c'est la mort

a stupid ship took over my life

[bluebellfelidae]

meryl hellem rocque

7 sisters: cleo

4 - 15: friends with atticus st. james

15 - 18: dating atticus st. james

18: fight with atticus st. james

18 - 19: time in nyc; 7 1/2 months of being in an abusive relationship

19 - 24: education program

24: moved to san francisco

24 - now: lives with jeremy o'connor

25 - 26: dating jeremy o'connor

26: becomes engaged to jeremy o'connor

1 month in: suicide attempt

[bluebellfelidae]

pt ii.

the rebellion had consumed her life. it had begun with whispers, with fellow designers gossiping about what their tributes had said. it had taken a while to plant a seed in her mind, but once it did, it grew faster than she could have ever fathomed.

she arranged to save two cousins, sky and storm, to harbor them. at first, that was it. but then she helped them pass on information. then she helped them gather information. when she got demoted, it was anything but an accident—just enough offense to garner a demotion, not enough to lead to her being fired altogether, or worse. district eleven was the perfect spot—loosely monitored, but with close ties to the fire starting out in the districts. she began to speak with rebel leaders within the capitol directly, rather than through her avoxes. she began to get bolder.

which was why she had to leave. for her safety, and cyrus’s.

she had held her favorite dress in her arms while she had sat in one form of transportation after another on the way to thirteen. it had seemed impossible to her, getting out of there—it took two weeks, and a lot of silence, letting others speak for her, to hide her accent. they told lies about her dress being her daughter’s, that she had lost her daughter to the capitol. anything to keep suspicion to a minimum.

seeing district two’s mountains had tugged her heart harder than she had anticipated, but she didn’t have to face them for long enough to hurt.

she slowly got used to the rhythm and rhyme of district thirteen. the mind numbing patterns. she worked mainly in helping patch up uniforms, making alterations for children’s clothes to minimize wastefulness. she did her best to distract herself, to keep her hand from going to her throat, where the little silver kitten no longer sat.

but still, it ached to leave him like that. knowing nothing, maybe hating her.

but some things were worth sacrifice. and somehow, she had begun to believe along the way that the rebellion was one of those things.

x

he’s one of the first victors they save. they say that he had been protecting rebels—not necessarily helping, but saving their lives, keeping them inconspicuous.

she’s not prepared for the feeling that sinks into her when she sees him for the first time in two years.

he freezes when he sees her, someone almost knocking into him. they make a beeline for each other, and neither of them reach for each other. they just study each other, as if neither is sure what the appropriate response is. anger from him? guilt from her? relief from both? “i’m sorry,” she says softly, and he nods, slowly, studying her face still, as if she’s a dream.

“you didn’t even leave a note,” he says, emotions conflicting in his voice.

“i couldn’t risk it,” she replies, immediately. beginning for forgiveness. for understanding.

“so that’s what was going on? that year leading up to your disappearance, starting with sky and storm—” she nods, and he stops talking, still studying her face. “you look strange down here. without your dresses, without your heels. without your flowers.”

“you look strange, too. betraying your beloved capitol,” she says softly, careful so that only he hears the last part. he’s new here—she doesn’t want to make it any worse than it has to be.

“it was my last hope that i could find you. that maybe this was where you went. and i guess it was the right hope to hold out for,” he says, and she nods, smiling slightly, sheepishly and proudly all at once. “i would betray anything i believed in for you. i refused to think you just disappeared. you weren’t dead—they would be more dramatic about it. so i had to find where you could have gone. and i guess… i finally found it.” he looks around, obviously a little surprised by the makeup of district thirteen.

she smiles softly, squeezing his hand, the contact electrifying. “you get used to it, i promise.”

[bluebellfelidae]

pt i.

it’s small things.

but he’s been hardwired to notice them.

it begins with her avoxes. he comes to her door, during one of their usual affairs, and a tall, willowy woman opens the door. her hair is braided, her clothes are simple but fashionable. but her face shows no inclination to speak. she simply turns, and cyrus has to look over her shoulder to see bluebell, standing by the counter, speaking to another avox. signing, actually.

“blue?” he calls, and she turns, shock evident in her face, as if he caught her doing something immensely intimate. she blushes slightly, smoothing out her dress.

“that will be all, sky,” she says, before crossing the kitchen to him, her hand lightly landing on the elbow of the avox blocking his path. “you, too, storm.” the woman nods slightly, walking past bluebell to join the other avox, moving on to some task. cyrus watches them go, shocked by their existence, shocked by the kindness which bluebell showed them. shocked that she learned sign language. it isn’t that he doesn’t think bluebell is compassionate—it’s just that, for capitol citizens, avoxes are treated like animals, practically. it had never crossed his mind that anyone within its borders thought differently—even someone as unusual as bluebell.

he dismisses it, for a while. the two women living within bluebell’s apartment. he learns their habits, the gaps in their thought patterns. they’re more roommates than servants, cyrus thinks, and eventually he asks her why she even has them. she barely looks at him when she says, “present from the president. because i’ve been such a successful tribute stylist.” she looks up at him, just for a moment, before looking back down at the magazine in her lap. but it still doesn’t quite add up—avoxes are neat. they’re precise and calculated and, at times, resemble robots over humans. but sky and storm are very human, with strong personalities—cousins, not sisters, with occasionally messy tendencies and a chronic tendency for forgetfulness.

when he catches them listening to their conversations, pretending they’re closely studying how to patch up a dress, or making dinner, he becomes skeptical. presents from the president return to his head, over and over. but he never says anything, partially because he worries they’ll hear, partially because it might make him sound crazy to bluebell, who has grown to very obviously love her avoxes.

it’s only the first sign.

x

he finds a particularly irritable bluebell on one of his trips closer to games season—having come in to speak to possible sponsors, to entertain some of the president’s allies—and at first, he’s worried she’s mad at him when he walks in the door. she’s standing, speaking to storm and sky—signing, actually, faster than he’s ever seen her do it, but messier, too—and her hair is down from its braids, though not at all styled. pulled down in a hurry. in a bout of rage. she finishes signing before looking at him, and he braces himself for the onslaught of anger.

“they changed my district,” she spits out, crossing her arms sulkily.

“what?” he practically stutters. “why would they do that?”

“i turned down an offer,” she says, spitting out offer like venom. “one of those pesky sponsors, a really rich one—he offered me a night. like i should feel grateful for sleeping with that lech.”

“so they changed your district? to what?” he asks, unable to comprehend all of this. since when was bluebell in the spotlight like that? since when were men sent her way for that? and the natural, who was he, so i can break his neck.

“district eleven,” she says, disgusted. offended.

“that means it’ll make us more obvious,” he says, glancing at storm and sky, who watch like hawks, not pretending to be listening to it all.

“we have to meet less,” blue says quietly, reluctantly, and he nods, wondering how much of this is connected. if the avoxes were considered a favor, and she was supposed to give her body in return. if that’s why she’s being punished. but he doesn’t mention it, what with storm and sky watching, and she spends most of the rest of the day designing for her new district, while complaining under her breath about the demotion.

x

he approaches her between talking to sponsors. he brushes her hand gently with his own, subtly, craving her touch, craving her, and she smiles at him, like she knows she’s his secret. and oh, she does.

“come to my bed tonight,” he whispers, lowering his head towards her ear, and she nods, her fingertips brushing his knuckles, gently, a silent yes. he watches her walk away, speaking to other designers, then sponsors, and he continues watching her even as he speaks to sponsors. he notices her spending a considerable amount of time talking to one man, whose hair is salt-and-pepper, who isn’t in the best shape, who is fashionable but understated. she moves on from him, but always returns—they circle back to each other, constantly, and it makes cyrus’s stomach twist, because he’s almost entirely certain he isn’t another designer.

x

in bed, before she falls asleep, his fingertips brushing her shoulder blades, he finally lets his worries come to the surface. “who was that man you were speaking to tonight?”

she half-laughs. “you have to be more specific than that, cyrus,” she whispers, propping her chin up on the back of her hand, where it rests on his chest. studying him.

