#seela eyes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dontmindmyshadowhunting · 3 years

Text

I will never forget the day we met - A Ty & Anush Fic (snippet)

Here is a snippet of my Ty and Anush fic! It's about their growing friendship (which may or may not evolve into something else...) at the Scholomance. The events are set after The Lost World. Shortly after Ty has received the Herondale heron shaped pendant from Kit (through Magnus), he gets wind of a certain letter from Tessa to Magnus which mentions a girlfriend...

****

Anush hated Monday mornings at the Scholomance. Breakfast was taken, as it was every single day of the week, in the dining room, which looked like the inside of a cathedral, with a high ceiling, rough cold stones and narrow windows.

Every second Monday though, there was always a crowd gathering in the main hall, where a large black board had been hung next to the entrance of the dining room. On it, in thick white chalk, were inscribed the initials of the ten students who had distinguished themselves in the past fortnight. They were ranked, first to last, every two weeks.

It was the same show every time, Centurions huddled together and craning their necks eagerly, and Anush wondered why they even bothered checking. The initials for the first place had been consistently the same since the school year had started. TB. TB. TB. TB. For Tiberius Blackthorn.

Fighting for next ranks were Seela and Joshua. The Scholomance being more about brains than muscles, Seela usually landed the second place and Joshua the third. There she was, her dark ponytail bobbing, half smug half furious she had been beaten yet again by the youngest of them all.

Anush remembered his first day back at the Scholomance, after the end of the Cold Peace. Divya had introduced him to Seela and he had immediately found her pretty. She had an angular face with smooth golden skin and big dark eyes, framed by black silky hair. But she had barely spared him a glance, looking past him for any more interesting acquaintances. She had won several national chess championships and, Divya, always kind and helpful, had pointed Tiberius Blackthorn in the crowd. “You should play him. Diego told me he loves to play chess and he’s pretty good at it.” Seela had looked the Blackthorn boy up and down dubiously. He was standing awkwardly, looking like a frightened little bird next to his big brother Julian, who was clutching his sibling’s arm tightly, his blue-green eyes shooting daggers at the throng of admirers closing in on them. “That little boy over there? I play chess. I don’t babysit.” Anush had disliked her there and then.

Wall that served her right. Seela. Rhymes with karma, karma, karma.

Joshua, on the other hand, had always been a nice guy. Even now, he took his third position gracefully, flashing a smile of perfect white teeth against dark skin, like the younger version of Idris Elba that he was. A group of giggling girls were surrounding him, as usual. Not only was he a hunk, he also had amazing weapon skills. Some called him the “new Perfect Diego”. He was the guy who had it all. Still, even in combat, he was no match to TB, who had apparently received excellent training at the LA Institute.

Suck it up, bitches, Anush gloated, as he weaved past the legion of Centurions and joined the dining room. He started piling up food on his plate. He always had his biggest meal at breakfast because he hated the food they served at lunch and dinner time.

He had set himself a task that day and was eager to go through with his plan. When his plate was so full he could almost hide behind it, his gaze went directly to the far end corner of the room, where one could usually find Tiberius Blackthorn sitting alone, eating quietly, a book propped up in front of him.

And there he was, exactly where Anush had expected him to be.

He approached making deliberate noise, so as not to startle his prey. It worked. TB looked up, his fork frozen mid-air.

Up close, he looked fragile and delicate. Or maybe it was because Anush had witnessed him collapse a few days before and had brought him to the infirmary. He wondered if he had health issues, but that wasn’t the type of questions you asked when you were trying to make a new friend. And that’s exactly what he planned to do. TB seemed to be a nice guy, and Anush had taken care of his Carpathian Lynx after all, when the boy had been ill. The scratches he still bore on his arms were evidence of that.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak, he heard them. The mutters he was used to suffer behind his back. But this time was different. It was not only about him.

“Look. Joshi made his way to Blackthorn."

"Do you think he is going to apologize for what the Cohort did to his twin sister?"

"We all know they are responsible for her death. They could as well have been the ones wielding the sword.”

"Those bastards laughed at her funeral."

Anush froze. He had assumed Tiberius’ reserved demeanor was only shyness. Had he been mistaken? Was there something else?

The Blackthorn boy straightened up as if he was about to say something, but whatever it was, Anush never got to hear it.

He had already turned on his heel and fled the scene, his breathing uneasy.*

Everything changed two days later. The Centurions had been summoned to gather in the amphitheatre which also served as a training room. Anush sat on a bench, in the second row, his hands folded in his lap. The buzz of voices subsided as the martial arts instructor came to stand in front of the students and gestured for quiet. He was to make an announcement on behalf of Jia Penhallow, who was spending the week at the Los Angeles Institute for family reasons (apparently her daughter Aline and her wife Helen Blackthorn were contemplating adoption).

“Until now, we have tested you individually. We have identified – you have uncovered or confirmed – your strengths and weaknesses. From now on, you will be working in pairs. Starting tomorrow and until the end of the year. This means you share points… and rank.”

A chatter erupted in the room. Grades, and above all rank was everything at the Scholomance. They were all elite, but who wouldn’t want to be the elite of the elite? Depending on your rank, you belonged – or not – to the Primi Ordines. The First Order. The Holy Grail. Amen.

All eyes flickered to the slender figure of Tiberius Blackthorn, who was lounging on a bench at the far end of the room, totally oblivious of his surroundings. He was playing with a silvery item in his hand, turning it this way and that. Anush realized he seemed much happier than usual, his pale face alight.

The instructor called names randomly and, one after the other, the students filled in the name of the fellow Centurion they would be pairing with until the end of the year. There were heated discussions, tears shed. It was a big deal. The only one who seemed unconcerned was Tiberius Blackthorn. Of course. He didn’t care who he would be partnered with. He just had to say the word, and anyone would crawl – vows of eternal friendship broken in the blink of an eye – and stand next to him. First place. A spot in the Primi Ordines without breaking a sweat.

Anush needed to be strategic. TB was not even an option. Who else? Anush was not nearly as strong as Joshua or as clever as Seela, and they would probably pick someone who mastered another subject. He needed to find someone like him. Not excellent, but not mediocre either. Too bad they didn’t teach music at the Scholomance.

Why not Liam? He sat next to him in Faerie studies, and they had made small talk several times before the class started. He wasn’t particularly bright or skilled, where Centurions where concerned. They had all been top of their classes at their Institutes or at the Academy, but that was the Scholomance.

When the instructor called “JOSHI,” Anush moved to stand before Liam. His palms were sweaty.

“Liam,” Anush asked, his mouth dry. “Want to pair up?”

Liam looked at him with undisguised contempt. It almost shocked him. What had he done to deserve it?

“Hmmm, I’ll pass. I don’t really want to pair up with a coward.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, you were with the Cohort, weren’t you? Then you fled from a battle, and they made you do the chores.”

Most of the students around paused in their babbling and… either snickered or stared at Anush in disgust. His gaze moved automatically to Tiberius. He wasn’t looking their way, but he seemed to have suddenly stilled, as if he was listening in.

“I changed sides! I fought in the battle of the Imperishable Fields!”

