Yours sinfully, Quiche

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for an ASMR, 煽风点火, which has not been released in EN! 🍒

[ Released in CN: July 2026 ]

Link to audio: Here

wooh that was so hotttt, the double entendre is not lost on us. We all just heard what happened, right?

Meanwhile these lines from Gavin: "Hold me. Trust me. Love me." Pick me boy liness, arghhh so good! and might I add his love confession scenes: Beautiful. Chef's kiss. Muah! And having MC repeat it, in her hot and bothered state, arghhhh

He's being so forward now and I love it!

Side note, anyone who heard these two doing the deed would've been like:

And of course thanks to @cheri-translates for translating it and feeding us fresh content. Pls accept this meme representing my emotions

Your characters are allowed to be bad people. Your story is allowed to have no moral lesson.yyour ending is allowed to be sad. The villain can win. The good person can do something unforgivable. The lovers can destroy each other. You are allowed to write the thing that no one asked for and everything that everyone told you doesn’t work and you are allowed to not explain yourself.

One- as OP said, your characters can be bad people, they can do bad things. There doesn't have to be a reason or a moral. You can make them bad if you want to. No other reason needed.

Two- it doesn't have to be good, it just needs to be written. On my last book i literally wrote the words "dumbest version" on the top of the page because I had seen some advice to do that. It changed everything. I stopped trying to make it perfect, I just tried to make it. Period. Full stop.

reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.

reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.

It’s not necessarily choice over Gale but choice over hopelessness, choice over death, choice to find a reason to live over letting herself rot in her losses and pain.

It’s being able to actually choose him when she couldn’t before. Katniss tells us many times that the lack of agency she feels is the part of the star-crossed lovers act that hurts most, maybe most notably when she says: “I could do a lot worse than Peeta. That’s not really the point, is it though?” The point is the loss of choice about who to be with/if she wants to be with anyone, something she told us in THG is one of the only choices she ever thought she’d actually get to have in life.

So with that history, it’s not that romantic to me to just purely say Everlark was inevitable, they’re soulmates, it was always going to be them.

I think there’s something delicious and thematically rich about choosing of your own free will to have the thing you didn’t want chosen for you, and it says that without the freedom to make your own decision to love, that love can’t be truly real.

this genuinely makes me so mad. some of you really don’t deserve fanfics. at all.

comment like this, besides the ai witch hunt, is one of the reasons why fanfic writers don’t want to post their fics anymore.

we write for free. whenever we can. whenever we have time. whenever we’re not too exhausted by life and responsibilities. we write for our own enjoyment. as a hobby. not a job. we update whenever we can. whenever we want. we do not owe anybody anything.

one of my favorite fics was updated after literal 13 years. but the point is that fanfic writers do not owe you anything. whether a fic was abandoned forever or updated after a decade or two is not something you as a stranger has a say in.

stop being entitled. stop treating fanfic writer as a content farm or a machine that produces contents for your enjoyment.

some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free

“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.

I am the worst kind of selfish.

I stare down at the hospital tiles, the reflection of fluorescent lights blinking back at me like an accusation. Peeta must have finally worn himself out, because he sits on the chair next to me, head between his knees. I wonder if he feels as nauseous as I do. As guilty. He shouldn't. He's always dragged our mentor into health kicking and screaming. Haymitch knows it. Peeta's part in this will never feel like a betrayal.

Mine, on the other hand. Well, I'm supposed to know Haymitch better than anyone. Just alike, Peeta always says, shaking his head at random things either of us do or say while going about our day. I didn't like it, at first, this comparison to one of the most broken people I knew. But as time dragged on, and Haymitch's walls fell down one by one- well, though I'll never admit it out loud, I've quite come to like any resemblance to the man that kept us alive against all odds. He likes it, too, by he way he rolls his eyes at the comment, the slight tilt of his mouth, invisible to anyone else. I always know. I'm supposed to know.

Until the one time when it mattered, and I didn't.

Delly came over with the kids after school, told me he hadn't been there to collect them. I was out of my house before she even finished the sentence, my heart somewhere below my stomach. If you know anything about Haymitch, it's he cares about my children more than anything else in the world. Every sharp edge he's ever had towards the world in general, towards me or Peeta or anyone else dissolves the second he looks at them. The first time he held the girl in his arms it was like we were meeting a stranger. He grinned, truly grinned at her, and hasn't stopped doing so since.

He was suddenly gentle. Had the patience of a saint. He didn't mind staying awake to rock her to sleep for what felt like forever, changing her diapers, listening to her cry her little lungs out for hours. He covers his whole house in glitter whenever she feels like pretending she is the queen of some distant kingdom. He shoulders on bravely whenever I scold her in his presence because he knows I have to, but it doesn't stop him from looking at me like an overgrown, kicked puppy all the same.

