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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years

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Okay, so I wanted to get this out, like twelve hours ago, buttttt Tumblr is having issues with me today and it wouldn’t let me. So anyways, better late than never!

This is a Christmas-y oneshot, set years Post-Mockingjay, with their first toastbaby. It’s completely canon-complacent and focuses on their lives and family after the war. It got way longer than I intended. Actually, originally, it was meant to be a Thanksgiving oneshot but uh... I took too long so it’s not Christmas. Only they call it Yuleday here, because I can’t imagine Panem calling it Christmas, idk why. Anyways, please read and enjoy!

Oh yeah, and thank you @rosegardeninwinter for writing the song Katniss sings to her daughter in here!

Summary : Everlark spend Yuleday with their daughter and the rest of their blended family.

The sticky vanilla liquid drying against the counter clings to my forearm. I wrinkle my nose slightly, the smell of vanilla too strong for my liking.

No, I prefer the smells of cinnamon and pine and fresh baked bread, I think to myself, as I watch my husband slip on a oven mitt and pull out a new loaf.

The kitchen is much messier than Peeta typically allows it to get, but he didn't have the time this week he anticipated he would to bake for our family's impending visit.

I lean unconsciously closer to the baked good, my mouth already watering at the sight. "Katniss," Peeta warns while he places a cake pan inside the oven, his voice growing stressed. "Be careful of the door." He gestures with his chin to the white-hot contraption just inches from my legs.

I roll my eyes at his fretting and pick up a piece of bread from a loaf we never finished last week. "Don't worry, I've been married to a baker for a while," I reply coyly as he begins to stir white, creamy homemade frosting around in a bowl. "I'm used to getting burned every so often."

It's his turn to send me a look now. "Yeah, because you forget to put a mitt on when touching the rack."

"Hmm, funny, my husband said at the time it was his fault for not warning me how hot it was," I shoot back as I dig my finger into the frosting bowl and pop the sugary substance into my mouth.

"That's sanitary," he deadpans and pushes me away from his workspace playfully.

"Oh, come on," I implore, pressing my hands against his chest as he tries to move me out of the kitchen and towards the living room. "Don't you ever sample your treats while making them?"

"No, Katniss," he replies, trying to remain serious but I see a smile peaking through. "Because I'm a professional."

I go to make a comment, pointing out every time before he's been less than professional in his workplace—with me, in particular. In the back room, with the most counterspace—when he leans down and plants a kiss on my lips. More than likely to shut me up.

"Yeah, this is sanitary," I tease against his mouth when we break apart ever so slightly.

Peeta leans back a little, keeping his chin still pressed against mine. "When have we ever cared about sanitary?"

I smirk up at him as his hands find my hips tenderly, his fingertips gliding underneath my shirt, touching the edge of my stomach. His lips find mine again or mine find his, but either way, in a matter of seconds I'm opening my mouth to let his tongue enter, eliciting a loud moan from him when my teeth graze his bottom lip.

"Mmm," he whispers when he pulls back again.

"Mmm?" I repeat, chuckling. "That's the best you can do?"

He tightens his arms around my waist, holding me to him. "I was about to say, I do enjoy taste testing my own frosting that way."

"Well, as long as you had a reason for invading my mouth."

"Like I said, I'm a strict professional."

Before I can reply back, there's a loud knock at our front door. Followed by another and then another, growing more noisy and cacophonous with the passing seconds.

Neither of us make a move to get the door. "Are you sure we have to invite Haymitch?" I inquire, my voice very serious.

"I believe I left that decision up to you, my love," Peeta replies cheekily, planting a small kiss on my nose.

"I can hear you two," Haymitch barks from the other side of the door before he knocks again, just as loud, and then rattles the doorknob. "Let me in, I'm freezing," he demands gruffly.

Peeta opens the door with a sardonic look, revealing our grouchy mentor and, at his feet, our tiny daughter, bundled up to keep from the cold. "Put a coat on, Haymitch."

"Why would I do that? I was coming here to sit by your fireplace all day anyway."

"Mommy!" Indigo shouts and races her chubby little legs in a beeline to me.

I scoop her up easily, having missed her for the entire forty-five minutes she was away from me. "Did you have a good time helping feed the geese?" I ask, in a tone I would have found absolutely embarrassing three years ago. I never even spoke to Prim in that tone.

"No, I hate them," she proclaims, very seriously, before laying her head against my shoulder exhaustedly. "They're very demanding cree-ters," she explains.

I nod, petting down her long, dark hair, moving it out of her little face, giving me access to the stunning blue eyes Peeta gave her. "They are very demanding creatures, aren't they?"

"But someone has to help Granpuh," she adds on the end, very matter-of-fact.

I shake my head at that, hoisting her higher on my hip. "I think Haymitch takes care of himself just fine, Indigo," I murmur sternly, as my old mentor passes by me, his eyes falling on the frosting bowl still sitting on the counter where we left it.

"Excuse me, Sweetheart. It's Grandpa to her," Haymitch corrects gruffly, pointing to my child.

Peeta hums as he leans against the doorframe, his shirt tightening up around his shoulders as he stretches his neck. "Katniss, remember when you were pregnant and Haymitch swore our kid wouldn't call him Grandpa?"

"I seem to remember that well."

"Yeah, well I seem to remember you saying no one is ever calling your daughter Indy and yet, here we are," the older man reminds me and all levity is gone from my face instantly, only to be replaced with irritation.

Three years ago when I gave birth, me and Peeta both agreed on the name Indigofera. Or, more like, he agreed because I liked the name.

I never expected to have a child. I spent majority of my life swearing I'd never procreate. The world I grew up in, the only world I knew, was nowhere I'd allow a child to grow up in. Not if I had any control of over.

Not when every year from the age of twelve to eighteen, my child could be stolen from me, could be taken away and tossed into a dressed up cage, forced to fight to the death, likely die on national television.

I'd never allow my child to live in that world.

That sentiment only grew stronger once a child of my own was no longer just a vague image, but a living, breathing, loud little being.

The idea of my Indigofera being subjected to the world I knew, the world that fell apart almost twenty years ago now, is beyond devastating to me.

I still wonder sometimes how Peeta ever was able to convince me to have a child.

As I think of him, he's right beside me, saying something quippy to Haymitch, before pulling Indigo out of my arms and unzipping her coat. I watch on at their exchange as she puts her tiny little hands on his cheeks, telling him happily about her time with Granpuh and the geese. I watch as Peeta's eyes brighten when he looks at her, I watch as she smiles more and more with his encouraging nods, prodding her to keep talking. I watch as she squeals out and laughs when he tickles her and kisses the side of her face.

And I still wonder, how on earth he convinced me to have a child.

But I'm thankful every day he did, from the bottom of my heart. That little girl is the most important being in both our lives and, though I had no idea at the time, we were not complete without her.

"Daddy, I'm hungry," Indigo complains as he starts to pull away, very obviously intending to head back to the kitchen and finish up baking and frosting.

"We're going to eat once Grandma and the others gets here, Bean," I promise, stepping in to scoop her back up.

"They're so slow," Indigo says, with no shame or remorse in her voice for the blunt statement.

"Indigo," Peeta chides gently. "That's not a nice thing to say."

"It's kind of true," I add sheepishly after a moment, agreeing with our daughter.

My husband just rolls his eyes at me now. "You're a bad influence on her."

"Oh, give me a break, Peeta!" I exclaim defensively. "You gave her chocolate pancakes for breakfast today. I think you're the bad influence."

"I made them for you too, Katniss," he reminds me wryly.

"That's a little different-"

"Hello," Haymitch interrupts as he plops down on the sofa, his usual spot in our house. "Some of us would like to eat Yuleday Dinner tonight."

"And?"

"And that's not going to happen if we don't let the boy work, Sweetheart."

The boy. Haymitch never did get new nicknames for us, despite Peeta being a man, a husband and a father for quite some time now.

Peeta hauls Haymitch up by the arm from his seat. "If you're going to be in my house, you're going to help me with dinner," he says firmly and Indigo giggles against my neck, watching her daddy drag her grandpa into the kitchen.

Haymitch being grandpa was only ever meant to be a joke. Neither me nor Peeta ever intended for Indigo to actually view Haymitch Abernathy as her grandfather.

Though it makes sense. He's been a constant in our lives since we were sixteen. And even when me and Haymitch are at each other's throats, he still shows up here, sitting on the couch, expecting dinner, at least once a week. He regularly shows up at the bakery Peeta runs now almost entirely on his own, asking for free samples. And he still loves our daughter like his own flesh and blood.

The only true gripe I have about Haymitch and Indigo's relationship is the nickname Indy. I knew when we named her Indigofera, after the mysterious plant that my father used to jokingly say was about as real to us as unicorns—the color plant was all but extinct long before I was even born—that her natural nickname would be Indigo. Peeta himself says we gave her a mouthful of a name, choosing to go as far as adding in a middle name that we both lacked ourselves. But something about the nickname Indy is extremely unappealing to me.

And as her mother, as the person who grew her and carried her inside me, and loves her more than all the things in the world combined, I think I should have final say on what she's called.

I'm abruptly pulled out of my thoughts by a soft, little hand pulling my tangled hair. "Mommy, what time does Finn get here?"

Of course, that's who Indigo is focused on. It's not just my mother arriving today to join us for our Yuleday Dinner. It's everyone that me and Peeta consider family.

Including Annie and Finn, her child with the sensual, alluring, kind-hearted Finnick Odair. The child who has taken after his father in ways that seemed unimaginable.

Indigo knows, even at three-years-old, that we always treat Finnick's memory with respect. We never forget him or anyone else that ever helped us make the country a safe place.

Of course, she's too young to fully understand. What she understands is Finn, who at eighteen, has all his father's looks and charm, is her suto-cousin, is her playmate and brings her presents. And as far as I'm concerned, that's all she needs to understand.

"In an hour," I reply gently, bringing myself back to reality. Pushing her dirty hair back, I lean my nose against her's, letting my eyes grow bigger. "You know what that means?"

She lets out a loud shriek of excitement and all but kicks her way out of my arms. "Bath time!" She yells as she propels herself excitedly towards the stairs, going on all fours to struggle her way up independently.

I stay inches behind her, making sure I'm able to catch her if she should tumble, but the precaution isn't necessary. Indigo gets to the top stair and takes off running towards the bathroom down the hall.

"Lots of bubbles," Indigo commands in a very serious tone as she watches me pour a cap full into her bath water.

I remind myself for the thousandth time to send Effie a thank you note for bath bubbles she sent weeks ago. My old escort is one of the few people I haven't kept in close contact with over the years and it's no surprise really. Me and Peeta never stopped looking at the Capitol with disdain, perhaps even more so after the war, and Effie, even with a good heart deep inside, is Capitol, through and through.

But she's still sent sporadic gifts here and there over the years. She's still called Haymitch dozens of times since the end of the war. She's still kept her mouth shut about Indigo's existence for the last three years and for that, I am indebted to my old escort for life.

Peeta and I agreed early on in my pregnancy that Indigo would never be property of the Capitol. It didn't matter how much safer the world was now, or how many new faces have come along for people to fawn over in the last eighteen years, or how adorable Indigo is, we both vowed with everything we had that no one outside our family and friends and community would know of her birth. If I did anything in my life, it would be protect my child.

The way I failed to protect my sister.

Even almost twenty years later, the memory still stung. The image of my sister being blown apart, right before my eyes, is permanently ingrained in my mind. I still wake up from nightmares, reliving Prim's last moments alive before the bombs took her away forever.

But the once searing pain had faded into a dull ache, a deep imbedded hurt that never went away entirely but instead became a part of who I was.

I help Indigo into the tub and instantly get to work, washing her up as she splashes around and plays with her bubbles. Technically Effie sent them to me, along with a lot of other useless items that I all but threw out immediately, but they were better used for Indigo. Whereas I saw the impracticality in many of Effie's gifts, Indigo saw a new luxury, a new toy, a new activity or adventure she could have.

It's the Peeta in her. It's his appreciation for beauty that he passed down to our daughter.

I've told him countless times in the last few years that if she turns out to have a massive spending addiction or have desires to live a luxurious life, it's all on him.

"Alright, eyes shut," I warn dramatically, waiting for her to cover her big blue eyes with her tiny palms before dousing her head with water.

After she's dried and dressed she runs into the kitchen barefoot and immediately flings herself onto Peeta, gripping his prosthetic leg. "Daddy, look how clean I am!"

He chuckles as he finishes wiping the counter off before scooping her up. "Imagine how clean you could be every day if Mommy didn't take you to the woods to play in the dirt?"

He's teasing me and I know it, but I still shoot him a dirty look. "She gets dirtier in Daddy's kitchen than the woods."

"Dirty? From baking?" He directs the questions towards the three-year-old in his arms. "No!"

Indigo gives him a shy smile before a loud giggle escapes and nodding her head, affirming his point. "See," he points out, gesturing to her grinning face.

"Daddy is the bad influence around here," I say as I pull her from his arms.

"Only because Mommy corrupted me," he says back as he moves to grab the broom, the last step in his clean up routine before the rest of our guests arrive.

He leans around me and Indigo to grab the cleaning device, before not so subtly sneaking a kiss on his way back. I just look to our daughter and, indicating to her father with my chin, wrinkle my nose dramatically, causing her to laugh more.

"Mommy's mad at you," she informs him, finding this very humorous.

"Hmm, is she?" Peeta asks, as if he's shocked by the news.

"Yes," I affirm. "For implying I dirty my child, when it's you who covers her in flour and cake batter every other day."

"Oh, well, Indy, whatever will we do to gain Mommy's forgiveness?" He isn't gaining any sort of forgiveness from me by using her annoying nickname. Still he pretends not to notice my narrowing eyes, as if after eighteen years he doesn't know me like the back of his hand.

"Bake her somting!" She exclaims, clapping and excited again. She's always excited. I'm not even sure if she's mine some days with how enthusiastic this little human can be.

"Hmm, I could," he agrees, but then dramatically he gazes around the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. "You know what though? I just cleaned it all up in here. So I guess I can't bake Mommy something. I guess I'll have to try other methods."

As if he planned it the entire time—which, without a doubt, he did—Peeta leans in gently and starts pressing kisses to my skin, right where my jaw meets my neck. I resist at first and so his lips move upwards, towards my forehead, towards my nose and then my chin.

"Okay," I relent, laughing in spite of myself, batting him away. "Okay, you're forgiven." I reward him with a smile as he moves his lips from peppering my face to my mouth itself. He only gives me a chaste kiss, since I'm holding his daughter, but it's enough to make my stomach flip like it did on the beach, when we were seventeen.

We were also in a death match, neither of us intending to live through the following day, but that fact somehow has separated itself in the almost twenty years since the war from the moment between me and Peeta, and for that I'm grateful. I'm grateful for my mind compartmentalizing itself, for the horrors witnessed and forever printed inside my head somehow shifting away from specific moments in the games, moments I can now look back on more fondly than when I was seventeen.

I look at Peeta again then, as he gives me a sweet smile and turns away to start sweeping the floor, to rid it of the thick layer of flour split while baking, and I'm suddenly intensely grateful for the last eighteen years. I'm suddenly intensely grateful for the almost two decades he's given me, that had been the best years of my life.

Of course, the little squirming creature in my arms have only made the years better, and I kiss her face gently, murmuring softly, "Let me braid your hair," against her little pink cheek.

She obediently sits in front of me and starts humming as I comb the knots from the long dark locks she inherited from me. "What're you singing?" I ask, smiling, already knowing what song she's trying to hum.

"Bloo sky," she replies simply, before going back to humming again to herself. I smirk softly, waiting for her to ask me to take over.

And, of course, with the predictability of a three-year-old, Indigo turns around abruptly after a long moment of silence with a frazzled look overtaking her big blue eyes. "Mommy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Can you sing bloo sky? I can't 'member all the words."

My smirk turns to a full on smile now, as I begin to twist her now soft and silky hair into a braid. "Don't let your mind be troubled, dear. Don't you get lost in fear. For through all the storm clouds and darkest days, I promise I will be here."

Indigo beams at me, tipping her head back to watch me sing before her own little voice, lisp and wrong words and all—though, I have inexpressible pride that her melody is perfectly on pitch—joins in with me.

"And a blue sky will come shining through. And a blue sky just for me and you," I sing as she accidentally says too instead of through. "Through all the storm clouds and darkest days, there's a blue sky for just me and for you," we finish.

"And for Daddy," Indigo suddenly asserts, like she forgot him until now.

I laugh gently. "Yes, but that won't fit the rhyme."

"What's a rhyme?"

"Nevermind, Indigo." I can barely hold back a chuckle as I finish her braid, tying it with the band around my wrist. Since she grew hair long enough to get caught on things, I've always made a special point in carrying extra hair ties for her, everywhere we go.

"Sweetheart, am I expected to go grab our guests in my car? Because I don't have enough room so someone's going to have to hang onto the bumper-"

"Don't worry, Haymitch," I cut off, laughing again, at the image of him attempting to gather up our blended family and friends in what he refers to as a car. "And I didn't miss you saying our guests," I add, turning away from my child to give him a look.

"I helped the boy clean the kitchen, I get to take ownership over the guests as well."

"Grandpuh?" Indigo's little voice peeps. "I wanna go for a ride before Finn gets here."

"Finn?" Haymitch picks. "Every person you've ever met is coming over today and it's Finn Odair you're excited to see?"

But Indigo adores—and I mean, adores—Finn and he's always been so good with her, more patient than any typical teenager is expected to be, and his arrival is all she's really thinking about.

"Haymitch, stop giving my daughter crap and take her for a ride in town," Peeta calls from the kitchen, evidently by the clanging noise, putting away the last of the dishes. "Hurry up too, I don't want her out there when the crowd comes in."

We never allow Indigo out into town during the busy times a day. During the times when the crowds, even here in the once decimated Twelve, grow too large for either Peeta or my liking. Too many opportunities for a stranger to grab her, too many chances for her to get lost, too many things could go wrong. Too many dangers exist for a three-year-old, even in this world that is miles better than the one we used to know.

Peeta and I do our best to put the past behind us, but we both still have times when the memories of war and bloodshed and cruelty creep in, and it's on those days all I can imagine is the world shifting again, some sort of disorder or disarray ruining the peace that will always feel foreign to me. It's on those days all I can see is the games coming back, is someone taking Indigo from me, putting her through what no child should have to endure, her sweet, little innocence being ripped away violently. Someone taking me or Peeta from her, her pure heart being hardened, the blue eyes that sometimes I swear I could see my sister in turning ice cold.

It's on those days I shut and lock the doors, I refuse to open the blinds, I refuse to let my daughter out of my sight. It's those days I beg Peeta not to run to the bakery, to just stay with us, to just not go where I can't see either of them.

It's on those days I plan what I will do if the world does fall to its knees again, if my worst fears when even thinking of the abstract idea of having a child come to life. I never tell anyone of these thoughts, but on the days Peeta has a flashback or can't sleep, on the days when he feels like he’s still seventeen, locked inside Snow's mansion, a tortured shadow of the wonderful boy with the golden heart, on the days he paints horrific images he'll never let our daughter see, I know he makes his own plan too.

As always, Indigo breaks me out of my thoughts as they run dark, jumping up excitedly, ready to go for a ride in Haymitch's car. It's actually more resemblant of a cart, with just room for three people if you squeeze, and no doors in sight. But she loves it and it makes her happy and after everything else, I know I can trust Haymitch with my child.

I fix her little green overall dress, straightening her dandelion patterned shirt underneath. "Don't let Haymitch get your dirty," I instruct very clearly.

"Yes, Mommy."

"And don't mess up your hair."

"Yes, Mommy."

"And don't be too long."

"Yes, Mommy."

"And don't talk to strangers."

"Okay, can I go already?"

Both Haymitch and Peeta laugh at me and it takes all my restraint not to say something profane in front of Indigo.

As soon as they leave, I get to work, helping Peeta straighten up the house before our guests arrive.

As I'm finishing fluffing and re-arranging the pillows, two warm hands come into contact with my waist. "Excuse me, sir, I'm working right now."

Peeta's arms wrap entirely around me now, his lips on my neck. "Don't worry, I know the boss. She'll... understand."

"Will she?" I cock an eyebrow at him teasingly.

He nods confidently. "She rather enjoys activities such as these."

I'm about to coyly ask what activities he's implying when his lips trail up further, finding residence closer and closer to my mouth.

His lips have just contacted mine when I whisper breathlessly, unable to stop myself, "the second our daughter leaves, you just can't help yourself."

His kiss turns to a laugh. "She does tend to take up a lot of the bed space. We have to catch these opportunities for us when we can."

I chuckle in response, because it's true. As much as we both love our child—more than words could ever say—lately, her fear of sleeping in her room down the hall has meant we've gained a new, invasive bedmate.

"That we do," I agree, smirking now as I fiddle with his sky blue collar that matched his eyes. "I see had a wardrobe change."

"Mhmm. Thought I would look nice for Yuleday."

"Is there someone special you're expecting to see? Someone you want to dress up for?" I tease, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to the center of his chest, right at my eye level.

"There is, actually," he affirms slyly. "Two people, in fact. Both women. One a little smaller than the other. Both have dark hair and loud voices—"

"Excuse you?"

"Both have me wrapped entirely around their fingers," he adds, full on smiling now.

"Good save," I retort, about to turn away when I feel his hands grip the underside of my thighs and hoist me up against him.

