Mother Knows Best: Exploring Motherhood in All Its Forms in Little Fires Everywhere
Content Warning: Little Fires Everywhere contains multiple depictions of toxic parent-child relationships, child abandonment, parental kidnapping, teen pregnancy, an unwanted abortion, a runaway teenager, and arson. Reader discretion is advised.
Spoilers for Little Fires Everywhere ahead!
Note: This review is also not a “Smackdown” entry because I haven’t finished the Hulu miniseries yet. I’ve…
What to expect: bad flirting, video recording (blackmail), smoking, Toxic femmes and really pitiful creatures, voyeurism, discussion of gender??, Talk of sex but no real sex yet. Sorry folks. Maybe in part 3?
Don't understand? Me neither. Read Part one here or on Ao3!
Irene lives off campus.
The unit is an old house, sectioned off oddly so each floor is its own little apartment. She’s in the lowest unit, the basement, and it feels more like a studio than a one bedroom. She asked me to meet her 'on location' to film, and I expect the address to lead me to a park, or maybe the house of a friend.
Instead, it’s her home.
“Hey,” She opens the door dressed down in a way I haven’t seen her before. Normally she’s in more practical clothing to film; Jeans, a long black shirt, hair tied back or clipped out of her face. Today, she’s in gym shorts and a hoodie that looks old and worn. Soft to the touch. I feel overdressed and try desperately not to look at the tops of her legs, the expanse of her thighs exposed. I hope the bridge of her glasses will hold my focus. They don’t. “come on in.”
The kitchen is small but functional, and the living room is decked out in movie posters, mood lighting, display cases- and surprisingly enough- film equipment. Her couch is a daybed, blankets and pillows set in a way that invites you in, makes you want to curl up and tuck your feet. There’s three camera’s I can see; One by the TV facing the day bed on a tripod, one by a desk with two monitors, and a third packed and stacked with a myriad of other film things. Maybe we’re filming here after all. There’s just.. no group, just us.
She makes no move to get a coat, or shoes. She only walks to the kitchen and pours two glasses of water, music floating from a speaker somewhere I can’t see. I use the time to take off my shoes, to sit on the corner of the day bed. It’s soft, squishy. This is a couch that eats you for hours at a time, that would be perfect to fall asleep on. I can tell she spends a good deal of time here.
“Nice apartment.” I call out, “It’s very dark.”
“I like the cave look.” She answers simply. “But that’s an easy fix, hold on.”
When Irene comes back, she hands me the glass before going and flicking on a set of string lights. It covers the bed in a warm hue, corners hidden by darkness suddenly revealed under its gaze. Her collection shelves adorn small dolls, action figures. I even recognize a few comic covers. I down my drink, hardly aware of how dry my mouth is, how shaky my hands suddenly feel. This wasn't what I was expecting. Once again, she's made me feel like some sort of prey.
“So.. what’s the project?” I ask. She never told me, just said she needed a few shots and that it shouldn't take more than a few hours. I had been confused, but she didn’t bother to elaborate. She just handed me an address and left me dazed. Something that was becoming a trend.
“It’s a piece on transness and body image,” She says, pulling a notebook out, flipping through it. I can’t catch the color of the ink or anything written, just vague story boarding. “I’ll probably have us get some interview footage. You’re the last person I need.”
I nod, setting down the glass with a solid ‘clink’.
“You wanna get started?” I ask, but Irene seems to have other ideas. Pulling out a joint, she holds out her hand, expecting me to present a lighter.
“You smoke right?” And who am I to disappoint?
“I’m gonna have you go to the center of the day bed, and we’re just gonna do an interview type beat. I’ll walk you through it. It should be easy if you listen.”
Listen? I let out a small scuff, before nodding my head. I could listen.
The high takes me long, and slow. I’m used to smoking, but about half way through Irene’s ‘puff-puff-pass’ started to look more like ‘puff-pass’, to ‘pass back to you’. She watches me hit it over and over again until the cherry hits my fingers, and I'm forced to snuff it out, tapping heavy against the ash tray. But, I’m happy to sit on the day bed. The thing swallows me like I had anticipated, practically begging to couch lock me. I just might let it. It smells like juneberry and spice.
