didn’t know that she was doing a memorial for the Two victors until today, which is nice of her. You can’t imagine how hard it is to be the only surviving victor of a district. Especially since Lyme was alive for the rebellion, but got killed during the storming of the Capitol.

Speaking of which, Beetee’s working in the heart of it under Commander Paylor. You’re not sure what he’s doing exactly, likely something with electronics or the defense system, if you had to guess. All you know is that he was able to resume basically what he had been before, this time for a better cause.

As for Katniss, there’s a lot of mixed news on her. Some say that she’s doing over-the-phone therapy appointments with Doctor Aurelius, mandated by Paylor to assess Katniss’s state of mind periodically after the assassination of former President Snow. Others tell you that she’s been skipping calls and hasn’t been out of her house in who-knows how long. 

After everything that happened, you just hope that she's doing okay. 

Peeta is doing his own sessions, also with Doctor Aurelius. Except, he’s not in Twelve, he’s still stationed in the Capitol for the time being. There’s a lot of progress regarding the hijacking, but it’s hard to know for sure if permanent damage hasn’t been done. And they can’t really test that out, either.

Haymitch… could honestly be anywhere. You heard he was forced to attend rehab in District Thirteen a second time, getting him completely sober. He’s fallen off the map since then, so your best guess is that he’s still there. You know post-war that he began to struggle with his sobriety after losing so many longtime friends.

This brings you to the few people that you could care less about. Starting with Johanna, she’s in District Seven, enjoying her life. She isn’t doing anything of importance, just wasting away in her own victor house, letting people wait on her. They tried to get Doctor Aurelius to rope her in, but she’s resilient. She doesn’t care about bettering herself, even though it’s pretty needed after the torture.

Annie Cresta is living in District Four, right alongside your ex-boyfriend and traitor, Finnick Odair. You don’t get much information on them, and it has to do with the fact that you get pissed off at the sound of their success. From your understanding, they live guilt-free and happy in their mansions, sleeping in their own beds.

When you ask for updates regarding Four, it’s a hit or miss if you get anything of importance. For example, they could tell you that fishing’s down, and it has been for the past couple weeks. Or, they’ll lay it on heavy, by telling you that your childhood home and your victor home are nothing but foundation.

You remember how dark the world became when you heard the news. Finnick told you on that runway in City Circle that they’d burnt your victor house down, something that you’d be able to live with. It didn’t have the prized possessions of your parents and siblings, or the pictures that captured you growing up. The only physical memory of the family you once had.

Apparently, not long after Finnick returned to Four, they’d set your home ablaze, too.

A part of you wonders whether or not that was encouraged by him. God forbid if you ever find out that’s the case. You might not be very threatening now, but nothing will stand in the way between your fists and his face if he told them to take away your last safe haven in Panem.

Anyway, when you were told the news about your childhood home, it almost became your breaking point. You’d been in Two for about three weeks at that point, and you were in no sound state to hear something so heavy. Especially on top of everything else that had been happening in the last year.

“Tomorrow’s July fourth.” Gale says, kinda changing the topic.

“Reaping Day.” You agree, nodding, taking another sip of your drink. “This will be the first year where a Hunger Games hasn’t taken place in Seventy-Six years.”

Gale stares off at the bar for a couple of quiet seconds. “What was it like being a victor?”

“Was?” You repeat. “You act like that’s a title that’s been taken away. I am a victor.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Still.” You mutter. “I don’t know, what was it like being a worker in the mines?”

Gale’s face scrunches up. “You’re really comparing my district work to victor life?”

“I’m not saying district work isn’t hard or dangerous, especially with the mining stories that you were telling me. However, only one of us has been reaped twice and fought in both Hunger Games.” You remind him. “I have killed more than six people on purpose with three indirect kills following that.”

“You act like that’s something to brag about.” He squints at you.

“I’m not saying it is. All I’m saying is that victor life isn’t easy, either. And if you need an example, take Annie Cresta.”

“Annie Cresta is an anomaly.”