I pretzel myself around his body, unable to help the girlish noise of surprise that slips out as he holds me in his arms. "We only have maybe ten minutes until Indigo and Granpuh," he imitates his three-year-old, but his nose teasingly presses against mine and his voice is very suggestive, "come back. We should... make the most of it... before we have to entertain guests all day."

I return the glint his eyes, my desires in line with his. Our lips meet halfway in the minimal space still remaining between us, and we waste no time before our tongues begin to intertwine, twirl and gently twist.

I feel his hand sliding up my ratty, torn shirt, just barely crossing over my stomach to my ribs when a knock at the door suddenly catches us off-guard.

"Haymitch isn't usually back this fast," I say as Peeta—very reluctantly—sets me down.

But as soon as the words slip from my lips, a thousand thoughts race through my mind.

What if Haymitch had lost Indigo somehow, in the crowd that always grows large on Yuleday? What if someone took my baby? What if she's scared and can't find me and I don't even know it yet because I let an old drunk man take her out of my sight? What if she fell out of Haymitch's cart and smacked her head on the town's icy cobblestones? What if the car spun out and hit a tree and now one of our neighbors is coming to tell us the grave news?

I'm holding my breath, my heart suddenly beating a million miles a second, as my husband pulls open the door.

Behind the door is not Haymitch nor a random member of our community. It's Delly. Delly Cartwright-Bagley and her husband and three children in tow.

A half hour early.

I can't help the reaction that slips from my lips, the stress of my fears overpowering my filter. "Would it have killed you to show up on time?"

Peeta shoots me a look but I ignore him. Delly however is unfazed by my irritation. As is her husband, Kanon.

"Happy Yuleday, Katniss!" Delly beams and pushes her plate of frosted cookies into Peeta's hands to hug me tightly. "And we only showed up early because your husband invited us to," she adds, talking too loudly into my ear.

My eyes narrow at Peeta but he's clearly just as unhappy with himself, since now our plans have been interrupted.

"I said they could come early and help," Peeta defends slightly, just as Delly's husband notices the button I must have unknowingly undid.

"Mmm, well you two could go upstairs while we finish getting everything ready for the rest of the guests," Kanon teases, ruffling Peeta's conspicuously tousled hair as he leads the three young ones inside from the cold.

Delly pulls back from me then and leads her eldest, Evelyn Malia Bagley—but, much like with Indigofera, is known solely by Evie—to the kitchen, with a high level of familiarity.

The confidence inside my house is only natural at this point, considering the relationship with our family and Delly's has grown much closer than I ever could have anticipated.

Delly is Peeta's childhood best friend, and therefore after the war she was one of the biggest supporters and greatest confidants to him in his darkest hours. The times I couldn't do anything, because I was the source of his fear, of his anger or his pain.

Or rather, Snow made him believe I was.

Delly's presence in Peeta's life was far more helpful than any over the phone therapist could have ever been, and for that I am eternally grateful. However, I never expected her to be a close friend to me as well.

Begrudgingly on my part some days, but it was fact. If I ever needed anything, if I was having a hard time, if I ever wanted to talk with someone besides Peeta—which is rare but happens every so often—I'm still shocked to realize Delly Cartwright-Bagley is one of the first people I'll turn to. I’m still shocked to realize the girl who once had baby fat and yellow hair, who sat two rows ahead of me in school and chewed her bubblegum obnoxiously loud, is one of my closest companions.

She's surprisingly more understanding and wise underneath her overly perky personality and boisterously loud voice.

And, of course, the man she married also helps the equation. Kanon is a kind, tall man, a few years older than the rest of us. He's rather quiet but will poke a joke at someone he knows well enough. He's hardworking and loyal and intuitive.

He's the exact opposite of Delly, which sounds like it should be a recipe for disaster but in reality has proven to be a wonderful occurrence in everyone's life.

After all, we all let out a sigh of relief when she could quit working at the medicine factory.

For all of Delly's good qualities—and there are a great many—she's not exactly an ideal factory worker. Or manual laborer. Or cleaning personnel.

When Delly took over operating the counter at Kanon's Candy Store, which unlike the bakery, is more of a novelty than an essential, everything sort of fell into place.

"Aunt Katty!" I hear a small voice shriek, pushing her older brother out of the way to sprint into my arms.

I barely have time to catch little Kendall, Delly's youngest child before she’s flung herself onto me with a force only her mother could have matched.

"Hi, Sweetie," I all but coo, disgusting even myself a bit.

I hug her almost as tightly as she hugs me, and I intentionally ignore Peeta's smirk in my direction.

Okay, so I'm not the most subtle about having a favorite out of Delly's litter. But Kendall is only three months different in age than my Indigo, so I have the excuse of spending the most time with the little wild, rambuctious thing.

Although my child is by far the ringleader in their friendship. A fact I try not to think of too often, as I could easily imagine a multitude of things Indigofera could get into if I don't keep a close eye on her.

"Where's Indy?" Kendall asks as I cart her to the kitchen. She's the only one I let that nickname slide with.

"She went for a ride with Haymitch."

Speaking of my child only increases my anxiety for her whereabouts. I suddenly regret letting my old mentor take her at all, as my gut continues to constrict painfully, thinking of every scenario in which she could be taken away from me. Forever.

My only job, the only one I truly cannot live with the idea of failing, is keeping my daughter safe.

I failed once before to protect someone I loved more than my own life. Twice, I correct myself, looking at Peeta, who's now guiding five year old Rhys by hand to the kitchen.

I cannot fail Indigofera, like I failed both Prim and Peeta.

Delly senses the tension building inside of me as I come to stand beside her, Kendall still on my hip. "Haymitch would never let Indigo get hurt," she says without preamble. To her credit though, she says it quieter than her typical range of volume. "C'mon. It's his granddaughter."

The four of us laugh, the fact that a little person with giant blue eyes and a constant pair of messy braids is what entirely melted Haymitch Albernathy's heart still laughable three years later.

I let Kendall down and watch as she and her siblings begin to set the table dutifully, with more order and structure than I had at their age.

I feel the everlasting anxiety that's making a permanent home inside my gut suddenly release, like a knife being pulled out of a stab wound, as Indigo's voice fills the room.

"Mommy!" She yells, racing into the kitchen as fast as her little legs can carry her. "Look at what Gamma Sae gave me," she exclaims, holding up a stuffed bear for me to see.

I don't acknowledge the toy or her hair that's coming out of the braid I only just did, or even the grass stain on her dandelion patterned shirt. I just yank her up into my arms and squeeze her tight.

I should be ashamed of myself, that my three-year-old knows when I've worried or been in distress over her, but all I am is awed when she lays her little head on my shoulder and whispers softly, "I'm okay, Mommy. Granpuh wouldn't let anything hurt me."

There is an awkward pause in the room for a moment, only noticeable to the adults. I don't know if it's because they understand my anxiety—Peeta, at least, typically does—or if it's because they think I'm insane, but no one speaks until Indigo shuffles herself downwards and immediately tackles Kendall, excitedly showing her the stuffed animal Greasy Sae gave her.

Delly, as per usual, breaks the silence. "You know, if you two ever want to finish the... activity you were engaged in when we showed up, I will gladly take care of Indigo for an afternoon."

I roll my eyes, long past the point where Delly could make me blush with her innuendos. "I'll keep that in mind."

Peeta is chuckling as he finishes drying off a now clean cooking bowl. "You're a more appealing babysitter than Haymitch," he says, his eyes falling on the older man, who's standing with the kids now, not-so-subtly keeping closer to Indigo, as he isn't too fond of most children in general.

"You sure we wouldn't be ruining your fun?" I tease now, looking at Kanon, who's arranging the cookies they brought onto a different plate.

"Katniss, we have three kids," Delly all but deadpans. A rarity for her. "All under eight years old. One more won't make a difference."

Kanon speaks up then as me and Peeta snicker. "We also learned to be faster," he adds slyly, looking directly at me. "The joy of having a few kids. Makes you a better multi-tasker."

"I so miss when you used to be quiet," I say in a monotone as the doorbell, that no one uses, unexpectedly rings.

"Peeta, how many people did you invite early?" I snap.

He holds up his hands defensively. "No one else, I swear."

"Sure."

But when I open the door, revealing my mother, Annie and Finn, I know he's got to be telling the truth. He wouldn't have invited my mother early for anything. The tension that existed years ago is all but gone—especially since Indigo's birth, the event that drew us closer than we had been since I was a child—but still, Peeta remains cautious. When it comes to my mother, he leaves her visitation completely up to me.

Her husband, Rod Marin, doesn't attend our celebration however. I don't know if it's the chilly reception he may or may not receive from me, or if it's the fact that my mom doesn't want to bring Rod's daughters with them, but either way, she has attended our home alone for the last five years and, as selfish as that may be, I prefer it this way.

Still, I greet her warmly. "Hi, Mom," I say as she hugs me tightly.

"Sorry we're a little early, honey," she professes as she steps into the house that was once her home too.

"That's fine," I assure, even though I'm not dressed or ready yet.

Annie is next and she instantly throws her arms around my neck. "I missed you," she murmurs in the sweet, gentle way she's always had since I met her in District Thirteen.

"We missed you too," Peeta calls from around the corner as he comes into our eyesight, holding a very excited Indigo in his arms.

"Finn!" She screams as she all but launches herself away from Peeta and into the eighteen year old's arms.

"Hi!" He exclaims as he catches her and swings her upwards, returning the overzealous squeeze she's giving his neck. "How's my best girl?"

"She's gweat!" Indigo beams and my heart melts a little, watching her with the boy who looks so much like his father. The boy who's always been such a joy in life. The boy who saved his mother eighteen years ago, who has been nothing but respectful and kind and funny to me and Peeta, who has shown incredible maturity at such a young age.

Then again, at his age I had already been through two games and a war. Peeta had already been hijacked and fought his way back. I'd already lost my little sister. Me and Peeta had our toasting at only a year older, at nineteen. Maybe eighteen isn't a young as it seems to me now, looking at youthful Finn, who I watched learn to walk and talk and swim and tie a knot.

Or maybe I was just as young when all that tragedy occurred. Maybe I just felt older because of the circumstances in which I was born, because of the world in which we lived.

I shake my head slightly, trying to shake the bad thoughts away.

"Indy, guess what?" Finn prompts enthusiastically—but not without shooting me a teasing glance, knowing my distain for her nickname.

"What?"

"I brought something."

"What?"

Both Peeta's and my curiosity has been peaked now, just as much as our child's. Annie's hesitant glance, that looks both hopeful and apprehensive, only fuels my confusion more.

"Well, there's a new tradition in some of the other districts that I think you'd find fun," he explains, but his eyes flicker to me and I raise an eyebrow, wondering what he could be suggesting. "You see you cut down a tree—or sometimes people in One or Two buy a plastic tree—and then you bring it home and decorate it."

Indigo claps her hands together, too excited and too precious for me to disappoint her. "I want to do it!" She yells, with an exuberance only a three-year-old could possess. "Kenny, we're gonna decorate a tee!"

I hear a variant of what being exclaimed in the other room, where my mother, Haymitch and the Bagley's still are.

"Where do we buy decorations?" My child asks, abruptly serious, the details of this tradition becoming clearer in her little mind.

"Indy," Finn quickly tries to corral. "I brought decorations with me, but we need a tree and..." He hesitates, looking at me now.

"And?" She prompts, confused.

"We have to ask your momma if it's alright to get one. Since it's her house we'll be doing this in." He winks at me, then turns his eyes pleading, half mocking me.

Indigo doesn't have to even feign the look, she naturally inherited that sweet, wide eyed, begging glint. Either from Prim or Peeta—probably both—and I'm powerless against it.

"Fine," I relent dramatically. Indigo rewards me by jumping from Finn's arms to mine and kicking her little chubby legs excitedly. "But not until after dinner," I condition.

"We should probably go get the tree now though?" Peeta suddenly speaks up, looking at the clock on the wall. "Before it gets dark?"

I shoot him a glare over Indigo's head. "It won't get dark for hours. And why do you seem not surprised by this?"

Peeta shrugs too innocently and when Annie giggles and nudges his shoulder, I realize they had been conspiring behind my back.

"Daddy is definitely the bad influence around here, Indigofera," I declare, as my husband walks closer to us, leans down and kisses my hair.

"We love you," he says teasingly, against my crown. "Even if you are a stick in the mud sometimes."

Before I can respond, likely with a snappy comment, our daughter pops her head off my shoulder. "Daddy, I want to pick out the tee."

Of course she does. That girl has been in charge of us since the day she was born.

"Okay, Bean. Ask your mother if it's alright," he tells her, but it's just a formality at this point, as to not ruffle me further. She's his kid too, he can take her to get a tree if he wants.

"Mommy, can I-"

"Yes," I say exasperatedly, giving Peeta a look as I hand him Indigo.

"Don't worry, Sweetheart," he whispers, leaning down and touching his nose to mine. "I'll take care of our girl."

"I know," I sigh, because I do know that. I've never not trusted him with our child. Even if I prefer to keep them both here with me. Even if I'd have preferred to keep her inside of me, where I knew I could protect her always.

I can't keep the smile off my face though when he pecks my lips unexpectedly and then my nose. "We won't be long."

"Better not be," I call as he grabs their coats and carries my little girl out the door, following behind Finn and Kanon and the Bagley kids. "Or else I'm eating without you."

"Same here," Delly calls from the kitchen, though they probably can't hear her.

"Go change," Annie suggests, touching my messy braid gently. "I'll go help Delly and your mom."

I shoot her a grateful smile and make my way upstairs. In the years since the war both Annie and Johanna have remained, shockingly—maybe only to me—constants in mine and Peeta's lives. They both returned to their home districts, but through visits and telegraphs and phone calls, even just for Jo to call me an idiot, they both became a part of a new blended family I didn't even know was being created.

Though I am grateful now for it. Beyond words. As neither me nor Peeta can offer Indigo any sort of extended family, her having Johanna, Delly, Annie and their families somehow fills the space left empty from the loss the war gave us.

As if on cue, just as I'm thinking of her, I hear a loud rapt on the bathroom door and know Johanna has arrived.

"Come in," I yell as I pull on a dark green—which for some reason is an acceptable color on Yuleday—sweater and push a brush through my hair viciously. I'm just moving on to rebraiding it simply when Jo enters.

"Hello, Brainless," her voice rings out as she steps into the bathroom.

"I'm shocked you knocked."

"I didn't wanna see you indecently."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Probably won't be the last."

We both let out a laugh and—pretending to be at least a little begrudgingly about it—embrace for a moment.

"Missed your stupidity these last couple of months," she murmurs as she pulls back.

"My stupidity? You once almost shot an arrow at Haymitch."

"You thought that was an accident?"

I can't help but snort as I turn back to the mirror and finish up my braid. "How's Christopher?" I ask, my tone a little more serious.

But she just shrugs, her gaze focusing now on Indigo's tiny comb. The one with the diamonds that Effie sent and Peeta insisted we keep.

Christopher is the man Jo, almost against her will, fell for almost two years ago. She refuses to commit to him entirely, especially since he has a son not much older than Indigo and that prospect alone terrifies her, but when Peeta visited her last year he told me that Christopher and his son, David, without a doubt live in that house with her.

"I can't believe you keep stuff from Effie Trinket?" Jo segues gracelessly. "Especially for a three-year-old."

"Blame Indigo's father. Both for her love of fancy things and his compliance in letting her have them."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because you make sure she only gets the bare necessities."

"Okay, who's side are you on?"

"The one who makes the dinner around here."

"I hunt it."

"He stuffs it and bakes it."

"This feels personal. Is this because I didn't save you any pumpkin cake or sweet nut bread from Harvest Dinner?"

"Now that you mention it-"

Johanna is abruptly cut off by the sound of a yelp. Only, instead of the sound being a distress call or a bone chilling cry, it's one of excitement.

"Johanna Mason, get down here!" Annie yells, way too excited to be beckoning Jo of all people.

She rolls her eyes—a little too good-naturedly to be as annoyed as she'd like for me to believe—before exiting the bathroom and heading down to greet Annie at the bottom of the staircase.

I chuckle to myself, marveling at their odd friendship, before brushing my teeth and washing my face and heading down to join them as well.

I almost run headfirst into my husband as I walk by the front door. "That was quick," I note breathlessly as Peeta catches me by the waist, burying his now chilly face into my neck. Probably more for warmth than romance.

"Hmm, Indy-Indigo," he corrects himself humorously. "She is very decisive. Saw the tree she wanted and looked at no second options."

I wrap my arms around his neck and peer over his shoulder. "And where is the little decisive thing now?"

"Having a snowball fight with Finn and Kendall in the snow. You'll be happy to know your daughter is winning."

I roll my eyes. "Of course she is. Well, I guess we better start the fire to warm her up when she's done."

"Hypothermia would be a bummer on Yuleday," he agrees cheekily.

"For us more than her."

"Pretty much."

Inside the living room, Kanon and Haymitch—but mostly Kanon—are finishing setting up a newly trimmed tree, right by the back door.

"Sweetheart, it's your dream," Haymitch taunts. "Having part of the woods in your house."

"Did he knock a few back on the way to grab a tree?" I ask Peeta quietly, as he wraps his arms around my waist from behind.

"Probably. I was busy watching the four little ones, I didn't have time to monitor an old man too."

"Should have put Finn on Haymitch watch."

"You know, I can hear you," our old mentor barks as Kanon finishes putting up the tree.

"Indigo!" I hear my mother exclaim, as the front door opens again.

I spin around in time to see a little person, shorter than all the other kids, practically dance her way into the house. "Gamma!"

"Hey," I halt her, pulling away from Peeta. "Let's not track snow into the house, baby."

Delly and Annie both help dust off the other three while I pull Indigo's scarf, boots, hat, gloves and coat off and toss them all aside carelessly. Much to Peeta's dismay, as he sees the snow fly all over the entryway.

"Let's not track snow into the house, baby," he imitates.

"Shut up."

As soon as she's free from the white frozen slush, she launches herself towards my mother. "Hi!"

"Hi, sweet girl! How'd you like playing in the snow?"

"It was fweezing. But I beat Finn and Kenny at our snowball fight so it was worth it." She smiles up at my mother proudly and for a moment, Indigo looks exactly like Peeta and I am amazed at that fact somehow. Considering, at first glance, she's all me besides the eyes.

Except sometimes she looks at me and I see my sister at her age, so deeply ingrained in her eyes, in her mannerisms, in her voice, that I'm taken back to being child again myself.

"You're a little messy," my mother also notes, pushing back the hair that has fallen from her braid.

"Well I like to play so, things happen." Her little shrug is one of the most endearing things about her.

"Your mother also loved to get messy."

I furrow my brows. "I was always very clean, Mom."

"Oh I doubt that," Peeta disagrees and has the audacity to laugh, standing right beside me now. "You aren't even very clean now."

I turn to him, pressing my face close to his, trying to look threatening as I push my nose against his. "I will get you."

"Oh, please do," he eggs on, his smile turning into a grin.

"I have a bow, I could literally-"

"Is dinner almost ready yet?" Rhys, Delly's only son, complains.

Chuckling slightly, I pull my face away from a still smirking Peeta. Thankfully, no one else noticed our exchange, aside from my mother, who's too polite to do more than smile.

"Yeah, Rhys, dinner's all ready," Peeta says, putting his hand on the back of the little boy's head and guiding him to the table.

Dinner is only slightly chaotic. Four kids under eight-years-old, a teenager who can match Haymitch's humor effortlessly, Jo and Peeta and I swinging insults back and forth like compliments and then Annie, who's quiet and blissful spirit can't be tempered for anything in this world on holidays, and my mother, who feigns oblivious to the chaos surrounding her, all adds up to an interesting affair. Add in the stupid stray cat my daughter adores meowing at the back door and it's practically a circus.

But it's a circus I have found myself loving, more and more, since Indigo joined us. Since I somehow made the most beautiful and intelligent and spirited human being, somehow the dreary outlook I used to hold on this new post-war holiday has turned to excitement.

Maybe it's the fact that eighteen years have passed since the war that stole my sister from me. Or maybe it's that I'm looking forward to who's here now, who's experiencing this holiday with me, who I get to share this day with and witness their enthusiasm.

My daughter.

I never thought, in a million years, I'd have a child of my own. I never thought once that she'd come to exist, that I'd feel safe enough or strong enough or brave enough, to bear bringing something to delicate, something so wonderful and precious and breakable, into this world.

But she has lit up my life in ways I didn't even imagine possible. I thought I was happy, blissfully happy most days, with Peeta. And I was. But that was before I saw what life was like with Indigo and now I can't even picture how miserable and downcast this day would be without her.

As the sky begins to darken outside and Peeta stands up to light candles along the windowsills while Kanon adds logs to the fireplace, my child suddenly starts squirming in her seat. "Can I decorate the tree now?" She asks as I wipe her face with a cloth napkin.

"In a minute, Bean."

"I want to now!" She whines as I scrub the leftover food that didn't make her mouth off her cheek.

"Indigofera," Peeta says in a warning tone.

"I wanna decorate the tree right now," she says in a slightly quieter voice.

"Okay," I murmur, smiling slightly as I drop my hand from her face and let her go. "Go decorate, Sweetie."

With my consent, she practically flies out of her chair and—nearly knocking Evie over—pushes her way to the bag of ornaments Finn brought from Four.