Irene grabs the camera and starts to fiddle with height, light, and lens, and all the while I watch her move. She wouldn't be so infuriating if it didn't look like an intricate dance. Choreographed and well practiced to the innocent bystander. Even dressed down, the slope of her neck is perfection, her eyes clear and clinical, her body round and supple, her hands working steadily. She was so good at everything, it was so fucking annoying. Making good points in class, turning in things on time, being acutely creative, having a clear vision. Her hands are careful, and her gaze is so intense it makes me feel like I’m the one on fire, and I’m not even what she’s looking at. I wonder if that’s how everyone feels under her gaze.
“Can you sit up a bit?” She asks, eyes flicking to me.
“Do you always look at people like that?” the words fall out of my mouth as soon as I think them, but I don’t shy away once they’re out.
“Like what?” She asks, her eyes leaving me to go back to the screen of her camera, then back to me, and back again. She frowns, adjusting.
“Like you want to eat them.” She only laughs, shaking her head a bit.
“I don’t look at others like I want to eat them.” She reassures me. She stands to her full height, going to shift the hue of the lights, to ‘give me some more warmth.’
“No, you do. It’s all intense, you look at people like they won't be able to escape. Like you could gobble them up.” She instructs me to move one more time, but I can’t help the wolfish grin that takes my features. God, what did we smoke?
“You look at me like that. You look at your camera like that. You look at professor Darling like that. Like you want to eat him.. Or have him eat you.”
She presses a button and a small red light flicks on the front of the camera. Suddenly she’s much quieter, as if we’re no longer playing the same game, but something new altogether.
“I’m not the only one who looks at professor Darling, am I? ”
Shit. I swallow, suddenly cotton-tongued, warm. Too hot. My hoodie feels bunched behind me, and the belt around my hips pinches, too tight in this position. The little red light stares at me. I am helpless to do anything but stare back.
“Is the camera on?” I joke.
“Answer the question, Jinx.” is her simple, elegant reply. It makes sweat bead and trickle down my temple, pooling at my collar. Okay. This is a game I can play. Or one I’m willing to.
“Yeah.” I breathe, and she settles down in a chair behind the camera. She doesn't look at me outright, not now. Her eyes are on my face on the screen. It makes it easier. Gives her distance.
It also makes a heat start to build in my toes, working it's fire north.
“What’s your relationship with Professor Darling?” She sounds so aloof when she speaks, that for a second, I think she’s playing coy. Like she’s not longing for our Professor and his wired glasses, his dark leather boots, for the soft way he says her name.
“I’m his top student of queer lit.” I answer proudly, or try to. Crossing my feet and raising my arms above my head. it’s suppose to appear as if I was bored and unbothered, when in reality it makes me read more akin to a bird flaunting itself for a mate. A brightly colored male doing his dance.
“Be serious.” She teases, and I can see some of that stage-manager like readiness start to warm and drip off of her. “There’s no way you’re top of the class. Not unless you’re sleeping with him”
I can’t help the way my hips twitch at the thought, my hands instinctively wanting to go between my legs. This is why I don't get high before class anymore, it makes me too transparent. It makes my brain start to move south.
“We’re not sleeping together, no. But my grade is up there. I have office hours three times a week. We're close”
It started as bringing him coffee on Wednesdays, and then it turned to lunch on Mondays and Fridays, too. Occasionally we trade confessional poetry, and he lends me books to write in the margins of. Sometimes he’ll give me.. Special assignments. There is always something hidden, something under the surface. Like any good book, the subtext is half the fun.
“Special assignments?” Her eyes leave the screen as she asks, her lip pulled tight between her teeth. I didn’t realize I had been speaking out loud, but there is no judgement, no shame, only hunger. She looks over my form, from an arm bent behind my head, to the other down the slope of my middle, fidgeting with the pocket of my pants. I feel her eyes linger on the cracked black of my nails. I fight the urge to crack my knuckles, just to see how she'd react.
“Yes. And we chat in the comments.” She releases her lip with a soft little noise that has my body aching to be close to her. To see if I heard right. I clear my throat, dizzy.
“How many have you had?” She inquires, but it comes out rushed. I don’t mind. I can hear her perfectly fine, despite the pounding in my ears.