“But Katniss isn’t.” You raise your eyebrows. “I bet she had PTSD following her Games, and couldn’t hold a bow without remembering what she used it for inside of the arena.” 

Gale makes a face, tilting his head. “You’re not wrong.”

You raise your hand in his direction, because you knew you weren’t wrong. “Anyway, to answer your question—before the rebellion, there were hard parts and there were easy parts. Especially when it came to mentoring.”

His eyes land back on you. “How was that?”

“A nightmare.” You tell him. “There’s a reason why a lot of the victors ended up like Haymitch. Or addicted or morphling.” You swish the ice around in your glass.

“I’ll grab the next round.” Gale reaches for your cup, you move your hand.

“Thanks.”

He slides off his chair, heading away. With the questions he’s asking, you’re going to be drinking the entire night. He’s never been interested in victor life before, but you suppose there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to ask questions with Katniss. Besides, she’s not nearly as experienced as you are in that area.

He could ask you anything about the Capitol, and you’d have an answer for him. There was one point in your career where you had to be studying their mannerisms because Snow was getting ready to put you on the chopping block. Your victory almost completely outshone Finnick’s, you were going to be his ticket out of the prostitution industry, but your popularity died quickly.

For what reason, you’re not sure. All you know is that Snow sent you an ‘I regret to inform you…’ letter, telling you that you’ve been shelved. As if that was supposed to be upsetting, instead of relieving. You even remember crying in your room, praising whatever intervened and saved you.

When Gale comes back, he’s got more questions, “Wasn’t there good aspects about it, too?”

Your face twists as you take the first sip of your drink. “I guess. Besides the money and the house, we were free to do basically what we wanted in the Capitol, in moderation.”

“You weren’t trapped inside of the Tribute Center?” He asks, eyebrows raised.

“No,” You scoff, “We were anything but trapped. We were encouraged to enjoy what the Capitol had to offer, we were walking advertisements of the Hunger Games. I didn’t take advantage of it though, I’d only been on them a couple times before the Quarter Quell.”

“Why?” 

“They couldn’t just set us free, obviously. They had to keep an eye on us somehow, and that was done through the street cameras. They’re everywhere.” You shake your head. “I mean, you can’t go a single block without them.”

Gale pauses, putting his glass back down on the table. “Were they on the street when we were passing through?”

“Yeah, of course. The cameras are less frequent on the outskirts because there’s not a lot of crime in the Capitol, but they exist. It gets more difficult around the President’s Mansion because that’s a huge security risk.”

Gale stares at you, unmoving.

You look over his face, and then down to his drink. “What?”

“Are you hearing yourself?” He asks.

“Yeah?”

Gale smiles a little bit. “Never mind. What was your favorite thing to do in the Capitol?”

“It had to be the bars, or the clubs. I couldn’t go to very many of them, though. Which meant that I spent a lot of time in cafe’s.”

“Why couldn’t you go to clubs?”

“Finnick, mostly. He was a darling.” You rub the rim of your glass. When you look up at Gale, you raise your eyebrows. “You know, the whole prostitution thing. They always knew where he was because of the cameras. I’m lucky I never got pulled in. I came close several times.”

Gale presses his lips together. “They’d watch the street through the camera?”

“Yup, and they’d send high officials to our location to steal Finnick for the night, because he couldn’t say no. They could even play the footage back to see where we were coming from.”

“How far back?”

Your eyes wander away from his face. “I’m not entirely sure.” You lean back in the chair. “I mean, the Capitol used to pull footage from a year before of the victors to prove there were fashion trends.”

“So you’re telling me that they have footage of the streets from a year ago? Or at least, six months ago?” Gale presses.

“They should. I don’t know what good it would do now.” You tell him, locking eyes with him.

Gale doesn’t say anything, staring at you intensely. You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong with him, but end up sealing your lips, eyes narrowing in his direction. He does this to you sometimes when you’re missing a piece of a puzzle, and he’ll refuse to tell you what it is because he wants you to work it out.