"She didn't get a nap today," I explain to Johanna and my mother, who watched the almost tantrum unfold.

"You were the same," my mother replies and then chuckles. I toss her a look, before I spot Finn lifting Indigo up to place a trident high upon the tree.

My eyes aren't perfect but from where I'm sitting I can make out the name Finnick Odair gracefully carved underneath and my gaze falls on Annie.

She offers me a knowing smile and shrugs. "He wanted to handmake the ornaments himself. Meaningful ones you can't just buy. I wasn't going to discourage him."

I nod, a feeling of pride for some strange reason flooding me. I didn't raise Finn. The indefinite length of my sentence to Twelve was never revisited and, in truth, I had little reason to care enough to fight it. But it did mean I wasn't able to make it to Four, to see my mom or Annie and Finn at my own whim.

But Annie has always made a point to come here, every so often since the war ended. She's written letters and called and sent photos, consistently, for so many years that I've lost track. They were both here the day after I had Indigo. They've never missed any of our birthdays. And I've watched that boy, with his father's tan skin, bronze hair and sea green eyes grow into a man who'd make Finnick proud.

And it's nearly impossible for me not to feel so sort of pride in him as well. If for nothing else, the way he treats my daughter. Always patient, always kind, always ready to play.

"Where'd he get this idea?" I ask, if for no other reason, just to change the subject before I get visibly sentimental. "To decorate a tree, I mean."

Annie's expression shifts and changes slightly. "Coral McGonigill."

Johanna's ears almost noticeably perk up. "Is she is his new flavor of the month?"

"Well, she's lasted for several months," Annie corrects, but doesn't seem too enthusiastic of this girl.

"Do you like her?" I ask, my brow furrowing. I don't even want to imagine my child dating. The idea of her spending time alone, with anyone I don't personally know already drives me nearly to the brink of insanity, but to add in teenage impulses and hormones? My skin is crawling at the thought and I feel a wave of nausea come over me suddenly.

Before Annie can answer though, Haymitch is cutting into the conversation.

"Look at you guys," I hear him guffaw over my shoulder. "Gossiping like old ladies."

Jo throws her fork in his direction, barely missing her target. His left eye and cheek. "Hey, hey, hey," Haymitch bellows now. "Not in front of the children."

"I agree with Haymitch," Delly calls from behind the tree, where she's helping Kendall hang up a pink squirrel ornament.

"Of course you do," Johanna mumbles, loud enough only I can hear, and I have to repress a laugh.

All levity though slips away from my features as I watch Finn hand my child a new ornament. I feel Annie's eyes on me, apprehensive and a little fearful.

The ornament is an angel. It has blonde hair and blue eyes and my sister's exact nose and mouth. She's wearing a skirt and blouse, both pure white, to perfectly match the halo floating above her head. But the skirt is untucked in the back, giving her a duck tail, and it's this fact that registers in my brain. It's this fact that makes me realize that the ornament is Prim, even before I read the name sprawled across the bottom.

Peeta's staring at me now too, but it's my mother that grasps my hand. Our eyes barely meet for a second but we both understand what the other one is thinking.

She should be here. She should be helping decorate the tree. She should be playing with my daughter, who she'd surely love.

But she isn't. Because someone I trusted may or may not have built bombs that killed her. Because a vindictive woman thought that killing her and dozens of other children was the only way to win. Because I was too stupid for too long and didn't see what the real plan was, even as it sat right under my nose.

But she can be here now. If there's anything I learned from Indigo, it's that someone can exist, even in a small part, inside another person. It's that life doesn't have to end at death, as long as someone is around to remember them.

"That's a beautiful ornament, Finn," I say, as evenly and as kindly as I can.

He takes my other hand, his eyes sweet and gentle. "I made it for you. I thought..."

I nod, even though he doesn't finish his sentence. "I know. Thank you."

My mom keeps hold of my palm underneath the table for minutes after everyone else has moved, and even with the issues that still lie between us, I give her fingers a squeeze. Because she's the only one who really understands my grief.

I watch on as the kids decorate the entire tree, top to bottom, with shaped ornaments, ranging from plants to flower to boats to berries to pastries. And a loaf of bread, which Peeta finds particularly funny.

At the end though, all that's left is a large star, clearly meant to sit at the top of the tree. "What is this?" Evie asks Delly, turning it over in her hand.

"That goes on top of the tree," Annie explains, gesturing to the point of the pine near the ceiling.

"How do we get up there?" Rhys asks, stealing the star from his sister, his little eyes confused. "Daddy isn't even that tall."

"Someone's gotta lift us up to the top," Kendall states, munching on something I hope came from her dinner plate and not the floor.

"My daddy can lift me up there!" Indigo suddenly exclaims and reaches her grabby little hands for the star.

Rhys, however, jerks it out of reach automatically. "Why do you get to do it?"

"It's her house," Delly chides her son sternly.

"And she's the youngest, Rhys," Evie says, in a tone that clearly imitates her mother. "Give her the star."

He does so reluctantly and I'm glad that moment passed by quickly, before I had the chance to tell Rhys—as much as I care for him, and I do, deeply—that he better give my kid her star.

I don't even care that this isn't my tradition to start with. My house, my rules. My kid puts the star on the tree, end of story.

"Daddy!" Indigo squeals as Peeta scoops her up in his waiting arms. "Lift me," she commands, holding the large tree-topper with both hands.

Kanon and Haymitch start directing her, as her little eyes can't see to the top, even with Peeta lifting her as high as humanly possible. But when she gets it into place, she grows so excited that her limbs start flailing.

"Look, Daddy! I did that!" She says once he has her on his hip again, pointing to the star she just placed.

"I saw," he enthuses, brushing back the long, dark hair that's almost entirely out of her braid. "You did good!"

And if I thought my heart was melting before, with Finn and Indigo, it explodes when Indigo puts her tiny hands on Peeta's face and turns him towards her. "I love you, Daddy."

His eyes are awed and grateful, as this was all he wanted for years. For years upon years, he remained patient and understanding when I said I wasn't able to give him a child. When I explained all my reasons to why I didn't want a family. He always was respectful of my wishes and of my feelings.

But I saw it in his bright blue eyes, the ones he passed down to our daughter. He wanted a child so badly. He wanted this, this love that Indigo so easily has to offer, that we effortlessly shower her in.

It took me fifteen years to realize that perhaps I wanted it too. Perhaps my fear was overshadowing me from what I truly wanted. Perhaps it was better to have a child and do everything to keep her safe, to fret and worry in addition to love and adore her, rather than to never know that kind of love at all.

"I love you too, Indigo Sky," he murmurs back softly, before she leans in and kisses him.

I feel my mom squeeze my hand again and I know it's not out of sorrow this time, but out of joy. Joy that her child was able to have a family full of so much love. A family so similar to the one she had decades ago.

I squeeze her hand back, feeling horrific now for how angry I was with her for so long. I don't know who I'd be or what I'd do if someone took Peeta or Indigo from me.

"I think Mommy needs to admire the tree," Peeta says, eyeing me conspicuously.

I stand up, looking at the decorations admiringly. Of course, this tree was mainly decorated by young children, so the majority of ornaments gravitate towards the bottom or are clumped into one place, but still, I tell Indigo how pretty it looks and how good of a job she did.

My eye still catches on the Primrose Everdeen angel, hanging right in the center of the tree, and I have to force myself to refrain from tracing the face on it. The details are even more impressive up close and I wonder if Finn has become an artist or if his girlfriend is the talented one.

Just as I'm about to say something, anything really, to take my mind off my deceased sister, a meaty smell fills the air and my stomach lurches without warning.

I propel myself towards the kitchen sink and lose majority of what I just consumed at dinner.

Behind me, I hear a small commotion. Peeta telling Indigo to go to Finn, Delly and Kanon keeping their kids back, Annie and Johanna saying something to Haymitch.

My mom's hand comes in contact with my cheek, feeling my face and pushing the hair that fell from my braid back behind my shoulder. "What happened?"

As I'm about to answer, Peeta comes up to stand on my other side, one hand subtly turning on the water to flush out the sink, while the other rubs my back soothingly.

"I don't know," I croak, as puking always makes my throat raw. "I just smelled something like meat-"

"Told you it was Haymitch's fault," Jo cuts in, clearly speaking to Annie.

"I only asked if this bird was still good," the old, paunchy man defends himself, holding up some game I shot a while back.

"Well, if it makes Katniss throw up just by smelling it, I'd say no," Finn says.

"You don't have a fever," my mother notes, but her eyes are still confused. Though, I will say, not as worried as I thought they might be and for that I'm glad. The last thing I wish to do is ruin everyone's holiday, especially when I've only just started to enjoy this festivity in the last few years.

"I'm fine," I insist, pulling away from both my mother and my husband and wiping my mouth on a cloth quickly. "Seriously, I'm fine."

"Okay, but still sit down," I hear Delly say and I roll my eyes but do so anyways. Because I'm genuinely tired, not because anyone told me to.

"I'm fine, Indigo," I promise when I spot my daughter's scared eyes, still being held in Finn's arms. "I'm just tired."

Peeta follows me to the couch and, even though I wish to refuse out of embarrassment, when he offers me a fizzy water and starts subtly massaging my back, I can't help but lean my head into his chest gratefully.

I still fight the urge to fall asleep right there though. I still conjure up as much willpower as I can to stay alert, to watch Indigo and Kendall play with their stuffed toys, to listen to Finn and Haymitch shoot smart remarks back and forth, to listen to Annie and Jo catch up or my mother and Delly share stories of their vastly different lives.

By the end of the night though, when it's way past all of our bedtimes, as people start to filter out, planning on catching the late night train or taking a shortcut to their houses here in Twelve, my eyelids begin to involuntarily droop.

"You can sleep," Peeta whispers against my forehead. "I'll take care of everything else."

I want to turn down his offer, to say I can help clean up and put Indigo to bed. But when the last of our guests dissipate and Indigo, exhausted herself, climbs into my lap and curls up against me, I lose the battle and doze off right there on the couch.

Hours must pass, because when my eyes crack open again, the flames in the fireplace have been put out, the entire kitchen and living room are clean, and my child is missing.

Of course, those are the first words out of my mouth. "Where's Indigo?"

"I tucked her in. She's in her own bed tonight," Peeta promises, pulling my arm up to wrap around his neck. "I told you I'd take care of everything."

"You didn't have to..." I mumble sleepily as he lifts me up against him.

"Shhh, just go to sleep," he whispers, his lips pressing against my neck then collarbone. "Just rest, Katniss."

When I wake up again, the sun has already risen in the sky. Thankfully though, my child hasn't yet.

Peeta is alert already, propped up on his elbow, when I open my eyes. "Hey," I rasp, my voice not working yet.

"Hey, beautiful," he greets softly and I roll my eyes at the compliment. I do appreciate hearing it though, despite the years we've been together and how some things can lose effect over time. Peeta's little comments and gestures still haven't. They still mean more to me than I'd ever admit.

Now that I'm fully awake, I feel a small bit of embarrassment creeping back in. "Sorry about last night."

His blonde brows twist with confusion. "You mean getting sick? I don't think that's anything for you to be sorry about, Katniss."

"It was just strange," I note, more to myself than to him. "I just smelled the meat Haymitch found and for some reason, my gag reflex couldn't handle it."

The look that crosses his eyes is sly and reserved and I must still be a little foggy from exhaustion, because it's a rare time where I don't understand what he must be thinking.

He changes the subject abruptly anyway. "Did you have a good time yesterday?" He asks kindly.

"Yes," I reply, maybe a little begrudgingly. Considering for years I complained that I hated this newfound holiday, it is both a joy and a joke to Peeta that I look forward to this day now.

"Good," he replies and kisses my forehead, then my mouth warmly. "I like it when my wife is happy."

"Your wife is always happy when she's with you."

He moves back a little to smirk. "Me too."

I can't help teasing him though. "You're always happy when you're with you too?"

"Yes, Katniss, that's exactly what I meant."

I lean up then and kiss him again, this time with more passion. It's a real testament to our marriage that he can still conjure up butterflies in my lower stomach, after almost two decades since we had our first kiss-our first real kiss-in that cave.

"Thank you," I whisper softly as we break apart.

His eyes flicker lightly with confusion. "For what, Sweetheart?"

"For everything. For Indigo and the life we have. For the last eighteen years," I profess, genuinely. Words have always been difficult for me, and they still don't flow at the slightest slip of my tongue, but it's easier now. It's easier with Peeta, just the two of us, and the strong foundation in which our relationship and life is built upon.

Words for him, however, have always come as easy as breathing. "You have made my life so wonderful," he murmurs and tenderly kisses my lips one more time. "Thank you."

Weeks later, the source of my mysterious illness, my nausea and exhaustion, is discovered when we find out I'm pregnant again.

#everlark #thg #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #everlark fanfic #everlark fic #fic #writing #christmas #oneshot #post mockingjay #canon compliant

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djmarinizelablog · 3 years

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hi! read your last ask and you said that you took up creative writing classes so you might have a wider knowledge about this but i was wondering when u mentioned different writing styles (like minimalistic, hightened imagery, linear vilennete and all of that) could you maybe explain the difference and what they really mean and maybe examples in our own levihan nation and writers? this might be asking for too much but i was pretty lost and i'd like to know more about all that. however you are def free to ignore this too!

Did you just ask me to write a comprehensive poetics essay, Anon? (I love writing about writing lmao)

Super long post ahead, and I’ll be citing certain fanfics that I’ve read so far and those that I think somehow exemplifies all the different writing styles I mentioned in the previous post.

First off, the ones I listed beforehand (minimalistic prose, heightened imagery, poetic language, linear narrative, non-linear vignettes) aren’t the only types of writing styles. There are more if you consider the variations of tone (humor/comedy, sentimental, macabre, noir etc), narration/perspective (first person, second person, third person omniscient/limited), and language (dialogue-heavy or action/scene-driven). And the nice thing is that you can actually use of one or two of them in your work---or all of them, if you’re feeling bold.

As Hange always loves to do: “Let’s experiment!”

--------

I’ll start with minimalistic prose. It is what it is: short, clear, and concise. Think less is more. You have an economy with words where you disregard most adverbs and focus more on the context to make way for meaning, thus allowing the readers to create their own interpretations of your writing. I think the method here is to write your intended draft first, and then cut the unnecessary words to flesh out the scene even more.

Notice how @stereobone wrote this paragraph of Black Dog (an Eruri fic):

Isabel's voice wakes him, brother, brother, has him sitting upright in bed and grabbing for the knife under his mattress. He braces himself for the attack before he realizes there isn't one. There is nothing in the darkness but him and his heavy, panicked breathing. Levi's heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of his chest. He drops the knife on the mattress and shuts his eyes and tries not to think about Farlan's bloody resigned face before he was eaten. He tries not to think about how he left them. How it's his fault.

It’s very simplistic in language; the paragraph lets you focus on Levi’s innermost thoughts while he deals with an external action (ie, having nightmares). The author hasn’t unraveled the rest of the plot yet, but you already know where the tension is coming from.

Next is heightened imagery. If you’re familiar with the different figures of speech (metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, etc), then this is where they all come into play. I think the challenge here is being able to balance it well with the text itself and make sure that the imagery actually clarifies the context of the paragraph instead of convoluting the intended meaning.

Here’s an excerpt from A Dangerous Game by just_quintessentially_me:

Hanji watched Levi, standing there, head bent and bloodied handkerchief pressed against his arm, and was reminded, irrationally, of a night years ago. When her parents had taken her to the circus. [. . . .] Holding her parent’s hands, she’d gaped, head craned back as she watched the spectacle, a cacophonous mixture of sound and color. At the center of it all, she’d spied a boy. Among the twisting colors and tricks, he alone, was still. [. . . .] The boy was high above, balancing on a platform atop a long pole. In front of him, stretched an audaciously thin rope. Below, no net waited to catch him.

[. . . .]

When Levi looked up, his expression was set - like the boy before the tightrope. And she knew, with sinking certainty, he was going to take the step. Into thin air.

Gray eyes met her gaze and held it.

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

At the door, Kenny smiled.

See how the powerful imagery of the boy on the tightrope was able to fuel the tension in that moment among Levi, Hange, and Kenny?

I think poetic language is akin to heightened imagery, except that the former is more focused on the actual language. It’s very lyrical, wherein you can actually hear the lulling song of the sentences in a rhythm. One of my favorite works that does this is Deep sea baby by @smallblip. Here she makes use of various setting and scenery to create this entire atmosphere of Levi and Hange’s relationship:

Hanji knows whatever life they've led, this is her favourite.

The one in which her and Levi see the sea for the first time together.

The one in which she’s the Commander, and him, her Captain. And between them, a river of words left unsaid threatening to break the banks.

One day they must cross the ocean, but today they visit the shores again, without the kids this time. And Levi learns why when he watches her peel at her clothes. Her harness comes off first, then her blouse, then everything else, like a little dance for an audience of one. Levi tries not to stare, but he’s already seen her by candlelight in the dead of the night. And yet she never fails to take his breath away.

She makes her way to where the white foams dredge the past up the shores of the present.

"Come on Levi! The water is warm!" she says, and he hears it like a call to come home- where the heavens collide with the sea.

He takes off his clothes and folds them in a neat pile beside Hanji's mess. He swims out to join her.

It’s hauntingly poetic, the way the author is able to connect the metaphor in “a river of words” to the actual body of water right in front of Levi and Hange. Good poetic language is able to tighten up the texts together while keeping the sentence structure flowing with apt figures of speech.

When it comes to narratives, it only comes down to linear or non-linear. See how @lostcauses-noregrets does her opening statement in Trains (also an Eruri fic):

Levi hates trains. To be fair, Levi hates all forms of public transport, but he reserves a particular loathing for trains. They’re dirty, noisy, smelly and worse, filled with people. People who, heaven forbid, might attempt to speak to Levi, engage him in conversation. Levi’s worst nightmare is being stuck on a train with some friendly fuck who wants to pass the time making small talk. Admittedly it’s not a problem he has to deal with too often, his general fuck off demeanour deters all but the most aggressively friendly and hopelessly inebriated. But that doesn’t stop Levi from hating trains.

It’s a short fic and it’s very dependent on the linearity of events happening. But with that banger of a first sentence, the beginning already gives you enough of an idea of Levi’s pet peeve in the story, which in this case, is trains.

Here’s another hot and steamy fic called keep him waiting by keobuns that shows a linear narrative:

He’s sitting with them in the back of the lab, nursing a cup of tea — it’s still pretty full, and even cold now, for he was far too distracted listening to Hanji talk to properly drink — when he sees it. Hanji’s too preoccupied with overexplaining the same Titan experiment they’ve gone over a hundred times to notice his stare. They just continue on and on and on, gesturing with their hands, pointing with their fingers, flexing their wrists…

Ah. Levi has to bring his teacup to his lips to hide the way his lips tremble. Hanji has incredibly nice hands.

The entire story just revolves around Levi simping for Hange’s hands and how it all goes down from there. But you as a reader are kept wanting more with every paragraph and every sentence that the author constructs (and trust me, it’s not just the sexual tension between Levi and Hange that keeps us going).

Now, as much as I love the straightforwardness of linear prose, non-linear writing brings a different round of ideas onto the table. It can create recollections from flashbacks, heighten the perspective or interior turmoil of a character due to trauma or grief, or even just re-invent what-if scenes that the characters have imagined themselves.

Gnossiene by @thatalmondgirl is one of my all-time favorite Rivetra fics. In this excerpt, you will see how she switches between the past and the present, and how it affects Petra’s POV as a conflicted character:

Contrary to popular belief (fuck Auruo) Petra actually didn’t cry easily.

Alright, she could admit that at some times, she was...emotional. It was far from a weakness, but even she could admit that they sometimes got in the way and walled off all rational thought. Anger, frustration, sadness, hell, even happiness. The only one she could easily compartmentalise away was fear, which probably stemmed from her military career. Even so. It was never easy to separate all the others from her actions, think from a clean slate like the Commander could do, like the captain. [. . . ] Petra groaned, splayed out across her bed. She drew her arm across her eyes, willing the tears to go away. She’d already blown through her tissue box.

“Petra, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Mama sat on the end of her bed, with Petra on the floor between her legs. Even though Petra argued firmly that she was old enough to brush her own hair, Mama had insisted. Unfortunately, Petra wasn’t old enough - and probably never would be - to disagree with her mother.

“I know, Mama.” Petra grumbled.

“I don’t think you do. Else you wouldn’t be crying, would you?”

[. . . .]

“But a man shouldn’t complete you when you complete yourself. Maybe he’s an extension to your house. So you’ll be sad if the extension is compromised or burns down. But you still have the main house. And if it’s strong, the main house can still be standing even after the worst storm.”

Aside from Mama’s crazy metaphors that sometimes didn’t make sense, her message hit home. Even if it hit home years later.

See how it switched in between the before and after?

An off-shoot of non-linear writing are vignettes (a layering of scenes separated by section breaks) wherein this writing style allows writers to curate scenes in terms of fragments, creating some kind of mosaic for the readers once they finally see the big picture. Nakimochiku’s I’m leaving, are you coming with me? stacks up scenes of interactions between Levi and Hange, enough to depict the kind of relationship that they have as young lovers in a school setting. You can string these fragments together, rearrange them in a different order, but in the end, you will still get the author's clear goal of highlighting how Levi and Hange’s relationship develops over time.

