#but then they started trying to convince me this grown woman was twelve again by putting her in pigtails and having her put on a whiny

[francisforever2014]

i have a really specific unfounded hatred for florence pugh all bc one time years ago i saw a clip of her in little women and the way that that 25 year old woman pretended to be a TWELVE YEAR OLD made me so mad that i saw red and still see red every time i see her face

[theforesteldritch]

my ramblings on transness, intersex-ness, childhood and growing up

i'm four. somewhere around there. i tell my mom i hate my name. i want to change it to robin, i say. she tells me i can when i'm an adult. i tell her i want my name to be robin now, today. not later. i don't get to change my name. eventually i forget wanting to be robin, or drop it, or stop talking about it. either way, i don't ever get to be robin.

i'm five. i feel wrong. i feel out of place in my own skin, i think. i feel like a poor shadow of a girl. i decide i want to be a princess when i'm older. in my mind, to be a princess, i need to wear a dress every day, even when it snows and i have to stuff the skirt into my snowpants to play outside. princesses must feel like real girls. if i was a princess, i would stop feeling like a snake writhing around in my own skin, desperate to shed. i tell myself that. at recess, we play some running game. i don't remember which one. boys vs girls. i don't want to play anymore.

i'm six or seven. i still feel wrong. i've stopped trying to be a princess. i'm off in my own world a lot of the time. i use the classroom scissors to cut tiny holes in the sleeves of my long sleeve shirts or to clip off a tiny chunk of my hair. during carpet time, i try to touch the hair of the people in front of me without them noticing. my best friend tells me she's a tomboy. i say i want to be one too. she tells me im too girly.

i'm nine. i've sworn off dresses. i reject pink clothes and sequins. i'm wearing a hat that covers my hair and the school custodian calls me young man in the hallway. i don't know why i like that so much. i try to fit in with the boys. i play grounders with them every day after school. i don't know why, but they don't like me. they make fun of me. i still play grounders with them every day.

i'm twelve. the girls around me have started growing breasts and getting their periods. they start getting acne and thicker hair on their legs that they shave off. none of these things are happening to me. i ask my mom for a bra. i don't want to be the odd one out. i feel a mix of relief and shame when i get one. now, i can pretend i'm like them. now, i can try to hide the growing feeling gnawing inside me that something's wrong, that i'm a freak.

i'm thirteen. i still haven't gotten a period. my mom is convinced it'll come any day now. she got hers at eleven, i must be a late bloomer. she makes me bring pads to summer camp. they lie unused in my bags. she does this next year, too, and the next. i try to feel normal. i sneak and use my mom's razor to shave the baby hairs on my legs that still haven't darkened and grown thicker like anyone else. i want to feel normal.

i'm fourteen. the girls in the locker room stare at me with funny expressions on their faces when i say i haven't gotten a period after they badger that information out of me. i ask my parents for deodorant, like the other kids. they tell me no, i don't smell enough to need it. i steal my dad's old spice amber deodorant. it smells like how i want to be seen, i think. i read magnus chase. i see myself in alex, how his gender shifts and changes. for the first time, i have a word, maybe, to describe myself. i'm like her, i think. i'm genderfluid, maybe, like alex fierro. i test the waters and come out to some friends as genderfluid, and then a boy. but i find myself still feeling the same itch under my skin. i'm not just a man, or just a woman, maybe i'm both. i go back in the closet.

i'm fifteen. my doctor is starting to get concerned that i haven't gotten a period yet. he orders blood tests. they think the results are a mistake when they see the testosterone levels. i don't have the symptoms that should come with those levels. i should be going through a male puberty with those levels of t, but i'm not. they do them again. it comes back the same. i'm diagnosed with complete androgen insensitivity syndrome. i feel alone, and like a freak. my doctors want me to get a gonadectomy. i push away how i feel like a snake ready to shed my own skin for a moment. i can't search myself for my gender when i'm trying, i'm trying so hard to get through this. knowing that going on testosterone hrt wouldn't work on me, it would break me right now to admit to myself the truth i already know.

i'm sixteen. i'm sexually assaulted by my doctor while under anesthesia for a biopsy of my gonads. without any hint of remorse or even knowledge of what she did to me she tells my mom that my vagina is still very short, but not as short as she thought on an earlier examination. i will continue to see this doctor. i push her assault down. i push this down. i feel like a freak. i feel so alone. god, i feel alone.

i'm seventeen, i'm eighteen. i know now why i feel like a snake trying to shed a skin. i'm not just a woman, i'm not just a man. i'm both and something in between. but i'm too male to be a girl and too female to be a man. i'm not allowed to be either. i cry sometimes. over how unfair this feels. over how i'll never look in the mirror and see myself staring back. i don't know how i'll get through this. i have to get through this. i have to live for the kid who wanted to change his name to robin. the need to live for her weighs me down like atlas holding up the sky. i know that one day, my grip will slip and the sky will fall. but i'm trying desperately to make that day not today.

[anyoneseenadam]

Healing

pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: TW - sexual assault, rape, objectification and implications of abuse, smut, consensual sex, azriel is a sweetie and rhys is a good bestie

a/n: first of all PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!! i’m really proud of this fic but I don’t want to trigger or upset anyone, that being said it isn’t too graphic but still. Anyway I hope u enjoy, this took me three days lmao <333

based on: this and this

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You had your first less than savoury encounter with men when you had barely turned nine. Your body still hadn’t finished forming, but you were growing, and your body was gaining some semblance of shape as you did. It wasn’t much – just a whistle from across the street – but for a second your heart seized up with fear, and in the next you almost felt giddy. A man thought you were beautiful.

You felt like a princess that day – felt the way you had when the boy from your class had kissed your cheek, still too young to process the intentions behind that single whistle. But you didn’t care – someone wanted you.

When you got your first period at twelve – even more changed. Your body felt new, and you didn’t feel comfortable in the changes. Your old clothes didn’t fit and now your mother forced you into tighter corsets for those long, long dinners you had to attend. Your parents were respected Fae in the Hewn City – nobles who liked to drink and smoke and throw extravagant balls. And with your new body you could no longer simply hide in the corner or climb through secret passages with your friends – muddying your dresses.

Now you had to smile when men hugged you slightly too long, laugh when they commented on how much you had grown up, sit pretty and pristine with an old mans hand loitering to close to your rear for hours as you watched your parents drink away their troubles.

By the time you were fifteen you were used to the constant attention, your beauty not uncommon where you lived but still doted on often. Unaware of their desire for your youth, your naivety. The women never offering a helping hand but instead glaring down high skewed noses as their husbands slurred into your ears – still in shock that a pretty, young thing like you was all alone at this party.

When you were sixteen you decided to change that – kissing an alright looking boy at a party and telling him exactly what he wanted to hear so he would kiss you back. He stayed when you didn’t protest as he pulled you to the bathroom and pushed you to your knees. And for this small request, the greasy hands on your body at balls and dinners or any other social gathering halved – now only the truly self-righteous felt they could touch you still.

The only problem was you truly did love the boy you had chosen. He had faults yes, but he was kind – he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. But he also spoke over you, forced you into silence and took what he wanted. And he always wanted the same thing.

If anything it was his father’s fault. The military commander never leaving room for debate when he argues with his wife – and sons only become what they see in their fathers.

Your father had left with a younger woman a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and you hadn’t seen him since – only heard stories of him galivanting around the autumn court from your classmates. You could see the distaste your mum held you in as she realised she would have to stick around to look after you, not yet old enough to be married. Then Amarantha had taken hold of the country and that possibility had been thrown out the window anyway.

Weirdly enough not that much changed in your life when she took power, the only major difference was that now you had to block out screams before going to sleep and even they had become like white noise. You still drank with your friends on Friday nights, went out with your boyfriend on Saturdays and slept the pain away on Sundays. Your weekdays consisted of school, dinners, balls and whatever more your mother could throw together to appease the high queen.

That and the high lord of the night court had started making appearances at the events your mother threw. He was a cruel man standing so proudly at the queen’s side – but you saw something flickering in his eyes whenever people spoke, complimenting his power and rule. You saw what you felt as you laughed at compliments and lingering touches – you saw pain, but more importantly you saw anger. And right now you could use anger.

During one ball you watched him leave, taking an odd route – not the one that would help him escape the loud music but instead a long winding corridor leading to a series of smaller rooms. Without thought you peeled away from your company, muttering excuses and went after him – grabbing a bottle of wine as you did.

You found him reclining in an empty room and knocked on the door gently. He cracked open an eye – slow like a cat – and beckoned you in. You moved to perch next to him, leaning back with a straight back and letting your head loll slightly as you took a swig of the dark red wine, before passing him the bottle.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” you smiled, eyes focused on his sharp jaw as he held the bottle to his mouth with a laugh.

“One way of putting it,” he smiled. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes as you took in his beauty, his looks plus mannerisms all made him seem like a wild cat - a panther trapped underground.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, and you raised a hand to trace that sharp jaw. But instead of devouring you as any lesser man would’ve, he brushed your hand away and held it tightly in his larger one. “That’s not gonna happen, you’re what sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen,” you said, cheekily. He laughed but shook his head, squeezing your hand before releasing it.

“You’re still a child,” he said matter-of-factly, and you scoffed, stealing your wine back to drink again.

“Yeah well that’s usually a selling point,” your voice was sad, but you didn’t dare let your eyes stray from his – refusing to show fear, “And you’re so nice to me, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He laughed as you pouted, “You practice this in the mirror or something?”

“Usually works in three seconds,” you confess, and he whistles under his breath, “Men are rather easy to manipulate when they’ve been trying to get into your skirts since your first bleed.”

“And you wonder why I’m not about to take advantage of you,” he laughed, and you smiled – a real smile, or real enough. “Plus I don’t think your little boyfriend would be pleased.”

“Eh, he’s never pleased - I don’t think this could make him worse.” Rhysand took the wine back and frowned.

“Does he hurt you?” his voice was sincere but the laugh you let out was not.

“Don’t all men,” he swore, and you laughed again, “Yet you foil my plan to make you fall in love with me and whisk me away to the moon.”

He laughed, but his eyes darkened with deep sadness you were sure you would never understand, “I think we both no that even I could not do that, but I might be able to crush your fly.”

“Little boyfriend? Fly? You really don’t like him do you?” you laughed, head lighter already.

“I don’t like any man who thinks they can hurt women,” he said, frowning when he realised through your passing back and forth there was no wine left.

“Shit that took us like five minutes,” you complained, and he laughed, waving his hand lightly as several more bottles appeared before you – you grinned as you grabbed another.

“So any friends with weaker moral backbones that I could marry?” you asked with a laugh, and he smiled at you.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he leaned back again. You smiled – finally happy that one night might pass in the company of a decent man.

Soon, you’d find it would be more than one night, a close friendship quickly blossoming between you and the high lord. All your friends were convinced you were sleeping together but true to his word he didn’t touch you, and by the time you surpassed the age of eighteen you didn’t want him to. But that didn’t stop other men.

After a particularly bad argument with your boyfriend that had left you with a handprint on your left cheek you had broken up with him – sending away his apologies and flowers, smart enough to see he didn’t hold the mental capacity to change.

Plus you were beautiful and young, you could certainly do better. And you soon did – rich men who liked to buy you jewellery, and fine clothes, men who enjoyed literature and art and spending time with you.

And at the start of each relationship, for a few blissful seconds you would believe in their pure intentions. But then a hand would drift from your lower back to your ass, or the gentle kiss that followed a necklace would shift from your mouth to your breasts. Not one of them wanted to wait until you were comfortable, so you made yourself comfortable.

You pictured pretty, strong men were holding you down and making you feel something, slipping your own hand between your legs and they penetrated you to try and replicate what you were sure a lover’s touch must feel like. And as always – after the first time- they stopped asking for permission, you were their toy, so you no longer had choice over that part of yourself.

But through nice guys and bad boys, for fifty years you had Rhysand who was a friend – who treated you with respect and finally let you talk, let you breathe.

In the end he was the one who found you, in the backroom of a party – drunk and undressed. You were weeping, curled in a ball with your attackers’ seed dripping out of you, bruises decorating your bare skin. When he turned you over with his comforting hands he found your nose dripping red and the vibrant lipstick you wore smudged.

He helped you sit up and redress, took you home and stood outside the bathroom while you scrubbed yourself clean in scalding water – still unsteady on your feet. You changed into a nightgown silently and neither of you said a word when you crawled into bed next to each other, crying in your best friends’ arms as he tried to console you.

When you woke up, he was gone with just a scribbled message about Amarantha and the name of a healer he trusted. But you just placed it back down, turning onto your back and staring at the ceiling as hot tears ran into your hairline.

You barely ate anything for the days following your assault – fighting with your mother more when you rarely saw her and subsequently breaking it off with your current boyfriend. You had thrown his hands off you when he tried to touch you and the screaming match that followed ended your relationship.

Your bond with Rhysand grew only closer however as you spent nights drinking in candlelight, talking about anything and everything until you were sure he knew every inch of your soul and you his.

“You know what I’m going to do as soon as she’s gone,” you whispered one night as you stared at the twinkling lights you had hung on your bedroom roof to imitate stars.

“What?” Rhys had asked, never letting his eyes leave the ‘stars’ which he had laughed at and then proceeded to rearrange to make them more accurate. To which you threw a pillow at his head.

“Find a hill, or a pier, or a large pit or anything and scream into it until my throat bleeds.” You said and he laughed, the bed beneath you rumbling.

“Consider me on board.” He joked as you sat up to perch at your vanity – smudging the sharp eyeliner you wore with a small brush and applying some red lipstick.

“Wanna go out?” you asked him, and he sat up to with a small, sad smile.

“Can’t.” you understood his implication and frowned.

“I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gutted me yet,” you tried to lighten the mood, but his face darkened slightly when he joked back.

“Oh she wants to, I’m telling her any information you give me about citizens, so she doesn’t.” He said, ruffling your hair as he stood to leave.

“That’s fair, I’ll keep an ear out,” you smiled, squeezing his hand gently before he left.

Things changed when Feyre Archeron appeared, you saw the way your friend watched her and realised you might be competing for his attention soon, but you were happy for him. Until he brought her to that first party – drugged and barely dressed. You felt the bile rise in your throat as you pushed down memories of yourself in such a similar position, and while you knew he would never hurt her – he was still a man. And you were foolish to believe for all those years that he was a man who would realise this was wrong.

Making polite excuses you left the party, picking up the tails of your dress as you all but raced home – ditching the dress and closing the blinds tightly as you made yourself food in your underwear. The sick feeling in your throat spreading through your chest and stomach as you ate, abandoning your meal halfway for a book and large sweater. And when he knocked on your door that night, desperate to tell you all about her – all about the human girl who he was sure could be his mate, you pretended to be asleep.

You barely spoke to him the whole time she was there, unable to look him in the eyes when she was so clearly out of it – and the feeling only grew when the next morning she would have all eyes on her. You understood that feeling. You instead spent parties flirting with Tarquin, the young high lord who was only a few years your senior or warding off marriage invitations with laughs and carefully placed words.

Rhys would sometimes catch your eyes – furrowing his eyebrows at you when you avoided his gaze, the sick feeling never really leaving. But it wasn’t until you watched Tamlin slay Amarantha with a smile that he tried to speak to you again. Feyre was Fae and leaving with her betrothed and Rhysand had just confirmed they were mates – and never had he needed his best friend quiet like he did now.

You were sitting when he found you, head in your palms and blood dusting the skirts of your dress. You had been sitting near Amarantha when it happened. You looked up when he neared, smiling sadly as he sat next to you.

“Want to go home?” he asked you quietly and you scoffed, standing, and moving to leave quickly. He followed after you, grabbing your arm as you wrenched it out of his grip with more ferocity than he had ever seen from you.  

“Don’t touch me,” he held his hands up, backing away to give you space as you got your breathing under control.

“What did I do?” he asked – smart enough to not presume anything.

“How could you think it was okay, after what happened?” your voice was quiet again, and so sad.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he implored, stepping slightly closer again. You raised your eyes to meet his and he understood, the darkness you carried in your eyes shining through – the memories that resurfaced in those dark moments. “I’m sorry, let me explain please.”

You let him hold your arm softly as he winnowed the two of you to your house where you sat down heavy and tired.

“I did it because she needed out of that cell, but I saw what they did to you and you’re a fae woman, she’s… she was human. So it meant that no one else would touch her.” He tried to explain, “And she wouldn’t want to remember.”

“That’s a horrible thing to do Rhys.” You stated and he hung his head low, “How in anyway was that helping her, to get her out you could’ve snuck her here or just take her to a ball and let her dress normally.”

“I’m sorry, I just knew this would’ve been the safest option,” he grabbed your hand again and squeezed it like he did all those years ago, “It’s over, we can go home.”

“I am home,” you laughed bitterly, gesturing to your house.

“No, you’re coming out of this city – we’re putting it behind us.” He stood and held out a hand.

“I know you’re trying to be dramatic and all, but I have to pack – and think.” You said and he laughed.

“Take your time,” he said, sitting back to wait for you, “And I know it might take you a while to forgive me, but I’ll wait.”

You had left soon after, as he revealed his city to you. Winnowing to a house where two beautiful women stood at the door, strong winged men appearing next to them almost instantly – all sharing the same tear-eyed look. Well, all asides from a short, dark-haired woman who simply smiled.

The men you presumed were Azriel and Cassian barrelled towards Rhysand, attacking him in the most violent hug you had ever witnessed. Mor followed soon after and Amren simply offered him a curt nod, to which he bowed slightly with a cheeky smile.

Cassian turned to look at you and everyone followed suit, you straightened up – not wanting to cower under their gazes.

“And this, this is (y/n).” Rhysand said, placing a hand on your elbow, “She’s the only reason I survived under the mountain.”

You smiled at him, annoyed still – but you still held so much love for him in your heart. You looked away when Cassian approached and wrapped you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

When he released you he looked you dead in the eye, “I am forever in your service.”

“Cassian let go of the poor girl,” Mor exclaimed behind him, and you giggled, looking to Rhys for support.

“Forgot to tell you he’s a hugger,” he shrugged, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh did you!”  you laughed.

“Gotta get used to it, you’re part of the team now,” Cassian slung an arm around your shoulder as he guided you inside, “which means lots of hugs and long talks about emotions.”

“Don’t steal my best friend Cassian,” Rhys jabbed at his brother as you all moved to sit inside around a long table.

“He already had I’m afraid, can’t reverse love like ours,” you joined in, patting Cassian’s hand as he punched the air in victory, Rhysand feigning pain as he dramatically collapsed into his chair – a hand over his heart.

When you were finally seated you caught Azriel’s gaze, his eyes locked on you – having watched you interact with his family for less than five minutes and already completely enamoured. You smiled softly when you caught his gaze and he grinned at you, no words passing.

Later that evening – after too many drinks, you found yourself alone on a balcony you found, drinking in the fresh air greedily after all those years underground. You didn’t realise he was there until he was next to you – silent on his feet, his shadows a cool chill passing over your shoulders.

You tilted your head to look at him, in awe of his beauty. Not even Rhysand had awed you as much as this man was, his beauty unparalleled by anyone you had met before. He turned his gaze down to you as well, fighting the urge to reach out and touch you as he watched you move with such elegant curiosity.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced,” you smiled, lifting your hand delicately, “I’m (y/n).”

He met your hand halfway, lifting it to his mouth with perfectly poised and trained grace. “Azriel,” his voice was deep, gruff – and sent chills through you quickly. But when he moved your hand from his mouth you held on, the sparks flowing through you telling you all you needed to know. He similarly made no move to let go.

“Are we? I don’t really know how any of this works,” you laughed nervously but he smiled so warmly and tugged you slightly closer to him with the hand you were still clutching.

“You’re my mate princess,” he said, voice rough from disuse. You smiled widely, eyes forming tears as your gaze never strayed from him – finally getting one person who would truly love you, not your body – but you. He tugged your hand gently and you followed him inside, smiling and love drunk.

“We should probably go to the house of wind,” his voice was quiet as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“Me and Cassian have to share a room here, the bed are singles.” You smiled and laughed – irrevocably happy.

“Yeah maybe not,” you said, and he held your hand softly as he walked you to the front door, passed his past out friends, Rhys cracking an eye open when you walked past him, and you turned when he tugged your skirt gently.

You okay? He asked in your mind, and you smiled at him.

I’m perfect, why? You replied as he closed his eyes again, clearly too tired to hold them open - Azriel moving to retrieve your coats.

Just don’t feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for, Azriel is understanding he won’t get angry. A sort of cold feeling settled on your shoulders when you realised why Azriel wanted that extra privacy.

Shit forgot I had to do that you joked but Rhysand felt the stress growing, however before he could reply Azriel was by your side again and you were waving him goodbye, your smile tight lipped.

Honestly, you trusted Rhysand when he said that Azriel would understand – but so far you had yet to meet a man who truly respected the boundaries you set, a man who would truly wait. Azriel met your eyes in silent questions before scooping you into his arms, flying high above the house as you squealed in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, and shutting your eyes tightly as you soared above the vibrant city.

He felt you tense as you neared the house, swooping lower in order to land on the large balcony attached to his room. He placed you on shaky legs gently and looked down to smile at you again – heart so full of love and peace.

Not only was his brother returned to him in one piece, but along beside him came you. His mate. His mate.

You caught his gaze and gave him a tight-lipped smile, terrified for history to repeat itself. You wanted to talk to him and know him – you didn’t want him to learn to love your body instead of you. And you were truly afraid to be touched again, you hadn’t been with a man since you were raped – fear stopping you before they could get close and walls slamming up if they tried.

“Are you okay?” Azriel’s voice was dripping with concern – genuine concern, and the way he said it made tears well up in your eyes. His own instantly widened as he sensed the sadness and fear rolling of you in waves, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you sobbed into his chest. “Oh sweetheart we don’t have to do anything, c’mon lets go sit down.”

He guided you through the glass doors and sat you down gently on the bed, holding you gently and coaxing you through your breakdown. Once your breathing had calmed slightly and you had pulled out of his embrace, wiping your tears harshly with the butt of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered quietly, terrified to anger your mate when you’ve only just found him.

“It’s okay darling, what’s wrong – did I do something? You’re not terrified of heights are you?” he asked, and you laughed softly, a smile growing on his face as his worries eased slightly.

“No, that was fun,” he grabbed your hand in his scarred ones and you gripped it tightly.

“Then what was it?” you looked into those beautiful, worried eyes and let out an exhale – bottom lip quivering.

“I just don’t think I can – I can’t do that tonight.” You whispered the words lowly, afraid of his reaction as you clung like a child to his hand.

“Hey, that’s okay – we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he smiled, worries easing. You still wanted to be with him, just not in that way yet – and he could wait. He would wait a million years if you asked.

“Even if I’m not ready for a while?” You asked, and he held your face in his hands gently – looking into your tear-filled, defeated eyes.

“I would wait forever and then some – I have already waited so long to meet you, I’m sure I can last longer, especially if you’re next to me.” Your smile was so sad when you met his eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” Azriel just pulled you closer to him with a cheeky grin.

“And were any of them your mate?”

“No,” you smiled at him again and he thought his heart was going to combust.

“Well then, I love to prove people wrong.” You buried your head into his chest as his arms came around you once more, “Would you like to sleep here, or would you like your own room?”

“Here is fine, I like the way you make me feel,” you said quietly, tugging on the bond experimentally. Azriel just smiled and tugged back.

