• Is a great hugger
• Smells a little bit like cinnoman
• Uses cheesy pickup lines
• But can also be pretty perverted
• His hair is amazing
• He has dimples
• Always helps old people
• He’s passive agressive af
• Gets really sad if other people around him are sad
• Did I already mention he’s a great hugger?
You were ending your normal shift at the Green Dragon Tavern. The darkness of night clung onto the window, trying to get a peek of the light of the unsleeping pub. The soldiers, rebels, and drunks who regularly drifted into this rotting hole of a building, were now gone. It was, after all, closing time.
However, your attention was drawn to one of the only men left in the tavern. He had no reason to still be there, because everyone else who was still inhabited the tavern were either staying in one of the rooms, one of the owners, or one of their miserable workers.
You realized, staring at him now, that the man never asked for anything. He was just sitting there. You tried to recall whether or not he had some friends with him, but it seemed he was there all alone that night. His demeanor was dark and intimidating. Someone had to tell him to leave though.
Looking over your shoulder, you saw that everyone was then gone. The only thing between you and this mountain of a man was silence and nighttime air. You pulled a rag from your apron pocket and began wiping down some of the counters, hoping the man would get the idea that it was time to leave. He only sat, leaning on arms that were folded over the table. His expression was blank, but the blank that you would see on someone deeply in thought.
You coughed, trying to get his attention. He didn’t so much as look over at you. With a sigh, you begin to approach the man. You couldn’t deny the slight, fast beating of your heart as you were finally at his side.
“Sir, the tavern is closing,” you tell the figure. The man, who wore white robes, finally looked up at you. He was a Native, with strong features and a quiet scar on his cheek. His eyes were still hidden under a hood when he looked over you.
“Ah,” he muttered. “You are right. I never noticed.”
“Perhaps if you took your hood off, you’d be able to see better,” you suggested. The man smirked in an amused manner, and slid his hood off his head. His dark hair, which was tied back, caught the light of the candles. You lost all fear when you saw his soft brown eyes. They instead caught sadness and a sense of melancholy. You ended up feeling a pang of his hidden sorrow.
“You would be surprised,” he said. “I suppose I was just lost in thought. No matter.”
He slid his chair back, and began to get up. He rose to his feet and crossed by your shoulder, and you felt his lament presence sweep over your entire body. You heard the man’s footsteps behind you, and you quickly turned around.
“Wait!” you called. The man turned and looked at you with slight confusion. “You don’t need to leave right away.”
His parted lips closed and curved into a slight smile.
“I wouldn’t mind talking to someone while I clean up,” you tell him. “It gets a bit lonely after everything closes.”
“Do you not have a husband waiting for you at home?” he asked.
“No, it’s just me…” you explain.
You then felt the sense of solitude that crept up on you late at night. It was the same that made you believe that there was something off about you that kept a man away. You had left your family, hoping to make something of yourself as a writer. You had also hoped to find the man who would give you adventure in a world where you were suppose to find adventure in cleaning things. You wanted the adventure so you could write about things that the other Colonists had could never imagine. However, no such man would give you so much as a passing glance, so it seemed. In passing, you’d hear redcoats and sailors talking about places they’ve been and things they’ve seen over a pint of beer. Those nights, the seclusion was unbearable. You didn’t have anyone to take you anywhere. You didn’t even have a destination.
You had planned to buy a map. On that map, you were going to layout out where you’d go. You’d constantly envisioned yourself putting X’s where you’ve been, and lines on the roads that would take you were you wanted to go next. However, the tips you got always seemed to disappear to the tax collectors.
Still, you had your books at home. Though they were few in number, they held so many lands that you’d wish to go. You had a journal passed down from your grandmother, Mary Read, who sailed around the world. Your grandmother and grandfather fell away however, and your mother was left to your grandpa. The way Mary Read wrote made you want to be like her. She was as free as the wind, and you were a caged bird who was unsure if she even knew how to fly. You’d sit on a farmer’s fence and read her journal, closing your eyes and pretending you were in those places.