The same went for the boy, the second he arrived. They are the only ones truly allowed to hang around his geese, which have valiantly withstood the not-so-gentle petting of little, sticky-with-sugar toddler hands far too many times. He complains about his back to his heart's content, and yet he gives them both piggy-back rides almost daily. He lets them braid his hair. They love storms, because if they pretend to be scared he plays along and hides with them under the blankets, the three of them a pile of limbs and giggles. I don't know what I would have thought, if someone had told me a few years ago that Haymitch was even capable of giggling.

Basically, he spoils them rotten. Picking them up after school, helping them with their homework and finding increasingly more ridiculous, conspicuous ways to switch Peeta's carefully chosen, healthy afternoon snacks for sweets as they play hide and seek in his garden is easily his favourite time of the day.

Which is how I knew instantly something was very, very wrong.

I found him in his kitchen, face-down on the floor, and the world stopped. The room tilted, pulling me downwards, and still it took everything in me to lean down and press two trembling fingers to his neck, the way I'd seen my mother do countless times. An eternity passed before I felt the weak, steady rhythm, and I only realised how long I'd been holding my breath by the dizzying clarity of my head once my lungs filled with air again. Then I spotted the blood trailing from his mouth, and any relief I might have felt turned into ice-cold panic.

I must have reached the phone somehow, but in my desperation I didn't call our district's emergency line, or even my mother's. Luckily, Effie has always been quick to make sense of my hiccups. Next thing I knew, we were in a hovercraft to district Four. Either Delly or Greasy Sae must have offered to stay with the kids, and someone must have warned Peeta, because he was airborne with us, holding my hand until both our knuckles were white.

I'm told we yelled ourselves hoarse, and it must be true, because my mother eventually replaced some other faceless doctor and my throat hurts when I swallow. I vaguely remember someone commenting that Haymitch was lucky, and any brainpower I had left for confusion at the statement losing its hold as Peeta's fist collided against the offender's nose. He holds ice against one of his hands, now. We've been confined to an isolated waiting room, quiet, subdued, unstable, deranged little victors, caged while somewhere in this hospital our mentor fights for his life.

I hope he’s fighting, and I hate myself for it.

"My colleague meant what he said. Haymitch could be very lucky to be here today" my mother had said slowly, sighing deeply. "We have a liver available for him, if he should want it".

She went over the options in detail, careful not to meet my eye too much. They could patch him up, let him go back home and to his grandchildren. Quick, less messy, less risk of complications. And a ticking time bomb for another fright, one he might not manage to survive.

Or they could do the transplant now, and give him years of health and life.

I tried not to focus on the way my heart skipped a beat, on the overwhelming hope that last option carried.

I begged my mother to wait until he was awake to decide for himself, but she was adamant. Apparently, once extracted, organs can't remain functioning for long. If the procedure didn't happen they would go on to find someone else who needed the transplant as badly as Haymitch did. If it had been anyone else, they might have tried to sell us the intervention, its benefits. But my mother's hesitant look as she finally locked eyes with me said everything she couldn't speak out loud. It said hasn't he been through enough? It said he wants to go, you know he does, Lenore Dove is waiting for him in the Meadow, he's been itching closer and closer to her for decades, are you sure you want to stop him? Keep him from his Ma and Sid? From finding Maysilee and Louella in the Sweet Old Thereafter? From seeing your father?

From the way Peeta squeezed my hand, he understood, too.

We'd brought up the idea of a transplant to Haymitch, before. "I'll think about it, sweetheart." "Maybe, someday." Never a straight answer with him. I don’t know if he was scared, or if he truly didn’t want it. I’m supposed to know. I always know.

My mother's eyes blinked one too many times, only glassy for a moment. "You know him better than anyone, Katniss. What would he want?"

I don't know.

Is it enough for him to stay? This life the three of us have built in Twelve? The New Hob and its music? Effie's surprise visits, more frequent by the day, and the way they both keep pretending to annoy each other? His geese trailing after him, begging for pets? Annie's kid calling to tell him about his new crush, asking his advice? Peeta losing and losing again at chess while they pretend it’s not just an excuse for them to gossip about everyone and their mother? Him reading one of those poetry books he likes so much aloud to me by the chimney, his voice unusually gentle? The children running to surprise him by singing at his window in the mornings, so he can pretend to be flattered and make funny faces at them from the other side?

The children.

Just the thought of telling them, one day soon, that their Papaw is gone was enough for the tears to start flowing.

Were they enough, for him to stay? They certainly were enough for him to throw all his bottles away, he did so the first time he felt her kicking his hand through my belly. But staying, for good?

I didn't want to choose this for him. I wanted Effie, her flight delayed from the Capitol, to somehow land here faster and tell me what to do. I wanted Peeta to say he'd been messing with us all along, he actually knew Haymitch better than me, and to take this burning choice from my hands. I wanted to recall some fake memory in which my father somehow spoke of his long-lost best friend, told me the answer. I wanted Haymitch to wake up and make things easier for me, just this once.

