#hob's got Things to Do

[damiemontclair]

the things you learn to do for

[ceramicbeetle]

still can't help but empathize deeply with Hob's anger and affront over the duel during the 'Southern Lawn' episode, mostly because I also cannot understand the social steps taken to land him in that position during any part of those confrontations

[forgaeven1]

ifykyk : but are ur muses still at the restaurant

[transmandrake]

Boiled an egg on my own today for the first time and only cried once... i am almost 22 years old.

If you feel ashamed you can't do or only recently learnt how to do some 'easy' 'basic' things, I'm proud of you.

[anonf1writer]

“but please shut up” — ln4

summary: from the SINGLE PARENT UNIVERSE and based on THIS request, I present to you 2k words about the moment Yn first said the three words to Lando, and then told him to shut up (or something like that). (I am reposting this because I didn’t like the first version, so... yeah. no more yn now)

──────────────────

You and Lando had been dating for no longer than six months when the words finally slipped out of your mouth.��

It was a Saturday morning. A sunny one, to be precise. One of those rare occasions that normally meant peeling Olivia away from the TV and getting her ready for a picnic at the park, or for riding a bike, or for doing just any activity that allowed you to soak the sun as much as possible. 

On that particular Saturday morning, though, the clear sky wasn’t the only rare thing happening in London.

For starters, you weren’t at your place, but at Lando’s apartment. Something that had never happened before. Not in the morning, at least. Not as a result of spending the night there. 

Then, of course, because you weren’t at your own place, there was also the fact that Olivia wasn’t there, with you. Instead, your sister had taken her to Bristol so she could spend a fun weekend with her cousins. And so you and Lando could have some time alone. 

So, yeah, of course—things were different that morning. 

And yes, maybe you could have sensed that something else would happen, something you didn’t see coming because it also normally never happened. 

But you didn’t.

All you did was wake up wrapped in Lando’s arms, kiss him good morning, and drag yourself out of bed. On your way across the bedroom, you grabbed one of his hoodies and put it on. Warm, oversized, and smelling like him. Exactly how you liked it. 

Once you made it to the kitchen, the space opened into sunlight and sleek surfaces. Fancy. Clean. Organized. Looking not even one bit like the messy tiny home you owned. With no crayons forgotten on the table, no mermaids and unicorns in the mugs and cups and plates, no colorful drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet just as comfortable and cozy in its own Lando Norris’ way. 

It made you smile, for some reason. A smile that you kept on your face while trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and that only grew bigger when Lando finally joined you in, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder while you cracked four eggs into a small bowl. 

“Hmm,” he murmured, his morning voice sending chills down through your spine. “You look really nice in my kitchen… Wearing my clothes… Smelling like me…”

You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his curls as he kissed your neck and just settled there, keeping up with your movements—with the whisking of the eggs and the soft clink of the fork echoing in that quiet morning. 

You could tell Lando was happy with that setting, with spending the morning together after also having spent the night together. Something you couldn’t really do very often, considering you still weren’t ready to add him into Olivia’s routine like that. Not without making sure—making fully, fully sure—that this wasn’t just a temporary thing for him. That he was staying in for good, and that he was actually willing to have a role not just in your life, but also in your daughter’s life. 

Which, to be honest, was becoming more and more easy to see as time went by. 

Like when he stepped away to grab the milk from the fridge and very casually asked, “Talked to Liv yet?”

“Not yet,” you said, then waited until he had splashed a bit of the milk into the small bowl to keep going. “Told my sister I’d give them a call after breakfast.” 

You sprinkled in a pinch of salt and went back to whisking, meanwhile Lando got himself busy by grabbing a pan and dropping a knob of butter into it. 

“I hope she’s having fun,” he said, distracted as he switched on the hob and placed the pan above the humming heat. “Y’know, I was thinking about what it’d be like to take her to the beach.” 

You paused. 

You paused and stared at the bowl. Right in front of you. 

And Lando laughed. 

And the butter sizzled gently. 

And then the smell of it filled the space. 

Warm. Comforting. 

“Sandcastle chaos, for sure,” he added.

Still chuckling. 

Still nonchalant. 

As if mentioning he had been thinking about your daughter and about how it would be to spend time with her didn’t bring this funny feeling to your chest. As if it wasn’t a big deal. As if it was normal. 

You swallowed.

To be fair, when it came to Lando, it actually wasn’t weird. Because he did that a lot—dropping how much he cared in the most subtle, random ways. In the little things. 

But this morning, for some reason, it seemed to happen more than usual. 

He did it again, for instance, as you were sitting around the small table and having breakfast. As he was telling you about these new clothes he had bought online. Casually, randomly. Just by asking, “Purple’s her favourite, right?” 

To which you furrowed her brows and mumbled a simple, “huh?” 

“Liv’s.” He scraped the fork against his plate, gathering the scrambled eggs, and shrugged. “I saw these really cute tiny trainers that made me think of her.” He scooped up the food and shoved it inside his mouth. But he didn’t stop, he just chewed as he talked, muffling the words. “They were… Mmph… Puh’pul… Yeah?… Puh’pul’s her fav’rite… Innit?”

 “I—Yeah. Purple’s her favourite color, yeah.”

He smiled, swallowed and nodded, all proud of himself. 

“I knew it.” He took a sip of coffee, then focused on the beans still left on his plate. “Didn’t get them though…” He shoved the fork back into his mouth. Words mumbled as he chewed again. “Didn’know’er size, so… Oh!” He swallowed and shuffled on his seat. “Shit.” He coughed, choking a little around the food that had gone down his throat. “Um… Just remembered… Did I tell you about this… About this new idea we had for the next collection? I didn’t, did I?” 

“Um… I don’t think so, no…”

“Right. Yeah. So, listen to this…” 

And so he rambled about something else. 

And you listened. 

Trying to absorb as much as possible. Trying to understand. Trying to make sense. 

But then, as you were putting the dishes in the sink and talking about the next few weekends and how busy his schedule would be, he did it again. 

He brought her up again.

“I’ll try to come home as much as I can,” he said, “but y’know, if you ever want to come to a race one day, I’d love to have you there. Not just you, but Liv, too. Like, not now, of course, but later, when you’re ready. I’d like that.” 

And like a cherry on top, while you had your hands submerged in warm soapy water, he asked, “Hey, is it weird if I frame that little drawing Liv made the other day?”

You stopped.

And blinked at the plate you had in your hands. 

“The one she said was for good luck?” Lando added, pacing in the kitchen. Not in a nervous way, but in that very particular excited version of him. Full of caffeine. Hair sticking up in three different directions. Hands moving along with his words. Babbling. 

Always babbling.

“Or maybe not frame it but put it on the fridge or… I don’t know… Something. Just… Somewhere I can always see it… Y’know? Would that be weird?” 

You blinked again.

“Because I won’t if it’s weird… Don’t want to make it weird…”

“Lando…” you mumbled, eyes still fixed on the dish in your hand. 

“I mean I don’t know what the protocol is here… I know you said you wanted to take things slow when it comes to her, and I totally get it… I mean you know way better than I do, so I trust your judgment… It’s just that she’s so great, y’know? And that drawing is so cute. It’s been back and forth with me for weeks now, but I wanted to check with you because I—”

“For the love of God!” You dropped the sponge and the plate and turned around, water dripping from your fingers as you glared at him. “Lando, I swear I love you so much, but can you just please shut the fuck up for a moment?”

Lando stopped. 

No. Lando froze.

Mid-step. 

Not even looking at you.

Just.. Hand reaching into the cabinet. Eyes fixed ahead. Blinking to the clean tableware. 

And you didn’t even notice, so you just sighed. Loudly. Dropping your shoulders. Grabbing a tea towel to wipe your hands. And then trying again.

“Sorry. I don’t mean like, shut the fuck up, but just… Y’know, give me a minute to think? You’re like… Nonstop right now! Just going on and on and on about Livie and it’s just—”

“What did you just say?”

You looked at him.

He was still facing away, still frozen on the spot.

“That you’re going on and on about—” 

“No. Not that.” He dropped his arms to his sides and turned towards you. “Before.”

You frowned, searching inside your head for whatever you could’ve said that made him look like that right now—pale, shocked, terrified. On the verge of freaking out.

“I don’t know. What did I—”

“Love me,” Lando murmured. “You said you love me.”

“What?”

“You said,” —he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to say the words— “Lando I love you so much but can you please shut the fuck up.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you said. You said you love me.”

“Shit. Lan…”

You stepped forward. 

And he stepped backward. 

“Nuh-uh.” He raised one finger, pointing it at you. “Nope. Stay there.”

Your lips tugged up.

“Babe… C’mon.”

“You love me.”

“Mhmm…”

Lando dropped his arm.

Then opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

And then he looked away, dropping his posture like he had just been punched in the stomach.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—wow. Wow. Ok. Okay. Yeah. That’s—That’s just… Ok. I mean, did you—You really meant that?”

At that, you laughed. 