“dark emerald suit, salt-and-pepper hair, gray eyes,” he says, and her face looks almost wiped clean for a moment. concealing something.

“my mentor,” she says, studying him. “reginald.”

“i thought your mentor was a woman,” he says, trying to pull at the few mentions of her mentor. and he distinctly remembers her being a woman.

“my first one,” she says, yawning and rolling onto her side, pulling the sheets up. “i’ll tell you more about him when i’m not about to go to sleep, sweetheart,” she says with another, heavier yawn, and he rolls onto his side to hold her, “but for now, goodnight.”

he stays up almost all night, even with her beside him, because he’s almost certain that she lied to him.

x

she congratulates him when his tributes win, champagne flute in hand. the sex that night is nothing like it’s been for months—he almost wants it tattooed into his memory, forever, every sensation, every single thing that went perfectly, if only to do his best to replicate it in the very near future.

when he gets home from the victory tour, she’s the first person he visits in the capitol, at least once he’s free. when he gets to her apartment, unlocking the door, he immediately notices the absence. no storm or sky. no cat eventually recognizing him and rubbing against his calf. no bluebell calling out to him from another room, and certainly no bluebell standing right in front of him.

as he walks through her apartment, it’s disturbingly undisturbed. everything is in it’s rightful place. her bed is made immaculately. her knick knacks on her dresser are perfectly arranged. nothing is noticeably missing, except what breathed life into it. the women, the cats. he goes into her closet, searching for signs, for clues, and finds it in an unlikely place. her favorite dress is missing. the pale blue and gold dress is gone, but when he inspects her dresser more closely, he finds her necklace—the one he bought her, the little silver cat—hidden among the flowers she usually buys in the mornings from a local market to put in her hair. they’re still fresh. they still fill the room with their smell.

it makes his stomach flips, because he knows what it means. it means bluebell is gone. it means it’s not an accident, it’s not unplanned. it means that this is the closes thing he’ll get to a note.

[bluebellfelidae]

tw: self-harm, suicide

she’s never said i love you. on their wedding night, his arms around her tiny ribcage, her face nuzzled against his neck, she whispered against his skin, words that most women would never say to their husbands. you’ve ruined me. you’ve taken everything i was and ruined it. in french, in english, in german, she whispers cruel truths, even as she kisses him, as her hands navigate his thick curls, as she entangles herself more deeply.

you are my damnation.

x

“it’s been two years, bluebell.”

“it’s not like i’m plotting against you.” she doesn’t look up at him from where she’s reading the paper, taking a sip of her coffee. he looks down at her, obviously frustrated that she’s not taking him seriously, and she rolls her eyes, just returning her attention to the paper. “i want to be a mother as badly as you want to be a father, cyrus.”

he sighs, sitting down next to her, and she glances at him, hesitating before reaching out to touch his face, hand cupping his cheek. in these moments, they almost feel like a happy married couple. perfect. but she still sees all of it in his face—all the things they’ve been through, together, for better or for worse. sometimes she wonders if they’re just married to each other because of a mixture of proximity and familiarity. and also, of course, cyrus’s persistence.

“sometimes i wonder if that’s true, bluebell,” he says softly, as if reading her mind, taking her hand from his face and kissing her knuckles. “i should go to work.”

she nods, squeezing his hand gently. “it is, cyrus. i promise.” she says softly, and gives him a small smile before returning to reading the paper. he presses a kiss to the top of her head on his way out, and without thinking, she smiles. just for a moment, all the weight disappears for her shoulders. just for a moment.

x

he strokes her hair, silently protective of her, though she isn’t sure what he’s protecting her from. does anyone know? “i’m so very sorry, madame pemberton,” the doctor says quietly, and she swallows hard, wiping her eyes, forcing herself to straighten up in her hospital bed. her hands are shaking slightly, and all she wants is to smoke, to just light a cigarette and lose herself in it, to soothe herself with the familiar motions, to be mindless, just for a second.

“it’s nothing you did,” she says stiffly, tucking her hair back in place, carefully, glancing at cyrus, as if to check if he’s angry with her. but instead he just reaches a hand to hold hers, comforting her, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles. her other hand rests over his, just staring at the doctor, wanting someone to tell her this is all a mistake. a giant misunderstanding. it was all a joke, we’re sorry for the trouble! you’re going to be a mother. really. we swear.

but no one takes back what they’ve said, and by the time cyrus and bluebell are home again, she feels like she’s in the middle of a dream. like everything is passing on in front of her, one thing inseparable from the other. nothing really means anything. that’s the best part. or the worst?

it makes it hurt a little less, at least. but she can’t really attach to anything. everything’s dulled. even the pain.

“i’m sorry,” he says quietly, after almost a half hour of them just sitting at their kitchen table, bluebell idly stroking their cat in her lap, their hands clasped again, inexplicably, on the table. “i didn’t realize… i didn’t know this was going to be so difficult.”

she laughs, bitterly. “it’s just perfect, isn’t it?” she says, swallowing hard at the bitter taste of tears. “it’s perfect that i can’t have children.”

“you don’t know that.” he says quickly, and when she doesn’t look at him, he squeezes her fingers gently. she still doesn’t look up. she just stares forward, continuing on stroking the cat, focusing on its warmth, the silkiness of its fur. “we can keep trying. maybe next time—”

“i don’t want there to be a next time, cyrus,” she says, her voice trembling. “because if there’s a next time, there’s a next i’m so sorry, madame pemberton. there’s another child i’ve lost. there’s another moment like this!” she stands suddenly, which makes the cat go scrambling, almost scratching her. “i don’t ever want to feel the same way i felt in that moment again in my life. it felt like…” her words crumble around her then, and she starts sobbing, sitting down heavily, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. cyrus just watches her, immobilized, having never seen her like this. in all their years, in everything they’ve been through, she’s never truly sobbed. she’s never looked broken. no matter how much pressure someone put against her.

“blue…” he whispers, voice full of pity, and she swallows hard, rubbing her face again with shaking hands. “i’m sorry, we don’t have to try again anytime soon.”

“i don’t want to try again ever, cyrus. that’s what i’m saying,” she whispers, even though she knows she’s fighting a losing battle.

x

she’s pregnant for the second time when her mother calls cyrus in his office. you need to come to the hospital, cyrus. now. something’s happened to the baby. when he gets there, it’s a familiar moment, and bluebell just stares down at her lap, as if she’s guilty, as if she’s made some horrible mistake. his stomach twists.

for the rest of the week she pulls away from him every time he touches her. she flinches when he presses a kiss to her temple one day, slips her hand out of his without a word when he reaches for it. she’s a ghost of herself. “you aren’t being you,” he says, after the second week of the same treatment and behavior, and she just nods slightly.

“i feel hollow,” she whispers one night, having finally let him hold her, though she doesn’t feel fully there. she’s lost weight, alarmingly quickly, and the doctors said it was stress when he forced her to go. she’s just under a lot of pressure, physically and emotionally. it hadn’t felt like enough of an explanation. “i feel like someone took everything i’ve ever been and just kept putting it elsewhere. when otto joined the nazis. when otto died. when we got married.” he tries not to be hurt, but he can’t do it, so he just doesn’t say anything and pulls her closer. she doesn’t fight him, somehow. “when i miscarried the first time. and now… i feel like there’s nothing left to give. what else could someone take from me?” she starts crying again, there in his arms, and he just holds her as she shakes, stroking her hair.

x

after a month or so, she’s back to who she was before, if slightly dulled. she smiles more often, laughs, albeit less than she did when she was younger. it takes a few more months, but eventually she asks him if they can try, just one more time. maybe this time it’ll work. maybe this time, they’ll get the baby they’ve always wanted.

but the story is set. this pregnancy lasts the longest, but even that is short, and eventually it has the same ending. she returns to the state she was in the last time, largely silent, withdrawn, apathetic. it gets to the point that he hires a nurse to stay with her while he’s working, to make sure she eats enough, brushing her hair, doing her laundry. at the lowest point, cyrus insists on bathing her, and she stares at him as he does so, occasionally reaching for his arm, stopping him, waiting until he takes the cue to kiss her, the rare moments of affection that she relents to. but sometimes she remains just as withdrawn, staring at the wall ahead, following whatever directions he gives her. she’s hollow.

it takes longer, but she eventually returns to being deceptively close to normal. she takes baths on her own, she has brunch with her mother, she goes shopping for dresses. but she never asks again to have children, and cyrus never pushes, because he’s not sure if she could ever return from the woman she had become the last time. and in all honesty, that woman scared him. she was a hollow shell, not the fiery, stubborn, strong-willed woman he had sought to marry in the first place.

x

again, he’s at work. but in the havoc, no one calls him. he comes home to policemen in his home. his in-laws on his couch, both crying, bluebell’s mother practically wailing. the two sisters that could make it to the home before he came home comfort their mother, resembling the hollowness of bluebell just months before, going through it in a daze.

two slashed wrists. alone in the bath.

the weight that had hung on her shoulders for years had finally broken them.