Those are the styles that I mentioned in my previous posts, but as I’ve told you, there’s more to writing than those, so I’ll give a short run-through of other methods in writing.

Whether it’s dialogue-heavy works such as from my window to yours, or action-driven scenes like Carnivores (a Levi x Reader fic by CaptainDegenerate) that propel the story forward, we as readers should be able to follow through the actual storyline that the authors intend to take us.

A third-person limited (we listen to Hange’s thoughts in Clockwork by @tundrainafrica) vis-à-vis an all-knowing/omniscient narration (the moon is dark by @sayonarasanity alternates the perspective of Levi and Hange) should be able to make us understand why the author chose this particular kind of point-of-view in order to tell the story.

And lastly, having a solid and consistent tone throughout the work (the macabre of Even Humanity’s Strongest could make mistakes by Rimeko versus the sweet sentimentality of Flowers for You by @fanmoose12) should be able to set the atmosphere that the authors want us to imbibe as we read through their works.

So there’s your crash course on writing and reading. Enjoy? :)

#levihan #writing #fanfic #fanfictions #fanfiction #ao3 #djmarinizela #mine

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fromkaermorhentolettenhove · 4 years

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Salvation - Chapter 3

Previous - Next

Chapter Summary: An injury and nightmare bring Geralt and Jaskier closer

Words: 2555

Additional Tags: Non-explicit Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst

AO3

There were many things Geralt expected to see in the morning, but it certainly wasn’t Jaskier with just his smallclothes on, trying on his new outfits.

“Blue or red?” Jaskier asked, switching between the two doublets.

Geralt blinked the sleep away, wondering where the Jaskier from yesterday had gone.

“New clothes always make me happy,” Jaskier grinned, as if sensing Geralt’s questions. “You chose very nice colors as well.”

He examined himself in the mirror, still unsure of which outfit to go with. If it meant Jaskier getting some actual clothes on, Geralt could make that decision easily.

“Blue.”

“I hoped you would say that,” Jaskier pulled on the blue outfit, leaving Geralt to wonder why Jaskier had asked him in the first place then.

Jaskier continued to talk as Geralt got himself ready for the day, asking questions that he didn’t wait for Geralt to answer, pointing out little details in his clothing. By the time they had retrieved Roach from the stable, Geralt had finally thought of something to add to Jaskier’s conversation, but Jaskier was quicker.

“Where are we headed today?” He asked as they left the village, the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon.

“Wherever the next job is,” Geralt shrugged. “Clients usually find me first.”

Jaskier nodded, hands gripped tight to the strap of his lute case. “You must have an awfully good sense of direction then. Being able to head into the unknown and finding a destination anyway.”

“I suppose. My senses don’t really give me a choice,” Geralt mused.

He had never thought much about his abilities beyond how to be better, stronger. All of them were connected, keeping him alive, but they were nothing to brag about.

“Does that mean you can see things others can’t?” Jaskier cocked his head.

Seeing there was no way out of this conversation, Geralt scrambled to think of something interesting amongst the mundane. “And smell, hear....whatever animals can do, I can do moreso.”

Jaskier’s eyes grew wide, a child-like excitement transforming his face. “So, what do I smell like?”

Geralt blinked. Of all senses to focus on, Geralt didn’t expect it to be his ability to smell every emotion, to know when a flower has bloomed or when wine has been poisoned.

“Nice,” is all Geralt managed before looking away.

“Nice as in…?” Jaskier prodded, tipping his head to get into Geralt’s peripheral.

Exchanging a glance with Roach, Geralt then turned back to Jaskier and took a quick, soft inhale.

“A sunset on an autumn evening.”

Geralt snapped his gaze to the ground. The words had just come out, there had been no thought behind them, but now Geralt could feel the weight of every letter. What it could mean to someone like Jaskier.

“Oh, I…” Jaskier breathed. “Thank you.”

Giving a stiff nod, Geralt marched on, hoping Jaskier would distract himself with mindless chatter.

“I wish I could say what you smell like. Charcoal perhaps? Heroics, heartbreak…”

“Onion,” Geralt couldn’t help interrupt.

Jaskier paused before he let out a bright laugh. Geralt nearly jumped out of his skin, hand reflexively going to his dagger and he stared at the other man. How happy, beautiful, he looked, congratulating Geralt on his little joke. Geralt’s walls dropped and a glimmer of hope filled his soul.

It seemed Jaskier was on his way to healing and really, Geralt couldn’t ask for more of the day that awaited them.

They had been in these woods for hours.

Jaskier, uncomplaining, had kept up with Geralt’s pace, keeping the silence at bay as they traversed through a barely seen path. If it wasn’t for the sudden grumbling of Jaskier’s stomach, Geralt would’ve kept going.

However, he had to remember a human was with him and as well as Jaskier was doing, Geralt needed to make sure Jaskier was properly taken care of.

“Let’s stop here,” Geralt led Roach over a cluster of trees and hoisted one of the saddlebags off of her.

While Jaskier didn’t say much beyond his smile, Geralt could still feel his relief, the eagerness as he drank deeply from the water skin.

“It’s not much,” Geralt admitted as he handed Jaskier some bread and dried berries.

“It’s more than enough,” Jaskier reassured with a grin.

The two ate their food, or rather, Geralt watched Jaskier eat, pretending to take a bite here and there when Jaskier looked at him. Geralt wouldn’t need a proper meal until later, but he didn’t want Jaskier fussing over him. The man had enough to worry about as it was.

While Geralt allowed his mind to wander, his senses remained at attention and sure enough, the presence of danger entered his mind. He shot to his feet, eyes searching the trees that surrounded them and it was only when he heard a small breath did Geralt turn to look at Jaskier.

“Is something wrong?”

“There’s something nearby,” Geralt muttered. “Not sure what it is yet, but I’m guessing it won’t let us camp here without a fight.”

Jaskier stepped closer to Geralt, his eyes searching the woods around them.

“Stay by Roach,” Geralt held out a hand as his other drew a sword.

Not waiting for Jaskier’s reply, Geralt marched into the forest, leaving Jaskier and Roach by themselves.

“What if it comes to us?” Jaskier whispered to himself, pressing against Roach.

Roach, ever understanding, herded Jaskier towards a clearing, standing behind him with her head hanging over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Roach,” Jaskier reached up, petting her neck.

It was then several cacophonous noises echoed through the forest. Growls mixed with stomach-turning crunches made Jaskier fear the worst, his ears unable to find where the sounds were coming from. He could hear Geralt’s shouts, some more painful than others, leaving Jaskier wanting to run to him. It went on for too long and when the forest went quiet, Jaskier began to panic. His voice caught in his throat when he wanted nothing more than to call out Geralt’s name.

The trees shook around him and Jaskier shivered, his nerves starting to get the best of him. Several branches cracked before Geralt came shoving through the brush, covered in monster guts.

“Geralt,” Jaskier cried out in relief and rushed to the man, only coming to a stop when he saw Geralt gripping onto his side. “You’re injured!”

“In my bag,” Geralt ground out. “There’s a green bottle. I need to put it on the wound.”

“Green,” Jaskier nodded, scrambling over to the bags. He all but dumped the contents onto the forest floor, finally procuring the bottle.

Geralt had already started taking off his armor, ignoring the pain before Jaskier stopped him with a hand.

“You stay still. I don’t want you agitating the wound any more.”

Geralt did as he was told, adjusting as Jaskier asked until he was laying back, his upper layers finally off of him. Jaskier poured the liquid onto the gash, eyebrows furrowing even more at Geralt’s hiss of pain.

“It’s working,” Geralt tried to reassure, just wanting to deal with the injury with himself.

Jaskier pursed his lips, then went back to the bags, grabbing what Geralt couldn’t see. When Jaskier was at his side again, Geralt watched as he threaded a needle with shaking hands.

“Jaskier–”

“–No. I don’t want to hear it,” Jaskier glared at him.

With a grunt, Geralt stared at the sky, anticipating the oncoming pain. He winced as the needle passed through his skin, but Jaskier worked quickly to close the wound, knotting off the string and cutting it with his teeth.

“You’re not allowed to move for the rest of the evening,” Jaskier said as he cleaned up the area around them. “If you need anything I’ll help you.”

Geralt was ready to argue and then thought better of it. Jaskier was right after all. It was a decent wound, though Geralt wanted to point out that he’d be almost healed by morning regardless.

“Are you always this reckless?” Jaskier asked as he gathered sticks for a fire.

“My years of skill aren’t reckless,” Geralt retorted. “There’s no predictability with monsters.”

Jaskier muttered something to himself as he struck stone against flint. At last, the fire sparked to life, illuminating the growing darkness. Geralt knew his answer wasn’t enough to satisfy Jaskier and he allowed himself to open up a little more.

“Witchers know they’ll die fighting. No one’s heard of a witcher dying of old age.”

“But that doesn’t mean you should.” Jaskier stopped, a frustrated breath leaving him. “When I was waiting for you, my heart stopped several times. I thought for sure you were done for.”

Geralt held back a laugh. “I won’t go down because of some kikimoras.”

“Well, I didn’t know that,” Jaskier bit back. He had taken to staring at the fire, his shoulders hunched up and Geralt wanted to reach out, to calm down the storm inside of Jaskier.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt sighed. “I haven’t had a travelling companion like you. I’m not used to people caring.”

Jaskier hesitated before turning to Geralt. “I’m sorry too. I should know that you are more than capable of fighting monsters and taking care of yourself.”

Silence edged between them, the fire crackling, and Jaskier moved closer to Geralt. It was a comfort Geralt never knew he needed and he almost thought as much to say so.

“I appreciate what you’ve done,” Geralt said instead.

The start of a smile appeared on Jaskier’s face, his pose relaxing as he tried to shrug it off. “It’s what friends do.”

Friends. There was a word Geralt hadn’t thought about in years. He didn’t dare. Yet now, with Jaskier staring at him, his heart thumped in his chest. Surely they weren’t friends, they hadn’t known each other long at all. That didn’t seem to matter to Jaskier as he let out a cough before going over to the bags and grabbing the bed roll and some nourishment. He eased Geralt onto the bedroll, then helping him take sips of water from the skin.

When Geralt had first freed Jaskier from his torture, he didn’t imagine this man would stand by him, now tending to his wounds. Destiny certainly had a sense of humor, leaving Geralt to do nothing more than watch Jaskier move back and forth across the camp.

Despite all his pain, his past, Jaskier moved like the wind, effortless and graceful. Every action appeared to have a thought behind it and when Jaskier came back to his side, Geralt let their eyes meet.

“Rest now, Geralt,” Jaskier spoke, soft and gentle as he brushed some hair away from Geralt’s face.

Geralt obeyed Jaskier, as if it had always been his second nature, his mind drifting away to the sounds of a crackling fire and Jaskier’s knife notching at a piece of wood.

At first there was nothing but darkness. Then, little by little hazy images appeared, distant voices calling out to Geralt. He tried to ask who was there, where he was, but his questions went unanswered as with each passing moment, the scene became clearer. There was a smiling face, laughter that Geralt hadn’t heard in decades. His soul was light and he ran towards the figure, into their open arms.

When he pulled back from the embrace, the face before him was all too familiar, filled with the calm before the storm. Before Geralt could protest, beg for forgiveness, the ground slipped out from under him.

Shooting up, Geralt panted as he stared about wide-eyed. The forest was filled with shadows, unfamiliar before Geralt’s eyes landed on Roach. A shuddered breath left him and he glanced at the glowing embers of the fire nearby. Just past that was the sleeping outline of Jaskier and it was enough to ground Geralt and his beating heart.

Throwing his blanket to the side, Geralt got to his feet despite the protest from his healing wound and he trudged to the outskirts of the clearing. His friend was never far from his mind, the passing years doing little to heal the hole in his heart. Time and time again, others tried to convince him of his innocence, but Geralt could not see past it, could not allow himself any forgiveness.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s voice jolted Geralt from his thoughts and he whipped around, immediately regretful when Jaskier backed away.

“I thought you were asleep,” Geralt mumbled, looking away from Jaskier’s wandering gaze.

“I was...,” Jaskier admitted as he took a step closer. “But I heard you get up. Is everything alright? Is there another monster around?”

Geralt shook his head, the truth refusing to come forth. He didn’t know where to start, if Jaskier even wanted to hear any of it and his conflict consumed him.

“Was it a bad dream? Your friend?” Jaskier asked in a hushed tone, trying to meet Geralt’s eyes.

Unable to stop his nod, Geralt fought against the sting in his eyes and crossed his arms as if that would protect himself. He swallowed, his words thick in his mouth, a shallowness carving itself into his chest.

“Not many of us made it through the trials,” Geralt began, his voice shaking. “Those of us that did, we became very close. Brothers, companions, anything to feel human again.” Tilting his head back, Geralt stared at the canopy above, a silent wish to keep his tears at bay. “Gweld was his name. We did everything together, held each other through the nights. Nothing could tear us apart.”

Geralt screwed his eyes shut as images of steel, blood, screams echoed in his ears. He had to do what was necessary, had to save the others.

“I couldn’t help him. He had to be killed and I was the only one who could do it,” Geralt whispered, curling into himself.

The first tear began to fall and an aching emptiness filled his heart. His body began to numb as he held down his crying, the void swallowing him whole. He was all alone, cursed to carry this weight for the rest of his life.

An arm wrapped around Geralt’s waist first before Jaskier’s hand carded through his hair, guiding Geralt’s head to rest on his shoulder. Burying his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt allowed more tears to spill, let his arms wrap around Jaskier and hold him close. Despite the stabbing pain, warmth spread through Geralt as he gripped tight to Jaskier. He shook with quiet sobs and Jaskier embraced him through it all with a gentle understanding.

Geralt was sure he had been crying for hours by the time he lifted his head. A dull ache thudded at the back of his head and he let Jaskier lead him back to his bedroll, strong hands guiding him to the ground.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Jaskier spoke just above a whisper, fingers kneading into the tight muscles of Geralt’s shoulder.

Barely managing a nod, Geralt exhaled as he relaxed into Jaskier’s touch. Sleep was beginning to take over again and Geralt welcomed it with open arms, if only to forget for a little while. The last thing he heard before he slipped away was a secret that he would let Jaskier keep, something that would forever bind them.

“We have each other now. We’ll be okay.”

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #fic: salvation by indigo #indigo's side shitposting

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juliaisabellphoto · 4 years

Text

My 2020 Albums of the Year

Never requested, always provided. Here are my favorites of 2020. Here’s the playlist.

The Secret Sisters, Saturn Return

As soon as I saw “Water Witch, featuring Brandi Carlile” on this tracklist I knew that the Secret Sisters would be a favorite of 2020. In February, I was staying with a friend in Nashville and she mentioned them as a local favorite, and when I stopped at Grimey’s to shop for records I came upon a signed copy of “Saturn Return.” I had never heard the Secret Sisters before, but there is nobody I trust more to recommend music than this Nashville friend of mine, so I bought it. I made no mistake here: this record blew me away. The soft, soulful, lullaby of “Healer in the Sky” pulled me through the pain of the first month of quarantine and soothed me as the world was turned upside down. In reading more on the record, this seems to have been the point: they say, “this album is a reflection of us coming to terms with how to find our power in the face of an unfair world… our hope is that women can feel less alone in their journey through the modern world.” There is something in the caramel-thick sweetness of these sisters’ voices that makes a listener feel as though they’ve been bewitched into calm. When I think of this album, I think of the cross-country drive I took at the beginning of the pandemic to make my way home and the happy moments that can be found in darkness. No album touched my heart this year in the way that “Saturn Return” did.

Taylor Swift, Folklore and Evermore

Taylor Swift… can even be said? Somehow, while we all sat on our couches in quarantine, this woman created not one but two musical masterpieces. She begins “the 1” by stating “I’m doin good, I’m on some new shit,” and that says a lot about the album as a whole. She created the 2020 we all wish we experienced: soft, sweet, and gentle. Listening to Folklore feels like visiting a cabin in the woods, with a fireplace well lit. Swift tells winding stories of love, hardship, and mystery and tenderly walks us through the forest of her imagination. This magical feeling was amplified by her release of The Long Pond Studio Sessions, a film in which Swift, Jack Antonoff, and Aaron Dessner finally play the album together for the first time after recording it entirely remotely. The setting matches the sound: they play in an album in the middle of the woods, cozy and hidden from the snow. Evermore cuts through the delicate ice of Folklore: it is the color to Folklore’s black and white. Swift combines the soft folk sound of “willow” with some of her country and Americana roots in “no body, no crime,” drawing us in once again. She includes Bon Iver singing in his lower register in Folklore and then in his falsetto in Evermore: two sides of the same magic coin. The work in these two albums is Swift’s strongest ever, and solidifies the fact that no modern artist can really reach her.

Chris Stapleton, Starting Over

Following a three-year hiatus, all lovers of southern rock deeply needed a Chris Stapleton album. In “Starting Over,” Stapleton yet again does what he does best: combines his unique whiskey-tinged growl with the best lyricism present in country music today. This record can’t be captured in any singular fashion, neither musically nor emotionally. The title track sets a high bar for the rest of the record with a reflection on re-remembering what really matters, a message certainly relevant for this turbulent year. Stapleton’s typical outlaw-country brand is present in full with “Devil Always Made Me Think Twice,” “Arkansas,” and “Hillbilly Blood,” but other songs take him in a completely new stylistic direction. “Maggie’s Song” takes on a very classic old-time country feel, as Stapleton weaves sweet and simple stories as he processes the loss of his pup. He harnesses the energy of the Chicks as he angrily lambasts the perpetrators of the 2017 mass shooting at Route 91. The song is a Stapleton-sponsored judgment day reckoning, including the cacophonic sound of a crowd in panic and the shrieks of a gospel choir. In contrast with this energetic high, Stapleton goes deep into his blues side by finally releasing “You Should Probably Leave,” a song he has been sitting on for six years. This one feels just right to sway around the kitchen to. With each listen to “Starting Over” I find new lyrics to write down and remember, new sounds to love.

Bad Bunny, YHLQMDLG

Bad Bunny. Our unproblematic reggaeton prince. In the wake of his many popular features and his collaborative album with J Balvin, Bad Bunny makes it clear that it is time for Balvin to share the throne of popular reggaeton. He features the original reggaeton king Daddy Yankee in “La Santa,” paying tribute to the very classic reggaeton style before mixing it and transcending beyond the classics in the following tracks. “Yo Perreo Sola” is the album’s standout track, accompanied by my favorite music video of 2020. The song is an ode to gender equality and the destruction of the patriarchal norms contributing to gender-based violence. “Yo Perreo Sola,” meaning “I twerk alone,” sets the overarching theme of consent present throughout the song’s lyrics. In the video, Benito’s backdrop references the Argentinian-born “Ni Una Menos” movement, a now global movement against gender-based violence. As if this wasn’t enough to make you adore him, the video further extends its activism to the LGBTQ community, with Benito appearing in full drag, in his normal attire, and at some points held in chains by women. He makes a statement about sexuality and gender expression in the video, twerking solo. The other jawdropper track on YHLQMDLG is Safaera, a perfect display of Bad Bunny’s skill in expanding the scope of reggaeton as a genre. In the same thirty seconds of the song, he subtly samples both “Could You Be Loved” by Bob Marley and the Wailers and Missy Elliot’s “Get Ya Freak On” - a segment I just can’t get out of my head. Bad Bunny’s prowess on this record is rounded out with the aggressive and prideful “P FKN R.” What a masterpiece.

Mac Miller, Circles

A posthumous record that never should have been posthumous. A companion-piece to Mac’s 2018 record “Swimming,” Circles takes a similar tone, one of resilience through pain. The title track serves as a somber introduction, followed by the funk energy of “Complicated” and the GO:OD AM energy of “Blue World.” The song that really got to me, and many other fans of Mac, was “Good News.” It is the pinnacle of Mac’s musical insight and talent. The melody matches the melancholy of the track, as Mac sings of his desire for time and space. The melancholy is matched in “Everybody” with the lines about death feeling particularly haunting in the wake of Miller’s accidental overdose. Somehow, Miller wrote the perfect eulogy for himself prior to his passing, one that will live in the hearts of his fans forever.

Kali Uchis, Sin Miedo (del Amor y Otros Demonios) ∞

I’m not quite sure what to call this record. If I just listened to “la luna enamorada,” a cover of a classic Cuban bolero, I would call it gorgeous. If I just listened to “fue mejor” featuring PARTYNEXTDOOR or “quiero sentirme bien,” I would call it sexy. If I just listened to “vaya con dios,” I would think she wrote the theme music for the next James Bond film. The bottom line of the record is Uchis’ absolute stunning use of her upper register. She hits notes that “Isolation” never would have foreshadowed, painting a dreamland for any listener. She slides back into the energy of her sophomore album in “telepatia,” but adds in moments of her new sound. She incorporates a slower reggaeton beat into no eres tu (soy yo), and dives into a heavier reggaeton sound in te pongo mal (prendelo.) My personal favorite of the record is “aqui yo mando!” with Rico Nasty: it is the perfect display of Uchis’ unique upper register combined with Rico’s trap style. Anyone passing this record up for another “Isolation” listen is missing out.