“That works for me, I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He moved to stand but you stopped him – tugging on the dress shirt he wore.

“I want this,” you grinned cheekily up at him, and he laughed, but undid the buttons and pulled it off anyway – turning around to let you change in peace. When he turned back around you were looking up at him with wide eyes – looking impossibly cute in his shirt.

“It has holes in the back,” you complained, and he laughed, sitting down to tug off his trousers before sliding under the covers as you scrambled to lay in his arms.

“Well I do have wings,” he cemented his point by letting one drape over your shoulders as you sighed in content.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” you deadpanned quietly, burrowed deep under his arms and the covers. His chest rumbled with the silent laugh as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

The next morning he awoke to you laying on his chest, tracing the scars on the backs of his hands with a delicately pointed finger. He stared in wonder, and you must have felt his gaze because you turned your head to meet his eyes, face still puffy from sleep. As you whispered to him that morning, your chin resting on his chest as you gazed up at him until he rose to get your morning drinks. Barely daring to leave for more than a few seconds. And when he returned he was so glad he did – welcoming the sight of you curled up under his sheets with a shy smile and tired eyes.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked as you sipped your drink slowly, Azriel’s’ arm tight and secure around your waist.

“Nope,” he said, delighted at the prospect, “I just want to be with you and my family.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

True to his word, for the next few weeks that past, you and Azriel didn’t progress past slow, occasional kisses and lingering touches. But before either of those he was always searching your eyes – asking permission. And you truly fell in love with him during those weeks.

He was caring and consistent – never promising anything he couldn’t bring. And he cared for you, he cared for you past your body and looks. He wanted to be with you for an eternity.

One night, while you lay together, speaking lowly and listening to the rain fall outside your room – a glass door cracked open, you decided you were ready. You pressed closer to him, your lips meeting his own in a kiss more passionate than you had previously shared.

He followed your lead with just as much passion, but when you crawled into his lap he pulled away slightly.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he asked quietly, hands coming to rest on your hips.

“I’m sure, I love you and I want to be with you.” You told him sincerely, “But I haven’t been with anyone in a few years so I’m a little out of practice.”

You giggled nervously but he furrowed his eyebrows, “But you told me about your boyfriends?”

“Yeah but I – stopped dating about five years ago.” You tried to explain quickly, old nerves being brought up, but Azriel pulled you closer and as always his touch calmed you.

“Can I ask why?” he watched you drop your head a little as you breathed slowly – determined to not let your fear rise, you would probably end up telling him anyway so you might as well get it over with.

“I was raped.” You stated and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he swore.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he started but you stopped him with a sharp glaze.

“You don’t need to apologise, it happened and it’s over now.” He could practically feel you pull away, so he loosened his grip on your hips and instead brought his arms up to hold you against his chest.

“Who did it?” he asked, voice dark and dangerous. You muttered a name lowly – under your breath – and he pocketed in the darkest corners of his mind for later. His shadows itching to tear the man apart.

“Look (y/n), if you’re ready I am more than happy to oblige but I need to know you’re really ready, I will wait as long as you need.” You pulled away from his chest and kissed him gently.

“I’m ready, I trust you,” he smiled up at you from where you perched on his lap and you giggled and he flipped you over, laying between your legs with a feral grin.

He made you cum three times with his mouth and those beautiful, beautiful hands alone – more than you had ever experienced with a man and he hadn’t even received any pleasure yet. Except from the pleasure of watching his perfect mate fall apart on his sheets, over and over.

And when he lay over you, your legs pushed up and wrapped around his waist, and his forearms on either side of your head – he would later swear he had never felt more complete.

“I’m here with you remember, will be the whole time.” He assured you, voice soft as he lined himself up and you smiled.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, and he pushed in slowly, filling every part of you and pushing against every spot you didn’t know you had. You swore under your breath when he bottomed out, the slight pain quickly being reduced to please as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” you felt shivers run through your body at his gruff voice and smiled, moaning when he began to move.

He pulled his head from where it hid in your neck and watched as you closed your eyes – head thrown back with a smile – and his hips bucked, desperately trying to control himself as he watched you arch your back.

“Shit Az, you’re so big,” you moaned loudly, unaware of the trance you had pulled your mate into.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered with a harsh thrust, a hand coming to stroke down your face as you opened your eyes to meet his, “So perfect.”

You felt as if your heart was going to burst from the love that filled it as you reached up to kiss him softly – conveying every word, every thought, through that kiss. When you pulled away you were nearing your end, the sensations building in you without the need of a fantasy or your own hand.

You moaned his name, gripping his shoulders tightly as one hand instinctively moved to stroke down his wing. He shuddered above you with a loud groan – his thrusts speeding up as he to neared release, yours hips surely bruising from the force of his own.

“C’mon baby, need to feel you, need to know you’re mine.” His words ignited something in your stomach, and you clung tighter to him, kissing his sharp jaw as you smiled.

“I’m yours Azriel, now and forever.” Your gentle words pushed him over the edge and his skilful fingers dipping between your thighs brought you down with him. The two of you crying out at the sensations you shared as a growing need to never let him go consumed you.

He collapsed on top of you soon after and he intertwined your fingers with his own as your breathing evened out. He slipped out of you, and you smiled up at him as he sat up, rolling off your body and laying to the side while you came to rest your head on his firm chest. He brought his spare hand upwards – twirling strands of your hair slightly as you rested in silence. After a few minutes, you clambered into his lap and kissed him firmly as he pulled you impossibly close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, and he felt his heart swell with gratitude to the world for giving him an angel that would willingly hold his hand and guide him out of the darkness.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispered back, and you giggled, a hand moving slowly to stroke him as you felt him harden beneath you again.

“Hmm, is that so?” you whispered.

Azriel, who had started pressing light kisses into your neck, nipped you gently, making you squeal, “What were you saying darling?”

“That I am also deeply, and unequivocally in love with you.” You replied and he rolled his eyes.

“Just putting me to shame with your big words.” He muttered and you giggled – crawling down his body.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.”

[aellynera]

Goddess (Orestes x Reader)

GODDESS

(Hi. I wrote an Orestes story - it started as a joke about the way Apocalypse says “my goddess”, and then I was like “oh man I want Orestes to call me his goddess” and then as usual, I don’t know how, but this happened. It’s rather different than most things I write, but I quite enjoyed writing it and I hope you like it. Comments, likes, and reblogs always appreciated!)

Word Count: ~4400

Summary: Orestes is a constant in your life and has a particular way of constantly reminding you.

Warnings: Mentions of character death (briefly described but not graphically.) Implied female reader. Definite probable historical inaccuracies taken for poetic license and dramatic effect. ANGST (I made myself cry while I was writing this.) Christians doing morally void but historically accurate things. Fictional timelines.

When you are four years old, your parents leave everything they’ve built in Rome - their jobs in the palace, their lives in the city, your father’s position on the council -upon the orders of the Emperor and move to Alexandria. Your father’s new role is to assist in turning that city into a bastion of the Empire, to help strengthen the government and support the supremacy of Rome. Your mother is to be a gentle guide to the women, in hearth and home and higher society. And because you are theirs, you go with them.

They meet with the prefect upon your arrival and he welcomes your family. He is bright and cheerful, yet loud and pompous and booming, stern but wise, and while he is a kind man, his volume frightens you. You cower behind your mother’s skirts, steadfastly clinging to her and  refusing to join in any pleasantries.

Another woman suddenly appears, a small boy with curly hair and bright dark eyes holding her hand. The boy regards you curiously and asks why you won’t come out and say hello. His mother tells him you’re shy, while your mother encourages you to release your death grip on her gown. Finally, after much coaxing, you relent and she pushes you gently towards the little boy.

His mother says you should go play in the garden while the grown-ups talk, and he reaches a tiny hand out to you, wide-eyed and smiling. His name is Orestes, and he is six.

And when you take his hand with a shy little smile, his voice comes out as a whisper and tells you he thinks you’re a goddess, and he drags you towards the garden to show you the little blue flowers that dot the grass, and you believe him.

***

When you are eight years old, one day you finish your chores early and decide to spend your extra time in the yard, weaving some wildflowers together into a chain while the mid-afternoon sun warms your shoulders.

You are quite happy to be alone and not around the grown-ups for now; they’re so loud, sometimes too loud. You crave the quiet, seek it out often, and you bask in it.

Until a rush of dark curls and bright eyes tears past your house, into your yard, and grabs you by the hand, knocking your flower chain carelessly to the ground. He insists you come play with him on the hill nearby and with a squeal of indignation, you let yourself be dragged along behind him.

Your ire over the discarded flower chain is soon forgotten as your squeals become laughter as you roll and roll down the hill together, grass and dirt sticking to your robes and tufts sticking to his unruly curls. 

When you tell him he looks silly, he tells you he doesn’t, and you insist that he does and he protests that he doesn’t. And so it goes back and forth and back again, until you push him or he pushes you or someone pushes the other and you both go tumbling down that hill, end over head over feet, your descent only stopped by a patch of mud at the bottom.

He might be the son of the prefect, and he might be your best friend, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t an enormous brat sometimes.

For a minute you’re both panting and red-faced and near tears, until he starts to giggle and you can’t help but join in, and only laugh harder at his outraged gasp when you hit him square in the chest with a chunk of mud.

And on the way back to your house, when you’re worrying your bottom lip thinking on how to explain to your mother why you’re covered in dead grass and damp bits of dirt, your robes most likely ruined, he tells you with the kind of confidence only possessed by a boy of ten years that everything will be fine, because you are a goddess and brave and strong, and you believe him.

***

When you are twelve years old, you hear of the school that Hypatia is running, because Orestes tells you about it when he starts going. You don’t like that he’s doing something without you. You don’t like being left behind and left out and you want to go to this school too. 

Your mother would easily say yes, but your father is reluctant, and it’s not that he thinks a woman shouldn’t learn philosophy and how to read and do arithmetic; it’s  more that enough other people in the city do think like this and he is convinced it will not be safe for you.

You care little for your safety. All you want, all you desire, is to be part of this group of scholars and to go to this school and learn. And what danger can possibly be there, when a woman is the one in charge?

So you beg and plead and bargain with your father, until a boy - now a young man - with curls like nighttime and eyes nearly as dark and twinkling with stars, steps in and says he’ll watch over you during your classes, and your father gives his permission. And so you start attending Hypatia’s school.

And when the older boys, boys who were nearly men and should know better, start to bully and deride you for desiring knowledge, when they taunt you and steal your scrolls and yank the ribbons from your hair, he steps in and tells them in no uncertain terms to leave you alone. Neither of your fathers, especially his, are particularly thrilled with the tussles he gets in on your behalf, or the black eye that one petulant snipe Cyrus gives him when he connects a punch when Orestes isn’t properly paying attention.

You frown at him as he sits in a chair next to the washbasin, a clean wet cloth clutched in your hand. He winces as you clean the blood from his cheek and gingerly probe the bruise swelling around his eye.

And when you softly ask why he’d do such a stupid thing, he tells you that even a goddess needs a hero to protect them sometimes, and even though you think him entirely ridiculous and heat comes unbidden to your cheeks, it makes you giddy to believe him.

***

When you are sixteen years old, you watch the boy with the wild ebony curls and liquid chocolate eyes fall in love with a girl. Only it isn’t a girl, it’s a woman, and you realize he’s been doing it for years.

Ever since your first day in the new city, he has always been by your side and you by his, an inseparable duo. You thought that would never change, but here you are, finding yourself forced to watch your best friend slowly but surely let his heart be ensnared by your very own teacher.

All he can talk about now, it seems, is Hypatia and her philosophies; Hypatia and her scrolls and the amazing things she is currently reading; Hypatia and her outlandish theories on the universe and the stars. Always Hypatia, all things Hypatia.

You never knew you could hate someone as amazing and wonderful as Hypatia.

It doesn’t seem to matter that his attentions are not equally returned, that she never fully indulges his lovesick whims and overreaching attempts to gain her attention. She continues to treat him as a student, and outside of class possibly even as a dear friend, and he continues to pine.

One afternoon you’re among the stacks of scrolls at the library, trying to find the parchment necessary to complete an assignment Hypatia has given you. You honestly would rather not find it and not even bother finishing your assigned work right now, and you must have some kind of look on your face because he takes the scroll you’re clutching from your hand and leads you to a mostly hidden nook in the room. And he stops talking about Hypatia for a moment to ask you what is wrong.

You want to tell him you miss him, that you want him back, that he’s making a mistake, but you can’t, you don’t. It takes a bit more coaxing, but you finally tell him you’re lonely and you wish there was someone you could find, someone you had to love as much as he had his person, he smiles and tells you that one day you will, because you’re a goddess and the right person will be pulled to the love and light you always emit. You smile back weakly and blink and look away and you want nothing more than to believe him.

***

When you are twenty years old, the library at Alexandria is destroyed.

It happens on a sunny afternoon not unlike so many others that have passed before, when suddenly the doors are broken down and the Christians rush in and the chaos ensues.

You’re sitting at a table with a quill in your hand, carefully writing your thoughts on a piece of parchment, when you hear the shouting in the entryway. And before you know what’s going on, shelves are being knocked over, papers tossed into the air like so much confetti, scrolls being thrown left and right. The air is beginning to smell acrid; you can see a few people setting small fires in some of the stacks.

The windows above you shatter as others throw rocks and even a chair, and you look around wildly for a way out. You don’t know which way is the right way to go, or even if there is a right way to go.

Everything is madness.

A pair of arms suddenly shoot out and grab you around the waist and your scream pierces the air like the horn on the top of the lighthouse trying to guide a ship to shore. Instead you realize you’re trying to drive this ship to its ruin, to free yourself from its depths with wildly swinging elbows and kicks, until you hear a familiar voice shouting your name over the ruckus.

You take in your assailant, all frantic curls and impossibly wide, dark eyes, and collapse into him in relief. Orestes tells you that you need to go, you need to get out, and to find both your fathers in the nearby council chambers and they’ll know where to go, where it’s safe. You ask him to come with you, but he shakes his head.

He tells you he needs to help save as many of the books and scrolls as he can, and you tell him to give you all you can carry and when you run, you’ll take them with you. So he loads your arms full to bursting, and when a rock flies by inches from your face and you drop the items at the top of the pile, he ignores that and pushes you roughly in the direction of the side exit. He says you must leave now, and he’ll be behind you before you know it.

He presses his lips to your temple ever so briefly, spares you a pained smile, and says you’re a goddess for the small bit of assistance you are giving.

As you run for safety, or what might be further peril, you spare a glance over your shoulder and see him helping Hypatia grab as much of the library’s contents as they can, and you don’t have another second to spare on deciding whether or not to believe him.

***

When you are twenty four, it’s your wedding day and everyone tells you this will be the most joyous day of your life so far. Your mother helps you dress in the softest, most expensively beautiful gown you’ve ever owned, and one of your sisters weaves a crown of laurels for your hair. Another sister makes a chain of wildflowers to wind around your wrist. You have never felt as beautiful as you do on this day.

Your father comes to the door of the chamber where your preparations are taking place, to let you know that the guests have all arrived and the groom is nearly ready, and it is almost time. He gives you a kiss on both cheeks, a gesture not common from him, and tells you he will be waiting out by the garden gate when you are ready. Your mother and sisters each kiss your cheek and leave as well, giving you a moment to yourself to gather your thoughts and emotionally prepare for the ceremony.

The door opens again a few minutes later and you turn to face the person behind it, Your eyes go wide, confused, as you take in the man before you. His dark curls are smoothed back and elegantly styled, his robes are regal and dashing, and his eyes are bright and nervous.

You tell him he shouldn’t be here.

He tells you that he knows, but he can’t help it, he has to see you. That he has been thinking of you all morning, wondering how beautiful you look, how happy you must be, and he just had to see you before you walk down the aisle to take your vows.

You bite your lip and tell him, again, that he shouldn’t be here and you can’t stop your voice from shaking. You turn your head away and look anywhere but at him.

And he repeats that he knows this, and he knows it’s wrong, it goes against all protocols, but he can’t help himself, can’t stop thinking that this is the last time he’s going to see you, see your smile and maybe hear your laugh, might be the last time your eyes can gaze upon each other and the last time he can hold you in his arms as his best friend.

You can’t think of a single thing to say to him, and even if you could, you’re certain your body will not cooperate.

Because he is not the one you are marrying. No, this marriage was arranged by your father and the Emperor, and there is the overwhelming chance that you must go back to Rome, and if you and your new husband leave Alexandria it is not likely you will ever return.

This might be the last time he can tell you that you shine with a light brighter than all the heavens, that you are beautiful and he hopes you will be happy, and you truly are a goddess among mortals.

And so Orestes does. He kisses you softly on your forehead, staying there a bit longer than propriety suggests, and quietly slips from the room. And you can’t see for the tears swimming in your eyes, and you want with all your heart to believe him, but you can’t help but find his words hollow and realize this will be far from the greatest day of your life.

***

When you are barely turned twenty-five, there is a knock on your door in the middle of the night. Perhaps knock is not the correct word, it’s more of an insistent pounding, and you swear under your breath at what could possibly be so important to rouse you out of bed at this unacceptable hour.

You pull a robe over your nightdress and open the door, and all the air leaves your lungs.

Four centurions are standing on your stoop, with a man who looks vaguely familiar; is he a general, maybe, or a captain? You can’t remember where you’ve seen him before, but it doesn’t matter, when he greets you solemnly and begins to speak, and tells you that your husband will not be returning from the front.

You did not return to Rome, as had originally been decreed. You stayed in Alexandria after your marriage because skirmishes had broken out along a few of the empire’s borders, and your new husband was called to action to fight for his ruler and the kingdom. Deep down, you could not have been more glad of it, for though you were born there, Rome had not been your home for over twenty years, and starting a new life there with a new husband would not have made it any more so. 

Your knees give out from under you and you consider for a moment that you should be crying, but you aren’t really sad and it strikes you as odd, but you can’t force the tears to come. You love your husband, in a way, but you’re not sad that he won’t be coming home. You’re relieved, and the instant that thought hits you and sends a jolt through your body, you start to laugh. The general, or captain, or whoever he is and his guards look at each other, then at you, and back to each other in utter confusion as you continue to giggle.

It all happens in mere seconds, and you’re sinking to the stone floor beneath, and a very familiar voice, one you have not heard since the day you were wed, tells the guards to stand aside and strong arms catch you before you can tumble completely.

His hair is wild and curly like he was just pulled out of bed himself, and his dark eyes shine with worry and compassion, and he asks you if you’re alright, and this is what finally breaks you from your laughter and brings wetness to your eyes.

Orestes holds you as you cry into his chest and you don’t see the pointed look he gives to the captain and the guards, nor do you see them pull back enough to close the door and wait outside.

You don’t know how long you sit there on the floor in the front hall, or how you’ve possibly gotten his robes that soggy, but eventually you calm and the thoughts roll through your brain again. You are crying because someone has died, you realize this is true even if you’re not so very sad it was your husband. You’re crying because it was your husband and now there will be the mourning period you must dutifully attend as a grieving widow. And now that you’re a widow, eventually you will be expected to take another husband, if one even dares to want you.

And you’re crying because the one reason you were glad to stay in this forsaken city - in the Alexandria which had become your home - the one reason you hoped every day to lay eyes on again and every night resigned that you never would, was suddenly here, his arms wrapped around you and his voice whispering words of comfort into your hair.

You’re not sure when he picks you up and carries you back to your bed, carefully laying you on your pillows and pulling the sheet up to cover your shoulders. You’re not sure how long he stays, holding your hand and brushing stray tendrils of hair from your face. And you’re not sure how long you drift in and out, emotional exhaustion finally catching up and pulling you into nothingness, but before you fade out completely, you feel his thumb gently brush the remaining tears from your cheek, and feel the soft press of his lips on your forehead as he calls you a goddess and tells you to rest.

And as you finally give yourself to the twilight, you aren’t sure if you imagined it, but you choose to believe him, and you cling to it.

***

You’re not sure when it happens, to be honest. Time starts to blend together after that, you just know that you’re older and that it happens, and it isn’t right and it isn’t moral and it isn’t fair. Not to anyone involved, not to the city, not at all.

Hypatia has died, been murdered in the temple at the hands of those who profess themselves to be righteous saviors, brutally stoned and ripped apart as she stood there, proud and defiant to the end. How anyone could do such a thing to another human, especially one such as her, is beyond your comprehension.

It only gets worse when they burn her corpse on a pyre in effigy in the middle of the agora.

Word comes to you of the horrible events, and your first instinct is to find him, the way he found you, came to you when word of your husband’s death made its way back to the city. You set down the parchment you’re scribbling on the desk in your room and grab a dark cloak, partly to conceal yourself and party to ward off the slight chill from the wind.

You make your way to the prefect’s palace but you’re turned away at the gate by pair of surly-looking guards, and giving your name, and then your father’s name, and then the fact that your father reports directly to Rome makes no difference to them. They have  been told to let no one in, and let no one out.

No one except the person you’re looking for, apparently, because somewhere in the aftermath you discover that Orestes is nowhere to be found.

No one knows where he’s gone, and no one knows when he left, just that it was sometime between Hypatia being murdered and the fake funeral pyre. He had words with Cyril, someone told you, and then after that, no one knows.

And the Christians take over the city, much like the library so many years ago, and more people are burned at the stake, more people are murdered, more progress is halted, all in the name of what is right and what is true.

They will kill you, too, if they find you, or find out you’re looking for Orestes. It’s been years since you’ve really been in his presence in anything but the smallest of ways, especially in public, but you know there are still enough people who know how close you were. And if they know you used to be close, you know they won’t hesitate to come after you the same way they came for the philosopher. 

So you make inquiries as discreetly as possible, ask the gossips that litter the merchants’ stalls in the most innocent way possible, like you’re just a curious citizen asking what’s happened to the rule of order in the city. You even ask your father, once, but he doesn’t reply and his stony gaze makes you certain to never ask again.

And you bury yourself in scrolls and reading, in star charts and theories; in anything, really, that will take your mind off everything that is happening and your lost prefect. Your lost friend, your best friend.

The man you truly love, even if it’s taken you years of self-doubt and missed chances to fully realize and admit it, and now, perhaps do something about it.

One day as you’re sitting at your desk, quill in hand and head in the clouds, you think of something. Something that may be nothing, but it comes to you in a flash and you have an idea of where to go, where to find him, somewhere that few others might know.

You carefully pack a bag with some clothes and supplies, and a crudely drawn map that you sketch from memory and hope you’ve gotten right. It’s been so long since you were there but you’re fairly sure you remember the way. You know that Orestes would remember.

A long day’s journey and a fitful night’s sleep take you into the next day, and the afternoon turns into dusk when the hillside comes into view. It is not the same hill you tumbled down more than once when the two of you got into a scrum, but it’s the one that you would go when you could both sneak away and no one would notice for a few days, and you’d stare at clouds by day and the stars by night.

There is an outcropping set back from the hill, in the base of the mountains nearby, that a person wouldn’t see if they didn’t know where to look. You’d found it one day during a particularly vicious thunderstorm and taken refuge in the cave there, and you’d both commented on how someone had clearly found it once before you, for it was somewhat set up as a living space, with some mats and blankets and  a few rations left on makeshift shelves. Anytime you were on these excursions and it would rain, or you simply wanted to be out of the sun, that was where you would go.