“Yeah, you betrayed them for the winning side! How brave of you!” Bursts of laughter filled the room.

“We weren’t winning then! Where were you while I was risking my life? Still sucking your mother’s tits?”

“QUIET!” The instructor ordered. They all fell silent – Centurions were obedient that way – though Liam still had a smirk on his face. “So, who’s going to pair up with Joshi?”

A terrible, humiliating silence ensued, but it was fortunately of short duration.

“I am.”

The words had not been shouted, but the quiet, deep voice that uttered them commanded attention.

Every face turned toward the far end corner of the room. Anush realized with a jolt that Tiberius was now standing. He was no longer playing with the object in his hand. He had tied it around his neck. He wore two chains now, one slightly longer than the other.

A chorus of angry voices erupted. What the hell? Why is he doing this? Why would a Blackthorn pair up with a yellow-belly and a double-crosser who used to be Cohort?

“Joshi and Blackthorn,” the instructor barked as he scribbled on his notepad.

And that’s how it all started.*

****

To be continued.

Tagging @gabtapia and @amchara :)

#the secrets of blackthorn hall #the wicked powers #the dark artifices #ty blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #anush joshi

13 notes · View notes

bobathirstaccount · 3 years

Text

Hard to Find Someone Like You

Boba x fem!reader, slow burn to smut, some romance, fair amount of plot, Post-Mando 2 Boba

You are a merc serving under Fennec at Fett’s Palace. It’s business as usual until a certain helmet starts tilting in your direction...

Translations (Mando’a)

Linibar - need [for purposes of this story, “needy”]

Mesh’la - beautiful

Translations (Twi’lek)

Seela - dancer

TW: unprotected sex

— 1 chapter left —

***

CHAPTER EIGHT

A new batch of girls had come to the Palace to work. The third floor club was expanding. You decided to go check out the new section one night. You met Ayy there. She was now a house manger for the seelas. She took you to the best booth and snuggled into it with you. She gossiped about the new girls and how the expansion was going to you. You relaxed into the conversation and took in the new room.

A murmur ran through the club. You looked towards the entrance. Boba stood there, looking fierce in his armor. Ayy gasped and jumped up. Before anyone else could get the gumption to approach him, Ayy met him. She led him over to your table and he settled in next to you. You were now sandwiched between Boba and Ayy. You were happy.

 A group of dancers had formed on the nearest stage. They were dancing, but also exchanging glances between themselves while curiously peering at Boba. One of them broke off from the shy group and slunk towards your table sexily. You could not deny she was amazingly beautiful. She bowed in front of the table, then crawled around the booth to Boba. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”

She ran her hands over his cuirass. Ayy tensed. Boba sat unconcerned, effectively ignoring her for the time being. She was playing with a time bomb. She ran a finger down his visor, then leaned in and licked the side of his helmet. She moved closer still and boldly ground her ass against his groin. He didn’t move. “Baby, maybe sometime I can make you feel even better...” she continued to grind, turning to face him. At this Boba tilted his helmet in your direction, “At her pleasure only.” You dagger eyed the girl. Her lekku twitched nervously and she took off. Boba laughed. “Remember you can’t kill the dancers.”

“Thought never crossed my mind.”  ”If looks could kill, mesh’la. I might be dead too.”

You smiled nastily at him, and ran a hand over his crotch, “How much you like that anyway?” You raised your eyebrows.  ”Not at all, as you can tell,” he said laughingly.

You smiled at this, secretly pleased. Ayy cleared her throat. “Maybe I should get back to work.”

Boba turned his helmet towards her, “What about her, cyar’ika?” He lifted you onto his lap and wrapped his arms loosely around you. Ayy’s eyes grew wide, and she looked from him to you a couple times. You smiled, “He’s just joking. Get outta here before he really starts teasing you.” She took off hastily.

You turned to him. “She’s my best friend, don’t scare her like that.”

He shrugged, “I was only half kidding.”

You eyed him, “Cut it out.”

 He laughed, “You know you are the only one for me.” This admission made you blush, and you leaned forward to kiss... his helmet. He squeezed you. “I wish that was my lips.” You ground down into him, “Soon.” He moaned softly and you felt his erection against you. You smiled, satisfied and putting the dancer fully out of your mind. Boba ran a hand down your thigh, tickling you slightly. You laughed, twitching. He reversed the motion and ran his fingers up to the v of your legs. You mmmmd and licking your lips, spread your legs wider. You turned your upper body towards him, leaning the side of your face against his helmet. He played with you under the table. You sighed, fidgeting at his ministrations.

“Want to take this somewhere else?” His question startled you out of your lust-struck daze. “Mmm, yes,” you whispered. You slid off his lap and grabbed his hand. You led him out of the club, the crowd watching the two of you exit together.

You drug him down the corridors towards your suites. “What’s the rush?” He teasingly said. You felt your pussy throbbing. “I wanna fuck, that’s why,” you retorted, turning your head to look at him impatiently.

“We have all night,” he continued to resist you, walking at an ambling pace.

You tugged on his arm like a child having a tantrum. “Babe I swear... Come on.” He laughed softly, but remained unmoved. Your eyes darted around for something, anything.... they landed on a hallway that led to the old slaves’ quarters. No one lived there now. You redirected your course and pulled him into the hallway. You leaned your back against the wall and pulled him to yourself.

“Here?” He seemed surprised.

 “You’re being so difficult right now,” you huffed. He grabbed your neck, letting his thumb brush over your collar bone. He slowly drug his thumb up your throat to your lips. “Linibar, mesh’la,” he murmured.

You bit his thumb. He hmmmed at you. You started to pull your dress up your body. He took a step back to watch, moving his hand from your face to the wall next to your head. You pulled your dress up to your waist, exposing your pussy. You lifted one leg to wrap around his hip. He grunted and grabbed your other leg, pulling it around his other hip. You ground your bare pussy against his pants, enjoying the sensation of the rough fabric as well as the bulge of his cock. He groaned and interceded to undo his pants, pulling himself out. He drug himself through your wet folds, poking your entrance. You moaned loudly, squeezing your legs. He resisted you again, still teasing. You made a frustrated noise and grabbed his hips with your hands, pulling him to you. He circled around your entrance, making you quietly squeal. He pushed slightly into you and pulled out, circling again. Your arousal seeped out of your pussy. He coated the head of his cock with it, “Good girl.” You squirmed, pleased with the praise but increasingly needy for his cock.

“Baby please, fuck me,” you moaned breathlessly, feeling like you were about to explode with desire. He finally relented and dipped the head of his cock into you. You moaned and squeezed your legs again. He let you push him inside of you. “Oh, Maker, yes, baby,” you whispered, feeling him inside of you. He pulled out and pushed back in, slowly fucking you. You squirmed and wheedled.