It has to do with the cameras in the Capitol, because that’s what he’d been asking about. It’s such an insignificant detail, you’re not sure why he’s hung up on it. He had to have known there were cameras, that’s how they kept track of where you were in the sewers. If they hadn’t already known where you’d be going, of course.

The Peacekeepers found you on the street, thanks to those cameras. They probably even planned it down to the second to make sure that you were out of sight, in case any of the others came out of the apartment complex to look for you. Just like how they’d done to you and Finnick before…

You jerk upright, eyes widening as you watch Gale break into a smile. “Oh my god, there might be footage of Finnick and I on the street. And it might even have audio.”

“I was wondering when you’d get it.” He laughs.

You look around the bar, searching for the clock to find the time. It’s almost nine o’clock, the Justice Building closes at nine-thirty. Since it’s Friday, it’ll be closed through the weekend, unless there’s an emergency. And they won’t count your situation as one.

“I need to go.” You tell Gale, sliding off your chair, pulling your jacket over your arm. “I have to speak to Mayor Sybil.”

“Right now?” Gale asks, face twisting.

“Yes, right now.” You tell him. “I’ll meet you back at the house.” 

You head for the door in a rush, just barely getting the gap open wide enough for you to slip through before you’re running down the street. The Justice Building is on the other side of the town, where Azalea organizes the volunteers. You know it's a fairly long walk but you’ve never had to run there before.

You clutch the jacket to your chest, one arm pumping viciously at your side. You try your best to maneuver through the main and side streets of Upper Heights. Unfortunately, it’s not late enough for the town to be empty, especially not since it’s leading into the weekend. You receive several stares, people fully stopping to watch you run by, and heads turning at the sound of your feet crunching against gravel and cobblestone.

You try to keep your breathing as even as you can, remembering the rigorous training for the Quarter Quell that Mags put you through. She knew better than anyone what to expect. If it weren’t for her, you would’ve been unprepared.

The run feels like forever, but can’t be anymore than fifteen minutes—maybe twenty at the most. The second you see the Justice Building, a smaller boost of energy enters your system, and it’s the last push you need to make it to the doors in time. Right before the receptionist tries to lock it.

Her key is in the door when you push it open, gasping for air, wiping the sweat from your eyes. The cool air from the vent hits you in the face, easing the burning pain in your face. 

“Excuse me.” The receptionist says, her face is twisted. “We’re closed for the night.”

You shake your head, breathing through your mouth as you look up at the clock on the wall, which is right above a bench. Good, you need to sit down, or you’re going to lay on the tile floor. You bet that it’s cold.

“You don’t close…” You manage to get out, trailing off for a few breaths. “For another ten minutes.”

She presses her lips together. “We’ve had a slow day, so we’re closing early today.”

“This is urgent.” You breathe. “I need to see Mayor Sybil.”

“You can come back and visit her on Monday.”

“Respectfully, that’s not happening.” You tell the receptionist. “We can waste time arguing, or you can just bring me to her.” 

She glares at you, but starts walking down the hallway, presumably to the mayor. You get off the bench, following her. It’s a fairly quiet walk, if you tune out the stomping of her heels against the floor. And the occasional annoyed sigh.

She stops in front of the mayor’s door, knocking on the wood next to the crystal glass as a courtesy, before swinging the door open without permission to enter.

Mayor Sybil must be used to this, or doesn’t care. She looks up from her rectangular glasses with raised eyebrows. She looks between you two for just a moment, and then a little smile comes to her face as she gets to her feet.

“Miss (L/n), to what do I owe this pleasure, tonight?” She asks.

“I’ve been wrongly accused.” You tell her, stepping inside of the room. You drop your jacket onto the chair in front of her desk. “And there’s proof.”

Sybil winces, beginning to tilt her head, which means she’s going to start doubting you, and you don’t necessarily blame her. For the longest time, you’d come to the Justice Building and beg for them to reconsider. Sybil knows your routine by now.

“Listen, (Y/n), you know—” She starts.