[bluebellfelidae]

bluebell wants to break everything in sight. the wine glasses, the champagne flutes, the little porcelain kitten that reminds her of him staring at her from her vanity table. she clenches her jaw, unable to hold back her anger for once. it’s too hot. too true.

“get out.”

her voice shakes, betraying every emotion warring inside of her. she doesn’t look up at him, because then she won’t be able to put this off any longer. she’s always seen him in the crowd, waiting for her, waiting to do something, but this is too immediate. this is far too personal. this is too… disrespectful.

“you know i won’t,” he says, his accent thick, and she takes a deep breath.

“i’m not going to pretend everything’s okay, cyrus. i’m not going to play at niceties. you can shove your ego up your ass, i don’t care. i don’t care if it’s not ladylike to swear. i want you to go to hell,” she swallows hard, against all the hatred quivering in her chest. all of it like a noose around her neck. whose fault is it? mine, for pretending i ever loved him? or his, for trying to get rid of him? she doesn’t really have to think about it. his. his, his, his.

“and what? bring you back your idiot fiancee?”

it makes her crack. she grabs the music box, the one cyrus had sent to her, the one he had custom made, turning to hurl it at him. it smashes near his shoulder, and he actually has to dodge it for once. “are you trying to kill me now?” he asks, half-snarling, though she knows he’s hardly phased. she always throws something at him.

“get out!” she screams, standing, her hands in fists at her sides. “leave me alone, take your damnation with you and leave me be!”

he snorts at her, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “it’s not like i killed him, bluebell.”

“it’s not like you’ve given me any moment to mourn! you act like he meant nothing, like he never existed! you couldn’t even give me a month, you had to show up and remind me of everything i’ve lost!” she stands in front of him now, screaming at him, her nails digging into her palms at this point. threatening to break the skin. but she doesn’t care.

“you never loved him, bluebell. stop acting,” he whispers, and it feels like he’s popped a balloon in her head. like everything that she didn’t know she’s held up there has come rushing out. she stares at him, a mixture of disgust and shock on her face.

“get. out.” she whispers, practically quivering now. “leave. me. alone. i just want to be left alone.” she stares at his arms, at anything but his face, because she knows what she’ll see in it. the fact that he’s right. that she never loved otto. he was just a matter of convenience. a handsome boy that loved her, that devoted his world to her, even though he was too stupid and silly to see that any other man could have stolen her right out from under him. any man, that is, besides cyrus. the devil himself.

when she looks up at him, hesitantly, his eyes meet hers. “i’m not letting you hide from me. i want you, bluebell. and i’m not giving up. you know damn well that i get what i want. i always do. and you’re what i want.”

she laughs at him, sounding half-insane, running her hands through her hair, closing her eyes. “can you live your whole life with your wife hating you?” she whispers, and he laughs, bitterly.

“if it’s you, then yes. of course i can. it’s no different from now.” there’s a strange humor in his voice, and she starts turning away from him, about to go back to her vanity, when he stops her, his hand on her elbow, turning her back around. the movement reminds her how much stronger than her he is. the fact that they’re alone. it scares her, frankly. “i’m not bluffing. i will have you, bluebell. i warned you. it can be easy, and it can be hard.”

“cyrus, you don’t know how hard i can make your life,” she hisses, looking up at him. “i will make it your own personal living hell.”

he smirks. “i count on it.” he pulls her closer, and she freezes as he leans down, kissing her, his mouth hard, unforgiving. her hand grabs his bicep, grounding herself a moment, before she bites his bottom lip, hard, close to breaking the skin when he pulls back. she almost expects him to slap her, and she glares up at him, waiting for it, daring him. but he just straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at her grimly. “willkommen auf hölle, frau,” he hisses, and she swallows hard, watching as he leaves, locking the door the minute he’s gone.

[hautekills]

Chanel s/s 2015

[bluebellfelidae]

“samara, where’s bluebell?”

the brunette looks up from her filing, blushing a deep red. despite having been dating mars for about a month, she still gets flustered when cyrus speaks to her, which is always about the whereabouts of bluebell. because she knows it’s never really about work. and that’s wrong. even if it’s love, it’s wrong. or something.

she glances past him, at mars, who’s having coffee by his desk. he smiles softly. reassuring her. it isn’t her fault that cyrus is cheating. and bluebell is her own woman. she sighs, biting her bottom lip before looking up at cyrus. “where else would she be if she’s not walking jack?” she hesitates, remembering her position. “sir.”

he hesitates, thinking it over, before nodding, knocking his knuckles on her desk twice. “thanks, samara. you can probably take the day off, i doubt she’ll be coming back,” he says, and then flashes her a wolfish grin, walking in the direction of the elevator. when mars approaches her desk, she looks up at him, wanting so badly for him to tell her that this is ridiculous, that it’s amoral, anything.

“you wanna get out of here? cyrus gave me the day off.”

samara rolls her eyes before standing, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “fine.”

x

she’s lost in fiction. her fingertips linger on the spines of books, each breath pulls in the heavy smell of paper and ink and aged leather. it brings the whisper of stories, promising her far off worlds other than her own. it’s her own little heaven, shelter away from her world outside the doors. miles and miles of books, beckoning. promising her that her demons can’t find her inside. she forgets that she was ever crying today, when the weight of it all hung too heavy across her shoulders. she bites her bottom lip, tugging lightly at the skin on the corner of her mouth, twisting her necklace around her fingers. the little silver necklace speaks to the messiness of all of this—an obvious, typical display of romance, a delicate b hanging from the chain, but yet seen closer up as some mutated mix of friendship and romance. she sighs, her fingertips tracing the promises of neruda when she sees him at the end of the aisle, framed by the high stacks of books. she raises her head, looking at him a long moment, before looking back at the pages. “i told you never to bother me here,” she says flatly. “i come here to be alone.”

he hesitates, obviously considering the wisdom of approaching her. but he does it anyway, his broad hand resting on her hip, and she pulls away immediately, hurting him. “you left without telling me. i just… i don’t know, i don’t like that. i thought—”

“i’m your mistress, cyrus. i don’t owe anything to you.” she doesn’t whisper, looking up at him, hand still in the secrets of neruda. “now please leave.”

he’s about to protest, his lips parting, but he swallows his words, just nodding. he presses a kiss to the top of her head, his hand moving up to the nape of her neck, gently, and she doesn’t pull away, despite her pride. she looks up at him, watching him as he goes, making sure he really does leave, before turning back to the poems begging for her return.

x

the first time she talked about the strand, they were in college. he was a senior and she was a freshman, visiting him in his dorms, naked in his bed, her long hair falling in loose waves over the backs of her shoulders as he traced circles on her lower back. “it’s just heaven for me,” she had whispered, her fingertips combing through the edges of his hair. “it’s half of why i want to move to new york. so i can just take a subway there, or walk, if i’m lucky enough, to a little slice of heaven.”

but she had followed through with her words, and often times after a fight he would find strand bags strewn across her apartment. they both knew what it meant, but that didn’t matter—a fight was a fight, and the easier it was for her to cool off, the better.

he had never bothered her at the strand, had never been foolish enough to seek her out—but this time, the fight had been too real. about the future. about whether or not this was going to end, about whether or not she was allowed to date (allowed was the wrong word choice, but he’d been dumb enough to make that choice), about whether or not it was love.

frankly, it had scared him. it had scared him that this could end.

x

on monday, samara plays guard dog. whenever cyrus approaches bluebell’s door, samara knocks twice, which leads to bluebell audibly locking the door on the other side. during meetings, she keeps it cordial. he asks her to go to lunch with him through a text, and receives radio silence.

eventually, he resorts to probably the worst choice, but he sits on the couch when she gets home, jack coming to meet her at the door. she sighs, scratching her husky behind his ears. “you’re a horrible guard dog, you know that?” she says, looking down at his loving face, before taking off her coat and her shoes, walking past cyrus to the kitchen. “this is a cheap shot, you know that, right? i gave you that key to walk our dog.”