FLETCHER, The S(ex) Tapes

This record has a story like no other, coming from a woman like no other. This EP was recorded while Fletcher quarantined with her ex-girlfriend, who also happened to film all of the music videos for it. It is this messiness that makes The S(ex) Tapes absolute magic. Fletcher’s own description of the name of the release explains the situation best: “A sex tape is someone being captured in their most vulnerable, wildest, rawest form, and my ex has always captured me that way.” She captures all of the feelings of a breakup with someone you still love deeply, and the relationship relapse that comes with moving past those feelings. Fletcher’s special ability comes in representing these deeply painful experiences in an uplifting manner: this is a sexy pop EP meant to be danced to. Fletcher simultaneously validates all of the emotional tumult, but subtly nudges the listener toward blissful reckless abandon. It almost makes me wish I had a breakup to go through! The abrasive apathy of “Shh… Don’t Say It” and the flippant, angry vulnerability of “Bitter” are paired perfectly with Fletcher’s raw brand of distortion. In an interview with Nylon, Fletcher speaks to this: “Listen, I've done my fair share of just straight-up sad, crying in your bed music. I'm still going through shit, but I want to bop to it. We can still be emo and want to twerk at the same time.” Yes, Fletcher, we do.

Halsey, Manic

Prior to 2020, I wasn’t Halsey’s biggest fan. I wouldn’t have even called myself a fan. I just wasn’t that excited by her music. “I’m Not Mad” was the song that triggered a 180 for me. The heavy, dissonant kick of the drums and her raw, angry lyricism drew me in without hesitation. I suppose this was just the push I needed to fall in love with the rest of her music: the songs with similar bite, “Without Me” and “killing boys,” and the more raw side of the record in “You should be sad,” “929,” and “Graveyard.” Her vulnerability is so much of what makes this record perfect. The album fully made sense to me when I listened to her podcast feature on “Armchair Expert” with Dax Shepard. In it, she talks through the time period covered by the record and gives context to her powerful lyricism. “Manic” is a story of chasing someone she loved into drug-fueled oblivion, and then finally finding the power to leave. The album is brimming with this power, and I just can’t turn it off.

HAIM, Women In Music Pt. III

HAIM is THE soft rock band of the modern era.Women In Music Pt. III, their most mature album yet, solidified this opinion for me in a way that I didn’t expect. There is so much to be said for this record: it is innovative and skilled, with the perfect balance of softness and hardness. Though the record is one of pain and trauma, you wouldn’t know it purely from its melodies. “Don’t Wanna” is a very classic HAIM pop rock number, and “The Steps” follows suit making frustration fun to dance to. Though one may not notice at first, in this record HAIM dives deeper than ever before. “Now I’m In It” does a phenomenal job of sonically representing the feeling of being completely and utterly overwhelmed. “I Know Alone” is a beautifully intimate rainy-day account of Danielle’s struggle with depression. Then comes “3AM” - a lighthearted song about a booty call with Thundercat-type bass and an R&B vibe - just in case you didn’t already know how much range these three sisters have. Everything about this record is filled with talent.

Phoebe Bridgers, Punisher

Only Phoebe Bridgers could write a song about murdering a skinhead and fill it with nostalgia. “Garden Song,” the leading single preceding “Punisher,” foreshadowed a record that is just so very Phoebe: melancholy, vulnerable, and heart-wrenching. The eagerly awaited album certainly followed suit, with typical sad ballads “Halloween” and “Moon Song” played alongside more raucous, Better Oblivion Community Center-esque songs such as “Kyoto” and “ICU.” She goes bluegrass on “Graceland Too” with banjo, violin, and layered harmonies from boygenius collaborators Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker. In “Punisher,” Bridgers shares with us the wistful catharsis that she is so very talented at creating.

Noah Cyrus, THE END OF EVERYTHING

I always underestimated Miley’s little sister, but here I am writing about her EP before I write about Miley’s in my end of the year roundup. Every piece in this record gave me chills: Cyrus’ lower register allows her to access a somber kind of ballad that I just can’t get enough of. The record starts off at a peak with the slow burn of “Ghost” and somehow manages to get even better with “I Got So High That I Saw Jesus.” This powerful song, even better in the live version where Miley joins her younger sister, builds into an almost gospel-like ode to the idea that everything will be okay. “July,” the single featuring Leon Bridges that pushed Cyrus into the national spotlight, stands as the most beautifully layered song of the EP. The soft guitar picking and choral sound complement Cyrus’ upper register. The whole record, extending through the closing title track, is a comforting, soft emotional analgesic for 2020.

The Chicks, Gaslighter

This record is gorgeous. It is painful. The feelings Natalie Maines expresses in this record are feelings I have felt far too deeply in personal relationships, and they also are feelings everyone is feeling globally in 2020. “Gaslighter” is just straight up fun, a perfect extension of the Chicks’ energy found in “Goodbye Earl” and other older revenge numbers (but with an extra poppy Jack Antonoff twist this time.) “Tights On My Boat” is bitter, funny, and shows off Maines’ upper register with stripped guitar. “Sleep at Night” musically and lyrically embodies the pain of being betrayed. “Julianna Calm Down” is a stunning ballad of female resilience. “Texas Man” perfectly captures the bubbly feeling of moving on. “For Her” and “March March” fit in with the frustrated, betrayed, power-centered theme of the record in a very different way. The Chicks’ dualistic ability to discuss her ex-husband’s cheating alongside the band’s political views is what makes the record special: not only are we watching a woman try to move on and develop her personal strength, but we are also seeing this personal strength harnessed for political impact. They simultaneously denounce the abuse of power in both politics and relationships, while reclaiming that power for themselves in standing up for what they believe in. How very Chicks of them.

Dua Lipa, Future Nostalgia

Dua motherfucking Lipa. This woman would have been the official owner of 2020 had we been able to dance to this record at bars and clubs. This was proven ten times over by the success of the album’s first single, “Don’t Start Now,” a song that is absolutely the MOST fun. Or so I thought… until I heard “Physical,” “Levitating,” and “Break My Heart.” What poor timing for such a phenomenal dance record, but at least she gave the people some great material for Tik Tok dances! All COVID-dance-related concerns aside, this is a really well done sophomore album for Dua Lipa. The funk elements of the album most clearly seen in “Levitating” elevate Dua’s brand of pop to a new level. The all gas no brakes nature of this dance-pop record works wonders for her - she knows what the people want from her, and she delivers.

Megan Thee Stallion, Good News

THIS! RECORD! If WAP could be an album of the year, it would be, but it’s a standalone single and Megan Thee Stallion proceeded to release the next best thing. The explosion of Megan Thee Stallion has been a pleasure to watch in 2020, with both WAP and Savage leaving the charge. With an artist like her, it’s easy to get lost in the smash hits and ignore the prolific nature of her work. “Good News” is an immaculate rap album, brimming with sass and defiant bad bitch energy. “Shots Fired” kicks off the album with a Biggie sample and a diss to the man who shot her in the foot earlier in the year, personally my favorite track of the record. Other highlights of the record include “Don’t Stop” with a Young Thug feature, “Body” which is now a Tik Tok staple, and “What’s New.” Perhaps the most impressive work Megan does on “Good News” is “Girls in the Hood,” a rework of Eazy-E’s Boyz-N-The-Hood. She inverts the classic misogyny of the original song by emphasizing her control over men like Eazy-E in an indignant assertion of female power. This embodies Megan Thee Stallion’s essence: busting in on a male industry and making her presence known.

Rico Nasty, Nightmare Vacation

Nobody does it like Rico Nasty, and I’m convinced nobody ever will. I saw a New York Times headline titled “Can the Mainstream Catch Up to Rico Nasty?” the other day and I think the answer is a firm no. Rico is abrasive, rude, and outside the box in the absolute best way. Need an album to slap in the car when you’re feeling like a bad bitch? This. is. it. The record kicks off with “Candy,” a song with a wild beat and the iconic chorus line “Call me crazy, but you can never call me broke.” Following is a Don Toliver and Gucci Mane feature in “Don’t Like Me,” a song that truly should have hit the mainstream by now. She gets back to her signature scream-rap in “STFU” and “OHFR.” “OHFR” is the confident standout of the album, along with the reworked re-release of “Smack a Bitch,” making it clear that Rico Nasty is not a woman to be fucked with. In “Back and Forth” with Amine, Rico steps into Amine’s “Limbo” style and does it well. The record’s second single “Own It” is a more classic club banger that unfortunately didn’t get to see the dark of night in any clubs this year. Even if the mainstream never catches up to Rico Nasty, I’ll be following along with her self-labelled “sugar trap.”

Ariana Grande, Positions

I mean, duh. Ariana just doesn’t miss. She surprised everyone with this album’s release in Fall 2020, displaying the bliss of her relationship with later-confirmed fiance. She goes dirtier than usual in the sex-centered “34+35” and “nasty,” rounding the record out with the Craig David-reminiscent “positions.” Ariana allows herself to lust for someone and even love for them in these three, but defaults to her brimming self-confidence in “just like magic” and “west side.” The album is more R&B than pop at times, with the peak of this style visible in the groove of “my hair” and the Mariah Carey ballad-like nature of “pov.” Each album, Grande shifts just a little bit, keeping us attached: “Sweetener”’s cotton-candy pop, the savage pop-trap of “thank u, next,” and the R&B conclusion of the spectrum with Positions.

Miley Cyrus, Plastic Hearts

This year I anticipated no record more than I did “Plastic Hearts.” Its leading single, “Midnight Sky,” described by Pitchfork as a “cocaine-dusted disco track,” channels Stevie Nicks’ eighties rock-pop era in the absolute best way. Apparently this opinion was even picked up by Stevie herself, as the two collaborated on a mash-up of “Midnight Sky” and Stevie’s “Edge of Seventeen” (the excitement from which nearly led to my passing away, by the way.) Cyrus’ voice is in the perfect place on this record, with “Plastic Hearts” emphasizing her rasp and making me want to spin around a room. She dips into the pop realm in “Prisoner” with Dua Lipa, a song that Lipa clearly influences with an unforgettably sexy music video. Every song is different on this record: “Gimme What I Want” channels the grinding rock sound of Nine Inch Nails, “Bad Karma” allows Joan Jett’s punchy style to run the show, and she slips on the shoes of Billy Idol in their collaboration, Night Crawling. Somehow, Miley manages to wear the shoes well, and 80s copycat record or not, I can’t stop listening. “Never Be Me” is where she shines most deeply, baring her soul, the complicated nature of her past few years’ journey, and her knowledge of who she is and always will be for the world to hear. I’m not sure if I’m blinded to the album’s flaws by my absolute and complete love for everything about Miley’s current persona, but I am a huge fan.

Glass Animals, Dreamland

The sound of this album is such a blissful respite! Glass Animals gives us the fun and funky techno-pop that they always do, but dive into personal lyricism in a way that they never have before. Many of the songs actually have a storyline (an intentionally rare feat for Dave Bayley, first broken with the incredible “Agnes” on their last album.) This record explores trauma and pain in “Domestic Bliss” and “It’s All So Incredibly Loud,” Bayley using the soft sides of his voice to express pained desperation. The boisterous energy of the past two records is not forgotten in Dreamland’s intimacy, however: “Hot Sugar,” “Tokyo Drifting,” and “Space Ghost Coast To Coast” do the trick. “Space Ghost Coast To Coast” is the most intriguing song on the record: at first listen, I had absolutely no idea what Dave was discussing and assumed it was just his typical neuroscience-inspired ear-candy. Upon a deeper dive, the song addresses the factors that encouraged Dave’s childhood friend to bring a gun to school. He disguises a discussion of the risk factors involved in school shootings within his flowery, figurative linguistic excellence. This duality of blissful melody and solemn subject matter is the magic of Glass Animals.

Empress Of, I’m Your Empress Of

This album is an emotional electro-pop masterpiece. This record meditates on the feelings felt in the wake of a relationship’s end. She begins the album with a quote from her mother about the reality and value of struggle, then launching into a synth-filled storm of missing someone. “Love Is A Drug” is the album’s next fun dance track, addressing the addictive quality of touch after you lose someone you love and embodying the urgency of the feeling. She takes a more somber tone with the influence of Jim-E Stack in “U Give It Up,” incorporating quotes from her mother about the difficulty of womanhood and reminiscing on love lost. In “Should’ve,” the post-relationship regret is palpable in her vocal tone and production, and in “Maybe This Time” she contemplates this pain. In “Give Me Another Chance,” her emotions swing the other way, with a bouncing dance beat and pleading vocals. The album concludes with the heartfelt and pain-filled “Hold Me Like Water” and the dissonant “Awful,” leaving the listener to meditate on the mood swings of a broken relationship.

Tame Impala, The Slow Rush

This album came out so early in 2020 that it already feels like a vintage piece of music. Perhaps that was the point. Although “The Slow Rush” had a hard time living up to Kevin Parker’s last epic masterpiece “Currents,” it was the fix many fans like myself needed after five years without an LP. “Borderline,” the single that allowed anticipation of the album to build, stands out as one of the most essentially Parker tracks of the record. He introduces a little Toro y Moi style funk in “Is It True,” and highlights his voice more than usual in “Lost In Yesterday.” “Posthumous Forgiveness” builds in the wonderfully dissonant fashion that fans learned to love through “Eventually.” The bass track on “Glimmer” is so good that I never even noticed it had nearly no lyrics. This record is not groundbreaking by any standards in the way that “Currents” was, but it is intentionally jubilant and energetic in a way that still feels good. Even if he doesn’t shatter any expectations in “The Slow Rush,” Tame Impala’s tracklist still makes the perfect sunset companion.

Joji, Nectar

Joji’s “Nectar” is just that: sweet R&B nectar, from the minute the first track plays. Joji’s work here is not in the individual tracks, but in the sonic experience he creates with the album as a whole. This is not an album to pick out singles from: it is a full cinematic mood adjustment. Maybe it’s the weed I smoked when I first listened, but the record feels like a wonderful progression of gentle yet rhythmic R&B songs. The transition from the soft and contemplative “MODUS” to the more upbeat trap-infused “Tick Tock” to the full R&B ballad “Daylight” featuring Diplo raises the listener’s energy gradually to a crescendo. “Run” is a gorgeous and sad confessional of disappointment, and “Sanctuary” follows as a soft and uplifting analgesic to that pain. “Pretty Boy” and “777” mark the more upbeat section of the record, filled with Joji’s accounts of living far too fast. The tracks of this record all bleed into each other seamlessly, mixing pain and confidence in an emotional rollercoaster.

Amine, Limbo

My journey to being an Amine fan started with “Caroline,” ended with “Heebiejeebies,” and started back up again when he found depth in “ONEPOINTFIVE.” His 2020 release is exactly why I came around to his music yet again. The record is soulful and fun, with the flute and cocky lyrics in “Woodlawn” and the funky beat and Young Thug feature of “Compensating.” The two songs I absolutely can’t stop listening to however, are “Can’t Decide” and “Becky.” “Can’t Decide” highlights Amine’s singing voice and dips away from rap and trap into the more traditional R&B realm. “Becky” is an intimate account of the difficulties involved with interracial dating, both in public and in the family realm. The two sides of the album, one emphasizing rhythm and immaculate production, and the other lyricism and emotion, are found in these two songs. The punchy “Pressure In My Palms” (featuring slowthai and Vince Staples) and “Riri” round out the record’s light side. In “Limbo,” Amine finds the perfect balance.

Fleet Foxes, Shore

This album is a wave of calm. Robin Pecknold’s soothing voice is exactly what we needed more of this year. Pitchfork described his mission as “turning anxiety into euphoria,” and that is how this record feels. Each song is dynamic and filled with what makes Fleet Foxes so special. There is a choral quality to the vocals of “Shore,” as always, adding to the calm aura of the record. “A Long Way Past The Past” takes the listener on a what feels like a long walk filled with serious conversation. “Going-to-the-Sun Road,” a song that takes its name from the famous cliffside road through Glacier National Park, oozes sunshine in its Tame Impala-Bon Iver crossover sound. “Cradling Mother, Cradling Woman,” truly feels like being cradled in sound. Fleet Foxes has a knack for beginning songs by hitting the listener with a wall of sound, and that is so perfectly represented in this track. This is a seriously beautiful album.

Cam, The Otherside

Cam’s voice is irresistible. She showed her talent for sharing painful ballads in her breakthrough single “Burning House,” and in “The Otherside” she digs deeper. She writes this record in a period of change, and captures this change and dissonance in the nostalgia of “Redwood Tree.” She teamed up with Avicii for the title track before he passed away, and it shows. His signature building melodies and guitar breaks are clear, and they go perfectly with the range of Cam’s voice. She truly shows her range in this track and this record in general, from the highs in “The Otherside” and the lows of “Changes.” “Changes” is another standout of the album, co-written by Harry Styles. This record is a gorgeous account of outgrowing love and outgrowing people after the deep bliss that you felt with them in the past. “Till There’s Nothing Left” and “Classic” are the big love songs of the record, one that melts you and one that makes you want to dance in a field of flowers. The sisterly confessional “Diane” pulls Cam back to her country roots. She ends the record with what made her famous: a beautiful, sad ballad backed only by piano. Her unique vocals are on full display as the record concludes, and I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Omar Apollo, Apolonio

Omar Apollo had his breakthrough in this record. His work spans languages and genres in a big way in “Apolonio.” “Kamikaze” and “Staybacik” stick to his typical R&B style, better produced than it ever has been. “Dos Uno Nueve (219)” goes a completely different direction, a Mexican corrido track featuring Yellow Room Music, honoring the Latinx musical styles that he expressed admiration for. Apollo also explores his sexuality in this album, fluidly discussing his bisexuality in “Kamikaze” and “I’m Amazing” in an exploratory manner. The whole album is generally quite exploratory, a quality that makes me even more excited for the work that is to come from Apollo.

Also worth mentioning:

Diplo, Diplo Presents Thomas Wesley: Snake Oil

Thundercat, It Is What It Is

Sylvan Esso, Free Love

Lauv, ~how i’m feeling~

Niall Horan, Heartbreak Weather

J Balvin, Colores

Kelsea Ballerini, kelsea

Dominic Fike, What Could Possibly Go Wrong

#music #2020

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calenheniel · 4 years

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Queen of the Ashes, a frozen fanfic | Part VI

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | T+

They meet as children, each with a secret. Plagued by tragedy, their paths cross again many years later, and their secrets are unraveled.

Author’s Note: I realize that everyone already knows what the “twist” is going to be in this fic from the title and the many unsubtle clues I have left along the way. So I am just going to try to keep you all in suspense anyway with how exactly I’m going to get there. Coincides with Day 7 of (makeup) Helsa Week 2020. @helsa-week

Read it on: AO3 | FF.Net | Wattpad | or read below

Follow updates: #QueenoftheAshesFrozen

»»————-　❈　————-««

VI.

Breakfast was a considerably more pleasant affair the next morning, the queen demonstrating little of the animosity which had come to dominate her interactions with the prince over the previous week.

“Last night was rather interesting,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone try to recite Shakespearean sonnets and play the violin at the same time. Sort of impressive, in its own way.”

She laughed mid-chew, placing her fork down as she fought to swallow her bread. “Yes. Can’t blame them for trying, anyway.”

“And what about that flautist?” he added with a grin. “I’m all for contemporary, original compositions, but…”

“It sounded like a dying bird,” she finished. “A very loud, dying bird.”

The princess, perplexed by their easy rapport, was quiet as she picked at her food in-between glances at them.

The queen eyed her with a smile. “Anna? You’ve hardly touched your toast. That’s unlike you.”

The younger woman’s nose wrinkled. “I’m just surprised,” she said with a sniff, staring at her sister suspiciously. “You’re not usually so chatty in the morning.”

When the queen looked down in embarrassment, the princess quickly added: “Not that that’s a bad thing. Actually, I like the change. It’s good for us. Plus, who wants to hear me yammer on all the time? We all need a break from that, including me.”

“You don’t ‘yammer,’ Anna,” the prince protested through a half-smirk. “I like how you talk. It’s genuine and… frank.”

“He’s right,” the queen agreed, and admitted: “I can hardly hold a conversation by comparison.”

The princess waved away the comments. “I can tell when you’re lying, Elsa. And Hans—you’re a better liar than she is, but your smooth talk gives you away.”

He leveled a lopsided smile at her. “Is that right?”

“It is,” she replied, her chin raising with confidence. After a beat, she noted with a sly look: “But don’t let that stop you from giving me compliments. Even if they’re fake, I’ll take ‘em.”

The prince and the queen chuckled, and as their gazes met, their faces pinked, and they promptly directed their eyes back down at their plates, resuming their meals in silence.

The princess picked up the conversation again a few moments later, relating some anecdotes from her lessons and recent meetings with ambassadors and various nobles. Her sister and the prince nodded along, adding comments occasionally, until the clock struck nine.

The queen blinked. “I lost track of time,” she excused herself as she dabbed her lips with a napkin and rose from the table. “I have to be off, now. I’ll see you both later.”

“Elsa, wait!” her sister called, rising and rushing to her side. A small, furtive smile played on her lips. “Can we talk for a minute?”

The queen glanced at her pocket watch. “Fine. But only for a minute,” she agreed, and turned to the prince. “If you’ll excuse us, Hans.”

He bowed. “Of course.”

The princess led her older sister away to a secluded corner of a narrow hallway some distance from the dining room, her eyes bright and curious. “So? Did you two kiss and make up?” She grinned. “I saw you leave together last night at the end of the concert.”

The queen’s face flushed. “We… came to an understanding of sorts, yes,” she replied, and frowned. “But no kissing was involved.”

