#this isn't even edited right because i have family in town who are breathing down my neck

[shares-a-vest]

(can i conflate joe keery's birthday with steve's for just a sec to indulge in whatever this platonic edancy banter is??? i mean, we don't know when steve's b-day is so...)

Edited in Part Two bc I wrote it as soon as I posted the first part. Plz ignore me this is so stupid. 1.9k

"Eddie!"

It's too late, Munson is already in the car, shutting the door and clipping in his seatbelt.

Mike follows, running square into the passenger door with a thud.

"What the hell, Eddie!" he yells, banging on the door.

There's a skirmish as he goes for the exterior door handle. Eddie lunges for the interior one, holding the door with a vice-like grip with one hand, as he twists around to flick the lock with the other.

"No!" Mike yelps, beating at the glass with his knuckles.

"Eddie!" Nancy chastises, looking out at her disgruntled brother. She waves an annoyed hand to stop Mike - she really doesn’t want to be responsible for damaging the family car, even if it is just a series of her brother’s paw prints on the window glass.

Eddie turns, restricted by his seatbelt, grumbling with the look of a disgruntled child in a car seat as he pleads, "Nance, I need your help," hitting the word 'need' with a high-pitched whine.

Mike gives up, stepping back up onto the curb as he talks to someone. Nancy spots a striped t-shirt and realises it is Will. She can't quite hear but it sounds like they are bickering as Mike gestures towards her unexpected passenger. Her attention snaps back to the annoyance in question, now fishing in his jacket pocket. She reaches over, grabbing his wrist.

"Nope!" she warns, digging her nails into the back of Eddie's hand, waiting for her one car rule to click in his pea-sized brain.

He whimpers dramatically, wobbling his bottom lip as he yanks back his hand. Although there's still no indication he's going to get out of the car.

Nancy sighs, sucking in a deep breath as she relents, "Fine. What is it?"

It has been a whole week of this. Eddie bombarding her, pleading for help about something he never quite gets to explaining due to the endless interruptions of everyone around them.

"Well," he begins, nodding assertively as he looks wearily out the window, "It's my darling Steve's birthday next week and I need your help with a present."

"Oh."

Oh, is right. She had completely forgotten Steve's birthday. And oh, Eddie is coming to her - Steve's ex-times-however-many girlfriends he has had since then - for assistance.

She white-knuckles the steering wheel, searching for a reply because yeah, this is awkward.

"Eddie," she starts, puffing out a breath. But then she catches Eddie twirling a lock of his hair and sinking a little in his seat out of the corner of her eye.

Yeah, she isn't the only one here with a crippling case of awkwardness-itus.

She opens her mouth to speak again, but Mike knocks on the door again, making them both jump high enough to hit the car ceiling.

"Nance, what the hell?" he says, incredulous as he looks between them, probably wondering what the hell is going on.

Mike isn't exactly the most patient person, especially when he and Will have been promised a lift around town after school.

She leans across Eddie, who squishes back into his seat, to wind the window down enough to give a commanding, "Go away."

"You're supposed to drive us to the library!" her brother shoots back, not missing a beat.

"You have your bikes!"

Eddie huffs a laugh before sinking further in his seat - Mike probably heard that one.

"She's right," Will nods, playfully slapping Mike on the shoulder.

"No!" he shrugs him off before turning back to the car. "Nance, I had double gym today."

He leans against the door, bike and all. And damn it, it would have been easier to just speed away the second Eddie hopped in.

"Dude! I need to borrow your sister for the afternoon," Eddie pipes up, a little more authoritative but still holding an ounce of his begging tone.

Nancy adjusts in her seat, feigning a smile she knows her brother will see right through.

"Bike!" she directs and yep, she actually cannot not be harsh.

Mike looks between her and Eddie, offended, confused... All manner of emotions he dramatically displays when he is being personally inconvenienced.

"I'll pay you back!" she blurts out, grimacing the second she says it because Mike never makes a fair trade. "I'll drive you and Will anywhere you want on the weekend."

"Why?" he asks, propping a hand on his hip.

She can't blame him for being suspicious if she's totally honest.

"I just..." she stops, looking at Eddie who is still sinking lower in his seat. "Gotta go – urgent."

"Urgent!" her brother panics.

She rolls her eyes. "No, not like urgent."

Mike grumbles, and pauses - probably weighing up his options. He looks at Eddie with scepticism as he agrees, "Fine...But you are taking me and Will to the arcade on Saturday."

"Deal!"

She stretches across Eddie again so she can pinky swear on it. Mike follows, reluctant, ever the one to carefully measure his potential lameness in front of his beloved Dungeon Master.

"Okay, I think I'm actually going to die if you don't move, Wheeler."

She isn't even sure who Eddie is referring to.

Mike scoffs, "I hate that you two are friends."

He doesn't wait for a retort as he lazily turns his bike up onto the curb and jumps onto it to peddle down the path.

"Uh..." Will hums, slowly climbing onto his bike as he watches after Mike. "Bye!"

Eddie spins his hands in a winding motion as he straightens up.

"Floor it, Nance. Before we're bothered by more of the asshat squad."

"Stop," she chuckles, starting up the engine nonetheless.

"Not a chance, babydoll."

She hears the unmistakable sound of his lighter flicking. In one swift move, Nancy plucks the cigarette from Eddie's fingers and throws it out his window.

"No smoking!"

***

Eddie paces back and forwards between Nancy's bedroom door and her nightstand.

She lifts her head up from her pillow enough to lazily check her watch.

If he paces any more, her dad will be home kicking him out of the house.

She shrugs, gesturing in the air to indicate she has in fact, given up. 

"Well, that's all I can come up with."

Eddie stops, turns heel and narrows his eyes.

"You haven't helped me," he shrieks, "At all!"

He throws his hands up, sighing loudly (or is it more like an annoyed groan) before flopping face down on the bed, shifting the mattress enough Nancy reaches to clutch her nightstand. She shoots upright.

"You haven't helped me either!"

She gestures to her closet, doors wide open and clothing tossed every which way - on the floor, hanging over every available method of display, coathangers crowding the handles. She huffs and holds her arms as soon as Eddie makes eye-contact. And at that, they fall into a state of annoyed silence, glaring at each other. 