“You want more, mesh’la?” You nodded your head, eyes hooded with desire. “Ask for it,” he stilled deep inside you. “Mmm baby, please baby I want you to fuck me hard against this wall,” you purred. He made a pleased noise and started to pump into you, making you yelp. You spread your legs and wrapped your arms around his neck, closing your eyes. He pounded into your pussy, stretching you deliciously. You felt your orgasm building, heat pooling in your pussy. “Baby let me cum on you, please,” you whimpered. He grunted and gripped your ass cheeks tightly, railing into you. “Cum for me, mesh’la,” he panted. You moaned and squirmed against him, your orgasm rolling through your pussy, making your limbs go limp and your heart race. You clamped down on his cock as he continued to fuck you. “I, ah —“ he tried to speak.  ”Cum in me baby, please cum in me while I’m cumming on you,” your pussy was still spasming around his cock. He moaned and leaned forward, his helmet smacking against the wall. He jerked up into you sharply several times, grunting obscenely. You moaned and started to cum again, little aftershocks. Finally he stilled in you, moaning into your ear from behind his helmet.

You loosely held yourself to him, exhausted and trembling slightly. He held you both up against the wall, panting. After a minute you dropped your feet shakily to the ground. He leaned back, adjusting himself. You smoothed your dress, your inhales heavy and sharp. “What was the rush?” He ask innocently. You playfully slapped his shoulder, smirking as you did, “When I say I want to fuck, I want to fuck.” He laughed raspily and scooped you up into his arms.

***

“Ayy, what does riduur mean?” You asked casually. It was one of her days off and she was helping you clean and organize your ship.

She shook her head, “Not sure. I think it means partner or something. Ask Numa, she knows more Mando’a than I do. Why, he call you that?”

You nodded. She considered, “Maybe it means romantic partner or something. Like, girlfriend?” You smiled at that. Maybe.

***

Weeks turned to months. Din and his Mandalorian loyalists had temporarily moved in until they could retake Mandalore. You had slowly gotten to know and trust Din. You could see why Boba had gone to help him. One day you found him on a walk. You sidled up to him. “Company okay?” He turned slightly to look at you, “Of course, Y/N. How are you?” You walked together in a comfortable silence after exchanging small pleasantries. You remembered the Mando’a word. “Din, can I ask you to translate something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Riduur.”

“What?” His stride hitched. You thought you had misremembered the pronunciation and squinted, trying to figure it out. He finally said, “It means... spouse. So, if it were said to you, wife.”

Your skin tingled. “Really?” You asked stupidly.

He tilted his visor at you, “It is my mother tongue.”

“Sorry. I mean...”

He waved his hand, “You don’t have to explain. I know you and Boba have a very... special relationship.”

You flushed and thought about Boba. You still stood at his left hand side while he was on the throne, but something had changed since the dog fight. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Others seemed to notice the change too. They increased their deference to you. Some didn’t dare to make eye contact with you. Ayy told you the dancers had learned some were afraid to accidentally touch you. Somehow the word was out: you were the Great Fett’s one and only partner.

“He.. we.. I love him,” you confessed, shocked at yourself.

Din paused in his walking and turned to fully face you. “Good. He deserves that.” Then he turned and you continued your walk.

“So, when will you try to retake Mandalore?”

He seemed surprised, “Soon. I’m surprised Boba didn’t mention it to you. I guess he doesn’t want you to worry.”

“Is he going with you?” There was a slight pause, “Yes.”

“Then so am I.”

“He’ll never allow it.”

“He doesn’t control me.”

“He’ll still never allow it. He’ll chain you to the wall here before he lets you come.”

You smirked at that. He was probably right.

“I deserve to come. I’ve proven myself,” you countered.

He shook his head, “I know him and I can tell how he feels about you. It’ll never happen.”

You sighed. You’d take this argument up with Boba. You didn’t need to convince Din. The two of you continued in silence.

***

You came out of your hiding place after Slave 1 had gone into jump space. Arguing with Boba had proven pointless, though it had led to some great sex. There was no way you were letting Boba go into battle without you. The thought was absurd.

Fennec saw you first. Her facial expression was one of respect mixed with horror. Din saw you second. He straightened and looked towards the cockpit. You nodded and walked towards it, towards what you knew was going to be a blow-out fight.

You entered the cockpit quietly, but you knew Boba sensed someone was there. “I’m... here.” There was no point in putting it off or trying to be clever. He put the ship in auto pilot and stood up, facing you. He wordlessly closed the gap between the two of you.

“You disobeyed me,” he said, voice low.

“Don’t talk like that. I’m your riduur, remember,” you countered, remembering your conversation with Din. He froze. “I guess you got that translated,” he said dryly.

You put your hands on his chest and stared up into his helmet. “Let me be your riduur. Let me stand beside you.” He was breathing hard. “You do. Just also slightly behind me... when it’s dangerous.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your hands to your sides. “What happened the last time you got in a scrap?” Boba asked pointedly. You paused for a moment, remembering your painful recuperation in the Daesha.

“You will take one of our smaller ships and return with Fennec. You’ve also left my throne unmanned.” He said testily. You gulped guiltily. You had thought about that... momentarily.

“Just send Fennec.” Was all you said.

“Absolutely not.” He grabbed your wrists lightly, pulling you to him. You looked up at him, wondering what he was thinking. He dropped your wrists. They had extra weight on them - he had slipped binders on to you. You looked at him, stunned.

“Don’t look surprised. What else can I do?” You stomped your foot.

“Boba this is not fair —“

“You are not on the same level as Fennec, Din and I. The others I don’t care about. Just you.” He fixed your hair as you glared at him. Din entered the cockpit.

“What’s the new plan?”

“Fennec is returning to Tattooine with Y/N. To make sure she goes,” he added. Din shook his head, “Y/N is handy in a dog fight.”

You both could tell by Boba’s posture that Din was in trouble. He tried to back pedal, “Well I mean that was one time so I can’t possibly...“ He trailed off. Boba gripped the back of a seat sharply. The leather made squeaking noises as he continued to squeeze the life out of it with one powerful hand.

“So looks like them returning is the best plan,” Din finally said, looking from Boba’s hand to his helmet.

“Glad you agree but it really didn’t matter,” Boba grabbed you and slipped past Din. He presented you to Fennec in binders. “Take her and return to the Palace. Stay. There.” She looked from him to you. “Sure.”

***  ”Lover’s quarrel?” Fennec asked on the way back.

You sighed angrily, “I wanted to be there to fight with Boba. Instead he sends me away like a child.”

She looked at you, “You know you’re the only person he would argue with about such a thing.”

“Yes.”

“And he trusts you to sit on the throne in his stead.”

“Yes,” your annoyance grew, but you couldn’t ask her to stop talking.  ”Can’t you be happy with what he can give you? He is not perfect but he loves you fiercely.”

You swallowed hard, guilty.

“Why do you want to be there so badly? Pride?”

You considered. “Partially. But I also want to be there to have his back.”

She smiled. “That’s admirable and romantic, but Boba has plenty of back up.” She paused for a moment, “Which honestly he doesn’t need.”

You sighed. She was right. Were you being stupid? The two of you slipped into silence.

“So I’m just supposed to sit at home then?” You broke the silence.

“If by that you mean sit on his throne, then yeah, I guess.”