“At least seven so far. But you got your first, didn’t you?”
Because I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the lingering looks, I’ve noticed her hanging behind after class. I’ve noticed the extra mug in his office, I’ve noticed the addition of a crisp, red button up in the wardrobe rotation. They signal each other back and forth, unable to cross the border, too nervous to make connections. But someone has to take the leap. Nothing will change unless someone pulls the trigger. Lucky for me I'm reckless enough to do it. For once Irene hesitates.
I watch as her body morphs and changes at my words, her posture straightening, her knees crossing. She moves her arms to cover herself, but she can’t go anywhere. She’s just as trapped as I am. Her face flushes, and her eyes are glued to the ground as she asks her next question.
“What was your first one?” She’s avoiding my own question, I’m not surprised.
“It was about my favorite sex toy. The use, its function. What I loved about using it.”
It feels like her heart stops, for even her fingers come to a halt. What toys does Irene play with? When she touches herself in her bed alone at night, when she splays out on this day bed and slips her hand under her clothes.. what does she touch herself with? Does she like to be filled? Does she go until it hurts? Does she warm her body up or go in for the kill? What setting on her vibrator makes her see stars? Could my hands recreate it?
She clears her throat, eyes focusing on the camera screen again. She’s obviously edging me to say more, but my skin is starting to prickle and vibrate.
“Can I take my hoodie off? And uh.. My belt?” I mean for it to come out humorous, but instead it comes out choked and dry. Heat flushes my face, leaving me red.
“Will you tell me about your assignment if I say yes?” One of her hands is on the camera, the other is on the hem of her sweatshirt. A small sliver of smooth skin peeks out, and I think of pressing my mouth to it. My hips buck up at the thought, and part of me thinks I should call it quits here. Time to go home. We’re getting close to something we can't come back from.
Instead, I sit up on my knees, and pull my belt taunt. I unhook the fastener, and as I pull it off and away from my body, it is like some of my armor comes down with me. My pants sag a bit around my hips, showing off a black waistband. The release of pressure makes my packer slip just a bit, but I’m unworried and unbothered as I take my hoodie off, tossing it aside.
Irene looks like she’s about to chastise me, but I beat her to the punch.
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean up after myself. I can take care of things for you.”
The reaction I get from her is enough to make me hard for weeks. For a second, I think she’ll stop the camera, but she doesn't, she just adjusts her angle. Slowly, she moves how she sits, an ankle fastened between her thighs, her already short-shorts riding up.
“Your first assignment?” Her voice is soft.
“The first I can recall was about Fornax. That’s the name of my monster.. uh, cock- strap?” I cough, suddenly nervous, over thinking words and their connotations. What words sound sexy, what words fall flat.
“Whatever. it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to what feels like.. mine.”
I remind myself to breathe, but the feeling of my belt gone makes me ache for the weight of my harness instead. Something to hold me together, something to make me feel whole.
“I got the assignment after I found the toy on reddit.” It had been weeks, months of searching. No dildo at the local sex shop felt right. All of them too pastel and vibrant, or too close to a real penis. The thing that piqued my interest the most had been a dark green tentacle, but something didn’t sit quite right. Something still needed to change. So I went to the experts for help.
“It’s… got a knot at that base that’s pretty thick, but the length is short. It’s girthy. I like that.” When I tried it on for the first time, it was heavy between my legs, but not unwelcome. After the first few times I wore it, It felt more and more like my own, until taking it off became more of a challenge. More like a process, a ritual of gender expression, more about myself than about the sex.
“It’s otherworldly. Kinda odd. I made a comment that it looked similar to the bud of a flower and Darling.. liked that one.” It wasn’t quite human. But I never really felt human either. We got each other, Fornax and I, in some odd ways. And Professor Darling loved how it pushed norms. How I was authentic to my core, even between the sheets.
“He gave me an ‘A’, said he had to find a picture of it himself. I’d like to think it made him hard when he found it.”
I catch the first roll of Irene’s hips, and have to beg my hands to stay above my head, or at my thighs. I go with thighs- but it’s a dangerous game, the zipper of my pants is so close, the silicone of my packer is asking to break free.
