Momentary seizure of love

with a pebble held in my hand (One Direction, Harry/Louis, PG)

2012-06-15T02:55:16Z

Disclaimer: I don't own One Direction--they may own what was left of my dignity? None of this probably happened irl, if you got here by Googling yourself, get the fuck out, also hi can i have concert tickets? Title from Ed Sheeran's Wake Me Up.

Summary: Sure, there are no real consequences here, so it hardly counts as brave, but it doesn't make the words out loud any less terrifying. Louis comes out to Harry.

AN: So I've been working on what started as a Massive Ziam and Larry Coming Out Fic From Hell which turned into a Massive Ziam and Larry Verse From Hell? But this is really just background for it, so I figured I could go ahead and post it; I think it's pretty self-explanatory, but. all you really need to know is my headcanon generally starts Harry/Louis messing around during X Factor and Louis realizing he's gay sort of because of Harry. This is set during the X Factor tour. Fluffy with slight sexuality crisis undertones?

Harry's already huddled under a mound of covers by time Louis gets out of the shower. He's got the duvet pulled over from the second bed, because it's not like they ever use the second bed, they barely even used both of their tiny bunks in the X Factor house because even before, one of them was bound to want a cuddle during the night. Louis thinks, fondly, that Harry's a bit of an idiot-- if he just slept in pajamas like a normal person, he wouldn't even need the extra covers, but he's never been one to actually complain about Harry's nakedness-- it'd be a little counterproductive.

He's not asleep yet, because Louis can see the dulled light coming from his phone, hear his fingers tap against the keyboard lightly. He walks over and slides in next to Harry, wrapping his ankles 'round Harry's as Harry mumbles a "H'lo, Lou," voice low and a little rocky from their earlier performance.

"Who're you texting?" Louis asks, lazily carding his fingers through Harry's curls.

"Tweeting our fans," he corrects, the delighted tone in his voice at just the thought of their fans (!!!!!) mirrored in the smile creeping onto Louis' face. They giggle for a second at the absolute absurdity of it.

Louis bites the inside corner of his lip and asks. "Can we talk, Haz?"

Harry frowns for a second and nods quickly, pulling away just enough to set his phone on the side table before tangling back up with Louis, pressing their foreheads together. "Something wrong?" he says, voice thick and low and eyes green enough to make Louis' heart burst with trust and faith.

He shakes his head. "Nothing wrong, I think I just need to tell you something?"

Harry nods and waits and takes Louis more seriously than he reckons he deserves.

"Something I haven't really...said before?"

The corners of Harry's mouth curve just slightly upward as he laces Louis' fingers in his own, loosely. Sure, there are no real consequences here, so it hardly counts as brave, but it doesn't make the words out loud any less terrifying. It feels a little stupid, because it's just Harry, he's telling, but he knows this isn't really about Harry, or about telling-- he's not even been able to practice saying it to the mirror. But Harry's just nodding and waiting and Louis feels safer than he's ever felt.

He says "I'm gay," and takes a deep breath and buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck and concentrates on how soft the skin there is.

Harry could make a joke here, say something like 'well I'd hope so after last night' and 'my dick in your mouth earlier sort of gave it away, babes'-- it's easy and would break the heavy veil of seriousness, and it's probably what Louis would do--but Harry is wonderful and clever and safe and knows exactly what Louis needs before Louis even knows, and he's likely the best person Louis' ever met.

Instead, he breaths a soft "Yeah, love," pulling him even closer, playing with the soft hairs at the nape of Louis' neck. "M'glad you told me, hmm?"

Louis nods a little and holds on tightly, and he's shaking a little--not really in a bad way though. Because he said it, out loud, he actually managed to form the words in his throat and say them audibly, and he's a little stupidly proud of himself-- sure, it's just Harry, but Harry's important and this felt important, so he figures it counts for something.

"I can't..." he shakes his head. "Nobody else, yet, okay? I know everyone pretty much knows, I just..."

"Hey," Harry says, shaking his head. "You don't have to do anything, Lou," he says, softly like he means it. He hooks a finger under Louis chin, tilting his head up enough that Louis can see him grin. "M'proud of you."

And Louis can feel himself turning red, can feel a grin spreading on his face and his insides squirming, and it's all too much, so he burrows under the covers and hides his face in Harry's chest and mumbles "Soppy bastard," and Harry's laughing loud and clear like he knows Louis means thank you.

so put it in all of the papers (Hunger Games, Finnick/Annie, PG-13)

2012-06-05T02:44:10Z

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Title from Emeli Sande's Read All About It Pt. III

Summary: Finnick reads a poem to his true love in the Capitol.

AN: Fuck Harry Styles for making me aware of this song because now all i do is weep and make it fit all my OTPs because this is what my life has been reduced to. Spoilers through most of Catching Fire.

He thought this would feel good. Or at least better.

He’s imagined this moment probably tens of thousands of millions of times in the past eight years, fantasized about the looks on their grotesque fucking faces as he smiled bright and stood tall and told them about a love that could never would never be theirs.

He’s thought of that love radiating off him in waves, enveloping him in a tight protective twist from their broken-hearted cries of disappointment and wails of protest. Because: when he is with Annie he can move mountains and shake the sky because they are the sea and they are unrelenting and beautiful and powerful as all hell break loose. Sometimes he’ll find her smile in her hidden dark places and it builds something up inside him, something that’s stronger and better and brighter than he realized he could even be, now—she can bring back the parts of him they killed and buried before he even knew she existed because she is brilliant and they are a miracle and he thinks he could tear down cities with Annie’s smile.

So he tries.

He smiles bright and stands tall and stares down and their adoring faces and speaks in stilted awkward stanzas that are beautiful because Annie is beautiful and he tries not to vomit because this is it, it is radiating off his skin every cell of his damn body crying out for her her her and they lap it up and

it feels raw and used, how they take this love and make it their own and he hates them for claiming this too with their manicured claws and sharpened teeth and he hates himself for giving it up and he hates them again for making it the only way to keep her safe.

and he smiles bright and stands tall and thinks of how he’ll gladly watch them burn for her.

i'll walk with you my dear (Hunger Games, Finnick/Annie, PG)

2012-06-05T02:32:17Z

Disclaimer: Not my characters, just borrowing them because I guess I didn't think they had enough emotional torture in the books? Title from Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men.
Summary: Annie divides her life into Before and After; Finnick helps her keep the lines.
AN: I have a handful of these little fics with no real plot that were supposed to be drabbles and ended up much longer in various fandoms, and they probably aren't going to grow actual plots any time soon, so. Might as well post now? Spoilers through CF, but as long as you know who Finnick and Annie are, you're good.

She divides her life into neat little folded sections, separates the different bits with crisp sharp seams that keep it all from mixing. It grounds her to sort out her past in this way--makes it easier to remember she's in the present. Finnick says that's a good thing to remember, and she trusts Finnick, so it must be.

(and if his voice is a little wrecked and his eyes are a little sad, she looks down and pretends not to see and holds his hand tight so he knows she trusts him anyway)

She keeps it simple: first, there is Before. That line is drawn right outside her cave in the arena, an invisible boundary stretching strong and tall into the heavens to keep the screams and blood and dirty rushing water out. She doesn't think about Before, much. Most people think she can't remember it, but she can, and that's half the problem—it’s too easy to mix up Before with After, and Before doesn’t deserve that. She didn’t know very much in Before, but now she can’t ever unknow it so she goes into Before with the things she shouldn’t know then and it’s wrong wrong wrong and

There is After, which she divides like this: Alone and Not Alone.

Alone is not good. Alone is her cave in the arena, all echoes and dark and tight spaces and still not safe. Alone is the flood with its dirt-streaked water, metallic with blood and toxic with screams. Alone is a too big bed and too many blankets that will never be enough to help her disappear.

Not Alone is not good, either, but it’s easier. She doesn’t have to squeeze her eyes shut as tightly if Finnick’s arms are there, or scream as loud to block out the noise if he’s whispering to her.

Alone and Not Alone are harder to keep separate. Sometimes, when Finnick’s not there, she feels him so much anyway that it’s like he’s in Alone with her, except he can’t be, because Alone is alone and it’s not safe, besides. And then sometimes he’ll come to her, and she’ll be Not Alone, but she’s not sure if it’s real, because sometimes she can feel him there when he’s not so she screams and screams and screams until she’s sure—sure because she never can quite get how sharp his voice sounds, the tremor of muscle underneath his skin, so it must really be him.

It’s hard to keep those lines, but Finnick helps. She tells him about the folds of her life one day, though she doesn’t say much about Before because his eyes would get green with sadness if he knew all that, and she thinks they look like the ocean as they are, and that’s nice. But she tells him about the crisp sharp seams, how sometimes the lines blur anyway and she’s not sure. And he buys a long sheet of clean white paper and he holds her hands steady as she bends it into sections, wipes his thumb with hers firmly along the creases.

He sets on the table next to their bed and tells her to focus on her folds when the lines get blurry.

And she thinks, rather selfishly, because this is After: I like it when you’re here.

In his arms, I get weak (One Direction, Harry/Louis, PG)

2012-05-09T02:46:02Z

Disclaimer: Thank fuck I don't own One Direction because they cause me enough emotional pain. If you got here by googling yourself or someone you know, TURN THE FUCK AROUND MAN.
Summary: Five times Harry touched Louis and Louis had some feeling about it. Gen with Harry/Louis-ish undertones
AN: So there's that weird phrasing in More Than This where Louis pauses after "when I see you on the street" that makes "in his arms, I get weak" sound like its own phrase, and my friends were loling about it and I got peer pressured into writing this. Second person because that's all I can write lately, wow.

One.

One minute, you’re going home—it feels inevitable, you expected it, but it still feels like a bit of your heart is breaking. It’s a touch of wounded pride, is all, it’ll heal, but—

You barely have time to let it hurt before you’re being herded back on stage, told to stand with the four other boys, boys you’ve barely seen been and vaguely recognize, but you’ve all got your arms around each other, fingers clinging to t-shirts like hope on bated breath.

And then. And then you’re in a band. You’re going through, you’re still in, and you’re in a band.

You’re all cheering, celebrating, crying a little, if you’re honest with yourselves. Before you really think it through, you’re launching yourself full fucking speed into the arms of one of your new bandmates—you have bandmates!—and you realize, in the back of your head, faintly, that maybe this is a bit weird. But the other boy just laughs, high and a little hysterical—as he wraps his arms around you tightly, walks you both clumsily across the stage.

You press your face against his neck and whisper this’ll be brilliant. When you feel him nod back, something warm blooms in the pit of your stomach like you’ve already won.

Two.

This whole notoriety thing—this fame thing, though it still gives you the chills to think of it that way—it’s a bit strange. A lot strange. For one, you’re not much different than you were before, though admittedly your hair’s a touch better. And for another, everyone seems to think you are that much different. You sit for interviews, and sometimes, they’ll be positively infatuated with you—never mind that you were just five lads kicking around an empty water bottle in a makeshift game of footie before the cameras turned on.

This interviewer’s one of the infatuated ones, you could tell straight off—they’ve got you all packed into one sofa, limbs pressed together and Liam curved around Zayn in a way that might be uncomfortable if you weren’t One Direction, and this guy’s leaning right into your collective space. It’s always a bit awkward when they insert themselves like that, but not unexpected.

So you’re not surprised when he leans right in and rests a hand on your thigh—he’s a bit bolder than most, with his hand up higher, which makes you raise your eyebrows a bit, but it’s not shocking enough to mention.

His hand is gone in a second, he’s not that bold, but Harry—lovely, jealous little Haz—places his own hand in its stead, nodding a little like all’s right now. He gives your leg a pat—a pat!—like he’s claiming something.

You don’t have to turn your head to know Niall’s biting back a laugh on your other side. You’re pressed together so tight, and Niall does everything full body. You can’t blame him; it’s hilarious, it is, and you want to laugh and wrap your arm around Harry, nuzzle into his hair til he blushes for how ridiculous he’s being. But you don’t. you sit still—for once, for now, and lean into him, letting him relax against you.

Three.