You’d write about escaping all the time. You would write about the pines, who were like soldiers in a war that was much slower than the one raging the colonies, and the sea, who was like a lonely soul trying to caress the land to no avail. You wanted more though. You wanted to write about new things, and in order to do so, you needed to explore and adventure.
But you could never go anywhere but Boston. You were a waitress at a pub. You made a living off of drunks who hit on you, and owners who gave you so little. You didn’t have the money for a horse to carry you away, let alone a ship. So you merely kept dreaming.
Suddenly, you hear the door of the tavern open thunderously. A wave of red flushed into the pub. You felt a force around your midsection sweep you backwards. You were instantly behind the Native man, who was braced for combat. You noted his hood was back over his face, which was shrouded in darkness.
“TURN YOURSELF IN,” a redcoat officer commanded. “AND NO HARM WILL BEFALL YOUR PRETTY FRIEND.”
You were then filled with excitement at the proposition brought forth by the redcoat.
“Don’t do it!” you whispered to the man in white. He looked over at you with alarm and confusion. “I wanna fight them!”
“You?” he hissed back. “You would hurt yourself.”
“How’d you know that?” you asked offensively.
“NO MORE CONVERSING,” demanded the officer.
“NOW, SAVAGE,” chimed in a less important soldier. “YA GONNA MAKE THIS DIFFICULT OR YA GONNA MAKE THIS EASY?”
The Native pulled out a blade from seemingly nowhere as his response.
“Wait!” you yelled. All the eyes in the taverns were then turned to you. “He’s not a savage. This is my husband, Antonio.”
The man looked over at you, eyes wide with embarrassment and surprise.
“He’s from Spain,” you lied. “He doesn’t even speak the King’s English, sir! You quite clearly have the wrong man!”
There was silence from everyone, including the officer.
“And…” you continued. “I might have to report you to your commander for such a rude acquisition!”
The man in white leaned down to you, and whispered in your ear, “What are you doing?”
“My husband wants you to know that if you do not stand down now,” you told them. “That he will press charges against you.”
The redcoats, clearly embarrassed by this false mistake, shuffled their feet and began to clear a path to the door.
You and the Native man were outside and quickly walking down the street when you heard shouting coming from the tavern.
“OF COURSE THAT MAN WASN’T A SPANIARD!” boomed the officer. “CHASE THEM DOWN, NOW.”
You gasped loudly when you heard the door crash open. The man grabbed your hand.
“Run!” he commanded. You did as he said, and the two of you began to run. You began to fall behind the man, who had far more stamina than you.
“Wait!” you called. But it was too late, he was already out of earshot. “Oh no…”
Just like that, you were quickly surrounded by redcoats.
“Like redskins, eh girl?” asked the grotesque soldier who taunted the man.
Grabbing you by the hair, he threw you to the ground. You whimpered in pain. The soldier leaned over you, grinning madly. Your figure was receding in fear in the reflection of the man’s eyes. Suddenly, those eyes were darkened, as he toppled to the ground with an arrow in his neck. You cried out, and scampered to your feet. The other soldiers were then met with the same fate in a quick pace.
“Are you okay?” asked the man in white. He came back for you!
“Much better,” you reply honestly. “Thank you… uh…”
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” he told you, each syllable falling from his lips gracefully.
“I’m (Y/N),” you replied. “And your name is beautiful, but I don’t think I’d be able to repeat it so elegantly.”
He laughed softly.
“Connor,” he said. “I am usually called Connor.”
“That’s much easier,” you giggle. “Connor… Raton…”
“Ratonhnhaké:ton…” you say.
“Perfect,” Connor tells you with a smile. “Though I do not understand why you insist on knowing my Native name.”
“Because it’s important to you,” you respond. “Just like you should know that my last name is (L/N).”
Connor tried your full name on his tongue, the sound rolling out musically. “Your name is beautiful.”
Connor’s dark skin turns crimson as he blushed slightly.