And you hope against hope that this is where your answer lies.

You crest the hill and make your way to the foot of the mountain and you can’t help but smile, just a little, thinking this is where he would have gone, should have gone, as his name means of the mountains. In his abandonment, his escape from the city, could he have taken it literally? You’ve known him so long and it feels like the kind of thing Orestes would do.

The hovel comes into view, and you drop your pack, because he does too. Tending to a fire at the mouth of the cave, his back turned slightly to you, his curls a glorious disaster, and he’s grown a beard since last you’d seen him. It’s a look you’ve not seen on him before, but you quite like it, although you consider for just a moment you’d like any look on him at this moment, because he is real and he is standing right in front of you.

The sound of the pack hitting the ground makes him turn, and his dark eyes shine in the firelight, and he looks at you for long moments but doesn’t say anything. Orestes just stares at you, disbelieving, like you might be some kind of mirage or a trick of the light or even some kind of wicked spirit sent to torment him, and so he just stares.

Until you breathe his name.

He blinks once, and his face is suddenly full of hope and relief, all the tension and disbelief of the previous moments falling away, and your heart soars to the heavens and thumps ever so boldly in your chest, and your smile threatens to crack your lips, and the tears fall freely as words finally leave his mouth.

“My goddess.”

~end~

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[ridiculousn3sswrites]

A Ball to Remember - My Princess Pt. 12

*Zendaya x Reader

*Summary: At long last, the Ball is being held in hope that Prince Thomas finds a potential match.

*Warnings: Swearing, anxiety, Kardashian/Jenner slander. Let me know if I missed anything!

*A/N: Outfits are based off of Met Gala 2018 looks for all the celebrities I name drop lmao. It’s fitting since Zendaya’s Met Gala 2018 look inspired this entire thing. Also I seriously fell in love with the dress inspiration for these chapters. Next chapter may have a little smut piece just for fun :)

Tip Jar

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten || Part Eleven || Part Twelve

Dress Inspiration 1 || Dress Inspiration 2

**********

At long last, the night of the ball had finally arrived. The remaining foreign royals had been arriving throughout the day, and the castle was a mess. Different handmaidens and servants were running through the halls, helping with last minute decorating, fetching thing for their employers, anything that would need to be done in the hours leading up to the beginning of the ball. The other royals would be announced as they arrived to the ball, but you were on a schedule. You and Prince Thomas were to be announced last, so you would have a bit more time to get ready than the others.

Zendaya was by your side for most of the day as you were shuttled from appointment to appointment in preparation for the night. She made sure that you weren’t getting too overwhelmed with all the activity that was going on, sneaking you snacks and water throughout the day as you went about your business. You’d tried to set it up so you’d be put into your dress first and then sent to hair and makeup, but for some reason (that the handmaidens had described as ‘wanting you to get the full effect’), you were first sent to makeup, then hair, and then getting put in your dress.

Every step of the process, your handmaidens were gushing over your transformation into a properly formal Princess. You would look to Zendaya for help, but all she could do was smile and shrug her shoulders. Getting your hair and makeup done took a few hours on their own, and then there was the whole matter of getting you into your dress. Corsets, hoop skirts, you were convinced they were all torture devices in their own right (even though you had to admit your waist looked good in the corset). When your handmaidens put the dress on you, however, you understood what they meant about letting you get the full effect.

With your hair pulled back and up, a few pieces framing your face, your makeup light but still giving the right amount of a dramatic look, you already could see things coming together. But then there was your dress - the bodice a navy blue with stars and moons trailing down your sternum, stopping just shy of your navel, the skirt a deeper navy closer to black, the two pieces sewn together with stars accenting your hips. 

“Wow,” you gasped, unable to help the little swish of the skirt you just had to do. You looked over at Zendaya, smile bright. “Z, look!”

“I see, my Princess. You look great.” That hint of fondness was there in her eyes and her smile, letting you know that she would tell you the true extent of her approval when the two of you were in somewhat privacy.

“You still have the cape, Princess!” One of your handmaidens reminded you as the other two brought forward the exact piece she was talking about. They secured it around your shoulders, one securing the front clasp while the others worked about making sure it fell perfectly around you. You suddenly understood the seamstress’s frustrations about the detailing she would have to do on the cape, small and large stars spanning pretty much the whole of the cape. You would have to give the seamstress your profuse thanks after the ball was over.

“I think I’m in love,” you said, now doing a full spin to get the full effect. The detailing sparkled underneath the lights, and you could only imagine how it’d look in the candlelight of the ballroom at night. “This is amazing.”

“And to think you didn’t want to go to your fittings,” Zendaya teased. You just looked back at her, pouting.

“Right, we just need to go get your heels and then you’ll be ready,” one of your handmaidens said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You really do look amazing, Princess. You’ve grown to be a fine young woman and the land of Xerin will do well to have you as their queen.”

You were thrown back into the reality of the situation. You weren’t just dressing up in a pretty gown for a ball that was being thrown for no reason, no. You were dressed up for a ball that was acting as your engagement announcement, while you were trying to get your fiance to put his attention towards another eligible princess. You gave the handmaiden a small smile, trying not to let your sudden wave of sadness overtake you. “Thank you. I’m glad to have done you well as your Princess.”

The handmaidens left the room for a few minutes to retrieve the heels, and Zendaya was immediately at your side. She took your hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over the back of your hand. “What’s wrong? What’re you thinking about?”

“What if tonight doesn’t work out? I want to stay here with my people, with you,” you admitted, your breathing starting to pick up as you began to overthink things.

“If it doesn’t work out, then we find another way. Even if I have to go to Xerin with you.” You looked up at Zendaya with wide eyes. You’d never discussed that, and you would never make her leave her home for a foreign land just to follow you.

“You would do that?”

“I would, my Princess. I want to be with you for the rest of my life,” she admitted, looking away for just a second. You could tell she was a little embarrassed at the admission, but it was out there.

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life as well,” you told her. “Can I have a kiss?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your lipstick.”

“Please?” Zendaya rolled her eyes but gave in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. It was enough to satisfy you for now, but you’d be asking for more kisses later when you were alone. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Zendaya stepped back, releasing your hand just as the handmaidens returned.

“Princess, we’re going to need you to sit while we put these on,” one of them directed you as another pulled up a chair.

“I need to get ready for the ball as well. My replacement will be here soon,” Zendaya told you as you sat down.

“Lady Zendaya, are you going to be attending as a guest or on duty?” the third handmaiden asked.

“A little bit of both,” Zendaya said with a small smile. “I have duty at the beginning of the night, but after shift change I’m welcome to stay at the ball.”

“Per the Princess’s request, I assume,” the handmaiden teased, looking down at you. You looked away, trying to ignore the heat rising in your face. Sure, she was right, but she didn’t have to call you out like that. “Relax, Princess. It’s nice that you want your friend to enjoy the night as well.”

“Right, yes,” you trailed off, lifting your foot for the handmaiden to slip on the heel. She secured it, repeating the same process for the next heel. Zendaya was the one to help you stand, and you were pleasantly surprised at your newfound height. “Zendaya, I’m almost as tall as you now.”

Zendaya rolled her eyes. “You wish. I’ll see you later.”

Sure enough, as she finished her sentence, there was a knock at the door. She went to answer it, and her replacement was there. Zendaya gave you a nod before leaving the room, leaving you to the whims of your handmaidens. Now that they didn’t have to do anything else to get you ready - only waiting for someone to retrieve you to be announced - the handmaidens went about their gossip. They were talking about people they’d seen arriving - royal families, princesses accompanied by other nobles - just enamoured by the glitz and glam of all these people coming into the castle at once. 

“The High Priestess pulled out all the stops for the guest list, I wonder how she managed to convince everyone who came.”

“It’s because she’s the High Priestess. Do you know anyone who could say no to Rihanna?” You were amused at their conversation, knowing how right they were. There were two people you could never say no to - excluding your parents - and that was Rihanna and Zendaya. Rihanna just had that kind of personality that you wanted to go along with her plans.

“You’re not wrong there. Princess, do you have plans with the Prince after the ball?” The little smile the handmaiden gave you made it obvious what kind of plans she was thinking of. You could feel your face getting hot at just the implication.

“No! I don’t know what you mean,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

“But you’re being formally announced tonight, aren’t you guys going to celebrate?”

“You should know the Princess isn’t like that, we haven’t even heard anything about them holding hands,” the oldest handmaiden said. “Perhaps they’re more low-key than we’d hoped.”

“He’s a handsome young man, you could have done worse. Enjoy your youth. Perhaps the ball will provide the right circumstances for the two of you.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed, knowing fully well you were lying. You just hoped the Prince would find someone else to suit his fancy. Before the handmaidens could go any further into their prying, a knock on the door saved you yet again. Instead of Zendaya, as you’d been hoping, Rihanna stood there in her High Priestess formal garb.

“(Y/n), they’re ready for you in the holding room. Most of the others have been announced already,” she told you. “Lady Zendaya and Prince Thomas are already waiting for you there.”

“Thank you,” you told her. The handmaidens helped you up, leading you over to Rihanna. Before leaving, you turned to them. “Thank you for all your help this evening. I greatly appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

“We’re more than glad to help you. Enjoy your night.” With that, Rihanna led you out of the room and down the hall.

“Look at you! You look like a proper Princess now,” Rihanna gushed as the two of you walked. “Wow, the seamstress really outdid herself. It’s amazing what she’s done. And look at your cape! Amazing.”

“And yourself? I always forget how amazing the formal garb looks on you,” you complimented right back. Rihanna just waved off your compliment.

“Zendaya’s already seen you, right? What was her reaction?”

“She couldn’t really have a huge one seeing as we were with my handmaidens, but she did compliment me,” you said, looking away with a slight blush.

Rihanna sighed but looked down at you with a smile. “Young love is so cute. Anyways, after you’re announced, find me and I’ll point out our notable visitors.”

“Thank you for all of this, Rihanna. I know it was a lot of work for you.”

“Shush, party planning’s fun,” she said, opening the door for you. Immediately you saw Zendaya there in her formal armor. A couple other guards were stationed around the room - understandable since there were two heirs to the throne to be held there - and then you saw Prince Thomas and Harrison. Prince Thomas had his hand held over the bottom of his face, doing nothing to hide how red his face was. 

“He thinks you look great, Princess!” Harrison called out with a smug little smile. Prince Thomas smacked Harrison’s arm, but it did nothing to faze him. 

“Thank you,” you said with a laugh. “Though I don’t know if I should thank you or Prince Thomas.”

“Either works,” Harrison said. You went to join Zendaya at her side, highly amused by the two men still bickering. 

“See? You look amazing,” Zendaya whispered, using the lessened height difference to her advantage. When you looked up at her, you saw her smug little smile at your flustered state.

“Lady Zendaya, how’s this gonna work? I know they’re gonna be announced together, but what about us?” Harrison asked, dragging the Prince with him.

“Well, you have a choice. You could be announced on your own, or you could walk behind them with me and not be announced,” she told him. “It’s a safety thing that I watch their backs.”

“Alright, so either announce to everyone that I’m single or just relax,” Harrison said. “I’m fine walking with you.”

“Lady Zendaya, it’s time,” one of the guards said. She nodded before looking at you and the Prince.

“Are you guys ready?” You nodded, and despite his face still being pink, Prince Thomas nodded as well. Zendaya led you to where you knew the top of the steps were, and quickly set you and Prince Thomas to be presentable in front of the guests. Prince Thomas offered his arm to you, and you accepted it. 

“Announcing for the first time, Princess (y/n) of Xaya and her betrothed, Prince Thomas of Xerin,” the herald bellowed into the hall. The doors opened up in front of you, the soft lights of the candles throughout the room glittered off of the chandelier and the gems throughout the room. Though you couldn’t necessarily see the eyes on you, you could definitely feel them. You put on a bright smile, looking up at Prince Thomas for a moment just to find his gaze already on you. You needed to play the part of the happily betrothed, after all.

As soon as you and the Prince descended the stairs, the chatter rose back up and filled the room. Prince Thomas dropped his arm, just to take your hand in his. You looked at him, wondering what his play was but you couldn’t just take your hand back without someone seeing. “Would you care to dance?”

“I’m sorry, but I need to find the High Priestess. She requested for me to join her after we’re announced, but please, enjoy yourself,” you told him, gesturing towards the festivities. He hesitated, but nodded nonetheless. Zendaya appeared at your side, a hand on your elbow, as soon as he walked away with Harrison.

“I found Rihanna. Are you ready to go with her?” You nodded, and Zendaya led you through the crowd to where Rihanna was. Rihanna had a glass of champagne in hand, watching the ball from the side. You could tell she was just basking in the success of the event so far. “Rihanna, I have the Princess.”

“I see that. Congrats on being officially announced,” Rihanna teased. “Right, come here. You want a drink?”

You nodded, figuring you could have one drink for the night. Rihanna handed you a champagne flute from the table beside her, and you took your spot next to her. “Okay. First we have the most important guests, Queen and King Beyoncé and Shawn Carter.”

“Wait, how’d you get them here? Also, isn’t their Princess still a child?”

“It’s not a party without Bey. And you don’t want to disrespect them by not inviting them here,” Rihanna explained with a smile. “Alright, that over there is Sir Michael B. Jordan, he’s not super important but he is attractive.”

“Rihanna,” Zendaya chastised with a roll of her eyes.

“What? It’s true. There’s King Kanye West,” Rihanna pointed out. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Wait, where’s Queen Kim?”

“They’re having issues at the moment. Like, finding a new Queen type of issues,” Rihanna added in a whisper before pointing out other people. “Lady Cardi, she’s always a blast. Queen Sza, Princess Ariana, Princess Selena, Prince Jaden, Princess Taylor.”

“Wait, who’s that?” you asked, nodding towards a woman laughing and joking with someone.

“Princess Letitia Wright,” Rihanna explained.

“I thought she wasn’t seeing anyone?”

“She isn’t. She’s accompanied by Sir John Boyega since her parents couldn’t make it.”

“I like her. I think she may get along with Prince Thomas,” you said. Rihanna looked at you with a raised brow.

“And how do you suppose that?”

“I just have a feeling. She seems… joyous,” you told her.

“Alright, I’ll see what strings I can pull. Enjoy yourself, anyone else will introduce themselves to you.” Before you could walk away, Rihanna pulled you back. “Watch out for Queen Kim’s siblings, they’re here and you know they cause trouble.”

“Noted.” With that, you and Zendaya ventured back into the crowd. Zendaya wasn’t supposed to be by your side for the time she was on duty - trusting the guards posted around the event to ensure your safety - but she wanted you to at least be with someone before she left your side. You were stopped a few times to congratulate you on your engagement, recognizing some of the people Rihanna had pointed out to you. You were in awe when Queen Beyoncé stopped you with a kind smile, complimenting your dress. As soon as the Queen walked away, Zendaya teased you about your starstruck gaze.

“(Y/n)! Where’d you go off to?” Harrison called out, dragging along Prince Thomas.

“I guess I can leave you with them,” Zendaya said as soon as they were close to you. “I do have to get back to duty.”

“Okay, I’ll see you as soon as you’re off, right?” Zendaya nodded.

“I expect you to save a dance for me,” she told you before turning to the two men approaching you. “I need to get to work, I expect you two will keep her company.”

“Will do, Lady Zendaya!” Harrison readily agreed. Zendaya gave you one last look before going to join the guards at the perimeter of the room. “Princess, you look amazing! You and Thomas should go dance, enjoy your engagement!”

You were shocked at Harrison’s insistence, especially since he knew your plan for the evening, but you didn’t see the point in disagreeing with him. Once again thinking of your image, it would appear odd if you didn’t dance with your betrothed at least once. “I would love to, if the Prince would ask me.”

“Wait, really?” Prince Thomas asked, brightening up at your teasing. You almost laughed at his reaction, but then he came to his senses. He dipped his head down, extending his hand out to you. “Princess (Y/n), would you care to dance?”

“I would love to,” you accepted, taking his hand. Prince Thomas led you to the dance floor where other couples were slow dancing, the string players providing the perfect atmosphere for them. You put your hand to rest on his shoulder, his going to rest on your waist (still at a respectable place).

“You do look amazing tonight, (y/n). I’m sorry for my reaction earlier, but you really just… wow. You’re gorgeous,” Prince Thomas told you, looking away as the blush returned to his face.

“I’ll take your reaction earlier as flattery,” you laughed. Prince Thomas gave you a sheepish smile as he led you through the motions of the dance. You knew there would be people watching you - your first public presentation as an engaged couple would serve as a fair source of entertainment for the others - but you couldn’t say it was bad. You and Prince Thomas were joking around, talking about your memories from the festival and just hanging out with him and Harrison over the past few weeks. One dance flowed into another, and then another, the songs flowing together as you just enjoyed your time with the Prince. Harrison would steal you away for a song or two, but you always ended up with Prince Thomas again.

“I heard you’re leaving after the ball,” you said, wanting to address the rumor.

“Haz and I are going to be leaving in a couple days. We’ve been away from Xerin for quite some time,” Prince Thomas joked.

“It’s going to be quiet around the palace without you two.”

“You know, I do really like you. I know this was arranged, but you’re a wonderful person and I would like to marry you,” Prince Thomas admitted as another song finished. Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped open the slightest bit, not sure where this was coming from.

“Thomas, I… I don’t know what to say,” you told him, guilt beginning to bloom in your chest.

“You don’t have to say anything right now. Thank you for the dances, (y/n).” He stepped back with a bow, letting you and the others know that you were done dancing with one another for now. You watched as he disappeared into the crowd, unsure what to do with yourself now. He’d actually fallen for you. You hadn’t led him on, had you? Would Rihanna be able to direct him towards Princess Letitia like you’d hoped, or would this just complicate things further?

You were beginning to spiral just the slightest bit, the people surrounding you not helping. You began making your way through the crowd, trying to find something to drink and just calm your nerves. You brushed off Princess Kylie as she tried to greet you, only focused on grounding yourself. Once you found a nice secluded corner, you leaned against the wall, resting your head against the cool stone.

“Princess, are you okay?” someone asked after a few minutes of you taking the chance to just breathe. Opening your eyes, you saw the one person who could always help you. There, in her formal armor, the lights creating a soft halo around her silhouette, was your beloved, worry evident on her face. You shook your head, trying to maintain your calm. Zendaya immediately stepped forward, taking you into her arms. You rested your head against her chest plate, and though it wasn’t the most comfortable thing, you treasured it.

“I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

“Okay. I’m here for you now.” Of course Zendaya knew what you needed to hear.

**********

Tag List: @uncookspaget, @ddesert-rosee, @gangganggg

Permanent Tag List: @treatallwithkindness, @laic2299, @delaber

[percywinchester27]

A lot like ‘Us’ (Part-12)

Word count: 5.4K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Warnings: Feels, pining, fluff ;)

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is eager and honestly, still in awe that she managed to get herself an acceptance from Stanford Law School. On the face of it, her life seems as put together, mysterious and independent as one might hope for. On the insides, she carries the burden of past that haunts her till date. Seemingly, she’d left it all behind; that is until she sets foot in the class of the Law School’s youngest, most promising professor.

A/N: I am so excited to see what you think of this chapter! I haven’t made a secret of the fact that this is one of my absolute favorite chapters. I had a lot of fun writing it <3

The story employs two different timelines. The present timeline for the story takes place in 2014. Please let me know what you guys think :)

Beta: @deanssweetheart23​​. You are a goddess. I love you <3

A lot like ‘Us’ masterlist

Sam regretted it the moment he stepped into the bar. The lights were dim, the music was hip and it was too full of people. What was more, a lot of those faces seemed familiar. Maybe he had seen them around the campus?

Sam found a corner booth, away from the bar counter and the pool table. It was isolated and about as quiet as any table was going to get. He drew out his phone and texted Jody.

“I’m here. Where are you?”

Sighing, he locked the screen on his phone. Sam was beyond exhausted. He had stayed up the night, driven for close to twelve hours in total to and fro from LA, and went cut to cut with one of the fiercest attorneys he had ever met. At least, James was out for good. The look on his face at the sight of Sam had been worth everything. Sam had been so scared that he wouldn’t be able to get the kid out. Now that he had, all he wanted to do was fall in bed and not wake up till Sunday. 

Even as that thought took shape, he knew he was lying to himself. More than anything, he wanted to find Y/N and thank her for her help last night, let her know how the hearing went. If someone at Acton Gris had helped him, he would have taken them along for the hearing because the effort deserved it. A part of him had wanted to ask Y/N. She would be allowed, since she was a law student accompanying the attorney, but Sam didn’t think he could handle being in her presence for so long. Besides, she’d had classes in the morning. Either way, she deserved to know the verdict. He had contemplated emailing her, then thought better of it. Maybe he would drop by at the library to see if it was her shift. It was only 12. The library would be open for at least two more hours.

He banished the thought as quickly as it appeared, though, physically shaking his head. He needed to factor in the consideration that she probably didn’t want to keep running into him all the time.

His phone pinged. It was Jody letting him know that Alex was yet to get home from some party of her own and that she would be late, if she came at all. 

Fantastic. Simply fantastic.

He should have just gone to bed. Being in bars at midnight? He was too old for this. It had been Jody’s idea to begin with! She was the one who had made plans for the weekend and was standing him up now.

“Professor Winchester?”

Sam groaned internally before seeing who had called him. It was a glimmeringly clad freshman from his class. 

Could the evening get any worse? He had to run into his students.

“Ohmygosh! I can’t believe you’re here,” gushed the girl. Sam vaguely remembered that her name was Staten.

The other girl whose name Sam didn’t know at all nodded vigorously. “You’re so cool!”

Both of them were bright eyed and obviously tipsy. That was a combination for trouble if Sam had ever seen one. 

He got up. “Nice to see you ladies,” he said sliding out of the booth. “I’m going to step out for just a second. Y’all have fun.”

“Mr. Winchester,” one of them called, but Sam was out the back door. Few years of teaching had taught him enough in that department. During his early days, years ago, when he first started as a visiting faculty, he would insist that the class call him by his first name. He had been ignorant about how it came across and only after a couple of students had made a pass at him had he grown wary and stuck to being addressed by his last name. It never got less weird, having people address him as ‘Mr. Winchester,’ but he was used to it now.

Stepping outside, Sam breathed in the cold air, wondering again what the hell he was doing here.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Jody.

She picked up on the second ring. “I’m so sorry, Sam!” She apologised profusely. “Alex’s tyre gave out and she’s stranded a couple miles out.”

“Shit. Do you want me to pick her up?”

“No, it’s alright,” she reassured. “She’ll feel awful about you driving out to get her. I’m heading out now. Please just wait a little longer. I feel horrible about keeping you waiting, especially since it was my idea.”

He looked at the watch. It was quarter past twelve. “Jody…” he sighed.

“Okay, wait for just fifteen more minutes,” she bargained. “If I’m not there by then, you can go home and I’ll owe you drinks for the rest of the year.”

“Rest of your life, and we have a deal,” Sam smiled despite himself. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” She said, clearly amused. “That’s how you become a good lawyer. Okay, Fine.”

Sam laughed.

“You know I love you, Winchester.”

“I know you do!”

Sam put the phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t have known what to do with his life if Jody hadn’t stepped in and taught him how to look after another person who was solely dependent on him. She was the best friend and mentor he could have asked for.

