This Is So Freaking Good - Tumblr Posts

1 — The Sword

It was like waking up from a dream in a warm bed, except Amory wasn't in bed but rather in a freezing, obnoxiously air-conditioned classroom with their face down on their desk. They groaned, finding that their left eye was blurry from being pressed against the arm they used as a pillow, and a stripe of spittle almost marring their penmanship on the answer sheet. Almost.

The student lifted their head to wipe it. Left eye still blurry. A hollow clatter told them they'd pushed their pen off the desk by accident, which they moved to retrieve — only to turn the entire chair upside down, sending questionnaire and answer sheet gracefully airborne, and themself prone.

A few laughs from their immediate east.

They heaved themself up, righted the chair, and picked up the fallen papers and pen. The new number written in chalk on the board in front told them the class had five minutes left to finish the exam. Most of the class, anyway, for they had finished way ahead of their peers about thirty minutes ago. They spent this lull period brushing dust off their uniform, muttering unhappily about the weekly cleaners not taking their obligations seriously and their left eye which didn't seem to be in the mood to refocus now. While massaging their affected eye, they gave their answer sheet one last look, then the classroom a sweeping one.

White walls. High ceiling. Plain beige tiling. One chalkboard, one whiteboard, both with generous scuff marks. Reddish teacher's table — they momentarily wondered if it was mahogany... (no, why would they assume that? That's becoming a staple of the elite nowadays, come on, everyone is poor...) The green plastic chairs, 7 columns by 5 rows, all occupied. Tasteless posters discouraging drug use and bullying along the walls, a line-up of past batch trophies in a glass case next to the boards, a long worktop to the left side hit by sparse sunlight. In short, unremarkable.

Awfully like themself.

And then there were the occupants of those chairs, who qualified for decent labels beyond unremarkable. How they envied them. There was once a time when they'd scream into their pillow about how unfair it was, being unremarkable in a sea of memorable, and the hate from that time stayed with them, whittled down to a small thought that swelled to a concerning intensity whenever they looked at each of their classmates. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Three up front, the informal Golden Girls of the class. Of course the three had names, but they weren't in the mood to recall. The three were a perfect trio, a clique, and the ones most likely to fail according to multiple studies conducted in the (dis)honor of overachievers. And then there was a duo of troublemakers, two boys, who had once shoved them dangerously close to the balcony rail. To their right, the shrinking violet was nervously capping and uncapping his pen while staring at his papers. To their left, the class president drummed her fingers on her desk to the rhythm of time running out.

When the teacher announced the end of hell, aka the exam, it was like everyone around them manually released their lungs for freer breathing. Papers were passed forward, those in front in turn passed the piles to the teacher, and the atmosphere lightened further when the bell sounded. Everyone was permitted to take their schoolbags from the front and leave the room, except the weekly cleaners. Luckily today was a Friday; it was only on Wednesdays that Amory and the rest of the E's according to surname took up that task.

They picked up their drawstring bag and tailed a boy on the way out. Clumps of their classmates sharing their frustrations with friends from neighboring sections blocked part of the hall, so they had to weave between groups to make it through to the stairwell. Tile turned to gravel under their shoes, crunching with every other step. They passed a vendor selling skewered meats to a couple junior students. Chatter, laughter, clamors rang from almost every direction, which faded into unimportance the more distance Amory put between themself and the rest of civilization. The sun beat mercilessly above, fighting with the cold wind that persisted through the hours until around one o'clock. They tried to adjust to the change in brightness by squinting.

Finally free of the stuffy classroom, they pulled out their phone. No new notifications. Just some emails notifying them of their outputs turned in, newsletter offers, the usual junk. The lack of messages from either family or the school prompted them to check their Facebook account, which was full of notifications from various relatives they never met in person wishing them good luck for the upcoming test right on their feeds. How embarrassing.

As always, their thoughts began to stray back to school. They had mixed feelings about it; on one hand, it was nice studying somewhere that didn't require squeezing in with strangers on some rickety vehicle to get to, but on the other, it made the whole academic journey feel like a jail sentence. Their grades were average, but in comparison to the utterly disappointing figures their classmates received on report cards? They were already on their way to another High Honors picture, all thanks to being able to see what others don't — favoritism, merit-based scoring, lots of Jollibee takeout.