“It’s made to fill. Curved, with a natural rise and fall.. something you have to use carefully. Precisely.” I watch her hips, and if I’m caught staring, she doesn't say anything. After all, her own gaze has locked on me, too, no matter how indirect. It would be so easy to just reach over, to slide my hands around her hips, to pull her to me.
“It’s something that is made to take you roughly. Something that makes you want to take all of me.”
Most nights, when I think about our professor, it’s about taking him over the desk. Of bending him at the waist, and making a mess of paperwork. My mouth glued to his neck, hands reaching to touch all I can of him.
“Utterly spent. Fully taken. Filled to the brim. Empowered.”
There’s something so sexy about men who take. They pull you in. Make you want to touch them forever, make you want to sink your teeth into their flesh until they whine and cry. So undeniably masculine in a way that feels so freeing, something I can’t quite find joy in myself, but have a great longing and appreciation for regardless. It’s a vulnerability that takes great strength, it breaks ceilings, it coverts norms. Queer as a verb.
“I touched myself while I wrote it, and I’d like to think he touched himself while he read it, too.”
Irene would be different though. While I would love to see her pushed over the hardwood of Darling’s desk, the devil on my shoulder begs for me to think of her now on the daybed. Shorts pushed to the slide, hoodie pulled over her shoulders. Red light of the camera still on. The way her skin would taste, the way I could make her squirm.
“Fuck-” She swears, and when she speaks, it seems to break whatever spell she was under. Her cheeks flush, and she avoids looking at me, but the heat in me bubbles, teasing to overflow.
“Irene?”I ask, splattering like a pot on the stove. I worry desire must be dripping from me, creating a puddle on the floor.
“Yes?” she asks, meek, embarrassed. I need her to look at me again.
“Is this for a class project, or a personal project?” I ask.
When she looks at me again, she looks shameful, beat red. It’s a good look on her.
“Personal.” She responds, and I can’t help but grin, a shudder working its way down my body.
“Irene?”
“What!” This time she snaps it, voice high and eyes looking anywhere but me. Not wishing to be exposed, let alone looked at.
“Can I touch my packer?” The words feel clunky and unclear in my mouth, but I blame it on the weed tickling the sides of my brain. That and the hot pulsing feeling in my gut that nags at me, pushing me to wrap my hand around silicone and watch as her eyes are dragged away from the screen, and forced to really look at me. To be seen.
I can't tell if the world trembles, or if it’s just me trembling, as the curve of her lips say the word I’ve been waiting for all night;
Jinx is a polyamorous disaster and can't tell the difference between attraction and attention. Jealous over another student getting close with their 'situationship' professor, they get a little over their head with a film student on campus. but it's okay. This is all about revenge. Right? ( ao3 link)
What to expect: Constellation polyamory, Multi-relationships, enemies to lovers (one sided?), MC being bad at social cues, unethical relationships, some mature content but no actual smutt (yet), Spanking<3, spelling errors
Irene is looking at me.
I can feel her stare on the back of my neck. Her eyes trail over me like a high-school-freshman observing a frog in Lab: half in horror, disgust; the other half awe, interest. She’s practical, clinical. She catches every detail.
It makes me itch.
My heels dig into the floor, legs tensing. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to bounce my knee. Instead, I press my body firmly into the seat.
Professor Darling stands at the front of the room, one hand gently cupping the spine of a leather back, the other clicking his pen out of nervous habit. His voice wraps its arms around the room, captivating and soothing, but I do not feel at ease.
I’m a rabbit, under the gaze of a predator. Jumpy. Ready to flee. Nervous.
It pisses me off.
Poetry leaves his lips like fresh flower petals, but instead of sweet lilac, they crumble at my feet with a heavy smell of rot. Song becomes static in my ears.
I am not a rabbit. Not one to be hunted- I much prefer to do the hunting. This change of pace makes my insides churn. My teeth gnaw the hollows of my cheek as the last few minutes of class tick on.
Her eyes go up. And down. Up- and down.
I scribble. She tracks my words.
I twist my ankle and her eyes snap to my boots. Heaven forbid I have to speak, and her eyes will be trained on my lips. How they move- how I articulate- watching me like a dog.