It’s all a big laugh, this whole bromance deal. You all start to touch because you’re all tactile people, and somehow, it becomes a thing before you knew there was a thing for it to become-- it’s cuddling on couches and Larry Stylinson and flustering interviewers with your in jokes.

And it’s all good fun, if a bit irritating when it’s suggested that you’re all playing it up for the cameras, from time to time. Because there’s not much that’s just yours in this new life—and that’s fine, that’s wonderful, and none of you would change a thing, honest, wouldn’t trade it—but messing around with the lads is yours. This whole thing is mad, but the boys are mad in a way you understand, that helps you understand the rest.

There’s a camera in front of you, of course, because it’s a day that ends in y, and you’re a bit tired, but it’s alright, isn’t it? You’re next to Harry because you like being next to him. Your arms are linked, your hands resting together, and you lean in towards him as he speaks, because it feels natural, like breathing. Like camera or no, screaming girls or no, this is where you’d like to be.

He smirks and you smile and Liam’s pulling a face somewhere behind him, and you think you’d quite like to stay like this.

Four.

Zayn’s not here, and it’s sort of shocking how awful that feels.

You’ve been apart since this whole thing started, of course, and you’ve lived with Harry separately from the rest of the boys for long enough—you’re not all quite that codependent yet. But you’re not used to being One Direction without Zayn, and it doesn’t quite feel like you are with just the four of you.

So you’re all a bit tetchy without him, and it shows, you think. The way you all drape yourselves onto each other looks like you’re filling in a gap, the flat edges of jokes and quips covering the mumbles that aren’t there.

You’re doing a radio interview, and the DJ’s a bit awkward and a tad intrusive, but nothing remarkable. He asks about love bites, and Liam grabs you a bit like he’s clinging and jokes: “Louis gives me these” and you’re just about to turn the banter on when Harry’s literally and actually jumping on you, nuzzling your neck.

You stumble back into Liam and push Harry off of you just enough, keeping a hold of his arm for a moment anyway. You laugh, and Harry looks pleased; Niall’s losing it, as Niall does, and Liam’s pattering on and trying to finish up the question, as Liam does. It’s—it’s not quite right, you’re still missing a low mumble, but it’s less tense, less on edge, for the time being.

You let Harry go and shake your head to say you twat. He smirks to say you like it.

You smile to say of course I do.

Five.

There are thousands of girls in the crowd screaming for your band.

There are four other boys on stage, your four best mates, your four extra limbs.

You’ve known them for less than two years and you can’t imagine not knowing them, now. It’s been even less than that for the screaming girls—or for the screaming girls like this, anyway, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, but you want it to keep going because you want all of this to keep going. Jumping around like an idiot with your boys and changing lyrics on a dare and impersonating each other and—

It’s all mad. Absolutely mad. Sometimes maybe you think it’s making you mad too, more than you already were. Sometimes you think maybe that’s bad, and sometimes you think maybe it’s good. But mostly you’re content, and mostly you’re mad in a good way, and mostly this is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

You cross the stage like you do every show with the small bit of blocking you’ve got, arm swinging out on instinct as you cross Harry. He reaches his hand out to grab yours, just in passing. His fingers wrap around yours lightly, giving them a quick squeeze.

It’s a small gesture, one he’s given to you countless times before—in interviews, in the car, climbing into your bed at one am because he’s too hyped up to sleep. It’s comfort and normal and grounding in this absolute mess.

You reach your spot with Harry on your right and Liam in front of you and a whole fucking crowd in front of the stage and you sing with your boys.

dreams with happy endings (The Hunger Games, Cato, PG-13)

2012-04-25T03:49:25Z

Disclaimer: Hunger Games = not mine. Title borrowed from TSwift.
Summary: The tricky thing is yesterday we were just children playing soldiers and pretending, dreaming dreams with happy endings. Cato, through the games.
AN: This is second person, as a warning, since I know some aren't a fan. I wrote this as a response to the way Cato was specifically played in the movie, but it doesn't really refer to anything specific in the movie that isn't already specific in the book. Also loosely based off of Taylor Swift's Eyes Open from the movie soundtrack. This is also probably the most violent thing I've ever written, but it's still probably less so than the actual books and movie.

You’re calmer than you expected, at the reaping. You’ve spent the past week with the adrenaline pumping through your veins, rushing and twisting and propelling you forward as you pushed through your final evaluations. You’ve felt the intensity of anticipation fill you up to the very brim, so powerful and raw. Your life has built up to this moment—you’ve talked about it, pictured it, felt its inevitability wrap around you tight like an old security blanket. It’s bubbled inside of you, driven you forward.

But today, you’re calm. Your voice is steady and strong and sure, your head held high, your pace brisk but not eager—just like you practiced. You stand on the stage, and you look forward at the district that bore and raised you, and you are proud and ready and—most of all—sure.

This is the day you were born for.

---

There is a voice in the back of your head that whispers: you were wrong.

You weren’t born to volunteer—you were born for this: skin and bone and muscle weak beneath your hands, twisting and snapping and pulling and breaking at flick of your wrist. You were born for the forest beneath your feet and the sword in your hand and the quickening pulse of your prey as you approach. You were born for the screams and the blood that isn’t your own caked into the lines of your palms, spelling out all the reasons you were right to be sure.

But.

You think--

You were born for this, too:

The way your chest tightens when the rules are changed, when two can win—the beautiful-cold power in the green of Clove’s eye as she hooks her fingers around your wrist and laughs, clear and sharp. The way she whispers well this should make the betting easy—it unfurls the feral anger pumping through your veins, and you think of winning, winning with this little thing, this girl, this lethal creature your district bore like you and raised like you to be sure like you and she is with you she is you together you could be magnificent--

    Clove, on the ground, spread out and skull caved to the side like the granite quarries back home. Blood down her face, her body, your fingertips as you root around to retrieve her knives. Your hand wrapped around hers, squeezing quick and light.

        The rain in heavy sheets soaking your skin so wet you can’t even feel it, the steady beat of your feet slapping against the mud as you run, as the anger takes its rightful place back in your blood.

              Eleven’s eyes on you even as he’s dying, as you’re killing. You don’t look away. Clove for the little girl, Eleven for Clove. You have as much of a right to stare. (you wonder who will take you and who will take them and who—no. you are sure sure sure.)

                    The beasts—the mutts. The running. The blood that’s yours mixed with the blood that isn’t.

You wrap your arm tight around Lover Boy’s neck like you were taught---like you were raised to—and you’re calmer than you expected.

This is the day you were born for.

And birds were singing to calm us down (THG, PG-13, Finnick/Annie)

2012-02-09T05:43:51Z

Disclaimer: Not my characters. I just like making them cry. Title from Laura Marling's My Manic and I.
Summary: "Did you love with Annie right away, Finnick?" "No," he pauses. "She crept up on me." Finnick waits in District 13. Spoilers through most of Mockingjay.

He is placed into a bed and arms are holding him down. He knows he’s stronger than them, could probably break loose, but he doesn’t try very hard.

He thinks in the back of his mind: this has all already happened. He is fourteen years old, and he has just won the Hunger Games. He is bruised and gashed and bone-thin, but the trident still clutched tight in his hand says he is beautiful. He is in the Capitol, safe in the most dangerous of places—he screams to feel the rawness of being alive scratch up his throat until the sedative kicks in.

No. No. That’s not right.

He is twenty-four years old. He has escaped the Quarter Quell. He is in District Thirteen. He has aided and abetted a full scale, honest-to-fuck rebellion, and (so far) lived to tell the tale. He is free as free can be, but--

He scream scream screams for her, for air, for water, for something.

It’s no use.

They have sedatives in District Thirteen, too.
***

1.
When Finnick Odair meets Annie Cresta, he is 14 years old and already a Victor—stripped and hollowed out, cleaned up and made shiny-new. She is 12, impossibly bright, all of four-foot-ten-and-a-quarter, if she’s standing up perfectly straight.

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting on the dock.”

“By yourself?”

“Guess so.”

“I’ll race you to the first buoy and back.”

Annie wins that race because she is the better swimmer; she almost always is. She hits the dock five seconds before him, her smile wide and triumphant. He smiles back because he still thinks he is allowed that much.

(He was wrong, but he never could bring himself to care or stop clinging to that moment for dear life or something like it.)

2.
This is how all hell begins its gentle journey towards breaking loose:

It is the year before Snow will begin regularly sending for Finnick in the Capitol. For now, Annie is young and foolish. Finnick is freshly scarred and righteous. They are 13 and 15 (respectively), and they understand the world with such a fierce assurance that only a young teenager can possess. They were friends—now they are cohorts, partners in treason and dreams.

It is raining that day—not a storm, but the steady kind with heavy, fat droplets. They meet in a cave by the sea— later, he won't remember why that cave or if they planned to meet or if it was by chance, he will just know that they did, and that will be enough.

Finnick’s hair stuck in wet, sloppy curls to his forehead. Annie was barefoot, because she’d worn a hole in her good boots the week before. This matters-- later, this is how he reminds Annie it really happened.

They say things, words that mean nothing and everything, more and less than they could possibly imagine. Words at the Capitol. Bastards. Controlling. Evil.

“I don’t want to go back this year, for the Games,” Finnick is scared. He says it with all the defiance he can muster, but he is scared.

“What if we could run away?” she says, because she is young and because she believes in goodness, still. “Let’s. Let’s swim away,” she giggles, twirls, kicks a pool of water to splash him.

“If only,” his smile is tired and old. She sits on his lap as a child does, because she is a child, and traces the curve of his lips. He kisses her then, short and dry but alive, all the same.

Finnick should have known better, had more of a chance to know better. She could have been safe, maybe, if he had known better. He hopes she has the sense to hate him for it, at least a bit.

3.
There is a woman (there were women and men, endless) once (twice, thrice, a thousand times). He loved her like he ought, with every visible fiber of his being, no more, no less.

She runs the flat of her palm, uncalloused but rough where it counted, down the bare of his chest. Her fingers curl up then down, slowly, scratching tailored nails down to leave a mark that would be erased for the next patron’s clean canvas.

She says: “You, my dear, are immortal.”

He smiles easily with nothing of what he believes and says: “You have no idea.”

The awful part is that it’s true.

4.
Annie’s hair was always tangled, he remembers. Before, in the sea. All salt and clumps when it’s wet, twisted into gritty knots when it’s been out in the sun for a few hours.

He memorizes the feel of it on the train to the Capitol, before they take her, scrub her down, clean it up. He knows this is the last chance he’ll get, so he commits every bump and snag and knot to everlasting memory and begs it stay.

After, when she is fished out of the arena, hollow and dripping with victory, of all things, it is matted and soaked chilling down to her skull, dirty river water still running out the strands, too much for her to soak up. The only salt runs in tear tracks down her face.

He takes her home to the sea—he takes her again and again and again and washes her clean each time. He combs her hair himself with a hand he forces steady. She doesn’t cry or yell, even when he yanks on a knot. It’s the only time she never does, at first.

They say she’s mad.

They say she loved him.

They say he’s a whore, everyone’s but hers.

They say a lot, but they don’t know a damn thing, do they?

5.
Once, after the Capitol’s taken everything they have but each other and Mags’ visits like clockwork for afternoon tea, she asks him why he still lets the Capitol do that.

(That is never given a name in their house, never truly let in to soak through the imagined safety of its walls. He’s not sure if it’s for Annie’s sake or his own.)

“They’ll kill you.”

“But Finnick, I’m half dead already.”

He thinks but that means you’re half alive and maybe I’m the mad one.

***
He feels the weight on his bed, the hands on his shoulders and he thinks let me die, already. He hears his name, and he is awake, and he thinks as truly as he’s ever thought anything this is cruel.

Katniss says: “They’ve gone to the Capitol to rescue them.”

He’s not sure if this is hope or its opposite, but either way; something knotted tight and tangled unfurls inside him.

Like Paper Planes and Playground Games (Hunger Games, Annie Cresta, PG)

2011-04-30T20:22:23Z

Disclaimer: Not my books. Title from Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed.
Summary: Five things you didn't know about Annie Cresta. These are the important bits, she thinks, or at least the special ones, so don't tell. Peripheral Finnick/Annie.
AN: This is really, really indulgent. I really, really love Annie. All, like, five lines of her. And I wanted an Annie story that wasn't entirely a love story about Finnick, though they're tangled up enough that he's in here plenty. Also, feel free to point out anything that doesn't make sense--this is written in the background zorabet and I made up. We got bored and made up a class system for Four and it's probably her fault Annie's mother is a teen mom. #teameverythingissarah'sfault.