“that’s the point, bluebell.” cyrus says, standing, following her into the kitchen. “we have a dog. our lives aren’t so easily extricated.”

“really? you’re using jack as the crux of your argument?” she raises an eyebrow at him, and she reminds him immediately of the bluebell he had known in the beginning—ferociously independent, stubborn, and most of all, skeptic of everything he said or did. (not that she was much different, in all honesty. it was just that she trusted him a little more.) “i don’t want to talk to you, cyrus. i need a little bit of a break.”

he laughs at that. “a break? you’re using the ‘i want a break’ ruse?”

she raises an eyebrow at him. “well, you’re being such a pain in my ass, i don’t think you deserve much more.”

he snorts.

“i mean it, cyrus. i can’t keep doing this. i can’t waste my life on a man who doesn’t even want to be with me.”

“that’s not—”

she slams a fist down on the counter, glaring at him. “don’t you dare tell me that’s not true! you’re marrying her, cyrus! for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, you are choosing that woman!” her voice raises, jaw clenching. “i love you, you know that, i want a life with you—but you have to choose it, cyrus! you can’t keep hiding from me.” she stops yelling then, swallowing hard, running her hand over the cool marble of the counter. “please, i need this to end. i need to move on.”

he shakes his head, his words failing him, staring at her face, the defeat in it. “i can’t just… i can’t give you up.”

“then choose me, cyrus,” she lets out a heavy breath, swallowing against the tears threatening to choke her.

he shakes his head slightly, taking a step towards her, pulling her up halfway to kiss her. she lets him, the kiss crushing, desperate—but not enough. never enough. she pulls away, smiling bitterly. “it’s not that easy. you can’t just brush it off with a kiss, cyrus. this problem’s real. i can’t hide from it in my sanctuary, and you can’t hide from it in a kiss or with sex. that’s not what kind of problem this is.” she hesitates, studying his face, fingertips brushing his cheekbone. “if you don’t want to find a solution, please leave me alone. i can’t keep doing this.”

it takes a second, and then he nods, stepping back, leaving her alone in her apartment. and it all but crushes her.

[bluebellfelidae]

when a boy from the village is killed outside the walls, bluebell can hear the clamor inside the little city. she sits in the attic, legs stretched out in front of her, patching up a shirt that madeline had brought up with several others that needed mending. most of the villagers don’t know that she was ever brought inside the walls, and many are told she’s younger than she actually is—they see it as saving a young child, rather than a sixteen-year-old girl that knows exactly what she’s doing. that would gut and decapitate any villager with the right command.

but right now she’s just the girl in the pembertons’ attic, mending shirts, out of sight, out of mind.

sometimes cyrus comes up to see her, asking her questions about the tribes. at first, he always starts with the questions he wants answered. why do you kill us? why don’t you live in cities? why are you the way you are? bluebell just stares back at him, and sometimes, she answers him truthfully, even though he thinks she’s lying, avoiding his questions. i don’t know.

she never asked why. you don’t ask why when it’s all you know.

but then he asks different questions. do you have a family? she nods, hesitantly, glancing at him, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“a husband?” he asks, and she laughs at that, at the absurdity of it.

“i’m sixteen.”

“so? i thought you married young in the tribes.” he replies, as he sorts the shirts she’s mended. she watches him a long moment before going back to the shirt in her lap, wondering why she’s mad enough to be attracted to a village boy.

“why?” she asks, glancing at him again, catching him looking at her. she goes back to her shirt immediately, focusing harder on it. trying to perfect the stitches, make it as seamless as possible. “you don’t know anything about us.”

“i want to change that.” his voice is firm and steady, and she can’t help but hesitate. the obvious questions come to her mind, but she doesn’t ask them. so you can kill us? so you can exterminate us? or are you just a curious boy?

she stops answering his questions then. another day, she tells him about her sisters. how beautiful they are, how kind they are, how wild they are. how only two of her sisters are wed, and her eldest sister can’t have children. “why would a man marry her, then?” cyrus asks, and she laughs at him.

“love, fool.” she replies plainly, and he stares at her long enough that she goes back to mending a child’s dress in her lap, avoiding his eyes for the rest of the time they share together.

x

she rarely leaves her room, because she knows that they think that she can’t figure out the lock. but she does it easily, tiptoeing through the second floor of the big, old house, poking her head into bedroom after bedroom. she freezes when she sees a girl in one of the boy’s beds, for a second thinking it’s cyrus—but she recognizes alexander soon, and she stifles the relieved sigh. don’t be a fool, bluebell, her mind hisses, but she can’t help herself, so she just ignores the feeling and goes on to the last bedroom, finding cyrus alone in his small bedroom, his bed taking up most of the space. she’s careful, practically silent as she approaches his side of the bed, watching him a moment before shaking his shoulder, quickly covering his mouth when his eyes open wide.

“i want to go. outside. outside this house, outside the walls.”

her hand muffles an incredulous laugh that slips out of his lips, and she glares at him fiercely. he raises his eyebrows at her, surprised that she would even ask, that she wouldn’t just sneak out, but after a particularly long staring match a sigh blows against her palm, and she takes back her hand. “i’m tying you to me and we’re going out together.” she nods, stepping back, and he gets out of bed. she doesn’t realize she’s staring at his bare chest until he speaks. “are you going out barefoot or are you going to actually use your brain?” she glares at him, before nodding, walking to the doorframe, waiting with her back to him. she hears him putting on a shirt, tying up his boots, and he shoulders past her, his hand wrapping around her wrist as he passes her, leading the way down to the first floor, and to a chest in the den, near the fireplace. he pulls out rough rope, and she glares at him as he ties it tightly around her arm, and then around his waist, holding it like a leash as he leads them out the front door of the sleeping home.

she’s grateful the moment she feels dirt underneath the soles of her feet, setting the pace despite his reluctance to let her, going slowly, savoring the wealth of sensations. she studies all the houses they pass, the bakery, the armory. she stares up at the walls, studying them, compartmentalizing everything she can possibly store away. after a while, he tugs on the rope, and they approach the guards. he pulls his shirt out from his pants so it covers the rope, and then pulls her closer, hiding the length of it, wrapping his arm around her so that her tied arm disappears behind his back. she looks up at him, almost snapping at him, but she understands the look in his eyes—the look that reminds her that the villagers want blood, and hers would do, if they knew—and approaches the guard station.

“no one goes out at night, cyrus,” the man says, giving them a glance at best, “not even you.”

“c’mon, sir, she’s just curious. we’ll go only a few feet out and turn right back,” he says, grinning recklessly. bluebell looks up at him, breathless, feeling the pull of the forest just past the wall, calling her home. “she’s heard so many of my stories—”

“y’know, katya has still been talking about you at home,” the man says, and cyrus is obviously caught off guard by that. he almost stumbles over his words, paling at the thought.