As soon as Professor Darling calls it quits, my bag is over my shoulder and I am up out of my seat. No office hours today, he’s mentoring the freshman, and as much as I want to watch his careful hands grade papers, I can’t sit through another freshman year seminar. I have no reason to loiter.
The door feels so close, escape so near, but I am not quick enough.
Never quite quick enough.
“Jinx!” Her voice calls, a chorus of background noise erupting behind her. “Do you have a second? I wanted to talk to you about filming.”
Two and a half weeks ago, Irene had caught me after class and asked with big glasses-framed eyes, if I could help out with a short film her class was making. As a theatre major and fellow queer artist, I had to agree. The circles I run in are too small, and an opportunity to perform is just that; an opportunity to perform.
It was annoying, at first, sure.
But she was sickly good at what she did. Filming with her so far had been easy, and worst of all, a breeze. She was a complete professional. That was before the queer lit field trip, though.
I thought we were done filming.
I thought we were done, period.
“Yeah, I’m free for a minute, I just have to trek over to the performance building for dance.” The words come out of my mouth pristine and well practiced. Despite the fact that my back is turned to her I grace a smile that would have my acting professors in awe, it even reaches my eyes. I’m ready to face her own wide grin, but my fingers, jump in annoyance.
“No dance today, Ace!” Comes a one liner from the chaos, Jeremy. Sweet, stupid Jeremy who is normally too high to come to class, let alone absorb conversation. Not that I blame him. But now it’s a disservice instead of a blessing.
“Oh, sick. Let me buy you coffee?” Irene inquires, and if my dining dollars weren’t low as shit, I would have said no. I stand with her as she gathers the rest of her books, and at the podium, Professor Darling watches the two of us. His gaze bounces back and forth, like he’s figuring out a puzzle and doesn’t have the end picture. He’d be happy to know I was lost, too.
Irene orders her coffee black. For a film kid, it makes sense. As a human, it makes my skin crawl. I order a smoothie, no milk, whipped cream. If she shows any disdain or confusion over my order she doesn't show it. I however can’t seem to shake the tension out of my shoulders.
Despite the small population at school, we didn’t talk often. Classes together? Sure- But it always seemed as if we fell on opposite ends of the student spectrum. I’m happy to lead a conversation regardless of my readiness, Irene seemed to have each and every sentence carefully planned. Her thoughts were always deep, concise. Realizations seemed to come in the moment for me, twisted and complex. I liked to collaborate. Irene always felt so solitary.
We sit tucked back in a small booth, the cafe crowded. I sit with my legs curled up under me, ignoring the cold wet underside of my boots. Irene leans back, and sips her coffee, pulling out a planner filled to the brim with multi-colored ink. I catch glimpses; Queer Lit. Paper Due in lavender, Documentary filming at 4 in red, A human’s evolution in green. I catch at least two shades of every color, and I don’t realize she’s stopped until I’m caught staring, her eyebrows quirked.
“Sorry,” I apologize, tearing my eyes off the page. Two nasty habits of mine: staring and putting my nose where it doesn't belong. I panic, looking for a window, something, anything to look at other than my hands or her. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Don’t worry about it,” She replies easily, pulling a few pens from her bag. “I just wanted to see if you had any availability to film this month. Do any of my open days work for you?”
She moves with the confidence of a stage manager - not always sure of their next move, but confident in their ability to get it done. This side of her I see in class all of the time. Turning in papers, fighting off opinions she doesn't quite agree with. She is a force, and always has been. But I don’t bend easily. At least not unintentionally.
“I can do next Tuesday night or the 19th, the 23rd.. Maybe the 29th if we can be done by five.” I take a long sip of my drink and look up at her as she contemplates. She pulls a black pen from her pile and I can’t help but notice the absence of that color anywhere else. There’s not a drop of black pen in that notebook, I’m almost sure of it.
“But why? I thought you were done filming Metamorphosis.”
Her hand stutters, but only for a moment. She’s writing my name in that dark, irreversible ink. I feel like I’ve given something deeply personal away. Like a small child making a deal with the Fae.
“I am.” she says simply. She doesn't elaborate, just tucks the book and pens away. It frustrates me to hell and back. An irrational part of me wants to grab it from her and scour through it for some sort of clue, some indication on what exactly I’ve agreed to.