“Lando…” You dropped the tea towel on the counter and took a step forward, a tiny one. Just to make sure you could. That he wouldn’t run off. “Baby. Just breathe, okay?”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re also sweating.”

“I’m not—” He raised one hand, touching the back of his neck. And then he shook his head. “Maybe, who cares. That’s not the point.”

“Right… Then what’s the point?” you tried, softly this time. Stepping just a bit closer.

“That you love me.”

“Okay.” Standing in front of him, you placed your hands on his chest and nodded. “So? You’ll get used to it.”

Lando snorted and looked at you, his own hands instantly finding your waist. Almost involuntarily. As if they belonged there. As if it was the only natural reaction when having you so close to him. 

“You’re just… You think this is funny?”

“A little, yeah.” 

“I’m freaking out here.”

“I know. I know you would. That’s why I’ve been holding myself from saying it out loud.” 

He pulled you closer, and yet also flinched. Chin and head jerking back slightly while he made sure your body was as close as possible to his. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Why?!” You laughed and slid your hands up his chest, then up his shoulders and neck, until you were able to link your fingers through the short curls on the back of his head. “Did you see your reaction just now?”

“So? Just because I’m weird and freak out like this sometimes doesn’t mean that I… Y’know… That I don’t… I mean I just…”

“I know.” You nodded and launched yourself forward, kissing his cheek before landing back on your feet. “I know you do, babe. So whenever you’re ready. That’s okay.”

He sighed and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Bloody hell I do. But now I’m gonna wait until you least expect it. Freak the hell out of you, too.”

You laughed and arched forward, barely lifting off your heels as you reached for a kiss.

Lando reacted quickly, closing his eyes and kissing you back.

And then, around his lips, you murmured, “Bring it on, babe. I dare you.” 

──────────────────

[luveline]

jadey you write poly marauders in such a special way it feels so realistic i love it so much 🥹 how do you think it would go if reader and one of them get into a fight/argument? like how would it affect the overall dynamic? (if this inspires anything pls go for it 💕💕💕)

thank you for requesting! fem

Remus lays with his head on your shoulder, but he’s not happy about it. James and Sirius aren’t subtle. They’d forced the two of you together and yes, Remus has missed you, but he doesn’t want to speak to you and he’s sure you’re feeling the same. 

You have put your hand atop his, not holding but resting there. He might be forgiven. He hopes he’s forgiven, but he doesn’t forgive you, so. 

James has made Remus’ favourite popcorn, freshly popped and doused in butter and caramel he made himself with sugar over the hob. Remus takes great grateful handfuls, given the added benefit of James’ smug smiling. Each piece he eats is like James’ receiving a job well done, and Potter’s can’t help but preen. 

Sirius sneaks bits of it over you. You don’t eat any, pointedly, your leg on Sirius’ knee and your foot wagging constantly. Restless. Annoyed. 

“Will you be angry with each other forever?” Sirius asks. 

“Sirius.”  

“What? I’m just asking.” 

“You’re being abrupt,” James says. 

Remus sighs until they both stop talking. He doesn’t know how long you’ll be angry with one another. For him it seems to come and go, and it doesn’t always help that James is neutral about it while Sirius’ loudly complains that you’re not yet over it after a frosty weekend. He wishes one of them would’ve backed him up, but then, he can’t imagine how that would feel for you. It’s not like he wants you to be upset. It’s just an unfortunate consequence of the whole thing. 

You’d cried when you argued but you’d been angry, too, quipping at him with a sharp tongue, not afraid to say what you’d felt, just overwhelmed enough to come to tears. They weren’t, you know, devastated tears or anything, but Remus had felt a pit open where his stomach was supposed to be as Sirius (Sirius, and not James, which felt important at the time) curled his arm around you and encouraged you to take a breather. 

James had stayed, giving Remus a good hug as he’d murmured, “That got too heated, huh? You okay?” 

Remus gets weird about James. About all of you, but James had been his first crush, so sometimes he feels rather daunted in the face of his affection. James likes that he can make Remus blush, but nobody’s acted very fond these last few days. It’s weird. It’s all off. The love is still there, but it’s like everyone’s afraid of showing it. 

You argued about something Remus said, and you misunderstood, and then something you said and Remus understood very well. Never the end of the world, but Remus is stubborn. He shouldn’t be. 

Remus turns his hand slowly under yours. To his relief, you let him do it, sliding your fingers between his. 

He lifts his head a touch. You don’t look at him. Sirius grins from the other side of you, and Remus ignores him. 

You slip further down into the sofa, Remus going with you, the whole group of you tired from a weekend on eggshells. 

Having seemed rather far away for the afternoon, you begin to relax. You force Remus’ head up to tuck yourself into his neck. When the movie ramps into a loud scene of gunshots and high speed car chase, you lift your lips to his ear and say, “I’m sorry, Lupin, but don’t you ever speak to me like that again.” 

He’d bristle if you didn’t sound teasing. Remus squeezes your hand, turns to see your face, and whispers back. “I’ll talk to you any way I like.” You huff a laugh. He’s so pleased to see a smile on your face that his resentment drains away completely. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. 

You nod at him. You accept his apology as he’d taken yours. An hour of being sat arm to arm and a half hour of hand-holding has reminded you both how much you really, really like the other. 

“Can we kiss and make up?” James asks. 

“I think that’s usually saved for the arguing parties,” Remus says. 

“We can argue, if you like,” you tell James. 

“Shall we?” James asks. 

Sirius argues with Remus once a week at least —nothing serious— and he knows the potency of a rough makeup kiss, sending him a knowing, inviting smile. “We can argue, Moony,” he says. 

Remus hugs you with one arm. “I’ve had enough arguing. I’m never doing it again.” 

“Good. I’m very tired, playing peacekeeper and all,” James says, slouching away from everyone. “Exhausted, even.” 

“What shall we do to make it up for him?” Remus asks you, having quickly descended into sickly sweetness, a murmur pressed into your cheek. 

“What does he want?” 

“What do you want, James?” 

James sits up. “Well, it wasn’t just me, you know. Sirius has been comic relief two days running. He’s not usually this funny otherwise.” 

“I resent that.” 

“Luckily for you both, there’s two of us,” Remus says.

You laugh, because you know what Sirius will say before he says it. “No!” you say, lifting a foot to kick at his leg. 

“Don’t be so rude,” Sirius says, grabbing you by the ankle. 

James decides you’ll celebrate with a takeaway and Sirius decides he’ll pick which one for being so diligently well-behaved this weekend, leaving you and Remus alone for the first time all day. Things feel a bit more raw, less soothed, but not bad. Remus peels away from you to look at you properly. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” 

“I’m okay if you are.” 

Remus taps your under the jaw, a little to the left, encouraging you to turn your head. He kisses you on the cheek. 

In the kitchen, James and Sirius giggle like school kids. Somebody gets a good whack in with a tea towel, and the other shrieks. “You thing!” Sirius says. 

Remus feels your side shake with laughter.

[totallywoman]

grandpa haymitch!!!

my biggest epilogue headcanon is that i 100% believe haymitch decides to quit drinking when he finds out katniss is pregnant (because i REFUSE to accept he doesn’t live to see their kids). i can see him reaching the point in his life where he thinks katniss and peeta don’t need him anymore, and starts letting go of living. i imagine that lenore dove visits him in a dream, her hair gray and face wrinkled (but as beautiful to him as ever). she tells him that his time with his family is not over and they will need him more than ever.

then, he finds out katniss is pregnant, and everything changes. he finally sees an opportunity to start over. everyone he has ever loved has been hurt by him, but he refuses to burden another soul he loves. he loves katniss and peeta too much to break their trust like that yet again, and already sees himself holding their sweet baby in his arms. he can’t imagine stumbling around, slurring his words in front of someone so precious. it’s simply unthinkable.

he thinks of burdock. his adored daughter having her own child. he makes a silent promise to him to take care of his grand babies, something that was taken away from him.

so one night, soon after katniss and peeta break the news, he dumps all the white liquor down the drain. he ends up miserably sick, but just the thought of that baby or the sight of katniss’ growing belly is enough to keep him from going into town and buying more liquor.

he eventually comes back to life, and is more present in katniss and peeta’s lives than ever. he helps them put together the baby’s room, cares for katniss when she’s not feeling well while peeta’s working, and never comes back from town without something for the baby.

when katniss goes into labor, he spends the entire day pacing back and forth downstairs in the living room. he is so worried about her. the sound of labor pains is almost enough to put back a drink. almost.

when he goes upstairs and meets their baby girl, he breaks down. katniss and peeta have never seen him cry until this moment. all he can see are the two people he loves most in the world, wrapped up into a tiny bundle of dark curls and chubby cheeks. she looks just like katniss, remembering the days where burdock showed her off in the hob. he imagines the future he wanted with lenore dove, how they were going to have their own babies and grandbabies. she would be so proud of him, so happy he got to experience the love of being a father and a grandfather in this world.

as baby girl and her brother grow, haymitch becomes their favorite person. they love to ride on his shoulders, chase around with the geese, and play dress up with him (which is katniss’s favorite thing to watch - he looks ridiculous and can’t help but scowl at her as she laughs at him dressed up in a dress and tiara. he does it anyway, it makes the kids happy).

he eventually teaches the girl how to play piano (because he obviously learned it to honor lenore dove), and brings her a bundle of wildflowers after her first recital. he is there for every birthday, every school performance, every sport event, and every sunday (at the very least) for dinner. he walks with katniss every afternoon to pick them up from school, and carries the boy on his shoulders while he holds the girl’s hand.

he loves her beautiful voice and her kindness toward everyone she meets. he loves his curiosity, his belly laugh, and the mop of blonde curls on the top of his head. he often finds himself ruffling them, just as he would do to sid so long ago.

they remind him of all the innocent souls he loved and lossed. sid, louella, ampert, lou lou; all too innocent for the creulty of the world. the difference is, they are out of the capitol’s reach.

finally, he is not defined by his faults. he is not the rebel tribute who got his family and his girl killed, a victor, a mentor, or a drunk. he is grandpa haymitch. loved to death by two little kids and their parents, just for being him.

lenore dove often visits him in his dreams, telling him she’s so proud of him, and to keep living for her in this world where the sun rises on days full of love, hope, and peace.