“sir,” bluebell speaks up, her voice fragile, birdlike, “can i just see it? my momma always talks about it…” she bites her bottom lip, anxiety filling her, not that it’s the kind he thinks it is. the man hesitates, glancing between the teenagers, before nodding, going to the lever. it takes two men, one of them having to be woken up from his nap at the other lever, but within a few minutes the walls have swung open enough for the two of them to go through. bluebell has to stop herself from running through, and actually finds her steps slow, full of wonderment. returning home.

cyrus waits until the doors have closed to let go of her, and she walks faster, towards the trees, her fingers against their bark, pulling leaves down and holding them like a bouquet, bringing them to her nose once in a while to refresh her mind. cyrus doesn’t speak the whole time, and they’re out for only about half an hour, returning soon, and they’re silent until they’re in the kitchen and he’s untying her. he stops her, his hand grabbing hers as she’s about to go up the stairs. “you could have killed me.”

bluebell looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “and? i could kill you right now, if i felt like it.” he’s taken off-guard by that, and she smiles almost sweetly. “you know why you’ll never understand the tribes, cyrus?” he hesitates, shaking his head finally. “because as long as you see us as barbarians, savages just waiting to kill you, you won’t get it. you don’t know anything about us. you’re just as likely to kill us as we are to kill you. we just don’t give you the chance.” her voice is steady, her breathing as well, and she yanks her arm away, scaling the stairs then. she doesn’t speak to him for two more days, even when he comes to visit her, but on the third day, she whispers a thanks as he’s on his way out of her room.

[bluebellfelidae]

they say never to leave the walls.

the barbarians are out there. and they’ll eat you alive.

after society fell, these little walled in shacks-turned-villages became the only organized centers for civilization. sometimes civilizations moved in packs, going to another one they’ve heard of because they’ve run out of resources. but people never leave their walls in groups smaller than twenty or thirty—any smaller, and they’ll pick you off.

one by one. bone by bone. finger by finger.

it was a rite of passage, people said, for boys to venture out past the walls, just once in their life. to really feel the fear. usually all the boys from sixteen to eighteen would go, shoving each other and laughing, trying to feign bravery. trying to prove to all those they wanted to impress that they could be men. they weren’t scared.

but no matter who you were, no matter how many left the walls with you, you couldn’t help but feel scared. because you knew that they were waiting.

x

“so you’re doing this to finally get katya to sleep with you?”

cyrus shoots a glare at khan, who simply shrugs and takes a bite out of his apple, kicking his little brother’s chair. “c’mon, we all go out for the same reason. to get in some pretty girl’s pants and make her the pretty mother of our children.”

“go to hell,” cyrus grumbles, finishing packing his meals for the next two nights, half-glancing at julius, who is washing the plates, since their mother is out bartering for more food. “maybe i’ll find a pretty girl out there and make her the pretty mother of my children.”

julius snorts, and khan laughs at him outright. “what?” cyrus glares at them.

“we didn’t tell you?” khan grins widely. “there are no women out there. they don’t go hunting with the men. and the women you do see—well, they’re allowed to go hunting because none of the men want to make them their wives, anyway. they’re too ugly.”

“they hide their women?” cyrus asks. it’s the first he’s heard anyone say anything about it.

both his brothers nod.

x

a shiver runs down his back as he watches the walls close behind him. soon, he’s fallen back into his usual role—leader, the one pushing forward, always wanting to do more. but still, he can’t help but shake the fact that he hesitated, for once in his life.

x

she hates how heavy the camouflage is.

it’s not really camouflage, even though they call it that. it’s more like …. armor. an added intimidation factor. her face is painted with two black stripes, meeting over the bridge of her nose, her eyes standing out sharper against the heavy black kohl and pant concoction. black feathers are tied into her hair, her lips stained red with berries, making it look like she’s tasted blood. her clothes are tight to her body, unlike the clothes worn inside the walls—it’s fitted so that it won’t slow her down, black and dull greens and grays so that it won’t stand out. her feet are bare. they always have been.

twin knives in hand, two others sheathed behind her shoulder blades, she knows she looks formidable, but that’s only if you look past how tiny she is.

bluebell huffs.

the hunting party split up, which she was glad of, only because she was getting tired of all of the sexist stares and jokes. a teeny bird like you shouldn’t be put in danger. don’t want a pretty face as good as yours wasted.

she’d spat on him.

x

she sits in a tree, flipping her knife around her fingers idly. she’d been told to wait, to watch for the boys, to alert the hunting party if she saw them. she didn’t know why exactly they were going hunting this time—usually, they left them alone. it was sort of a tradition. a mutual understanding.

apparently, not this time.

at first, she doesn’t notice them. but then she hears the low rumble of their voices, the nervousness and excitement mingling as they try to pretend that they’re not afraid out in the woods without any real adults. slowly, she scales down two branches, so to see them better, and she’s about to throw a knife until she makes eye contact with one of them.

they both hesitate, and then she grins, because she knows how surprised he is to see her out here. and despite herself, because she likes playing games, she raises her finger to her lips, miming a shh.

x

she trails them, watching them make camp from the canopy, waiting above them as they fall asleep. she notices that the same boy that had caught her eye before can’t sleep, that he gets up, moving out from the center of the group. she grins, following him like prey, watching as he approaches the river. she stays at the edge of the forest, watching him go to it, wondering what idiot would leave camp—until he takes off his shirt. her mind goes blank then.

sure, she’s seen the boys in camp. but they’ve always been sinewy, muscular but never quite masculine enough for her. they’re always trying to validate their masculinity, flirting with her when they have anything but a chance, and they’ve never really caught her eye. but him… she can feel herself staring, almost leaning forward in her perch, until he turns around, facing the trees.

“come out.”

his voice is deep, rich, and pointed at her.

she hesitates, considering her choices. go back to her own tribe, never see him again, risk nothing. it’s the better choice. one much taller boy against her—she has to (begrudgingly) admit that he has a good shot.

or…

she swears under her breath before easing down the tree, hesitating at the bottom branch to check if any of his pack are with him. she jumps down, then, walking towards him slowly. sometimes prey can be dangerous, blue. her mother had told her that, when blue had insisted on becoming a part of the hunting party. sometimes something harmless will kill you.

she’s about to say something, to ask, until she feels hands over her mouth, and then fabric over her face, blocking out her sight. her hands go for her knives, swearing profusely, but she’s knocked out in the next moment.

never underestimate what you think is easy, blue. it’s always more dangerous.

x

when she wakes up, she doesn’t see the stars.

instead, she’s staring at a ceiling, scuffs and smoke stains marring it. she clenches her teeth, sitting up with a groan against the pain in the back of her head. she sighs, pushing herself to put her feet on the ground, standing slowly.

“i wouldn’t do that.”

blue winces at the pain in her head before sitting down again, staring at the woman that just walked in. she’s tall, beautiful, sharp blue eyes. dark hair piled into a bun on the top of her head. “your son brought me here.” blue snarls. the woman nods, smiling slightly.

“intuitive for a barbarian.”

blue doesn’t hesitate, spitting on the ground in front of the woman’s feet. barbarian. she glares at the woman as she puts a pile of clothes in front of her, all the colors pale, the materials clearly worn in. “get dressed. if you keep wearing those clothes the people will kill you for being one of them.”

blue glares at her, waiting for her to leave, before doing as she was told. she never liked how tight clothes were in the tribes, anyway, and she’s naked, her long black hair hanging down her back, when someone else walks in, her back to them. their footsteps freeze, and she looks over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. what looks like the boy’s brother stands in the doorway, flushed, and she just rolls her eyes at him, turning back around and pulling on the shirt that was given to her. it’s too big, and hangs down to her knees, so she doesn’t bother with the pants, sitting back down on her bed.

“i brought you breakfast.” he meekly raises the tray in his hands, and she tucks her hair behind her ears. “don’t you want to get off all that face paint?” he asks, and she just continues staring at him, as if she doesn’t understand. “doesn’t it itch?” blue just rolls her eyes at him this time, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to either shut up and leave or ask something worth her time. he puts the tray in front of her, crouching down to do so, and he hesitates there, staring up at her.