An unwelcome grip on Amory's shoulder practically made them jump. They whirled around, arm drawn back for a hard punch —

"Oh. Vera."

"It's-a me!" Her voice was squeaky and high, a tone that was usually reserved for people she liked. They were one of the unfortunate ones that stumbled into her good graces. "That test was sooooo hard. What was your answer for 49?"

"C."

"Oh! Mine was A, I dunno if that was correct..." Vera mumbled, absentmindedly touching her chin. She smiled sheepishly at Amory as they stared blankly at her, not knowing whether to resume the punch or call it off for now. "Anyway, tomorrow's when my dad goes on that trip to Hanoi, remember?"

"Uh-huh." They did not remember at all.

"So I thought I'd gather the girls — ooh, and you, since you're not like the rest of the boys anyway — for lunch! All on me, you know me. C'mon. At Anang's, you won't regret it."

Before Amory could lecture her on the gender binary, she tugged them away with surprising strength, leading them to the main entrance of the school building. They frowned upon seeing her entourage twittering, hunched over something entertaining on one of their phones. When they sensed their Queen coming their way, the girls waved and squealed.

"Amory! Amory! It's time you joined us again! Do you want a grande wintermelon, on us? Anang's just released their Truffle Butter line! What about their shaved ice? How much money do you still have?" The questions bombed Amory rapidly as Vera's horde surrounded them, like deer around their young. They sighed and resigned themself to their fate, though they wouldn't mind good food free of charge.

"I'll just have a hazelnut latte," they said whilst the horde surged towards the local restaurant, Anang's, with their wallets ready to unload.

Lunch.

Anang's was a mere stroll away from the school, and was smelled first before being seen. Everyday a new aroma wafted from the place, whether sautéed garlic and onions, melting sugar, or even steamed heirloom rice that was starting to become more and more of a privilege than a right by heritage these days. A whiff of any of these was enough to make Amory's mouth water, especially since they never got to leave their house unless it was to ask favors from the neighbors or water the plants at the back. They watched as Vera was enumerating the specs of her order to who they speculated was a newly-hired waiter, and her friends gossiping about who was the cutest amongst the staff. Amory rolled their eyes when they heard one of them carelessly gushing over one of the waitresses (it won't take a genius to know that she heard it!) then ducking to hide her pink face.

As they mentioned earlier, a hazelnut latte was enough. But Vera, being the spender, added an order of warm pan de rosa for them. "To thank you for helping me review last time! You're too nice, you should treat yourself more often. Here," she chirped, pushing the saucer towards them.

"Huh. Salamat."

They dug into the latte first. Its strong nutty flavor was what made it their regular. While drinking, they listened to Vera ramble on about topics that she never seemed to run out of every single day.

"Okay, so I was talking to Elise the other day… she was gonna ask out her friend this year, and the way I hear it she likes her a lot, and…"

Amory tuned her out after a while. Vera was an open book around her friends and them, so her stories always ended up sounding like telenovelas rather than real events. She talked about her classes, her grades, her friends, everything under the sun and in her ears, whatever they may catch. They learned during the first few days of their acquaintance with Vera that the best way to deal with her was to simply nod or shake their head, and to keep an ever growing list of Things Vera Talks About stored neatly in their mind.

"Amory?"

"Hm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

The question caught them off guard. They choked on a mouthful of their drink before clearing their throat. "Nothing in particular."

"Nothing, like Jaso—"

"Huy!" They elbowed her, scowling. Vera snickered into her fist. "You're the worst. You're lucky I'm very tolerant; otherwise you'd be eating sand right now."

"No, it's because we're friends."

"Acquaintances," they corrected.

After the eighth episode of the podcast Things Vera Talks About, Amory decided it was time for them to go. They finished the latte and bread, thanked Vera and Company for the trouble, then went on their merry way.

It was thirteen minutes past one o'clock PM. They ambled down the narrow street preceding the school, which was lined with printing shops, cafes, shoe repair stores and other businesses, before ascending the stairs to the overpass. The overpass was connected to a station they were a regular at, where all they had to do was show their face to the ticket booth, get one of those serrated slips of paper and board the train going south. It only took a few minutes before the train arrived.

They boarded without incident, as noon and its following hours were quite free. They made themself comfortable on one of the seats along the wall and avoided eye contact with everyone except the conductor. He greeted them once they entered the compartment, then left them alone to read through their notes and type on their laptop, not bothering to look outside once the train started moving. It was all cramped land and aerial traffic anyway.