One) As a child, Annie Cresta had the luxury of two toys. Her first was a small, fuzzy stuffed bear; Camille Cresta had been 18 years old, on her own for months now with an infant, and just hours past her last reaping. Small and fussy baby Annie had reached for the bear—it was more than they could afford, but Camille managed. It was worth it, because Annie slept with the damn thing til long after it was scraps.

As she grew older, Annie and her mother built up a collection of seashells, carefully considering the odd and the beautiful. It built up this attention for detail— for really seeing things— Annie would learn to highly prize. She’d spend hours rearranging and sorting them and leaving them in different places for her mother to find. When she was nine, she was carefully sorting through her latest finds on the beach when a big, stupid, tanned foot came tripping, stumbling, crashing down, crushing the most delicate shells. She’d glared something wicked as the boy wiped the shards from his feet, laughing out a sorry as he headed off to join his friends.

This is how Annie Cresta first met Finnick Odair.

Two) She likes coffee, and she likes it black.

She tried coffee once before her Games. She’d gone to Finnick’s house, early enough to see him before she had to be at the docks and he had to be on a train for his Capitol visit. He’d been practically inhaling the stuff, and when she’d asked what he was drinking, he’d let her taste it. It was so sickeningly sweet, she’d almost spit it out all over him.

“Sugar makes it taste better,” he’d said, defensively, when she’d given him a Look.

“What, a whole barrel of it? How does it really taste?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

He’d smirked and given her a cup of her own, black as night and practically spilling over the brim. It was bitter and made her wrinkle her nose, but she drank every last drop, just so he couldn’t say I told you so.

Someone had handed her a cup on her Victory tour, an early morning prep session, and she’d sipped it absently, let the bitter aftertaste remind her of a time she was safe—safer

She began asking for it enough that Finnick kept the house stocked with the stuff. It never really made her feel much better for more than a few minutes, but even a few minutes are better than nothing.

Three) She is exactly five feet and one and a quarter inches tall. She found that out when she was 17; she saw it written on her stylist’s notes, before the Games. She’d peaked after he grumbled that she was shorter than he realized.

Finnick is six feet and one half inch tall. She asked him to check with the stylist one time, during her victory tour, in a desperate fit of some sort; she can’t remember why she needed to know so badly. This makes him exactly eleven and three quarter inches taller than her. When he hugs her, her head fits square against the center of his chest; sometimes, he’ll reach down and wrap her legs ‘round his waist like it’s nothing, lifting her up so he can press his forehead against hers. She likes this.

Four) It’s just been Annie and her mother for as long as she can remember—she’s not even really sure who her dad is, though she knows he’s one of the trawler workers; her dark hair had to have come from somewhere, and her mother was born up on the shore, grew up on a small boat captained by her father. Her mother would tell her who her father was, if she asked—she just doesn’t care enough to.

Her mother is sick, when Annie becomes a tribute. By time Annie comes back, she is dead. Finnick tells her gently, like it hurts him to tell her anything else awful. And it does hurt, but she can hardly tell. She was already screaming.

Years later, when the madness and pain are less fresh, she begins to hate the Capitol all over again for this—denying her the chance to really grieve.

Five) She’s not sure if she’s the best swimmer in the district, but she’s always known she has a special knack for it, even for someone from Four. She’s faster than most of the other kids her age, can handle the waves and tides and currents of moving water easier—even Finnick rarely beats her in a race.

Swimming saved her life, when it came down to it. Destroyed it, too—left her gasping and wet to live with the aftermath.

She’ll never tell Finnick this, because it upsets him when she thinks about these things, but it’s sort of like Finnick being so beautiful. He’s more beautiful than anyone else she’s ever seen, and she figures it must be the same for the people in the Capitol, because it saved his life. And then it kept on hurting him.

She watches most of the 74th Games curled up on Mags’ couch. She watches the Starcrossed Lovers, she sees the berries, she focuses in on their clasped hands. She holds her breath as they win and thinks—oh no.

keep your eyes on the trophy (The Hunger Games, PG-13, Gen)

2011-04-20T03:49:37Z

Disclaimer: lol there is clearly no way in hell I wrote Mockingjay. Not mine, don't sue, etc. Title from Lykke Li's "Rich Kid Blues."
Summary: Five things you didn’t know about the victors of the Hunger Games (and maybe you still don't).
AN Rating is for one curse word to be honest. My copies of both The Hunger Games and Catching Fire are being borrowed by other people right now, so there could be factual errors in a few places. Possibly/most likely more Five Things soon because I have a LOT of downtime to think about these things at work.

One) Contrary to what the camera shots of the Annual Hunger Games Victor Viewing Parties would have you believe, they don’t all drink.

Well. They don’t all drink like Haymitch.

Two) They’re not all angry.

At least not at the same things.

Three) Of the 55 living victors before the 74th Hunger Games, approximately 37 vehemently hate Finnick Odair and tell it to the cameras, loud and often. Five take some form of pity on him. Seven are too drunk to care. Five more are crazy. One is Johanna Mason, who can’t make up her mind.

This, of course, is somewhere around 98 percent true half of the time.

Four) It’s not as hard as you think, to sit in a room among people you call friends in some sense of the word as you root for your kids to slaughter theirs.

Actually, no, it is. But it’s not hard to place bets on who won’t make it past the bloodbath. It becomes easy money, after awhile.

Five) They do not understand each other. If anything, they understand that they do not in any way understand. Each of them went into their respective arenas with 23 others and came out alone—this is the one thing they undeniably have in common.

Of course, until those mother fucking berries.

but my blue eyes cannot see (Gen, The Hunger Games, PG)

2011-01-30T02:26:04Z

Disclaimer: Books aren't mine. Title from Lissie's Record Collector.
Summary: Three times Peeta Mellark wondered about Annie Cresta. Mentions of Finnick/Annie, vague references sort of if you squint to Peeta/Katniss. Spoilers through Mockingjay.
AN: All I really have to say is this started out as a drabble about cake and ended up sprawling until it was 3000+ words and I never, ever, ever manage that much non-chaptered writing outside of a creative writing class.

1. When Peeta is 12, he gets to help with the cake for the Victor’s Banquet. His mother hadn’t wanted him to, but he was already better with the frosting than Lukas and Garrett, so his father said he could.

His mother hated the cakes, anyway. Hated that they were always for the children of other districts, hated that Twelve wouldn’t even make a good cake (how do you decorate with coal?), hated delivering the cake for a dinner she’d never be invited to. So his father bakes and he helps iced. Peeta doesn’t mind. It’s quieter that way.

The victor this year is a girl from Four, so the cake is like the sea. Peeta almost thought that was too easy, when his father said they were doing the sea, but he thought of flood in the Games, the way it surged and foamed, the way she had curled and moved with it. He mixes the icing in greens—seafoam and blue-tinted and dark and glassy. He layers them in messy swirls.

His father says it’s beautiful.

It’s not. Peeta doesn’t reckon the sea is, either.

The banquet isn’t for Twelve, but most things aren’t. Peeta goes with his father to take the cake to the Mayor’s. His father exchanges small talk with the Mayor; he hears himself get credit for the icing and smiles quietly. He sits at the table with Madge, the mayor’s daughter—they’re in the same class, but they don’t talk much. Madge doesn’t really talk to anyone, though, but not because she’s snobby, he’s pretty sure. She’s just different. He doesn’t mind it. She talks to him now, though.

“You did the icing?” she asks, her voice so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her.

“I did,” he says. He’s stammering. He hates his stammer. His mother says it’s ugly on a boy like him.

“It’s nice,” she says, and he knows she’s just being polite.

“It’s okay,” he says, giving her a smile. “I know it’s ugly. It’s sort of supposed to be.” He blushes. He doesn’t know how to explain that—but he doesn’t have to. Madge just nods.

“I’m meeting her tonight,” she says, after a long moment. Her is Annie, the Victor, of course. Peeta doesn’t know why she needed to say that when she barely bothers to talk at all. Madge always meets the Victors, is always at the banquets; they’re at her house. She still gets asked by some of the girls about Finnick Odair, even five years later.

“Oh. Are you excited?” he asks, because if nothing else, he’s polite. She just shrugs. He thinks he understands. Annie Cresta is scary in a way even Victors normally aren’t.

Peeta’s watched the Games every year, of course, because everyone has to, but this was the year he turned 12, the year the reaping started to matter for him and for everyone in his class. He’d never really thought about it before, but being able to go into the Games makes watching them different. All the Games before, within a few months the details of it—the deaths, the players, the particularly tragic tales—would all begin to muddle together. A flash of a trident, crying, blood, axes, boys who will kill you then eat out your heart. He doesn’t remember where they all go.

He doesn’t think he’ll forget this year, though. Peeta considers himself an observant boy—from what he can tell, from TV, this wasn’t a very popular Games in the Capitol. The two favorites—the boy and girl from One, who had just started to turn on each other—were both taken out by the flood when the dam broke. Annie wasn’t supposed to win; she’d been just hiding for a good three days at that point. He’d felt sorry for her because she was scared, and that probably meant she was real.

Peeta remembers her floating, remembers the mud and blood mixing together in the water, how sometimes her hair would snag on branches and she’d be caught until she came to her senses and pulled it free. She looked like she could have been dead, except the hovercraft never came. She just kept floating until it was just her and the girl from Five and then---she didn’t.

The other girl had started it, realized they were it; she’d grabbed Annie’s leg. Peeta doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way her eyes changed—alive, but filled with anger and hate and fear. She’d pulled the girl under, held her up just to pull her back down, again and again and again until the canon shot; it mixed horribly with Annie’s screaming. He still sees her eyes in nightmares, sometimes.

The entire district has to go to the ceremony for the Victor. Twelve’s ceremonies are really not anything special, just a few banners in the square while they all gather in a sad excuse for revelry. Jack and Annaliese’s families are seated on small platforms on either side of the stage; Peeta tries not to look at them. The mayor does an introduction, the Victor does her speech, and then it’s done. He’s about follow his mother home when the Mayor stops his family, asking him and his father to please follow him.

The mayor wants to introduce Peeta and his father to the Victor, let her know they made her cake. He thinks she’ll like that. Peeta thinks of her scream, hollow and awful, and wonders if she can really like anything anymore.

She’s small, smaller than he realized even standing in the crowd for her speech. He’s already taller her, if he stands up straight, even though she’s probably four or five years older. She’s thin, not Seam thin, but small, like you could knock her over. Her mentor’s got her by the arm, almost like he’s keeping her steady. Peeta walks up to her as the mayor nudges him forward.

“Hi,” he says. He’s mumbling. When he mumbles at home, his mother yells. “I’m Peeta. I did the frosting. For the cake, at your dinner.” He doesn’t look at her, not directly. He’s seen enough of her in his nightmares.

It’s okay, though, because she doesn’t look at him either. She turns to her mentor, shaking her head so quickly the ends of her hair almost hit Peeta’s face.

“I don’t want to go to the dinner, don’t make me, Finn,” he hears her murmur. Her mentor grabs her face, holding it still. Peeta recognizes him as Finnick Odair; he’s big in person, has muscles you don’t notice on TV. Annie looks like even more of a child next to him.

“You know we can’t cancel, Annie, I asked. It’ll be small, just the mayor’s family, I asked,” Finnick says to her. He looks frantic and sad at the same time. Peeta didn’t notice that on TV, either. Annie makes some horrible, sad sound in the back of her throat, and he can’t stand it anymore.

“It looks like the sea,” he blurts out. Finnick turns to look at him, but Annie doesn’t move. “The cake, I mean, it’s iced like the sea. Or I hope it’s like the sea. I’ve never actually been,” he shrugs.

Finnick just stares at him, but then—Annie turns. It’s quick, and Peeta doesn’t have time to look down, so they lock eyes. The fear is still there, but it’s not scary; it’s a little sad and a little defeated. It reminds him of some of the kids at school, of Katniss Everdeen, hungry and scrounging behind his house. This is almost worse: he couldn’t stand it on Katniss, and he doesn’t like it now.