He slid back inside the bar, determined to avoid any and each student he saw. Especially the drunk ones. Luck was on his side. The whole freshman gang had moved to the pool table, removed from the main area. This late he would have expected the crowd to thin out, but hoards of people were on the dance floor moving their bodies to the rhythm of the song. Taking advantage of the crowd, Sam went over to the bar counter.

“Jack. Neat!” He asked the woman behind the counter. She had long dark hair and a mischievous smile.

“Coming right up, handsome!” She winked.

Sam smiled awkwardly as she slid the glass.

“Hey, Mister! Repeat this one!”

Sam’s head snapped in the direction of the voice. It was loud and bossy and Y/N’s.

“Y/N?” The bartender in front of him squinted at the girl two benches from him, clearly surprised.

Sam would have moved sooner, but he was awestruck at the sight of her. Y/N was wearing a silky, satiny top that was cut low and clung to her body like a second skin over tight jeans and heeled boots. Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders like a nymph’s. Sam’s throat went dry.

The bartender rushed over to her. “Christ, Y/N!” she said. “What’re you doing here?”

Y/N looked at her with wide, surprised eyes. “Pam! OH MY GOD, PAM! It’s you! 

“Yes, I work here,” the bartender, whose name was apparently Pam, said. “Rob, how much has she had to drink?”

The guy shrugged. “One vodka, three tequillas. I don’t know about before.”

“Y/N?” Pam patted Y/N’s face. “Are you by yourself?”

“Kinda!” Y/N giggled, tossing her hair back in a smooth flip. Sam’s heartbeat spiked at the sight. He absolutely couldn’t wrench his eyes away.

Y/N bent over the counter, then jerked her thumb at the freshman gang and whispered conspiratorially. “I’m with those guys over there, but I don’t think they care if I wander off. Can I tell you a secret? Most of them are douchebags anyway.”

“Rob!” Pam barked. “Do we have a standby? Rinny? Or just anyone else?”

“It’s just us tonight.”

“Well, fuck!” Pam swore.

“Y/N, honey,” she tried to get Y/N to listen to her, but Y/N was already trying to sit up on the bar, blowing kisses at Pam. “You’re the best, Pam. Just the absolute best and I love how much you love my cookies.”

“Everyone loves your cookies, honey, but you need to get down.”

“Okay… Okay,” Y/N winked. She slipped as she tried to get down from the counter. Reflexively Sam moved, catching her before she crashed to the ground.

“I got you, don’t worry,” he said in a low voice only to her and she looked up at him with wide confused eyes. 

“Hey, get your hands off of her, Mister.” Pam hissed, looking scarily angry. “I said, let go of her. Right now.”

Sam did so immediately, but Y/N didn’t let go of his shirt. “I know her,” he tried to explain to Pam, who looked like she was on the verge of calling the bouncers.

“Yeah, that’s right, you know her,” Pam grimaced. “Very believable.”

“I swear, I know her,” Sam said, wildly trying to explain. “Her name’s Y/N Y/L/N. She’s a law student at the university. First year, hails from Kansas and feels insanely cold.” Sam started spewing random facts he could think of. “Her favourite book is To kill a mockingbird. She bakes amazing muffins-”

She likes her coffee with very little milk, is scared of ducks and has a birthmark in the middle of her lower back. She likes listening to classical music and waking up early…

Meanwhile, Y/N was still looking at him in wonderment, shushing herself.

“How do you know all that about her?” Pam looked at him with suspicion and mingled curiosity.

“I’m her-” it hurt to say- “ her friend.”

She still didn’t look completely convinced.

“Y/N?” Pam asked the girl in Sam’s arms. “You know this man?”

Don’t be that far gone, Sam prayed internally. Please don’t be that far gone.

“Pfftt,” Y/N scoffed, with such force that she lost her footing again. “It’s Sam! I’d sooner forget myself than not know him! What sort of dumb question is this?”

Sam.

She had said his name. It had caressed her lips. Was it even possible to be jealous of your own name?

Pam  raised her eyebrows.

“Look,” she said, “I can’t leave my shift to drop her home and no one I can call will be up this late. Y/N clearly knows you. Do you think you can drop her home?”

“I-I don’t know where she stays!”

Pam quickly wrote down an address. “It’s just a couple blocks away. I’m going to call her cell in a while, so you better not try anything funny.”

Sam wanted to roll his eyes, but he was too terrified at the prospect of being left alone with Y/N. He glanced around to see a couple of looks coming their way.

“Yeah, I’ll take her,” he said finally. “The hangover will hit her hard in a while, it’s better that she’s home then. Trust me, I know.”

Pam took one look from his face to Y/N wrapped around his torso. “Thanks, man.”

He nodded and then slowly guided Y/N out. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“You know where I live?” She asked, tilting her head to one side.

“I do now.” Fortunately or unfortunately it was right next to Sam’s street. 

He adjusted her so that she was tucked under his side. Her fingers were still boldly clutching at his undershirt, sending shocks of sensation throughout his body. 

“This way, c’mon,” He guided her forward.

“Stop pushing me. I. Can’t. Walk. Any. Faster!” She whined. “These shoes suck.”

“Okay, let’s just sit for a while.” He slowly steered her to a bench on the street. It wasn’t right outside the bar, hence, out of clear view. Sam lowered her onto the bench and she promptly pulled her feet up, trying to slide the zipper on her shoes. They honestly looked like a death trap of sorts. The zipper stuck out adamantly as she yanked at it with all her might.

Hands trembling, he caught hold of hers. “Wait. Let me.”

Slowly, with a steadier hand, Sam dragged down the zippers on both her shoes- carefully, to not touch her skin- freeing her feet. She drew into herself, massaging the reddened skin on the arch and the back of her heel. 

“Stupid Meg,” she muttered. “Shouldn’t have let her put me in these.” 

She massaged her toes. “It hurts.”

“Will you let me take a look at it?” He asked hesitantly. Y/N twisted her body and put both her feet straight into his lap. 

“Here! Look all you want.”

Her hair was fluttering lightly in the wind and despite the chill, she wasn’t reaching for the leather jacket. Looking at her was like looking at the sun. He wanted to, but couldn’t, because it hurt at the same time. The satin of her blouse was kissing her soft skin in all the right places.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Y/N teased collusively. She scooted closer, almost sitting completely in his lap now. “Can I tell you a secret? I think about it, too.”

Sam pushed her away lightly and God it hurt to do it, but she wasn’t in her senses right now. Sober, she wouldn’t have wanted any of this.

“We should get you home!” He said in a tight voice.

“No!” She was adamant. “Why are you in such a hurry to get away from me?”

Oh the irony. “You were the one who left me, Y/N.” 

Y/N not having heard a word of it was scooting closer to him again. She laid her head on his shoulder, and snaked her arms around his waist. Sam stilled, not even daring to breathe.

“Let’s just stay here forever. You and me.” She laughed all of a sudden. “This is literally the best dream I’ve ever had. I can actually feel you.” She hugged him tighter to prove her point. “See?”

“Is this what your dreams are made up of?” 

“The good ones, yeah,” she sighed tiredly. “But mostly they’re just bad and I’m cold and there’s so much water, Sam. There was so much water.”

Suddenly she started shivering and Sam pulled the jacket over her shoulders.

She looked up with tears in her eyes. “Sam, the water! And there’s so much glass. It hurts.”

A deep pain and grief that he hadn’t felt in years threatened to swallow Sam whole. “Oh, baby,” he said, at last throwing his arms around her. “It’s not real. It happened a long time ago.”

“I can’t breathe. There’s too much water.” Her words were slow and slurred. Despite that, the picture she painted was horrifying.

The memories all flashed before his eyes like it had happened yesterday. But he refused to go under. Not now.

Sam allowed himself to comfort her and be comforted by her. In this one thing, they were together. He held her as close as he had dreamed for years, yet not truly believing that this was actually happening. She smelled just the same, and the way her body curved into his hadn’t changed at all.

Sam held her like that for an immeasurable time. It felt both like an eternity and mere seconds all at once. A crazed traveller wouldn’t be more desperate for an Oasis than Sam felt for her touch. And knowing that this would end soon, that these were stolen moments made it heaven and hell at the same time.

“Y/N,” he tried again. “We need to get you home.” I need to get you home.

She didn’t reply.

“Are you asleep?”

“Yes!” She muttered and in spite everything Sam had to stifle a laugh. 

She had no footwear on, after getting herself out of those insane shoes. Sam removed his flip flops and slid them under her feet. They were way too big, but it was better than nothing. 

“Up you come.” He hoisted her slowly to her feet.

“Whoa!” She said, “everything is spinning so fast.”

“Just hold on to me. The spinning will go away.” He guided her slowly. “This way now.”

Her grasp on his shoulder slipped, pulling his shirt down with him.

“Oooohhh fancy,” she snickered, trying to touch the thin chain around his neck.

Sam fixed his shirt with the other hand so it wasn’t visible. She didn’t need to know.

It must look absurd, the two of them walking down the street. Sam, barefoot, carrying a pair of her heels in one hand and holding her by the waist with the other. Meanwhile, Y/N was humming lightly to herself, giggling at silly things, slipping and sliding in his flip flops.

At long last, they reached the address that Pam had given. Sam knew the building, he walked past it everyday to get home. The building had a solid, high compound wall, covered in vines. Keeping a tight hold on Y/N, he pushed the wrought iron gate. It creaked as it opened, leaving Sam staring at a beautiful front yard. There was curving shrubbery around the small circular garden and a mermaid shaped fountain flowing water in a circular basin with seating around it.

“Hahahaaa Judgy Judy isn’t too pleased with us,” Y/N told him sagely. “She hates people who drink even more than people who turn up late.”

“Why did you drink anyway?” He asked. “You don’t even like doing it.”

Y/N broke off, stumbling into the path. She glared at him. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to go out on dates with other people but it’s not okay for me to drink?”

That’s what she thought? That he had been in the bar for a date? Was that why she had drank?

Sam’s mind was reeling. If what she was saying was true, it meant that it mattered to her what Sam did or didn’t do with his life. Unless she still cared.

“You really think I would do that?” Abruptly, he was angry. If she cared enough to be mad with him, why had she left him to begin with?

Y/N had already moved on from the conversation. She was staring up at the mermaid’s face.

“Sam? You remember that time we went to the fair and rode the ferris wheel?”

He did remember. “You fainted immediately after.”

“Yeah, this feels exactly like that…” Y/N staggered on the spot and Sam rushed to catch her. The minute his hands found her arm, she threw up spectacularly on the front of his shirt, retching till there wasn’t anything left. Then, she promptly passed out in his arms.

He stood there for a second, looking about him, but no help was going to arrive at 2 in the night.

This was bad, very very bad. He had hoped to drop her home and then go back to his own place to wallow about how unfair the world was. What was he supposed to do now?

He had no clue if she stayed by herself. He couldn’t just leave her by herself when she was sick.

Slowly, he led her to the seating around the fountain. She laid down on it, groaning lightly.  

Sam removed his shirt, bundled it up and using some of the water from the fountain, wiped the puke from his jeans and Y/N’s feet along with his flip flops. Then he bent down and swooped her in his arms, carrying her inside the building. Getting into the lift and to her apartment was easy enough. Wrestling the key out of the purse and then unlocking the door all the while supporting her wasn’t so much.

It was pretty clear to Sam that there was no one else in the apartment when he entered. All that noise would have brought someone out by now. He barely looked at the living room, before laying Y/N down on the sofa there. There was a kitchenette to the right side. Sam poured a glass of water, added a spoon of sugar and a pinch of salt after looking through the jars. He walked back to where Y/N was curled up on the sofa and coaxed her to drink it.

She made a face, refusing to take a sip.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“No.”

She was so stubborn sometimes. “Please? For me?”

“For you?” Her expression was guileless, it was almost his undoing, but Sam pushed on. “Yes, for me.”

She took the glass from him and downed it in one go, distaste clear on her expression.

The phone started ringing right when she put the glass down. Sam had to fish it from her purse. The caller ID read ‘Pamela Barnes.’

“Here,” Sam handed the phone to Y/N. “It’s for you.”

“Hello!” She sang. “Yeah, yeah… I’m home…”

Sam didn’t hang around for the rest of the conversation. He returned the glass to the kitchen and made more of the Sugar-salt solution in a bottle.

Y/N was idly playing with a lock of her hair.

“Can we go to bed now? Please?” She mumbled drowsily.

“You,” Sam stressed “are going to bed. Which one is your room?”

Sleepily, she pointed towards the door next to the kitchenette. He lifted her once more in his arm, thinking how bizarre all of this was as he walked towards the room. It felt nothing short of euphoric to hold her like this, like he was on some sort of wild once in a lifetime adventure, even if touching her like this used to be normal for him once upon a time. He gently laid her down on the bed. She stretched out on the sheets immediately, a smile on her lips.

He could have stared and stared. Sam decided to take one long look at her, memorising the exact color of her hair, the fullness of her lips and the rhythm of her breaths. Just as he turned to leave, Y/N’s hand shot out to grab the hem of his T-shirt.

“Why? Why did it happen to us?” She said, her face drawn in lines of anguish. “We were good people. You still are. Then, why?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Because life isn’t fair. You of all people should know that by this point. And I’ve hardly been a good person since.” 

“Shhhhh….” She put a finger to her lip. “You’re the best, Sam. You always have been.”

“Then why did you leave me? Why couldn’t you trust me enough to stay? Have enough faith in me to know that I could make it okay for us? I loved you more than anything, Y/N. And you left me anyway.” He knew full well that she wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning, she was barely even listening now. So how did it matter what he said?

“Don’t go,” she moaned. 

“Y/N… you know I can’t stay.”

“Please… Nothing’s right when you’re not here.”

In an odd twisted way, it was the truth. Nothing was right when she wasn’t with him.

“Please, Sam,” she sighed. “Don’t leave me. Promise me.”

He gave in. How could he not? “I promise,” he said finally. “I’ll stay tonight.” 

She smiled contentedly and her breathing evened out soon after.

Slowly, Sam disentangled his t-shirt from his grip.

In the bathroom, he washed his bundled up shirt, cleaning it completely, then used it to wash off whatever was left on his jeans and t-shirt. Thankfully, Y/N’s clothes hadn’t been spoilt and didn’t need any cleaning. The apartment had a beautiful balcony that overlooked the garden below. He hung his shirt on the railing to dry it in the breeze. 

Sam checked on Y/N once more under the guise of placing the water bottle next to her bed. She was splayed wildly now. The straps of her blouse had slid further down her arm, revealing the tops of her breasts. He looked away. As lightly as he could, Sam freed the covers from beneath her and drew them over her, tucking her comfortably underneath them. Then he made his way to the living room sofa, closing Y/N’s bedroom door after her. 

The sofa was much too small to accommodate him, but Sam managed to lie on his back, legs folded and body wedged between the two armrests. After a while of twisting and turning, he rested his head on one armrest and threw his legs over the other, staring at the apartment walls and decorations. Most of it was too delicate, like the filigree on the curtains and the carved screens dividing part of the kitchenette from the rest of the living room. That certainly wasn’t Y/N’s taste. Either it came with the apartment or her room mate had put it there. There were some things, however, that were distinctly Y/N- the flowers and plants in the balcony, the solid wood coffee stand and the classy oven. The little China decorating the kitchen bar must’ve been her grandmothers. Nothing… absolutely nothing in the house proved that he had ever played a part in her life. Sam decidedly curbed the disappointment and bitterness he felt.

So, she had moved on from him. Hadn’t the past month taught him as much? 

A month ago he wouldn’t have believed that he’d end up a room away from a very drunk Y/N. So close, yet so far. He closed his eyes, recalling how it felt to have her arms around his waist, feel the press of her body against his as he lifted her in his arms. He could live out the rest of his life holding onto those memories, even if it never happened again, even if she never remembered it…

“Who the fuck are you?”

Sam’s eyes snapped open. A girl was standing over him with a ferocious expression.

He sat up groggily, disoriented about his surroundings. Who was this girl?

“I asked who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my apartment?”

Sam groaned, blinking his eyes in the still dark room. “I’m Sam. I helped Y/N home last night.”

“Where’s she? Is she okay?” 

The shift in her tone was sudden, from angry to concerned.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Sam yawned. “She just had too much to drink.”

“And how do you know her?”

“I’m her- “ It physically ached to not say it. “I’m her… friend.”

The girl, who Sam assumed was her roommate, Meg, raised an eyebrow. “Friend, huh? How come she’s never talked about you before?”

Because she doesn’t care anymore.

Suddenly Sam was very tired. “Look, I’ve known her since a long time. We lost touch a while ago. I met her at college.”

Meg didn’t seem very convinced. She harrumphed and crossed her arms.

“I’m going to head out, now that you’re back,” he said, standing up and straightening his back. It was completely screwed. He walked over to the balcony and retrieved his now dried shirt. Meg eyed it dubiously.

“You didn’t try anything with her, did you?”

Again, the irony of someone else being concerned that he of all people would try to harm Y/N twisted his mouth into a bitter smirk.

“Look, mister…” Meg started and Sam put his hands up. He was too exhausted to hold this argument. 

“I just put her to bed. That’s all,” he said. “Heads up, she has terrible hangovers. You might want to keep the bathroom accessible and the Advil ready.”

With that he stalked out of the room. 

It wasn’t a long walk to his home from there, barely even five minutes, but Sam’s head was buzzing with thoughts. Last night everything had been so hurried and he was the only one who could have helped her out. But what now?

He and Y/N had barely started talking. He still didn’t know what was going on in her head. Last night had changed all of that, at least for him. If it had been hard to not think about her before, it was damn well impossible now. She was consuming his every thought, shadowing every emotion. What if she remembered everything she had said last night? What if she’d actually meant those things?

“Don’t go” 

“Please… Nothing’s right when you’re not here.”

“Please, Sam, Don’t leave me. Promise me.”

Each time his name had fallen off her lips, it was like she was resurrecting his long dead heartbeat. He wanted to dare, he wanted to hope and believe that there was some chance.

But what if she didn’t remember anything at all? Sam knew that he would die inside if that happened. It was one thing to not feel hope, and another altogether to kill it with one's own hands. 

His mind was a cacophony of noises and emotions all warring against each other as he reached his house. On the door steps, sat a solitary figure, waiting for him.

“Jody?”

The sky was just starting to lighten. What was she doing here?

He frowned at her, wondering what on earth could have brought her here this early in the morning. She stared back evenly; there was none of the usual warmth in her eyes, instead they were full of distrust and disappointment.

“Jody, is everything okay?” 

“You tell me, Winchester,” she said, coming to stand right next to him, her stature severe.

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really?” She spat. “Don’t you think you’ve been acting differently? At first I thought, being by yourself was getting to you.”

“Jody, I seriously don’t understand.”

“Fine I’ll cut to the chase. Where were you last night?”

It was the last thing Sam had expected. He couldn't tell her the truth. Where would he even start with the truth? “I was-”

She raised her hand and Sam flinched at the hostile expression on her face. “Save it, Sam. I know exactly what you were doing last night. I saw you sitting on the bench outside the bar with that girl.”

Sam jerked upright.

“I’ve known you for years, Sam. Years. I taught you everything I knew. I’ve never been prouder of any student I’ve had and this is what you do with all that trust? This is how you abuse your power?”

Her words rang louder than they should have in Sam’s ears. “Jody-”

“Don’t even try to make excuses. At first, when I saw her in your office, I didn’t think anything of it. Sure, she looked close to tears, but a lot of freshmen are always anxious. But then I saw you in the library with her. The way you looked at Y/N? That’s not how a teacher looks at their student!” Jody looked disgusted. “And tonight? Y/N was clearly drunk, for Christ’s sake! How can you possibly justify the way you were holding her?”

“Because she’s my WIFE!” He shouted, breathing hard, feeling the heat coming off of his face. “I married her and I love her!” 

It was beyond cathartic to finally say those words out loud. Up until this point Sam hadn’t realised that since he had seen Y/N in his class, those very words had been strangling him, poisoning him. Now that he had finally said them, the strength in his legs gave away. He sat down on the steps with a thud.

Jody’s face had gone very white. “Sam…”

“Tonight was nothing more than me helping a girl who needed it. Nothing more than that,” he said through gritted teeth, blinking rapidly at the wetness on his lashes. “You know I respect you, Jody, but even you don’t get to tell me if I can hold my own wife.”

She sat down next to him, now at a complete loss of words. “Is this the same girl…?”

Sam nodded, unable to form words.

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” she said, drawing him close. “I didn’t know. You should have said something.”

“Said what?” He said through a thick throat, angry with himself for showing weakness now when he had held it together for so long. “That my wife who walked out on me years ago because she didn't trust me to save our marriage is suddenly back? As my student after six years? Is that what I should have declared when I didn’t even know if she wanted to see my face? Is that what I should’ve said?”

“Oh, you sweet boy. I’m so sorry,” Jody ran her hands over his shoulders. “Sorry that you’ve been suffering and sorry that I doubted you at all. You don’t need to say anything now. C’mere.”

Firmly she drew him towards her and threw her arms around his neck. Sam hugged back, closing his eyes tightly so that the tears rolled over into the cotton of her shirt.

“Shhhh…” she said. “It’s going to be alright.”

Sam didn’t know if there was any truth in her words, but he allowed himself to be comforted, allowed himself to draw some warmth from his oldest friend here. Allowed himself to start healing.

**************************  

A/N 2: *Wiggles eyebrows* Who all saw it coming? ;)

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[welllpthisishappening]

Welllp These Are Books: the April 2021 Edition

I did not read Romeo and Juliet this month. I read a bunch of other books. Like, a bunch. More than one series. Because Big Bang burnout is real and grown adults missing their deadlines is a real good way to stress me out. So, I read a bunch. Good books, very bad books, books that caused limbs to flail. For positive and not-so-positive reasons. Naturally, all those reasons must be shared. Under the cut with occasionally long and rant-prone reviews, as well as spoilers. Beware of spoilers under the cut. Please keep telling me what to read, internet. My library wish list is almost comically long now.

GIVE ME ALL THE WORLD BUILDING AND SNARK AND FIGHTING! WITH MAGIC! AND SWORDS! IT’S MY FAVORITE THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!

Shades of Magic Series by V.E. Schwab

Kell is one of the last Antari—magicians with a rare, coveted ability to travel between parallel Londons; Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black. After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. Now perilous magic is afoot, and treachery lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they'll first need to stay alive.

— Picture it, approximately twelve forty-seven am. My husband is asleep. I am reading. The second book in this series ends. And I say, right out loud, at what might now be twelve forty-eight am, HOLY SHIT IT JUST ENDED. Justin thought we were under attack. No man has ever snapped awake quicker. He was not pleased. At least not in the same way that I was about these books. Which I goddamn LOVED. Loved. The world building. The magic. The banter. Rhy and Kell’s relationship. Once more. RHY AND KELL’S RELATIONSHIP. Which I might have cared about more than the romance??? Maybe??? I cannot get over how good this world building was. I know people have quips with it, and that’s fair. I saw the “twist” coming in the first book, and I think trying to preserve that left some plot holes that are understandably frustrating. Because Lilah definitely needed depth perception to fight as well as she did. Also did Schwab really refer to her as a cross dresser in her author’s note? Yikes. She wore a dude’s jacket, like—c’mon V.E. Other than that though. I loved it. Also shout out to @peglegsjones for suggesting this one in my 2020 post and call out to me for taking so long to read it.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price—and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can't pull it off alone. . . . A convict with a thirst for revenge. A sharpshooter who can't walk away from a wager. A runaway with a privileged past. A spy known as the Wraith. A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums.  A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes.   Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz's crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction—if they don't kill each other first.