Eddie was supposed to help her pick out a series of much cooler options to wear to The Hideout in exchange for brainstorming a potential gift for Steve's birthday. 

He needed help. She needed help. They are both pathetic when it comes to impressing Steve and Robin respectively. It was supposed to be a mutual (and beneficial) exchange.

But here they are, in her bedroom not speaking.

Nancy sighs. It was probably always going to come to this, especially after Eddie had plucked a jacket from her closet - the same oversized jacket she’d borrowed from Jonathan a two years ago and failed to give back. The same damn jacket she had been wearing to The Hideout in an effort to look more metal, or at least dressed in a way that didn’t make her stick out like a sore thumb.

But it’s not like Eddie noticed what she was wearing. Or that constantly pushing up the sleeves to free her hands had resulted in spilling a drink in Robin’s lap last week. Nope. Eddie was always far too busy making goo-goo eyes at Steve in between songs and during Corroded Coffin’s drinks break to notice anything (including Robin’s beer-soaked dress).

Eddie rolls over and drapes himself over her legs so he can sigh forlornly at her Tom Cruise poster.

"I still can't believe I missed Top Gun."

"Well," she starts, prying her legs out from under him so she can stand. "Couldn't really take you an hour-long car ride out of town to sit in a cinema when you had tubes coming out of you every which way."

She leans against her free-standing dresser, pursing her lips as she considers ripping the distracting poster down and throwing it in the trash. Somehow, the absolute worst thing that had happened to Eddie between the nightmarish Spring Break and now was missing Top Gun - a fact he enjoyed reminding everyone of at every opportunity.

"I'm home!" Mike screams from downstairs, his voice echoing throughout the house.

"Upstairs!" she replies just as loud, making herself wince.

She listens as two sets of footsteps bound up the stairs and make their way towards her bedroom door.

"So this is what you meant by urgent?" Mike asks, using air quotations as he looks between her and Eddie, who is now looking through the stack of tapes on her bedside table.

"Mom said to put your gym clothes straight in the washing machine," she instructs as Will pops his head over her brother's shoulder.

"I'll do it later," he huffs, setting off down the hall.

"Hi," Will waves lazily as he flows along.

Nancy pushes her bedroom door enough for it to swing shut with a soft slam. She spins on the spot and places her hands on her hips.

"Okay, we are getting this done right now."

Eddie chokes out a childish dry-sob and covers his face with a decorative fluffy pillow as he squirms around.

"Wheeler, just buy new clothes!"

"Well, can you come with me?"

He drags the pillow from his face, quickly palms around for her teddy bear and holds it up, moving its head as he huffs out a relenting, "Fine".

Good.

She grabs her car keys to dangle them in the air. Eddie sits up, hair now completely frizzed from wriggling around. He frowns.

"Y'know, I would prefer you didn't jingle-jangle your keys like a dog whistle."

"Made you sit up," she smirks.

"Touche," he grumbles, flattening out his hair. "Maybe I should just get Steve a sexy present."

Nancy screws her eyes shut and chops her hand through the air between them, "Nope, absolutely not!"

"What?" he asks, hitching up his pants.

She practically slaps a hand to her forehead. "I've told you before, Eddie. I'm not talking about sex stuff about Steve with you."

She pokes him in the chest for good measure but he scoffs, "Oh please! Have you heard him and Buckley?"

"Not talking about it with you..." she maintains, waving her hands again to no avail because Eddie just continues prattling on.

"Wanna drive me to a sex shop in Indy on Saturday? Could get yourself something naughty?"

She only just catches him wiggling his eyebrows before she pinches her nose, utterly disgusted.

"I hate this!" she laments, stopping short of stomping her foot.

Wait.

Going to the city means more clothes. Better, cooler clothes. Clothing like the things Robin wears. Yeah sure she thrifts them but, in a near post-apocalyptic Hawkins, options were scant at best.

She stops, eyes snapping open. She grabs Eddie’s collar.

"I'll drive you to Indy after I drop the boys at the arcade on Saturday. But - " she stops to raise a finger in warning, "You have to help me pick out some clothes that Robin would find cool for me to wear to The Hideout," Eddie opens his mouth to speak but she steps closer, tightening her grip on his jacket, "And… When we get to this… sex shop… We absolutely, one hundred percent do not know each other, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Eddie whimpers, giving a half-hearted salute.

She releases him from her grip and frowns, "Don't call me ma'am, Eddie!"

[persnickety-persnackety]

In The Shadows of Dragons

AN: Okay, first, I want to thank everyone in the Jonsa tag who responded so warmly to my original post about posting this fic. I have major anxiety, but this fandom just made me feel so accepted and welcome that it only took me a few more hours to psyche myself up to post this. I just want to express my gratitude before I put this out there. 

Title: in the Shadows of Dragons Word Count: 3K+ Rating: T+ Pairing: Jon/Sansa Summary: Sansa entered in a marriage of convenience with the widower, Jon Targaryen, to leave the grasp of her wretched relatives, but when she comes to the realization that she has fallen in love with Jon whom she realizes will likely never love her in return because of how he felt for his lost wife, she finds that the only option left to her is to escape. An AU of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca.

Run

“We’re not meant for happiness, you and I.”– Daphne Du Maurier, Rebecca 

It was the bright light streaming through her window that pulled Sansa reluctantly out of the clutches of sleep. Her head was rested on her folded arms propped on her vanity table, which had seemingly served as her bed the previous night. A groan slipped from her lips, past the sour taste of sleep that lingered on her tongue, as her body made its protest known toward her choice of sleeping place with sharp aches and stiff muscles in her arms and legs. Her neck, back, and arms were the parts of her that complained the most when she struggled to push herself into an upright sitting position and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s rays. The ache in her eyes remained even when removed from the path of unwavering light, and if that pain wasn’t a startling reminder of what had put her in such a pitiful situation, the reflection that stared despondently back at her in the mirror of her vanity was quick to remedy that brief moment of blissful ignorance.