“An ‘understanding,’ huh?” the princess repeated, her grin growing. “What exactly does that mean, Elsa?”

“Not what you think it does, apparently,” her sister said, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “We just talked, that’s all.”

The princess raised her hands in surrender. “If you say so. I’m just happy you’re talking to him again.” Her eyebrows waggled with interest. “Did my little speech to you help, after all?”

The queen sighed, her expression relaxing. “Maybe a little bit,” she conceded. When the princess gave her a pointed look, she clarified: “Okay—maybe a lot. Anyway, it’s resolved now.”

“Good,” the princess nodded, smiling. “I’m glad.” She curtsied to the queen, who responded in turn, and then began to walk away. After a brief pause, she looked back at her sister over her shoulder, her smile becoming devious again. “So you won’t be mad if I tell you that I told Hans to meet you this afternoon in the rose garden, right?”

The queen stood stock-still, her skin the color of a ripe strawberry. “Anna, you…” Her hands fell to her sides, and she stuttered, flustered. “That’s the middle of the day, and you know I have—”

“Meetings and paperwork and other business, yes, I know,” her sister finished, her smile unrelenting. “Don’t worry—this won’t interfere with any of that. I checked your schedule with Kai last night while you were gone, and told him that we were going to take a walk together today for a break from all of the guests.” Her expression grew softer. “Don’t be upset with him, though; he seemed really happy about us spending time together. Otherwise, I don’t think he would’ve told me a thing.”

The queen opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out.

The princess smirked. “Anyway, he’ll be expecting you around two. Don’t keep him waiting.”

And with that, the younger woman skipped out into the hallway, humming the strange, cacophonous flautist's tune from the night before.

»» —— ««

Against her better instincts, the queen found herself walking toward the rose garden at the appointed time—though she deliberately walked very slowly so as not to be too punctual, or seem too eager.

She cursed the meeting under her breath as she traveled, as the thought of seeing him in such a place – and of her sister’s maneuvers in arranging it – had distracted her the entire morning, making her appear inattentive and careless at some of her meetings. Recalling the strange warmth of his hand, she had even smudged the ink of her signatures on various papers, and had had to send them back to be re-written.

She had sworn at various points that she would not go to meet him after all, and by noon she had convinced herself that she was going to disappoint him and the princess in order to keep her own sanity intact.

When the old steward had noticed her distraction and asked if she was feeling unwell, she had said yes; this half-truth had given her an excuse to leave her last engagement early, so that she could collect her bearings alone. In solitude, however, the temptation to go grew ever larger in her mind, to the point that when the clock struck quarter past one, she rose from her bed as if possessed, and left.

Initially passing many servants and courtiers on the way to the garden put her in a nervous state, and so the queen took a more circuitous path through discreet hallways until she reached a small side door by the servants’ quarters, exiting onto the kitchen gardens. By that time in the afternoon they were quiet, and she was able to slip relatively unnoticed around them, finding a well-trodden dirt path towards the meeting place.

A tall hedge and locked iron gate separated her from it, and she groaned a little at realizing that she had forgotten her keyring in her bedroom. She jiggled the lock on the door as she peered through the bars on it, and her surprise at seeing no one in the gardens within caused ice to spark from her fingertips, breaking the lock in twain.

The queen jumped back, startled by the sound of the iron as it clattered to the ground below, and then pressed her offending hand to her chest with a red face, exhaling deeply.

“There’s another unlocked gate further down the hedge, you know,” the familiar voice of the prince said from the other side of the hedge, and her head shot up at the intrusion. “No need to inflict more property damage.”

She sighed through her nose. “I didn’t mean to, I just—never mind,” she said, frowning. “Which way is it?”

“To your left,” he replied. “Just follow my voice.”

She continued along the hedge and onto softer grass shadowed by tall trees, keeping her hands close by her sides. Her face was still red. “I don’t know this path,” she said.

“I’m surprised to hear that,” he remarked. “I would’ve thought, being confined for so long, that you’d know every inch of this place by now.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “I was confined indoors, mostly. I’m not as familiar with the gardens, because…”

She paused when she came to the very edge of the natural wall, and she turned to face the hedge, her eyes widening as they met his. The only thing between them was a short wooden gate secured with a latch, which the prince lifted easily.

As she stepped through it and looked up, a soft gasp left her lips.

Tall arches wreathed with red roses in full bloom surrounded a dirt path just a few feet from the gate, and from the state of the vines and leaves encircling the arches, she could tell that they had not been properly pruned for some time. The shine and heat from the afternoon sun was lessened in the wildness of that space, its disuse casting an odd, green light upon the ground where sunlight filtered through the leaves.

“Your parents didn’t allow you here?” the prince resumed their conversation, standing behind her.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, then approached the side of an arch, reaching out to graze the edge of a rose before withdrawing it. “It wasn’t like that. They wanted me to come out more, actually. But… I was afraid to. I didn’t want to spoil things.”

“Spoil? You mean—”

“Well, freeze them, yes,” the queen clarified, irritated. “My mother was very fond of these gardens, though I can’t remember ever coming to this part of them.” Her gaze tightened at the rose she could not bring herself to touch. “I guess the staff haven’t kept it up since she died.”

He was quiet for a while before coming to stand at her side, regarding the same flower. “You haven’t spoken much about them.” At her warning look, he continued: “I know that their passing was unexpected and tragic. But I imagine, before then, that you must have been quite close to them.”

“I was, and I wasn’t,” she said, her lips pressing into a thin line. “They did their best to keep me safe, and love me in their own way, despite the circumstances. But I pushed them away.”

His brow lifted. “‘Loved you in their own way’?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t an easy child to care for; I gave them many hardships. It’s a wonder that I haven’t hurt more people, and I have them to thank for that.”

He was silent at her reply, and then his hand reached out to the rose, his fingers drifting over its petals.

“You know, Elsa,” he began, “roses are actually rather difficult to grow. The conditions have to be just right, with plenty of sunshine, well-drained soil, and in areas free from pests, since they’re so susceptible to disease. Without regular attention, it’s unlikely they’d survive.” He eyed her pointedly as he added: “So it’s a wonder that these are still here, and blooming as beautifully as they are.”

The queen did not miss the look, her eyes darkening. “I’m not a rose, Hans. I don’t require sunlight, or pruning, or ‘regular attention’ to endure.” She stood taller, her chin raised, and directed a withering stare at him. “You’re prying by means of flattery, but I already told you that won’t work.”

His hands came up, yielding to her. “You’re right,” he conceded, “it was a bad comparison. Forgive me.”

She crossed her arms. “What were you trying to say, before?” she said. “It’s not like you to drop a line of questioning, once you’ve started.”

He smiled a little at the observation. “Yes, that’s true,” he agreed. The smile faded as his brows knitted together. “It’s just… you speak so poorly about yourself and your powers. Calling yourself a ‘hardship’ to your parents, saying that you pushed them away—all because of one incident from your childhood, which your sister obviously recovered from.”

“It wasn’t just that one incident,” she countered, her hands curling around her biceps. “That was the worst of them, yes, but there were many others after that which created cause for concern. You’ve seen it yourself—what happens when I get worked up, when I feel out of control.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead, cooling the skin there. “This curse is my burden to bear, alone.”

“Curse?” the prince asked. “Is that how you see it?”

She glowered at him. “What else could it be?”

He was quiet for a time, studying her irate features, and then stepped into the shadow of an archway. The green light flickered against his skin, dappled by the roses’ red. “I used to wish that I had your powers, when I was a boy,” he said, staring up at the sunbeams obscured by vines. “When my brothers would torment me, each act of cruelty more petty and vicious than the last, I fantasized about suffocating them with snowdrifts, or turning them into one of your spectacular ice statues—anything that would make them stop.”

His eyes closed tightly, lines of pain visible at the edges. “Even realizing that doing so would make me the same as them, I couldn’t help but imagine it, and it brought me some comfort during the hardest years of my childhood.”

When the prince opened his eyes again, there was a dark honesty in them that the queen had never noticed before. “I know what it’s like to feel cursed, Elsa—to feel like a burden. To feel as if I should never have been born. But I couldn’t have lived this long if I kept feeling that way about myself. And I don’t think you could’ve, either.”

Her face reddened, and her hands throbbed as they fell to her sides.

“Conceal,” she told herself, swallowing. “Don’t feel.”

“What was that?”

She blinked and stared at him, her lips parting but unable to form a reply.

“Don’t let it show.”

“Elsa?”

Snow fell lightly at first, and then all around them as if in a waking dream, and she gripped the sides of her dress tight enough to cause tears in the fabric.

Conceal, she heard the mantra again, don’t feel.

“What are you saying?”

Don’t let it show, she finished, silently mouthing the words.

Through the snow, the prince’s hand reached out to the side of the arch, forcing itself into the barbed stems.

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show.

He plucked a single rose from the bush.

“Elsa.”

His voice was, at first, intermingled with her father’s, and she found it hard to focus on him through the snowdrifts, her vision obscured.

“Come back, Elsa.”

The second time she heard her name it was clearer, and as she squinted, the drifts began to dissipate.

“I’m here.”

All at once, the snow was suspended in the air, and she could clearly hear – and see – the prince in front of her, holding a single red rose. At his side, his right hand hung loosely, blood trickling from the fingers down into the earth.

She gasped at the sight, instinctively seizing the injured hand and tearing one of her gloves off, wrapping it around his pricked fingers and palm, pressing there. The snow that was suspended, as well as the drifts that covered the earth, disappeared. His skin was hot to touch.

“What were you thinking?” she exclaimed, her face still pale from shock. “You know they have thorns.”

He stood in stunned silence watching her tend to him, her thumbs pressing upon the uncovered skin of his wrist.

“Elsa, you…” he managed before growing quiet again, allowing her to focus.

She glanced up at his red face. “What? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

He gaped at her, fish-like, before closing his mouth, suppressing a larger smile.

“No,” he replied softly. “I suppose I was trying to prove something, but… clearly, I just ended up making a fool out of myself.”

Some color returned to her face, and her grip on him relaxed a little. “Yes, you did,” she agreed, not looking at him.

He nodded, looking down at his hand still in hers. “I see that now,” he said, and her blush deepened. “But what about your glove?”

The queen realized what she had done, and almost recoiled from him in surprise. “I—I’ll just have it washed when I get back. I’ll tell Gerda I tripped.”

“Thank you, Elsa,” the prince said, bowing his head. “I really am grateful.”

She nodded in return, a hot tremor coursing through her hand as it finally let go of his. She caught sight of the rose still in his right hand, and pursed her lips. “You’d better let go of that, before you hurt your other hand.”

He followed her look and examined the flower in question before carefully inserting it into the chest pocket of his jacket. “There, that’s better.”

Her brow rose. “Really?”

He shrugged. “It’s a waste to throw away such a beautiful thing, even if it can hurt me.”

She blushed at the long look from the prince that accompanied his remark, and crossed her arms.

“You’re incredibly unsubtle,” she told him, frowning. “It’s very irritating.”

“Then I shall strive to be cleverer with my innuendos,” he said, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t want you to get sick of me—not just yet, anyway.” His humorous expression dissolved as he regarded her for a minute, and then his gaze returned to the glove covering his left hand, the light between the arches casting striped patterns across the stained fabric.

“It seems as though the bleeding has stopped,” he said, and unfurled it from his fingers. “Are you sure you want it back? I’m happy to clean it for you, and return it in a more presentable condition.”

She snatched the glove from his hand. “No, thank you,” she snapped, and then added more gently: “It’s just something I need to take care of on my own.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot,” the prince observed. “Needing to handle things, alone.” He continued before she could interrupt him. “And I understand that, since I’ve often thought that I had to do the same. But…”

The queen swallowed. “But?”

He smiled. “Perhaps we can rely on each other.” He glanced down at his thorn-pricked hand, and then up at her again. “It certainly paid off for me, today.”

She clutched the bloodied glove. “You’re asking a lot of me.”

He nodded. “I know. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you were capable of it.”

Her blush faded as she stared at the rose in his pocket. “I just… don’t understand why you do.”

He cradled his injured hand thoughtfully. “Because you don’t see what I see in you.”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted, and pressed the stained glove against her stomach, her grip relaxing. Her eyes met his in the next moment, and a deep, unbidden desire was spoken.

“But I want to.”

»» —— ««

She returned to her bedroom a little while later by the same winding route she had taken to go outdoors, her sullied glove balled up in her bare left hand and pressed to her side, out of sight. She exhaled with relief once inside her door, quickly changing out of her torn dress and laying the glove on a side table.

“Your Majesty?”

She held back a sigh at the sound of her trusted steward’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Yes, Kai?”

“May we speak for a minute? I know you still have a many meetings ahead of you today, so I won’t be long.”

She grabbed the dirtied glove from the table and hid it behind her back as she opened the door, waving him in. “Come in,” she said, and nodded at the guards outside to close the doors behind him.

Her brow furrowed a little upon observing his tense expression and bearing, unused to seeing him so concerned. “Is everything all right?”

His lip twitched. “Well, Your Majesty, I heard a slightly… worrying report just now, from one of the kitchen staff.”

The queen’s eyes snapped open. “Oh?” she asked, trying to appear nonplussed. “What did they say?”

The steward’s gaze grew more pointed. “That they saw you going out the back door to the rose garden. They said it looked as if you were meeting someone down the hidden lane to the wood gate—the one your mother and father used to use, when they walked there together.”

At her twitching features, he continued: “The maid who looks after the guestrooms also mentioned that she saw Prince Hans go out not long before then into the same garden, before she lost sight of him.” He paused. “I was surprised to hear this, since I thought you were going on a walk with Princess Anna this afternoon.”

She frowned. “Are you having me followed?”

The steward was mortified by the accusation. “No, of course not, Your Majesty; I wouldn’t dare. I assure you that these reports came in to me independently, completely of the staff’s volition. I gave no orders to them.”

Her stare was still suspicious. “Fine. But what is your purpose in coming to me with these reports? What business is it of theirs, or yours, where or with whom I choose to take an afternoon walk?”

The older man rose to meet her eyes again, and swallowed. “Well, Your Majesty, as you know, your father charged me with looking after your personal well-being before he passed, and so I feel that I must speak up when I observe something that may… endanger your health and happiness.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Endanger my health and happiness.”

“Yes,” he affirmed, his posture more assured. “In this case, endangered by getting too close to a certain southern prince.” At her annoyed look, he continued: “You remember the many months we spent discussing the fires in the Isles, and their curious origins—the research you sent me to do, and that you did in turn about the prince’s family, as well as him? And now suddenly he is here as a valued guest, at the princess’s side during many social events, at family meals, and with you on private walks of the rose garden.”

His lips curled. “You know, Your Majesty, that innocent or not, he is a man of ill repute in his own lands, and is seen as suspect here in your own court, as well. There are already some rumors around him and the princess, and should word reach our guests of your meeting with him today…”

He paused at seeing his queen’s face grow more and more twisted with anger, but went on to conclude: “I can see how his appearance and manners would be charming to you both, and can understand the temptation to overlook his dubious character. But, respectfully, I do not think it wise for you and the princess to associate yourselves further with this young man, Your Majesty.”

The room crackled with an invisible energy, the queen’s power barely contained as she remained silent, her fingernails digging into her palms.

Don’t feel.

She almost spat at the words as they filled the empty air, her seething breaths cold as she swallowed them down.

Don’t let it show.

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Before my father left on his last journey, he told me to be strong—for myself, as well as for Anna. I told him I would try in order to please him, assuming that he and my mother would be back in a few weeks.” Her expression grew dark. “I thought I could go on as I was, keeping to myself, believing Anna was better off on her own.”

She stopped for a beat, feeling her fingernails draw blood from her palms. “But I was wrong, Kai; they never came back, and Anna was left without parents, and without a sister.” Her eyes were as hard as coals. “But now I am queen, and I must protect her. And I can tell the difference between good and ill intent well enough myself.”

He swallowed again. “Your Majesty, I’m not questioning your judgment. I know you’re—”

“Good,” she interrupted, smiling thinly. “Thank you, Kai. I appreciate your concern. You can go, now.”

He was taken aback by the abrupt cut off, and even shorter dismissal; nonetheless, he bowed, and made his way towards the door. “I’ll see you this evening, Your Majesty,” he said, and left.

Alone, the queen’s hands finally relaxed, and she exhaled through her mouth, sliding down the side of her bedpost to the carpet. Closing her eyes, she lifted her left glove until it was propped up atop bent knees, her heart still racing.

When she opened them again, she saw that the blood from her palms had become intermingled with the prince’s on the fabric.

#helsa #QueenoftheAshesFrozen #frozen #frozen fanfiction #helsaweek 2020

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arcturusblackiii · 5 years

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Title: If you take on weight of the world you will inevitably end on your knees (but if you share it you can still stand)

Fandom: Harry Potter Wordcount: 4012 Category: Gen Warnings: Suicide, implied/referenced self-harm, referenced child abuse Rating: Teen Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black Characters: Regulus Black, Sirius Black Summary:

Regulus's insomnia's been acting up. Between the pressure of the house and being heir and the crushing feeling of abandonment from Sirius leaving him he's starting to crack under the weight. After a particularly bad day, he learns of some 7th years sneaking some firewhiskey from hogsmead in and he buys some off them for far more than its worth, and gets drunk.

He decides to approach Sirius. He isn't exactly sure why he does it. To start a fight, to see Sirius's face, to yell at Sirius, to yell at James, he doesn't know. But he does. Everything is loud any everyone is so so angry and something already cracking at the edges shatters and he has his wand to his head and he's sobbing and he knows without a doubt that he wants to die.

But his wand is torn from his hand by a frantic Expellimarius, and Sirius crushes him into a hug.

Tags:

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Suicide Attempt, Discussion of suicide, alot of that in general, Child Abuse, Underage Drinking, Cuddling & Snuggling

For @youurelovely

Regulus hadn't slept more than 15 hours combined in a week. He was lightheaded and he could taste sound and colors were loud.

Everything was very fast and very slow simultaneously.

He doubted he had ever been this sleep deprived in his life.

Close, but not this bad.

…

He missed Sirius.

He missed being able to make eye contact with him across the hall and he missed his smile and he missed their stupid rituals and jokes and he even missed Sirius's annoying habit of messing up his hair and he missed his brother.

He hated Remus and Peter.

He loathed James.

He loathed James for taking his brother away. For stealing the one stable thing in his life and leaving him behind to suffer.

(Not that Sirius was very stable, and not that everything else was predictable, but Sirius had always been there)

He loathed James for ruining his life and taking his brother.

For changing Sirius then stealing him.

He hated James for becoming Sirius's new brother.

He hated Sirius for leaving.

He hated Sirius for abandoning him to their parents.

He hated Sirius for yelling at him when he begged him to stay.

He hated Sirius.

He loved Sirius because Sirius was the only person who ever loved him enough to care about him over appearance to the public.

(The only person he's allowed to think about ever loving him that much. Andromeda made her choice and abandoned them all.)

He loved Sirius because of the halfhearted smiles in the morning when they knew Walburga was angry. The mutual understanding of ‘yeah, we’re probably not going to get through today unscathed.’

He loved Sirius for when he hugged him and promised everything would be okay. Just a few more years and they would be free.

Just a few more years and they could leave.

He loved Sirius for the stability he provided, for the smiles in their dysfunctional home, because no matter how terrible things got, no matter how bleak everything seems, he was always there.

Because he was permanent.

Because they knew that they were in this together.

Because they knew that no matter what happened, they were still brothers.

He loved Sirius for caring.

He loved Sirius.

He loved his Sirius.

Not James’ Sirius.

Who glared at him across the hall and abandoned him.

He hated that Sirius for proving to him he didn't care.

That even after everything they had been through, all the promises of staying together, all the smiles and hugs, that even after all of that, he was still as easy to discard as an old robe.

He hated him for leaving his old family, his old brother, his old best friend, for them.

For James, Remus, and Peter.

Leaving him behind in a life discarded alone.

Leaving him alone with the weight of the world and the House on his shoulders and shattering the only semblance of stability he had left.

Sending him careening off the edge into an endless sea of Walburga's anger and Orion’s indifference and the expectations of a thousand generations.

Abandoning him.

(Just like Andromeda. Just like everyone else who ever cared about him.)

Regulus had gotten drunk.

It had been a bad day.

It had been a really really bad day.

He had had an anxiety attack over an assignment the night before and hadn't been able to sleep (as usual. When could he ever sleep? What nights didn't he lay there overthinking assignments and his duties to his family, what nights could he fall asleep without fearing the morning, what nights could he ever sleep easy?)

He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

He was being pulled in a million directions by a million waves and he had lost his anchor in the storm.

When some 7th years smuggled in some firewhiskey, he didn't even really hesitate when he bought some off them.

He didn't care as he paid far more money than it was worth.

He just craved the possibility of relief from the endless thoughts swirling through his brain.

(Sirius would sneak off to muggle bars when everything was too much, he tried not to think about it.)

He drank too much.

By the time a little less than a third of the bottle was empty he just wanted everything to end.

He didn't care.

He just wanted this to end.

He just wanted to feel something other than existential terror and angry loneliness and the loathing of everything he had become.

He just wanted things to go back to how they were and he just wanted a brother again.

He sought out Sirius.

He doesn't know how he found him or even what part of the castle he was in, he just remembered finding him.

Maybe he asked someone, maybe he didn't.

Maybe he somehow found him through magic. Regulus doesn't know and he doesn't really care.