— I’ve talked about how little I cared about anything that happened in Shadow and Bone before, but I kept seeing gifs of the Crows in the Netflix show and my brain was like: huh, I could like them. So, after some help from the very helpful internet, I’m happy to report I do in fact like them. At one point, I slunk into the couch. Like that’s how overcome with emotion I was. Kaz ripped a dude’s eye out! For Inej! Matthias loved Nina’s laugh! I would like to hug Jesper. Seriously, this hit all my high points and world building and banter and I lol’ed at “scheming face.” I would like my hold to come through faster on the sequel.

THEY DID NOT CALL INTERMISSION HALFTIME AND MY COLLEGE EXPERIENCE WAS WAY DIFFERENT THAN THESE KIDS

The Off Campus Series by Elle Kennedy

Hannah Wells has finally found someone who turns her on. But while she might be confident in every other area of her life, she’s carting around a full set of baggage when it comes to sex and seduction. If she wants to get her crush’s attention, she’ll have to step out of her comfort zone and make him take notice…even if it means tutoring the annoying, childish, cocky captain of the hockey team in exchange for a pretend date. All Garrett Graham has ever wanted is to play professional hockey after graduation, but his plummeting GPA is threatening everything he’s worked so hard for. If helping a sarcastic brunette make another guy jealous will help him secure his position on the team, he’s all for it. But when one unexpected kiss leads to the wildest sex of both their lives, it doesn’t take long for Garrett to realize that pretend isn’t going to cut it. Now he just has to convince Hannah that the man she wants looks a lot like him.

— The first book in this series was free on Amazon. So, I read it. And really liked it??? It was so chock full of cliches and badly written tropes and Garrett probably should have accepted that Hannah didn’t want to go out at the start, but like—he was cute? And as we all know I am TRASH™ for stories set in the same verse, so, like, I just kept reading these trashy college hockey books. Trashy is a compliment here. God, these kids had so much sex. So much. An incredible amount, really. I once had a guy tell me he was physically attracted to me, but not emotionally attracted to me in college. Like, that was my college experience. The first and second books were the best, I think. I didn’t really like Dean that much.

MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS A RABBI???

The Intimacy Experiement by Rosie Danan

Naomi Grant has built her life around going against the grain. After the sex-positive start-up she cofounded becomes an international sensation, she wants to extend her educational platform to live lecturing. Unfortunately, despite her long list of qualifications, higher ed won't hire her. Ethan Cohen has recently received two honors: LA Mag nominated him as one of the city's hottest bachelors and he became rabbi of his own synagogue. Low on both funds and congregants, the executive board of Ethan's new shul hired him with the hopes that his nontraditional background will attract more millennials to the faith. They've given him three months to turn things around or else they'll close the doors of his synagogue for good. Naomi and Ethan join forces to host a buzzy seminar series on Modern Intimacy, the perfect solution to their problems--until they discover a new one--their growing attraction to each other. They've built the syllabus for love's latest experiment, but neither of them expected they'd be the ones putting it to the test.

— Ok, I know that sounds bad. Again, I’m a creature of predictable habit and this was the sequel to The Roommate, which I absolutely LOVED last year. But where as the relationship in that one was kind of swoony, this one was...I don’t know, really. Everyone was a well-rounded character and the plot was good, but there was this semi-invisible something that made it difficult for me to get fully on board with the whole story. Honestly, it might be because he was a religious figure?? Also, they got together real quick. Like zero to sixty in twenty-six seconds flat.

I KNOW IT’S BAD, IT WAS BAD AND YET—I CANNOT STOP READING IT???

Too Wild to Tame by Tessa Bailey

Sometimes you just can't resist playing with fire . . . By day, Aaron Clarkson suits up, shakes hands, and acts the perfect gentleman. But at night, behind bedroom doors, the tie comes off and the real Aaron comes out to play. Mixing business with pleasure got him fired, so Aaron knows that if he wants to work for the country's most powerful senator, he'll have to keep his eye on the prize. That's easier said than done when he meets the senator's daughter, who's wild, gorgeous, and 100 percent trouble. Grace Pendleton is the black sheep of her conservative family. Yet while Aaron's presence reminds her of a past she'd rather forget, something in his eyes keeps drawing her in. Maybe it's the way his voice turns her molten. Or maybe it's because deep down inside, the ultra-smooth, polished Aaron Clarkson might be more than even Grace can handle . . .

— Last month I read the first book in this series and it was absolutely ridiculous. This one even more so. The Clarksons are still on the road trip (sans one sibling because she fell in love in a week in the first book) and Aaron was, like, not a root’able character? Very Edward Cullen I’M A BAD GUY, BELLA vibes and his relationship with Grace was so strange. Super rushed again, obvs. Meeting in the woods is weird enough. Professing love forty-eight hours later is decidedly unbelievable. Also there was a kidnapping involved? I totally put a hold on the next book in the series.

COME UP WITH DIFFERENT TRAUMA, I DARE YOU! OR NO TRAUMA. WHAT A CONCEPT!!

The Trouble With Hating You by Sajni Patel

Liya Thakkar is a successful biochemical engineer, takeout enthusiast, and happily single woman. The moment she realizes her parents' latest dinner party is a setup with the man they want her to marry, she's out the back door in a flash. Imagine her surprise when the same guy shows up at her office a week later -- the new lawyer hired to save her struggling company. What's not surprising: he's not too thrilled to see her either after that humiliating fiasco.

Jay Shah looks good on paper...and off. Especially if you like that whole gorgeous, charming lawyer-in-a-good-suit thing. He's also infuriating. As their witty office banter turns into late-night chats, Liya starts to think he might be the one man who truly accepts her. But falling for each other means exposing their painful pasts. Will Liya keep running, or will she finally give love a real chance?

— I had such high hopes for this one. Which is on me, I guess. Because I didn’t hate this one, but it was...not great. Maybe I’m just getting old and crotchety but I am BEGGING romance writers to come up with different trauma for their female protagonists. Not every woman has to have been assaulted to rationalize their current personality. Doesn’t have to happen. Like, ok, yes it does happen. Far more than it should. But that’s an entirely different story, and I am so tired of female characters getting absolutely destroyed by their past only to have that be their defining characteristic for so much of the book. Until a nice man they were initially mean to shows up and he’s UNDERSTANDING and he CARES and it’s just, bleh. It’s bleh. Tired and predictable and I’m over it.

IN WHICH I SHOULD HAVE LOOKED AT THE COVER

Much Ado About You by Samantha Young

At thirty-three-years old Evangeline Starling’s life in Chicago is missing that special something. And when she’s passed over for promotion at work, Evie realizes she needs to make a change. Some time away to regain perspective might be just the thing. In a burst of impulsivity, she plans a holiday in a quaint English village. The holiday package comes with a temporary position at Much Ado About Books, the bookstore located beneath her rental apartment. There’s no better dream vacation for the bookish Evie, a life-long Shakespeare lover. Not only is Evie swept up in running the delightful store as soon as she arrives, she’s drawn into the lives, loves and drama of the friendly villagers. Including Roane Robson, the charismatic and sexy farmer who tempts Evie every day with his friendly flirtations. Evie is determined to keep him at bay because a holiday romance can only end in heartbreak, right? But Evie can’t deny their connection and longs to trust in her handsome farmer that their whirlwind romance could turn in to the forever kind of love.

— Ok, so I had had this book on hold for so long that I genuinely forgot about it and forgot who it was written by. Samantha Young wrote that one book that I called the worst book I had ever read. Only I did not realize that when I started reading this one. So, you see how this sets us up for disaster. Because this book was a disaster. Everyone was goddamn annoying. And whiny. Shit, everyone whined. About everything. Also, the actual writing was atrocious. I am not usually one to be like “men can’t write,” but at one point I told both @shireness-says and @optomisticgirl that this book must have been secretly written by a man because no woman writing it would be so obsessed with pointing out where her cellulite was. Like, what??? Also the first sex scene? Oh my God, I laughed. Guffawed. The so-called love interest literally asked: “Are we going to have sex now?” And then they just did. It was so bad. Also there was a dog? Who went everywhere with the so-called love interest. And they just never explained that? I thought it was going to be part of some crushing and depressing backstory. Nah, he was just there.

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS SO DUMB I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS WAS A BOOK! A BOOK MEANT FOR YOUNG ADULTS! WHAT IS YOUNG ADULT???

The Queen’s Secret by Melissa de la Cruz

Lilac's birthright makes her the Queen of Renovia, and a forced marriage made her the Queen of Montrice. But being a ruler does not mean making the rules. For Lilac, taking the throne means giving up the opportunity to be with love of her life, the kingdom's assassin, Caledon Holt. Worse, Cale is forced to leave the castle when a horrific set of magical attacks threatens Lilac's sovereignty. Now Cal eand Lilac will have to battle dark forces separately, even though being together is the only thing that's ever saved them.

— Remember last month when I was like: can’t wait for my hold to come through on this sequel so I know what happens? What an idiot. THIS BOOK WAS SO DUMB I CANNOT BELIEVE IT WAS A BOOK. As always in my rage-induced rants, no apologies for spoilers because seriously do NOT read this, but Lilac (legit, that was her name) married some other dude but just kept fucking Cale??? Like she had a secret door? So he could come in and they could fuck?? I just—oh my God. So, all these things kept happening. Magic and bad stuff and horses were killed. Lilac’s mother was the absolute WORST. Honestly the most worthless character who at one point was like “well, my story is over, guess it’s time to leave,” and then just left?? Forced Lilac into a marriage of alliance and no love and then everything evil was defeated in point two four seconds. It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure it happened. So, then I’m like, ok, how are Lilac and Cale going to end up together? Because this is YA and that’s how it’s supposed to work. Only her being married and that marriage requiring an heir is something of a rather large hurdle. Don’t worry! Remember when Lilac and Cale were fucking? Everyone totally knew. Including the king Lilac is married to. Who is somehow like...ok with this? And tells Cale that Lilac is pregnant. ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL! Sure, because now they can lie and claim its the king’s heir. ONLY IT’S CALE’S KID! AND CALE IS COOL WITH THIS! His entire internal monologue during this is about how he realizes he might not ever be able to tell his kid he’s their father, but he’ll be around and that’s good. Wait, what??? But there’s more! Not only is Lilac having Cale’s kid, but the king she’s married to is in love with one of Cale’s spy associates. So the king and the spy are going to go hang out (and presumably have their own kids) at one castle and Lilac and Cale are going to go to another. Lilac and the king never get divorced or annulled or whatever. Everyone stays as is and married as is and—they all live happily ever after? This was presented as a good ending, I swear. What the shit, guys, seriously.

[hateswifi]

Making Do (With What Life Gives Us): Part 2

Thank you for al the feedback from the first part, I would loves any asks you guys have for me, but without further ado, enjoy.

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It took a couple of weeks but Marinette got into a habit. They would wake up, get ready for school, Alfred would drive them, at the end of the school day Alfred would pick them up. They would eat a snack while doing homework, recently, Marinette had taken to learning Spanish from Jason and Romanian from Dick switching off. Sometimes, since she cooked for her mum, she would help Alfred in the kitchen. Other days Tim would try and teach her to be more organized, she was very frazzled before coming to live with the Waynes. Some other days when she had too much energy, Jason would take her out and show her how to live smarter, to be more observant, if Jason was too busy, Dick would teach her self defense and acrobatics. Being with the family also taught her that it wasn't right how her mum had treated her. She loved living with the Waynes and constantly thought about what it would be like to live with them permanently.

She is now ten, two years since she started living with them, and is known around Gotham as Sunshine Princess. Not many people know what she looks like, Bruce wanted her to have her privacy to heal and be a kid. Every year on her birthday she had convinced the family to keep the parties small, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself. She was finally the happy girl she was supposed to be. That was until something changed, well she wasn't really unhappy with the change it was just new. Bruce brought home someone. The person he brought home was grumpy, bigger than her, standoffish, and a bit mean. His name is Damian, and as he won't let anyone forget, he's Bruce's one true heir and blood relative. She tried to be nice to him, but he always grumbled that he didn't want or need her pity.

Something else changed, she also figured out that her family is the heroes of Gotham. Well, she had known for some time but acted oblivious because she wanted to hear them tell her. Now here she was standing face to face with the newest Robin, Damian.

"If I win, you have to be nicer to me and you have to try some of the food I've been cooking," Marinette said, stretching out her arms and then got into fighting position.

"Just one, I don't want to see you cry. If I win, you have to be my servant for three days. That includes carrying my backpack around school and getting me my breakfast," Damian says, proudly. This is going to be easy, might as well have some fun before the takedown.

"You're gonna eat those words," Marinette smirked. Damian guessed she was going to go to the legs. Her position leaving one side open. Damian went to attack her open side. He grabbed her arm, a smirk spreading across his face. As he was trying to drag her down her, she jumped up and kicked the side of the face. As he was falling from the force, she grabbed his arm and pinned it behind his back and now he was on the ground. "You're eating your words like you're eating the grass." She then got up and walked away. Damian stayed down his arm still behind his back.

Later that day, Damian walked into the kitchen, sporting a black eye. "Hey, little D what happened?" Dick says, looking at the boy. A bowl of food, Marinette told him to try, was sitting on the island.

"The little 'angel' kicked me," Damian grumbled, sitting on the stool. He grumbled looking at the food. For a bit, Damian just pushed his food around.

"Ya know D, she's nice. She has little reason to be, but she is," Dick said, standing and taking the bowl. Marinette had made him too.

"I've been through worse, and she doesn't need to be nice to me. I don't want her pity," Damian grumbled.

"It's not pity, it's just how she is. Did you know yesterday she came to me and asked where you came from. She wanted you to feel more at home," Dick says, leaving the kitchen. Damian's eyes widen, he looks closer at the food, its tabbouleh. He feels a bit better about trying it now. He tries it, the flavors mixing perfectly. It reminds him of one of the few times he got to leave the base on a mission. He quickly finished the rest. He just sat staring at the empty bowl.

A little while after he finished eating, Marinette walked into the kitchen. "I didn't think you would still be here," She says, taking her bowl out of the fridge. She sits on a stool beside him.

"Are you... Would you make more or different food again?" Damian said slowly.

"I make a lot of food that I would like you to try now that it isn't forced," Marinette explained, swinging her legs with a smile.

"Can... can I try your cooking? It's adequate," Damian said, composing himself.

"Of course Damian! Sorry about the black eye," Marinette said. Up until the day CPS came, Marinette would make food and he would try it. At school, they became practically inseparable whenever someone would try and bully Marinette, Damian would stop them. When Damian would get too close to losing his temper and murdering someone, she would calm him down. Marinette had become Ladybird along with when Damian became Robin. They moved in sync and for preteens they were feared as a pair. The days before Marinette was taken Damian had almost lost his temper many times toward his classmates, strangers, and people he met, and beat up, on patrol.

"I.. .I.. don't want to go," Marinette had said tears streaming down her face. "Please, Dad, why can't I stay with you guys?"

"I'm sorry, Princess, I thought we could keep you," Bruce said, squatting down to hug her. After they broke the hug, Damian brought her into a hug. The other sibling stood shocked, they normally had to force affection on to Damian, but he willingly hugged Marinette and didn't want to let go.

"You're an Angel. I didn't deserve to have you in my life but I still need you here. Please don't leave," Damian said, leaning down his head into Marinette's shoulder.

"Marinette, it's time to go. The plane will be taking off soon," the social worker said, grabbing Marinette's hand. As she was pulled away, she looked back at the people that had grown to be her family. Damian and her brother's face were tear-stained. Damian reached out, just to be held back by Bruce.

"Marinette!" the social worker says, bringing her back to the present. "The plane is landing, your new parents will meet us there. They're very nice, they live on top of their family-owned bakery."

"That's nice I guess, do they have any kids? I'm used to a lot of siblings," Marinette responds quietly.

"No... that's why they adopted you. They wanted to have children but were unable to have any," she reassured, smiling.

"I miss my family, my dad, and my best friend," Marinette answered her voice wavering.

"It's ok you're going to get a new dad!" she responded, trying to reassure the girl.

"But I want my dad! I don't want a new one," Marinette said, sobbing.

"It's ok sweetie," She said, hugging the poor girl. As they got off the plane, Marinette's sobs subsided. There two people that greeted the social worker. They talk for a minute before, who she suspects, her new parents look at her. A big man and a small woman lean down in front of her, she had been looking at the floor to hide her red puffy eyes.

"Hi, honey, my name is Sabine, this is my husband Tom," Sabine said. "Why don't we go grab your stuff so you can get settled in."

"Ok," Marinette said, keeping her eyes to the floor. She slowly walks to the carousel, where her big pink suitcase was coming around.

"Wow those are quite the suitcases," Tom said with a deep laugh.

"My dad always overdid stuff, after all, I am his Princess," Marinette said with a slight smile. They grab the suitcases and head to the car and Marinette's new life.

"How old are you dear?" Sabine asked.

"I just turned twelve a couple of months ago, Dad went overboard with the party," Marinette answered.

"What's your favorite food and color?" Tom asked, looking at her in the mirror.

"Well, my favorite food is the first thing I made for Damian, tabbouleh. My favorite color is pink," Marinette answered.

"So what was your foster family life?" Sabine asks, looking back at the girl, who is now her daughter.

"I lived with Alfred, who is like a grandfather to me, Bruce my dad, well he was like my dad, my four brothers, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian. Damian is my best friend and I promised to call him later. I loved living with them. Dick taught me how to speak Romanian and acrobatics. We would play on the bars that Dad added in for Dick. Jason taught me Spanish and how to stand up for myself. Tim taught me to be observant and how to be organized. One of the first times I met Damian we fought and I won. Part of the bet was he had to try my food. We became food friends!" Marinette answered with a laugh, reminiscing on the good times.

"Well that sounds like so much fun, sweetie," Tom responded. "I would love to meet the people that made you so happy."

"I don't know when I can see them in person again, they're quite busy people," Marinette explained, looking out the window as they move by houses.

"I would imagine with that many kids?" Sabine laughed. "When we get home would you like something to eat?"

"I haven't eaten since last night," Marinette said her stomach grumbling. (Not cliche or expected at all)

"We have many pastries, but I would understand if you want something more hearty after being on a plane all day," Tom said.

"I'm vegetarian by the way. After Damian adopted a cow he went vegetarian. I decided to support him because he's my best friend and I love him so much!!" Marinette said, laughing.

"Well that's sweet," Sabine answered, smiling. "We'll support you, dear."

When they got to her new home, Sabine handed her a strawberry macaroon and showed her to her room. Marinette put her clothes in the draws and put her favorite cat stuffy on her bed. Jason had won her it at the annual summer fair. It is one of her favorite possessions.

It was near the end of the summer and she was being sent to Collège Françoise Dupont. She was lucky that she was learning French at Gotham Academy. Her dad was sending over some more of the stuff she couldn't fit in her suitcases or couldn't take on the plane. Marinette climbed up onto her new bed and cried. She cried over missing her brothers. Over her best friend. Her mother who she learned didn't love her. He father her left. Her dad showed his love for her even though they had no relation. She wanted to go home, she missed her family. She wanted to cook something for Damian and for him to pretend that she was an annoyance even though deep down inside he loved her.

She heard the creaking of the trap door. She heard the concerned mumbling of her adopted parents. What seemed like a couple of minutes turned out to be hours when Sabine and Tom called her for dinner.

She walked down the stairs and sat down at the island with her new family. "So we made lime stuffed peppers. I hope you enjoy it," Tom said, sitting beside Marinette.

"This is very good! Maybe tomorrow I can make my favorite meal for you guys to try for dinner?" Marinette asks, cutting the pepper.

"That would be wonderful dear," Sabine said, smiling. They finish dinner in light conversation. After everyone is finished eating, Marinette offers to clean the dishes. Sabine and Tom insist that they do it. They promise tomorrow they'll take her out to sightsee and to get groceries to make dinner.

The days turned into weeks and school started. She was in Ms. Bustiers' class. Ms. Bustier has free seating, she sat in front next to a blonde girl.

“Hi my name is Marinette and I just moved here a couple of weeks ago. What’s your name?” Marinette asked the girl as she filed her nails.

“Well that’s ridiculous utterly ridiculous, you don’t know who I am?! I’m thee Chloe Bourgeois daughter of the Mayor of Paris and Style Queen,” the girl- Chloe- scoffed.

“Well it’s nice to meet you,” Marinette said her mood a bit soured.

“Wish I could say the same,” Chloe fires with an eye roll.

‘Whatever if I can get the Prince of Assassins to be friends with me, I bet I can get a prideful girl to be my friend,’ she thought to herself, she just had to wait for the perfect moment.

The perfect moment came at lunchtime. As she was leaving the locker room to go home, she heard Chloe on the phone.

“So you can’t come to lunch?” Chloe sniffled quietly. “Oh… ok, I get it, mama,” Marinette paused and walked over to where the girl sat.

“Umm... my... mama is making baked falafel for lunch, would you like to join us?" Marinette asks.

"Why would I hang out with you?" Chloe sneers, crossing her arms.

"Because I've been here for less than a day and I can see that you don't have many friends. I'm new and I don't have friends yet, so why don't we be friends?" Marinette says. "At least come to lunch with me, no one should eat alone." Chloe stood up reluctantly and let herself be pulled by the girl.

"Mama, Papa!" Marinette said bursting through the door. Sabine and Tom froze, Marinette had never called them that before. "I brought home my classmate Chloe!"

"That's nice dear, will she be eating lunch? Also welcome to our home, you can call Sabine," Sabine asked.

"If you don't mind," Marinette responded.

"Ok sweetie, lunch is upstairs," Tom said. "Nice to meet you, Chloe. You can call me Tom."

"Thank you, Sabine, Tom, for welcoming me to your home," Chloe answered, quietly. Then follows Marinette upstairs. "Your house is nice and is very homey," Chloe notes.

"Well, they're very nice and I guess its perks of living above a bakery," Marinette shrugs, taking the food from the oven. "Bon Appetit."

They sit in silence for a while before Chloe says, "This is very good!"

"Sab-- mama, learned to cook more vegetarian things for me," Marinette said with a smile.

"That's nice, the chefs cook me whatever I like... but it's never as good as this," Chloe sighs.

"Because this is made with love," Marinette smiled. She picked up the plates when they were done eating and put them in the dishwasher. "Want to see my room?"

"Oh.. um sure," Chloe answered before following Marinette up more stairs. Marinette had been allowed to paint her room pink. Her dad sent over her little area rug, her chaise, her sewing machine, her mannequin, and a bunch of pictures. She set up all her pictures by her desk, the mannequin stood in the corner near her floor-length mirror, and the chaise under the wind with the area rug next to the chaise.

"I like it, the room may be a bit small but you used your space wisely," Chloe said, looking up at her bed.

"Tim taught me to be organized, that helped when I was deciding where to put things," Marinette said, sitting down in one of her spinny chairs.

"Who's Tim?" Chloe asked. sitting down on the chaise.

"Someone I know, but that's not too important right now," Marinette said vaguely, she didn't know if she could trust her new friend yet.

"I get it, you don't want to share your life with a stranger," Chloe said, standing. "We should head back to school soon."