Half an hour later, the train stopped at its destination. Amory got off and walked the last kilometer home. Their residence was somewhere in a dull white five-storey compound nestled between a sari-sari store and a hair salon. They looked around for any off signs as they shoved the key into the gate, entered, then locked behind themself. The kids from 204 were playing in the courtyard, Aling Yvette from 102 watering her serpentina pots, and the feisty shih tzu Baby sniffing around along the front of 105. Amory ignored them all and hiked up four flights of stairs for 306.

When they keyed open the door, they found their brother Danilo splayed on the sofa, phone cradled delicately in his hands.

"Hey, loser."

Danilo's gaze flickered upwards to meet Amory's, and he gave them a lazy thumbs up as acknowledgement. They returned it with a brow twitch and headed upstairs. Their parents were taking their siesta in the other room, which they avoided by a meter on the way to their abode within the abode: their room.

Their room — an enclosure of white paint obscured with posters and flags and a big corkboard cluttered with pinned ripped pages and once-trendy Polaroids. A bed meant for one and only one person (a deterrent to handsy visitors) was in one corner, and in the opposite a desk facing one of two of the room's windows that let them see the courtyard from three floors high. The other window, covered with thin blinds, was for spying on 305 when they felt like it.

They flopped face down onto the bed, letting out a loud sigh of relief. There was no need to worry about anything... for now.

Mr fishsticks

can you write me a little story about Katniss and Peeta slow dancing skin to skin or at the very least pajama to pajama in their bedroom or kitchen or shower I just have lots of feels about that

Okayyyyyy soooo. I decided to knock two birds out with one stone or whatever they saying may be. I wrote this request for you, catelynn, and also to help cheer up @jhsgf82 with fluffy oneshots. I hope you both like this very much and that anyone else who reads it also enjoys it as well. ♥️💗♥️💗💗♥️💗

He looks ridiculous. That’s the predominant thought that runs through my head as I stand against the wall, watching in amusement as my almost naked husband dances by himself across our living room floor.

“Come here,” he urges but it’s all I can do to watch him without laughing, as the tempo of the music gets faster and faster and he tries — very unsuccessfully — to keep up. Apparently I’m not doing a good job disguising my amusement because he murmurs, “Stop giggling to yourself and come dance with me.”

“I love your voice when it gets annoyed,” I say with the slightest air of provocation, but give into his request all the same, taking his proffered hand at last.

He immediately comes to a standstill as soon as I join him, holding his arm above us while keeping ahold of my grasp, and then twirling me effortlessly. “I sound like you when I’m annoyed,” he shoots back but his palms find my bare waist before I can respond and all words somehow get lost on my lips. Peeta pulls me right up against him, lifting my feet off the ground and spins us around effortlessly. And also clumsily.

“I sound different when I’m mad?” I finally say, raising an eyebrow. But it’s not as menacing as one might hope, since we’re still twirling.

“No, Katniss. You sound like that all the time.”

“Do not!” I exclaim just as we come to a sudden stop and his hand is tickling my right side, and his skin is pressed to mine and I give up our debate. “We were supposed to shower, you know,” I say as the fast fiddle song morphs into a much slower violin one. Unlike when I was a kid, we don’t need live music anymore. Peeta received a gift from Effie for his birthday, a weird device that plays music if you have the proper disc to insert. I find it strange and unnecessary — and a very Capitol item — but Peeta enjoys it. And that’s all that really matters to me. Most of the time.

He ignores my reminder, his brain too preoccupied to care about showering. “Teach me to dance, Katniss,” he says, for the third time in the last twenty minutes. “Teach me to dance or else I’ll keep subjecting you to my freestyle-“

“Okay,” I cut off, choking back a laugh once again at the image of Peeta attempting to dance. An image he willingly just provided me with and that will surely play in my head on a loop for weeks to come. “Fine. You want to dance? Let’s dance, my love.”

His lips lightly touch my nose before setting me back on my feet, looking down at me, his bright blue eyes patient and expectant. I take a thoughtful breath and try to recall winter nights with Prim, learning to dance in our tiny house in the Seam.

I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling oddly out of place with the gesture at first. It takes me a moment to realize this may be the first time I’ve ever done a District Twelve dance in the female’s position. I’ve never had any reason — or desire — to practice these dances with anyone but Prim and my dainty, angelic sister definitely wasn’t going to be the man in that scenario.