[just-j-really]

So I've been rotating this idea in my brain since December. It is WIDLY out of season but I am posting anyway. Time has no power over me.

Dream as the boyfriend who gets dumped 90% of the way through the Hallmark movie. Dream is, even in his own mind, this arrogant, moody guy who's a little too obsessed with his job (very high up in the publishing industry). He's not entirely sure how he managed to convince Hob, who's this cheerful, bouncy extrovert and has essentially been Dream's personal Manic Pixie Dream Boy the entire time they've known each other, to go on a SINGLE date with him, let alone be his boyfriend.

And Hob always goes home to see his family for like two weeks at Christmas, it's super important to him. Dream can't afford to be away from work for that long but says Hob should go before him, he'll be there for Christmas itself. Only, the day before Hob's supposed to leave, Dream stands him up for a dinner date (he was at work) and they get in a huge fight about it. The air between them is still very frosty as Hob packs his things and leaves the next morning.

And then Dream spends the next few days with his social media being just. Flooded with pictures of Hob doing Hallmark Christmas activities. He's clearly having a great time. This woman keeps popping up in his photos, and they look so happy together, covered in snow from a snowball fight, sipping hot chocolate at a crowded bar, one video someone else must have taken of them chasing each other around a skating rink, laughing so hard they crash into each other and fall over. Between the photos and the fact that Hob's still texting Dream this whole time, Dream puts together that this is Eleanor, Hob's childhood best friend who he lost touch with when her family moved away unexpectedly.

Hob's talked to Dream about Eleanor before, how close they were and how horrible it was that he never got a chance to say goodbye, or figure out a way to stay in touch (she had super strict parents). Dream has always kinda suspected that there was a layer of 'mutual first crush, but neither of us were really sure where to go from there and the whole thing got brutally ripped out from under us before we could figure it out' to the whole situation as well.

And here they are. They've found each other again, against all odds, they're so clearly happy together, and Eleanor's doing all this fun exciting stuff with Hob that Dream would only be a huge grump about. By the time Dream goes to meet up with Hob, he's already got a whole story in his head of how this is going to go: Hob will tell him he's found someone much better for him and dump him, as Dream deserves.

So when he approaches Hob's parents’ house at like 7pm on December 23rd, and finds Hob and Eleanor talking quietly on the porch, he's just resigned, and fully expecting to end up standing there and watching while they have a Hallmark-movie snow-gently-falling kiss.

Instead, Hob looks up, notices Dream, and immediately just BARRELS into him and hugs him so hard his feet lift off the ground, and before he's really processed that he's the one getting the snow-covered, end-of-the-movie, I-missed-you-so-much kiss. Hob's incredibly enthusiastic and smiling too hard to kiss him properly, and eventually they both wind up in a snowdrift.

And Dream’s just. Not entirely processing as Eleanor greets him (and seems genuinely happy to meet him). And then Hob introduces him to his parents (and they seem happy to meet him, too). And everyone’s acting like he's a wanted part of this gathering, and they're so happy he was able to make it, and Hob's gotten them tickets for some community theater Christmas Carol thing because he knows how much Dream likes earnest-if-amateur art… And a few hours later Dream and Hob are cuddled together on a couch with coco doing some excessively cute Christmas Activity. Wrapping the last few presents while a Christmas movie plays quietly in the background or something. Eleanor has gone home, Hob's parents have gone to bed, so it's just them when Hob softly thanks him for being able to make it at all, and apologizes for the way he left things.

And none of this is how the story is supposed to go.

And I think Dream just breaks down, and Hob's eventually able to get the whole ‘I assumed you'd want to break up with me and date your obvious One True Love, I am terrible’ story out of him. 

And there is a certain amount of genuinely upset ‘ok it hurts that you think I think something so horrible about you’ from Hob. But he pretty quickly figures out that no, Dream’s self-esteem is actually that low; he genuinely thinks ‘so terrible that you'd be morally correct to cheat on him’ is just. An objective fact about himself. 

Which leads to Hob being like “You realize I'm dating you on purpose, right? I like how passionate you are about your job. I like your confidence. I like that you keep me grounded.” And basically just runs down all these traits Dream assumes are his own flaws, only Hob’s talking about them like they’re desirable. As though Dream is his happily-ever-after perfect love.

So, just for a moment, Dream lets himself believe that he could be. And it gets easier and easier to believe as the welcome he received from Hob’s family and friends just continues for the rest of his visit, as he’s easily brought in to assorted Charming Hallmark Christmas Activities and realizes Hob was specifically saving the activities he thought Dream would like for when Dream would be there, as he and Hob return to their normal lives in the Big City and Hob is still happy to be with him, still willing to resolve whatever conflicts come up instead of just giving up.

(And he finds it very easy to believe on New Year’s Eve, when Hob goes for an absolutely over-the-top grand gesture stroke of midnight proposal.)

[inkdrinkerworld]

Fawn what would be an instance of James calling you ‘bubby’? That’s such a cute pet name!!!

I do agree it’s so cute!!! I really love it as a pet name

James isn’t sure why, but he feels like his heart could burst open every time he looks at you this morning.

It’s not unusual for him to feel so in love, it just feels like over night the love has multiplied into this amount that has him nearly bursting at the seams when he looks at you.

You’re making breakfast, a stack of crepes sitting tall on one of your fancy serving plates. There’s also a pot of jam, raspberry James’ favourite, and vanilla cream.

Weekend breakfasts are your favourite to make and James loves watching you from the breakfast nook.

From his spot, he can make out every curve and line on your face where the early morning sun shines just so through the kitchen window.

It’s not quite yellow, more orange and a little pink and it makes the love James feels for you soften a touch more, becoming this gooey, syrupy thing that coats your home.

The table is already set, your spring dishes sitting neatly beside each other. They’re ones Euphemia picked out for you and James as housewarming gifts- a creamy green with white and pink flowers painted on the rim.

She’d gifted you the entire set, fit with the serving plate you’re using now.

James is busy day dreaming and doesn’t notice you speaking. “Hm? Sorry angel, what were you saying?”

You shake your head, fondness a pool in your chest, “Would you set out the fruit, please love?”

James feels his heart speed at your pet name. It’s not unusual or underused, he’s just been feeling the love more pointedly today.

“Course I can,” he opens the fridge and pulls the bowl of fruit out, stealing a bit of melon before feeding you a piece too.

James seals the whole thing with a series of quick kisses to your lips.

“You alright, Jamie?” Your words are eaten up by your smile.

His pulse ticks. “Yeah, I’m alright bubby.”

It slips out and he knows you’ve figured him out when you smile at him.

He can’t help it, his heart really does feel like it’ll burst and his cheeks burn with a blush that you can hardly see.

James is a love sick fool and he’s proud of it. You flick off the hob the second you flip the last crepe onto the plate and James has your full attention.

“You’re in a mood.” You deduce, more than pleased when James smiles and his pretty dimples poke out.

“You’re lovely, what am I supposed to do for that?”

He sets the bowl of fruit on the dining table and comes back for the others, setting it down while you bring out the pitcher of iced tea.

“Nothing I guess,” you pour James a glass while he makes your plate.

“Nothing,” he mutters under his breath like the word itself is acrid. It makes you laugh as he continues muttering to himself only to look up at you with the softest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen. “I’ve got buckets and buckets of love for you.”

“I love you insane amounts too, Jamie boy.”

James reaches across the table for your face, big hand cupping your cheek softly.

He leans over and kisses a path from your temple to your mouth. “You’re like those dreams you have where everything is perfect and life is exactly like you planned, bubby.”

You push his face away as your cheeks heat up, not because you’re embarrassed but sometimes facing all of James’ love is overwhelming in the best way.