“honor matters more than beauty. so does dignity. and now that you’ve stripped me of all of it, i’d rather keep my last bit.” she answers finally, her voice heavy and sharp. “leave me alone now.” he stands, obviously taken off guard, before leaving, her eyes on his back as he goes.

x

once she realizes she’s in the attic of the house, she waits until night to sneak out. she’s virtually silent, her clothes hanging over her back, not waiting to find out where her knives have been taken. she’s almost out the front door until a hand grabs her wrist, stopping her.

“you’re not going anywhere.”

she whirls on him, glaring up at the face of the boy from last night. she wants to slap him, to kick his knees out, but more than anything she just wants him to let her go. “why not?” she snarls, lip curling, hand turning into a fist.

“you’re not going. not until you tell us why the barbarians kill us,” he replies, and she groans, rolling her eyes. “not until you give us any answers worth our time. and your life.”

she laughs at that. “what, you’re going to kill me? a wall-boy is going to kill me?” she grins, and his eyes narrow. she doesn’t hesitate a moment, using her free hand to punch him in the gut, running the minute he lets go of her involuntarily. she’s halfway to the wall before he’s on her, his arms around her waist, pinning her hands behind her back as soon as he can. “let me go!” she screams, writhing in his arms, trying her hardest to shove free. but he holds her tight, and soon enough his brothers come from the house, helping him get her back up to her room. and by the time she’s halfway up the stairs she just goes slack, giving up. as much as she hates to.

x

after four days, she relents and washes off the paint on her face. cyrus catches her doing it, the water in the basin black by the time she leaves it just inside the doorway, threatening to be knocked over with one misstep. when he sees her taking the paint off, he’s just coming to check on her, the door open halfway. and she sings quietly as she does it, a song that sounds like mourning, and for a moment, it looks like she’s crying, her face red, water rolling down her cheeks. just for a moment, she looks weak.

[bluebellfelidae]

samara x mars

Who was the one to propose: mars!! samara probably never even thought of marriage bc she can be very scatterbrained and sort of sees things as obvious, and if they're obvious, she doesn't think about them. if that makes sense??? like it just made sense to her that he would eventually propose. she never really even mentioned it.

Who stressed more over wedding planning: samara. holy shit. her mom was probably neurotic and all of her aunts too and her little sisters and so on and so forth. everything had to be perfect. her dress had to be just traditional enough but striking enough to stand out from her one million female cousins, her arrangements had to be perfect, her venue had to be outside but also in a church and do u see what i mean.

Who decorated the house: samara!! bc anal as hell u know. um she has a really awesome sense of design, though, so it's generally the right line between minimalistic and cozy, which caters to both of them.

Who does the cooking: i think they're both kinda trash at cooking but i'd say samara. (wow samara is pro apparently no she's just anal.) um she can make really good lasagna but most of her food is average, it's just that mars caters to cyrus's "red meat everything" diet which is just absolutely not her. in the original au i imagine them cooking together, kind of moving through the kitchen together silently, part of their routine.

Who is more organized: s a m a r a. (she's got like mild ocpd.)

Who initiates bedroom fun: mars. always careful with her, always respectful, but always 1000% the one that wants to have sex. samara could probably survive without it tbh. it's more efficient.

Who suggested kids first: mars. as much as a big family is a central part of samara growing up, mars was the one that wanted to talk about how many kids, how soon, etc etc. again, samara's bad at thinking about the ""obvious"" things so a lot of times mars has to be like "i know we're both thinking about this but can we actually talk about it."

Who’s more dominant: mars?? even tho he's constantly making sure everything's good with samara, but he has to be dominant bc she's really passive and can get really anxious about things if you leave her in charge of them tbh which just makes them more complicated.

Who’s the cuddler: oh god they're both cuddlers in different ways. samara basically clings to mars and snuggles with him at all times of day, but mars is always there for it. like if samara isn't entangled with him in some way shape or form something is terribly off. or she's busy making sure everything is in order.

Who’s the big spoon/little spoon: mars is the big spoon. samara is really weird with sleep, so sometimes she ends up like all over him in the weirdest fucking ways but basically he's always holding her. or she'll fall off the bed or s/t.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: they read together. drink a shit ton of wine and read together, whether it's with samara lying across his lap, leaning against each other, her head in his lap, etc etc. 

Who comes home drunk at 3am: m...ars?? from a night with cyrus and ""the boys??"" whoever the boys are??? samara doesn't drink much bc it just makes her more anxious. surprise. she loves wine tho. like intensely so. it's a giant wedge of their spendings. (also samara wouldn't be out at 3 am and if she was she would be cranky as balls.)

Who kills the spiders: mars!!1 that should be obvious by now.

Who falls asleep first: samara. she can fall asleep at nine o'clock probably bc she gets herself so worked up throughout the day that eventually she just crashes and can be caught falling asleep with a wine glass in hand watching television.

A head canon: samara makes a lot more money than mars. idk what she does but it deals with like a ridiculously giant salary, finance, etc etc. but mars does something more creative and passionate. (even tho samara is hella passionate about money and numbers like she's basically a robot it's only natural.)

Their relationship summed up in a gif: 

Do they have any “rituals”? they work out together. they go for runs, they go to the gym, they check out new diets, etc etc. they also have "cheat days" on sundays, when they basically go a little nuts with the unhealthy food. just a little nuts.

Who is louder? ........if we're talking about sex it's samara. like she's horrible at being quiet. like actually disturbingly horrible at it. tbh it's mostly gasping though. but it's p noticeable.

Who is more experimental? mars. (samara is surprisingly curious about it too. just more shy.)

Who takes more risks? i think it's kind of even?? samara is shy about them but she's comfortable asking mars ahead of time, and he's always down with what she's down with, p much, not that they ever do anything particularly adventurous.

Do they fuck or make love? surprisingly both. and they can switch within minutes, honestly. like literally if samara asked they could change like a million things during sex within two minutes.

Lights on or off? both?? like not every light on obviously but like they like being able to see each other sometimes, and sometimes they just like losing themselves to the feeling and turning off all the lights.

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating? s...amara. mars wouldn't get caught. samara most definitely would. it would be awkward. she has a lot more sex toys than you would originally think. like a lot more. (she's got a lot of steam to blow off and as nice as sex is sometimes it's just tedious tbh.) (also u know how i said she's bad at being quiet?? ya.)

Who is more likely to suggest a threesome? mars!!!! i mean i doubt he'd suggest it bc samara would just blush and ignore him for a day. it'd probably be a joke. also like the idea of them having anyone else in the bedroom is entirely laughable.

Who comes first? def samara. bc mars is fucking good at what he does tbh.

Who is better at oral and who prefers it? mars is much better at oral, they both like it, samara gets it more often though bc mars is generous with her.

Who is more sensitive? this is hard to decide bc samara can actually be super callous and distant and it can be hard for her to realize that she's not taking into consideration other people's feelings. but like, if you mess up her stuff she will have a breakdown. mars thinks she's a lot more fragile than she is, which is generally interesting for everyone involved.

Who has the most patience? mars. 200% mars. he's willing to do everything at samara's pace, which can be a snail's pace tbh, because a lot of things can stress her out. like planning vacations might actually be his own personal hell bc she has to plan and replan and check hotel reviews ten times over and then takes about a month to decide on one hotel, and then finally buys the tickets, and then it's months and months away. like he's willing to be careful with change and help her pace things out and it's just incredibly amazing of him. and it's why they work.

Which kinks do they share? nah.

[bluebellfelidae]

it’s their second month dating, even though they’ve only been on a few dates, and samara feels like her whole body is on fire as he takes her hand, pressing a kiss to her temple almost immediately, blushing and looking up at him as people notice, as people recognize that somehow she got the senior quarterback, even though she’s hardly ever flirted with anyone, even though she avoids half the cheerleaders outside of school.

he wraps an arm around her shoulders, and when she tells him she got her parents to agree to let her go out for the night, he grins wolfishly, biting his bottom lip to try to hold it back slightly. “really?” he asks, his deep voice reverberating through her, the voice she loves, and she nods, grinning widely and almost goofily, just at the idea of having half the night with him.

which is how she finds herself now, underneath him, his hands running along her, pulling her against him, bracing himself so he doesn’t just fall on top of her as they lay in the back of hist friend’s station wagon in the trunk, doing their best to fit, even though she’s already hit her head on the back, even though he can barely keep himself off of her without hitting the roof.