The very idea of it brings a giggle to my lips as Peeta’s large, warm hands touch my waist again. “Why are you laughing?” He asks, smiling now for no other reason than besides I am.

“Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head and then scoot closer, so that our bodies are pressed together as tightly as humanly possible.

“I very much like this position,” he whispers huskily, his voice suddenly velvet and a dusky sunset and milk chocolate and a summer breeze all at once.

But I can always be counted on to focus in on the task at hand. “Peeta, we have to concentrate,” I insist and he rolls his eyes but his grin never fades and I’m glad. I love seeing his smile. I love seeing him so happy and bright and sweet.

I teach Peeta to maneuver his body is different directions, to move at different paces, to listen to the beat of the song for the right moment, for the right cue and the right time to spin or dip or change feet. On beat, preferably.

I really should have known that his clunky, heavy tread disguised two left feet.

“Peeta, you are hopeless,” I say but neither of us can really hear my comment over our hysterical laughter. We’ve both silently agreed it’s time to give up on our dance lessons, having already tripped over each other and landed in a pile of twisted limbs and chortles on the wooden floor of our living room. “Seriously. How did you ever manage at the school dances?”

We used to have at least two dances a year growing up. The Justice Building hosted a few annually as well, some exclusive to adults, but the school ones were only for those fourteen to eighteen. And they were real popular among the merchant kids.

I, of course, never once attended, but I know Peeta did. I don’t even know how or why I accumulated that knowledge, but I know for an absolute fact he went to every single event our school hosted.

He’s still chuckling heavily as he answers me. “Oh Katniss, no one ever went to those things to dance.”

Despite the fact that I’m married and laying on top of said husband, mostly naked, it takes me a minute to understand his underlying meaning.

“Oh.” I blink a few times, having to readjust everything I previously thought of those dances. I always considered them too fancy, too over the top for Twelve, like the school was trying too hard for what this district was. But it never occurred to me that the kids did much more than simply dance there. Merchants, no less.

Then again, Gale always went to the dances too. So I suppose they wasn’t just for the town kids only. Even if they acted like they were.

“My pure girl,” Peeta teases lightly but my mind is already shifted and moved onto my next inquiry.

“Did you take a date to those dances?” I ask, my brows furrowing together in obvious, blatant jealousy. Even I can admit that at this point.

“No,” he automatically refutes before taking my hand from its place on his chest and bringing it to his mouth softly. “No, I just tagged along with Rye and his friends. It got me out of the house and out of having to work at the bakery for the night.”

“You didn’t take any girls to the dances?” I repeat again, maybe a little disbelieving. After all, even with everything else that’s happened, I do still remember Peeta in school.

This time he takes my face into his hands, stroking my cheeks with both his thumbs and presses a firm, unexpected kiss to my lips. “The only girl,” he says as soon as he pulls back again. “The only girl I ever dreamed of taking to any dance is the one I married.”

The corners of mouth instinctively turn up in a smile, my envy ebbing away as instantly as it came. “Lucky her,” I murmur cheekily, as his nose rubs against mine.

“No. Lucky me,” he retorts. And then my lips are against his again and my favorite kind of hunger builds from deep inside me, until I have no choice but to satisfy the unquenchable desire within me, spreading through every inch of my being like fire and gasoline.

/

An hour later, when we’ve finally made it upstairs to the shower, Peeta abruptly gets a sly glint in his eyes.

“What?” I murmur as his fingers finish rinsing the conditioner from my hair. We’ve had to lather it twice already, to get all the snarls out. The snarls he put in there himself.

“Come here,” he urges, just like downstairs in the living room. But unlike then, I choose to go without a fight.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight to him, almost like a hug. My head lays against his chest, his heart thudding against my ear, and I allow him to sway us back and forth beneath the water stream now. I don’t try to lead or teach him stupid, inconsequential dance steps or wonder if we look absolutely ridiculous. Instead I choose to lay perfectly content in the circle of his arms. I allow myself to be swayed back and forth by my husband, finding bliss in the only place I’ve ever truly felt safe.

In the only arms I will ever truly need.

days 52 & 53

the pink look was iconic and definitely gave us all one of the best reaction memes in my humble opinion 💖🤌🏻

*hypnopotamus :-)