“No, you couldn’t have really seen it, could you?” she says, finally, voice soft and low. “They wouldn’t let you.” He doesn’t know what to say to that. She grabs his hand and squeezes, slightly, quickly before letting go and turning back to Finnick. “I want to go now. “

Finnick escorts her off the stage then, arm tightly wrapped around Annie’s shoulders. Peeta swears he can see him mouth ‘thank you’ as they walk past.

Peeta nods. He thinks what for, and ignores the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

2. When Peeta is 16, he goes to District Four for the first time. It is his Victory Tour, his and Katniss Everdeen’s. He doesn’t have to worry about how his family’s going to make a cake for Twelve; he knows now the Capitol provides for the Victor’s district. It’s thoughtful of them.

Effie’s not happy. She hasn’t been exactly thrilled most of the tour, but she seems particularly upset about Four. He doesn’t blame her; Four is lovely, and he doubts they’ll get a chance for more than a quick boat tour.

“You’d just think, these two, rising from the coal district, of all places, would deserve a little more…novelty,” She complains to Portia, as she’s doing a last minute fitting on Peeta’s suit for the night’s banquet. “Being shuffled around like this, without the courtesy of even meeting the other victors—it’s uncivilized.

“I met Finnick Odair, once,” Peeta says, idly. Portia stops hemming so abruptly she manages to jab his ankle with a needle. “Ow,” he murmurs, but it’s good-natured; he’s somewhat glad he can still feel pain in one leg, if he’s being honest.

“And how did you manage that?” Portia asks. Her voice sounds careful; he’s not sure why, but wonders for a moment if it has something to do with Katniss and their trouble. Are they not allowed to interact?

“Annie Cresta’s victory tour,” he shrugged. “I met her, too. I did the cake for her banquet. Well, the icing. He was her mentor.”

Portia looks down, murmuring a “yes, of course;” Effie squeals delightedly.

“I hear he’s lovely, I always manage to just miss his appearances in the Capitol,” Effie gives an almost wistful sigh; Peeta just manages to catch Portia’s eye roll. He feels grateful, not for the first time, that she is his stylist. “Is he as charming as he is interviews? That’s how I talked you up to sponsors, you know. I said ‘well, he’s no Finnick Odair, but he has at least 60 percent of the charm!’”

“That’s sweet of you, Effie,” he says. He’s a little earnest about it, because it’s Effie, and really, she does mean it as a compliment. “I only met him for a second, though. Say, have you checked in on Katniss? I know she was worried about walking in her heels for tonight.”

Portia gave him a Look as Effie hurriedly left the room. Peeta shrugged; he’d figure out a way to make it up to Katniss later.

“Why haven’t we met any other Victors, Portia?” he asks, quietly. “I’ve seen Haymitch meet the Victors on their tours ever year. I know he goes to the dinner.”

“There’s a packed schedule this year,” Portia says, tightly. She’s sewing too fast; she stops and takes the last few stitches back.

“Is it because of what happened in Eleven?”

“Peeta—“

“Or…or because of Katniss? Because of how we won?”

“Peeta,” she says it sharply this time. He looks away, a little sheepishly—he didn’t mean to upset Portia, not really. He just wishes someone here would trust him enough to tell him things. But he drops it, and lets Portia work.

“So, Finnick Odair,” she says a few minutes later, glancing up at him. “What did you think of him?”

“He was nice,” he says politely, automatically. He thought for a second, then shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know. I only met him for a second, he was helping Annie. He’s not very…he’s not much like he seems on TV, is he?”

“In my experience, no,” she shakes her head.

“You know him, then?”

“I’ve met him a few times,” she smiles and looks at him like there’s more to that.. “He’s a friend of Cinna’s.”

“Oh,” he feels frustrated, again. There’s that thing, again, that feeling that he’s not being told everything.

“There, perfect,” Portia says, pulling her needle away, standing up. She rubs his arm lightly. “You look handsome.” He gives her a smile, because that much is her doing, no matter what she’s keeping from him.

“Portia? Whatever happened to Annie Cresta? I haven’t seen her at the Games since she won,” he bites his lip. It’s not really like he cares. He doesn’t know her, she barely said two sentences to him. He’s just noticed.

“She’s still here, in Four,” Portia gives him a smile he thinks is sad. “I’ve never met her myself, but if I had to guess, I’d say she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Peeta nods, because that much makes sense. He doesn’t ask but why.

3. When Peeta is 16, he makes Annie Cresta’s wedding cake. Nobody means for that to happen, he’s pretty sure. But they’re letting him out of the hospital now, in small doses, and She won’t be anywhere near the kitchen, so it’s safe. Nobody tells him this, but they don’t have to.

They’re baking, a lot, and he’s not sure why at first—he just knows he wants to help. He can’t tell much anymore, but this he’s pretty sure he can still do. It’s not until he asks to do the frosting that they tell him it’s for Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta’s wedding.

That stops him for a second, because he’s pretty sure something about this is familiar. He remembers Finnick and Annie, and Annie and the sea, and Finnick with Her, but he can’t piece them apart. He insisting on helping; he couldn’t tell you why.

They want a nautical theme, since it’s District Four. He snaps “but that’s too easy,” but the Thirteeners in the kitchen look down at their feet, and the guards look like they might want to bring him back to the hospital—so he shakes his head “never mind” and asks what they were thinking of.

It’s a beautiful cake, in the end. It doesn’t look like it belongs here, underground and surrounded by concrete. This makes him hate it.

He doesn’t go to the ceremony, of course, he’s not trusted enough yet. He watches from the kitchens. He waits. He speaks to Her, and of course that goes horribly. She looks upset; part of him is glad, and part of him thinks (knows?) once upon a time, he would have felt badly about it.

Peeta is not, frankly, in the best of moods after the wedding, after that conversation. He is allowed to sit in the kitchen for a while longer; this is how he sees Finnick Odair.

Finnick doesn’t notice him at first, he can tell. He walks in smiling, calling out. He sounds happy.

“Is anyone still here? I wanted to wrap up a bit of cake for Ann, I know that’s normally hoarding, but it’s a special—“ he cuts himself off and stares at Peeta. His expression drops, a bit. Not by much, but enough to tell. “Oh. Hello. You’re out.”

“For now,” Peeta shrugs. He stares back. “They let me help with the cake.”

“Oh!” Finnick smiled, maybe a real one—Peeta couldn’t be sure. “Thank you, it looked beautiful. Annie loved it. That’s why I came in here, I wanted to sneak her some for later, if there were extras.”

Peeta does not say anything, at first. He stares at Finnick, trying to place his memories of him, trying to place something. And then:

“You’re wearing my suit,” he says. He’s sure he’s right. That Portia’s style—he thinks, fleetingly and gladly, that he feels something like sadness, seeing her style again. Finnick looks at him like he’s confused for a moment before nodding slowly.

“I am,” he says, watching Peeta warily. “It’s from your Victory Tour, we just borrowed it for the wedding. Annie wore one of Katniss’ dresses, a green one,” he says, his voice careful.

Peeta tries to ignore the word Katniss and place Annie instead. He remembers Annie; it’s not pleasant, but he’s sure he’s right.

“Annie,” he echoes. “She’s a victor too. She won the year with the flood, didn’t she? District Four. The sea, that’s easy.”

“Not easy,” Finnick says, quickly; it’s more of a snap. Peeta notices something in his eyes has changed. “But yes. She was.” Peeta thought for a moment longer.

“We’ve met before,” he said, resolutely. Finnick gives him a strange look.

“Of course we have, in the Quell,” he says, slowly. “You remember, Peeta, we were allies—“

“No, I know that,” Peeta shakes his head, dismissively. “Before that, when Annie won. You were with her on her Victory Tour, and we met in Twelve. I made the cake.” Finnick’s silent for a minute or two.

“I hadn’t realized that was you,” he says, finally, quietly. He’s lost somewhere, Peeta can tell. Remembering, or trying not to.

“Did you love her then, Finnick?” he asks, voice steady. “You looked like you might. You held her like you were protecting something. I couldn’t imagine what, then. She was a Victor.”

“I did love her then,” he says it quietly, and he’s not looking directly at Peeta. “And I guess I was. Protecting her.”

“Why?”

“Because she felt like she needed protecting,” he shrugs, like it’s simple. Peeta shakes his head, frustrated.

“No, I meant why do you love her?”

“Because I do,” Finnick said, evenly. “Why do you love Katniss?”

“I don’t,” he scowled, tensing. Finnick raised his eyebrows.

“You protected her,” his voice is careful. “Like I do, with Annie. You’d have died for her, in both arenas. And I’d have held myself under the water along with everyone else, if I had been in there with Annie.”

“Well, I was wrong,” Peeta raises his voice; Finnick doesn’t show it if he notices. “And I don’t. I don’t trust her. How do you…how do you know you’re right, how do you know she’s Annie? How do you know she’s not still in the Games?” He stops, taking a deep breath. “How do you know you won’t kill each other?”

Finnick looks him in the eye before he talks this time.

“Because she’s real, and I’m real,” he says, steady. “We were real before the Games, and we’ll be real after. We’re real. The Games are the trick. “

“They feel real enough when you’ve got a knife in your thigh,” Peeta scowls. Finnick smirks; Peeta doesn’t know why, and it’s infuriating.

“That’s the trick part. It’s easier to believe in them hurting you, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “You’ll learn, kid.”

Peeta stares at him. He wants to protest. He wants to yell at him for calling him kid, after all he’s been through. He wants to ask but how does that mean it’s real?

Instead, he says “go ahead and wrap up some cake. I won’t tell anyone you took it,” and watches Finnick smile, wide and grateful. He doesn’t ask; he’s sure Finnick would give him some ridiculous answer.

He’s sure he would be wrong.

you're not easy to love, no (The Hunger Games, PG-13)

2010-12-07T04:52:12Z

You’re not easy to love, no (five fucked up relationships, courtesy the Capitol)
Pairings: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy/Maysilee Donner, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason/Gale Hawthorne, Prim Everdeen/Rory Hawthorne.
AN: Hunger Games is Suzanne Collins' because I personally ADORE Finnick. Title/lyrics all either from Rihanna's Loud or Rated R. Mainly canon through the whole series (read: spoilers), I just took slight liberties and assumptions and twisted Haymitch's words a bit.

1. you could have been part of a masterpiece, fluid in the breaks was the last to leak
It is Annie Cresta’s first reaping. There are three slips with her name on them in careful script: one tessera each for her mother and herself. The braid in her hair pulls at her scalp and is giving her a headache; her mother’s nervous fingers twisted the strands too tightly.

She doesn’t remember the name of the girl tribute that year, only that she is not Annie Cresta. Hobie Irish, the 13 year old down the street who walks with her to school, is the boy tribute. Annie’s breath catches—and then there is a volunteer.

She knows Finnick Odair from school, but not well; he’s loud and the girls whisper about him. She doesn’t particular care about Odair, and she’s happy Hobie isn’t going—but still: he stands up there and she knows that he is beautiful and cocky and fatally wrong. Something in her stomach turns, and she looks down at the ground, tugging her braid loose.

2. then we danced underneath the candelabra, she takes the lead
These are the things Haymitch Abernathy knows: there are 48 tributes this year. District 12 has not has a victor since the 17th Games. The four of them, three Seam, one Town, are not even half as well-fed as the smallest girl from District 1. Maysilee Donner is beautiful and just as certainly dead as the rest of them.

He takes her hand on the train when nobody’s looking; he knows it doesn’t matter. She humors him, squeezing back like it does.

“You could win,” she tells him. He hates her for this.

“I couldn’t,” he says. He doesn’t tell her she could. He won’t lie to her.

Her hand is warm like praying in his, he thinks.

3. in this California king bed, we’re ten thousand miles apart.
Katniss doesn’t love him, but she is alive. She will never love him, but she will always need him. That was his goal; that he is alive and with her, in any capacity, is a bonus.