“Would you like me to help on another project?” I ask, dumb.
“That was implied, yeah.”
“After the other day? Really?” Irritation seeps through me then, and her eyes snap up to mine. There’s something in her gaze that makes me hold my tongue, despite the desire to rip her a new one. I am far too aware of where we are. Of who can hear us.
“Especially after the other day.”
We had taken a trip to the Leather Archives, not too far off campus. It was a day trip for the Queer Lit. class and this semester's Social Justice extracurricular. About 30 students, three Professors. The building was small, and we could float and roam however we pleased.
I had been amped up, tipping right on the edge of headspace as soon as my eyes had opened. Some mornings you wake up and instead of the rot sleeping inside of you, it looks you right in the eyes. I try my best to push it down and remember I’m in control- I make the choices. There was a deep pulse inside of me, beating steady, warm. Mornings like this, my body knows exactly what it needs- it’s just the process of fulfilling those deep desires that becomes tricky. Mornings like this, my packing boxers won't do. It’s only the tight, heavy weight of my harness that can hold me together, keep me from snapping like a rubber band.
The leather cuts into my hips, but it’s a pleasant distraction from the annoyances of life. Like handsome professors in button ups that show off tattoos, and pretty girls in loose pants and small shirts. It takes away from the heaviness in my chest, and that irritating buzz in the back of my brain that whispers ‘everyone can see through you.’
Irene was pleased to stay glued to Professor Darling's side from the moment the trip started. We begun as a group, getting a vague introduction on the space, and its importance to the community before being dismissed and encouraged to explore.
That was my spot. Next to him, pressing against his side just to show him something that caught my eye behind the glass, to pick up a flogger and make him feel the fibers. To be the teacher for a change, to make jokes that border on the line of inappropriate, to see him flush when something strikes a nerve.
I had been the one to proposed this for our field study. I was the one who did the paperwork, got funding for transportation and admission. I convinced the board it was educational, and not overtly sexual and perverse. I fought with the English department on whether or not it was worth the time and energy. I should be the one looking over various leather boots in a case, detailing the process of how to clean and shine them. Of how to buff and keep them.
But instead, it was Irene, and her stupid pretty fucking eyeliner taking up the space I fought so hard to have. Fought so hard to take.
They trail along, past the boot blacking, onto the spanking bench and other impact elements. It makes my stomach roll and my breath catch. My hands itch to move, but instead of following the urge, I let my nails bite into my palm.
When a body settles next to me, I feel my own start to slack, every neuron in me soothing, and coming to attention.
Avery gives me a knowing smile, and it takes all of me not to immediately pull their body into mine. Most mornings I wake up to this force of nature. But this semester our classes haven't been lining up.
“I can feel you seething all the way from the first room,” They tease gently, putting a hand on my arm. Part of me bristles, but they’re right.
I have never been one to hide my emotions. Utterly transparent to everyone but myself. Avery has always been good at seeing the ripples in the water before it gets so big it’s a hurricane. Hurrah.
“Do you need to relieve some tension?” They ask, eyes looking towards the bathrooms down the hall. All single stalls, in a quiet little hallway, far from other exhibits. It makes the lighter in my brain flick, lighting the kerosene and causing a hot, warm flame.
I have been feeling that impulse all day…
For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the fact that many people have probably fucked in this archive- that the room itself is some sort of living museum of queerness. In doing so, I would be adding to a rich history that will outlive me in many ways.
But my professor was here, and so were many of our classmates. I should be professional.
“Yes.” Is all I can get out.
The idea has settled into my mind and taken root, and I can feel the upper swing of my hand, the feeling of skin on skin. The look of Avery on their knees.
The walk to the bathroom is a blur, but as soon as the door is locked, my mind is off and it’s just Avery and the cold bathroom tiles. No more worry about how I’m perceived by Professor Darling, no crippling fear of not being enough, no worries of being an outlier. Jealousy and doubt are taken away, by jeans pulled down, boxers shoved with them. Bare smooth skin, and a hard spanking.
Nothing calms me more.