Sansa stared sullenly at her reflection and solemnly gathered the evidence of the failure that had been the previous night. Half of her crimson-red tresses were still pulled up in the elegant hairstyle she had spent hours attempting to get just right, though one wouldn’t believe it based on the disarray it was currently in. The makeup that she had also spent a great deal of time trying to perfect was in worse shape, the carefully applied lines completely destroyed by the innumerable tears that had fallen down her cheeks for hours before exhaustion won out and she had fallen asleep. The image in the mirror could have been conjured out of nightmares, and yet Sansa couldn’t bear the thought of cleaning it all up because the girl underneath the chaos was probably in even worse shape.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, staring miserably at herself, contemplating how far she had fallen in a mere matter of hours. It was hard to believe that at this same time yesterday, she had been seated in the same place, preparing for a night she had been counting down the days to for weeks. Her heart had been filled with more hope than she had dared to ever let herself feel in years as she had allowed herself to picture a future that she had thought herself denied for so long. She was so unaware of the fact that those dreams and hopes would be dashed so thoroughly before the night could even truly begin.

When she was finally able to tear her gaze from the mirror, Sansa sent a cursory glance around the room and saw that it was in little better shape than what she saw in her reflection. She avoided looking at the costume dress that she had tirelessly put together over the past few weeks or the shoes that she had ordered special from King’s Landing to go with it. The items were strewn across the floor, and they would remain where she had hastily discarded them until one of the maids came to pick them up. Normally, she would have been scandalized at the thought of leaving her room in such a state for the maids to see, but the part of her that cared for such things was gone, beaten away by her embarrassment and self-pity. She didn’t even seem to care that Doreah would be able to take one look at her rooms and know exactly what happened and would immediately report her findings to her conspirator. It was all a part of a game, after all, and after last night, Sansa had come to realize she had been soundly defeated by her opponents, thoroughly trounced if her current appearance was anything to go by.

The game was one she hadn’t even known existed before she had stepped foot on Dragonstone, and yet she was thrust into it six months ago with no instruction or aid. Her opponents were well-learned in the rules, and they were merciless in the execution of their turns, whereas she had been floundering and clumsy in her poor attempts at playing. It was no surprise that this was the outcome: she having so little of herself left, though most of her opponents would say there was little of her to begin with. Now in her defeat, she was left with only two avenues going forward: she could continue living in this place where she would be painfully reminded of how inadequate she was and how lacking she would always be in comparison to the one that had come before her, or she could slink back to the crooked arms of those who had already diminished her hopes and dreams over the past years with only a prayer that another rare opportunity to escape them would present itself like the one she had received at the hand of the grey-eyed man whom she had foolishly mistaken as her salvation.

There was a time that she would have said that she would rather die than return to her aunt, Lysa, and Petyr Baelish, but that was before she had seen his grey eyes filled with ire as he flung cold, stilted words at her through clenched teeth. A life being tormented and belittled by her family seemed like a paradise when compared to the way she had felt when she had been the sole subject of his fury. Never before had she ever felt so low or humiliated than when she had seen the anger and disappointment etched on his face when he had looked up and watched her coming down the staircase in her costume. His jaw had been clenched and his fists had immediately balled into fists at his side as he had thrown cold, stilted commands to take the costume off. He hadn’t even bothered to explain his reaction before he had turned and walked away from her without so much as a glance back despite her sobs being loud enough for him to hear. Even when she had found out the reason for his disdain and tried to make amends, he had refused to even look at her and had dismissed her with a curt shake of his head while he diverted his attention to a nearby guest, ignoring her presence completely. He had not wanted her near him at all, and so Sansa had had no choice but to slink away to her rooms despite the party just barely beginning.

Of course, the reason for all of his anger would always go back to her, the shadow of his previous wife – the wife he truly loved and didn’t merely pity like he did Sansa. She had worn the very same costume that Sansa had spent weeks putting together for the masquerade, and it was her that he had seen when Sansa had walked down the stairs. It was only the realization that it was Sansa and not her that had infuriated him so amidst his disappointment. The realization had become clear: he would never see her in the same way he saw his dead wife. That ghost would forever have more power over him than Sansa could ever hope to wield.

With a sudden burst of energy derived from an abrupt determination to distance herself from the memories of the previous night, Sansa rose brusquely from the seat of her vanity. She moved so quickly that she upended the stool, sending it crashing loudly to the floor. Not even sparing it a second glance, she left it there, caring little that it would serve as another clue denoting her fall from grace. Her mind was more occupied with what she was going to do from here. She had to use every ounce of what little resolve she had to follow through with her best course of action moving forward, everything else be damned. If she dawdled too long, she was certain her senses would most likely peek through, and she just couldn’t allow her mind to be changed, not from this.

Sansa couldn’t find her old, tattered carpetbag that had held the paltry items of clothing she had used in Lys, so she settled on pulling out one of the new suitcases that had been purchased for her on her honeymoon. Guilt lingered on her conscience for taking it, but she pushed such feelings aside by telling herself that she would send money back to pay for whatever she took. A lot of her original underthings and stockings had been discarded since she had been in Dragonstone, due to their poor state upon her arrival, so she was forced to pack a few of the new stockings and slips that had been purchased for her, which she added to the tally that she would pay for later. Managing to find some of her old frocks and dresses, she felt an immense sense of relief that she wouldn’t need to take any of the new dresses and rich clothing, newly purchased, in the wardrobe. What few items she was taking were placed in the suitcase along with her original three pairs of shoes and a set of gold flower combs. The latter wasn’t something she had come with, but even in her sullen misery, she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. They had been a gift from him on their honeymoon after all, and if she was going to leave with nothing else from this place, she would keep the set as a reminder that this particular time in her life hadn’t been just one long, strange dream.

Slipping into one of her old frocks and donning her old, weather-worn coat, Sansa quickly brushed out the curls and tangles from her hair and braided her long red tresses into a loose braid over her shoulder. She washed off all of the traces of makeup in her attached washroom – more than a little elbow grease needed to wipe off the dark streaks around her eyes – and reluctantly took in the reflection after. Her skin was pallid, veering dangerously toward gaunt, with her eyes, cheeks, and her nose was flushed red from the washcloth and the fresh tears she had shed while packing. Her assumption that she would look a fright underneath the makeup was affirmed, but she had little time to dwell on such trivial thoughts, especially when escape was the most important thing to consider. If she was going to slip away unnoticed, it had to be now.