He doesn't remember much of what he said.

Bits and pieces of him screaming at James and Remus and Peter for taking Sirius and Sirius screaming right back about how he left of his own free will and how he tried to stop him.

He doesn't remember what he was saying or what was said. Everything blurred into screaming anger.

Just anger.

Because everything in his life can be traced back to anger.

He was born into a raging fire, and he was so, so tired of the burn.

Regulus remembers the moment he realized this was a bad idea.

Remembers hearing Sirius's voice mixed with the others voices and the screaming mixing into a cacophonous blur of sound and despair.

He remembers the feeling of hopeless sadness and he remembers feeling the tears burning behind his eyes long before he stopped screaming and he remembers when the mental scale tipped and he remembers sobbing.

He vaguely remembers Remus (or was it James or Peter?) trying to deescalate the situation and he remembers feeling tears burn into his eyes as he remembers that Sirius hates him and no matter what he does nothing will change that.

This certainly won't.

And everything goes fuzzy for awhile and he knows he was crying and that Remus was talking to him trying to calm him down and Sirius sounding so angry so bitter.

He remembers feeling like there were shards of shattered glass in his chest because he always spoke about mother in that tone.

He felt like shattered glass. Like broken bottles. Like spilt blood.

He doesn't remember what he said but he does recall Sirius's expression of fear as he said it.

("Who would care if I died anyway- I'm just the worthless spare. The worthless bloody spare—")

Sirius talking, urgent, worried.

(("God damn Regulus— bloody hell what did you do? What did they do to you?"

"Why do you care asshole? You fucking left me! You left me and so who gives a fuck what I did who gives a fuck what they did. It doesn't matter nothing bloody matters—"))

((("Did he do that to himself??" James's eyes were glued to the rows of scabby cuts up Regulus's arm that Sirius had uncovered like he somehow knew they were there. "What the fuck why would he do that? What the fuck!")))

And everything goes blank and he knows later he's blackout drunk and he doesn't care.

He's sobbing and Sirius is standing there talking and trying to calm him down and Regulus can't remember what he's saying but he knows he was angry and that he without a doubt wants to die.

So he's pointing his wand at his head and he knows he's sobbing and Sirius looked terrified and Regulus wanted that.

He wanted that fear.

He wanted Sirius to feel the mindless terror he's felt for months.

And he wanted to die.

He would have cast an exploding jinx but his wand flew out of his hand and across the hall.

And Sirius was hugging him and Regulus wanted to scream because why can't he just die but he was sobbing into Sirius's arms and he was so tired and his head was spinning and Sirius was just mumbling that it was okay he was okay and Regulus clung to him.

He was sobbing and eventually he was just sitting there, trembling and Sirius was still talking an endless stream of words and Regulus could hear his heartbeat and Sirius started to say something and he woke up in the medical wing.

Sirius was in the chair next to him.

Sirius stared at him with an unreadable expression.

Regulus closed his eyes and rolled to face the other direction.

"You’re awake."

"No shit." Regulus mumbled into the pillow. "How observant of you. Why are you here?"

"What do you remember of last night?" Sirius asked with an infuriatingly gentle voice.

"I don't know." Regulus snapped. "Go away. Call mother and father they can scream at me for being an idiot and kill me themselves. They probably already know right? The moment they get here your going to LEAVE ME AGAIN."

If Regulus had been facing Sirius he would have seen him flinch. "Reggie.."

"You left me. You left me with them. Alone."

"I know."

Regulus choked back a bought of hysterical laughter. "You don't have to be here. Just leave. Go be with your new brother and family and leave me behind."

"Regulus.."

"I know you don't want to be here. You're only here because you feel fucking guilt or pity or whatever. I don't need it. Go back to- to James and the others. I don't need you."

"Your arms are covered in cuts and you threatened to blow off your head last night, so clearly you do."

"So what? So fucking what."

"So I care about you, you git."

Regulus couldn't help but flinch. To curl into his arms a bit. "Yeah? You didn't seem like it when you yelled at me before you left."

"I was angry!" Sirius snapped. "And that was months ago-"

"AND YOU LEFT ME WITH THEM." Regulus screamed and he just. Started sobbing. Uncontrollably.

"Fuck. Fuck. God damn it!" Sirius sounded genuinely scared. "Reggie I didn't mean.. God fuck I'm sorry I'm so bloody sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I- fuck fuck." Sirius reached out a hand and Regulus flinched hard when Sirius touched him. Sirius retracted his hand hastily.

He didn't know what to do.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asked desperately. "Or- do you want a hug?" Sirius sounded panicked. "I- god I'm so sorry Regulus."

Madam Pomfrey made him leave about a minute later - he wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.

Sirius and James and Remus and Peter sat in their dorm and Sirius pretended he wasn't crying.

Until he couldn't pretend, and he broke down sobbing into James's arms.

Sirius cried about how bad Orion and Walburga really are and he cried about Regulus being suicidal and how it's his fault (James assured his that it is not.) and then he was just laying on his bed with James laying next to him.

Uneasy conversation struck up about a new topic, and Sirius tried to stay distracted.

Eventually Sirius was fetched by a very worried looking McGonagall.

Regulus had apparently been asking for him.

Sirius very slowly walked into the curtained booth - Madam Pomfrey had lectured him on boundaries and just generally "You can't act like you usually do right now, don't yell at him, don't be a prick, he doesn't need the added stress, etc"

Regulus laid on the bed with a glassy expression.

The moment he saw Sirius he sat up. "..hey." he started. Voice little more than a whisper.

"Hey."

Sirius pulled a chair over and sat down. "So - Poppy talked to me about boundaries and shit or something- what can I and can't I do right now?"

Regulus stared at him with an almost perplexed expression. "..Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"The- what you're doing. It's fake."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Regulus groaned. "Okay fine continue the bullshit."

"What do you need Reggie? I-" the forced calm on his face cracked for a moment. "I don't want-"

"You don't want to upset me like this morning." Regulus finished with a dull expression on his face. "You won't. I'm rather okay at the moment."

"..yeah."

Regulus closed his eyes a moment. "I hate you but I love you and- and everything is really confusing right now. Especially regarding you."

Sirius just looked at him, he looked confused.

"We're supposed to talk. About- our relationship and such." Regulus sounded so formal. The voice he was supposed to use.

"Oh."

"Yeah- and- I don't know. I missed you. You probably didn't miss me-" and then he wasn't formal and the terrified 14 year old shone through.

"I did."

"..oh."

"Fuck Regulus just ask James. The first night I freaked out because the last words I might ever say to you were I hate you."

Regulus hunched over himself a bit. "Oh."

"So yeah I missed you."

"Okay." Regulus murmered. "Can- can you hold my hand? I- touch isn't really great right now but I- want to hold your hand."

Sirius locked their fingers.

Regulus almost leaned into his hand.

His arms had bandages running up them, hidden under his long sleeves.

"I- I really don't want to face mother?” It was almost a question with how he said it. Like he didn't know if he was sure or not. “Thank you by the way. For making them wait on contacting mother and father."

"It's nothing. And you're never going to have to see them again."

"...I have to."

"Nope. They are terrible people - don't argue you know it family loyalty be damned - and if anything McGonagall won't let you near them again. You won't have to face them."

"I'm Heir, Sirius. Grandfather won't allow both of us to escape."

"Then we'll fuck off to America until you turn 17 and then they can't touch you."

"Oh."

Sirius smiled in a way he hadn't smiled at him in so long. Before the fighting over the summer and him running away and the tensions rising in the house exponentially.

Reminiscent of those dreadful mornings when Walburga was ticking down to explosion and they both knew they would be caught in the blast. When he knew things weren't good. When they were in fact rather bad.

But they were in it together after all.

"I love you okay? Just going to make that clear. I love you unconditionally."

"Okay." Regulus's voice was a bit strangled. "I- I do love you back. I just- it hurts a lot that you left."

Sirius squeezed his hand.

"I hate you for leaving." Regulus said quietly. "I don't really want to hate you but I do."

Sirius nodded solemnly. "It's okay."

"It's like- it's like a war in my head I can't just- I can't just forgive you okay? So don't expect me too. I don’t - just don’t want to be angry anymore."

"Then don't be."

"The only other option is sad and that's worse."

Sirius squeezed his hand.

"I'm.. I don't remember almost anything from last night-"

"You were blackout drunk, Reggie."

"I know. Madam Pomfrey told me. She would have yelled if.. If well. If she figured it wasn't a danger to yell at the kid who might slit his wrists."

"Regulus.."

"I mean- it's true. But it's not like I didn't already get yelled at a lot."

"Sorry- I. Sorry."

Regulus laughed shakily. "I deserved it. Storming over and screaming. You should have hexed me. I deserve it."

"Regulus."

"I- I don't remember much other than the screaming really. You should have hexed me."

"Are you saying that out of remorse or because you want to get hurt or some bullshit?"

Regulus exhaled a tad harshly but otherwise didn't respond.

The silence was telling.

"I thought so." Sirius said quietly. "You don't deserve to be hurt Reggie."

"I don't— Just.. Just tell me what happened last night?"

"Okay. What do you remember?"

"I.. I went to find you. I don't remember how but when I did I was yelling at you I think. There was a lot of screaming - what I said and what you said is rather blurry but the point stands. I was very angry. Then.. I just. I remembered that you hate me-"

"I don't"

"-and nothing I can do can fix that. Then I had my wand to my head. I was gonna cast an explosion hex but someone used Expellimarius."

"Remus did."

"And my wand was gone and then- this is really dumb."

"And then?"

"You were hugging me and- mm. You were hugging me."

"Mm?"

"Don't make me say it please."

"Regulus Arcturus Black."

"Look okay this is really juvenile."

"Ooh fancy words."

"I remember I heard your heartbeat and it was calming and I just focused on that and your voice and mmm."

"Reggie,,,"

"I said it was dumb."

"That's adorable."

"Shut up."

"How did I forget how adorable you are?"

"Shut up. I just- shut up."

"Okay Okay fine. Also, I think angry is an understatement Reg. You were threatening to murder James for- For what was it? Stealing me? For stealing me and ruining your life. Something like that. I started shouting back and James too."

"...I remember that kinda."

"You wern't making much sense after the initial accusations. You were shouting and accusing us of things and you send some sort of jinx at Peter? At least I think you were aiming at him. You missed by like, 6 feet. I jeered and Remus pointed out you were drunk.

You flipped out when he said that.

And more spells flew and you switched from anger to sadness real quick. It was like a switch went off in your head and you just started rambling about how worthless everything is and how you should just kill yourself.

Remus started trying to calm you down. I think I was in shock at this point.

At one point you started scratching your arm and well.. I stopped you and then realized that well. I'm sure you remember what your arms look like right now."

"..yeah."

"I started asking you why you did this - I was scared you see. Then you mentioned Walbitcha and Assion and shit and you just sorta spiraled"

"Ah."

"Then you.. Had your want at your head and Remus cast Expellimarius and you just kind of fell apart sobbing and I just pulled you into a hug and you just cried yourself out. I walked you to the medical wing and explained the whole thing."

“Did anyone see?” Regulus’s question had an urgency too it.

“See what?”

“You walking with me.”

“I don't know? Maybe? Why- oh. Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“We can deal with that later, it's- if word got back to them there isn't much we can do anyway. For now, let's just ignore it.”

“But-”

“Any letters from here sent wouldn't have arrived yet regardless, it's a problem for later. And the tabloids can suck it.”

“..Okay.”

“It isn't that important anyway.”

"..okay."

"What's important is that you’re alive."

“I guess.”

"Can we just - talk about your arms a moment? What the fuck Regulus? I haven't seen your arms that fucking bad since, I don't know, maybe when Andromeda left?"

"Don't mention the traitor."

"Yeah well you cried about her last night so call it even.

"I what?"

"Cried about Andromeda. You were a fucking mess."

"...I cut because of just.. I was overwhelmed. That's...that sums up everything the best. I felt like I needed to."

"You don't need to"

"I know."

"I just- fuck Reggie come talk to me next time okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you. Okay?

Regulus kinda teared up a bit.

"Sirius? Um. mm. Can you? Um. Mmph. Nevermind it doesn't matter."

"There we go with the mm again." Sirius smiled weakly. "What's it this time?"

"It's embarrassing."

"Regulus, I can guarantee that I can name at the very least 20 things more embarrassing than what you are about to tell me."

“But-”

“Remember that time at Uncle Pollux and Aunt Druella’s on, who’s birthday was it? Andromeda’s? and you had got your wand, and you-”

“Stop. shut up. No. I made you promise to never bring that up.”

“Mmhm. What is it that you are refusing to say?”

"....can.. Can you just hug me? Like when were kids?"

"Thats not even slightly mortifying, doofus. Of course." Sirius clambered into the bed next to him.

Regulus tried and failed not to flinch.

Sirius immediately went to pull away but Regulus grabbed his wrist. "Please stay."

"Okay." Sirius carefully wrapped an arm around him. "Is this alright?"

"...this is so embarrassing." Regulus laughed a bit hysterically. "I- can? Um. Can you actually hug me? Don't uh. I want you too."

Sirius looked terrified. Like he might break Regulus.

But he moved closer and pulled him into a hug.

Regulus would be lying if he denied the fact he almost snuggled into Sirius's arms.

So he was leaning with his head in the crook of Sirius's neck.

It was nice.

It felt almost surreal.

He hadn't been hugged like this in years. (Since the time he had a breakdown at almost 3am and spent the night in Sirius’s room.)

"I assume you," Sirius laughed to himself. "Want to listen to my heartbeat?"

"Shut up.”

Sirius smiled into Regulus’s hair.

“...can I?”

“Pfft. Yeah.”

“Shut up.”

"Love you too." Sirius mumbled.

The statement sent far more emotions than he was prepared for spiraling through his heart.

Regulus tried to ignore them as he shifted so his head was above Sirus's heart.

Regulus listened to his brothers heartbeat and felt real for the first time in months.

Sirius stroked his hair and Regulus just laid there, eyes closed and breathing.

There were warm arms around him.

A promise of love.

He was safe, right now.

He was safe.

Sirius broke the silence after a long while. "You really scared me." He said slowly. "I.. Seeing you with your wand to your head it- it terrified me. I love you so much okay? I never stopped loving you. Not once."

Regulus's face tightened but he didn't speak. "I did leave you. I'm going to regret that the rest of my life."

"I just.. I miss you." Regulus murmured. "I miss you and I hate you. I hate you for abandoning me and it hurts because I don't want to hate you."

Sirius said nothing.

"I.. I tried a few times. At home. Kreacher stopped me. Tried to uh. Kill myself that is."

"Well shit me not the elf is useful."

Regulus laughed hysterically. He pressed his face into Sirius's shoulder and tried not to show the fact he had tears in his eyes. "He's always useful. He's a good elf."

"This morning," Sirius started. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you-"

"It's not your fault. I- I was angry at myself. For getting drunk and doing this."

"You shouldn't be."

"Okay."

They fell into silence again.

"They haven't contacted mother and father."

"I know."

"You have options, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“On places to stay. You could obviously stay at the Potters with me if you want. Or if you don't want to I'm sure Uncle Alphard will take you, if you, you know want to stay in legitimate inside the house family. Andromeda would take you I'm sure. She has a kid now, a girl named Nymphadora. You’d love her. If not her, maybe Aunt Cedrella.”

"..Yeah"

"You’re never going to have to deal with the parents again."

Regulus squeezed Sirius. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure. How about I tell you about all the drama that happened in potions last week?"

"Okay." Regulus's voice was quiet. "Thank you."

Regulus listened to Sirius drone on about whatever and listened to his heartbeat.

If he tried hard enough he could pretend that none of this happened.

Regulus eventually started crying.

It wasn't sudden. He has been fighting back tears for some while and Sirius eventually sighed. "Reg, I've seen you cry before. A prime example being last night. It's okay."

And Regulus just started crying.

Weeping into Sirius's chest.

"It's gonna be okay Reggie. I promise."

#Sirius Black #Regulus Black #hp fanfic #fanfic #Brothers Black #my fic #my writing #suicide tw #self harm tw #text

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luwianskies · 4 years

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The Party

Excerpt from The Amber Season for a special occasion!

Today is Quinn’s birthday, and they just turning 10 years old. The birthday party the family had set up for them was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen: everything was covered in fall-colored leaves, from the tables to the ceiling lights, from the carpets to the shelves, and even the people there were dressed in autumn splendor. The foyer room was bathed in light of every shade of amber from innumerable candles and hearth fire, giving everything and everyone a warmth rarely seen any other time.

Quinn’s eyes fell in love with the room as they took it all in. The way the light of the candles flickered gold everywhere, the way the hearth cast dark shadows of everyone, the glittering of glasses, brass candelabras and copper dishes, the occasional purple clothes and leaves and wrapped gifts…

The chatter from the family seemed to flicker like the candles, soft and sometimes clinking with laughter. Everything in the room was suffused with the warm smell from the cake at the center of the table: a lemon and poppy seed monstrosity topped with a cinnamon butter icing and glazed with the traditional family-made golden maple syrup, unique in the world.

Quinn’s eyes searched the room for a moment, looking for their favorite cousin Annabelle. Today may be Quinn’s birthday, but in a few hours it would be Annabelle’s. They had both always reveled in their closeness, in person and in time, because it meant that the family often celebrated them together in an all-night party just like this one, and they were allowed to stay up as late as they wanted.

And there she was, close to the hearth and its light, and as was her usual, reading a book. When she looked up to see Quinn, she smiled and abandoned her reading. She ran over and grabbed their hand eagerly, with a look on her face that Quinn knew was one of somebody keeping a secret. She was up to something, and was going to tell them all about it.

It was magical, and Quinn wished they could immortalize this moment. Wished they could bottle it and carry it around with them forever, to be looked at in hard and sad times and remember a happier one…

Three strong knocks on the common room doors resounded suddenly, and everyone inside froze.

Quinn did not understand why, but they did understand the tension that filled the room. It was the kind of tension that adults exuded when there was something upsetting to them near, but that they did not want to face. Quinn and Annabelle tightened their grips on each other’s hands.

Another three knocks, stronger this time.

Nobody moved, but whispers were popping up everywhere around them. Some sounded annoyed, some alarmed. But most sounded disbelieving. Quinn and Annabelle sneaked between the family around them, looking for a good angle to spy on the doors.

The last three knocks sounded pounding, resonating in wood and stone.

Everyone was moving now, some out of the way of the doors, others to them. Most just paced on the spot, nervous but unsure what to do. Quinn and Annabelle took advantage of the confusion to change spots again, dodging the quick walks of the adults as they put themselves in place for a full view of the doors.

And when they opened with a deep and loud crack to let in a cool gust, the figure that came in was the most beautiful Quinn had ever seen.

The wide shoulders were draped in a vest of felt leaves, each one colored like its own little sunset. The warm browns of the rest of the clothes brightened them like flames, and the copper hair that fell over the leaves framed a golden face with eyes shadowed in bronze.

The sound of the flat leather boots on the stone floor seemed to silence the room again as this glorious woman walked in further. It soon became obvious that she was also tall, and her every step was one of shameless confidence.

Quinn recognized the flamboyance of the leaves of the vest: only their family’s sunset maples made such a riot of color on each leaf. Was this a relative? They felt as if they should recognize her, but couldn’t. If only they could get a better look at her face…

Her stride took her straight to Quinn’s grandparents, whose faces said they knew who this was, but could not believe she was there. Whispers among the family had started up again, but none were clear enough for Quinn to make out save for a small “Is that really-?”, “It must be, how else could-”.

She stopped in front of them, close to where Quinn and Annabelle had hid themselves off to the side of the hearth. The rich and smoky voice of the woman only added to her appeal when she spoke:

“Good evening everyone.” she said lowly, “And what a lovely evening it is.”

Their grandmother’s disbelief seemed to fade a little, but before she could speak their grandfather cut in.

“Get out. You made your choice. This night is for the girls.”

Quinn bristled at being called a girl again, but as always, did not know why.

“Then it’s mine too, isn’t it?” she replied playfully, “Or have you changed your mind about me yet again?”

His face burned red, but she had moved on before he could speak again.

“And where are the young ones whose day has come again this year?” she said assertively as she scanned the room, “I have gifts to give and goodwill to pass along…”

Quinn unthinkingly moved away from their hiding spot then, Annabelle in tow. The woman’s eyes set on them both instantly, and her smile was warm, playful…and a little sad. Quinn didn’t know what could produce such a combination of emotions on a face, but they felt compelled to approach her, to want to comfort her. When all three of them stood together in front of the hearth fire she knelt to bring herself to their eye-level, and Quinn noticed her eyes were the same warm brown as her clothes. Everything about her was warm.

Behind her, their grandfather’s weak protests were shushed by their grandmother. He tried to argue with her quietly, hissing throughout.

None of it mattered to the three of them together. She had eyes and ears only for Quinn and Annabelle, and them for her. Then, seemingly out of thin air, she held before her two packages, one for each of them.

“Happy birthday to you both. I won’t be staying, so hold on to these. They are for you, and only you.”

The gifts, they noticed as they picked them up from her hands, were wrapped in dried leaves instead of paper and held together by nothing but hemp cord. Annabelle picked up hers first, and thanked her cheerfully. She did not, however, open it just yet. It was technically not her birthday yet, and she had always been the patient one between the two of them.