You thought of that moment at Connor’s bedside. The first time you met Connor, who then turned into your mentor under Achilles’s suggestion. Now, the two of your were married. Usually, that memory would bring you joy, but now it brought fear and heartbreak.
On his side was a large gash that was a canyon upon the terrain of his muscular torso. It, a day or so from the event, was still bleeding steadily through the stitches. It had become infected, and Connor’s body was fighting viciously against death.
His body was restlessly limp, and your eyes burned from the many tears you had shed. You took his large hand into your smaller one, and brushed the back of his hand against your cheek.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” you called brokenly. “You’re going to make it through. You aren’t allowed to leave me. We haven’t been to enough places yet. We haven’t had enough adventures yet. You still have so much to teach me about being an Assassin.”
He made no signs of acknowledgement, and your heart tore at itself in frustration. You moaned through your tears, and rested your head against Connor’s heated neck. His weak pulse broke your heart with every pale beat. You laid at his side and wept, closing your eyes trying to be with him. Through your closed eyelids, you could practically see death surround Connor’s bed. Overtop of his head, Death with cracked wings and a hideous, emotionless face watched him gasp painfully for air through blind eyes.
You began to quote a poem you knew too well. The Garden of Love. It was written by a man, William Blake, who you became acquainted with when you met him at the Green Dragon.
“I went to the Garden of Love
and saw what I never had seen.
A Chapel was built in the midst
where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
and THOU SHALT NOT writ o’er the door.
So I turned to the Garden of Love
that so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves
and tombstones were flowers should be
And the priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds
and binding with briars, all my joys and desires…”
You stroked his hair, tears flowing down your eyes like rain on a window. Connor was a man amongst shadows now. Every second of his life at the moment was spent on the line of recovering and dying. It was no silver line either. Connor had battled so many foes before, why is not winning against this one? Was he not trying? Did he want to follow this spirit into death more than he wanted to follow your voice into life?
“Thou Shalt Not,” you repeat sorrowfully. “I cannot lose you, Connor. Thou Shalt Not Love… that is what it means. If you die, that is what will happen. I shalt not love again.”
You began to plead with him silently, whispering his name- both of them- trying to call him from the world he was in. You hear a solemn knocking on the door leading into Connor’s room. When you made no noise, other than your sobbing, Dr. White walked into the room.
He was greeted by your mournful figure, arched protectively over Connor like a concrete Guardian Angel over a tombstone.
“(Y/N),” he softly muttered your name. “You need a bit of a break. Robert Faulkner offered to take you for a short ride to take your mind off of things.”
“Very well,” you sniffled, trying to hide your absolute hopelessness. “It’ll do me good.”
“It will indeed,” Dr. White said.
“Promise me you will make sure he lives,” you cried quietly.
“(Y/N), I assure you that he is fighting as hard as he can and he-”
The moonlight rested upon the waves of the sea. The moon kissed the ocean subtly, like it was hiding that secret from the stars that roamed around it. The bellowing sea was so quiet, and its lonely song was one that you knew too well. It cried for the moon to always be by its side, even though they both knew it will not always be. There will come a time when the moon disappears, and the sun replaces it. Though the sun is good, it isn’t the moon. So the sea cries on.
You placed your foot on the rail of the Aquila, and lifted yourself on the edge of the ship. Only a few of the sailors remained on the top deck, so no one cared that you were only a footstep away from falling away to be one morose being with the sea. You looped your arm through the net that hung off the side and swayed over the black waves beneath you.
The sea then turned against you when you got a good look at it. It mocked your sorrow, and pretended to feel your own pain. However, it was deceptive, and only wanted to pull you away.
You sway back beyond the sea’s grasp, and into the grasp of Faulkner.
“What ‘er you doin’ girl?” he demanded.
“Feeling alone…” you reply honestly. “I want Connor… I want him to be okay…”
“I know,” he sighed. “I know…”
The next morning, you were back on dry land. You quickly stole away, back into the manor that you locked yourself up in. You opened the door, and quietly closed it behind you. Your (H/C) hair, that had been left down the night before, was tasseled by the ocean breeze that had ran through it. However, your hair wasn’t a problem at the time. You quickly, but noiselessly, rushed up the stairs to be with Connor.