***

You and Fennec returned to the hanger without incident. She offered to take the throne room, so you wandered around the palace, thinking. You decided you had been a bit of a brat, and resolved to talk it over with Boba when he returned. You wandered outside. It was getting dark. You watched the suns set, waiting to hear from Boba and the others. The stars popped out of the night sky. Dusk was over. You stared up at the stars, wondering what was happening on Mandalore.

A droid appeared. “Madam, Ms. Shand summons you to the throne room urgently. “ You turned to it, “Why?” “She did not say, madam.” You thanked the droid and took off at a moderate speed. You arrived at the throne room to find Fennec pacing. “What’s wrong?” You had never seen her like this before. Worried.

“Oh Y/N, there you are. We got a communication from Din and some of the others. Boba and about half of Din’s loyalists have been captured.”

You stood there, unable to fully comprehend what you’d been told. Finally it sunk it. You turned to her, furious. “How did this happen?”

“He... sacrificed himself and Slave 1 to ensure Din’s escape. Din faces certain death right now on Mandalore; Boba is a political prisoner.”

“That makes me feel better.” You glared daggers at her, your fury still increasing. He had done this to himself? “I’m leaving now.”

“No; our instructions are —“

“Your instructions can be whatever you want. I’m tired of listening to people tell me to wait or stay. I’m going.” You turned on your heel, ignoring Fennec’s pleas.

#boba fett smut #boba x reader #boba fett x reader #boba fett x y/n #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x you #boba fett x f!reader #fennec & reader

38 notes · View notes

fudolegosiakira · 2 years

Text

Seela finding out about Five’s Death

_ It was normal for clones to die. I know it is. They were born to die for the republic It is hard though. To let go of the men you worked closely to the grip of battle… But, it’s almost over. I hope_

I let out a sigh and rub my eyes. Haven’t been getting much sleep lately… I should fix that.

“General Tann, your presence is requested in the medical bay.”

Turning off the holo recorder, I get up and leave my room. These days haven’t been kind, I’ve been doing my best. But still… I worry about Fives. I can’t shake this feeling in my gut.

Of course, I found it hard to believe that he’s crazy; he’s the most charming man I’ve worked with. We worked together on the battlefield, shared each other’s pain, and comforted each other. Over the past couple of days…

Walking into the med bay, I look around until I see Rex sitting by a bed and he looks up to me. That’s not a good look… He meets me halfway when I walk over and he rests a hand on my shoulder, “General, I should warn you… we…” he swallows before looking at me, but not in my eyes, “We found him.”

Glancing away from him and over at the bed, that dread building up. Tears well in my eyes and I walk over to the bed, bringing a shaking hand to the cloth on the head, Don’t cry, you knew this was going to happen. Bringing the material back from his face, there lies Fives…

Rex puts his hand on my shoulder, I barely felt it at first, “General-.... Seela… if you need anything-”

“Yes Rex, I do….” taking in a deep breath, “I would like to be alone.” It was loud enough that everyone in the room heard.

He nods and leaves, any others that weren’t injured in the room left with him. Sitting on the bed, I move the cloth off of his torso; the first stream of tears making trails down my face. Touching his cheek, reading over his features, I pull him to sit up hugging him close, muffling my sobs. This is too much, it’s a nightmare… h-he’s gone.

*****

Rex stood next to the door of the med bay, listening to the screams and sobs of the Jedi Knight inside.

#star wars angst #fives x oc

6 notes · View notes

ask-voidmeld · 3 years

Text

My Family By: Babe Powell, Reviewed by Agnes Drummond

TW: Description of mangled bodies, ghosts

“It’s weird growing up with people knowing you, but you don’t know them.

Not like distant family reunions or anything, most of my extended family is dead. My grandmas and two uncles are really the only ones left on my father’s side, and well, I have a few aunts and a pair of cousins on dad’s side.”

Tor tu kahtukinn tu et ophero. (Ah, the always forgotten of Otero.)

“But I know there used to be a lot more, like my great grandparents are out there somewhere in a place called,, um.. Australia? (I’m not sure if that's right, it's hard to tell if they’re joking or not.)”

Haha, tu jor mon Australia ey sai, petitoue baahkin’s boraròw. (Haha, the big Australia is real, little lamb’s bearcub.)

“Or, that I had a grandpa.”

Oh, Virgilius. Tu moi un bucha rrk tae. Ens turi ripp tuito sae Janus’x ackk. (Oh, Virgilius. You would’ve liked him. He’s still sewn to the side of Janus’ bag.)

“I didn’t know grandpas were a thing for a few years, I’m being completely honest about that. I haven’t had a grandpa before, so I didn’t know, I like 8 or something.

But, still.. I don’t hear much from him. Grandmother Agnes the only one that talks to me consistently. She’s mentioned him a few times, according to my dad and her, he was a really cool guy. I don’t hear much from my grandmother’s siblings, they don’t like to talk. They just stand there, menacingly.”

Fai tu yy sae fu-kac-toohsuo tu Drummond bario. Moi et sae toush vennom, tu tuu mor. Ees souta et frot, padd supos oso fu-kac stou. E morro epa su ta. (Menace is the lifeblood of the Drummond Family. You will stand with such passion, one day too. Eyes wide and forward, feet spread to easily gain battle stance. A scowl always helps.)

“Most of them were stricken down warriors, so I didn’t like looking at them too much. Gray would be bleeding from their wounds, organs dragging against the floor, skin torn and dreary white.”

...Eh, moitu so moi eh, ta so. Eh uu raain frot-o teh wroamin eh toi sau ompliea ta faiprouither. (...I suppose you’re right on that one. Still, a nervous look to the ground is a compliment to a soldier.)

“Great Uncle Johnny didn’t have a head, but he liked to sing to himself.. It was gargled by the blood, his sweet melody would be drowned in an ash sea. He likes to sing at night, I don’t sleep much when he visits, because dear Quisusaih that dude just fucking belts out Pterannan opera at 3 am. He mainly just follows dad around at night while he sings. He likes to watch over Dad when he’s in one of his moods.”

...Ah, jah. Baahkin sow ta tu moitu. John? Moitu ember ta sau ens kor fa moi. (...Ah, yes. Lambkin gets that from me. John? I’ll remind him to keep down for you. )

“They’re the only ghosts I can see, but I think that’s just Dad and I’s clairvoyance. The difference is that I can hear them.”

Heuheu, jah, moix rccki’x soola ten moi seela.. Tu eh mota. (Haha, yes, your father’s songs lend you hearing.. It’s truly special.)

“Surprisingly, the dead don’t have much to say, at least my dead.. Otherwise they don’t stop talking, the dogs don’t stop barking, the cats never stop meowing, it’s just one piano with all of its keys being slammed together at the same time.

One thing that always terrified me was the fact that my clothes were handy downs. I knew which family member wore them because the tears would sewn up. I just had to look at who had a knife, where. Luckily, I grew out of them quickly, so thanks Pops.”

Sooso eh sau ehkaso’x peiahs eh quisasa, et moitoi sinc… Moi eh tular eh so une to pha onso quisosolepa uno duex. Ehan eh sua moi bien toso toohsuo, et tar eta moitoi du kalha. (Wearing another person’s clothes is honorable, but I understand.. You’ve never been one to delve into your vampiric half. Nor are you great with blood, which is something I don't quite understand.)