“No.” You cut her off, glancing at the receptionist. “I need to speak to Sybil in private.” You tell her, just before closing the door in her face. “Sybil, the Capitol has cameras on the street.”

When you look at her, you can see that she’s placed her glasses on the top of her head, rubbing her nose. “Go on.”

“The cameras should’ve caught the conversation between Finnick and the Peacekeepers, and there’s going to be audio to go along with it.” You pull out the chair, stepping around the arm to sit down. “Will you please get Paylor on the phone?”

“Promise me this isn’t a waste of time.” She says, sighing.

“I promise I’m not wasting your time.” You tell her.

—

“If I were you, I’d put the guns down.” Finnick advised in a calm, collected voice. “It wouldn’t be a very good idea to kill us on the street, unless you want to alert the people we’re with, of course. It could give them a good running head start.”

There was a tense silence that passed between you and Finnick and the Peacekeepers that had just evacuated the truck, large guns in their hands. Although, it’s not entirely obvious through the playback, because your faces are hidden from the camera because of the angle it’s sitting at. You have a perfect view of the Peacekeepers, though. 

“Who says we have orders to kill you?” The Peacekeeper shoots back. “We have orders from President Snow to take you by any means necessary.”

“That’s not a good idea, either.” Finnick’s voice is smug. You remember the smirk that was on his face. “If you try to take us by force, we’ll make sure our companions are aware you’re out here. Same cards dealt.”

You watch your past self shift nervously on her feet, shaking her head. Finnick doesn’t move from where he stands, arms still raised in the air. The Peacekeepers begin to create a half-circle around you two, because it was more important to bring some back to the mansion, instead of being empty handed.

“We can make a deal.” Finnick offered cooly, “If you’re willing to make one.”

“Like what?” The Peacekeeper humored him.

“I can tell you where you can catch all of us together.” He told them plainly. “We figured out there are too many Pods here on the street, because we have a device. We plan on going down into the sewers to evade the Pods. The best time to come and get us would be then, because it’s going to be a maze down there. And you’ll have the advantage.”

There’s a few gasps that fill the room you’re sitting in. Your face begins to twist, eyes focusing on the screen. Your past self lowers her arms, in the middle of realizing that Finnick is selling your group of friends out to save himself. And less importantly, you.

If only the people around you could see the horror that crossed your face in that moment. As you stood there hopelessly. It was too late to stop Finnick or save the situation. What could you do? Kill the Peacekeepers all by yourself? Claim Finnick was lying? 

For six months, you’ve been blamed for being a bystander if what you were claiming about Finnick was true, but it was never that simple. They would stand there dumbfounded, too.

“As long as you don’t interfere before we get to the apartment and down in the sewers, we won’t tell the squad about this encounter.” Finnick told them, keeping control of the situation. He lowered his arms, but you didn’t dare to move, watching as he held out his hand to shake the Peacekeeper’s, wanting to seal the deal.

In complete silence, they shake hands. “Let’s pack up and roll back to Headquarters.” The main Peacekeeper told the others, not bothering to acknowledge the conversation he’d just had with Finnick.

The two of you stood there and watched as they all got back inside of the armored truck, before driving down the block. They took the soonest left, and disappeared out of sight completely. It wasn’t until you were sure that they were gone, did you lower your arms.

Finnick began to lead the way back to the apartment, a gentle hand on your lower back to guide you down the sidewalk. After five minutes of total silence, he cleared his throat. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The camera angle changes because you’re leaving the view of the first one, and the audio is getting quieter. There’s a gap of silence as the microphone struggles to pick up the conversation, meaning it misses your entire response. Which consisted of something snarky and along the lines of, “What about them?”

The audio comes back in time to catch Finnick. “Don’t say anything to them about what happened. It’ll screw everything up, and put us back into danger.”

You tear your eyes from the television, swiveling around in your chair to find Finnick sitting across the room. All the color has been drained from his skin, face dropped entirely as his truth spills out. And this is only the beginning.