You heard Dr. White’s inaudible voice talk with a much weaker, softer one. You swiftly opened the door, and saw Dr. White sitting on Connor’s bed. Connor’s brown eyes found yours, and he smiled gently at you.
“You have been on my ship without me,” he laughed silently. You brush your hair behind your ear sheepishly.
“You were sleeping…” you chastise him. He shrugged.
“I am alright now,” Connor told you. “I will be back to normal in a few days.”
“Functional, at least,” Dr. White corrected him.
“That’s all I need to know,” you smile. You lean over and kiss Connor’s lips, then embraced him, never wanting to let go.
So there is a poem in here called “The Garden of Love” and it is by William Blake. It is seriously one of my favorite poems of all time, written in the Romantic Era of art and literature during the American Revolution.
And it’s Connor Kenway’s birthday! For his birthday I’m going to almost kill him, but not completely. Man, 259th birthday… dang. The husband’s gettin’ old.
Also, this is really long, sorry about that… it sort of happens and I’m learning as I go…
I was living in San Antonio at the time. It was summer in 2011. My husband and I lived with his uncle. They had been at work, I was at home and a clip from the news feature for the 10pm news came on. It was local news station kens5 if I remember right. They said they had a man coming forth with pictures of when he worked at area 51. They showed a blurred out picture like they do to lure you in and be sure to tune in to listen to his story. Things like this always interests me so of course I was going to tune in. My husband came home and without prompt said he saw it on the TV at work and it should be interesting if not entertaining. His uncle came home also having heard about it. 10pm came around and we watched the whole hour of news. It was never mentioned. There was never any ‘coming up next’ or anything. Like they had never said a word about it and it was never mentioned again. It’s been bugging me all these years. Who was this man and what did he know? What did he have that caused the alleged story to disappear within hours? I’ve tried to look into it but I can’t find anything or I’m just not good at research. So if anyone knows anything I sure would be interested. I don’t know why it’s been bugging me so badly lately but I need to know something.
My Mother of Guadalupe, thank you for helping my husband Antonio and my sons Joaquin and Pedro to fulfill the american dream. The immigration police didn’t catch them, and they got in the United States to earn some money for living here, in Mexico. From the bottom of my heart, with tears in my eyes, I ask you to look after them.
[Ed. note: I have retained the British English spelling in sponsormusings’ answers.]
“She is everything. She has given the fandom not only some of the sweetest AU’s, but she is also a great friend. Social Standing… was so in character, probably more than any [other] AU I’ve read. And… the ending, which I love! It’s the best work of any kind that I’ve read set during that time.” -chele20035
What is so unique or special about Everlark to you?
I think it’s because- both together and individually- they represent overcoming all the odds, overcoming adversity. They represent how the world around us can affect our lives in ways we can never imagine, represent how even one person can make a difference. They represent hope.
Basically, I love them to pieces, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to completely explain why they mean so much to me. I guess over three books, they just crept up on me.
What inspired you to write Everlark fanfiction in the first place?
I think, like so many others, I got to the end of Mockingjay, and I was absolutely desperate for more. I couldn’t remember the last time something had stayed with me so strongly, and while I didn’t actively go looking for fanfiction, when I stumbled upon it, it was like everything inside me said “Yes, this is good.”
Prior to that, it had been over ten years since I’d written something creatively, and while I enjoyed reading other people’s stories, the urge to write reared its head. After such a long dormant period of creativity, I didn’t want to ignore it - I really wanted to follow through with that desire to write. So I did.
What’s your personal favorite of your own fics and why? What inspired it?
This is actually a pretty hard question, because I’m not the most objective when it comes to my own fics! I’ve got a soft spot for a few different ones, for a variety of reasons. But if I had to choose, I would have to say Drifting Between Grey and Blue- mostly because it’s a story I always love writing, and those versions of Katniss and Peeta have come to mean a lot to me. Plus, it allows me to explore and develop the supporting characters, which I enjoy.