“Was it too much?”

Heuheu, xue, Osolunta Atlas. Moitoi morso moi esckck. E toto sssch muo,(Haha, no, Prince Atlas. I enjoy your talking. It gets quiet here.)

“So it’s good enough?”

Jah! Jah, moi es jitjit raain fo moix moix bien, eta seu moix rccki! Moi e bienix!...Eh, sauah tu fo echi? (Yes! Yes, you’re too nervous for your own good, just like your dad! You’ll do great!...What’s this even for again?)

“Class! I’m supposed to talk about my family.”

Ohhh, jah, eso es ‘Perfect’ tu sou! Ne fonta Beetle! Et toi simpahlaoso Johnny’x polahso, wahkin bah-dum et seuf. (Ohhh, yes, this is perfect for that! Don’t forget Beetle! Make sure to describe Johnny’s beheading, children love that stuff.)

“Okay! Bye Grandma!”

Oranto! Ne fonta tu jaja, Kenzie! Er eh so fshhfssh Pterannaan et so! Er maka bien et xerio! (Goodbye! Don’t forget your lunch, Kenzie! Hey, sprinkle some Pterannaan in there! It makes good for story!)

#tw body injury #tw body gore #tw ghosts #intothevoids #universe 5782 #agnes drummond #Kenzie ‘babe’ Powell-rowe #Ned’s bedtime stories

6 notes · View notes

poppy-battenberg · 3 years

Text

feral // self

Her nails were broken and jagged.

While she was in the hospital, no one filed them down. No one came too close to her, unless she was sedated. Even then, there were handcuffs on her wrists and ankles to keep her chained to the hospital bed. She hated to be awake, to feel the pain that was not eased until the last few minutes before she drifted into unconsciousness. Most of the time, when she was awake, they gagged her to keep her from asking questions. All she saw were nurses with eyelash extensions and horrifyingly stark, bare walls around her.

When they finally released her, it was into the firm grip of a robotic Peacekeeper. It was suggested she not be tased, but if she fought against them too much, they would obviously have to do what was necessary. So she fought. She was tased. She ended up on the sidewalk outside the hospital, and used her forearms to try to avoid hitting her head there. The force of the taser and the sudden fall were still enough to give her a headache, but nothing like those first few days. She spit up on the Peacekeeper’s metallic foot, little more than some hospital fluids in her system. She was hauled into the truck with spit dribbling down her chin, and blood running down her clothes from where the skin on her forearms was torn. She was quiet only as long as it took her to catch her breath, then she started to spit and scream. She really didn’t know what had happened outside the walls of the hospital. She had no idea how many days had passed. She had no idea if she was on her way to her execution, prison, or a comfortable meal at home.

A soldier was in the truck with the Peacekeepers. She was the one who stuck a needle in Poppy’s arm, and the world drifted away quickly again. She hated it. She hated that it was welcome.

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring at a gray wall. Something was missing from her. She was certain she was naked, but when she tilted her head down, she found herself in clothes that matched the wall. The cuffs. They were gone from her wrist and ankles. She reached a hand up to press against the wall in front of her. Rough. Concrete. She dragged her fingertips down through a groove, staring at that broken and jagged index finger nail. It disgusted her. The daughter of a Capitol stylist, there were always certain things she kept tidy and pretty: her nails and her hair. Now she barely recognized her own hand, aside from the bruises on the wrist and scratches on her palm. Her forearms were wrapped in gauze.

Beneath her, the gray was smooth, cool. Like the rails on the hospital bed. Metal.

“You’re up.”

Poppy flipped over quickly. Her stomach was empty, she was dehydrated, and she felt the room spin as she gripped at the edge of the metal bed. Someone else was in this room with her. Another girl, another brunette. Another person in gray, the same gray as her clothes and the wall and the bed.

“Wh-Where am I?” Poppy did not recognize her own voice. She did not recognize her own dry mouth as it opened and closed.

“Capitol prison. My name is Seela.” No games, just a simple response. Poppy could finally see the woman. See the metallic tattoos torn up with scars, the space where her left ear no longer stuck out, the split ends of hair that had clearly been messily chopped off. There was still a little bit of pink dye at the tips. “It’s October 16th. Primrose Everdeen is dead. We eat dinner in five minutes.”

Poppy did not care about Primrose Everdeen. She did not care that the woman she’d only known as a face on a television was dead. That was not a concern to her. She cared if her family made it through this. She cared only about that. When she asked Seela to tell her more, Seela said she wasn’t the Capitol Gazette and sat with her back to Poppy to go back to reading.

When a bell rang, Poppy followed Seela’s lead. Lined up in the cell, then lined up outside the cell. She tried to keep her head straightforward, but her eyes were darting around, looking for a familiar face. Nothing. No one. All these women, and she didn’t recognize a single one. Were they all rebels? There was a sharp jab of someone’s knee to her back, and she realized she’d come to a standstill at the top of the stairs. She started to walk down, holding the railing for support.

Her body was weak. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time. She’d had mono in high school, and it knocked her off her routine for months. She lost muscle, lost motivation. Following the row of prisoners into the mess hall, she wondered what else she lost. Despite her hunger, the smell in the hall did not appeal to her, and the strange soup she was ladled out did not look appetizing. The bread she was given was stale. The milk carton was closed, she could feel the curdled bits inside sloshing against the side as she walked.

Out of line, without Seela walking in front of her, she suddenly felt very lost. Exposed. Looking around the room, she was very aware that all eyes were on her. It was not paranoia. Everyone was looking at her. She could do nothing but stare back, unable to focus on any one set of eyes. What could she do? Apologize for her aunt? Apologize for their loss? For what reason did they blame her for the failed rebellion?

Who was going to come for her first?

She took a seat at the end the only empty table in the hall. No one came to sit with her. No one looked at her once she was seated. She forced down the soup and bread. She opened the milk and set it away quickly, afraid the smell might make her soup come back up.

They lined up again. Poppy could do nothing but sit on her bed as she waited for lights out. She tried to ask Seela if anyone there was from Twelve, and Seela told Poppy to find a hobby.

Lights out.

Wake up at 6.

Line up at 6:15.

Breakfast is over at 6:45.

Rotating shower schedule at 8.

Cell time until 10.

Outdoor rec time until 11.

Lunch at 11:15.

Indoor rec time at 11:45.

Cell time at 12:30.

Line up at 4:45.

Dinner at 5.

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30.

Lights out at 9.

Poppy was punched for the first time on the second day. She tried to fight back, but was easily knocked back down again. There was a shadow of her strength left, and it would need coaxing. It would need help.

Seela leant her a book. Poppy got a headache within ten minutes of trying to read it. She was sent for an evaluation at the infirmary, had her gauze pads changed, and was given something for her head. She barely made it back in time for lights out. She was awoken by a middle of the night cell check. She had nothing for the guards to look through, and Seela only had Capitol-approved books that were mostly about gardening. Two prisoners were found with secret notes from rebels outside the prison walls. The gunshots went off before the cells were all locked back up.

