#scriibe

@scriibe​  for daphne

a familiar mess of blonde curls walked in just as he finished hanging some greenery, and harry was quick to jump off the bottom of the ladder, reaching for her arm to stop her. “hey-” he greeted, tugging her back toward him . . . and back under the arch he looked up at. “isn’t it bad luck if you don’t kiss the devishly handsome mayor under the mistletoe?” he asked, voice teasing, but there was something sincere in the way the corner of his mouth tipped up.

i think u made a wrong turn :/

“the house is awful,” he says, without looking up. it’s easy enough to think he’s talking about the state of it - the peeling wallpaper and the infested rooms - but it’s more than that. always has been. “never thought we’d be back here, did you?” 

i invented gaslight gatekeep girlboss

🖕 i’m mobile so idk how this looks on a computer but it’s the thought that counts

“did i start this? am i a god? i’ve got to contact thor.” it is mostly in jest, but really: what sort of world is he living in where he keeps running into dark haired girls wielding bows? he scratches his head. “no, if i was a god, my bones wouldn’t hurt so much.” 

the room is dimly lit, the patrons of president snow milling about in the room as if they have not a care in the world. finnick himself is dressed to the nines in a fitted tux, drinking on champagne in the corner of the room. he does not move until he sees her and then makes his way over - drink sloshing with the movement. ‘are you having the most fun ms. mason?’ he slurs, blue eyes dangerous and flashing. / @scriibe​