And then I was terrified of what he would choose if he could speak, and I still didn't know what he would say, but I knew my answer.

I am a scared little girl once again, waking Finnick up so we can suffer in silence together. Dragging the people I love from their peace, so the silence doesn’t swallow me whole.

I am the worst kind of selfish.

The hands of the clock in the wall have spinned a lot since then, I think. No updates. Someone must have warned them, maybe my mother, because at some point Annie kneels in front of Peeta, whispering reassurances, holding the ice to his hand, and Johanna sits by my side, her voice not biting for once. I wish it was. Her being sorry enough for me that she measures her words is a new kind of scary.

Effie got here, too, at some point. I don't look at her. I don't want to know how badly I messed this up.

What if he doesn't walk out of that room? What if something goes wrong? What if my selfishness kills him? What if it doesn't, and he hates me forever? Not Peeta and the kids, he never could. But he could hate me forever. I'm supposed to know him. Just alike. I'm supposed to know. I try to tell myself I could handle it, if he never spoke to me again, and I taste bile.

There are sudden, urgent voices around me, and one of them is Peeta's, so I force myself to look up. My mother is in the doorway. I can’t make out her words over the buzzing in my ears. It takes me a moment to focus on Peeta’s face because it’s blurry. I think I’m crying again. He is, too.

But there is a grin on his face when he looks at me, and the world feels whole again.

He wants to go see him right away, they all do, so I scurry away and lock myself in a bathroom. No, it’s a broom closet. Hiding from the world is what I do best. Coward.

He’ll hate me for this. He will. Those Seam eyes will look at me and see only Snow, forcing him to live, dragging him in his misery. The worst kind of selfish.

Come on, sweetheart. His voice is as part of me now as my own. No more running. You can do this. Get up. Will he still help me, even now that he will never speak to me again? Will I hear him all the same, the way I heard him on the Arenas, even when he wasn’t there? Up, now. Come on, sweetheart. You can do this. I am out of the broom closet, pacing the halls aimlessly. No, not aimlessly. Johanna leans in the doorway of his room, and if I didn’t know her better I’d think she was smiling. Maybe she is. He doesn’t have reasons to hate her.

He looks tired, one of his hands on both of Peeta’s, who sits on his bed. Annie, sitting in the only chair in the room, listens attentively to my mother as she recounts the operation to Effie. Or explains follow-up treatments. Or says anything, as far as I know. I really can’t hear anything, can’t focus on anything other than Haymitch’s pale face, his chest rising and falling. He’s here. Still here. Oh, Haymitch, I’m so sorry.

His brow furrows, and it looks like he wants to ask something, but then his eyes lock on mine, and something flashes behind them. Is it anger? Disappointment? Betrayal? I can’t read him over my own heartbeat, over the blood pooling in my ears. I can’t seem to look away, either, even as everything goes blurry again.

He must say something, because they are all walking out now. Johanna punches my shoulder. Annie gives me a quick hug. Effie plants a kiss on my cheek. My mother shoots a look at me as she passes by, but I can’t even turn my eyes to decipher it. I can’t look away from Haymitch.

Peeta remains, as tied to this room as I am. Does he know how twisted it is, what I just did? Did he love me too much to stop me, no matter how despicable my choice was? Does he realise it now, how cruel I can be?

I hear something, a voice. Raspy and familiar. Like home. I make out a hand reaching for me, and Haymitch is calling me his sweetheart, and the next thing I know, I’m a wreck of sobs on his shoulder. I can hear Peeta’s soft weeping now, the machine’s rhythmic beeping that tells me Haymitch’s heart is still working, my mentor’s voice in my ear. His other hand, the one that isn’t trapped in Peeta’s vice-like grip, caresses my hair, and I melt in his arms, all the fight and the fear pouring out of me at once. I’m sorry, Haymitch, I’m so sorry.

“What the hell would you have to be sorry for?” He says, and he sounds bewildered, and I guess I must have been speaking out loud, and the confusion in his voice is finally enough for me to pull away from him, to wipe my tears, to search his face for the anger I know must be there. Should be there. Isn’t there. Doesn’t he know?

“It was me,” I say in between hiccups, trying to make him understand. I might not be brave enough to tell him, ever, if I don’t do it now. “My mother gave me the choice. Told us about the liver. It was me,” he keeps frowning, and I guess he must have lost too much blood, or maybe the painkillers still have him woozy, because he doesn’t seem to get it yet, so I press on, my voice rising in my frenzy to make him see. “I kept you here. I kept you from them.”

He blinks a few times. “Kept me from whom, exactly?”