Lights out again.

Wake up at 6. Get up, kid.

Line up at 6:15. Don’t be last in line or you’ll get no bread and whatever is at the bottom of the soup pot.

Breakfast is over at 6:45. Again, don’t be last in line out of here. You’ll be a target for the guards. Cell time. I like silence at these times.

Rotating shower schedule at 8. Don’t get the soap in your eyes.

Cell time until 10. You need to get a hobby.

Outdoor rec time until 11. You should run. Don’t look at her.

Lunch at 11:15. This is the best meal of the day. Don’t get busted up beforehand or you’ll miss it.

Indoor rec time at 11:45. None of the board games have all the pieces.

Cell time at 12:30. You need to get a hobby.

Line up at 4:45. Walk in front of me.

Dinner at 5. Sit with me.

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30. I’m going to shower. Don’t touch my books.

Lights out at 9. Stay. Quiet.

Poppy didn’t think Seela liked her, but every few days someone else was marched out of the cell after another sweep fo the cells. Seela didn’t like her, but she liked blood on her bedsheets less. An occupied cellmate was better than one that got in trouble. Poppy had the energy a week later to say that trouble had a way of finding her.

Poppy started her first fight an hour later.

It was outside, when she was running (or rather, slowly jogging) at Seela’s insistence so she couldtire herself out to sleep. She’d gotten too close to someone else’s territory. Irritated, hungry after being last in line for breakfast, she didn’t have time for a shouting match. She split her knuckles on the woman’s jaw and later had to use her own bed sheets to wrap it. If she started a fight, she wouldn’t get treatment for it, Seela said. There was a bruise forming in the center of Poppy’s back by the time she showered, right where the guard had brought down her baton to end the fight. Poppy was given a warning and told that was all she got. No matter who you are.

Lights out.

Wake up at 6. Stretch.

Line up at 6:15. Don’t look around.

Breakfast is over at 6:45. Cell time. More stretching. Write down goals for the day.

Rotating shower schedule at 8. Calisthenics.

Cell time until 10. Upper body strength and shadow boxing.

Outdoor rec time until 11. Run. Alternate interval sprints and endurance laps around the yard.

Lunch at 11:15. Do not rush.

Indoor rec time at 11:45. Watch the news.

Cell time at 12:30. Lower body strength and hand-to-hand combat drills.

Line up at 4:45.

Dinner at 5.

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30. Cold shower. This is not a time for comfort.

Lights out at 9. Stretch.

Some days, early on, she was so sore she did nothing. Whenever someone new showed up, she asked if they knew anything about Twelve. When they did not, she never spoke to them again. When they did, they never had the answers she was looking for. No one seemed to know what happened to the Battenbergs who’d been hiding in Twelve.

No one also seemed to know when they were getting out, or if they were getting out, either. They hadn’t been executed on the spot, but what came next? No one really knew. No one really knew who was actually a rebel, either. Some were arrested for affiliation, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some lied and just pretended that was the reason they were there.

One day it was too cold to go outside. Poppy was agitated. She’d grown up in the Capitol, she could stand a November chill. She wanted to run, anyway. She’d warm up. She’d be fine. All arguments she kept to herself as she found a space in the corner of the rec room to sit and contemplate what to do next. She was yelled at for blocking the heating vent.

The guard was not faster than Poppy as she lunged at the woman. She was desperate to hit something solid, something real. Something that would bleed. As she got the woman in a chokehold, a baton came down on her shoulder, then her back, then her leg. She was stronger than the prisoner, but not stronger than the guards. When she tried to grab at the guard’s leg to drag the woman down, another guard yanked her arms back and snapped on handcuffs.

Poppy was marched through a new concrete corridor, beyond the infirmary and beyond the mess hall for the male prisoners on the other side of the building. A guard had to turn on a flashlight to walk through a hallway lined with solid doors and Peacekeepers stationed outside each one. A door was waiting wide open, Poppy was shoved inside, and the door shut rapidly behind her. There was a little window just beyond the reach of her raised hand, where light filtered into the concrete room. There was no metal bed, just a thin mattress on the ground with suspicious stains. Poppy slowly moved her arms and twisted her body, testing out where she knew the pain would only get worse. No amount of stretching would prevent the soreness of the next morning.

She sat on the ground, and began to recite to herself survival skills she would tell her tributes.

“Never assume water is drinkable, but always collect it. You can create a fire to boil something easier than you can create water. There are a lot of ways to start a fire...”

Her first stint in solitary was 24 hours. The air shifted around her after that. Seela, favored by the guards for her good behavior, requested to be moved to a different cell. Poppy’s first new cellmate was removed on her second night for a shiv she was hiding in her shoe. The next cellmate tried to strangle Poppy in her sleep, and Poppy slammed the girl’s head on the metal corner of the bed. The guards found them both awake at 6, but only one bleeding, and Poppy was hauled off to solitary again.

Two days this time. She recited her survival tips again. Her first meal back in the mess hall, she and several others got food poisoning. The amount of rebels in the infirmary was so concerning that several Peacekeepers were stationed there as they were all handed medicine. Among the group, Poppy spotted some familiar faces. The older brother of an old school friend. A girl she’d played soccer with.

No one from Twelve.

Weeks had passed, and there was not even a crumb of news about her family. She’d seen the replays of her aunt’s Victor’s Ball speech. She wondered if the woman was cowardly enough to keep hiding out in District Thirteen. Surely, her aunt would’ve said something if rebels killed her only living sibling and his children. Or would that require her to admit to the nation that her own niece was among those rebels?

It made Poppy sick to think about. Her father knew Twelve better than her. Other rebels knew her family was hiding out in the old butcher shop. They must have gotten away. They were helped to escape. Maybe Ian was reading through all new books in District Thirteen now. Maybe Sara was learning that strange language their leader spoke. Maybe her father had lost enough, he was at peace with being separated from his daughter.

She wasn’t dead, after all. She was alive, and as well as she could be under the circumstances.

The headaches ceased. She challenged other prisoners to arm wrestling competitions to win part of their meal portions. She stacked her cell mattresses and pillows against the wall and punched and kicked at them until she was exhausted.

She wasn’t dead. Even after her third stint in solitary, that lasted four days and had her ready to scream her head off, she was not dead. And still no word came of her family. No word came that her aunt gave a single flying fuck that her niece was starting to cause a stir in the rebel prison. Poppy didn’t care for any talk of revolution or rebellion. She didn’t care for much talk at all, really. But she cared for the thrill of animosity directed at her, for the chance to fight once more. Maybe if she was sent to death’s doorstep, someone would finally fucking tell her something.

Lights out.

Wake up at 6.

Line up at 6:15.

Breakfast is over at 6:45.

Rotating shower schedule at 8.

Cell time until 10.

Indoor rec time until 11. Bitch, what are you looking at?