He wishes he were as good as they all think he is. He does not: hate Katniss, hate Gale, smash his fist against the wall. He does: stroke her hair through the nightmares, happy as she screams because he is the only one she trusts with this.

It makes him sick: they are together constantly. They kiss and they touch and they stay alive together. But at night, when she screams, lost somewhere in her mind—that’s the closest he gets.

4. and it’s sick that all these battles are what keeps me satisfied
Johanna pushes Gale against the wall; he kisses her, rough, breaking only when she pulls the shirt over his head.

“Like what you see?” He raises an eyebrow, cockily, grabs at her breast like it’s his to grab—it is a poor imitation. She shrugs, yanking his pants down in one swift movement.

“You’re not like him,” she whispers, almost mockingly, breath hot against his lips.

“And you’re not her,” he tugs at her hips, fitting them against his. “She’s good,” he bites her earlobe. It doesn’t sting like it should.

“And she picked him,” she says, rough and low and dirty. “She needs him. Not you.”

“He’s dead,” Gale’s arm wraps around her waist, too tight. “He’s dead and she’s crazy and they still don’t need you.” Johanna pulls back, shoving again.

“Don’t talk about Annie,” she says sharply. She takes his nipple between her thumb and forefinger, twisting hard. “You’re so fucking young.”

“I’m here,” he retorts.

She kisses him.

5. he says, close your eyes, sometimes it helps
Prim watches her sister almost die. And then she watches her almost die again. And again.

She watches her thirst. She watches her hunt. She watches the others, too, and watches for all the things Katniss can’t possibly know.

She watches Peeta, too. Watches him lie and spin stories and save her sister and she thinks—he wouldn’t have to do that, if it were me.

They have been in the arena for one week and three days: Prim would not have lasted that long. She thinks maybe it would be better—over. She is still watching Katniss die, and it raises something awful in the pit of her stomach.

After girl from Two dies, Rory takes her out behind the house and kisses her ‘til she stops shaking. She kisses back because what else? She doesn’t blush. They pull away. Rory goes to find Gale in the forest. Prim milks her goat. He takes her hand later as they watch her sister hide from death.

She feels old. She hopes this doesn’t upset Katniss if she comes home.

takes you in with her crying eyes (Hunger Games, Finnick/Annie, PG-13)

2010-11-14T06:53:14Z

Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Five things Annie Cresta never took for granted.
AN: So this, in my head, takes place in the backstory and...future story zorabet and I have discussed/BSed, but there's nothing in here that really contradicts canon explicitly, so it should be fairly understandable.

There is a thing every child across the districts in Panem knows: if you are lucky enough to have a thing you can undeniably and irrevocably call yours, you take that thing, you dig your nails into it fast and hard, and you never let go.

Here is what every adult in Panem learns with bitter age: there is no thing that is undeniably and irrevocably yours. Not your home, not your children, not your own life. You’re lucky to grasp a few stolen moments of ignorant happiness.

Annie Cresta is lucky. She does not take for granted:

one; the sea.
In her Games, when the water came, she swam because in the water you swim. Her limbs knew what to do faster than she’d know to stop them. It wasn’t like the water at home, though; the sea salt tasted like tears, with the water metallic like blood.

Finnick takes her to the dock when she’s home; she strips down to her panties and jumps in, screaming the sin out.

two; making love.
Annie knows, logically, that she and Finnick have a lot of sex. Desperate and fast and and clinging, slow and sweet and loving. It’s plentiful, to be honest, even factoring in the few months a year Finnick has to be – away. She can tell, though—it will never be enough to fix whatever’s broken inside him.

She tries, anyway. She thinks he knows that.

three; family.
She had a mother. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Then she had Finnick and his world—his father with the warm smile, mother with the welcoming arms, sister with the surprising wit. Old Mags, who might be smarter than anyone else she’s ever met. And Finnick, always Finnick.

Her mother was gone, and they took Finnick’s family. But now—
Finnick’s hand rests on her stomach. He whispers softly, “Ann,” and she knows that he knows. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and feels all the ways they love build inside her. She holds tight because soon, they will take this from her too. They always do.

four; quiet.
She can hear their screams, all of them. Johanna Mason’s in the cell next to her’s. She’d only met Johanna once, years before on a victory blurred into memories of tears and Finnick’s arms, but already, she loves her fiercely—they ply the screams from her when she won’t say a word. And Peeta’s in the cell next to Jo—they make him scream, too, not because he knows anything but because (and she can hear this, in the hollow, guttural way he groans) he loves, and they didn’t say he was allowed. She knows that sound.

Between their screams are the others—in their cells, in the arenas past. They mingle and twist together in bloody, righteous cacophony.

There is too much in the noise. She is consumed by it.

five; freedom.
She knows, in some ways, they’ve lost. They’ve lost too much to even keep track of. Homes are in shambles, families are incomplete, even the promise of change doesn’t hold much shine. Annie doesn’t put much trust in authority these days. She trusts herself, and Finnick, and the threads of something, everything, they’ve managed to hold together.

She holds their son in her arms and tries not to think of the future. Or the past. Instead she thinks: This is ours.

going backwards through time(Glam Nation RPF, Adam/Taylor, PG-13)

2010-09-29T03:50:14Z

disclaimer: Taylor, I swear, if you fucking googled yourself TURN THE FUCK AROUND RN. GO PLAY ON TWITTER OR SOMEWHERE NOT HERE. title from robyn's indestructible
notes: taydam. cause it's sofuckingrealomg but mainly because i have the best twitter feed in the world, and i hate when douchebags on the internet or irl make them sad. takes place...idk during tour sometime.

this:

hands on his thighs, rubbing down and over and fucking kneading at tense muscles. He leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes, focusing. It’s not hard—skin on skin, light sheen of sweat in between, warm breath, a wet kiss: open-mouthed. He can feel himself relax against or maybe into the bed. He sighs; he can feel Taylor’s lips curve into a smile against his skin.

“You don’t have to,” Adam’s voice is hoarse: from the shows, from the interviews—from want because he does, he does want. “We can just hang out. Should just hang out.”

“I want to.” More kisses, against his stomach this time. Something flutters in him.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he arches his hips, somewhere between voluntary and not. “You don’t…you’re not, like. My hired mouth. Or whatever. You don’t have to.”

“Adam?” Taylor tilts his head up. Adam lifts his own head to meet Taylor’s eyes. “Shut up. I want to. Let me.”

He lowers his head. Adam settles back down.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Run this thing like a dancehall queen (~Glam Nation RPF, Allison/Orianthi, PG-13)

2010-06-28T05:20:45Z

Disclaimer: LOOK ALLISON'S NOT UNDERAGED ANYMORE I DO WHAT I WANT.
Summary: Adam Lambert gives awesome advice, man. Title from Robyn's Dancehall Queen
Note: This isn't my fault, this is Allison's fault because she is probably definitely doing it with Orianthi oh my God no really #glamnation. Warning this is written like Allison talks, just saying.

Allison’s gotten a lot of advice from Adam Lambert, cause fuck knows the dude’s good at, you know, everything. Yeah, there was the eyeliner, of course, ‘cause, like…obviously, and the time she asked about blow jobs, which was embarrassing, but way better of an option than asking her sister, and Megan hadn’t been around.

This one time, though. She’d bitched to him about the judges over a carton of Karmel Sutra and he’d said: You’ve got that voice, baby girl, you’re good. You’ve just got to take it—and I don’t mean just the song, Al, I mean the music and the whole fuckin’ stage—and you’ve got to make that mother fucker your bitch.

He’d stolen the rest of her ice cream after that, the fucker, but right now: right now, she’s on her knees, fucking killing it and she knows and the whole fucking audience knows it, so maybe they’re even.

She’s on her knees, and she’s wailing, and Ori-- fucking Orianthi, what the fuck, man, because her guitar is, like, it’s sick, she’s awesome—Ori’s fucking killing it too, and it’s like fire or magic or both. Or who the fuck even knows what this is, but it’s like, fucking coursing between them or some shit.

She leans in when Ori leans back, watching and egging on. Allison’s not even sure what the fuck she’s singing anymore, just hitting notes and going and she’s so fucking high—she puts a hand on Ori’s thigh, gets as close as she can, can fucking feel the vibrations from the damn guitar and Jesus this is good.

She looks up and Ori looks down and that fucking guitar, man, she’s still going and it’s—yeah. Yeah. It’s good. She runs her fingers down Ori’s leg, over where the leggings bunch up a bit, and Ori hits this chord and everything about this is fucking insane.

Allison’s still hyped up as fuck after the set’s over. Ori’s in the wings, waiting for the stage to be set up. She grabs Allison by the wrist, but fuck that—Allison grabs her in for a hug, tight and sweaty and gross but, dude, it’s tour, who isn’t? Ori smiles, and:

“Later,” she says, pulling back. She squeezes Allison’s hand, and it’s like…yeah, okay, this could be cool.

“Yeah, girl, later. Later’s…later’s awesome.” Ori lets go, but she’s smiling. Allison goes then, lets Ori go on and goes to, like. Bake Adam cookies or something, because seriously, that. Seriously.

Or maybe she’ll just go Google because, hey, there are some things Adam Lambert can’t teach a girl.

we can conquer this great divide (Idol RPF, Adam/Brad, PG-13)

2010-05-25T07:31:50Z

Disclaimer: I've never even laid claim to Adam's body parts. I don't have a number, even. if you got here by googling yourself, dude, you know where the back button is. Song/Chapter title from Hanson's "The Great Divide."
AN/Summary There was a prompt on the AI kinkmeme asking for an Idol AU where Adam was married and Kris had the crush. I loved the concept, and there's an absolutely lovely fic that's filling it right now, but I became mildly obsessed with the idea of Adam and Brad not breaking up before Idol and instead being married during it, especially when I realized this would be summer of 2008 and heyyy legal gay marriage in California. Everything else is in tact: Kris is married to Katy, Adam auditions for Idol, wants a flaming headdress at Zodiac, etc. This will (hopefully) go through Idol from Hollywood week to finale. I don't know, this is self-indulgent as fuck.

Adam doesn’t mean for his entire life to be a series of fuck yous and societal outcast fuckery, it just sort of happens that way.

California passes gay marriage in May. It doesn’t really feel like it affects him directly, even though the old married couple jokes he and Brad have been getting for the better part of the last two years practically quadrupled. Mainly, it feels like validation of a maybe someday, and that makes him smile enough that he can feel how it matters. Brad’s more political than he is by miles and can’t shut up about it in general, but it doesn’t really shift anything with them. He doesn’t feel like he has to do anything, he just feels warm and content at having the option for the first time. When they make love that night, it’s not a declaration, really, but a promise that’s in their control.

He doesn’t really think about it too much over the summer. Brad rants a lot: about Prop 8, the presidential election, Sarah Palin; he channels it into videos. Adam runs the camera and laughs at the final products, even the jokes he doesn’t entirely get. Adam auditions for Idol: he stands in the stadium during the cattle call for hours, sings for more producers than he could possibly keep track of, and makes it through to the judges, what the fuck. Brad tells him he’s so proud, baby, and doesn’t even laugh when Adam’s voice does that high-pitched squealy thing. Well. He laughs a little, but he apologizes after.

In August, Adam’s back in San Francisco, in front of Randy and Simon and Paula fucking Abdul and the pretty new chick, about to pee his pants and hoping his voice doesn’t crack. He can feel his hand shaking, and all he wants is his eyeliner to hide behind, but he makes it. He comes out of the room giddy but controlling it; he hugs his mom and gives them their nice thrilled camera shot. He calls Brad in the bathroom after he signs about 30 papers and maybe cries a little when he says “Brad, I made it. They let me through, I made it.” Brad says, “Oh my God shut up, oh my God, I told you so, didn’t I tell you?” Adam tilts his head back and laughs as everything shifts and breaks and reassembles inside him.

Of course everything’s going to explode in thirty different ways after that. It’s something he knows in theory but can’t really recognize until after the fact. So a couple weeks later, when it’s late and they’re in bed and Brad kisses his wrist at the pulse point, he doesn’t know it’s going to be a turning point or anything—it’s just nice.

“You’re tense,” Brad says, breaking the quiet. Adam shrugs. Brad kisses the dip of Adam’s collarbone, soft and sticky. Adam feels his eyes flutter shut. “What’re you thinking?”