Avery leans over the sink, bare from the waist down, squirming and panting after the first flurry with my hand. My skin stings, and it’s as if I'm completely in my body for the first time all morning. My vision is clear and cut sharp, I can feel every movement and I’m connected to what's around me, both alive and inanimate. I’m hyper aware of the noises we make, the way Avery looks, the feelings pouring out of their lips. Bright red butt, busted hands, and adrenaline leaves me quivering as I help them redress.
The feeling thrums in me, alive and well. Control, power, and utter adoration. My place in the world, with the rest of them, feels secure. My hands ache to find skin again.
Wrapping them in a tight hug, I murmur praise, patting them over their jeans. Our lips never touch, my lips licked raw and their own peeling and chapped. When we pull ourselves away, Avery agrees to leave first, smile on their face.
“More when you get home after rehearsal?” They ask, sweet, and I am thankful my packer can’t react to mental stimuli, because I’d be hard all over again.
“Fuck yeah.” And they slip out.
When I slip out, the coolness of the hallway eases my hot and heavy mind. Standing next to the door, pressing a perfectly written sticky note on the pin board is Irene.
She looks at me as if she were a bird, of sorts. If it wasn’t for my hyperactive mind, and hyper awareness of where I was, of what had just happened, I would have walked past her without any thought. She’s a part of the scenery, blending into plain sight. Irene gives me a knowing grin, and the flame in my gut evolves to a particular rage I can't describe.
Fuck.
My palms sweat, and I shove them in my jean pockets, straightening my shoulders. I try not to grit my teeth, but I can feel my jaw twinge from how tightly I clench it. I go to walk past her, but her words stop me.
“Those bathrooms aren't as sound proof as one would hope,” She mocks, voice light, sweet. My hands curl into fists.
“I always figured your bark was worse than your bite. I’m glad to see I’m mistaken.”
Irene is many things. Frustration, fascinating, articulate, puzzling.
She’s also soft, and strong, and perfect against my fingers.
My left hand finds her shoulder, grabbing hard as my other grips the base of her chin. In two short steps her back is pressed against the wall, and my chest is pressed to hers, the space between us suddenly small. Her eyes are wide, and surprisingly wicked, behind her glasses. A low growl bubbles in my chest and I ache to sink my teeth into her neck. To flip her confident demeanor.
“You know nothing about my bite.” I whisper harshly, but the wide smile that overtakes her face makes my blood run cold. I’ve lost my head, in a public place, with a person I’ve never played with — let alone talked with outside of class projects. With the person who actively pushes my buttons, who goes out of their way to disagree, who isn’t afraid to let me know where I don’t belong. I go to step back, fingers loosening, but her bulky and paint splattered shoes keep me in place.
“So show me.” She says, and for a second, I don’t register that she’s said anything at all.
“I-”
“Come and get me.” My stomach falls onto the floor and suddenly it’s as if my mouth is full of cotton. I can’t get a word out.
Voices come from down the hall, and she slides away from me and the wall with legs sculpted from stone, while mine shake and shudder like jelly. I grab her wrist, and she turns to face me with a softer look- an honest look.
I can breathe again.
“I’ll catch you later.” And I let go, desperate to find Avery, and maybe even a corner to die in.
C5 Summary: Does Katniss take Gale's advice or does she not listen and gets reprimanded by Buttercup?
A/N: F Thank you to my bestie @norbertsmom for betaing this chapter I just realized it's 7K you are my right hand. @rainymyx hope you're enjoying the story
C4 Summary: Meet the family...Katniss has to face the reality of being married to Peeta and to have to call his family kin. Will they get along, or will they tear each other apart?
A/N: F Thank you to my bestie @norbertsmom for being my my left and right hand. @rainymyx hope you enjoy this chapter...
C3 Summary: Katniss has been matched with Peeta, her rival. Now she has to face a future with Peeta and worse his mother. But first she has to go through the ceremony without causing a scene.
A/N: First I was surprised by the choice for the book skin I made for this story. It wasn't even a close nearly 70% chose the half/half artwork. So thank you. Also thank you to my beta @norbertsmom who edited the first 2 chapters, and this one as well. She is amazing and I would highly recommend letting her edit your stories. Also this prompt was by @rainymyx