Her nails were broken and jagged. As they curled into her palm, she sliced a little of her own skin. She didn’t care. She took a moment to relish the pinch, the impression, and when the guard swung a baton at her, she ducked. One strike with a closed fist to the guard’s ribs. An unclenched but strong hand jabbed hard at the side of the guard’s neck. The guard used two hands on the baton to shoved at Poppy’s chest. Poppy latched onto the stick as she was tackled, pushing back against the pressure on her sternum. Her legs were pinned by the guard. There was little hope for her in this fight, but she refused to give up as she groaned and pushed back against the guard. A group of guards were present within moments, ready to grab Poppy the moment she was freed. She spit and scratched and kicked and screamed, but the rebels were not the only ones who’d gone to war. The guards had dealt with worse. There was a pinch at her neck, and then the drifting feeling she barely recognized almost two months later.

It was December 15th when she woke up in solitary.

A guard delivered her first breakfast through the meal slot, a change from the usual Peacekeeper delivery. She asked how long she was there this time. She must’ve already been passed out when the guards iterated their usual “for your punishment, you will spend X hours in solitary.” There was no answer from this guard. The meal flap slapped shut.

Lunch was hand-delivered, too, by a different guard. And dinner also. Poppy was unnerved. She tried to exercise, to find a way to train as snow dimmed the outside light from coming in. But her mind was racing, and each time she heard something in the hallway, she found herself suddenly jumping. Had they injected her with anything else? Was she even still in the Capitol prison? There was no way to tell if this was the same cell she’d always been put in.

December 16th.

The worst thing about solitary was the lack of structure. Poppy thought she hated structure, but there was some level of it that was absolutely needed in human life. She lost count of her squats, she barely broke a sweat, she was hesitant to strike even at the air. All meals were delivered by guards. They were more solid than anything she’d ever had in the mess hall. She wasn’t sure when it was night, and she didn’t know if she really slept.

December 17th.

Shortly after breakfast, before her tray was even taken away, there was a clicking sound nearby. The door. It was the door unlocking. Poppy stood immediately, dumping the crumbs from her tray and holding the spoon out like a weapon as she waited to see who would enter. A guard, with a taser already drawn and a new pair of overall in her arms. They were thicker, for the weather that was getting even colder. Poppy did not go after her, and the guard kept the taser drawn until the door was locked again. Poppy changed.

December 18th.

She slept the night before. She started to count to sixty repeatedly, then remembered she hadn’t gone through her usual list of survival tips. She didn’t know why she did it, but it was all she could think to do. Seela told her to get a hobby. This was her hobby. Staying alive.

She thought a lot about Niko and Gemma that day. The inked reminders of her dead tributes were still so fresh on her skin that even in pale light, she could still see each line. Niko’s and Gemma’s were the biggest, perhaps wishful thinking she would not have need for extra space for homages to the rest of the tributes she could not keep alive.

Maybe she’d been saving all the good tips for herself.

December 19th.

A steak knife was on her dinner plate. She kept it tight in her grip as she watched a guard pull back the tray through the meal plate. There was no hesitation as the tray scraped on the floor, then there were footsteps down the hallway. Poppy clutched the knife in outstretched arms, defensive, as she lied down on her bed. She fell asleep that way.

December 25th.

She slept with the knife every night. When the sun rose, the cell flooded with light. She got a new set of overalls, but did not change. She stuffed the collar into a crack in the wall. She used her boots to weigh down the end of the stained mattress, and propped it up to rest under the overalls. The arms rested awkwardly and it ended up shorter than most people, but that didn’t matter. Poppy started to do high-knees, jumping jacks, squats, jump squats, push-ups, anything she could think of to get her heart pumping. The steak knife remained always within reach. When she felt sweat start to drip down her hairline, she snatched up the knife and slashed at the overalls. She cut through the fabric, and through the thin cover of her mattress. She swung again, cut again.

She asked the darkness that night where her family was, as she tried to sleep on a torn up mattress. She got no answer. She’d hoped she was being spied on, that someone, somewhere, might have mercy on her and turn on a tiny little speaker to finally give her an answer. She asked once more, just to see if she hadn’t been loud enough the first time.

She told the darkness to go fuck itself.

January 15th.

She should’ve known something was different when dinner the night before was heartier than usual. She assumed it was going to be an especially cold night, or a blizzard might be coming. When she woke, the first thing she noticed were her empty hands. Before her vision was fully cleared of sleep, she began to feel around in the dark to find the knife handle. Nothing. Nowhere.

“Oh, look at the poor dear.”

The light that hit her wasn’t from the sun. It was electric. A flashlight. Poppy’s groan at the sight of it bordered on a growl as she squinted her eyes, forcing herself not to close her eyes entirely.

“What the f-” The voice was so high-pitched and nasally Poppy wanted to tear the woman’s throat out before she could see the full outline of her ridiculous hairstyle.

“Don’t be a brat, Poppy.”

Poppy sprang up. Before she could take another step, two guards had swiftly moved to grab her and pull her arms behind her, clapping on handcuffs. Behind the woman with the ridiculous hairstyle stood her older brother. Adam. She’d thought about him often, but never when concerned about the health of her family. She never second-guessed he’d always find a way to survive. She still wondered if he played any part in leading the rebels to their aunt’s bunker.

Now here he stood, the man who had the answer to every single fucking question she had. The man with the answer to her one burning question, and his arms were crossed, and his nose was wrinkled up. When had he stopped loving her? Or had he always just been a good actor, and their family the unknowing cast?

“Sara-”

The baby first. The one she feared for the most. Her name was the first thing out of Poppy’s mouth. Adam uncrossed his arms.

“Safe. Of course. Your friends aren’t nearly as good at keeping secrets as you think. We got them out of Twelve before you even got to the Hob.”

The Hob. The hideout. It didn’t affect her, not nearly as much as he was clearly hoping it would. She could see him watching her, waiting for a reaction to a revealed secret she didn’t care about. She didn’t know what past life the Hob belonged to, but it was hazy enough in her memory for her to barely blink. All she cared about was the reassurance, finally, that her family was safe. The palms of her hands grew warm, no longer feeling bare and empty without the knife clutched there.

The woman with the absurd hair cleared her throat. “And it’s Reaping Day!” she exclaimed with a grin.

Sunrise

Poppy was eased back into the outside world. First a quiet, slow car ride in the dark, then her handcuffs were taken off. There was a long pause after, as everyone stared at her, waiting to see what she would do. She was tempted to go after her brother again, but she knew now where that would land her. She folded her arms instead, exactly mimicking her brother’s stance. He sighed, then just her brother and the stylist brought her up the elevator to a Capitol apartment. She saw the name of the apartment on the sign out front. She recalled something she’d heard in the prison.

“Did you get sick when they poisoned the water?” she asked her brother.

“No. I’ve been testing my water for years.”

After the long period of silence, it startled her to hear a response. She imagined it might take some getting used to hearing other voices again. Had Adam always sounded so much like their father? She wished she could talk to him. They’d left Twelve, but gone where?

“Where-”

“Poppy, we don’t have much time. We’ll talk after.”

The stylist reached out to wrap her arms around Poppy’s shoulders, and Poppy immediately shoved her away. She felt no need to warn the woman not to fucking touch her again. She was handed a towel, a robe, a facial waxing kit, and a razor.