Though there were a few maids up this early in the morning, Sansa knew she could avoid them fairly easily with their attention undoubtedly focused on cleaning up the dining hall and the ballroom where the party took place. Even though her night had been ruined before the grand gathering had even begun, it had still gone on without her, and she could only assume that the majority of the house staff would be focusing their attention on cleaning up the remnants of the festivities. So, on feet that were surprisingly quiet against the dark marble floor, she slipped cautiously from one shadow to the next down the hall of the family wing of the manor until she was finally able to reach the staircase that would take her down to the main entrance where she would finally be able to slip away.

Sansa’s steps felt a little lighter with every step she descended with no on in the house noticing her, but at the same time, her heart grew heavier and heavier the closer she drew to the door. As much as she tried to tell herself that she was making the right choice in escaping, that the alternative of staying was just too unbearable, a part of her knew that even when she made her escape, she would be leaving far more than her lavish clothes and jewelry behind. She was leaving a large piece of herself in the hands of the very same person who had crushed her spirits into dust.

Even in her sorrow, she couldn’t truly blame him for how she felt because he had never promised her anything more than what he had provided, which was still more than she ever thought she deserved. He had offered her a life free of her cruel aunt’s influence and her lecherous uncle’s unwanted touches, nothing more. It was her fanciful mind and inclination for fairytale endings that had overwhelmed her logic and her caution, leading her to fall in love with the mysterious Lord Targaryen with the hope of him learning to love her in return. Lysa had always said she was a selfish girl who was never satisfied with what she was given, and in this instance, Sansa hated to admit that her aunt was right. She should have just been happy to go along with the flow and accept the situation for what it was, but her heart had defied her. Now, it was shattered with only the promise of the lesser of two unbearable pains to look forward to in her near future.

When Sansa reached the large, ornate front door that opened to the stairs that would take her down to the beach, her hands were trembling, almost to the point that she nearly missed the handle completely. She took a brief moment to calm her nerves before she pulled on the large brass handle to open it to freedom. She never realized how loud the giant thing was when she had used it countless times in the past to come in and out of the manor, but when it gave a loud groan as she pulled it open, Sansa froze with her breath caught in her lungs and her fingers squeezing the handle to the point of pain. She stared behind her with wide eyes, expecting someone to come out and demand to know what she was doing, sneaking out with a suitcase full of her meager belongings, but after a tense minute of waiting with no one showing up to berate or question her, she finally forced herself to make her feet continue moving forward out the door. As soon as she felt the sun shining on her once again with the door closed behind her, she released the pent-up breath that had been built up in her lungs. She tried to make herself believe that the warmth on her skin was a good omen of things to come, that she was making the right decision, but her heart still throbbed painfully inside her chest.

If Sansa’s descent down the stairs of the manor had felt like an eternity, her descent down the giant stone steps of the manor leading to the beach felt more like a single blink of an eye, which given the enormity of the construction was a great feat to achieve. The speed was mostly attributed to the fact that her feet were working on autopilot. She had felt the first stirrings of doubt as soon as she had closed the large front door behind her, and so for her own self-preservation, she had forced her mind into a sort of limbo where her body functioned more on instinct rather than careful reaction. Where caution would have had her pausing at the older parts of the stairway that were crumbling from age, desperation had her careening over those steps with a previously unknown confidence that had luckily resulted in her feet still managing to reach the sand of the beach instead of her body being scattered over the rocks on the side of the cliffs. Such an achievement, however, was mostly lost on Sansa, who was now standing just outside the large gate, staring up at the monstrous stone manor that had served as her home for the past handful of months.

Dragonstone. The name had sounded dreary to her ears long before she had ever set eyes on the gargantuan stone castle, and when she had first laid eyes on it six months ago, she had found its name to be quite fitting. From a distance, one could imagine the giant mass of dark stone on the cliffs was a giant dragon perched, ready to spring. Up close, it was even more sinister and foreboding, though it also held its fair amount of beauty with its expert construction and detailing. Staring up at it, however, Sansa could not help but think that the dragon from afar was still there, glaring down at her as it would an intruder or even its prey.

Dragonstone was said to have housed dragons once upon a time, and had served as the home to the Targaryens throughout their occupation, who continued to claim themselves to be dragons, though the most current resident could not be counted amongst that number. He was never proud to claim that particular part of his lineage, but that blood still coursed through his veins. He could still be considered a dragon, and so he was never haunted by them like she was. Dragonstone housed the shadows of the dragons, after all, and of all those that came before, it was just one in particular whose presence had been far more prominent than the others, and it was that presence that had haunted Sansa’s steps from the moment she stepped foot in the stone halls.

“So long, you fiendish apparition,” Sansa muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowed at the manor that towered over her, silent in its foreboding reign over the horizon. Every dark brick seemed to be laughing at her in her craven retreat, but she pushed herself to tilt her chin up, holding it high as she glared back.  “You’re not going to be a witness to any more of my suffering.”

Gripping the handle of her suitcase even tighter in her hand, Sansa slowly tore her eyes from the manor and finally turned to start making her way down the path that would lead to the docks where she would be able to catch the ferry to the mainland. She had taken her wallet that had enough cash for her fare on the ferry and enough to buy a room in a decent hotel while she decided how to go on from there. That money would be added to the growing amount she would send back once she had the means. She didn’t know when that would be, especially given the situation she would be thrust into when she returned to her family, but she was determined to not be forever indebted to Dragonstone and have that be another score it held against her.

She turned her thoughts to focus more on her more immediate future like what she planned to do when she reached King’s Landing. She would have to find a way to get ahold of her family, though she suspected that they would be less than thrilled to hear from her, especially with how they parted ways months before. Reaching out to Uncle Edmure seemed like her best bet, considering he had been the only one whom she had parted with on good terms. He would most likely welcome her for a time, but no matter how things played out with him, Sansa could see no future where she would be able to evade Aunt Lysa and Petyr’s grips for good. They would find a way to get their hands back on her eventually, and the mere thought of their smug expressions made her stomach feel like lead.