Adam’s silent for a moment. Brad doesn’t push. Adam’s keenly aware of how Brad’s head fits on his shoulder, against his neck.

“I think,” he starts, words slow and deliberate, “I think sometimes I want too much.”
“You’re allowed to dream, baby.”

“Even when there’s no chance even if hell froze over twice?”

“Is this about the headdress? Because Lee and Carmit are right, honey, it’s kind of stupid.” Adam opens his mouth to protest because Brad hasn’t even seen it, okay, it would have been awesome, but instead he just laughed, relaxing a little. He could feel Brad smile against his neck. “Tell me what you’re dreaming, then.”

“Are you my therapist now?” Adam rolls his eyes.

“Therapist, boyfriend, same thing with us, Oprah,” Brad jabs Adam’s side with his pointer finger, snickering when Adam whines. “Come on, asshole, I had your unnaturally large dick in my mouth twenty minutes ago, give me a dream.”

“We’re trading blow jobs for secrets now?” Adam laughs. Brad rolls his eyes, nudging him again, looking up at him and batting his eyelashes ridiculously. “Fine. Um. I want a record deal, like a real major label one.”

“Lame,” Brad snorts. “You’re going on American fucking Idol, you’re about to make that happen. Oh, no, don’t you dare,” he cuts Adam off before he can even really open his mouth, “You are not going on an I’m too weird for national TV pity fest tonight, sorry. I’ve heard your voice. Next.”

Adam’s quiet for a moment, partially thinking and partially hoping Brad will get bored and move on. Brad traces lazy circles on Adam’s chest, breath warm and real against his skin.

“A house,” he whispers; Brad’s head jerks up just slightly. “I want to buy a house, did you know I haven’t lived in a house since I was eighteen?”

“That’s not so crazy,” Brad says carefully, quietly. “You’ll get a record deal, and you’ll buy a house. You will.”

“I want you in the house with me,” he says, louder and surer than he’d realized. The circles on his chest stop; Brad’s palm is flat and pressed tight against his chest. “I want to buy a house, and I want you to live there with me, not just keep your shoes there.”

Brad kisses up up up his neck, across his jaw, to the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, and then: “I want to marry you.” Brad’s voice is steady, but Adam can feel the tremors through Brad’s hand, straight past his own ribcage. It almost hurts how much he can feel it.

“Yeah?” He pulls Brad’s hand into his own, gripping it hard. Brad pulls back enough to look Adam in the eye: it’s scary and beautiful.
“If you want, too,” Brad’s voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. “We could. If you want.”

Everything building up in him since August, since June, since May, builds up at the edge of his throat; he swallows it back and nods.

“Yeah. I want.” He wants to kiss Brad, but he can’t move, can’t do anything but just stare at his fucking perfect, stupid, beautiful, brave face and grin like an idiot. It’s okay, because Brad’s smiling something ridiculous, too. Brad sits up after a moment, hand on his hip indignantly, but he’s still beaming; Adam bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Is that it, bitch? That’s no way to treat a lady, I want a real proposal.” Adam laughs, a little high and crazy, and tugs on Brad’s arm until he’s back half on top of him.

“Fine,” he murmurs against Brad’s ear. “Will you marry me, you fucking drama queen?” Brad gives his best sigh of long-suffering.

“I guess.”

Adam laughs and kisses him then, hard, with everything scary and fast and new building up inside him.

They get married a week later, technically. They sign the paper at city hall with Adam’s mom as the witness. They get rings, engraved and theirs, and exchange them at Burning Man in the back of a van with a flamethrower on top.

In two months, their marriage goes up for public vote. In two months, Adam’s future gets decided by major network producers and middle America. Scary shit, he thinks, lacing his fingers with Brad’s as they watch the wooden man burn on the last day.

He doesn’t mean to cause a scene, really. It’s just how his life tends to end up. He can handle it, though. They can handle it.

this togethercoloured instant (Idol RPF, Adam/Kris/Katy, R)

2010-01-04T07:32:50Z

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I don't even have a number. If you got here by googling your name, there's a back button. Or take inspiration. IDC. Title and poem threaded throughout by ee cummings. (Title from "sometimes i am alive because with" and other from "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond")
Summary: Adam wants to feel: himself, them all, together.
AN: So zorabet and I are fucking crazy and have a Kradamaty verse now? I don't know, man. Um. This stands on it's own fairly well...future fic. Adam's been in a major car accident, Kris and Katy are taking care of him, that's all you vaguely need to know, but it doesn't matter much. I'm gonna call it a hard R, because there is some descriptive sex in it, but I don't think it's that explict? Also, this is the first time I've written semi-porn in like two or three years and I decide to try it with a fucking threesome. oh. This is also quite likely an experimental syntax mess. I'm playing around so feedback is WAY WAY WAY appreciated, please.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

The pain in his leg is really just a dull throb at this point, but that’s almost worse, how the feeling never quite reaches the surface. He grunts in frustration, trying to make it build, goading it but it just sit sit sits. He wants to cry but—

But he doesn’t. Kris Kris Kris he chants to his right (immediate right, have to specify now), he thinks in his head but maybe out loud because:

Kris grabs his hand, and he squeezes hard. It reaches to his bones. He sob-cry-laughs in relief or something mangled like hope breaking through. Kris slides down, fumbling to get the sweats off without jostling Adam’s leg. Adam wishes he would, but doesn’t say. Kris would hate that.

(The air on his legs is cool and he can feel his skin prickling.)

The mattress creaks as Katy crawls over. He didn’t know she was awake, but he isn’t surprised. He props himself on his elbows, leaning up as she slides up behind him, all silky smooth legs against his side and cool bare breast against the bones of his back—

and Kris’ mouth against him still, open and wet and early morning chapped-raw against his thigh, inches away from an infantile scar

and Katy’s hand splayed across his chest, small but firm, working his nipple between thumb and forefinger. His eyes are closed but he thinks to himself the chips in her nail polish and then

he sink sink sinks, against Katy, below Kris, between them both and away away away from Arkansas, down the rabbit hole.

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

Kris goes slowly, because Adam likes to feel it, let it spread to the tips. He can’t do it by himself (fuck what can he?) but add Kris’ mouth multiplied by the caress of Katy’s hand over the total sum of their parts and he’s upside down inside out can’t tell the difference or isn’t trying.

Kris mouths up his thigh, eyelashes like butterflies, sending sparks shooting up and down and out. He lets it fill him up, stretch stretch stretch him out until he’s everywhere. So slowly that he barely expects it but has been waiting for it, all at once, Kris brings a hand up to Adam’s dick, tracing so gently Adam hurts with more more more:

(He stretch stretch stretches all the way til his head is pressed tight against Katy’s chest. He fold fold folds into her. She is soft like falling into heaven.
Her fingers trace down his jawline, neck, skating softly across his skin: the want aches.)

He is rocking up and tilting back: kiss, he breathes-says-thinks-lives.

Almost instantaneously (though that kind of timing is only a vaguely sort of possible, he thinks if it can happen at all, it would happen in their twilight zone), Katy mashes her lips against his, hard, and Kris breathes out a burst of hot air over his erection like a blessing before tonguing up and swiping rough.

He cries out—out of Kris, into Katy—like feeling.

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,

He is break break breaking, exploding and shattering and motherfucking fireworking into thousands of molecules of stardust under the rhythmic swirling of Kris’ tongue.

(yes yes yes YES fuck yes yes yes oh yes.)

He is healing like sunset, smooth and whole and strong, he can feel his own muscles building and tensing and constricting, hard against Katy’s roaming hands. He lets out a moan as her lips suck at a spot below his jaw.

(baby baby yes baby fuck.)

His splits his attention and lets it converge again: it build build builds. Kris’ closes over him, katy’s hand pressed tight against his heart and oh

rendering death and forever with each breathing

yes Oh, like choirs of angels reaching a crescendo or maybe actually cacophony but it’s sort of beautiful anyway.

Yes. Reaching into forever. Yes. Launching and bending and breaking and falling back again. Yes. Being caught.

Kris works slow but rough and Katy soothes in sharp whispers and Adam feels: soft and hard and ache and good braided tight. He twists his hands in the blonde and brown and then he is gone and there together.

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Afterwards they are a mess.

Like dominos: Adam is still cradled against Katy, head lolling against her should as she brushes back sweat matted hair where the blood used to be. Kris has moved up and to the right, mindful of Adam’s bad leg, but grounding him with his head against Adam’s chest, counting the rise and fall.

He links his hands with both of theirs, fingers threading tight like in a tapestry.

They all breathe.

Where Things Are Hollow (Idol RPF, PG-13, Kris/Adam gen)

2009-11-06T17:19:44Z

Disclaimer: I mean, I own an mp3 of For Your Entertainment? but not Kris or Adam, clearly. If you got here by Googling yourself or someone you know, you know where to find the back button. Title from David Bowie's "Fame."
Summary:You can't gain everything without losing something. And even rockstars need a Ben and Jerry's break from flying dildos sometimes. Kradam friendship, can be inferred more than that.
AN: Written for jerakeen for ONTD_AI's charity fic auction. Like, a thousand years later. She asked for "one of the guys consoling the other over a loss," which I guess I kind of loosely did?

It all keeps building at this steady, exponential mindfuck of a pace.

He had expected the pressure from an entire season of building up expectations, the press in his face and armed with the power of Google, the rabid feeling of possession that’s practically synonymous with American Idol voter. He just never expected it to be this much.

And it’s all great, really, it’s bigger than he is and this album is going to fuck the top-40 in the ass because of it, but it’s also the reason why he’s curled up on the couch in the back of this mother-fucking glorified RV, feeling ridiculously pathetic in the too-worn sweatpants he’s owned since high school, trying to avoid Kris’ eyes. He doesn’t want comfort, he wants to be depressed and wallow.

Kris knows that, though. Somehow. Kris is frustratingly in tune with what Adam wants about 95 percent of the time, and it alternately infuriates the shit out of him and makes him want to cry. He’s just not used to it, he supposes. At this point, he doesn’t question that Kris somehow knows that Adam wants to be depressed, not alone. It’s taking the edge off, anyway.

“It just feels like I’m losing something, you know?” Kris doesn’t say anything, because of course he knows Adam wasn’t really asking him. “It’s so fucking stupid. I wanted this. I want it. I’m getting more than I ever thought I could out of this, and I really want it. I wouldn’t change anything. It’s just. I don’t know. Sometimes. I don’t know.”

He stops because he’s not sure what he’s saying, but the way Kris is biting his lip says that maybe he does. It kind of amazes Adam when they work that way.

“You had this whole other life before and you’re losing that without really getting to say goodbye.” Adam’s head snaps up because yes. Yes. He sits up, wrapping an arm around Kris until he’s tucked right where he fits.

“It’s fucking nuts,” he murmurs against Kris’ hair. “And I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to break and I want to, but I can’t because then I’m a fucking diva.”

“Fuck them. You’re Adam Lambert. You can do what you want.” He stares at Kris for a second before letting out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Even if I want to cry into a pint of mint chocolate chip?” Kris nods solemnly. Adam laughs, leaning down a bit to kiss the top of Kris’ head. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. I’m the best. I accept payment in Twizzlers.”

Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we aren't smart (Idol RPF, Kradam friendship, PG)

2009-09-03T15:32:40Z

Disclaimer: IF YOU GOOGLED YOURSELF OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW, SERIOUSLY, GTFO. GTFO NOW. THAT MEANS YOU, NEIL. Title from Anyone Else But You by the Moldy Peaches. BUT IT'S NOT SHIPPY GUISE SRY. KRADAM FRIENDSHIP.
Summary: Adam and Kris go baby shopping. Allison and Katy cameo. And a crib glitters unnecessarily. Mentions of Adam Lambert/Gavin Creel. Companion to zorabet's Gavin/Adam with a baby piece.
AN: I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU GUYS. I used to never read RPF, let alone write it, not that I think I'm ~above it~ or whatever, I used to write HP fanfiction, I'm not above anything, it just wasn't my thing. I also don't really do dialogue. And then season 8 of American Idol accidently everything I thought to be true and I started shipping Adam/Gavin Creel because I AM APPARENTLY CRAZY and they've had like one interaction ever and they'd both make cute dads so zorabet wrote me Gavin/Adam with a baby that involved Adam buying a unicorn because let's be real here, he's Adam fucking Lambert and he glitters, for fuck's sake. But then I wanted Kradam friendship. So this is in that universe. And there's Kristopher. Because I love Kristopher.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Of course I’m serious. Look at it. It’s amazing.”