“Your FAMILY” am I yelling, now? Why doesn’t he just get it? “I KEPT YOU FROM THEM. I KEPT YOU HERE. IT WAS ME IT WAS ME IT WAS-”

“ENOUGH” he’s never had a problem raising his voice to me before, so it shouldn’t surprise me that his latest dance with death isn’t enough to stop him now, either. But something is still wrong. The way he is looking at me. He doesn’t seem angry at all.

Exasperated, yes. This is the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m being purposefully thick. And when he is concerned. And when he wants to say that he loves me, and I want to say it too, and we don’t, because we never need to. We always know.

He doesn’t hate me. Why doesn’t he hate me?

I glance at Peeta for answers, and he seems to understand something I don’t, because he looks at me with something like pity, and it looks like he wants to reach for me, but he would have to let go of Haymitch to do that, and I don’t think he can. I don’t think either of us can.

“Listen to me, Katniss. Now” his mentor voice, the one he knows can make me tune in when I don’t want to. I glare at him. Why am I mad? Why isn’t he?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he must read my confusion because he forces himself to continue, “I’m sorry that you found me like that. I’m sorry for scaring you. For scaring you both” he says, and he finds Peeta’s eyes for a second before looking back at me. “But more than anything- more than anything, I’m sorry that you didn’t know. That I didn’t tell you.” His eyes keep scanning mine, searching for that unspoken understanding we both usually have, but I’m tired and empty and disoriented, so it looks like we will need words, just this once. He sighs.

“I want to see my family. Of course I do. I want to see Sid and your Pa. I want to see my girl, for real. But I- I don’t want to run to them, not yet.” And I can read his eyes just now, just one second before he says it, and I’m almost blind with relief. “My family is here, too.” His hand finds mine, squeezes Peeta’s. “I’d rather stay with them, for as long as I can. With you. I- I want to stay. I’ve wanted to stay for a long time, now. I’m sorry you didn’t know that.” His voice is breaking, and there are tears rolling down his cheeks, and then the three of us are hugging too hard, too tight, but I’m glad for it, for them holding me down, because I feel like I could just float away from them now, if they let go. I’m lighter than air.

We must stay like that forever, because when a nurse shows up with a jug of water and some pills and we have to disentangle ourselves from each other I’m cramped all over. Haymitch makes a face at the taste, and Peeta calls him a whiner, and Haymitch juggles his legs as he threatens to push him off the bed, and I threaten to push him off, too, and then the nurse threatens the three of us with the worst hospital food he can find if Haymitch’s stitches burst open during his shift. We settle, properly scolded. I pull the chair closer to the bed, prop my feet up. Peeta tries to lay down next to Haymitch, and then the bed creaks a little too loud for our taste because the nurse hasn’t gone far, so he gets up with an exaggerated groan and goes in the hunt for another chair.

Haymitch tells me that I look awful. I tell him he looks like a wet rat. He can’t seem to keep that affectionate smile off his face, but I don’t call him out on it, because I don’t think I’m doing much better. He asks to speak with the kids, but they must be asleep at this hour, so I promise to find him a phone first thing in the morning.

Annie and Johanna make an appearance to say goodbye, promising to be back the next day with clean clothes and board games. Johanna calls me brainless, and I grin up at her. I don’t know how she does it, but at some point someone rolls in a stretcher for Effie, and after a brief pretence in which she offers it to us and we are quick to refuse she lies down, dead to the world in minutes. There are bags under her eyes I don’t notice until she’s asleep- her Effieness, as always, too cheery to let exhaustion show. My mother shows up with blankets for us all, and, when Haymitch thanks her, hesitates only for a moment before giving him a hug. He looks as surprised as I am, but returns it quickly. For just a second, her shape shifts, shrinks, her blonde hair in a braid instead of a bun, and I could swear it’s Prim holding him. Then my mother steps back, clears her throat, wishes us a good night. I do catch her eyes now, just before she leaves, and she looks happy, proud. I busy myself with throwing one of the blankets over Effie until I can swallow the knot in my throat.

So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”

Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.

The minute I saw Whitney I said to myself that it was deeply cynical of them to cast her like that and honestly against their own logic for some of the other choices they've made? (People keep defending Lou Lou and Louella casting because they have to "look like Jennifer" when everyone thought they were black before that? You're telling me Vaughan Reilly or even Honor Gillies is Whitney Peak's mom? And listen I don't think those women were supposed to be whitewashed like that either but if it's what we did before that we are soooooooooo bound to when Louella and Katniss have no actual relation!)

The movies have been HORRIBLE about how they've deployed race especially when it comes to Katniss, Haymitch, and Gale and they are continuing it this time, but I think they knew that interpreting Lenore Dove this way would cause conflict that wasn't so directed at them, but would instead be directed at other audience members (and probably Whitney herself based on how other key diverse franchise castings in like SW etc have gone) because of the atrocious way contemporary fans behave where harassment is a normal activity.