Her mind was so occupied with how she was going to weather the storm of retribution that her aunt was inevitably going to bring down upon her head that Sansa failed to notice that someone was approaching her on the path, coming from the direction of the docks. She was staring at her feet, silently willing them to keep propelling her forward, when she finally noticed another pair of feet standing motionless in the middle of the path, blocking her way. It was the first person she had come across since her morning had begun, and Sansa hoped it would be the last she would face, at least until she was safely on the ferry to King’s Landing.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled quietly, her head still bowed, as she stepped off the path to make her way around the owner of the shoes standing in front of her. They made no move to give her way, even as she was practically on top of them at this point. Sansa kept her head down, knowing that most people on the island knew her, and she wished to avoid facing anyone or see their questioning gazes. She quickened her steps to bypass her current obstacle to freedom, but a gasp of surprise slipped from her mouth when the person suddenly moved with her, placing themselves firmly back in her path.

“I beg your pardon,” she spoke a bit louder and clearer, addressing her rude obstacle coolly, unable to hide her annoyance. The smell of the salt was strong, letting her know she was so close to the sea and her eventual escape from this place. Not even a boorish, rude figure could stand in her way when she was so close to her freedom.

“I would like to leave, and you’re standing in my way,” she added more forcefully, once again trying to move to the opposite side, but the person once again moved to place themselves in her path once more.

“I can see that, Sansa.”

That oh so familiar voice, so low and husky, froze Sansa in place, her legs suddenly becoming petrified as she lifted her head quickly to look up into the face of the absolute last person she had wanted to run into. Grey eyes that had become fixtures in both her fantasies and her nightmares stared directly back into her own, and she could feel the judgment rolling off of them in waves, making her wish the sand would just swallow her whole. Even if she had not already blatantly stated her intentions, she understood that he was all too aware of what she was doing by the way his eyes flicked down to her suitcase clutched at her side. She was caught, her quiet escape now turning into a war of wills, though Sansa silently prayed hers, though lacking, would overcome.

“Jon,” she mumbled quietly, her voice sounding frail to her ears. Still, in that single word, she filled her tone with a desperate plea for him to just step aside and let her go. It was, after all, for his benefit as much as it was for hers.

A cold, thin smile spread across Jon’s lips as he gazed at her challengingly, seeming to understand exactly what this moment was. A single twitch of the lips was all she needed to see to know that he had no intention of making her escape easy.

“Sansa, my dear wife. Were you planning on going somewhere?”

Sansa closed her eyes and bowed her head. She had been so close.

 Part 2

[katnissmellarkkk]

Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.) 

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter​ for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

[wind0wg0blin]

If it isn't too much to ask I would love a slasher mash up. I am 5'1 110lbs and fairly fit, I love hot sunny days, gardening and cooking(baking). On the other side I also love dark humor, the paranormal and witchy things. I'm pansexual and a switch (top+bottom)

I match you with Leatherface! [Thomas Hewitt Edition!]

On a whim you traveled to Texas with a group of peoplewho you only knew moderately. You were all in the same local paranormal investigationsclub and as your yearly trip you all headed down to the backwoods of Texas toinvestigate the mystical disappearances that had occurred there.

Little did you know none of the other members actuallygave a damn about the paranormal using the clubs trip as a cover up for goingto a rural town to get wasted and party. Once you found out about their planyou obviously verbalized your disagreement saying that it was wrong to have liedto everyone and waste all that money. Though before you could even finish yourthoughts one of the larger guys on the bus had grabbed you by the arm and threwyou out the door saying that if wanted to go ghost hunting then to go rightahead. They left you lying on the side of the road covered in dirt alone, inthe middle of the back woods of Texas, at night.

You gathered yourself and got slowly to your feet beforetrudging along the road towards what you hoped was help. Eventually you sawheadlights in the distance, a glimmer of hope sparked in your chest turning toa roaring blaze as the truck slowed and an older man pulled over looking at youwith a judging look.

Quickly explaining your situation, the man sighedand told you to hop in the back as the passenger seat was occupied by someanimal you couldn’t quite make out. The man took you back to his house allowingyou to stay the night and he would take you into town the next day. He showedyou to a spare room as he off offhandedly told you that his name was Monty and theother two who lived there went by ma and Thomas though you most likely wouldn’tsee either of them.

You didn’t question why nor did you have any timeto do so as he slammed the door shut leaving you to your thoughts.

Into was long into the wee hours of the morning yetyou couldn’t sleep. You wanted to chalk it up to the horrible experiences youhad faced that day but you knew deep in your heart that it was becausesomething about this house felt wrong, unsafe. The walls creaked loudly and youjumped turning to stare at where the sound had come from. You held you breathwhen you realized that in the space where the two boards met there was a smallhole.

With tentative steps you approach the hole in thewall holding your breath with each step. Peering into the hole at first you seenothing but darkness but as your eye adjusts to the lack of light you see onestaring straight back at you.

You scream hearing whomever was on the other sidefly back and crash into something. You wasted no time in grabbing your bag andsprinting out of the room. Monty stepped out of a room and attempted to grabyou but you easily side stepped him as you shot straight out the front door. Youin your panic over shot your pace down the front steps sending you flying flaton your face.

Dazed your vision swam as you wobbled to your feetstumbling forward before sinking to one knee. You touched your face to find bloodas you had cracked your head open on the stone pathway. You couldn’t do much asstrong arms scooped you up a deep voice cooing at you as you were brought backinto the horror house.

When you wake up you are in a different room tuckedin under a heavy duvet and multiple blankets despite the Texan heat. When yousat up you were hit hard with a dizzy spell that left you reeling as youclutched the sheets in yours hands staring at were your feet should be underthe blankets. With the room spinning you didn’t notice the large man sat in thecorner until he approached you sitting on a stool pulled up to the edge of the bed.His large hand rested on your shoulder coxing you to lay down on the pillows hestacked behind you so you would still be elevated enough to look around.