When they were on their way back, Marinette's phone rang. Without a second thought, she picked it up. "Bonjour c'est, Marinette." She paused before changing to English. "Damian? How have you been? That's good. Sabine made baked falafel, yes I've stayed vegetarian." They were now walking into school and she was getting a couple of weird looks for speaking in English. "You already know I got the stuff Dad sent. Has anything new been happening on patrol lately? Don't worry, I'm speaking in English and I'm talking quietly. Sorry Dami, I gotta go class is going to start soon. Bye love you! Tell everyone I miss them!"

"So who was that?" Chloe asks, taking her seat.

Still in English Marinette starts to answer, "That was my--- sorry. That was my best friend Damian."

"And he's from America?" Chloe asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Ya, I lived with them for a bit this summer," Marinette says.

"I guess you're going to pass English, would you help me? I'm not the best at it," Chloe asks, shyly.

"Only if you help me with my French, I still sometimes mess up," Marinette smiled.

"Deal," Chloe said, holding out her hand for a fist bump.

After that, they became friends even though Chloe wouldn't admit it. When it came time for the class election, Marinette and Chloe won with flying colors. They were unstoppable and people almost feared the pair. Marinette helped Chloe be a better person, and Chloe helped finish teaching her to be stronger. Marinette taught Chloe self-defense and they would spar together. By now, it’s the beginning of November when Marinette had a great idea.

“Mama, may I go home for Thanksgiving?” Marinette had asked looking up at her new mama.

“Umm… why don’t we talk to Papa and your Dad,”

Sabine reassured patting her head.

Marinette ran upstairs and video called her family. “Hi, Dad!!” She said cheerfully waving at the camera.

“Hi princess how have you been?” Bruce asked.

“Pretty good, Chloe and I are planning a winter dance for our class. Oh… the whole reason I called… can I come home for Thanksgiving?” She asked.

“That would be wonderful, Princess, just get permission from Tom and Sabine. If they give permission, I’ll call them about dates and flights,” Bruce explained.

“Ok dad, don’t tell any of the rest of them about me coming through, I want it to be a surprise!” Marinette exclaimed.

“Marinette, dear, it’s time for dinner,” Sabine said.

“Bye Dad! I gotta go, Sabine, is calling me,” Marinette said, hanging up.

Bruce sighed as the call disconnected. He remembered the first time she called him Dad. It had after her first birthday with them. She had passed out on the couch being too tired to walk to bed. Bruce picked her.

“Mmmm night... night Dad,” Marinette said dreamily. He froze and looked down at the bluenette she thought of him as her dad. He continued walking with a smile and tucked her in.

“Was that Marinette?” Dick asked, entering Bruce’s office.

“Yes she was talking about her friend and her planning a winter social,” Bruce responds. The next day, when all the kids had gone to school and Dick to college, Bruce received the call he was hoping for, Sabine and Tom called.

“So we discussed and decided that it would benefit Marinette to go to the states for Thanksgiving,” Tom said, a hint of sadness spilling through.

“I’m glad to hear, what day would it work for her to fly over because I was thinking the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Then she would fly back Saturday morning,” Bruce explained. “And of course all expenses would be paid in full she could come over on the private jet.”

"Marinette never truly explained who you are, but you're important enough to have a private jet? Who are you?" Tom asks.

"Well, I'm surprised Marinette never mentioned who I am, but I guess that's because she was raised to observe before letting her walls down. Her mother hurt her mentally and when she came to live with my family, she let her walls down a bit too fast and we taught her how to protect herself. I'm guessing, since how we raised her, she doesn't bring it up to be used against us," Bruce explained. "Well, I am Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprises."

"You had the power to keep her, but you let her go," Sabine realizes.

"My power wasn't enough to keep my Princess. CPS said I was unfit to adopt anyone until I married. I didn't realize someone you guys were looking into adopting her until it was too late," Bruce admits. "I would have done anything to keep her here in Gotham. My boys love her, my eldest three as a little sister, and my youngest as a best friend. I'm just glad that she's making you both happy and that you're willing to let her come home for a bit. Thank you for giving me more time with my princess and my daughter."

"Thank you for helping her become the girl she is today," Sabine said a watery smile spreading across her face.

"Have a good day," Bruce said before hanging up. As time grew closer to Thanksgiving, Alfred started making up her room while the boys were gone. Marinette could barely sit still, randomly while at home she would break out in an excited rant in one of her many languages. The day of her flight came and Chloe, Sabine, and Tom came to see her off at the airport.

"Mari! You've been holding out on me! A private jet! You have some explaining to do," Chloe said, faking hurt.

"I'll explain when I get back, please send me pics of the thing I need to do for class. I don't want to get too behind," Marinette said, hugging the blonde.

"Thank you, Sabine, Tom, I'll see you soon. I'll call you when I get a chance at a reasonable hour," Marinette said, hugging her parents.

"Goodbye sweetie, see you soon," Sabine said.

"We'll hold you to that call," Tom said.

"Love you all, bye!" Marinette said, climbing the stairs onto the plane.

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Tag list:

@northernbluetongue @chocolatecatstheron @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @gwennex

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter VIII]

Word count:  5,459

Warnings: none

Pairing: Dracula x female reader

AO3 link

A/N: Not much Dracula in this chapter and I apologise for it! I'm trying to progress the story while keeping it entertaining. Still hope you can enjoy it. 

Also, as I was reviewing this I realised not everyone might get a reference I threw in there (you'll know when). If you're curious about what I'm referring to, just watch this clip at the 2:40 mark (do NOT watch it around other people).

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My gaze crossed with his over the table. He took a knight between two fingers, hovering in the air in thought. The dull light of a cloudy day streamed in at our right, creating shadows on the chessboard and making the pieces look bigger than they actually were. My eyes flickered to the ticking clock next to the chess board and then back to his. He frowned at my smirk. The knight hung ominously over my remaining bishop and I raised an eyebrow.

“I taught you that,” Renfield complained, pointing his knight at me. “It doesn’t work on me.”

The clock chimed, signaling that his time was over. I gave him a toothy grin as he stared in shock at the sequence of zeros on display. With his clock zeroed, mine started counting down from 3 minutes. 

“Doesn’t it?” I giggled, plucking the white knight from between his limp fingers and placing on the square it had been before. I pushed a black rook forward across the chessboard very slowly, the prospect of victory swelling inside me and making me outright laugh at the defeat on his face. I knocked the knight I’d just placed with my piece, leaving nothing in between his king and my rook. Renfield pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and swore as I retrieved the downed piece. “Good luck getting out of this. Check.”

I clicked the button on top of my clock to finish my move. Renfield stiffened, shooting me a cold look.

“When did you get so devious?”

“Don’t be a sore loser. You won all the past matches! This loss will be good for you, you’ll learn humility.”

“Funny,” he said, although he didn’t laugh, shifting his calculating eyes back to the chessboard.

Renfield supported an elbow on the table, fingers resting on his temple, like he was conspiring against a prosecution. I blinked, trying to stop the smile that threatened to overcome my mouth. Were it not for the sterile environment and the annoying ambient music, I could’ve thought we were back at work. My phone buzzed on top of the table, attracting both of our gazes. 

“Is that Count Dracula?” He inquired, gaze focused on the chessboard again, doing an excellent job of sounding uninterested. 

“Of course not, it’s ten in the morning,” I said as I reached for the mobile. “Isn’t he supposed to be in his cof--uh, bed?” I corrected, glancing at the nurse, Margaret, sitting not far from us. She had her head buried in a magazine but every once in a while I would catch her leaning her ear closer.

“He’s got a regular bed, Y/N,” he murmured, rolling his eyes. 

I unlocked my phone.

“I know. It was a j--” 

“Oh, do you?”

“Are you twelve?” I snapped and Renfield giggled, only reinforcing my suspicion. “Time is flying,” I indicated the chessboard and Renfield stopped laughing. I blew out a breath as I read the text that had made my phone buzz. “Since when is Evelyn getting married?”

“She sent the invites ages ago.”

“She did?” I raised my eyebrows, trying to remember if I’d seen it in my pile of mail back at home. “We work in the same office. Couldn’t she have hand delivered it?” He shot me a look. “I see what you mean. She thinks she’s bloody Posh Spice.”

Renfield’s hand stopped mid-air, on his way to move a rook but changed his mind at the last second, tapping his temple again. 

“Who?”

“Oh, you’ll get on my case about Dracula like you’re a schoolgirl but don’t know who Posh Spice is?” 

Nurse Margaret snickered, raising her magazine to conceal her affected grin, only confirming my suspicion that she could hear snippets of our conversation.

“The Beckham girl, of course I know,” Renfield glanced at Margaret, furrowing his brow. “I was very absorbed in my game and wasn’t listening,” he uttered the last bit louder, staring directly at the nurse. Her face became as red as a tomato. She skittered up from the couch she’d been sitting on, moving swiftly towards the nurse station on the other side of the room. Once she was out of earshot, Renfield said, “Is Evelyn asking you to RSVP?”

“Do I have to?” I grimaced. “The wedding isn’t even in London. I don’t like her and I have to travel all the way to Berkeley?”

“You know you have to.”

“Maybe I’ll get the flu. An aneurysm, if I’m lucky!”

“Her surname is on our calling card, Y/N.”

“Damn it.”

Renfield just looked at me and I slumped down on my chair. It didn’t matter if I was winning at chess when I was absolutely being defeated in this subject. I couldn’t not go to Evelyn Seymour’s wedding, the only remaining direct descendant of Edward Seymour, one of our firm’s original founders in 1821. Her surname was first in line when talking about the most prestigious law firm in London, followed by Sterling and May. From birth, she had a seat reserved for her at the firm, her birthright if I wanted to get poetic about it. Although her surname didn’t instantly grant her power over the entire business, she treated everyone like it did and that was precisely why I didn’t like her. My arrogance was an easily dispensed front but Evelyn’s owed hers to bad parenting, if I had to guess. 

“I can’t go, obviously. I imagine all the other partners will be there, except me,” Renfield sighed and set the piece he had on his fingers to the side. He leaned forward, peering at me over his spectacles. “It’s only proper that you go to represent me,” he lifted a hand before I could protest. “Yes, you. Y/N, you’re my sole pupil I’ve taken in 30 years at that firm and only because the other partners forced me to,” he scoffed. “I was less than happy with this at the beginning, as you well know, but it’s the one thing I can be proud of in my many years of practise. As I’ve been told by many people, I’m uncaring, rude and outright despicable at times. I struggle to find many redeeming qualities in myself, although you seem to pick them out effortlessly. Somehow, under my tutelage you’ve grown to be a brilliant lawyer and, while all credit can’t be mine, I believe I’ve had a finger at shaping you into the person you’re today, which is infinitely better than me,” he cleared his throat and removed his spectacles, suddenly interested in cleaning its lenses on his shirt. “Regardless of what’s come between us, I will have nobody else representing me at that wretched woman’s wedding. It will serve her well, too, for spurning you for so many years. Let’s not spare her our spite, shall we? Do try and sneak a picture of her face at the wedding party when you sit at the partners’ table. It will do wonders for my recovery.”

I used my ring fingers to tap the inner corners of my eyes, containing the tears that threatened to spill over. 

“Damn you,” I sniveled and laughed.

“Yes, well. I had to say something to convince you to go. Did it work?”

That, that was the Frank Renfield I knew. He had to still be in there, whole. His eyes were just blue, without a trace of otherness behind them as he spoke, and I grappled onto that to remain firm on my quest against Count Dracula, no matter how unlikely the odds against me.

“Of course it bloody worked. Will you try to kill me again if I give you a hug?”

He put his spectacles on, summoning a serious expression although his eyes were still welled up. 

“Let me win this match and I’ll do it. No promises if I lose.”

“Do your best, then,” I smiled, gesturing to the board. 

He averted his gaze to each of our pieces, analysing their positions. I left him to his devices while I typed a text back to Evelyn.

“Do you have a dress in mind?”

“Um,” I made, scrolling the screen up to check when the ceremony began. A twilight wedding should be pretty. It wasn’t the easiest time of day to choose a dress befitting of it, though. Not too fancy and not too simple wasn’t something one usually found in London’s evening wear stores. “I might have to go and get one.”

“Wear purple. It’s Evelyn’s favourite colour and she’ll be wearing white on her wedding day. Imagine her face--”

“Christ, you’re a teenage girl. How have I never noticed it before?”

“I’d been reading celebrity magazines before you brought me my books. They got to me. I’m still not over their effects, it seems,” he shuddered.

I chuckled and sent the text to Evelyn, confirming I would be there.

“Purple it is then. It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. I’ll see if Diana wants to go with me, I’ll make her wear purple, too.”

I put my phone aside just in time to see Renfield’s next move. 

“I heard that Evelyn’s fiancée is rich but not the most fetching gent. If you really want to send her into fits, take Count Dracula as your plus one. Checkmate.”

My mouth fell open as I watched him replace my king with a pawn. A pawn, of all things. I glanced between the chessboard and Renfield’s conceited grin, trying to find out how on Earth he managed to pull that off. Had I not taken that pawn into account? 

“Sneaky bastard,” I said, stunned. “I wanted a win!”

“Better luck next time, I guess. At least you get a hug as a consolation prize.”

I looked at him, shaking my head.

“I’ll take it but what I’ll not take is Count Dracula to the wedding, no matter how much I want to annoy Evelyn.”

Renfield leaned back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. 

“You’re still resisting him?”

“Please, don’t sound surprised,” I frowned. “You know I don’t take well to being underestimated.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t offend you like that,” he gave me a smile which disappeared a second later. “Frankly, I’m more surprised that he hasn’t just taken you for himself,” his voice grew thicker as he spoke.

“He won’t do that unless I give him consent.”

“And you think he won’t break that deal of yours if he grows tired of waiting?” he tilted his head like a bug.

I narrowed my eyes. His eyes had lost the bright shine that I was so used to seeing, especially when we were in court, and acquired a dreary gleam that immediately sent a shiver through me. I could only suppose that my refusal to take Count Dracula as my plus one was what set him off. From now on, I presumed that whatever I told him would be reported to his “master” so I had to choose my words with diligence.

“I’d like to think he respects me enough to keep to our deal.” 

Renfield chortled, a sound so unnatural to him that I almost doubted it came out of his throat.

“I do wonder,” he started between a few more laughs, “how is it that you manage to resist him. I thought it virtually impossible.”

“There’s a disconnect, I think, between mind and body for whatever concerns Count Dracula. My body responds in one way,” my mouth went dry as I thought about his mouth on my neck and I shook my head, “but I’m still quite capable of seeing what he is.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t have to explain it to you, do I? You told me that you have love for him,” I said and he nodded, “if that’s so, you love everything in him, even the worst parts. People love the whole while acknowledging the bad and choose to ignore it. So you know that he’s a manipulative monster who has killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people simply for the fun of it and--” I interrupted myself before I got carried away by my bitterness.

I shut my eyes, taking a moment to allow the rising wave of emotion to settle. The tightening on my throat told me there was more than bitterness but I wouldn’t trouble myself with exploring what that meant. Not now in front of Renfield. 

“Y/N,” Renfield said my name with such gentleness that my eyes shot open and when I stared at him, I was met with the dark blue eyes I had grown accustomed to. He had leaned forward, an open hand extended to me over the table. I put my hand in his without a second thought. “I understand that it’s hard but do yourself a favour and surrender. Surrender with arms wide open or he’ll hurt you and those around you. Listen to me. He will. He might shower you with what you think is affection and perhaps you’ll find yourself falling for him,” he squeezed my hand in his when I started shaking my head in denial, “but at some point he’ll become impatient if you keep stalling and he’ll do it. There is no way out.”

“I know,” my voice didn’t come out, so I tried again, “I know.”

People were supposed to have choices. And while I didn’t want to be hurt more than I already was, I had to try. I had to be free of Count Dracula. If what Renfield said was true, how could I possibly be with someone who was just as willing to care for me as he was to hurt me? 

My phone rang. Recognising Zoe’s number, I grabbed it and stood up. My hand and Renfield’s were still joined and I used it as leverage to bring him into a hug, forcing him to stand up. He stiffened for a second but then his arms went around me, patting my back awkwardly. His heart beat steadily and I smiled into the hug.

“See you later,” I said as I stepped back, holding tightly to his forearms. “I’ve got to run to lunch with a friend.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’s on the other side of London,” I lied. “You’re doing better. Keep doing whatever it is they have you doing here.”

“Not like I have a choice,” he said.

I almost asked him if he even wanted a choice since he was a willing slave but decided against it by giving him a smile and leaving. 

________________________________________________

“News?” Zoe asked me as she organised vials inside her briefcase.

I rolled down my sleeve and let my hair down now that we were done doing ‘business’. I settled myself on a more comfortable position which wasn’t difficult since Zoe’s car was the epitome of comfort.

“He came by,” I said, putting on my courtroom face. Zoe whipped her head around towards me, frowning. “Out of nowhere. It’s not like I could have told him to hold on and call you.”

“Where did he take you?”

“We stayed in and watched telly.”

“Watched telly? That’s it?” She questioned, closing her briefcase and letting it slide to her feet, near the car’s pedals. I shrugged. “You swear?”

Her disapproving tone reminded me of my mother’s and I scowled.

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“You have every reason to lie to me. Last time we met, you told me there was a bond between you two. Had I known this in the first place, I would--”

“Would what? Waste a perfectly good opportunity to capture Dracula because of a damned bond that’s not even my fault?” I raised my eyebrows at her and she pressed her lips in a fine line. “I’m not on his side. Or yours, for that matter. I could care less about the importance of your research, Zoe. I haven’t questioned the Jonathan Harker Foundation, have I? It’s shady business but it’s not my business. All I want is to be out of danger.” A tiny part of me questioned where would be the fun in that and I pushed it aside. That had to be the bond making its presence known. “We watched films together. Period.”

I stared at Zoe, waiting for her to chew on that.

There was no need for her to know about what happened halfway through Interview with the Vampire. Or about him carrying me to bed. After my encounter with Renfield, I wanted to forget how lovely it felt, sleeping on the Count’s arms. Dracula hadn’t done that for anyone’s benefit except his. I had to understand that.

“I don’t know if what I’m about to say will make you happy, considering-- nevermind,” Zoe shook her head. “With the samples you’ve been giving me, I’m close to synthesizing a pill that can possibly block his access to a person’s memories.”

“Possibly?”

“We’re still in initial stages of trials but it’s not like we can be certain of anything without the Count in our custody. However, I’m almost sure this pill will definitely work on you since it's being manufactured based on your genetic data.”

“Possibly and almost won’t keep him from killing me if he is able to read my memories.”

“We’re working on it, Y/N,” Zoe bit out. “One of the side effects, however, is short term memory loss. It only lasts for as long as the pill’s in effect but I’m doing my best to mitigate it.”

“What are the other side effects?”

“Heartburn, headache and mild paranoia, usually specific to loud sounds. So far that’s what we’ve got from our human subjects. None of those symptoms last very long either,” she paused, examining me. “Does Count Dracula trust you?”

“I don’t think he trusts anyone. I think he regards me… differently… than he does other people.”

“Why do you think that?”

I thought about the haunting sorrow I’d seen in Count Dracula’s eyes when he spoke about his late wife and how he immediately shut down after that. I doubted he had told many people about her.

“I just do,” I shrugged. “How long until you can give me this pill?”

“A month, if nothing goes wrong. You’d be willing to use it?”

“Can you get it ready in two weeks?”

“Two weeks! Why?”

I took a deep breath for what I was about to say.

“There’ll be a wedding, up in Berkeley. It’ll be in Berkeley Castle--”

“Huge place.”

“Exactly. I’ll take Count Dracula as my plus one. Everyone will be focused on the party and there’ll be plenty of opportunities for you to capture him--”

“We haven’t planned anything, Y/N,” Zoe interrupted, shaking her head vehemently. “It’s too soon. No, no. Absolutely not. We’ll get killed, not to say about the possible collateral damage with the guests. No.”

“We won’t get many chances like this,” the words stumbled out of my mouth in my hurry to get them out before I regretted this. “Berkeley is our best bet. Dracula will be distracted. I’ll do my very best to guarantee it. I’ll even pull a Sharon Stone if I have to. Just, please.”

“Y/N, no. I told you. It took months of planning until we could move on him and get him out of the sea. This has to be rehearsed. We would need a team of people infiltrated at the wedding, a deep knowledge of the property, not to mention contingencies set in place… It’s too much work for only two weeks.”

“I don’t care!” I slapped my thigh in frustration. “I’ll be hanging on his arm all night. If he senses something is off, I’ll know and we drop the plan. We’ve got to try.”

Zoe frowned at me.

“Why are you suddenly so desperate?”

I straightened on my seat and cleared my throat. 

“He’ll grow bored of me, eventually,” I said, remembering Renfield’s sudden sympathy. “There’s no way we can know when, so I’d like to be rid of him sooner rather than later. If we wait too long I might be having this same conversation with you in a few months except I’ll have fangs on my mouth. Or not at all, in which case I’ll be six feet under.”

If I was to take everything Renfield said into account, it scared me. However, I was more frightened at the idea of losing control over the bond. Losing control over myself. From day one, sordid ideas about Count Dracula drinking my blood had pestered me. Whenever I was around him I found myself captivated by him, almost beyond reasoning. Like I always had an unseen force pushing me towards him and consuming me with nothing except raw craving. Never in my entire life had I felt such forceful desire and it terrified me. The leash, as Count Dracula had put it so well at the museum, could break at any second and I wasn’t ready for it to happen yet.

“Get your phone,” Zoe said at last.

“What for?”

“To see if we can find clear pictures of Berkeley Castle’s grounds and decide on a possible course of action,” Zoe said matter-of-factly as she secured her hair on a ponytail.

The turmoil inside me calmed down, for the most part. 

“So we’re doing it?”

“Only, and only if I can have this pill done by then. If not, I’m calling it off.”

I flashed her a smile as I pulled my phone from my back pocket.

“I’ll take that.”

“Were you serious when you said that about Sharon Stone? About the Basic Instinct thing?” Zoe made a face but there was nothing in her eyes if not amusement. 

“God, no,” I said and she raised an eyebrow. “Last resort thing only, if it comes to that.”

Zoe laughed, shaking her head to the sides at me.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too.”

As our laughter died down, we dove into every website we could find that had pictures of Berkeley Castle. We struck gold when the property’s floor plan and aerial view simply popped up during our Google search. According to Berkeley Castle’s own website, wedding ceremonies usually took place in the Great Hall or outside on the gardens. The reception was almost always hosted inside the castle.

Zoe’s phone ringing momentarily interrupted us. Gaze still focused on my phone’s screen, she answered her own without checking who the caller was.

“Hello?” Zoe stiffened at once, listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. “Jack. Jack. Jack, calm down, I can’t understand you,” the voice grew loud enough for me to make out the words “friends”, “Foundation” and “suicide”. I remained focused on my phone, scrolling through pictures, like I hadn’t heard anything. “No, I didn’t know. Where are you? Okay, stay there. I’m on my way and then we’ll talk.”

After more reassurances, Zoe ended the call and looked at me.

“Go. We can do this some other time,” I told her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Well, no. No. One of my students at the Foundation,” she gestured to her phone, “needs me. An emergency. I have to go. Now, actually.”