“Hush and eat,” James laughs, kissing the tips of your fingers as he dishes his own plate. “Charmer.”

James takes a bite and can practically feel the love you have for him in the taste. “You’ve bewitched me, simple as.”

[five-and-dimes]

I'll probably never actually do anything with this so I'm throwing into the void and making it public domain.

Johanna Constantine is a photographer who does a lot of boudoir photography. One day she gets a client who is doing some boudoir wedding photos for his fiancé. Hob is very charismatic and outgoing but also very self-deprecating- the large smile and laughter doesn't change his words "my soon-to-be-husband looks like royalty and I'm mister peasant over here so I figured I'd gift him some pics of me actually looking like I'm even close to the same league."

Johanna huffs and rolls her eyes as she does and makes extra sure that her client is feeling good about himself by the end, giving him a slap on the back on his way out and a gruff "if he doesn't think you're gorgeous you should ditch him at the alter."

A day or two later, she has another boudoir wedding shoot. Morpheus is stoic and poised but also tense and nervous, "My fiancé is. Stunning. Gorgeous. Like something out of a painting," he sighs sadly and looks down at his hands, "I feel like a corpse next to him. So I thought... maybe you could help make me look more...?"

Johanna has no intention of editing this man to Hell like he seems to want, and she has a proven track record of stubbornness, so she makes him go through the shoot and makes him look stunning exactly as he is. She's good at her job. And when he leaves she softens just enough to send him off with a quick "cheer up, mate. He sounds like a good fellow. I bet he sees you better than you think."

A few weeks later, she gets a frantic call from a friend- Lucienne explains that her best friend's wedding photographer dropped last minute, and while of course if Johanna is busy or cannot do it she would not fault her but it would really mean so much and her friend is loaded so she'll probably get paid extra-

Johanna will deny that she had been packing up her camera as soon as she heard Lucienne's stressed voice. It was definitely the money that got her moving. Definitely.

It is honestly a little infuriating spending hours taking photos of Morpheus and Hob- the two clients who were each convinced that the other didn't find them attractive- making absolute heart eyes at each other. Her camera roll is filled to the brim of snapshots of each of them looking at the other like the most beautiful things in the world. All love and adoration and- she would be charging extra for these pics- undisguised lust as the night goes on and the champagne starts to hit them.

It's obvious that they're made for each other. The two biggest idiots in the world they were. Both of them so blatant in their attraction and both of them completely oblivious to the other's.

She was definitely charging them extra.

[insomniac4000]

I NEED MORE W2S 😩😩 YOURE SUCH A GOOD WRITERRRRRR LOVE YOU

Thank you so much! Enjoy.

Investigations Harry Lewis SMUT

She didn’t know how she avoided it for so long but it was always going to be inevitable. Her boyfriend, the one and only Harry Lewis known to millions as W2S was obsessed with plane crashes. He owned the box set of Air Crash Investigations and tonight was the night she had finally promised she would indulge him.

“What do you like about it? Like why do you love it so much?” She asked as she watched him grill their steaks, it was one of the few things she would allow him to cook.

“It’s just interesting,” Harry shrugged as he clasped the tongs together, his girlfriend couldn’t help but look at his forearms which flexed as he did so.

“Is it just not a bit dark?” She wouldn’t have called herself stupid but she really wasn’t a big documentary person, full of death and destruction. She was much more of an upbeat person, she would watch the odd comedy and scroll Tiktok mindlessly for hours and hours. She was also much more of an outdoors person, it was one of the reasons why they got on so well, Harry could go on all the hikes he liked and she liked nature, running and laughing. Sitting in and watching big machines crash wasn’t her style whatsoever but she was willing to suffer for a little while for her man, hoping he’d return the favour soon at a Taylor Swift concert.

“I guess I don’t think of it that way. It’s cool to think what goes into keeping an aeroplane up in the sky and what happens when it goes wrong. We think nothing of going on a plane but so much needs to happen, it’s cool,” Harry explained. The girl couldn’t help but smile as he spoke about it, it was always really clear to see when Harry was excited about something he was talking about because of how animated he got when he talked. For all of his faults, the best thing about Harry was how much he loved life and put his enjoyment over anything else.

“Sometimes I’d really love to get into that weird little head of yours,” she replied jumping off the stool and walking over to the cupboard, bringing out two wine glasses.

“It’s not weird! I just appreciate the engineering,” Harry responded a little defensively. He opened the oven door dodging the plume of steam that was coming out from it.

“Burnt the chips?” She asked smiling as she poured two glasses of red.

“No its fine,” Harry responded placing the baking tray on top of the hob, careful to not hit the steaks which were sizzling in one pan and mushrooms which were in another. Again she watched him well more so how his biceps tensed as he picked up the pans with ease.

He poked the steak like it owed him money. “Medium-rare, yeah?”

“I said medium.”

“Well, you’re getting whatever this ends up being,” he replied, plating it with flourish like a Michelin-star chef and handing it over with a proud grin, placing it down on the glass table as she placed down the drinks.

“It’s actually good.”

His face lit up like he’d just packed an Icon in FIFA. “Wait, really?”

“I’m not even lying to make you feel better. It’s got flavour, it’s juicy, and you didn’t poison me.”

He leaned back, smug. “Told you.” He placed his arms behind his head, his biceps building out of his T-shirt.

They ate in companionable quiet for a while, while she tried to keep her thoughts to herself.

When the plates were cleared—Harry insisted on doing it himself they then migrated to the sofa.

“Right,” he said, grabbing the remote. “You know what time it is.”

She groaned. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He clicked play, ignoring her. Air Crash Investigators flickered onto the screen with dramatic music and the solemn voice of a narrator talking about hydraulic failure and tragic descent.

She curled into his side. “You’re the only person I know who finds this show relaxing. It’s literally about planes crashing.”

“I told you It’s fascinating!” he exclaimed.

“You’re so weird.” Still, she watched for a few minutes, mostly because she liked watching him watching it. He was completely captivated, eyes glued to the screen, arms wrapped loosely around her shoulders, occasionally muttering things like “Ohhh, they messed up their approach vector” like he’d flown the plane himself. Actually she did wonder why he never tried to get his pilot’s licence, it wasn’t like money would be a barrier.

After twenty minutes of cabin alarms and simulated disasters, she shifted closer to him, her hand moving up slightly from round his waist up to his chest. He didn’t notice.

She leaned her head against his neck and whispered, “Wouldn’t you rather do something more fun?”

“Like what?” he said distractedly, as two animated planes collided on the screen.

She slowly kissed his jaw, letting her lips linger just long enough to pull his attention sideways. “Like me.”

“I thought you wanted to watch this?” He responded, absolutely oblivious to what his girlfriend was getting at.

She swung one leg over his lap, now fully straddling him. “Besides, there’s nothing we can do to fix it now, Captain.”

She kissed him properly then, soft and slow, and he gave in immediately—hands sliding to her waist, forgetting all about the flashed coming up on the screen, the sound of crunching metal was merely white noise in his head now. They kissed for a little while, her slightly clamping down on Harry’s bottom lip causing him to grunt slightly, she smiled knowing she had him right where she wanted him.

“So captain, time to lower the tray table?” She said breathless as Harry peppered her neck with kisses. She wasted no time and tugged down at his jogging  bottoms, he let them fall and quickly removed her top, he smiled with glee on realising she hadn’t been wearing a bra all this time. He attacked her breasts, kissing them for a little while before taking one in his mouth and licking and lightly sucking the nipples.

“Fuck Harry,”

“I thought I was the captain,” Harry murmured as his hands slid down her waist, he tugged at her trousers and pants pulling them both off in one go, she barely had time to pull off Harry’s shirt before his hands moved down towards her clit, stimulating it a little as he pushed her down onto the sofa.

“You’ve been waiting for this all day haven’t you? Judging how fucking wet you are for me,” Harry said roughly as he teased his fingers in and around her hole feeling the damp already.

“Please,” she responsed, she loved but HATED it when he teased her like this.

“Say it,” he whisper-demanded.

“Fuck me,” She whispered dangerously close to starting herself off first if he didn’t do as she asked.

“My pleasure,” he responded slamming his penis into her so hard she gasped, but it was something she was used to. The TV was still playing but long forgotten as he pounded into her filling her up completely, she always loved the way Harry felt inside her and he too loved the feeling of her around him.

It was rough, like two animals who just couldn’t control themselves, no talking just some eye contact between grunts. One of those sex sessions which was purely for the enjoyment of fucking and not intimacy. She almost couldn’t take it, if it was anyone else he wouldn’t have been this rough, this fats but he knew she could take it.

“So good at taking all of me,” he finally broke the silence, whispering inbetween grunts, she could only nod as she felt the familiar feeling growing deep inside her.

“Soon…” she managed to whisper.

“No. You wanted this you put the work in,” he smiled devilishly sitting up while somewhere with a strong arm pulling her up with him by the waist so she was on his lap straddling him again.