I originally started it for Fandom4LLS in 2013 - at the time, I was on holiday in Europe, and I was struggling to come up with an idea for my submission. I had about three different false starts, and then dashed out the opening scene with no idea of what it really was, or where the story would go.
Two days later, I was standing on a sidewalk in Barcelona, staring up at Casa Battló, a house designed by the amazing Antonio Gaudi. Now, my husband is a big art gallery buff- me, I can last about two hours, tops. But standing in front of that building, I just remember thinking, “This is art. Architecture is art. This is my art gallery.” And the idea of Peeta as an architect was like a big lightbulb suddenly turning on. As odd as it may sound, within five minutes, the story had virtually unfolded in my head. It’s grown and expanded since then, but for the most part, a brightly coloured house on Passeig de Gràcia was my primary inspiration in its inception.
What’s the greatest challenge for you to writing Everlark?
I think it’s always a struggle to make sure I keep Everlark in character in a modern AU. Characterisation is something I really try to focus on a lot, because I cherish these characters as SC wrote them. I’ve agonised at times over my interpretations of Katniss and Peeta, wondering would they really say that/do that/think that/act that way? There is absolutely a sense of flexibility in AUs, of course, because Katniss and Peeta aren’t bound by the rules of Panem and the Games. But to always retain that essence of them can sometimes be a challenge for me.
Plus, you know. Smut. That’s one hell of a struggle, lol.
When you’re pushing the limits of character or situation, what ineffable traits of Katniss and Peeta/Everlark do you keep intact to preserve their characters?
Katniss’ strength, her fierce loyalty, her stubbornness, her need to protect, whether it be herself or those she loves. For Peeta, his innate sense of good, his desire to help others, his charm, his way with words - or sometimes struggling with the loss of them.
What’s your favorite Everlark trope and why?
That would undoubtedly be the ‘Haters to Lovers’ trope! There is nothing my Pride and Prejudice-loving heart craves more than watching Everlark bitch and fight and be snarky with each other, only to be madly in love by the end of the story.
What is an Everlark fanfic that has stayed with you? Why?
I’m going with a sentimental favourite here, simply because it was what led me to finally take that plunge and write. Salanderjade’s The Green and the Gold was the first WiP I ever read back in 2012, and she pulled me in with her beautiful, descriptive words set in a pre-epilogue canon world. She was also the first author I ever reached out to, and as a result, we’re still good friends to this day. So that fic is one that will always stay with me.
Another would be Five Loaves of Bread: Dark Toast, by aimmyarrowshigh. The world building was terrific, the story intriguing, the development between Everlark realistic and when I finished it, it stayed with me for days. But please, I can’t talk about the ending to The Good Wife [from silvercistern’s The Ashes of District Twelve]. Now that has always stayed with me. (Oh no, now I want to cry).
What is your favorite Everlark headcanon or fanon?
Just picking one is an absolute killer! But…I like to think that in Mockingjay, after Katniss had cried herself to sleep when Buttercup returns, that the reason she finds herself in her bed the next morning is because Peeta carried her there. And I like to think that Haymitch was 100% a substitute grandfather, and that the knowledge that the toastbabies would never have the worry of being reaped helped him to heal from a lot of his demons.
for the writing prompt thing, #50 with spamano?? thank u!!!
I’m still working on these I promise omg
Sorry for tardiness!!
50- going through a divorce au
The smoke wafting off Antonio’s cigarette blew into his eyes and got them watering. At least, that’s what he told himself.
Everyone had told him everything would be better once it was finalized. Once the papers were signed, the lawyers were dismissed, and the last of each other’s stray shirts and old coffee mugs were either returned or burned, things were supposed to go back to normal. A new start, they called it. The ashes the flames of divorce left were supposed to be swept away and forgotten.
Then why did Antonio feel as though he’s still on fire?