She would’ve made a terrible lawyer. Terrible voice pitch when she lied and with the way she babbled, she would be eaten alive in a courtroom. I would’ve wiped the floor with her. From what I could tell, this was the first time I had caught her in a lie and I wondered why now. I could ascribe it to the dodginess surrounding anything to do with the Foundation but my intuition told me there was more to it. 

Prying would probably result in more lies. 

“Of course,” I said, flashing her a brief smile, “I understand. Call me when you can.”

______________________________________________________________

My ears buzzed inside the lift as I tried to keep my courtroom face on. I couldn’t wait to get home and sit in silence to cleanse my head from an entire day listening to office gossip.

“I’ve got this lovely dress,” Mallory was saying, “It’s this really beautiful champagne colour--”

“Isn’t that the one you wore to Jamie’s wedding?” Sarah asked.

“You can’t wear a dress you already wore before,” said Chelsea with a sneer.

Mallory furrowed her brows, looking anxious. 

“I remember the dress,” I intervened in Mallory’s defense. “It’s very pretty. You shouldn’t keep it hidden in your wardrobe, Mal. Wear it. I’m sure nobody will be rude enough to ask you about it,” I looked pointedly at Sarah.

“No,” Mallory countered and both women stared at her. “It’s another one. I happen to like the colour, is that a crime?” she asked indignantly. Sarah shrugged. Mallory eyed me, “Do you know what you’re wearing, Y/N?”

I’d gone shopping two days earlier with Diana during my lunch break. She’d pouted when I said I couldn’t take her as my plus one but immediately dropped the act in favour of a smile upon hearing the name Count Dracula come out of my mouth. 

“The Count? The one that gave you the hickey?” she’d whispered the last part during dinner at her house on Sunday.

“The very same,” I’d replied. Little did she know the extent of that hickey.

“Dating royalty, Y/N--”

“Drop it, Di. Will you do me the honours of going dress hunting with me? It must be purple.”

“Purple?”

“Evelyn’s favourite colour.”

“Oh, you’re evil!” She’d laughed. “We’ll find the perfect dress. You’ll look so gorgeous that he’ll faint when he sees you.”

Diana’s excitement over my love affairs had made me wonder if I was so much of a lost cause that any person remotely interested in me should be celebrated with buying an evening dress. On Wednesday, we’d browsed half the stores in Strand before Diana convinced me to hop on the tube towards Belgravia with the promise of gorgeous boutiques in which I would definitely find a dress to my liking. Diana got to flex her marketing muscles to persuade me into getting the one I liked the most, despite the steep price. She’d taken the dress home with her so I wouldn’t have to return to the office with it. 

“L/N?” Mallory touched my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry. I zoned out thinking about all the dresses in my wardrobe,” I blinked at her. “I’m not sure what to wear yet.”

“You should make up your mind quickly, then,” Sarah said in her usual brisk manner. “We’re one week away from Evie’s wedding.”

Evie, right, like they were friends. Of all the women, Mallory was the only one who could call herself Evelyn’s friend and, sadly, between her, Sarah and Chelsea, she was the one I most got along with. Mal and I had started our internships at around the same time and we’d suffered through college together, too. We barely talked now that she’d gotten close to Evelyn. I’d stopped being Y/N to her and became simply L/N.

The lift finally opened and we spilled out. Freedom! I thought, tightening my pace towards the lobby and putting as much distance between me and my colleagues. Through the exit doors, I could see the last rays of sunshine reflecting on the glass plated buildings that seemed to be a requirement at Canary Wharf.

“We’re renting an Airbnb together in Berkeley,” Mallory said, catching up with me. “Me and the girls. It’ll be cheaper that way.”

“Okay…”

“There’s a spare bedroom,” she continued, swiping her baby blonde hair that had fallen on her face in her effort to keep up with me. 

“Oh,” I blinked, stopping abruptly in front of the exit. Mallory nearly tripped over me. “You’re inviting me to stay with you guys?”

“Yeah,” she paused. “I know you aren’t fond of them but you can ignore what they say. It’s what I do half the time I’m with them.”

“Then, why do you spend so much time with them?”

“Trying to climb the ladder, professionally speaking,” she shrugged. “All of you guys were trained by one of the firm’s partners except me. All my efforts go unnoticed because of it.”

“Mal, you could’ve just kept talking to me if that’s what you wanted,” I frowned. “Renfield would--”

“Not a chance. Renfield doesn’t like anybody at the office except you.”

I acquiesced with a shrug. I loved the man but he wasn’t the nicest person to people.

“I’ll think about the Airbnb,” I told Mallory.

Me in a house full of girls when I had a vampire on my heels? Big no. But after years of distance from one of my best friends, I wasn’t going to simply dismiss her because I didn’t like the people she socialised with.

“You still like going to Camden for drinks? Peace offering?”

“Peace offering,” I grinned.

Mallory laced her arm with mine and led the way out. I frowned up at the sky, searching the rays of sun I’d seen moments ago but all I found was cloud upon cloud upon cloud. Hearing the rushing pair of high heels towards us made me cringe and stop on the sidewalk.

“Girls!” Shouted Chelsea. “Did we hear something about drinks?”

“I’ll get rid of them,” Mallory whispered to me in an exasperated tone before putting on a blinding smile and turning to face Chelsea and Sarah.

As Mallory tried to talk them out of it, a sleek black BMW slid to a stop in front of me. I had little more than two seconds to take in the tinted windows, dark enough to make me wonder if they were inside the legal limits, before the passenger's window started going down. The voices behind me quieted as the driver leaned across the seat. He had sunglasses on but I’d recognise that face anywhere. I bent forward, leaning on the car’s door.

“You had to get the flashiest car available, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, dear, no,” Dracula drawled. “The flashiest one was yellow. Black suits me better.”

“Um, Y/N… Who’s that?” Chelsea’s flirty tone made me roll my eyes.

“An impertinent client,” I said without turning to look at her.

“Is that what I am?” 

“Amongst other things that shouldn’t be spoken out loud,” I muttered.

“Your client?” asked Sarah. “L/N, are you breaking the code of ethics?”

“Renfield’s client,” I corrected, glancing briefly at Sarah. 

When I looked back at Dracula, he was grinning.

“Hello, ladies,” he waved at them, eliciting giggles. If I hadn’t known them for years, I wouldn’t have guessed they were adult women considering their behaviour. “Is that jealousy I see?” he said in a low voice. 

“You wish,” I retorted. In a whisper, I said, “It’s still daylight. Aren’t you going to burst into flames?”

“I might if you don’t get in the car.”

“Tempting. I’ll just stay here.”

“Stay, then. The sun will set in precisely seven minutes and when it does, I’ll get out of this car.”

“And do what?”

“Right now, throwing you over my shoulder seems appropriate.”

My knees quivered at that thought. I had to learn to stop baiting him into conversations like these. At some point, he would carry out his threats and I would probably enjoy it, which wasn’t ideal if I wanted to come out of this breathing.

“Um, Y/N?” Mallory’s voice was a gift sent from heaven to make me look away from the Count. “Do you want to postpone our drinks or--”

“Oh, drinks? Where are we going?” 

“There’s no we--” I glared at him.

He smiled innocently, surprising me that he was actually able to.

“Camden, I hear,” Sarah chimed in.

“Lovely Camden! Why don’t I give you ladies a ride?”

“I’m okay with that,” Sarah said, followed by Chelsea’s nod.

I already had a flimsy hold over my own libido, I wouldn’t attempt trying to control Chelsea’s and Sarah’s too. As much as I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t wish Count Dracula on them. With that in mind, I flung open the BMW’s door and threw myself in. 

“Maybe some other time, girls. He’s mine,” I announced, already regretting my choice of words. Turning to Mallory, I said in an apologetic tone, “Lunch tomorrow so we can catch up?”

She grinned at me, glancing briefly at Count Dracula, who was most definitely staring at the back of my head. 

“Sure,” she affirmed with a wink. “Bye.”

I was still waving at her when Dracula accelerated, leaving his parking spot. I stared out the window without registering where we were headed, waiting. Tension grew until I began feeling smothered. 

“What’s that about me being yours?”  

I shut my eyes and threw my head back against my seat. 

“Just… shut up.”

.

.

I know it's a bit mean that I ended the chapter there but I didn't have any time left to write. I'll try posting chapter 9 earlier next week (wednesday or thursday, maybe) to make it up to everyone.

Taglist: @rheabalaur​ @festering-queen​ @feralstare​ @girlonfireice​ @deborahlazaroff​ @thorin-smokin-shield​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang​ @dreamer2381​ @apocalypsenowish​ @a-dorky-book-keeper​

[libsterslobsters]

What Is and What Should Never Be...

A Bucky Barnes/reader fanfic

Summary: Things between the reader and Bucky have never made sense. From the unlikeliness of them meeting to their strange powers, to their relationship surviving misunderstandings, separations, and most of all, Thanos, the odds are always against them, and yet things always sort them out. This time though, they face the biggest obstacle of their lives. Will this be what breaks them, or will they, yet again, pull through?

Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of sex, no editor

Author's note: Guys, I am a fluffy bitch who happens to love characters with a tragic back story. My family has saved my life, so I had to give our favorite black lab puppy of a super soldier a happy ending.

************************************

It’s half past two when she finally convinces herself to do it. The other alternative is to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for the next three hours until her alarm goes off. And… a quiet mutter in another language… Russian, she immediately realizes as her mind translates the nonsensical phrase… reminds her that she’s unlikely to have an opportunity in the weekend ahead to go out on her own without that wonderful, loving, over-protective husband of hers worrying or offering to go with her.

Slowly, she pushes back the sheets and climbs from the bed (a monumental task, since somehow, in his sleep, he always ends up touching her in some way; this time it’s an arm slung over her waist), padding softly towards the bathroom. It’s not ideal, pulling clothes out of the hamper to wear again, but she doesn’t want to risk opening the closet to dig around and the noise waking him, light sleeper that he is, so it’ll have to do.

The townhouse is familiar, so she doesn’t worry too much about stumbling in the dark, but still she clutches the stair railing harder than usual, more to calm herself than any real fear she will fall. She’s trying her best not to access that part of her mind, the one that grants her an unwanted view into the immediate future as, finally on the bottom floor, she shoves her keys into her purse and her feet into her shoes, then pulls open the door.

The city never sleeps, which is a mercy, because the porch light has already been turned off. There’s no reason for either of them to venture out again until morning. At least, that’s what he thinks. Her hands shake as she turns the key, bringing the car’s engine to life. If this goes the way she’s nearly certain it will, she’s going to have to trade it in for something bigger than it’s fuel-efficient two seat capacity.

It’s a familiar drive, and a short one. If the sun were out, she’d walk! But as it is, she parks three blocks down from where she lives and, taking a deep breath to hold back the panicked tears threatening to flow, steps out into the night.

The cashier is rubbing at his eyes wearily, and doesn’t so much as blink as she places her items on the counter to be scanned. Three boxes, because if she’s going to potentially risk upending her life, his life too, she’ll be damned if she’s not absolutely certain of her reason. She briefly wonders if she’ll even be capable of using all that she’s bought in one go, but dismisses the thought almost as soon as it appears. Well, it’s unlikely she’ll be getting any sleep tonight. That’s plenty of time to make damn sure of the result.

She’s not aware of anything as she drives back. Thank God everyone else seems to be watching themselves, or else she’d be in trouble. Well, she chuckles bitterly to herself, more trouble than she’s already potentially in. Again, the quiet dance of easing key into lock, of softly closing the door behind her and slipping out of her shoes. This time, she pads towards the downstairs bathroom. May as well get it over with.

As it turns out, if you pace yourself, you can indeed manage to use three of the tiny plastic sticks all at once. They’re all different brands, but the wait time is the same. She sets her watch to three minutes and, closing her eyes, tries to concentrate on anything but her visions of the future.

Instead, she focuses on the past. They met out of nowhere, while he was on the run and she was in hiding. That was the one time she was happy to be blessed with precognition; it allowed her to pull him around that street corner just before the man she didn’t know anything about other than a forboding sense that he was no good would have recognized the lost stranger with the metal arm.

That should have been the end of it. She saved him, and ran as fast as she could when he asked, “Who are you?” But he’s always been stubborn, this Winter Soldier, so of course he chased her down until she had nowhere to go (or rather, until her visions kicked in yet again and informed her that there was no way out; no matter where she ran, he was more than capable of finding her).

There were awkward introductions, a distasteful cup of tea he still claims is their first date, and the admission:

“I see the future. Little shards of it. And I never can control when I see it.”

Again, that should’ve been the end of it, but his response was,

“I’m nearly 100 years old, have super serum running through my veins, killed hundreds of people, and I have basically no memory of the past fifty years of my life.”

She should have run, but she didn’t. And how glad she is, no matter how this turns out, that she stayed.

There were so many times they should’ve fallen apart. When she told him, “This has to stop. I’m so sorry. You’ve been nothing but a good friend to me and you don’t deserve this, but somewhere along the line, I got my wires crossed, and I accidentally fell in love with you.” , there’s no logical explanation to him telling her, “Wait, I’m a little confused here. I thought we’d been dating for the past six months. And you thought… oh.” It shouldn’t have worked out, shouldn’t have led to both of them doing what they’d wanted to for so long: sharing a kiss, just an innocent peck to the lips, which for her, felt like taking her first breath.

He should have left her behind when Steve came for him, shouldn’t have insisted, “I’ll go, but I’ve got someone we’ve got to bring with us. Someone important.” Or she should have stayed, but the danger of what lay ahead didn’t seem like that big of a price to pay if she got to stay with the man she was beginning to suspect was the love of her life.

When he went to a small African country, she shouldn’t have insisted, “Of course I’m going with you! You didn’t leave me. What makes you think I’m going to leave you?” He shouldn’t have given in. They shouldn’t have weathered the long breaks between seeing each other while he was having his mind rewired and she was learning, learning about Wakanda and teaching so little by comparison about the language she speaks, or come out on the other side stronger. When the call came once again for the white wolf to return to battle, it made no sense for her to go too even with the years of training she had, or that as soon as they were settled on the helicarrier, he sighed and informed her, “I was planning on doing this at a nice dinner, but since we have no idea what we’re getting into, I thought I’d go ahead and ask.” pulling out a small box with a delicate ring inside, asking, “Marry me as soon as this is over.” Going into the unknown, she shouldn’t have said yes.

She shouldn’t have survived Thanos’ armies, the multiple injuries she sustained, the snap that followed, or as a last-ditch effort to save her life, the mad scientist’s cocktail, the one that turned an innocent boy who only wanted to serve his country into the Winter Soldier, being administered by Natasha’s shaking hands. He shouldn’t have been the one who turned to dust. When she woke up, one thought on her mind, “Where is Bucky?” her heart should have given out when Steve told her, anxiously holding her hand, “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

Five years later, she should’ve been past it, should have moved on. Not been there to answer the call when her phone lit up and an excited spy told her, “There’s a chance we can bring them back.” None of it should have worked- the time travel, Bruce snapping his fingers, them once again fighting Thanos. When it was all over, she should’ve been so broken, so changed, that when she saw him, her first words were not, “You came back to me.”

There should have been too much water under the bridge. They shouldn’t have been able to make it work, him relearning the woman he used to know because, “You kept it on.” “Of course I did.” It made no sense, and they were warned against going through with trading vows only six months after the world righted itself again. They shouldn’t have been able to work together, continue to “fight the bad guys” without growing to resent each other. The marriage should’ve ended within a year, not grown stronger, been full of loves and laughs, lazy morning sex and breakfast for dinner, until now.

Her watch starts beeping, and although she’s quick to silence the alarm, she wonders if he’s heard it. When no footsteps sound over her head a full ninety seconds later, she stand and examines the tests on the counter. Three different brands, three different options for telling her one simple answer. A plus sign. Two pink lines. One simple word: pregnant.

The tears finally do fall, and even though she reaches out to the gift, the curse, the future, it’s unclear. Well, she tells herself after burying the results in the box of tampons under the sink (unused for far too long) which she knows he’ll never look through, none of this should have worked so far, but it has. Maybe this will be yet another exception.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Sam’s jokes have stopped being funny, or maybe he’s just stopped paying attention. All Bucky knows is that he’s paying more attention to the clock across the room from him, or rather it’s hands than his partner. Finally, the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the five. He thinks he says something about getting home, the plan sounds great, they’ll talk more about it tomorrow, but he can’t be sure. He’s too busy trying to remember which streets are the least busy this time of day so that he can get home sooner.

She’s been off for the last week or so. There was the food poisoning (odd, because they’re both “super soldiers”, they don’t get sick, but she also doesn’t lie so that had to be what’s going on) Sunday morning, which didn’t seem to be much better on Monday, even if she still went in to work. “I’m fine. These people work so hard to learn English. The least I can do is show up and grade their papers.” He should’ve insisted she stay home, but that wouldn’t have done any good.

Tuesday, she was asleep on the couch when he arrived from work. Wednesday is when she started jumping when he entered a room, freezing when he touched her, and later that night when he tried to pull her closer to him in bed, her muscles tensed under his palm, even if she did settle against his chest. Thursday she was awake before he was and came to bed hours after he’d already turned in. This morning, she was out the door before he could so much as say goodbye, and after six days, enough is enough. He’s determined to figure out what’s going on with his wife.

She’s usually at the community college late, tutoring students after class, but to his surprise, as he steps inside their house, the lights are on, and what’s more, the smell of meat cooking and several spices mingling is in the air.

“Long day?”

She barely looks up as he steps into the kitchen, but does smile when he places a kiss on her forehead, so that’s something.

“It was alright. You?”

She shrugs. “I’m glad to be home, let’s put it that way.”

He wants to sit her down, take both of her hands in his, ask her what’s going on, but he doesn’t get the chance before she suggests,

“Why don’t you go up and get a shower? Dinner should be ready by the time you’re done.”

He is sweaty, he supposes, so he nods.

“Alright.”

Half a flight of stairs is behind him before he thinks to add, “Love you, Doll.” “Love you.” Small assurances, but he needs them. His mind is swirling with all of the worst possibilities he can think of. She’s dying. She’s leaving him. He’s done something to make her feel afraid or unwanted. No. She still loves him. He’s just paranoid.

He decides to use his time in the shower to come up with a plan. After they eat, he’ll take care of the dishes so she can relax. More than likely she’ll want to get a head start on grading papers, but since it’s the weekend, that’ll only last for half an hour or so before she decides that the rest can wait and Netflix is much more appealing. He’ll get the snacks ready (more than likely popcorn, but last week it was some sort of trail mix that included, of all things, parsley) and once they’re cuddled up, well into whatever mindless tv show they’re watching this time, he’ll press the issue.

A flash of orange catches his eye as he’s rinsing off. He calls out her name, thinking maybe she’s come upstairs for something, but there’s no reply. Paranoid again. He really needs to get to the bottom of this.

It doesn’t take him long to change into his weekend wear: sweatpants and an old tshirt, but as soon as he’s down the steps and into the kitchen once again, he wishes he’d put a little more effort in. Now he knows what the flash of orange was: the dress that always reminds him of summer. She’s changed clothes, taken her hair out of its “teacher” knot at the back of her head, and refreshed the makeup she could easily do without. Not only that, but-

“We’re eating in the dining room.” He thought those dishes looked a little nicer than paper plates.

The food is good. He’s certain of it, but he’s not tasting anything. Neither is she, he’s fairly certain, because she just picks at what’s on her plate. Neither of them say anything, on his part because he’s trying not to blurt out, “What’s wrong?” On hers… he’s not sure.

Finally, enough time has passed to warrant getting up. He starts to stand, but she grasps his hand.

“Wait. I-” She bites her lip. It’s brief, but it’s an obvious sign that she’s nervous, a tell that she’s never completely lost over the years. “Sit. I have something I need to do, and if you get up, I’ll talk myself out of it.” It’s all connected. He can feel it.

She’s only gone for thirty seconds (he’s counting to give himself something to do other than worry), and then she’s back, visibly trembling, with a small, white box in hand.

“I don’t know how to say this, so I thought-” She stops short and, a little hesitantly, offers the item to him before sitting. “-open it and hopefully you’ll get the gist.”

It’s the wrong shape for divorce papers, too small to hold anything else he can think of, and the yellow ribbon tied around it seems to suggest it’s not a bad thing.

“Okay.” He nods and, tugging gently at the ribbon, removes the lid.

It doesn’t make sense. A pair of white, soft leather shoes, so small they look like they should belong to a doll. Underneath, an equally doll-like white hat. And… oh. A silver rattle. He’s not stupid; he can figure out what this adds up to, but still, gazing into her eyes, he has to ask.

“Are you…?”

She nods, and although she immediately lifts her hand to wipe it away, a tear slides down her cheeks. “Yes.”

Suddenly it all makes sense. The odd behavior, the secrecy, the fear. They’ve never talked about having children, even taken precautions to make sure it doesn’t happen. In their line of work, with her extra abilities and their combined genetics with the serum, it doesn’t make sense to have a child. He’ll be a terrible father. He’s a murderer- no, he chides himself, a soldier forced to do things he regrets- and still, for all intents and purposes, in the service. He’s got so much baggage. Steve is the one who would be good (hell, was good, from what he’s gathered) with the wife, the family. But now that he knows, now that he’s aware that, between the two of them, they’ve created a new life, he’s never wanted anything more.

“We’re having a baby.” It’s not a question, but she nods, sniffling slightly.

“We are.”

He can’t wait anymore. She may still be afraid, unsure of what the outcome will be of this accidental miracle, but he has to at least assure her that through it all, he’ll be with her.

Carefully, he slides down from his chair to kneel beside her, and just as he was planning to do later tonight, takes both of her hands in his (well, one of them; the other is resting over where their baby, his baby, is growing).

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard.”

The tears fall fresh from her eyes, but her smile is bright, a real one he hasn’t seen in the past six days, and as she leans down, he presses his lips against hers, ignoring the mistiness in his own eyes. None of this makes sense. It shouldn’t work, or even be possible. But it is.

[halfwall]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❪ ⠀   * ⠀ ─          hello!  i’m  so  excited  for  this  genuinely,  it  is  so  seksi  and  socks  +  soda  did  such  an  amazing  job  with  it.  eunjung  is  my  newest  muse  and  the  best  way  i  can  describe  her  is  if  you  took  a  garden  snake  and  aged  it  up  manually  in  the  sims  and  then  took  it  into  the  spore  game  and  gave  it  lips  and  made  it  a  predator.  in  other  words,  my  very  own  looks  like  a  cinnamon  roll  could  k-word  you  (  kiss?  kill?  your  choice  <3  ).  this  intro  is  a  condensed  version  of  my  goog  dooc  and  it’s  still  long  <3  pls  love  n  plot  w  me  anyway.  love  u  guys.