For the first five minutes, she showered in only cold water. Slowly, she began to twist the other knob. More and more, then a little off the cold knob. The room filled with steam as her fingers began to prune. She reached out her hands on the wall to steady herself as she began to lower her body, her movements deliberate. Curled up on the tub floor, with nothing but the hot tap on, and sobbed for the first time in months.

Adam said they did not have much time. It was utter bullshit. The sun was an hour away from rising when they arrived in the apartment. He knew. His heart had turned to ice with all his time around their aunt, but his mind was made sharper by it. When Poppy finally emerged from the bathroom, well after the sun rose, he said they were right on schedule. For a moment, she was comforted to see him drinking tea. She thought he might offer her some.

“You need to wax your eyebrows before anything,” he said instead.

“Bitch, you too,” she snapped.

The stylist kept her distance as she led Poppy into the bathroom again. She stood several feet away as she guided Poppy through the proper hair removal and grooming steps. Poppy barely glanced at her, moving on what felt like a reclaimed instinct. When the stylist spoke, Poppy’s memory drowned her out with her mother’s voice. After her skin was calmed, and her hair was dried and styled, the stylist excitedly handed her a garment bag and left. Inside was a simple dark red dress, and Benjy’s old leather jacket on the hanger behind it. She hadn’t worn it since the Presidential Ball, but she’d brought it along to Twelve. She didn’t know how Adam found it.

She remembered something he’d said once, a lifetime ago.

“We thought it was only us. Before you. Me and Benjy and Arissa. We were best friends.”

Adam was a rebel once. Maybe it was a bad family trait, to always want to rebel. Was that it? Or was it the desire to surprise, to draw attention? To be something more than just another bad hairdo at the Hearth Day afterparty?

She laughed. It felt horrible, but she kept at it. She laughed at her own thoughts, as she imagined her mother’s ghost wreaking havoc if a single one of her children dared to go to a party with a bad hairstyle. Still shaking, not wanting to give up on laughing just yet, she started to dress. Wool tights, and a wool bodysuit under the long sleeve dress. Her brother’s jacket was many things, but it was not warm. Inside the sleeves of the dress she could feel the roughness of a lining of fleece that was added. There was a small packet of gold jewelry hanging from the hangers. She reached up to tug and feel at her ears suddenly, but felt no indentations. All her piercings, closed up.

She would get them redone. She didn’t think much beyond that. She didn’t know what came after this, what came after playing dress up to watch someone be trotted off to the death. But she told herself she’d get a piercing again, and it was final. She slipped out the bracelets and rings, and adorned herself with such carefree movements, she didn’t recognize her hands. They were too clean, too soft. Except her nails.

Her nails were broken and jagged.

She stared at them, wondered if she should ask for a file to shape them and apply a sticker manicure. But that wasn’t right. This, these jagged, sharp edges, were the reminder of where she’d slept just the night before. She did not look in the mirror after pulling on the jacket, and walked out of the bathroom.

The Reaping

Poppy hadn’t seen so many people in months. It set her on edge. She kept her hands balled up, and continued to look over her shoulder as the stylist, still keeping her distance, led the way for Poppy to check in. Adam hadn’t driven with them to the center of the city. It’d just been Poppy and this stranger. Now, Poppy and this sea of strangers. She braced herself for the pinprick of the blood draw, told herself not to punch someone in the face. But as the draw came, a familiar scent filled her with calm. It was a perfume that told her it was time to smile, to play, to learn, to trust.

“Poppy.”

Gentle. Aunt Titaniara was always so gentle. Poppy felt the light touch at her elbow before her hand pulled away from the worker. She jerked it away immediately, stared blankly at her aunt. It was not for lack of thought, or emotion. It was too much. She did not know what to do. Did she brave the phalanx of Peacekeepers surrounding her aunt to try to choke her out? Did she thank her for saving the rest of their family? Now, face to face with her, Poppy couldn’t imagine anyone getting close enough to kill this woman. Even now, dressed in white and with an expression of kindness, she looked untouchable.

Poppy realized that her brother chose a pair of short heels that exactly matched the height of her aunt’s. They were the same height, eye to eye.

Poppy remembered the Seam. Remembered the stench of death everywhere. Death did not scare someone like her aunt, born and raised in a district like Twelve.

Death is certain. So her aunt took a bigger gamble: to win or lose. Small games don’t matter, not really. There are greater games, with greater stakes. Auntie Titaniara always loved an underdog, and her greatest bet ever had been on herself.

Death did not scare someone like her aunt. But losing would pack a punch. Maybe that was why she never let Poppy beat her at any games they played, no matter how young and sensitive Poppy was.

“Sit with me,” Titaniara said, as if it was really a suggestion. She held out her hand.

Poppy looked at the Peacekeepers first, and then at her aunt’s hand. Slowly, she reached out. The last time she’d reached for her aunt, she was tased. She tensed her muscles, readied for the pain, but all she felt was her aunt’s gloved hand wrap around her own.

She forgot how swiftly her aunt moved. Poppy had no time to relax into the familiar grasp before her aunt was walking. The Peacekeepers moved in formation. Stiff. Everything was so stiff in this little square that moved around her aunt, who moved so fluidly. Poppy’s feet moved quick, and she was suddenly a child again, rushing to keep up with Auntie Ti in her fun heels as she strolled into the Tower. They scaled the stairs, and it was not until they were seated that Titaniara let go. Not until Poppy was settled did she feel the blood flow quickly to her fingertips, and realized how tight her aunt’s grip was.

Snapping to attention, Poppy checked the clock. Her eyes scanned the crowds, looking for two familiar faces in the crowds. Sara and Ian. She’d never gotten an answer. Where were they? Had her aunt broken the rules to keep them out of the Reaping? Were they out of Panem? Were they in District Thirteen? Was that enough to keep them out of the Reaping? Were -

There she was. In a crowd that never seemed to stop moving, there was her baby sister, looking right at her. Sara was already crying, Poppy could tell from this far away. Her face was flushed, and she wasn’t moving. Poppy looked from her sister, to her aunt, and then back to the crowd. But Sara was already gone. There’d been some commotion as more thirteen-year-old girls joined the group, and a rapid shift took her sister away.

Among the shifting crowds, she saw a familiar gray. Not every prisoner had her privilege. The rest had to show up in their gray overalls, while she sat in a new dress on stage next to her aunt.

The Reaping ceremony began.

While the nation watched a pre-recorded video about Panem, Poppy watched her aunt. Watched her unchanging facial expression. Watched the way she kept a small, tight smile on her lips as there was a disclaimer about rebels paying for their actions.

The Black Eagles never stood a chance against a bitch who refused to die, and refused to lose. Even to a fucking kid.

Poppy really didn’t care about interrupting Honey Bellerose. Poppy looked at her aunt. She was tempted to mimic Titaniara, to match her smile exactly.

Poppy clenched her jaw, and slowly released the tension with an exhale. Poppy found her aunt’s gaze as she raised her hand. Eye to eye.

Her nails were broken and jagged against the blue sky.

“I volunteer as tribute!”

#feral #127 #th:self #self-para #para #reaping

3 notes · View notes