The cigarette fell to pieces at his feet, and Antonio immediately pulled and lit another one. He chuckled to himself. Roderich had hated his smoking, so after a months-long battle, he quit. And the moment he moved out he was right back at it again. That could probably be read as symbolic by some literature snob somewhere, but Antonio knows it’s nothing more than revenge in it’s most childish form.
Antonio never loved Roderich. Not in the way he was supposed to love him, at least. And Roderich had likely never loved him either. Their marriage was confusing while it lasted, years of stilted conversation and miscommunications and long stretches of time apart… but it had been a marriage, nonetheless. And a marriage is always to be taken seriously.
It wasn’t as though they’d hated each other, either. Roderich had filled the house with music. Gentle, lilting, beautiful music, music that lifted from the grand piano and created an atmosphere that Antonio could live in forever.
But Roderich obviously felt differently. One too many tiny, insignificant fights, and he was gone. The house is dead silent now.
Antonio takes another drag on his cigarette and looks up. The clouds are pooling together, a mix of greys and whites like paint in the bottom of a jar. Antonio sniffs, half-laughs, smiles. Of course it’s going to rain. What pretentious shit.
“Hey bastard, can you move?”
The angry voice brings Antonio away from his self pity and back down to earth. Standing in from of him is a brunette, scowling man with crossed arms and an impatiently tapping foot. Then, Antonio realizes he’s standing directly in front of a red Italian sports car. “Oh, my apologizes!” he says, summoning his usual amount of cheer. Just because he’s having a bad day doesn’t mean he needs to make this stranger’s day worse.
“You really shouldn’t go around leaning on other people’s cars, you know,” says the man. Antonio smiles and offers another apology, but the man just waves him silent and starts digging through his pockets. Antonio knows he should probably walk away but doesn’t. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that this man is still digging through his pockets.
“Doing okay?” asks Antonio finally.
“Are you still here?” he snaps. He reaches into his back pocket again, comes up with nothing, and lets out a sound between a groan and a scream. “God fucking dammit… I lost my fucking keys!”
Antonio is a bit taken aback by the language, but it doesn’t bother him. “That’s a shame,” he says. “Where did you last have them?”
“The last time I… Who are you, even? Jesus!”
Antonio chuckles a bit. After living with someone for years who only expressed his frustrations with passive aggression, this unabashed temper is kind of refreshing. “My name is Antonio. And yourself?”
“Lovino, though it’s hardly any business of yours.” Lovino sighs. “Dammit, I must have dropped them in the coffee shop…”
“The Starbucks right down the road?”
Lovino scrunches his nose. “No, not Starbucks. It’s this little Italian place on third. I doubt you’ve ever even heard of it.”
Oh my, and a hipster as well! Antonio definitely has experience dealing with those. “Is it La Fiorentina?” he asks, feigning modestly even as he takes silent pride in his perfect pronunciation.
Lovino stops, blinks. “Yes, actually.”
Antonio nods. “Thought so. My husband and I used to go all the time.”
“Used to?” says Lovino. “Why would you ever stop? They have the best damn lattes in the city.”
“Oh, well, I still go on my own. Just not with him. We’re getting divorced.” Antonio cringes a bit after he says it. He’s always had a little problem with over sharing, and this is a flawless example. He decides to leave out that he’s actually avoided that coffee shop like the plague ever since he signed the papers.
“…oh.” Lovino isn’t scowling anymore. “I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s alright,” says Antonio even though it very much ISNT alright, but he supposed it will be eventually, as all hardships in life eventually turn out.
“God, I have an appointment in half an hour. If I don’t find those damned keys…” Lovino sighs deeply. “Goddammit.”
“Why don’t you allow me to help?” says Antonio without thinking. He doesn’t have anything better to do, after all. “I can do it as repayment for smudging up your car.”
Lovino scoffs. “Are you for real?”
“I would hope so.” Antonio stomps out his cigarette, finding he doesn’t have any urge to light up another one. “Come on! I’ll even buy you a latte.”