“mars,” she whispers as he kisses down her neck, shivering slightly when she feels his tongue against her skin, almost letting him as she feels the pressure of his lips on her neck, but then she realizes he’s giving her a hickey, a bruise, a visible mark — “mars,” she repeats, louder now, and he practically jumps, shoving himself up off her too quickly, so that he hits the roof. he winces, rubbing his shoulders, and she smiles at his sheepish smile.

“i forgot. sorry,” he says, and glances over the seats to where his friend is hooking up with a girl in the front seat, his friend completely oblivious to them. “do you have to go home soon?” he whispers, and she nods, reluctantly, but then pulls him back down to her, kissing him hard, wrapping her arms around his neck, glad to fall back into the kiss so easily.

[bluebellfelidae]

it’s winter.

samara can see the horror on some of the other victor’s faces, as they study the snow on the arena outside the edge of the frozen lake, as they consider the medley of animals that could be lurking in those dense forests. bears, mountain lions, tigers, if they felt creative enough.

and she can see the glint of confidence in mars’s eyes, as he flexes his fists, cracking his necks and rolling his shoulders as he waits to be let off his platform. she knows he’s not going to avoid the cornucopia, like the weaker tributes will—he’ll plow for it. she can see the axe among the other weapons, and she knows it might be crazy, to go for it—it’ll be heavy, it’ll be clumsy, but it’s her weapon. hers.

her breath fogs in front of her. three.

she glances at the tall, willowy blonde that had been sizing her up all through training. the one that wanted to take her place, from district one. two.

she glances at mars, as much as she wants to tell herself that she shouldn’t trust him. she should be his ally, but she shouldn’t trust him. but then he turns his head as well, and flashes her a grin — a lion’s grin, a cyrus grin. a slight nod. one.

she takes a few steps, careful, instead of running like other tributes — two go through the ice immediately, one loses balance, a few other try running and fall flat on their faces, the ice turning it instantly red. only a few know to be careful, to not rush it. to learn their boundaries. and then she starts moving faster, reaching the cornucopia first, bounding across the metal floor to the twin axes, instantly comfortable with them in her hands. a boy from district four almost grabs for the spear, but mars is right behind him in a second, shoving him to the side and grabbing the spear in one movement, twisting to face her. “behind you,” he says, and when she turns she strikes out with her axe, gutting the girl from district three behind her in a clean slice.

x

they’ve made camp, the career pack, and samara tries her best to focus on helping build the fire rather than watching the blonde flirt with mars, just blowing more hot air into his head. she tucks her hair out of her face, glancing up at the boy from district four mars has squarely put into his place, who sulks away from the wood. she clears her throat, trying to get his attention and no one else’s, and when he meets her eyes, she smiles slightly. “could you help me?” she asks, and he nods, coming to crouch next to her, watching her as she builds the fire. “i need you to go get some more wood. as dry as you can find it. do it quickly, so no other tributes notice where we are before we start the fire.” he studies her, obviously considering the problems with listening to a girl on national television, but then nods, standing and walking past mars, who watches him go, clearly having missed her giving him directions.

he returns in around twenty minutes with more wood, and she thanks him, squeezing his hand quickly, before finishing making the fire. later, after mars and the district one girl, opal, have caught them dinner in the form of a few rabbits, and they’ve eaten, mars sits down next to samara beside the fire, nudging her with his shoulder. “so you’re getting cosy with the runt?” he asks, and she snorts, rolling her eyes.

“yes, we’ve already fucked and we’re deciding on what to name our children,” she replies, looking up at him, raising an eyebrow. “no, you dense fuck, i just think it would be smart not to alienate someone just as tall as you and probably almost as well trained. friends close, enemies closer.”

“we don’t have friends.” he replies flatly, under his breath, and she shrugs.

“exactly,” she whispers, saying it in his ear, and she can tell that catches him off-guard. she smiles and squeezes his upper arm, looking away from him, watching the fire instead, running her hands through her hair. a shiver runs through her, and after a moment he wraps an arm around her, rubbing her arm gently. we don’t have friends. the words echo through her head, and after a moment she shrugs his arm off, standing and moving to her fur-lined sleeping bag, one of the gifts sent from the capitol. she ignores the fact that opal has moved to sit next to mars, or that he hesitates a moment before looking away from her.

x

she didn’t expect to get hurt.

maybe that showed how much had changed since the first day of the games, but honestly, she hadn’t expected to get hurt. she’d been one of the best tributes, and no one had posed much of a threat, much less with mars almost always at her side when they were on the move, opal falling into step with damion, the tribute from district four, however reluctantly.

but now, with the big gash in her leg, crying as she leans against the trunk of a tree, it doesn’t matter that she didn’t expect it. it matters that mars propped her up against the tree and is now walking away, with the rest of the career pack, leaving her behind.

she stays there, putting pressure on her wound, and only an hour in their are capsules parachuting down — when she opens one up, she finds bandages and disinfectant and ointment, and she uses it immediately, wincing as the disinfectant stings. she stays there, even as it gets dark, as the pain ebbs only minutely, which is about as much as it will, she figures. she almost falls asleep from the exhaustion, having accepted her fate, when she hears footsteps, faint and careful, and she recognizes them immediately. “fuck off, mars,” she whispers, but when he comes out from the trees, and she winces away from him as he crouches down, but then he picks her up, and she realizes he’s come back for her, not to end her. he carries her back to their camp, and she balks at the blood near the edge of camp.

“opal was apparently against you being helped,” he says, and she stares up at him, the shock and horror obvious in her face. “i didn’t kill her. i just … made it clear she shouldn’t stay.” she nods slowly, wincing as he gently puts her down, sucking in air through her teeth as pain shoots through her leg. “i’m going to keep you safe,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and she hears damion grumbling from his sleeping bag.

[bluebellfelidae]

leon cyrus

nicknames: leo

age difference between younger sibling: eleven months

the role on the family: protective, extremely physical older brother

sexual orientation: pretty people??? ?

preferred sport: boxing (leo aspires to be cyrus) (it's generally a nightmare for literally everyone else in the family) (except cyrus) (sometimes)

preferred instrument: n/a (they let him pick up the drums for a week) (they sold them the next week) (bc it was a terror)

favorite hobby: debate club (he will rip you a new one if you let it loose) (he's a giant closet nerd) sex!! (if you asked him) (it's a total lie)

traits: cocky, hotheaded, short tempered, reckless, intense, aggressive; passionate, caring, protective, loyal to a fault, impressionable

carina madeline

nicknames:

age difference between younger sibling: two years

the role in the family: the smart, no-nonsense older sister

sexual orientation: heterosexual, heteroromantic (her siblings make fun of her for being so straight and narrow) (carina wishes she wasn't)

preferred sport: ballet (carina will get her brothers to beat you up if you say ballet isn't a sport) (also her father will freak out on you) (don't say it)

preferred instrument: violin

favorite hobby: reading, chess

traits: anxiety-prone, insecure, harsh, aloof, judgmental, jealous, perfectionistic, self-centered; determined, devoted, fiercely protective, shrewd, intelligent, introverted

basil seward

nicknames:

age difference between younger sibling: one year

the role in the family: the gentle, confused soul

sexual orientation: homosexual, homoromantic (for a while basil tried to pretend that he was biromantic and tried to like girls, but it just didn't work) (he fell in love with a dude in high school and never turned back)

preferred sport: football

preferred instrument: guitar (he plays it for himself) (and in front of no one) (bc he worries about being that asshole that uses his guitar for evil)