Slowly your bearings came to you allowing you totake in the very, very large and intimidating man sitting at your side. He waseasily six-foot dwarfing you in comparison. He babbled softly as he offered youa glass of water a brightly colored straw bobbing in it. It was from here thatyour very much unforeseen relationship would begin.

You two would grow close over the time he looks over you as you had gotten a concussion from your spill during your panicked escape. He has apologized profusely for spying on you but how was he supposed to approach you when he looked the way he did? He never once believed any one could care for a monster such as himself so when your small hand rested on his chest head tucked under his chin as he carried you in he fell for you hard and fast. Thankfully you did also though for his bubbly personality and cheesy humor. 

With him now acting as your self proclaimed protector [as his family still wanted to eat you at this point] the house dynamics would shift so thomas would become head of the house instead of ma which upset hyot greatly but after getting body slammed by thomas he never questioned things again. 

Its kinda obvious he is overprotective of you but you are very protective of him at the same time constantly snapping back at his brothers who try to bully him and harass him. 

He just is a very sweet boy who loves you a lot and hopes you like him too even if it is just as a friend. 

[I almost wrote you a novel sorry this is so long]

[tayioart]

The Stan In Time Shenanigans: Part 6

...man I'm tired! I've been waiting for Young Stan to come out of the bathroom for ages! When will he-

*door creaks open*

OH OK:

*Young Stan walks over to the couch and sits next to ford*

Ford: did you..."let it all out"?

YStan: y-yeah...I just *breathes out* I want to know what you did in the last 30 years. No jokes or lies.

Ford: why would I even joke about this, but ok...but you have to promise me this: don't tell anyone, except your brother, of what I'm about to tell you. Ok?

YStan: I promise! Cause I don't know if you have a gun in your pocket...

Ford: *does that "wellll" hand guesture* anywhose let's begin. First things first, until summer last year, I wasn't a sailor with my brother...that was after what we like to call "weirdmageddon"...

YStan: w-whats wedmagdon? (can't pronounce it)

Ford: hmm...oh I know! Remember other kids doing... uhhh.... this? *does the illuminati pose with his hands over his eye*

YStan: yeah! It was one of the mysteries we tried investigating! Basically we asked other kids around the block about it.

Ford: well turns out that it was an actual thing! It was a demon known as "bill cipher" who almost caused the end of the world in a little town called gravity falls...but if it wasn't for you- I mean, older you, we wouldn't be here right now...

YStan: *has his jaw open fully and tries to speak like this too* woooowwww *adjusts jaw* to be honest, that sounds way better than being a sailor!

Ford: yes, but there's a time when every great adventure has to be put to rest. Like a hero putting down their brass knuckles for the very last time, in order to relax and savour the little things. Because everything in life just keeps getting smaller and smaller, and by missing the little things, you're losing a chance to ever see them again.

*YStan has a look of confusion on his face*

I-I mean...you can't be an adventurer forever... t-thought I was the one who got consumed by adventures anyways! And I ended up getting stuck in another dimension...for 30 years...

YStan: oh...you sure you're ok talking about it?

Ford: i-its still kind of haunting...the fact that I could have changed the world, and I ended up breaking my family apart...heh...yeah it still haunts me...but this isn't about me! You just ask me whatever you want!

YStan: well, I'm just still a bit shaken...of what bro said...I just feel a bit worthless... I mean, we do everything together! We eat together, play together, get beaten up together: even sleep together!

*ford slightly puts his hand up in concern, then just shakes his hand to indicate it's fine*

I've never had him act like that to me before! *begins tearing up* I've been bullied by so many kids before, but I always had him to turn to! N-now I don't know what to do! Who to trust-

"Who to Trust"

"Trust no one"

Ford: *puts his hand on his shoulder* don't you dare say that! If there's one thing I've learned over my summer in the falls, it's that:

No matter how destructive the situation is

No matter how far they are

No matter how alone you feel really

You can always trust family.

Don't ever doubt that you have no one, cause as long as you've got him? Heh, you're going to have a smooth ride through life!

*YStan smiles*

YStan: well, I haven't got ma, cause she spends all her time either making deals or watching reality TV in her room. And pa, well...he just doesn't want a failure...

Ford: well to be fair, I WAS the failure...

YStan: NO way! You're so smart! Pa always loves how good and neat you are! I swear it's me...

Ford: ha! No way! It must be me. Once he learned about my hands, he must have put all his effort into making you so strong and confident! I was just a..heh-

Both: an add-on...

*they look at each other, then laugh. A little bit in ford tries to adjust his glasses and rubs his eyes*

Ford: *under his breathe* why am I seeing blurs?

YStan: you know what? When we get back together, I promise that I'll try to fix everything!

Ford: wellllll not everything! I mean we wouldn't be here now if you did that when you got home! In fact...

YStan: wait, If we're here now, then...

Ford: what will happen to...us?

*they share a stare*

???: POINTDEXTEEEERR!

*they both run outside to see stan and YFord rushing towards the boat*

Ford: STANLEY WHAT'S GOING ON?!

YFord: I don't know! BUT SOMETHINGS GONNA HAPPEN ANDDD IT'S GOING TO CHANGE EVERYTHING!

Stan: IM-NOT-MEANT-TO-COUGH-UP-PURPLE-SLUDGE-AHHHHHH

-

Well something is surely going to happen! I have a feeling stan is gonna fall on his face again. Let's not ponder! Now comes the bit in wait for since the beginning: my epic voice:

HOW WILL THE BOYS ACTUALLY GET HOME? CAN THEY MAKE AMENDS BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE? WILL STAN THROW UP MORE PURPLE? TUNE INTO THE NEXT EDITION OF...

Credit to @xxdecipheringgravityfallsxx For the idea!

[quaylinsims]

True to his word, Henry had the coach driver stop in a town on the way to his cousin's house. At first glance, it was super cute and historic. Everything looked to be from around the Civil War era. Much like Henry's suit and the stagecoach and the "roads" and...

Henry bought a newspaper and asked where one could go to find a pre-made dress for a little girl. He was directed to a corner shop. When we got there, I looked out and noticed the dresses and everything else were also from the 19th century. Henry's newspaper said 1850.