“Go on, ride it,” he commanded. She gently lowered herself onto him as he held his solid dick in place initially and she started to rock her hips and bob up and down.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned rolling his head back a little. She moved quicker knowing it wouldn’t be long until Harry would finished, he never lasted long when they were in this position. She pounded own hard watching his face intently as he screwed it up slightly. Knowing the end was there she let herself go, bouncing up twice more allowing him to climax.

As they both caught their breath she couldn’t help but giggle a little as she said smugly, with him still inside her.

“Much better than a bloody plane crash.” He pushed her off him jokingly.

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎNight Sky౨ৎ꣑ৎ

[fem reader] contains: implied sexual assault, harassment, death pairing: coriolanus snow x fem reader summary: you are the one thing in the world coriolanus cares about protecting author’s note: coryo angst!!! Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

In the moonlight, this place was almost beautiful. The worn wooden slats could be brand new from here, and one would never know about the door that creaked when it was opened, something Coriolanus had tried and failed to fix due to paranoia. You could never be too careful when you were on the tight leash of the Capitol.

Sometimes he tried to imagine doing this back home, wondering where you would have met. Certainly not at the Snow family lodgings. Maybe in that one nearly abandoned corridor at the Academy, famous for hosting the whims and desires of teenage couples. He wondered briefly if such a place existed at the University before abandoning the thought. It was useless to make himself yearn with such thoughts.

He squinted through the window. Usually you would light a candle if you made it there before him, but it was pitch black. He tapped at the door, wincing at the creak that pierced the mostly quiet night air, and ducked under the doorframe. You’d told him that someone used to live here long ago, that the house used to be bigger. Now it was a single dusty room, one that nobody had entered in years before you and him.

Coriolanus had the start of his life when he made out a shape in the dark, huddled into a corner. He whispered your name, a question at the end. “It’s me,” you said softly, and he exhaled in relief. A secret part of him was worried that one day he would arrive here and find one or more of his fellow Peacekeepers, guns pointed at him, their new enemy.

“Hey,” he breathed, crouching in front of you. He blindly reached out, feeling around in the dark until his palm met your knee. “Why’re you sitting in the dark?”

“My candle burned out,” you said, words void of emotion. “I had to use it last night.”

“What happened?” 

Letting out a little gasp, the tears he couldn’t see were ever present in your words. “They g-got Fish. They…he…”

“Sweetheart…” Coriolanus slid his hands to your waist, pulling you to sit on his lap, facing him. His heart was pounding, nearly painful. Fish, your beloved black cat. Fish who’d taken a long time to come around to him but just last week had purred and circled his ankles when he’d come up your front walk. Cats reminded him of home, of Pluribus’ nightclub and his pet Boa Bell who’d purred even in her old age whenever Coriolanus came around. It eased the homesickness just a little, more so because Fish was attached to you.

“I d-don’t know if they fed him s-something or if they h-hurt him,” you stammered, and he held you tighter, fury simmering under his bones. “But when I found him he…he…” Whatever you had been about to say had trailed off into tears, and you buried your face in his neck, the tiniest sobs he’d ever heard emanating from there. You couldn’t even cry the way you wanted to, so worried that someone would hear you, anxious to protect him.

It was your rule, not his. He hadn’t known your family; your older brother, your father. Whatever they had done had put a stain on your reputation it seemed no amount of good deeds could get out. He’d met you at the Hob, sweet as could be, sitting in the back and just watching the commotion, all by yourself. 

There was no more music there, not after the Covey had flown like the birds they were, taking his Lucy Gray with them. But it was still a place to go on weekends, get a drink, ‘chat up some local piece’ as the other men in the barracks so crudely put it. That was why he’d gone in the first place- to bury himself in a drink or two and forget that the reason he’d bartered his way to this coal dust coated place had disappeared like a lost dream. Instead, he found you.

You’d seemed so surprised when he’d come up and sat at your side, asking your name. Conversation flowed easy as the river with you, and he’d asked when he could see you again. You’d been so tentative about it that he’d wondered if you were doing this out of mere politeness. Soon he found it was much more than that. 

The townspeople’s memories ran long, and even though you hadn’t done anything with even a thought of hurting anybody, you were the target of blame. You’d put it best: “I’m the only face left, and they want to be angry at somebody for what happened.” He never really knew what unforgivable action had led to any of this, and it seemed you didn’t either. “I was young when they passed,” you had shrugged at the time, playing with his fingers. “It’s just always been like this.”

He’d witnessed it in town. Awful looks and even worse words. There was a gang of men who seemed particularly intent on making your life hell on earth. They breathed down your neck whenever you were in the market, their shadows so close to yours that they were nearly one. There was no way of proving it, but Coriolanus was sure they’d been the ones to smash your windows, and they were definitely the reason Fish had so feared strangers.

It hadn’t been much, but knowing your cat had been so protective over you had made Coriolanus sleep a little better at night. Now, you didn’t even have that.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered, rubbing your back. He wanted to seize each one of the men and wring their necks, make them feel the misery you did with the loss of your beloved pet. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Coryo,” you sobbed, fingers curling around a corner of his shirt. “I don’t care if they know it. They won.”

“No, they didn’t,” he corrected calmly, smoothing your hair.

You pulled back, and he could practically see you counting them off on your fingers. “My pride, my dignity, my cat. The only thing they haven’t taken is you.” There was a pause. “You shouldn’t see me anymore. I don’t want them to hurt you-”

“Hey, hey.” He shook his head even though you couldn’t see it. Coriolanus pressed you closer to his chest, cupping your cheek. “No. Don’t let them ruin this for us. They don’t get to say whether we love each other or not.”

“We love each other,” you repeated, sounding dazed. “Love…”

“Yes. We love each other,” he parroted. “They’re not gonna take that from us, sweet girl.” Coriolanus so wished there was any sort of light so he could see you, get any idea of what you were thinking. He thumbed your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can handle any of them.”

He could practically hear you smile. “You do have nice muscles.”

Chuckling lightly, Coriolanus hid his nose in your hair. “I’m glad you like them.” Though he tried to keep his demeanor light so you wouldn’t remember your loss again, inside he was stewing. Would his superiors have anything to say about this? With a pang, he realized he doubted it. You’d not spoken favorably of your experience with Peacekeepers in the past. He shelved these thoughts for later, focusing back on you, how your head felt on his chest. You shifted to lay between his legs, his arm draped over your collarbone. Soft fingers drumming his forearm, you sighed, and he was immediately alert, ready to fix it. 

“I don’t wanna go home tonight and have him not be there,” you said softly, and he exhaled, leaning his head forward to rest on the top of yours. His eyelashes became tangled in his hair, and he kissed your crown. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I’m sorry you had to go through that by yourself.”

You sniffled. “I don’t understand. I try to be kind…I don’t understand what I did.”

“Nothing.” He was certain of it. 

“I w-wish Mama was still around,” you mused, and he could almost hear your eyes shutting. “She made herbal teas to calm me down when I’d get scared of thunderstorms. I was the only one who drank them that didn’t pay a penny.” Your hand closed around his wrist. “I wish I knew what she knew. Maybe Fish would still be...” When you trailed off, he began stroking your side, trying to smooth over a wound he didn’t know how to heal.

Coriolanus remained silent, body naturally starting to sway back and forth, as if his instincts were intent on calming you. You’d never spoken of your mother before. Not like this. 

Time slipped through his fingers although he willed it not to. You needed him, needed a pair of arms to rock you to sleep. If Coriolanus knew you, he knew you’d be up all night without intervention, worrying and spiraling into a well of what-ifs. He wished more than anything that he could find an excuse to return to the barracks in the early morning that wouldn’t get him prohibited from leaving the grounds indefinitely or worse. 

With much reluctance, Coriolanus unwrapped his arms from around you, and you took the hint, getting to your feet. He kept his arm around your waist as you slowly made your way out, somehow managing to work the door open without a whisper of a creak. He could see you better now under the spotlight of the moon, right down to the detail of the tear tracks on your cheeks. 

Pausing still in the shadow of the building, Coriolanus framed your face with his hands, pressing his mouth softly to yours. He could feel you relax, your hands at his wrists as you kissed him back. When he pulled away, he thumbed your chin, searching your eyes. “I’ll come back tomorrow. As soon as I can.” Your nod was little, but it was enough. 

Reluctantly, he left you walking in the opposite direction with a final kiss. Parting with you was always difficult, but tonight there was an awful feeling in his chest that gnawed at his heart. His paranoia was at the highest notch, and he had to resist the urge to run all the way to your little house for the assurance that you were safe. 

For now he was resigned to his imagination, an image he’d conjured on so many nights. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he painstakingly removed Fish from the picture and focused on the thought of you cozy in your bed. You slept under a pile of blankets no matter the season, and he hoped you were snuggled there right now. 

He kept this at the forefront of his mind all the way back to his bed. His bunkmates weren’t around, and he didn’t waste any thought on where they might be. Coriolanus’ mind was the only place he could really protect you, and he’d convinced himself now that as long as he thought about you nothing bad would happen.