“Adam. That’s a unicorn. Pretending to be a crib.”

“Exactly. Your point?”

“It’s kind of dumb.”

“Your face is kind of dumb.”

“Whatever, you’ve got smudged eyeliner all over yours.”

“Oh my God, how the hell did I—“ Kris smirked as Adam automatically rummaged through his messenger bag for something with a remotely reflective surface. Adam looked up, rolling his eyes and shoving Kris lightly. “Bastard.”

“Ow, hey!”

Adam ignored him, biting the inside of his lip and staring at the crib contemplatively.

“Give me your phone,” he said decisively, after a few seconds, holding out his hand.

“What’s wrong with your own, rockstar?”

“Hasn’t been the same since Amsterdam,” he muttered absently, reaching into Kris’ back pocket for his iPhone.

“Watch it, Lambert, all it takes is a couple of fangirls and before you know it, half the country’s tweeting about Kradam public hand jobs.” Adam rolled his eyes, taking a picture of the crib quickly before scrolling through Kris’ contacts list. “Adam. What are you doing?”

“Getting an outside opinion. I don’t know if I trust your judgment.”

“You don’t trust my judgment? Adam. It has a rainbow horn. And there’s glitter.”

“You’ve been around me for how long and you’re just now complaining about glitter.”

“Yeah, well. Point.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam said, turning his attention back to Kris’ phone, smiling automatically. “Fuck yeah! Okay, you’re getting replaced as best friend, this is much better.”

Kris walked over to Adam, placing a hand on his arm, leaning in to read the screen.

New Message from Allison:

OMG!!!!!!! Thats AWESOME. BUY IT LOSERRR!! LOVE THE HORN! COolEST DAD EVERRRRR MAN

Kris rolled his eyes.

“She has five colors in her hair and still sleeps with a stuffed elephant, doesn’t count.”

“I’m telling her you brought up the elephant, she’ll kick your ass. Whatever, I’ve got more on my side, anyway.” He held out his phone again, smirking.

New Message from Katy:

SO cute. Don’t listen 2 Kris. Ur soooo helping me redecorate.”

Kris raised his eyebrows.

“If I end up with a cheetah print bedspread, we are done professionally.” Adam rolled his eyes, ruffling Kris’ hair.

“That hurts, Kristopher. You don’t mean that.”

“I thought you were replacing me with Alli and Katy.”

“I guess I could, but I’ve gotten used to all the plaid. I might go in withdrawals without it.” Kris shook his head, laughing affectionately.

“You’re nuts.”

“Damn straight, holla.”

“Don’t ever say that. We’re in public.”

“…I’m buying the unicorn.” Kris sighed in mock long suffering.

“If Gavin asks, I did everything in my power to stop you.”

“And you did an admirable job. Maybe someday your efforts combined will make an impact and I’ll put up the platform boots for good.” Kris laughed, snorting a little.

“Somehow, I doubt it.” Adam smirked back at him.

“Yeah, I would never.” He was silent for a moment, staring at the crib and running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want her to ever think she has to be normal,” he said softly. Kris smiled a little, wrapping an arm around Adam’s waist loosely.

“Yeah, I know, “ he looked up at Adam, smiling softly and nudging him a little. “C’mon. Let’s go get your damn unicorn.”

it lingers ever (Orig, Ben/Rob, PG-13

2009-08-26T06:48:50Z

Summary: Ben, Rob, and shitty apartment in West Hollywood. They're pretty sure they own the world. Song drabble, 2HB by Roxy Music.

/Take two people romantic
Smoky night club situation
Your cigarette traces a ladder/

The concrete is cold and hard against his back, and he can feel the ache beginning to spread from the back of his skull. They came out here to partially to look at the stars, but mainly to get high, since this is mother fucking L.A. with it’s mother fucking soul sucking smog, but he can’t really find it in him to feel all that crushed or dejected or cynical at all.

Rob is sitting perched on the balcony, one hand grasped tight on the edge and the other dragging a joint between chapped lips, inhaling and exhaling in a practiced rhythm. Ben plays idly with the hem of his jeans, idle worry about Rob losing his balance and falling backward crossing his mind. He slips his hand underneath the denim, wrapping around his ankle like an anchor before remembering they’re on the first floor and balcony’s a pretty loose term, anyway. He doesn’t move his hand, imagining the blood flowing through the veins right under his touch.

“It’s all ours,” Rob’s voice breaks through the silence, a little rough and just slightly manic. Ben shifts just enough to see Rob tilt his head back, laughing or sobbing or something along those lines. “It’s all fucking ours, baby.”

Ben wants to ask what he means. The apartment they moved into three days ago, or L.A. or maybe the fucking world. He decides it doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Fucking ours.”

He looks up up up, past the worn sole of Rob’s beat up converse, following the trail of smoke faintly straggling from the end of Rob’s joint as it spiraled upward past the thick veil of smog to the stars that don’t exist, and in this moment, he can feel so much he hardly knows what to do with it.

He closes his eyes and breaths long and deep, the pads of his fingers tracing lopsided circles around Rob’s ankle, memorizing every bump and curve, the feel of skin underneath his cool and smooth like a promise.

Every Prophecy Written (Orig, Ben/Luke, PG-13)

2009-07-05T07:00:20Z

Summary: Ben/Luke. First loves and inevitability. Sometimes, knowing things sucks.
AN: So this is kind of Adam Lambert's fault for mentioning Eclipse by Robyn in an interview. Title and basic inspiration from that. Second person. Gratuitous use of the word fuck. Pretty much entirely unedited because I'm tired and wanted to get it up. If you notice anything too terrible, let me know.

It’s kind of like the sun rising, but not really, because nobody really gives a damn about that, not enough to give it a second thought.

So it’s more like a dog taking a shit on the sidewalk, or the final exam at the end of the semester. You know it’s going to happen. It was always going to happen. And it was always going to suck. And just because you knew all of the above, in theory, as a matter of common sense, doesn’t mean you’re anymore prepared for it. Actually, it’s entirely possible that it’s ingrained in the very fibers of your being to be as unprepared as physically possibly. Staying up til five in the morning, falling asleep into your textbook unprepared, even.

Or maybe just making up shitty metaphors in your head to avoid the issue at hand unprepared.

He’s not touching you.

Which is weird, you know, because he’s basically been touching you for the better part of the past two years, longer, even. Even if it was just a hand on your thigh under the lunch table, or fingers grazing the back of your neck and idly twisting at your hair from the seat behind you in pre-calculus.

And he’s sitting on your damn futon, you futon that you’ve done plenty of touching and then some on, with a good five inches between the two of you. And five inches, man. Close enough so that nothing’s blatantly wrong, but also close enough that it only makes sense to close the fucking gap, only he’s fucking not, so what the fuck. It’s deliberate, that’s what the fuck. The bastard knows he’s not touching you, is probably fucking acutely aware of it.

The muscles in his arm are tense. He’s not quite looking at you. And he’s still not touching you.

You’re not touching him either.

Yeah. Like dog shit on the sidewalk. Inevitable. And nobody ever wants to clean it up, either. Kind of like how neither of you wants to speak right now. It’s too messy.

But someone has to say it, so you say it. You could pretend you’re sparing him. Throwing yourself onto the sword, saving him from the responsibility, the actual breaking. You’re not that selfless, though. You just hate the waiting.

You feel the shape of the words in your mouth. I think we should break up. They’re sharper than you expected. Bitter. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

He nods, sighs something like relief or sadness or both, and you have to look away. You’re not going to cry, because you don’t do that, but if you were going to cry, this is what it would feel like, tight chest and hollow bones.

He reaches out for your hand, finally, finally. The tips of his fingers are a little colder than the rest of the room, like always. Like always and like never at the same time, because he’s never touched you like this, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

And there’s something in the graze of his touch that feels final and lingering at the same time. Over but not gone.

That you weren’t prepared for. You feel like maybe you should have known, but it’s not like you’ve done this before, not when it mattered.

You don’t know if it’s better or worse, knowing that it mattered.

You look at him. He manages the requisite half-assed smile of mutual parting bullshit. You swallow back the lump in your throat.

It hurts.

And What I Wanted to Say (Original, Kate/Greg, PG-13)

2009-03-12T06:31:16Z

Disclaimer:Title and Lyrics from Ben Folds Selfless, Cold, and Composed
Summary: She's waiting for Greg. He's already in never never land.
AN: This was also written for class, using Alice Adam's fiction formula for writing action scenes. I thought it was going to be constraining but it was strangely focusing. Cool.

She sits on the couch, making her way through Pride and Prejudice for probably the fifth time. Actually, she’s sprawled out on the couch, but that just exudes a level of comfort Kate just doesn’t feel worthy of granting herself. She’s not really reading, either, so much as letting her eyes skim the words on the page. She stopped paying attention somewhere around the first ball scene, because Darcy’s kind of a tool, anyway. In the corner of her eye, she catches a glance at the clock she’s not looking at. She holds her breath, but doesn’t really notice it over the pounding headache she’s been steadily accumulating.

It’s been like this for weeks now. She comes home, Greg goes out. He kisses her cheek on his way out on the good days. They take the kids in shifts. He comes back late. Sometimes, she gives up and goes to bed alone; in the morning, she’s not sure if he woke up before her or ever went to bed at all.

He likes to sort of lay the blame on her. She spends a week or so in LA, filming, consumed with her indie, ground-breaking, film festival shattering art, so it’s his damn practically constitutional right to get out of the house when she’s home. Sometimes or maybe all of it, she thinks she should be incentive enough to stay in.

The kitchen door slams like he doesn’t care that he might wake the baby up. He probably doesn’t. She immediately scolds herself for thinking that; Greg loves the kids. She doesn’t move from her spot. She keeps holding her breath.

He moves into the living room. The awkwardness in his step radiates. She doesn’t sit up, just calls out a greeting like she can’t feel what he’s thinking, like it hasn’t found it’s way to infest every crevice of her mind with fear and disappointment and tension.

He walks over to her, sits on the edge of the couch. She doesn’t, can’t move. He kisses her on the mouth, lightly but enough to suck out that breath she’s been holding. She breaks away.

“You’re leaving,” she says, and she does say it. It’s a statement. Her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

He looks almost shocked. In that moment, she hates him. He should know. But of course he doesn’t because he’s Greg. He never quite got far along enough for forethought.

“I wasn’t…Kate. Don’t say it like that,” he tries, but even he knows it’s ridiculous. She sits up, finally, and can’t decide if the weight on her shoulders left or just decided to settle on her chest.

“How am I supposed to say it, Greg? That’s what it is, right? You’ve building up to it, night by night like you’re peeling off a band aid, like it’s not still going to hurt when you get to the end!” She’s ranting on the edge of raving and he doesn’t say a word. He knows better. To an extent.

“Are you seeing someone else?” she asks, after a long moment. She knows it’s a useless question, but anything to break the silence.

“Kate,” and oh she hates him now, him and that admonishing tone. She is not a child.

“It’s a perfectly valid question,” she argues like they’re debating something ordinary, like it’s politics.

“It’s not,” and she believes him with the part of her that meant til death do us part. “I don’t want anyone else.”

“But you don’t want this,” saying it aloud isn’t as bad as she thought it would be. But still. It’s pretty damn horrid.

“I don’t know what I want,” he says and she almost wants to laugh, because that’s the honest to God truth if she’s ever heard it. She stands up, looking straight at him.

“I’m going to bed,” she says steadily. “At least check in on the kids before you go, okay?”

She doesn’t hear his response. She turns away.

