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femslashficlets2015-09-16 04:24 pm
sidonie) wrote in femslashficlets2015-09-16 04:24 pm
Entry tags:
Firebrand (The Hunger Games, Foxface/Katniss)
Title: Firebrand
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Foxface/Katniss
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: kiss
Word count: 900-1000
Summary: In the aftermath of the 74th Hunger Games, a message to deliver and a new victor to bring into the conspiracy
A/N: AU in which Foxface was reaped a year earlier and ended up the victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, and Katniss was unable to save Peeta. I'm using the name Foxface was given in the movie
The theme of the evening is lights, and every floor of the mansion is decked in them. Garlands of fire hang from the ceiling and line the walls, all in honor of the burning girl and her victory, throwing intricate networks of light and shadow across the floor and the dancers who whirl there. False, of course. Finch knows how much these Capital socialites admire their spectacle, as long as it's safe on the other side of a screen, but no one here likes to get too close to open flame. They fool themselves, though. They're greedy, and all of them like to image themselves braver than they are.
A hush falls over the room as the music fades, and Finch knows it's time to check her mask and step into the spotlight. She stands up straight, instantly alert as dancers fall still and turn toward the arching glass and crystal doors. And this year's Victor takes the floor, accompanied by the murmur of conversation rising around her and falling like a wave in her wake. There are delicate glass baubles woven into her hair and the shimmering fabric of her skirts, lit from within by some chemical that makes them shine like the glow of a thousand candles. The light changes her features, makes the edges blur and soften until she's less a burning brand than a banked flame. It doesn't suit her at all, but maybe that's just because Finch knows it's false.
It's not hard to spot the fakery, after seeing her on the screens with cameras trained on her abraded and soot-stained face, the blood and the grime caught beneath her broken nails. There had been nothing soft about her then. There is not, beneath the shimmering veils of illusion, anything soft about her now. She's the girl who volunteered, the girl on fire, who won by being too driven and ruthless and just too bloody-minded stubborn to let herself lay down and die. Finch is the girl who won by escaping notice until the end, and then by acting scared and small enough, waiting until the final boy from Two got close enough for her to shove nightlock-covered fingers into his mouth.
Nobody likes the poisoners, of course. It's unsporting, a coward's game for a coward's Game, and it wouldn't have even worked if he'd only been kind enough to kill quickly and from a distance. There's a lesson in that, maybe, but Finch isn't sure what it is, or whether or not she cares.
Nobody likes the poisoners. In an abstract way, she's grateful for that.
They'll like this one, though, or more precisely, they already do. She's sharp and dangerous, insistently alive, and her tragedy brought them all to theatrical, not-too-messy tears. They'll make a pretty, polished story out of her, in the interviews and after, and no one here will see what Finch does now, which is that she's driven, ghost-ridden, and she doesn't cry. None of them will see that they aren't the only ones in Panem watching.
And none of them - Finch thinks, watching from somewhere just outside her own skin - none will catch the way the heat creeps up her face when Katniss looks in her direction, or understand why her first instinct is to avert her eyes, evasive, the way her whole body remembers what it's like to hide and be hunted. It's not so difficult for her mind to slip back to the Arena again, seeing candlelight and imagining wildfire.
But she can't escape now, wouldn't even if she could without all the eyes in the Capital following her out the door. It's time for hiding in plain sight, now. She's not so good at that yet, not like Finnick or any of the others, but she's learning.
So she greets the new victor with a lift of her chin and angles toward her through the crowd, feels the silken fabric of her own dress sweep around her ankles as she moves. It's a black dress, adorned with white and yellow lights patterned to look like city streets seen from above at night, and Finch isn't sure whether she hates it or finds it beautiful. Maybe both. Maybe she feels that way about a lot of things tonight.
She lifts a piece of the blueberry pastry from the nearest table and offers it with a nod of acknowledgment and a wry smile. Katniss gives her a flat look, which is indication enough that she gets the joke, and doesn't think it's funny. Fair enough. Finch doesn't think it's funny either.
"Should I be worried?" Katniss says.
"Perhaps," Finch says. "Should I?"
Katniss looks at her for a long time, all blunt evaluation that she doesn't bother to disguise. "The Games are over, aren't they?"
Finch forces a laugh - it sounds good, she thinks, natural. She pushes a strand of hair back out of her face, and brushes her ear once, lightly, as she lets her hand fall. A seemingly thoughtless gesture, but she sees Katniss's eyes widen in recognition and knows that the message has been received. There's someone listening.
Then Finch steps forward, heart pounding, and Katniss, understanding this game too, lets her. She tilts her head back with an inviting smile - practiced, yes, she's been practicing - and it's easier than she thought it would be to lay her palm against the pin that Katniss still wears, gold on black, easy to dart past the circle of her defenses and steal a kiss as cameras flash around them. She'll have an excuse now, a reason. But it's more than anger that drives her, more and less than her mission and the message she means to deliver, when she stretches up to brush her lips against the shell of Katniss's ear and whisper, "no."