This soothed him to sleep, although he would have stayed up all night as if his mind’s eye were a security camera, watching you rest to put this horrible day behind you.

Coriolanus’s heart felt heavy as he spotted your home in the distance, knowing that he would no longer be greeted by your fiercest protector. When a jagged crack of thunder tore through the sky, his footsteps quickened. Jogging up the hill, he strained to get to you, hoping you were still asleep somehow. It would be better for you to wake up to a thunderstorm with him there rather than alone. He wished he’d had mind to stop in town and find you some of the caramels you loved so dearly, if only to soothe the ache of waking up without your beloved pet. Making a mental note to bring you some on his next day off, he trekked through the field, tall grass brushing his fingertips.

The door was open, swinging gently with the wind. That was odd. He hoped you hadn’t been up already. Coriolanus tentatively moved closer, boots soft on the moss-strewn cobblestone path. Squinting at a dark patch on one of the stones, he bent to examine it. Had something spilled? His heart dropped, and he immediately got to his feet, bolting inside. The dark spot was tinted red.

“Sweetheart?” Coriolanus’ voice had a tone of desperation to it, but he couldn’t care less. The room was darkened, one of the windows wide open, the wind sending the curtains fluttering. In the corner, he noticed a table upended, a shattered vase lying in a puddle of water and dried flowers strewn about the floor. His chest grew tight and he turned on his heel, facing your bedroom door, which was ajar. That old familiar feeling of dread grew in his chest, and he cursed under his breath, begging fate to turn around. She’s fine. She’s fine, she’s just sleeping, she just got home late, she just bumped into the table last night…

When he pushed the door open, the sight he was met with tainted his eyes. He would never unsee it, never be able to forget. Coriolanus had seen horrors at his young age that experienced men hadn’t but this topped every one of them.You were lying on the bed in your white nightdress, one arm bent with a hand at your head, the other falling off the mattress, fingers gracing the floor in a delicate way. He could see too much of your legs to attribute your pushed-up skirt to tossing and turning. And glaring at him, gaping in your stomach, was a mass of red, staining the sheets and trickling in dried droplets on the floor in the shadow of your hand.

He nearly choked on his own breath, eyes on your own, shut so peacefully as if you were merely sleeping. “No, no, no,” he breathed, collapsing at your side and daring to touch your pale cheek. You were cold. Not like his girl, so warm and full of life. It wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. Thunder boomed outside, and he let out what could only be described as a whimper. Even the natural world had turned against you.

Gathering you in his arms, he pressed you close to him, his body’s response to try and get you warm again as if that would bring you back to life. He rocked you back and forth, whispering your name and quietly despairing with each lack of response. Life’s cruel hand had struck, taking away the one person who didn’t deserve it. Death was no release from your sorrows- he was supposed to be the one to save you. It seemed his time had run out, all the sand from the hourglass sunk uselessly at the bottom of his heart.

Coriolanus didn’t realize he was crying until one of his tears landed on your collarbone, and he quickly swiped it away. It wouldn’t do any good to grieve you now. You had nobody to take care of you, to make sure you were laid to rest like the lady you were in your soul. He leaned in, kissing your forehead and ignoring how empty you felt under his lips. 

He couldn’t save you anymore, but his protection hadn’t ended.

When Coriolanus returned to base, his hands were muddied along with his trousers and shirt, skin damp with rain. He was thankful for the latter, as it meant nobody would know of the few tears he’d tried to save for tonight that had escaped his eyes. There were still more he’d stubbornly managed to hold back, longing for a hot shower where he could let them free. Somehow he’d numbed his mind, focused on the next step, then the next. 

He hadn’t been able to bear watching as he shoveled dirt back into what was now your crudely dug grave. 

Coriolanus managed a half-hearted greeting to one of his bunkmates, a gruff man from Seven who was sitting at his bed, fidgeting with a scrap of cloth.

He’d folded your arms, swapped out your nightdress for one of your favorite dresses. It was made difficult by the stiffness of your body, but he was determined. It really did look like you were just sleeping, but he had to remind himself of the truth. Otherwise he’d never be able to put you in the ground.

He was supposed to be holding you. Instead you were curled into the cold, hard palm of the earth, so far from what you deserved. The grave marker he’d made was crude, but it would do for now until he could find something better. As a consolation, Coriolanus had left a handful of daisies. It was an apology to you, wherever you were. Hopefully you weren’t stuck watching him. 

Lifting his eyes to his bunkmate, Coriolanus zoned in on what he was holding. The scrap of cloth. But then something else pressed between his fingers. A pendant on a chain that gleamed gold even in the dim light. His eyebrows narrowed. The pendant was little, a chip of something shiny in the middle of it, petals blooming from there. A daisy. He knew it without checking closer.

“Where did you get that?” The sharp words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Coriolanus came closer, his arms at his sides as he locked his bunkmate in a death glare.

The man looked up, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “Oh. Went on a job earlier ‘n took out this girl who’s been causin’ trouble. Figured she didn’t need it anymore so I-” Coriolanus had him on the ground before he could finish.

His fists were flying, no aim, no reason to it. This wouldn’t bring you back. Not even close. If you were here you would have condemned his actions, offered a kind word instead. But you weren’t here. There was no point. Even as he recognized the wet sensation of blood on his knuckles he did not stop. Words were flying from his mouth, things he couldn’t even hear. This cursed institution had caused the end of both your life and his. If his commander had been here he’d have pummeled him too.

Before he knew it, several pairs of hands were pulling him off, shouting at him, telling him to cool off. They couldn’t know. Maybe some of them had been in on it too. 

Nursing his swollen knuckles in the infirmary, a month of punishment ahead of him, he dared to look down at his hands, the dried blood and bruises and dirt making them unrecognizable. Here was one thing the moonlight couldn’t make beautiful.

[katnissmellarkkk]

🍊

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Haymitch says flippantly, putting a fresh looking orange right in front of me. “Happy birthday and all that.”

I look up at him with surprise. “Thank you.” I’m a little taken aback. Haymitch didn’t buy me a present last year for my nineteenth birthday.

Peeta reaches from his place behind me to pick it up, knowing I’m terrible at peeling the skin off. “That’s nice of you, Haymitch,” he murmurs, apparently just as surprised as me by the present.

“Yeah, well.” Our mentor scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I remembered you liked that one I got you years ago, sweetheart.”

At that my eyes narrow. “Huh?”

Peeta chuckles quietly. I may not have even caught the noise if I weren’t perched on his lap. “I didn’t know the two of you were doing gift exchanges without me.”

“We didn’t,” I say, still starring up at Haymitch, wondering if maybe he’s drunk and confused. One time when he finished an entire bottle, he told me he met me as a baby in the Hob. He sometimes says weird things that I have to disregard when he’s had too much.

“When you were a kid,” Haymitch corrects sternly and pulls out a chair right next to us at the table. And I can see in his eyes he’s completely sober. He’s evidently telling me the truth.

“You’re saying you bought me an orange when I was a kid?” I look at him incredulously. Off his slow nod, I murmur, “but I only had one orange in my life before the games?”

“One from your father?” Haymitch asks like he already knows the answer. “That he bought in the Hob?”

“Yeah,” I affirm, the pieces clicking together for me. “Haymitch, did you buy it for him?”

At that he just shrugs. “He told Sae his little girl wanted one. And I knew Burdie wasn’t very good at counting his coins. He was about half short. I just snuck Sae the difference when he wasn’t looking.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice uneven. “That was…”

Peeta fills my silence without missing a beat. “That was really kind of you, Haymitch.”

“Yeah, well.” The old man grunts and coughs. “Why don’t we cut the cake, boy? I’m starving.”

Peeta chuckles again and pats my butt, signaling for me to let him up. But the moment between Haymitch and I feels unfinished and I know I can’t just move on from this without further comment.

The moment we’re alone, me and my mentor, the grumpy man who my husband claims I’m exactly like, I surprise even myself by throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

“Thank you,” I whisper, waiting until I feel him finally embrace me back. “For both oranges.”

“Glad you like them, sweetheart,” he says nonchalantly, patting my back gently. “Glad you like them.”