The War Between the Vanities (Original, Kate/Greg, PG)

2009-03-05T06:55:35Z

Disclaimer: Title from One Republic's Come Home.
Summary: Kate doesn't like to think when she's alone.
AN: This was written for class, a character sketch based off a picture. I think I cheated a little, cause I just picked an image that fit something I wanted to do anyway, kind of. Kate, right after Greg leaves. I'm not really sure how I feel about this, I just kind of wanted to get it out. But. Yeah. Also, I can't stop listening to the Adam Lambert version of this song, fyi.

She likes the beach. She likes the feel of the sand, crumbling and cool-damp beneath her feet, stuck between her toes. She likes the waves and how they crash, near-crystal water spilling a shocking cold over the tops of her feet, the grainy residue of the salt collecting on her skin. She likes the noise, between the waves and the birds and the tourists at the not-so-far-off resort.

She likes that it’s all enough to keep her distracted, keep her from thinking about the single pair of footprints trailing behind her.

This is such a cliché place to find your solace. She’s aware of that, somewhere in the back of her mind, but she can’t really find it in her to care.

She looks away from the ocean, gauging the landmarks. She smiles a smile that’s barely there and somewhere between bitter and wistful. She slows down a little, but doesn’t stop. She can’t.

She takes two steps, and this is where she had her first kiss with Greg. Couple more steps, they said I love yous, barely heard over the waves, but it didn’t matter. A few feet further and up on the beach a little, she told him she was pregnant. Same spot, give it a few more minutes, and you have a marriage proposal.

All of these milestones, but she keeps walking. She can’t give them that kind of gravity.

Because maybe the most important milestone of all, that didn’t happen here. It happened in a kitchen that used to be theirs, five minutes down the road and several lives and fairytale ever afters away. He’s leaving, he’s gone, he’s thrown away 11 years like it’s nothing, like tossing a shell back into the ocean. And she’s alone with six kids, which might be the biggest contradiction she’s ever heard, but the bed’s still too big and that seems to be all she’s really noticing these days.

She can’t stop walking her, not at the milestones. She can’t turn around, because her footprints will still be the only ones there.

She keeps walking, sand between her toes, salt on her skin, and next to nothing in her head.

How Hard We Tried (Original, Ben/Rob, PG-13)

2009-02-12T18:47:45Z

Disclaimer: Title and lyrics from Both Hands by Ani DiFranco
Summary: It's over.
AN: Same timeline as the last two, but after both of those. The result of listening to Eryn Murman sing Both Hands far too many times in a row than is healthy. (Bonus is in Jesse Swenson's adoring stare as he plays the guitar for her.) Youtube that shit.

in eachother's shadows we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theories couldn't explain it all
and I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall
and eventually the landlord will come
and paint over it all

He’s standing in the door way. You feel him come in almost as much as you can hear his footsteps.

Curse him silently in your head. You told him not to be here. Told, not asked, and is it really so hard to get one damn thing right?

Ignore him. Don’t dare turn around. You bought these dishes. Pack them up. Hold your breath, because the tension’s too thick to breath around anyway.

“Don’t do this.”

A beat. Grab another dish, lay it down carefully. Let the words sink in past the incredulity because yes, apparently he is that stupid.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m not doing this. This is done.”

Say it simple, like you believe it. Ignore the shake of your hand and the clatter that last plate made.

“Because I already did it? Because it’s all my fault.”

A challenge. That’s mature. Don’t descend into that. That’s not what this is about, the fucking blame game. Tell yourself til it’s true.

“Shut the fuck up, Rob. I told you not to be here, so you don’t get to pull this.”

That’s right. Calm. Don’t turn around. Because he’ll totally leave.

“What do I get to pull, then? You’re the one fucking leaving.”

Or maybe not. Turn around. Sigh heavily and all that jazz. Give him a good look over. He’s stoned, but probably not as much so as you expected. He looks tired and your resolve doesn’t soften, exactly, but it shifts. Close your eyes.

“Can we cut the shit, please? It’s over. It’s over.”

Say it once for him and twice for the elephant in the room.

“You don’t mean it.”

Statement or a plea, it doesn’t register. His hand is on your wrist and you don’t flinch like you thought you would and you’re not giving in like you were afraid you might. It’s just that he’s there and he’s miles away and there’s that sort of dull pain in your chest all at once.

“Rob.”

Say it soft, say it like you mean it, say it like it doesn’t hurt to say it like this.

He steps closer like clockwork and you hate him for going through the motions of trying.

Pull you head up, let your eyes meet his. Stand still as you can when he moves closer, lips inching closer and closer to yours. Let him kiss you. Maybe kiss back a little, because who’s really watching, and at this point, what difference does it make.

“We’re fucked.”

Nod. Let your forehead brush against his. It doesn’t mean or fix anything.

“I love you.”

Say it. Because the truth is an impartial party in all of this, not hurting or helping. It just is.

He nods and pulls away. Let him.

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

Don’t say a word. Let him.

There’s nothing left in this kitchen that’s yours. Reach for the duct tape and close the damn box.

The Same Black and Blue (Original, Ben/Rob, PG-13)

2009-01-26T05:28:28Z

Disclaimer: Title and lyrics from Chris Garneau's Black and Blue.
Summary: Rob's a fuck up. He knows, okay.
AN: Set in the same era as "But the Sky's Sublime." Pre-break up, very well into the falling apart. This is probably the most disjointed thing I've ever written and unless I've rambled to you about all of this, it might not even make sense. But. Rob made me. Oops.

At night, he lies awake,
And his heart aches,
'Cause it's cold.
He sweats it out all the night through.
Then he throws up all over me and you.

The truth of it is that Rob knows he’s kind of an ass sometimes. Most of the time. All of time.

And when Ben calls him a little bitch, that’s true. And then he calls Ben an asshat, but that’s not true, not really. Kind of.

He lies and he lies in bed. Futon. Whatever.

There’s an empty handle of Absolut on the counter and dirty dishes from days ago in the sink that Ben’s probably going to bitch about when he gets home. Not probably. Will.

He doesn’t give a shit. About the Absolut or the lying or any of it.

That’s not true. He doesn’t even know anymore.

He stares up at the ceiling, memorizing the pictures in the bumps and cracks. He goes outside, takes his camera, films a dog taking a shit. The beauty in the everyday, the ugly in the mundane.

It’s almost all poetic in a gritty sort of way, but Ben’s the writer. Ben’s the little fucktard wasting his fucking prime away being coffee bitch. Ben’s the right one, Ben’s the practical one, Ben’s the damn sellout.

This is not what they’re about. Ruining the fucking vibe, man. Or something like that.

He’s not crazy or suicidal or even that much of a dumbass, despite all the contrary evidence and the pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

He’s scared a little and he’s angry a lot.

He kisses Ben when he’ll let him, and he pretends that he doesn’t notice Ben pretending not to notice the stale alcohol and pot and worthlessness on his breath.

They make love when they need to and he pretends some more, pretends the silence of it isn’t new, that the intensity hasn’t shifted.

They’re falling apart. That he can’t pretend isn’t happening.

He isn’t sure he wants to.

But the Sky's Sublime (Original, Ben/Rob, PG-13)

2008-12-31T07:47:17Z

Disclaimer: Lyrics and title from Castle-Time by Chris Garneau. Which is breathtakingly beautiful, by the way.
Summary: Forever on the verge of over. Sometimes, it's not how it's supposed to be.
Note: I've pretty much disappeared, writing wise, I know, but I've been doing a lot of original character plotting. I don't think really many people know, let alone care about, Rob,considering his existed in my head for maybe a month and a half. But basically, this is a relationship my character Ben had through college, that started to fall apart after. ...that's the most simplified version. Ask me, and I'll elaborate, though. This is just an introspective moment, so hopefully it works on it's own.

/I was looking for exit signs. I was looking for lucky nines. They’re talking in boring rhymes. Face it, we’re living in war times./

Ben hates a lot of things these days.

He hates politicians, but not in the vindictive, inspiring way, just in a dull, throbbing disappointment that lives somewhere in his chest.

He hates the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, along the counter, piling up in towers of who-could-care-less, and he sort of hates the fact that he’s too stubborn to do them himself. He pointedly uses paper plates and ignores snide remarks citing An Inconvenient Truth.

He hates coming home from his job that pays money to Rob sprawled out on the futon watching TV, still in his boxers when for once, all Ben wants is for him to put his damn pants on.

He hates that stupid camera, even though he bought the damn thing, because what used to be cute when they were 19 is abruptly immature at 22. He hates the words tomorrow, change, believe, because is it really so hard to have a now? He hates the yelling, he hates the angry sex that never quite turns into make up sex, and more than that, he hates the pointed silence that follows.

In whatever facet of himself that has the capability to be remotely poetic, he thinks that if there’s a fine line between love and hate, what he feels for Rob doesn’t blur the line, it took one of those jumbo erasers and full out did away with it.

This is not how it’s supposed to be.

The discontent. He hates that too.

He comes home, he sits on the edge of the futon, places a hand on Rob’s bare chest and he can feels the words rise up, bubbling behind his tightened lips.

Enough. That’s it. I’m done.

He doesn’t say them, or maybe he does and it doesn’t matter and they mean nothing because his lips are already on Rob’s. Out of habit, or maybe that was instinct. He doesn’t keep track anymore, because the kiss feels the same as always. Things change, the current between them shifts, but Rob doesn't change anymore than the pile of dirty dishes on the counter: proof positive's in the feel of his lips. But he's not sure if that's love or hate or nothing worth wondering about.

Sometimes he thinks he hates himself for giving up.

Sometimes he knows he hates himself because he hasn’t.

My Mother's Son: Man of the House (Original, PG, Ben and Kate)

2007-12-31T06:12:57Z

Disclaimer: NONE, BITCHES. Miiiiine. *bounces* This is a very happy moment for me.

Summary: Who needs Greg, anyway? So the man of the house is four and is still struggling with phonics. Don't judge.

AN: Finally, I manage to write something original. Are you proud? Yes? Heh. Um, those of you who know Ben, this is from his mother's POV, part of what will probably be several short ficlets focusing on Kate and Ben's mother/son relationship. Inspired by this song from In My Life. (...contains Jonathan Groff.) Thank you to Sarah, who was surprisingly helpful, I'm impressed. heh.

It’s an odd thing to refer to your four-year-old as the man of the house, especially when aforementioned four-year-old still routinely climbs into your bed in the middle of the night.

Or, you know, when he spills his milk at breakfast and it gets all over his pancakes and he starts crying (“Mommy, fix it!”) because now his pancakes are all mushy and he doesn’t like mushy food.

Or when he clings to your leg so tightly you can’t even shake him off the first time you take him to preschool.

Or when he’s pulling his sisters’ hair and hiding their Barbies in the bathtub.

Kate feels lonely sometimes, now that Greg’s left. Sure, the house is full, six kids ages three to ten tends to be house filling. Yet, it’s just that feeling, that feeling that’s she’s running around at lightening speed doing and being everything for everyone but when she stops, there’s nobody there for her.

And it’s fine, it’s great, she loves her kids and can totally do this without the help of that asshole, she’s Super Mom. Totally. Yeah.

So there’s no Greg there to kiss her good morning, or make her breakfast or rub her shoulders when she’s stressed or help get the kids all bathed and tucked in. There’s also no Greg to break the toaster on a routine basis.

Okay, so going to bed alone when you haven’t done that in eleven years kind of sucks. But, the thing is, Ben still crawls into her bed practically every night. He’ll shuffle in, crawling not-so-stealthily next to her, curls a bed head mess. He’ll nudge her shoulder, as if he hasn’t already woken her up, baby blanket gripped tightly in his fist.

“Mommy,” he’ll whisper. “Mommy, I thought I saw a monster come in here. Imma stay in here and p’tect you,” he’ll nod resolutely.

And she certainly never feels lonely when she’s got the pudgy hands of a four-year-old curled against her cheek, maybe a leg sprawled across her stomach.

He snuggles against her when he sleeps. It never fails to make her smile and feel a ridiculously beyond sappy burst of motherly love for this rambunctious mess of a little boy.

And it’s moments like that when she realizes she does, in fact, still have a dependable man in her life. She can look at Ben and smirk triumphantly, she gets the last laugh. Because her little boy has more man in him at age four than his fully grown father.

In your soul searching face, Gregory Thompson.