My heart began racing, and my head began pounding. Thoughts started flashing through my mind: How did I end up in 1850? That shouldn't be remotely possible! How do I get home? Can I get home? Do they have plumbing? Does my family know I'm gone? I hate those ruffly hoops skirts. How do I live in an era where women can't even vote? Does my family think I'm dead? Will I ever get home?

I started hyperventilating. Henry patiently waited for me to calm down, and I knew he had no idea how to help. Still, he tried. He put a cautious hand on my back and rubbed it slowly, gently.

Think! Think! One thing at a time! I need to wear clothes. This man is helping me. One thing at a time.

I slowly regained my composure and let Henry know I was ready to go.

Inside, the shop was very girly. The man behind the counter greeted Henry, who in turn said he needed to buy me a few dresses.

A few? Wow.

The man finally looked at me in my tent, his eyes widening. He quickly glanced back at Henry as if to size him up, but the latter was calm as ever.

Soon, I was trying on dresses.

Then our destination rose up amid the fields .s book, and Henry gave him some money.

"I really appreciate this, Henry," I said when we were back in the coach.

"Mr. Baldwin."

"What?"

He sighed.

"It is inappropriate for a young girl to call a man by his first name. Honestly, child, did no one teach you manners?"

Shit. I really messed that one up. That's right. 19th century. I have to be proper. I've read a lot of period novels and watched a lot of period tv. Thank you, Bridgerton. I can do that.

"Apologies, Mr. Baldwin," I correct. "I can do better. Your generosity is deeply appreciated."

I even bowed my head a little and offered a sheepish smile. He looked stunned at my reversal.

"That is much improved," he said. "Now then, Miss Swan, we will be going to my cousin's house. He is Mr. Tobias Nickelby. He has many... people in his... employ... I trust you will be well-behaved?"

"Of course, Mr. Baldwin."

He nodded and fell silent, reading his newspaper. I recalled some genealogical research I had done and the newspapers I had searched for obituaries. They published a lot of local social news, like who was passing through, who was visiting whom, whether my grandparents' homing pigeons made it back to Cleveland. I smiled and quietly chuckled to myself at the memory. I wondered what was in this newspaper.

We had to stay in an inn that night. We weren't far from Mr. Baldwin's cousin's house, but it was too far to venture further in the night. He rented me my own room for my privacy. I was grateful. It did not take me long to fall asleep, what with the eventful day and all.

We were back on the road in the early morning, eating breakfast at dawn and heading out of town. By noon, we were almost there.

"Now remember, Miss Swan, you are to call my cousin Mr. Nickelby."

"Yes, of course, sir."

He smiled.

We took a turn east. Thick trees on the right, vast fields on the left. There were men and women out working in the fields, wielding tools and carrying baskets.

Then our destination rose up amid the fields and we turned down the long driveway.

To call Mr. Nickelby's home a house was an understatement. It was a lovely mansion. Lovely until I got a closer look around me. All the workers wore tattered clothes, and none was white. Except for the odd fellow here or there just standing around barking at the others.

I wanted to cry. This was the past. I knew that. This was 1850. Of course slavery was still a thing. But to see it...

"I don't want to be here!"

Mr. Baldwin quickly turned his head at my outburst.

"I can't!"

"What ever is the matter with you?"

Mr. Baldwin sounded more surprised than upset.

"Th-this," I stammered, tears beginning to fall. "This is-isn't ri-ight!"

He looked out as we neared the plantation house's front.

"You are not wrong, child," he nearly whispered. "But we must be respectful of our host."

I wasn't sure if I could do that. I shook my head.

"How is your imagination? Can you pretend they are not there?"

I must have given him quite the stare because he looked back at me with shock.

"Remember your manners."

His tone was almost scolding, but before I could say anything, he was hopping out of the coach.

Mr. Nickelby -- whose formal name I use out of respect for Mr. Baldwin, not the vile filth that owned humans -- greeted his cousin with a roaring "Welcome!" Mr. Baldwin gestured to the coach, and said something about me. The former waved a greeting in my direction and escorted Mr. Baldwin inside.

I had to leave the coach.

I stepped foot onto a working plantation, and I shuddered. I knew from school and documentaries and movies how frighteningly awful they could be. I looked around for something that didn't seem tainted by malevolence, and I saw a small tombstone under a tree.

"That there was Mrs. Nickelby's favorite tree," said a voice behind me.

I turned to find a beautiful woman in a yellow dress and an apron standing about four feet away. I could just make out a scar on her left brow under her hair and a tattoo on her right wrist. She caught me staring at it.

"Come, Miss. There is a room for you."

She led me upstairs to a very frilly room.

"Thank you," I said, my voice catching in my throat.

I caught sight of her tattoo again. I knew it was a brand. I wanted to cry again.

"I am so, so sorry," I say, trying not sob.

"I'm surprised you care, Miss. If I may say so."

"Of course you may. And I promise you: this will all end one day."

She gave me one of those looks adults give children when they've said something so innocent that their naivity is both adorable and sad. I knew this look; I'd given it to my nephews. It broke my heart that she didn't have that hope.

I did not go down to dinner that night. For the next three days, Mr. Nickelby entertained Mr. Baldwin, and I ate what little I could in my room. I never met his daughter, and she never tried to introduce herself to me. Though I understood we were about the "same" age.

Finally, Mr. Baldwin knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He entered, took one look at my I-just-finished-ugly-crying face, and frowned.

"What has you so upset, child?"

I couldn't talk about how I was stuck 171 years before my "present" and so far removed from those I cared for, but I felt I could possibly mention the horrors I knew about and even had seen from my window. I took a deep breath.

"I hate this place," I admitted. "Enslaving humans beings, it's just so wrong!"

He pulled the chair from the corner to the side of the bed.

"Just yesterday, I saw an overseer whip a man so violently that--"

I had to pause. I didn't think I had more in me.

"It was awful. The crack of the whip. The blood. I could tell what it was even at night."

I buried my face in my hands and tried some deep breathing exercises.

"I am sorry, Miss Swan. No child should have to see that."

I looked up at Mr. Baldwin.

"No human should have to endure that," I answered.