“They will protect you, as long as you wear them.” The beautiful woman said as she put her hand gently over Annabelle’s, “Just remember that they will do so best when you let your fear fall away.”

Even Annabelle knew what she said was important, even if she didn’t know how yet. She nodded her understanding while Quinn wondered at the idea of Annabelle being afraid. No one was as fearless as their favorite cousin. It’s why they got along so well, with Quinn boldly throwing themselves at everything right along with her.

Quinn’s pondering of this idea was cut short by the woman’s eyes shifting to Quinn’s own, and they were again hit with the vague feeling of knowing that face, but still not being able to place her in their mind.

She smiled wider then, seemingly knowing what they were thinking. The sadness in her eyes came forward in her expression as she told them softly: “I know what you see, Quinn.”

“But”, they said as softly, “I don’t.”

If they could just stare at that face long enough they would figure it out, they were sure of it. If they could just…

“You will.” she promised, “Until then, take this, and show the world everything you can see. Because someday, the world will see you. And when you are ready, they will see you as I do.”

Her hand was warm on Quinn’s as she said this, but the entirety of their focus was now on her eyes. They made Quinn feel like they’d been spotted, caught red-handed, pointed out from the background. Felt seen.

“I see you Quinn. I see you under the layers of girl that everyone else puts on you. Under all the woman they will expect you to be, I see you.”

For an infinite moment, there was not enough air. She could see it, she could see it, and she knew…

And in that warm hand and sad smile was a softness, an understanding that Quinn had longed for but had never found, not even from Annabelle.

Their vision suddenly started to blur as they stared back into her eyes. Why was their vision blurry?

There were tears in their eyes. Embarrassed, Quinn lifted a hand to wipe them away—

“What, why is she crying?” Quinn heard their grandfather howl, “What did you do?! How dare you!”

They jumped at the sound of his voice, booming and angry. It sent the room into a frenzy of voices from the rest of the family, a cacophonous confusion.

Despite this, and before Quinn could even think to say anything in protest, the beautiful woman rose to her full height, and turned to their grandfather.

His gaze had always been a frightful thing to Quinn, but she stood tall and still against even his loudest shouts.

“Show them what you see, Quinn,” she said to them over her shoulder, “Show them all.”

“ENOUGH!” he shouted “You’ll—“

The hearth fire suddenly blazed, momentarily lighting the room bright as day. The family yelled their surprised alarm and in the flames a second later there was…

There was…a figure. There was a person in the fire, a person with clothes that seemed made of flames, the tallest person Quinn had ever seen. The shape of them beyond that was hazy, and Quinn could barely make out that they were still standing on the stone of the hearth itself, and that in one hand they carried what looked like a long, long fiery spear. Their other hand was open and outstretched in front of them, waiting patiently.

In the chaos of light and noise the woman stood still, unmoved by the sudden roar of fire behind her. But their grandfather was not, and he stared fearfully at the tall figure, while their grandmother looked surprised, but only uncertain.

And then the woman turned to the figure without a hint of fear, put her hand in theirs, and vanished with them into the flames.

And on her face as she did, was the happiest smile Quinn has ever seen.

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

Tah-dah! This excerpt is dedicated to @theticklishpear for their birthday! Thank you for all your help and support! I wish you the happiest birthday and a chance to rest and relax amidst the chaos of the world today. <3

(This thing is terrible and soooooo rough but I’ve been editing it TO HELL for a while. Can’t bake a cake if you won’t stop mixing it!)

#the amber season #excerpt #birthday gift

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cinnabea · 5 years

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ahhh idk man, I don’t think fic threads are for me. I wrote this one though, it’s a little oceanic bkdk deku whump (you’re shocked, I know.) Posted it in full below the cut for easier tumblin, but the format/pacing is tweet-sized. Don’t think I’ll wind up putting it on ao3 unless it becomes part of a drabble collection or something.

Fff it’s sad hours today so I wrote this incredibly indulgent thing! enjoy

The rain beat down in icy sheets, near indistinguishable from the murky gray saltwater it ended up in. Visibility was low, tensions were high and time was running out.

“Bakugou-chan, not yet, kero.”

Frog girl was pulling back on Katsuki’s elbow, but he barely felt it through the numbness spreading across his entire body. He perched on the edge of the slick, rocky outcropping, scowling down at the violent water churning below.

It was supposed to just be a standard publicity appearance. A few local heroes posing for photos with a Coast Guard rep, a brief presentation on riptide safety, some autographs and home by dinner. Dinner that Katsuki was making.

It wasn’t supposed to be a live demonstration.

“I thought this was your specialty,” he bit back. He dipped down into his unlimited anger reserves, trying to apply it like a balm over his fraying nerves.

She shook her head, the droplets that flew off quickly replaced by more. “The tide is too high. I can’t get to him.”

“It’s not gonna get any fuckin’ lower with this storm!” Katsuki flailed his arm out over the ocean, gesturing to the maelstrom that had come bearing down on them out of nowhere, a sudden change in the jet stream bringing a torrent of wind and rain right up the coast.

And of course, it wouldn’t have been a problem, would have proceeded as planned, if the last little boy in line for autographs hadn’t slipped right off the pier into the choppy water, swept away before anyone could register it had even happened.

Luckily for the UA graduates their aquatic expert was with them that day. Unluckily she was already back at the van.

So Deku was the one that went into the water.

It had happened so fast - one moment the nerd and the little boy were on the pier, the next they were both gone.

And Katsuki was left behind to stare at the empty space.

Everything was a blur after that.

The boy was found mere minutes later, just down the beach and wedged relatively safely between two rocks above the waterline. Crying, clutching a cream-colored glove in his hands.

Deku was not with him.

“He’ll be okay, kero,” Asui assured Katsuki, gently patting her large fingers against his arm. “He was awake and responding to me. I just need the water to go down or we will both die. Help will be here soon.”

Somewhere below them, trapped in a shoreline cave just under where they had found the child, was the missing fledgling hero. Asui had found him there shortly after she got on the scene. He was alive. But she couldn’t get to him; the swirling rapids keeping him just out of reach.

And he was injured.

Katsuki didn’t know the extent but Asui had called for paramedics the moment she had surfaced. She wouldn’t tell him more than that.

He wasn’t sure he could handle knowing.

The waiting was killing him. His hands were cold and clammy and useless; hardly able to blow anything up and nothing to blow up anyway. This wasn’t what Katsuki was suited for. Anyone else would have been better. But like hell would anyone be able to get Katsuki to stand down.

He had dinner to make.

And a shitty nerd to eat it with.

“Check on him again,” Katsuki growled. He had intended his tone to be an order, commanding. It was anything but.

Still, the girl as his side nodded, crawling down the rocks as only she could, disappearing from view as she rounded the crest.

More waiting.

“Bakugou-chan!” Asui’s voice was high and panicked as she popped back into view. Her large eyes were impossibly wide. “I don’t see him!”

The wet rock disappeared from under Katsuki’s feet. He was in the air, falling, flying; his heartbeat slamming in staccato bursts.

“No, Bakugou-chan!”

It was stupid, it was rash, it was exactly what Deku would have done.

Katsuki thanked whatever higher power at play that he was in full uniform for this event, his gauntlets giving him the raw firepower to blast off the water’s surface as he careened down.

He slammed forward gracelessly, toppling down the slippery rock wall as saltwater assaulted him from every side. For a brief moment, he berated himself for just ending up as another casualty, but then he was soaring over the ocean’s maw into the relative calm cavern beyond.

All at once everything stopped.

Katsuki landed with a thud and the cacophonous roar of the storm and the sea fell away behind him. In front of him, there was only Deku.

“Kacchan,” he whispered.

“You.. idiot,” Katsuki choked out, falling to his knees. Deku was half-submerged in water, pressed tightly under a jagged formation of rock. The green uniform was torn in a dozen places, and there was so, so much red; spilling from the rips and pouring down his face.

“It’s not safe,” Deku murmured, his eyes glazed over. “Water.. can still get here. Keeps pushing me.”

“Of course it’s not fucking safe,” Katsuki said. His numb fingers scrabbled against the rock keeping Deku pinned, trying not to notice how the blood hampered his efforts.

“The boy?”

Katsuki snorted, and it sounded wet. “Brat’s fine. Thanks to you.”

Deku closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank goodness.”

“Oi,” Katsuki barked. “Don’t you fuckin’ go to sleep, asshole.”

A chuckle. A shiver.

Silence.

Katsuki eased Deku out from where he was trapped, quickly pressing a hand down over the flow of red that erupted from his midsection. Icy water lapped at their bodies but Katsuki could only feel the cold that bloomed deep, deep inside of him.

“Kacchan.” His voice was so quiet, hardly rising above his labored breathing. “I have.. to give you something.”

Katsuki’s free hand moved to cover Deku’s mouth.

“We’re not there yet, nerd.”

“Bakugou-chan! Midoriya-chan!”

Asui’s voice echoed in the cavern as she scurried into view along the ceiling, high waves still threatening to dislodge her. Her long tongue snaked forward, wrapping around a stalactite as she swung down to land beside them.

“The storm is passing, the water’s going down, kero,” she croaked. She tapped her long finger against her chin. “Midoriya-chan, you’ve gotten worse.”

Katsuki sucked in a harsh breath. And people thought /he/ was blunt.

It was all another blur after that.

Katsuki loitered as close as possible as the paramedics loaded Deku into the ambulance. He was pale, shivering, and half delirious. But he was alive. And as the adrenaline came crashing down, Katsuki realized how close he had just come to losing his shitty little nerd.

His rival. His friend.

His partner.

Katsuki elbowed the nearest EMT aside as he climbed into the vehicle, ignoring her shout of protest. He hovered directly over Deku’s face, demanding the attention of drifting green eyes.

“Kacchan?”

He pressed a feather-light kiss to cold lips. It wasn’t the first, and god willing it wouldn’t be the last. But Katsuki needed it now more than ever. Deku returned it with as much fervor as he could muster, and Katsuki allowed himself to relax just a fraction.

Before the EMT shooed him away.

“Hey, Kacchan,” Deku called softly over her shoulder. “What’s for dinner?”

Katsuki snorted. At this rate they’d be lucky to get anything other than a shitty hospital meal.

“Anything but seafood.”

#my writing #bkdk #deku whump #bakudeku

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superiordragonlorde · 5 years

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Sweet Meet

April 2: Dreams | Sunflower | Sunshine by Atlas (I listened to this song while writing)

Here we are for day 2 of @kiridekuweek2k19 . I hope you all enjoy!

Eijirou strolled down the sidewalk, attention divided between gazing at the small shops lining the street and his phone.

‘How’s the downtown? Did you check out that cafe Ashido opened up?’ Denki’s text popped up on his screen.

Eijirou’s thumbs tapped out his reply. ‘It’s cute. There are lots of shops. Haven’t found Ashido’s yet. Still looking.’ He looked up in time to avoid running into a sign sitting outside a store’s entrance, advertising homemade pottery. He glanced into the store, catching a brunette standing at a counter surrounded with ceramic pieces. She gave him a cheery wave, pink tinted cheeks bunched from her smile. Eijirou waved back with matching enthusiasm.

He scanned the line of shops again, searching for bright colors.

‘She said it’s the brightest one there,’ Denki’s text helpfully reminded. ‘So look for lots of colors.’

Eijirou huffed a laugh. Their friend, Mina, adored bright colors, even if they tended to clash with one another. He had no doubt that she would pick only the most eye-catching colors she could find for her new cafe.

He turned a corner and almost stopped in mid-step.

Well, this must be it.

The building across the street was saturated in bright pinks. There were pots of brightly colored flowers lining the store, filling the space with neon blues, oranges, purples, greens, and reds. Vines heavy with their own flowers covered the edges of the windows and doorframe. If Eijirou had to be honest, his eyes were starting to hurt a little looking at so many colors.

He crossed the street at a light jog, lips quirked in a smirk as he imagined Mina’s excitement while she’d decorated her shop. If he knew anything about her, then the inside was probably just as colorful as the outside.

He peered into one of the large picture windows. Just as he’d thought, the walls inside were just as pink as the ones outside and covered with various patterns, modern artworks, and paintings and pictures of flowers. Nothing matched, but it was in a charming way that made Eijirou think of overexcited, well-meaning children.

His gaze scanned over the people sitting at bright tables with odd-looking chairs, the display cases filled with delicate pastries, and the small line of people waiting at the counter. It seemed like Mina’s cafe was doing really well so far. Eijirou grinned, proud of his friend.

He was about to turn towards the door and enter, but something different inside captured his attention. Amidst the neon colors and patterns, dark green moved out from behind a customer with a bright, shining smile.

Eijirou’s chest seized and he froze, jaw growing slack. The man with green hair stepped to the side, picking up a cup and heading to an espresso machine. His mouth moved as he talked with a red-and-white haired customer, corners of his lips still curled up in a smile. Freckles bunched and stretched across his cheeks as he spoke. His smile grew wider at something the customer must have said. Then his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his shoulders shook with a laugh Eijirou couldn’t hear.

Oh shit, he’s cute...

Eijirou shook himself and reached for the doorknob. He entered the shop with a small chime of bells signaling his arrival. He slipped into the line, standing behind a shorter woman with long green hair tied into a bow at the end. The man behind the counter handed the first customer his cup with a beaming smile and a chipper farewell. The duo haired man nodded in thanks and headed to a secluded corner table with a well dressed, black-haired woman and a blue-haired man with glasses.

Eijirou continued to wait in line, torn between taking in the cacophonous colors or taking in the dark green, sparkling eyes and spatterings of freckles.

And suddenly, the eyes, freckles, and beaming smile were right in front of him.

“Hi!” the man greeted. Eijirou almost felt his knees give out at the rich baritone that was directed towards him. “Welcome to Pinky’s Cafe. What can I get for you today?”

Eijirou opened his mouth, but his voice was trapped in his throat. The man continued to watch him, his head imperceptibly tilted up to accommodate for the slight height difference. His blinding smile wavered and his brows started to furrow as the silence stretched on between them. Eijirou couldn’t help the fleeting thought of softly smoothing out the crease on his forehead with his thumb.

“Um, sir?” The hesitant inquiry snapped Eijirou out of his stupor enough to realize how much of a dumbstruck fool he must look like.

His face alighted in flames. “Sorry!” he squeaked, cringing at the sound of his voice cracking. “I’ll, uh, I’ll take the... um...” He skimmed over the menu, his brain occupied more on trying to salvage any form of suave normalcy he might have in his embarrassed self than on making a decision. He turned his gaze back to the green-eyed man, clearing his throat before asking, “Is there, uh, anything you’d recommend?”

That had sounded way smoother in his head...

The man hummed in thought, placing his palms on the counter and jutting out his hip as his face morphed into deep concentration. Eijirou swallowed hard. “Well, if you like something bitter, I’d suggest the Acid Riser. It’s pretty much three shots of espresso with coffee. It’s great if you have to pull an allnighter for exams, I should know. But, if you like sweeter drinks, then there’s the Pink Cloud. That’s a mocha with at least four pumps of chocolate. We use strawberry milk too so the foam is pink, that’s how it got its name. There’s also the Minty Morning. That’s a cappuccino with peppermint syrup added in and the milk has green food coloring in it too. It’s really popular around the winter holidays, but since it’s spring, you might not be interested in that right now...” He trailed off, a light dusting of pink highlighting his freckled cheeks. A soft, nervous laugh escaped past his lips. He reached up and brushed some curls out of his face.

Eijirou felt as though his heart would implode.

“I-I’m sorry about that,” the man stammered softly. “I kind of tend to ramble on about stuff sometimes. Uh, so...” He released a strained chuckle, green eyes flicking towards everything but Eijirou.

The redhead was sure that his chest was going to explode with the amount of pressure building inside of it. “What’s your favorite?” he blurted out and immediately inwardly groaned.

That’s it, I’ve ruined any chance of looking cool in front of him.

The man perked a bit at Eijirou’s question and a softer, shyer smile graced his lips. “It’s not on the menu yet, but... I think you’ll really like it.” He spun around, grabbing a cup along the way. Eijirou watched in quiet fascination as the man seemed to glide from place to another. He had to glance away though when the man bent down to grab milk from the small mini fridge on the ground unless he wanted to look like a perverted creep.

When he was finished, the man presented Eijirou with a cup filled to the brim and a bright yellow flower sitting on the foam.

“Woah,” Eijirou breathed, admiring the artwork sitting delicately atop his drink. “How the— This is so cool!” He looked up in time to catch a shining smile that quirked a corner of the man’s mouth. The pink tint had turned into a soft red on his cheeks.

“Thank you. But please, go ahead and try it,” he urged, eyes alight in expectation.

Eijirou hesitated, glancing back down at the foam flower. “But... I don’t want to ruin it.”

The man waved a hand loosely in the air. “If you like it I’ll make you another one. Tell me what you think!” He was practically vibrating, awaiting for Eijirou’s reaction. The redhead hesitated again, taking a few more moments to memorize the design. He finally brought the drink to his lips and took a slow sip.

The hot beverage coated his tongue with a subtle sweetness that reminded him of summer days eating watermelons. There was a small kick of espresso, like the twinge in his chest when he listened to the green-haired man’s laugh, and then a touch of nutmeg at the end that was like a small reminder of warmth in the middle of winter.

“So?” Eijirou’s eyes snapped over and landed on the man’s bright, eager eyes. He leaned on his forearms above the counter, smile outshining the sun itself. “What do you think?”

“I love it!” Eijirou burst out, words scrambling out of his mouth faster than his brain could comprehend. “This is so good! Holy sh— I mean, this stuff, it’s— How did you make this? It’s great! It’s— Wait, what’s it called?”

The man’s smile grew larger and Eijirou felt like he should lean closer, as though whatever he was going to say was a secret only the two of them could share. “I’m calling it Sunflower for right now, but I think I might change it.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

The man’s grin softened and Eijirou half expected himself to melt into a puddle where he stood. The man opened his mouth, prepared to say something, and Eijirou held his breath, excitement bubbling in his chest.

“EIJI!”

Eijirou jumped with a strangled yelp at the boisterous yell. He looked towards the speaker and felt equal amounts of joy and disappointment. Mina stood with her arms raised in the air and a monstrous grin taking hold of her face. She laughed, the sound filling the small cafe, and ran towards him.

Eijirou tensed and took a cautious step back, eyes widening. “Wait, hold on— Coffee, Mina! COFFEE!!”

By some miracle, his friend stopped just a hair’s breadth away from pouncing on him and bounced from foot to foot impatiently until Eijirou had placed his coffee down on the counter. She wasted no time in lunging for him after that.

“I’m so glad you made it!” she cheered, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Man, you are going to love this town. It’s so cute and small. Everyone’s so nice here, and— Oh, and you met the sweetest of them all!” She released Eijirou to gesture to the green-haired man, whose deep red blush made Eijirou’s lungs freeze.

“Did you guys introduce yourselves yet?” Mina asked, then barrelled on before either man could reply. “Of course not, you two are such human disasters. Alright, this here—” she looped an arm around Eijirou’s shoulders— “Is my friend Eijirou Kirishima. And this amazing, sweet guy right here—” she held out a hand to the man behind the counter— “Is Izuku Midoriya.”

The man gave a shy wave before seeming to shake himself and held out a hand. “H-hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

Eijirou was sure his face was matching his hair at this point. He scrambled to grab Izuku’s hand. “Yeah! It’s great to meet you too!”

Izuku chuckled, the sound sharp and shaky from nerves as they shook hands. Eijirou’s throat tightened and his heart somersaulted at the firm grip encasing his hand.

Oh damn, he’s strong. That’s kind of hot...

“Ok, dude,” Mina sang, a wolfish grin twisting up the corners of her mouth. “I think we’re good on introductions.” Eijirou ripped his gaze away from Izuku to Mina, who gave a pointed look at his hand, which still clasped Izuku’s, no longer shaking. Eijirou quickly released it, a bark of laughter forcing itself out of his mouth.

This is it. I’ve officially ruined any of my chances... “Alright, man.” Mina tugged him away to an empty table, saving him from further embarrassment. “You’ve got to let me in on everything! What’s been going on? How’s Kaminari and Sero? Did those two idiots get suspended yet? Wait! Please tell me they didn’t. You know what, tell me about your classes and exams, how did they go? How did that class with that one asshole kid go? What was his name? Momoma? Monama?”

Eijirou twisted around and grabbed his coffee cup before Mina could tug him out of range. He flashed Izuku a small smile. “It was nice to meet you, Midoriya.”

Izuku smiled back, eyes sparkling. “It was really nice to meet you too. I guess I’ll be seeing you around, right?”

Eijirou nodded, chest warming. “Yeah, definitely!”

“Great!” Izuku chirped and Eijirou felt like he was suddenly weightless and floating across the floor as he trailed behind Mina. He collapsed into a bright green chair, biting his lip to keep an excited squeal from slipping out.

Mina leaned across the table, sporting an impish grin as she arched an eyebrow. “Fyi, he’s single.”

The sudden explosion of warmth in his chest combined with his heart flipping and jumping like an acrobat almost made Eijirou call for an ambulance. It didn’t help that Mina’s smothered laughter permeated every corner of her cafe, earning multiple concerned glances from her customers.

At least when I die from embarrassment I’ll be a happy man...

#kiridekuweek2k19 #kirideku #bnha #boku no hero academia #eijirou kirishima #izuku midoriya #mina ashido #denki kaminari #sunflower #my fic #my writing

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