[send me an emoji and i’ll write a tiny micro story in honor of katniss’ belated birthday]

[sweetsbylia]

Could you write a small thing about Haymitch with a partner that is either really really unserious (not dad jokes, like, 2000s brainrot) or incredibly and soberingly serious (rockets backstory from guardians of the galaxy type shit, staring off into space, gets everyone's shit together, whatever)

Tysm

I just think that Haymitch would be in a relationship with a really traditionally pretty, badass tragic woman or just. A thing. Like the movie pans to his partner the fever dream

Idk anywayssss have a good day !!! <3333

haymitch abernathy x serious!reader

warnings: fem!district12!reader, fluff, sarcasm, reader being a little mean…haymitch loves it tho, a mention of alcoholism, swearing

a/n: hi nonnie!! thank you for your request i had so much fun writing this hope you like it<3 (divider by @dollywons)

word count: 368

haymitch abernathy would absolutely love your attitude. like at the reaping effie would babble about manners or comment ignorantly on something and you’d just throw her a look of judgement and disinterest. it made his day fr.

before you two got together he’d always just by the corner of his eye watch how you walk around hob confidenty, how your eyes would glide over the crowd, the food, weapons, everything. haymitch kinda admired your bravery, if not bravery then your insolence.

you were pretty, no discussion. very pretty. but it was hardly noticeable on the first glance given your demeanour but maybe, he thought, just maybe that was your goal. hide who you are with a cold mask. he understood that. more than anyone could actually.

over time he build up some courage, approached you and maybe after the seventh time he tried, you gave him a chance to talk to you longer than few minutes.

it was hard but haymitch was so proud of himself after winning you over and making you his woman<3

whenever he’d call you some sweet nickname you’d give him a deadpan look but he knew you loved it deep down.

“baby, my sweet girl, would you be a darling and get me my jacket from upstairs.”

the disgusted face you gave him was the most adorable thing he ever saw in his life. you did got him his jacket though, which he counted as a marriage proposal basically.

haymitch being a delusional queen<3 (he did got you to marry him so a win is a win)

“you need to fucking stop drowning yourself in alcohol and do something with yourself.” you’d say every time he’d come home from his ‘walk’ black out drunk.

to some it may appear like you were being unemphatic but he knew it was just pure concern and worry.

during the rebellion, in district thirteen, everyone is afraid of you. everyone. katniss respects you, which is admirable.

“haymitch, tell your wife to cooperate-“

“hell nah, i’m scared of her.”

“but-” coin pestered more.

“if you want something from her, go ask yourself.”

“we’re scared too, dude!” boggs exclaimed.

the only time they ever really saw you genuinely smile was when katniss shoot coin <3 (or at peeta’s adorable unfunny jokes, sweet baby angel<3)

[the-kr8tor]

A Regular Spidey Valentine's day

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: Hobie's valentine's day plan goes awry when Spider-Man duties call.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, lovestruck! Hobie, canon typical violence, fluff.

Requested by @thesevenofstaves -- had to double check the master list but i don’t think there’s one similar to this? but if there is feel free toto discard—hobie trying to have a great valentine’s day with his partner, but everything keeps going wrong. we’re talking villain attacks, we’re talking culinary failures. you get the idea!thank you love you 🥰

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You open your eyes to a cold valentine's day morning. But the cool wind barely nips at you when you've got your very own furnace holding you close under the thick blankets.

Hobie embraces you from behind, soft snores escaping from his parted lips as he finds his place on your nape. You feel his breath fanning across your skin, goosebumps appearing on your arms as he lets out an exhale. You wonder what he's dreaming about, you only hope it's good things as his arms subconsciously squeezes you in his sleep.

His legs are tangled with your own, socked feet rubbing along your cold leg as you feel him stir when the light from the windows beam through the curtains. His hands wiggle their way under your night shirt, holding your stomach and letting his warmth ebb from his palms. Smiling, you hold the back of his hands, thumbs running along his knuckles as a soft and gentle way to wake him up.

“We need new blinds.” Hobie murmurs against the back of your neck, lil piercing brushing along your raised skin. His voice is still deep and rough from sleep, it single handedly makes your heart flutter.

“Good morning to you too.” You chuckle, voice soft amidst the early morning fluttering of dust. “Maybe that'll be your valentine's gift from me.”

He laughs, a deep rumble in his throat that reverberates through you. “Make it blackout, love. ‘m startin’ to think that people can see through and see our nightly—” you crane your neck to give him a side glance as a warning, only to find that he has already cracked an eye open, waiting for your reaction. “—Activities.”

Humming, you're satisfied by his use of the word.

“‘m talkin' ‘bout makin’ love, by the way.”

“Hobie!” You giggle, and the sound immediately has Hobie moving to detangle himself away from you and lift his body atop your own in quick succession and fluid movement. His lopsided smile has your words stuck in your throat as you look up at him through wide eyes.

“Hearts day today, hm?” He pokes your cheek, arms enclosed around you and legs trapping your thighs together. “The most capitalistic time of the year.”

You try to tamp down a laugh but can't help giggling when he tilts his head and tries to look all flirty with you when he's still wearing his pink silk bonnet and with crusts still in the corner of his eyes.

“That's true,” lifting your hand up to rub away the sleep in his eyes gently, he closes his eyes whilst you do it. “But you always go all out during the holiday.”

“Yeah, but it's for you.” He leans against your touch, sighing longingly as if you're across the sea from him. “And only for you, love.” Dropping down, he places his head on your shoulder, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck as he gives small pecks on your skin. Your heart feels full in the moment as you hold him close and tangle your legs with him. “Says you who made me a whole bloody outfit from scratch.”

Laughing, he continues to kiss your neck and up to your jaw. “And I loved making it for you,” you say breathlessly as he kisses deeper and you move your neck to give him more space to cover. “Just say you love the holiday, Hobs.”

Hobie pauses from his barrage of kisses, lifting his head up to look you in the eyes. He fixes your unruly brows that still bear sleep, and rubs your cheek lovingly with his knuckles.

“No.”

“Is it because you have to go on patrol today unlike last year?”

“The world is tearing us apart, lovie.” He leans in, kissing the corner of your lips, cheeks and the tip of your nose.

“Maybe just London, Hobie.” You gasp as he presses a sweet kiss on your lips. You reciprocate wholeheartedly, hands balling his pajama shirt and smiling through the kiss.

“London can wait a few more minutes.”

—

“Hobie, be careful, please?” You hug yourself tighter, wrapping Hobie's cardigan around you. “I have plans for us tonight so please come home in one piece.”

Hobie, in his full regalia of spandex and leather sits in-between the window sill as if he’s thinking whether he should stay or go.

“You know I always will, love.” Holding up his arms, you park yourself in the space as he curls himself around your form, face scrunched on your belly, and with you hugging his head. “I'll be on time, hm?” He whispers against you, placing a heavy kiss atop the cardigan that you both share.

“I'm not worried about that.” Craning your neck, not worried about the crick you're about to surely have, you kiss his temple sweetly. “Just come home, okay?”

Hobie reluctantly lifts his head away from you, smiling up at you. If he doesn't leave now, he'll never get out of the flat. “You want wine for tonight?”

“If you're coming home all beaten and battered, you better have something stronger.” You joke as you caress his cheek.

“I'll get you the good stuff, hm?”

“Anything from you is the good stuff.” Leaning down, you kiss him on his waiting lips. “Now go, the city needs you, Spider-Man.”

Hobie gives you one last smile before placing the mask on his head. Now face to face with the famed vigilante. Taking your hand, he kisses your knuckles and lets you go to jump off the window and swing away into the bustling city.

Watching his form retreating away, you sigh and start preparing for tonight's meal, that's for sure would be so bountiful that it would send the vigilante to a food coma.

—

Hobie heaves in place as the lizard lays unconscious by his feet. It's barely noon and he has stopped seven disasters already. There goes his plans to swing by and hand you a bouquet that he gathered himself that's now slowly floating down to the dust covered pavement. Fragrant flower petals come down from the sky, and a few people stop by and watch as the colourful flowers grace the cold London street.

“It's a Valentine's miracle!” A bystander exclaims happily, dancing around the floating petals.

Hobie shakes his head, rubbing a gloved hand across his masked face. He should've seen the lizard coming but he was too enthralled by his own mind that was playing what your reaction would be after he gives you a visit and hands you the flowers.

“Fuckin' hell.” He stretches his aching shoulder, already thinking of a faster route to gather all the flowers he needed to make a new bouquet. Whilst he thinks, a fire alarm blares in the distance, making his senses go off. With a sigh, the flowers have to wait.

—

You swirl the final touches on the red velvet cake you just finished. Smiling happily at the result even though it's your first time baking one. As you check the time, looking over to the clock on the wall, you have plenty of time to finish up dinner. Now with dessert out of the way, it's time for the main course.

You wonder what Hobie's up to and if he has eaten lunch yet.

—

“You wanker! That was my lunch!” Hobie screams at the cackling Rhino. Real fury in his veins whilst he glances at the sandwich you packed for him this morning that's now flattened under the villain's metallic foot.

“Oh poor spidey lost his sandwich?” The Rhino mocks while doing a crying motion at him. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Hobie cracks his neck, jaw tightening and walking slowly at the humongous suit of armour. He has no quip nor a joke, just silence; making the Rhino fear for his life.

—

“Shit!” You yelp, dropping the smoking metal tray into the sink. Opening the faucet, the tray hisses and lets out steam whilst the whole kitchen is covered in smoke. “Damn it.”

Maybe taking a short nap while the oven is on wasn't such a great idea. Good thing you have a plan b just in case something like this happened.

Checking the time, you're starting to worry that you won't finish before Hobie comes home now that it's well into the afternoon. With a groan, you start again.