My tone was harsher than I would have liked it to be, but Mr. Baldwin didn't show any shock or disppointment.

"Well, we will be leaving in the morning," he said, rising from the chair. "Hopefully you will feel better once we are on our way."

Through the lens of the 21st century, it nearly enraged me that he wasn't more upset by things. Everywhere I looked, everything I saw reminded me that I was in 1850, yet I could not wrap my head around what I knew to be an ass-backward, hateful, ignorant way of life.

It was somewhat of a relief that Mr. Baldwin at least also disagreed with what those in the south were doing.

It took two weeks to get to Philadelphia. I was relieved to be in the North. I was just about to ask Mr. Baldwin if I would be staying with him.

"I have written ahead to a cousin of mine here in Philadelphia," he told me over breakfast. "She is a teacher at a school for girls, and I have secured you a room there."

I was stunned.

"Do not leave your mouth hanging open, young lady."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baldwin. I'm just surprised."

"Why? You can read. You are an intelligent girl. Why shouldn't you go to school?"

Well, I can't disagree. I've always loved school, but it's a little elementary for me, my dear Baldwin. I do have advanced degrees.

"You are always so generous, Mr. Baldwin. I wish I deserved it."

"I will leave you with an allowance, and I will send more regularly."

I was speechless. This sort of kindness always made me feel uncomfortable, and I couldn't understand why anyone would want to dote on me.

"Why are you so kind to me, Mr. Baldwin?" I asked quietly.

He smiled and placed his napkin on the table.

"Come, I want to make a stop first."

The stop, it turned out, was for me. Mr. Baldwin took me to a bookstore on our way to the school and told me to pick out anything I wanted. Of course, the books I really wanted to read weren't out yet. But I found a few.

"This may be the most generous thing you've done for me yet," I smiled.

"I'm glad you're happy," he he said with a chuckle. "We are near the school, so you can always come back here."

"Oh, I will."

I wondered about the possibility of somehow getting home and bringing some mint condition first editions with me.

He wasn't wrong; the school was very close. His cousin, much nicer to look at and not a slaver, welcomed us in. She was warm and comforting, not unlike Mr. Baldwin. He left as night fell.

She showed me to my room, which I would share with another girl, Anne. Anne was quiet and very hard to get to know; she mostly ignored me. When I wasn't in class, I was often upstairs reading, sometimes under my blanket, but only when the sun was bright through the windows.

I received regular letters from Mr. Baldwin and his wife, which I did not expect. She seemed like a lovely woman to know. I hoped I would get a chance to meet her.

The Baldwins went to Boston for the holidays. Mrs. Baldwin's father was there, and he was ill. I was glad she had a chance to visit with him. I was homesick, too. I wondered how my mother was and if the nursing home was treating her kindly.

I frequently visited the bookstore, found a few others, and scanned newspapers for any bizarre stories that could be like mine. But to no avail. I had no other way to figure out how to get home.

Late in the spring, I received a letter from Mrs. Baldwin inviting me to stay at their home for the summer months.

[magiemagic]

If I Had A Super Power

Ever since it became 'cool' to like super heroes, (aka ever since it became known that many millionaires were the nerds you picked on in high school) people have been asking each other "If you had a Super Power, what would it be?" So I am going to explain why or why not I would choose the following five popular powers.

(Sorry if this is messy. I edited it three times but it keeps messing itself up.)

Invisibility

This Power would be useful for hiding from people that want you dead, spying on girls in the locker room (I would not do this because I am a straight girl, but I'm just putting the popular use out there.) eavesdropping on conversations, solving mysteries, and many other uses. Assuming your clothes and such turn invisible with you (not before or without you I hope).

However, at the same time, this Power would be useless for spying on girls in the locker room. It would be useless for finding someone you want dead, and it would be useless for knowing who you're eavesdropping. This is because you would be blinded while invisible.

You can see because light reflects off your eyes, and tells your brain what reflected this light to your eyes in the first place. So in order to become invisible to the human eye, light would have to go right through you instead of reflecting off of you. However this makes it so it doesn't reflect off of your eyes, and therefore you cannot see.

Super Strength

So you're telling me I could have the power to crush the floor I walk on, break every door I open or lean against, suffocate anyone I hug, toss anyone I High five across the room, and shatter my phone when I go on tumblr?

N O. T H A N K Y O U.

I mean, I'm clumsy n o w!!! Imagine if I had super strength! Even if I had control of it (don't have complete control over my own body sometimes as it is. Imagine me trying to control super strength.) What would I do with it? I mean there is stopping a train. So great. I'm a break. Woohoo. So exciting.

Long story short I would not have super strength.

Telle-ca-nesis

(or however you spell it.)

Tella-what-cha-mc-call-it. Can't even spell the word at this moment and I'm too lazy to figure it out. (Says this while writing a five part post about super powers for fun.) Moving objects with your M I N D.

Again. You think I'm clumsy now.

My house would not be a safe place for my family if I had this Power!

Imagine a drunk tellapath... That would not be a fun sight...

So yeah... Tellapathy would not be on my list.

Flight

Here's a Power I like. Flying. Of course, this Power will some day be obtainable through jet packs! Which I wouldn't buy because then the phrase Liar Liar Pants On Fire would cause a bad day for me.

As for the power, to fly above the clouds (assuming I don't freeze to death... How does Super Girl handle the cold in that outfit!?!), fly out of people's reach, fly to the top of a tree or mountain for the view, fly to another town whenever I want to, and see fantastic views... It would be amazing! So yes, this would be a Power I'd have.

If it weren't for my fear of birds.

Breathing Under Water

The finale power on the list, also one I like (assuming I can breath air as well). I could swim without fear of drowning, which means I could put on a pair of goggles and go down and explore the sites of the ocean.

Although this Power isn't as exciting as the others, it probably would be the safest bet considering not only is it the power with the least risks, it saves you from a very large one. Plus imagine if someone was trying to drown you and you didn't drown. Imagine how frustrated they'd be! Priceless! So, yes. I would have this Power.

Thankyou For Reading

I hope you enjoyed this post! I hope you got the jokes and understood the points I made. If you have any requests for a Super Power to add to this, feel free to message them to me!