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Foxface/Katniss
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: kiss
Word count: 900-1000
Summary: In the aftermath of the 74th Hunger Games, a message to deliver and a new victor to bring into the conspiracy
A/N: AU in which Foxface was reaped a year earlier and ended up the victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, and Katniss was unable to save Peeta. I'm using the name Foxface was given in the movie
The theme of the evening is lights, and every floor of the mansion is decked in them. Garlands of fire hang from the ceiling and line the walls, all in honor of the burning girl and her victory, throwing intricate networks of light and shadow across the floor and the dancers who whirl there. False, of course. Finch knows how much these Capital socialites admire their spectacle, as long as it's safe on the other side of a screen, but no one here likes to get too close to open flame. They fool themselves, though. They're greedy, and all of them like to image themselves braver than they are.
A hush falls over the room as the music fades, and Finch knows it's time to check her mask and step into the spotlight. She stands up straight, instantly alert as dancers fall still and turn toward the arching glass and crystal doors. And this year's Victor takes the floor, accompanied by the murmur of conversation rising around her and falling like a wave in her wake. There are delicate glass baubles woven into her hair and the shimmering fabric of her skirts, lit from within by some chemical that makes them shine like the glow of a thousand candles. The light changes her features, makes the edges blur and soften until she's less a burning brand than a banked flame. It doesn't suit her at all, but maybe that's just because Finch knows it's false.
It's not hard to spot the fakery, after seeing her on the screens with cameras trained on her abraded and soot-stained face, the blood and the grime caught beneath her broken nails. There had been nothing soft about her then. There is not, beneath the shimmering veils of illusion, anything soft about her now. She's the girl who volunteered, the girl on fire, who won by being too driven and ruthless and just too bloody-minded stubborn to let herself lay down and die. Finch is the girl who won by escaping notice until the end, and then by acting scared and small enough, waiting until the final boy from Two got close enough for her to shove nightlock-covered fingers into his mouth.
Nobody likes the poisoners, of course. It's unsporting, a coward's game for a coward's Game, and it wouldn't have even worked if he'd only been kind enough to kill quickly and from a distance. There's a lesson in that, maybe, but Finch isn't sure what it is, or whether or not she cares.
Nobody likes the poisoners. In an abstract way, she's grateful for that.
They'll like this one, though, or more precisely, they already do. She's sharp and dangerous, insistently alive, and her tragedy brought them all to theatrical, not-too-messy tears. They'll make a pretty, polished story out of her, in the interviews and after, and no one here will see what Finch does now, which is that she's driven, ghost-ridden, and she doesn't cry. None of them will see that they aren't the only ones in Panem watching.
And none of them - Finch thinks, watching from somewhere just outside her own skin - none will catch the way the heat creeps up her face when Katniss looks in her direction, or understand why her first instinct is to avert her eyes, evasive, the way her whole body remembers what it's like to hide and be hunted. It's not so difficult for her mind to slip back to the Arena again, seeing candlelight and imagining wildfire.
But she can't escape now, wouldn't even if she could without all the eyes in the Capital following her out the door. It's time for hiding in plain sight, now. She's not so good at that yet, not like Finnick or any of the others, but she's learning.
So she greets the new victor with a lift of her chin and angles toward her through the crowd, feels the silken fabric of her own dress sweep around her ankles as she moves. It's a black dress, adorned with white and yellow lights patterned to look like city streets seen from above at night, and Finch isn't sure whether she hates it or finds it beautiful. Maybe both. Maybe she feels that way about a lot of things tonight.
She lifts a piece of the blueberry pastry from the nearest table and offers it with a nod of acknowledgment and a wry smile. Katniss gives her a flat look, which is indication enough that she gets the joke, and doesn't think it's funny. Fair enough. Finch doesn't think it's funny either.
"Should I be worried?" Katniss says.
"Perhaps," Finch says. "Should I?"
Katniss looks at her for a long time, all blunt evaluation that she doesn't bother to disguise. "The Games are over, aren't they?"
Finch forces a laugh - it sounds good, she thinks, natural. She pushes a strand of hair back out of her face, and brushes her ear once, lightly, as she lets her hand fall. A seemingly thoughtless gesture, but she sees Katniss's eyes widen in recognition and knows that the message has been received. There's someone listening.
Then Finch steps forward, heart pounding, and Katniss, understanding this game too, lets her. She tilts her head back with an inviting smile - practiced, yes, she's been practicing - and it's easier than she thought it would be to lay her palm against the pin that Katniss still wears, gold on black, easy to dart past the circle of her defenses and steal a kiss as cameras flash around them. She'll have an excuse now, a reason. But it's more than anger that drives her, more and less than her mission and the message she means to deliver, when she stretches up to brush her lips against the shell of Katniss's ear and whisper, "no."