—

“No, Ned, not a bloody yellow one!” Hobie yells into the phone's receiver, which he only uses for times like these. He's on call with Ned who owes Hobie big time and whom he asked for help in buying ingredients from the store. He dodges the Scorpion's stinger, balancing on a metal railing just near the end of the docks. “Not blue either! It'll look like it's for a baby shower—!” The stinger gets too close for comfort. “Do you fuckin' mind? 'm on the phone.”

“Drop the call, Spider-Man!” The scorpion says in his scratchy tone as he hangs upside down on a lamp post. “What's more important than saving the bank?”

“The bank can fuck off for all I care!” Hobie jumps and webs the stinger to a building. “It's the hostages you've got inside, you knobhead—! No, not you, Ned!” Groaning, he has had enough and quickly somersaults over the second stinger that was aimed for him. “What's up with you animal themed villains today? Got no dates?!”

“That's harsh.” The Scorpion's shoulders deflates sadly.

“Guess it's hard to find a date when you dress like that!” He pounces, punching the guy right on his jaw.

Hobie looks at the sun slowly setting on the horizon and he focuses on the task at hand. The faster he defeats the Scorpion, the faster he can get to you.

“Pink or red only, Ned, and get the good chocolate and please don't forget the thing I told you.” He closes the call and tucks the phone back in his vest pocket. Cracking his knuckles, he hones in on the villain. “Maybe you'll find a date in jail, yeah?”

—

You set up the dinner table all pretty like with red roses, a fine tablecloth, and gilded utensils that you got a deal on at an estate sale last week. Looking around, the pretty string lights and the strawberry scented candles have you smiling and patting your back for a job well done.

Your phone pings on the kitchen counter, and you race towards it to check if it's Hobie telling you that he's on his way. Your brows knit together when it's Ned asking you when your birthday is and if you're allergic to nuts. A weird combination of questions but you still open your phone and answer him.

—

“C’mon, blackcat, not today.” Hobie sighs, the marks from the previous fights is evident on his soot and scratch covered suit. The sun has fully set, and the clock ticks close to seven pm as he stands on a rooftop with blackcat, who's carrying a duffel bag full of jewellery.

“Why? Got something to do, handsome?” She says in a sultry tone, sharp claws glinting in the moonlight. Hobie subtly tilts his head in annoyance. Nothing seems to be going his way today. “Oh, I get it, you've got someone waiting for you tonight, hm?” Her heels click on the rooftop as she walks closer to him. Hobie smacks his lips together, fists tightening.

In the distance, the famous jewellery shop she just robbed empty has its alarms blaring loudly. Sirens go off around the area, and Hobie just wants to go home.

“Y’know what?” Hobie starts, exasperated. Blackcat tilts her head, her silver eyes under the domino mask narrows at him. “That place was owned by an arsehole, go.”

She blinks in place, a smirk slowly appearing on her painted lips. “Really? Just like that?”

Hobie nods, “promise not to tell anyone what you deduced and give thirty percent of the money you get from that to a charity and I'll let you go.”

“Shit, Spider-Man, why didn't you say so in the first place?” She chuckles, reeling her claws back in.

“Fuckin’ say it, Felicia.”

“Damn, you don't have to call me by my government name, man.” She rummages through the bag and tosses him something shiny which Hobie catches effortlessly. “Here, for your special someone. And I promise, spidey. Cross my heart, hope to die.” She draws a cross over her chest.

“I'll know, don't lie to me.” His voice falls into a dangerous timbre.

She visibly stiffens from the threat, not forgetting what he did to Osborne a few years ago. “As if I'd lie to my favourite spider.”

As blackcat tumbles away, leaving Hobie alone, he opens his palm to see a shiny diamond tennis bracelet. Maybe he can detach the diamonds and make something else.

“Shit!” He needs to get to Ned’s real quick.

—

You've been sitting pretty on the dining table for four hours now. The candle is dwindling and the food is getting colder while the clock ticks on the wall. For the umpteenth time tonight, you fix your clothes as if there's even a crease or a speck of dust on it. You don't mind waiting for him when you know the nature of his work, but you're starting to worry when his last text to you was hours ago. You've even turned on the telly in the background just in case he pops up in the news.

With a yawn, you decide to lay your head on the table. “Just closing my eyes.” You mumble to yourself as you drift in between slumber and wakefulness.

Hobie's heart breaks when he sees you asleep on the table with your head tucked in your arms. The candles are fully melted on the candelabra, and the smell of food is fading away. He's sure that it might've smelled heavenly hours ago, if only he got there earlier.

He quietly takes off his heavy boots by the door, the crinkling of the paper bag has him cringing. But when he glances at your sleeping form, you're still sleeping soundly. He curses himself internally as he roams his eyes around the living room and the decorations you've put out. You've even got new pictures of you together with him inside pretty frames to place around the shared place. The flowers on the vases are still fresh and blooming, and you look absolutely stunning.

Gently placing the paper bag on the table, he kneels next to you, hand grasping your bicep while he wakes you up.

You stir, sniffing the air as you lift your head up. Your face lights up when you see him smiling softly at you.

“Hi.”

“Hello, love. Sorry ‘m late, let me carry you to bed, yeah?” Hobie rubs your thigh lovingly, chest feeling heavy and guilty. “I tried.”

You immediately know what he meant. “I know, Hobs.” Reaching for his cheek, you let your touch warm him. His face still feels chilly from how he might've run to get to the flat. “You okay?” He nods, eyes shining as he moves closer and places his head on your lap. “Bad day?”

“A shite day.” He hugs your waist, face nudging you.

“Sounds like you need a Valentine's meal, hm?”

Hobie lifts his head up, palms holding your hips. “It's cold.”

“That's why microwaves and the stove were invented.”

A smile curls on his lips until he's laughing against your stomach. You giggle with him, fingers kneading in between his shoulder blades.

“What did you make?” He asks, still holding you in place and in turn holding him down to the present.

“Baked chicken with lemongrass just like how you like it.” You whisper to him while the pads of his fingers draw circles on the small of your back. “Some mashed potatoes, so many buttered vegetables.” You chuckle and you feel his smile atop your skin. “Fish fillet—”

“With the garlic and cream sauce?”

You nod, gazing down lovingly at him. “With the garlic and cream sauce of course. Some tomato soup, and cake.”

“We feedin’ a whole town now, lovie?” He smiles up at you, stomach rumbling from the menu.

“Yeah, you,” you joke, earning a squeeze from him. “I rarely cook for you these days so I went all out.”

He beams at you, eyes gazing at you lovingly. “I got you flowers.” He says in a small tone. Your heart flutters. “It's all over downtown now though.”

Your laugh is music to his ears. “I bet it made someone's day though.”

“There was a bloke who looked like he was in the sound of music.” He places his chin on your thigh, staring at you with heart shaped eyes. You laugh, hands cupping each of his cheeks. “I made you chocolates, but Neddy got coconut fillings in most of ‘em. And the sprinkles are green, sorry.”

“Is that why Ned asked me if I have any allergies and when my birthday is? He helped you make them?”

“I can't make it ‘ere when you were cookin’ up a storm. Wait, he asked you? Idiot.” He curses Ned's name and you giggle. Hobie bites his lip, suddenly nervous. “And he was askin' when your birthday is so he could get your birth stone.”

“My stone?”

“I just told him to pick it up so I could set it myself and the wanker forgot when your birthday is just because I just said your birthstone.” You squeeze his cheek to stop his nervous rambling. He sighs, rummaging through his jacket pocket and procuring a simple bamboo box. “Made and designed by yours truly.” He chuckles nervously as he opens the box, revealing a simple platinum necklace that has your birthstone set in a guitar pick shaped locket. “Sorry that the stone is so small. The old lady who owned the place got me a good price though.”

“Hobie,” you softly sigh out, tears prickling your eyes. “You could get me a candy necklace and I would still love it.”

“Should've gotten that then.” He laughs, mirroring your smile. “I thought, ten fuckin' years together, ten Valentines, I have to get you somethin' nice. You deserve nice, love.”

“The chocolates and the pavement flowers were nice too. Anything from you is nice, Hobie.” You don't hold yourself back anymore, leaning down and kissing the corner of his eye as he holds onto you. “Amazing even.”

“You like it then?” He says as he gets a barrage of kisses.

“I love it. Come stand up and help me put it on like in the movies.”

Hobie reaches for your cheek, a calloused palm holding you close and keeping you warm. “Kiss me like in the movies then.”

So you do.

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Photos from Pinterest

[valeriianz]

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

----------------------------------------------

“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. 

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses. 

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now. 

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed. 

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity. 

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically… 

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did. 

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance. 

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

-----------------------------------------------------

Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around. 

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour. 

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting. 

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now. 

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush. 

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream. 

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood. 

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least. 

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory. 

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink. 

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck. 

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes. 

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.  

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him. 

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight. 

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not? 

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax. 

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer. 

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry. 

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)