Finnick’s eyes flicker over to yours, you see that they’re watery. A smile comes to your face when you shake your head at him. This won’t work on you. You have no sympathy for the man that lied and got you shunned from the community of your home district. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You snapped at Finnick, disgusted. “They’re our friends, we’re supposed to be a team! We wouldn’t have made it this far without them!”

“This is what has to be done if you want to make it home.” Finnick told you. “We don’t have a choice. Now that they know where we’re going next, there’s no point in changing plans. The sewers are our best bet.”

“That’s not true anymore.” You seethed. “We’re over, Finnick. I can’t be with you.”

You raised your hand, waving him off when he tried to grab you. He let you take the first couple of steps away, and then loosely followed you from a distance to make sure he wouldn’t set you off. The camera follows you back to the apartment complex, where you go inside, and the feed ends.

You look around the room from person to person, finding most with solemn faces as they realize they trusted the wrong victor. President Paylor inhales, as if she’s going to speak, and then she lets it go with a shake of her head.

Even Plutarch has a grimace on his face, because this is not how they want to picture their darling Finnick Odair. After the sacrifice he made by telling Panem about his trauma, he should not be painted in this light. 

“It’s not tampered with.” Beetee breaks the silence, adjusting his glasses. “If any of you were wondering. It couldn’t have been, this is raw footage straight from the Capitol’s systems.” He laces his fingers in front of him on the table.

“I want this aired.” You tell Paylor, she locks eyes with you. “I want the entirety of Panem to know that Finnick is the heartless asshole that sold out the Star Squad, and that it wasn’t me.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” She tells you.

“Why’s that?” You ask her, eyebrow twitching upward briefly.

“There was no harm done.” 

A scoff leaves your mouth as you get to your feet, trying to be the same eye level as her, since she refused to sit in a chair. “No harm done?” You repeat. “Are you sure? His lies were aired on Katniss’s trial. Everyone in Panem was tuned in to hear it. He humiliated me, and none of you would fucking believe me when I told you the truth.”

“Unfortunately—“ Plutarch begins, trying to help Paylor.

“I got cast out of District Four, the place that I—“ You tap your fingers to your chest multiple times, “was born and raised in. My people think that I’m some monstrous traitor. They didn’t feel safe with me there. This whole time they’ve been sleeping beside a killer.” you spit.

“That’s enough.” Finnick says.

You point at him, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide when it’s enough. You’ve had plenty of chances—plenty of time—to come clean, and you know what you said? You told me, ‘It was the right move to make’. You make me fucking sick.”

Finnick raises his hands defensively. “You could’ve said something, yourself.” 

“If I wasn’t so afraid that you were going to turn on me, too, I would’ve.” You snap. When you turn back to face Paylor, you tilt your head. “You sent me to District Two, where all your castaways go. There, I learned that my childhood home was burnt to the fucking foundation because they believed him.

“Would you consider that ‘no harm done’?” You ask her. “I didn’t get any of my belongings after the war, because you told me that my valuables weren’t urgent or important and that you’d ’get around to it’. I don’t have any pictures of my dead family, Paylor!”

The room is silenced again as you breathe heavily, trying to blink the rising tears from your eyes. You will not cry over this. You will not cry in front of any of them. They can’t see how desperate you are.

“I have the right to a trial.” You tell her, once the lump has left your throat. “And I want one. I want Finnick to be put on trial. His guidance murdered several members of the Star Squad.” You look at Finnick. “Messalla, Jackson, Castor, Homes and Leeg were lost in the sewers because of him.”

Haymitch, who’s standing in the very back corner, looking worse for wear, lets out a loud sigh. “She’s right. Finnick needs to be held accountable.”

“Thank you, Haymitch.” You relax.

Paylor looks down at the ground, closes her eyes and says, “Finnick Odair is now in the custody of the Capitol for his interference with Project: Mockingjay.”

“Paylor.” Finnick tries to reason, but her guards move forward immediately, cuffs in hand.

“I told you that you’d regret this.” You say to Finnick, his face twists. “Your actions have consequences, and it’s time you learn that.”