favorite hobby: baking (basil is a giant stress eater) (which is why cyrus is always on his ass about working out) (but basically he learned how to bake one day and just started producing brownies and cookies and various desserts like there was no tomorrow) (it's out of hand)

traits: insecure (outgrows it past junior year of high school), over-achiever, perfectionistic; sweet, genuine, nurturing, protective, introverted, selfless, devoted, pacifist, supportive

enyo alexandria

nicknames:

age difference between younger sibling: three years

the role in the family: the bull in the china shop (the rebellious daughter)

sexual orientation: heterosexual, biromantic (she has very rarely felt actual sexual feelings for girls, only after growing attached to them) (could sleep with any guy she met, though) (she's p liberal with that)

preferred sport: soccer, lacrosse, ballet (she is v talented with all of these) (but gives up soccer and lacrosse to throw herself into ballet) (and ends up pursuing it professionally like blue)

preferred instrument: piano (bluebell played piano as a child) (and blue's mom told enyo that once) (so enyo insisted on learning it) (and actually plays to clear her head on occasion)

favorite hobby: cooking (she learned by basically watching cyrus, and her grandparents, and then she got bored one day and taught herself) (she's the best cook in the house and always makes dinner) (like even if she's going out she'll make it and set it aside for them to warm up) (bc it blows cyrus's dinners out of the water) (and feature less red meat)

traits: abrasive, intense, hotheaded, rebellious, challenging, withdrawn, private, masked; curious, fiercely protective and loyal

tansy juliana

nicknames:

age difference between younger sibling: n/a

the role in the family: the free spirit

sexual orientation: bisexual, biromantic

preferred sport: n/a

preferred instrument: n/a

favorite hobby: linguistics!! (tansy is a polyglot) (she's incredibly passionate about many cultures and the importance of showcasing those cultures)

traits: honest to a fault, distant, uncommitted, indifferent, unmotivated; kind, goodnatured, straightforward, curious

[bluebellfelidae]

she knows the rules. when they go on business trips, anything is up for conversation. their world has only shifted—picked up and moved, with ashley back home. they can be more reckless, but they don’t feign commitment. they don’t hold hands in public.

but on ‘business trips,’ when they leave on a whim, the rules change. she can’t mention ashley, he can’t mention his mother in any reference to ashley or bluebell, and the only real constant is the sex and holding hands in small towns where no one knows where they are, in the south of italy or france or anywhere, really—anywhere where they’re just two more people dropped into the great vastness of the world, two more people hopelessly in love.

and she knows that. of course she knows that, because she had agreed to those terms when they’d gotten into a fight on their first ‘business trip,’ holed up in their hotel room, screaming at each other like they had when they were younger. they fought like cats and dogs, everyone had always said. the fought like storms.

but now, as he leans over her, her hand reaching up to wrap a curl around her fingertip, biting her bottom lip in concentration on that, rather than the question bubbling up at the back of her throat, the rules seem impossible to follow. so she breaks them.

“if ashley drives you crazy, why do you stay?” she whispers, catching the shock in his eyes, holding his gaze before looking back at his curls, which she’d convinced him to grow out, mostly because they’d be taking a lot of ‘business trips,’ and she’d always preferred his hair a little longer than normal so she could see his curls.

he hesitates, pushing her hair off her neck, obviously considering the merits of mentioning that she broke the rules. but now that she has, what’s the point?

“if you really love me so much, cyrus pemberton, why stay?” she asks, the real question, the one that makes her stomach twist whenever her sisters bring it up. and the slight surprise in his eyes, the way he makes eye contact with her immediately, as if to search for that glint of sadness that haunted her gaze, which had already gone, it makes her want none of this. at least for now. she pushes him out of her way, gently, before sitting up and going to the bathroom, telling him to just let her get her head in order. she took a bath, staring at the ceiling, hand lolling off the side, and asked herself, why in hell would she ask him something so stupid? so reckless?

she smiles bitterly, hating the answer.

because if he didn’t love her, if he truly didn’t love her as much as he claimed, he would have left her at this point. she was too much effort, always pushing when the questions became too much to bear.

and the idea of him loving her, enough that he stayed… that hurt more, because at the end of the day, she was still the mistress, and he was still engaged.

[kurkova-blog]

[bluebellfelidae]

“are you coming over?”

bluebell doesn’t answer him immediately, still rushing to get the salsa together, tucking her hair behind her ears. “blue,” he demands, and she practically jumps, pulling the phone from between her cheek and shoulder. “are you ignoring me?”

“no, i’m sorry, sweetheart, i’m just—” he makes a choked sound, and she hesitates, still not realizing what she did wrong, glancing up at lily, who’s giving her a weird look.

“what?”

“you called me sweetheart,” he replies, and she blushes, putting her phone back between her shoulder and her cheek to carry the salsa and chips out to the living room. “blue!”

she jumps again, and lily has to catch the salsa as she drops it. “what?” she yells into the phone, and all her sisters turn around from the couch as she puts down the chips on the coffee table, running her hand through her hair.

“are you coming over?”

she blushes, realizing he already asked her from his exasperated tone. “oh, no,” she says, sitting down on the floor in front of daffodil, who lets her lean against her knees, running her hand through her dark hair.

“why not?” he sighs, and she snorts.

“felice sister movie night. you’re not welcome, but maybe after the second romcom if you want. julius is welcome. none of the others, they don’t get along,” she says, and he starts to complain, specifically about the fact that she promised to come over tonight, and she grins, exclaiming bye and hanging up.

“did you really just call him sweetheart?” daisy asks, and blue turns around to glare at her.

“what of it?”

“you really don’t understand how affairs work, do you?”

[bluebellfelidae]

daffodil >> jennifer garner

the sensible sister, the maternal sister, the sterile sister. often the one that believes she has disappointed her parents and let them down, feels a certain responsibility to upholding the felice title as eldest, extremely protective of her sisters, tries not to hurt anyone's feelings. kind of the perfect kindergarten teacher. never able to have her own children, though she adopts and probably fosters. considered to have the biggest heart, forgives her sisters and anyone she loves of anything. can be trusting to a fault.

daisy >> gemma arterton

the "sophisticated" sister, the snob, the bitch, the aloof one. struggled many years to have only one child biologically, can be very cold and unforgiving. she has a bad case of middle child syndrome, except instead of just fading away, daisy has always devoted her life to being the best sister. she dated the coolest boys, she was always captain of her teams, she was president of every club, she was valedictorian, in the top ten percentile, etc. she married someone foreign, probably, and is doing bigger and better things than you'll ever be doing. has the hardest time getting along with bluebell, always felt like she had to wait for her little sister, like she was dragging her down.

bluebell >> astrid berges-frisbey

the spoiled one, the princess, the prodigy, the "perfect daughter." was practically trained to keep up appearances, often feels like she was given daffodil's role because daisy was always too hardheaded to do as her parents asked of her. can be stubborn, unforgiving, and harsh like daisy, but also has a kind streak and always gives people a second chance, even if she pretends she doesn't. she loves her parents and loves her sisters, and wants to never let them down, but she also accepts that she is her own person, and she is going to do what makes her happy, as well, even though sometimes that's making her parents happy. often feels that daisy hates her or is too hard on her, and the two have always had a hard time seeing eye to eye. follows her own path, even though it takes her a while to find it. often felt stifled as a child and adolescent.

lily >> adelaide kane

the free spirit, the supportive sister, the "yes" man, the little sister. wants nothing but to please her sisters, has always felt like she's running after them, tugging on their skirts to get them to pay attention to her. bonded the most with bluebell, because they both felt lonely as they grew up, whether it was because of being isolated by their own sister or through an age gap. lily was never very good at living up to her parents' ideals, but her own passion and generosity have always led to her being a kind, quiet girl, though she has the stubborn and hardheaded streak that seems to run through all the felice sisters, whether it's their dominant trait or not. will get her sisters everything she can in her power, refuses to listen to lies, and is probably the most fulfilled out of all of them once she becomes an adult because she has never lived her life for anyone else.