❪  kang  mina,  cis  woman,  she  /  her,  twenty  one.  ❫    i  can  feel  red  energy,  that  must  be  yun  eunjung.  the  third  year  print  journalism  &  international  relations  major  works  as  a  bookkeeper  at  the  house  of  the  lucky  gander,  and  is  known  around  the  manor  as  the  yellow  wallpaper.  i’ve  heard  whispers  about  how  they’re  critical  and  pedantic,  but  everyone  says  they’re  persevering  and  formidable.  i  don’t  know  what  to  believe...  but  with  cc  pulling  the  strings...

links:    google  doc,  pinterest,  stats,  wanted  connections.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

full  name  :  yun  eunjung

nickname(s) /  alias(es)  :  emma  yoon  (  english  name,  not  used  ),  tbd

age  /  dob  :  twenty  one  /  apr  18  ‘99

hometown  :  tbd  ,  oregon

current  location :  fortuna  ,  maine

ethnicity :  korean

nationality  :  english

gender  :  cis  woman

pronouns  :  she  /  her

orientation  :  bisexual

religion :  agnostic.

family :  yun  hajun  (  father,  alive  ),  han  minji  (  mother,  alive  ),  yun  eunsang  (  twin  brother,  status  unknown  ),  yun  sangjung  (  younger  brother,  deceased  ).

face  claim  :  kang  mina

language(s)  spoken  :  korean  (  first  language  ),  english

speech :  sharp  tongued.  she’s  a  lot  of  opinions  and  a  lot  of  things  to  say,  therefore  has  never  learned  how  to  phrase  things  in  a  way  that  would  deem  her  polite.  often  blunt,  she’ll  be  quick  to  rip  off  the  bandaid  and  just  say  what  needs  to  be  said.  she  doesn’t  speak  with  much  class  or  extravagancies,  rather  falls  toward  crassness  and  crudeness  due  to  her  upbringing.

hair  :  quite  dark,  a  nice  chocolate  in  the  sun  and  a  cool  onyx  in  the  dark.  often  tied  back,  though  eunjung  is  only  ever  seen  with  her  hair  in  two  distinct  styles:  tied  back  messily  or  let  down  naturally.  her  hair  falls  straight  as  if  it’s  been  flat  ironed.

eyes :  big,  round,  and  doe  eyed,  a  dark  brown  in  color.  quite  the  weapon  to  use  when  she’s  in  trouble  or  when  she  needs  to  talk  her  way  out  of  something  (  to  proclaim  innocence  ).

height  :  five  feet  ,  seven  inches.

build  :  lithe.  as  a  former  volleyball  player,  she  has  kept  her  shape  up  with  rigorous  conditioning  (  mainly  because  if  she’s  to  admit  it,  if  she  doesn’t  she  kind  of  gets  lost  in  the  walls  ).

tattoos  :  none  .

piercings :  only  earlobes  .

scars  :  multiple  from  surgeries  at  sixteen.

clothing  style  :  preppy,  thanks  to  her  settlement  money  and  her  own  personal  taste.  never  a  hair  out  of  place  due  to  her  perfectionistic  personality  and  nature,  though  if  you  catch  her  on  any  given  night,  you’ll  see  her  true  colors  shine  through  with  old  (  very  old  )  sweatpants  and  a  hoodie  that  has  someone  else’s  name  written  on  the  tag  in  hangul.

usual  expression  :  sour,  bitter  –  life  has  handed  her  a  poor  hand  and  she’ll  make  it  everyone’s  problem.  she  has  one  usual  expression  and  it’s  resting  mean  face;  not  the  kind  of  person  to  wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve,  she  looks  the  exact  same  when  she  looks  happy  as  she  does  sad,  though  –  she’s  great  at  acting  and  lying  and  you’ve  never  lived  until  you’ve  watched  her  go  from  :|  to  :)  in  two  seconds.

distinguishing  characteristics  :  doe  eyes  that  scream  tragedy  –  reflecting  the  stars  in  the  night  sky  if  caught  just  right,  the  tilt  of  her  lips  when  she  clearly  wants  something  to  work  in  her  favor.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

❪  almost  directly  copied  from  my  google  doc  i’m  sorry  ❫ 

mbti:   istj-a,  the  logistician  /  most  who  know  her  would  assume  her  to  be  extroverted.  not  the  most  reserved  in  a  room  and  always  quick  to  speak  up  when  she  deems  it  necessary.  but,  like  most  logisticians  –  she’s  always  had  a  sharp,  fact-based  mind.  she  has  always  been  self  sufficient  and  hates  relying  on  others,  often  seeing  it  as  a  weakness.  she  is  sharp,  dedicated  and  ambitious  enough  to  accomplish  whatever  she  wants  to  accomplish.

enneagram:  6w5,  the  guardian  /  like  most  of  this  type,  her  biggest  fear  is  losing  her  guidance  and  stability,  which  translates  into  her  skepticism  of  the  world.  therefore,  it  often  leads  to  eunjung  protecting  those  she  is  loyal  to,  but  most  importantly:  herself.  she  will  often  think  logically  and  analytically,  solving  problems  practically  and  efficiently  but  she  will  often  be  selfish  and  can  come  off  as  cold  as  a  result  for  her  actions.

moral  alignment:  chaotic  evil  /  eunjung  has  never  been  the  most  –  angelic  person,  though  she  likes  to  pretend  she  is.  at  the  end  of  the  day,  after  everything  she  has  been  through,  she  has  grown  to  be  selfish  –  prioritizing  her  own  personal  gain  and  pleasure  above  all  good  and  evil,  right  and  wrong.  it  could  be  argued  that  she  belongs  in  chaotic  neutral,  but  she  has  no  care  for  law  and  order,  nor  a  real  feeling  of  her  morality  anymore.

hogwarts  house:  slytherin  /  another  reminder  of  her  selfishness  and  how  much  she  cares  about  her  own  well  being.  all  her  life  as  well,  she  has  been  told  that  she  is  shrewd  and  too  ambitious  for  her  own  good  which  has  only  given  her  an  incessant  drive  to  prove  them  all  wrong.  when  it  comes  down  to  it,  like  most  slytherins,  she  will  try  to  view  every  possible  outcome  until  she  finds  the  outcome  that  will  benefit  her  the  most.

comparable  characters:  juliet  capulet  (  romeo  &  juliet  ),  jennifer  check  (  jennifer’s  body  ),  rosalie  hale  (  twilight  ),  blair  waldorf  (  gossip  girl  ),  sansa  stark  (  game  of  thrones  ).

the  rundown:  as  smart  as  she  is  selfish,  life  has  just  twisted  her  to  be  a  bit  cold.  she  isn’t  cruel  by  any  means,  nor  does  she  necessarily  wish  hurt  and  evil  upon  those  around  her,  but  eunjung’s  huge  main  character  complex  often  leads  to  her  priorities  being:  1.  eunjung  2.  yun eunjung  3.  eunjung yun.  her  biggest  trait  will  always  be  selfishness,  followed  closely  by  her  rash  belief  that  she  is  the  best  in  the  room  at  all  times.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞

trigger  warnings:  alcoholism  +  death

this  is  a  rundown  on  the  biography  /  death  /  back  room  /  glass  person  in  the  google  doc,  also  better  written  /  explained  because  it’s  not  prosey  <3

hajun  is  not  a  good  father,  he  never  has  been.  from  a  very  young  age,  all  eunjung  has  heard  from  him  are  his  drunken  spirals  about  how  great  they  used  to  be.  his  surname  was  once  held  in  a  high  regard,  the  name  of  an  empress  and  he  has  always  dwindled  about  to  the  three  yun  children  that  because  of  the  greatness  he  has  passed  onto  them,  they  must  be  great  too.  

eunjung  has  only  ever  viewed  his  spiels  as  hypocritical  though.  she  has  only  ever  known  her  dad  as  a  mean  drunk  who  lives  in  the  dirtiest,  most  run  down  house  in  town  with  his  poor  three  kids.  her  twin  brother,  eunsang,  her  younger  brother,  sangjung,  and  her  spend  their  childhoods  taking  care  of  each  other  because  nobody  else  will.  their  mother  does  something,  they  never  know  what  because  she  only  arrives  with  enough  money  for  groceries  and  bills  and  then  she  leaves.

it’s  that  way  for  most  of  her  childhood  and  most  of  her  life.  it’s  a  continuous  cycle  of  eunjung  +  eunsang  taking  care  of  sangjung  (  who  starts  going  my  samuel  when  he’s  ten  and  the  twins  are  twelve.  the  twins  have  english  names,  too,  but  eunjung  has  too  much  pride  –  like  her  father  –  and  eunsang  is  the  eldest  and  will  do  whatever  his  twin  does  out  of  love  )  and  eunjung  is  just  –  quite  the  difficult  child.  she  speaks  her  mind  and  all  of  her  opinions,  as  well  as  letting  the  festering  anger  within  her  too  grow  because  she  doesn’t  know  what  else  to  do  with  it.

death  tw.  anyway,  by  sixteen,  she’s  just  this  bitter  girl  that  the  boys  hook  up  with  because  she’s  the  poor  girl  from  the  dirty  house  on  the  rundown  street.  she’s  got  a  reputation  as  a  shrew  around  town,  but  she’s  fine  with  being  a  shrew  if  she  still  gets  her  way.  samuel  is  much  more  popular  than  either  of  the  twins  (  who  are  epitome  of  bad  boy  /  bad  girl  from  the  wrong  side  of  the  tracks  )  and  is  invited  to  a  party  at  fourteen.  it’s  tradition  to  party  in  this  abandoned  mansion  out  in  the  woods  and  basically,  an  accident  happens  and  samuel  is  pushed  from  the  second  story  balcony  into  the  foyer  and  d-words.

he’d  called  eunjung  before  dying  though,  asking  for  a  ride  so  the  twins  had  went  to  go  get  him  but  instead  found  him  dead.  while  trying  to  figure  out  what  had  happened,  she  spots  some  kid  that  doesn’t  like  her  still  lingering  around  so  she  tries  to  chase  him  and  he....  like....  pushes  her  off  too  and  she  d-words.  end  tw.

her  back  room  is  just  this  little  room  and  she  still  to  this  day  doesn’t  know  how  much  time  she  spent  in  there  because  it  was  just  so  confusing,  all  she  remembers  is  that  she  (  or  someone  )  was  trying  to  convince  herself  that  she  was  home  and  that  everything  was  fine.  but,  she’s  a  bitch  and  was  like  “uh,  actually,  i’ve  never  had  a  home  <3″  and  broke  out  of  whatever  spell.

her  glass  person  is  just  her.  identical,  but  trapped  in  the  walls  underneath  the  ugly  yellow  wallpaper  in  the  room  she  was  in.  same  as  her,  just  more  lifeless  and  it  is  really  the  only  thing  that  still  scares  her  –  and  it  tried  to  escape  the  walls,  but  it  couldn’t.  the  lasting  effect  is  that  if  she’s  alone  in  a  room  for  more  than  an  hour  she  swears  the  walls  start  stretching  like  someone’s  behind  it  and  just  always  feeling  like  she’s  being  watched.  she  also  doesn’t  like  looking  at  her  own  reflection  that  much  anymore  because  it  just  reminds  her  of  her  glass  person.

anyway,  she  survives  miraculously  and  after  testifying  and  blah  blah  blah  (  i  did  research  on  settlements  and  i  still  didn’t  understand  so  ),  the  family  of  the  kid  who  pushed  her  off  –  and  probably  samuel  –  gives  the  yun  family  a   huge  sum  of  money  for  their  troubles  and  calls  it  a  settlement.  it  comes  with  the  condition  that  eunjung  doesn’t  sue  or  bring  them  up  ever  again  and  she’s  like  fine  that’s  cool,  whatever,  i’m  rich  now.

but  her  parents  still  aren’t  happy  and  before  samuel’s  funeral,  eunsang  runs  away  from  home,  leaving  them  with  only  the  daughter  that  neither  of  them  really  wanted.  she  still  pushes  forward  though  and  ends  school  as  valedictorian,  prom  queen,  etc.  and  heads  to  fortuna  because  she  really  doesn’t  think  she  can  go  anywhere  and  also  her  counselors  are  ass  <3

she’s  studying  international  relations  +  print  journalism,  her  hopes  are  diplomacy  or  something,  but  she  just  chose  the  majors  that  she  tested  highest  on  on  that  career  test  i  can’t  choose.  yeah.

please  plot  w  me  i  have  my  wc  linked  up  there  or  at  /w.  i  love  u  all  i’m  sorry  this  was  long.

[wishingforatypewriter]

Earning Credentials

Summary: In which Baatar isn’t sure if he’s Kuvira’s boyfriend, but plays the role anyway (pre-empire, but post-Zaofu).

Baatar had spent some time in Ba Sing Se when he was eighteen, though after what he’d seen during the campaign, it felt like a lifetime ago. He’d accompanied his father while he gave a series of lectures at the university’s architecture department, and then stayed behind for a summer term, studying under some of the world’s leading engineering scholars. 

He didn’t remember much of the visit outside of work and endless hours holed up in the library. There had been a few nights out with his classmates, and a date or two with a dance student from the Northern Water Tribe he’d entertained to try—albeit unsuccessfully—and stop pining after his childhood crush. But it was mostly just work. 

After they stabilized the city, he’d been lucky enough to find two of his former classmates, who’d become prominent civil engineers after completing their studies. He now sat alongside them in The Jasmine Dragon—which was among the first wave of establishments back up and running—sharing his plans for the reconstruction of the city. 

One of them, a woman named Li Na who’d grown up in the upper ring, studied the drawings with a pensive frown. “I love the updated rail system,” she said. “The manual lines were so last century. But what happened to the rings? I only see plans for restoring the outer wall.” 

“Kuvira hates the rings,” he said, recalling the sharp words she’d exchanged with the few remaining ministers in the city after she started moving the displaced lower ring residents into vacant houses in the middle ring. “Their maintenance is a drain on the public works funds and they perpetuate inequality. Any Earth Kingdom citizen should be able to move through the city freely.”

“Right on, man,” said Qi from Omashu, who he’d probably convince to join their budding corps of engineers in a month or so. “Your girlfriend has some pretty cool ideas.”

Baatar felt his ears heating up, and willed the embarrassment not to show on his face. He had made out with Kuvira a few times before they left Zaofu, and once or twice very early in the campaign, but he wasn’t quite sure that really gave him boyfriend credentials. He cleared his throat, shuffling the papers laid out on the table. “Actually, we’re really just childhood friends—”

“So she’s single, then?” Qi raised his eyebrows curiously. “I might have to—”

“No.” Baatar said this too quickly and with far too much venom for anyone at the table to miss the fact that he was steeped in likely unrequited love for her. 

Li Na giggled behind her hand and Baatar wanted to evaporate like the steam wafting out of his cup. “Figure your life out, Baatar,” she said. “But let me know when you’re ready to get started. My parents are squandering the family fortune running up hotel bills in Republic City.” 

Before he left the store, Baatar bought an extra oolong tea and a sweet custard bun to go, just in case she hadn’t eaten. He then got in his satomobile—one of the armored dark green jeeps he and Varrick designed for the campaign—and drove down to the lower ring. The chaos in the poorer districts had largely dissipated as Kuvira’s justice fell over the city with the winter frost, but he knew she had every intention of leaving the slums better than she found them. 

He spotted Kuvira at the center of the relief stations, giving orders to the food distribution teams and directing refugees towards the medical tents. She moved with grace and precision, as though the endless work to do and decisions to be made were all part of an elaborate dance performance. 

Baatar stood and watched her for a while, a smile growing on his face when she bent down to clean and bandage a cut on a little girl’s ankle because all the medics were occupied. After she was done, the girl wrapped her arms around Kuvira’s neck and stayed that way until she handed her off to Bolin. Despite the rougher elements of her personality, she’d always had a way with children. Wing and Wei adored her from the first—or they had. Until. 

When there was finally a lull in the onslaught of people in need of her attention, Baatar approached her. Kuvira’s hair was unbound and hung loose down her back—more likely than not to protect her ears from the winter wind—and a few snowflakes were tangled in her long tresses and dark eyelashes. She regarded him with a subtly pleased look that sent his thoughts scattering like a sheaf of papers in an airbender training session. 

He handed her the cup of tea and paper to-go bag without preamble, and her expression broadened into a full-on smile. “How did you know I skipped breakfast?”

Baatar adjusted his glasses, hoping she assumed his red face was only because of the chill. “Just probability. As a rule, you take terrible care of yourself when you’re occupied with something.” 

She’d gotten this way after she was first promoted to captain of the Zaofu guard and when she became a principal dancer in his mother’s company, but now her propensity for overwork had reached new heights. 

Kuvira glared at him. “The state of the Earth Kingdom—”

“Cannot be changed in the time it takes to eat something, and we both know it.”

The glare persisted, but she chose not to argue further. She fished the custard bun out of the bag and took a bite. 

“What did your school friends say?” she asked after a moment, her voice laced with a hint of teasing most people wouldn’t be able to detect. 

“They think it’s possible, and they’re willing to help,” he told her. “We should be able to begin work on the new roads within the week.”

Kuvira nodded. “Good. We need Ba Sing Se running normally again so it can support displaced populations from elsewhere in the northeastern region. My scouts have reported that things have gotten bad with the petty warlords who’ve taken over the mountain towns.” 

Baatar could tell from the set of her jaw that she’d be unable to ignore it. Since coming to Ba Sing Se and seeing the people left most vulnerable by the power vacuum, she’d become obsessively focused on the mission. “You’re sending a team?”

“I’m leading it.”

He supposed he should have assumed that, but had still dared to hope otherwise. “When will you leave?”

“Soon,” she said. “Tomorrow, with any luck. I’m meeting with the security force at noon to discuss the logistics. We should have the plan finalized in a few hours.” 

Baatar glanced at his pocket watch, noting that it was almost a quarter to twelve. “So you were going to skip lunch too?”

“Unimportant,” she said with a dismissive wave, pulling the olive green trench jacket tighter around her as the wind picked up.  

“Untrue,” he retorted. “Do you want a ride back up to the base?” 

“Everyone else has to walk,” she stated, drawing upon her hard-won wisdom in the realm of charismatic authority. 

“Can I walk with you, then?”

“I’m sure you have something more productive that you could be doing with your time,” she said with a pointed look and a half-hidden smile. “But alright.” 

Somewhere between the relief station and the base, Kuvira’s hand ended up in his, and Baatar couldn’t for the life of him tell which of them had started it. 

[hecohansen31]

Of Faes and Goblins

Fae! Aethelred+Changeling! Reader+Goblin! Ivar

(A/N): Happy birthday, Sophie, @maggiescarborough​!

So to celebrate your beautiful day and to show how much we support you and apprecciate all you do for this beautiful comunity, we thought of sharing with you a few creations to celebrate properly your lovely day!

My idea is basically an interactive story, as in: you’ll be faced with a few choices and you’ll decide the turn of events of the stories, so be sure to let me know what you prefer to happen and I’ll try my best to follow your choices.

For the rest, do enjoy the surprise and the idea!

Have a lovely birthday, beautiful! (with not too much heathen and your beloved sickly looking Saxons!).

SUMMARY: After your life turned out to be a complete lie, you find yourself faced with many choices and even more importantly with two annoying males.

WORDS: 9,8 K

WARNINGS: Mention of Violence, Kidnapping, Fighting (yeah this is very much taken from ‘The Dark Faerie Tales’ by Holly Black), Everybody is A Faerie.

Changeling were extraordinary creatures.

And you had been lucky enough to be one of them.

You had discovered it once you had moved back to Ireland, having transferred to North America for a scholarship after high school, feeling like Ireland was too tight for your dreams.

A sensation only worsened by your mother’s horrible mental health…

… although with time you had discovered that she knew the truth, all along.

Since you had had memory, your mother had said you weren’t his child, gaining quite the judging of everyone around her, and right after she had started making such claims, doctors had dosed her with medical drugs to keep her tame.

Even more after she had even tried to leave you in the wood nearby your family’s manor, the one you stayed at with your grandma.

Your grandma was the only person that had constantly supported you and she was the woman who had raised you as your own mother laid in bed, either passed out for the drugs or trying to ignore you, since only seeing you would make her faint.

Eventually your grandma had been the one to push you away from Ireland, suggesting that you pursued your dream outside of the beautiful land that had been your sole home.

She had given you the strength to believe in yourself, although the first years in America had been passed adapting yourself at its big cities and its enormous crowd.

But now that you were back from them, you felt almost uneasy in the small village you had grown up with, everybody looking too changed and yet the same, looking at you with distrust and envy, although you hadn’t become a famous star or an important businesswoman.

But the fact that you had escaped that strict mentality was enough.

You had come back for the same person who didn’t want you there.

As of lately your mother’s heart had been thoroughly weakened by the drugs (medical and not) and she had already had an heartattack.

Your grandma had explained it to you in one last call that sadly your mother’s life was becoming thin, pleading with you to come back, although you weren’t sure that your mother wanted you back.

You weren’t her child, after all.

At first, as a child, the way she uttered those words had hurt you in ways that pierced your tiny skin, making you completely detached from the affection of that woman, soon starting to call her simply by her name and nothing else.

And even sooner you had erased her figure, pushing your grandma in her place.

But now even she was tired, and you could hear her ache in the tone of her voice.

Although your mother might not want her title, your grandma still remained her mother and she suffered for both of you her mistakes.

Eventually you had been convinced by your mother, herself, a secret call, at 3 a.m. in the morning telling you to come back, because the faeries had told her that if she gave you back, they’d make her see one last time her true child.

‘… my inion’ the way the name had sounded on the tip of her tongue made you uneasy, because you had never heard it, but you had reasoned with yourself that maybe in your mother’s delusional words there might be some kind of truth.

And there was.

Almost too much.

Back then you had simply thought that she had finally come to the conclusion that you were her daughter.

So, seeing you again would have allowed her to rationalize and finally accept you as her daughter, something for which you strived for, although you had for long years tried to convince yourself that her approval didn’t matter, in the slightest.

But any hope had disappeared when after a flight of twelve hours, your mother had refused to face you, much to your grandmother’s and your annoyance, although the older woman welcomed you in again as a warm mother, having cooked your favorite meal, something that brightened your mood.

You spent a nice few days back in Ireland, although your mother didn’t seem interested into acknowledging your presence and whenever you were together, she’d stare at you with mighty intensity in her eyes and once you had heard her mutter ‘when will they come for you, silly girl? I want my real child back’.

And in that moment, you had dreaded the thought that had come to your mind.

You had wished that she would have just died.

It was less embarrassing, and it would have been a trauma she could deal with, instead of being stuck in the eternal limbo of ‘will she ever love me? Or will I be for ever the faeries’ daughter?’.

But then that fateful night had happened, and you had been the one thinking that you had grown as crazy as her, as you heard a melodic song being sprung from nowhere.

Something ancient that couldn’t be found on Spotify for sure, although you loved it.

But it just wouldn’t let you sleep, and eventually you peaked outside of your house to check what was going on, although you wouldn’t be surprised to find your neighbor having a concert.

They were quite the musical people.

But it was none of that.

And once you had moved a step outside of your house, the music seemed to slowly lead your step.

And although you weren’t aware of it, soon your body was led through the wood around your manor.

The moon was the only source of light and as you looked up, the music interrupted itself suddenly.

And you were in the middle of nowhere, in simply your skimpy pajama of an awful color from too many washings, and a big print of a teddy bear on it, the writing next to it completely scraped off, nothing as luxurious as the dresses of the people around you.

You almost thought that your neighbor were having a Renaissance fair in the middle of woods, some kind of ‘Shakespeare in the park’ movie, although the dresses belonged to every period in history and not a peculiar one.

Women were dressed in round gowns, puff and big, and tight corsets, meanwhile men looked like they had come from the nearest BDSM club, all dressed in leather and open shirts.

And the jewels they wore, both males and females: silver and gold that shone so bright, absorbing almost the brightness of the moon, intensifying it with their colors and the gems shone of every color in the rainbow, sometime even all together.

And for a moment you were so lost in your rapture that you forgot to wonder what was truly happening here.

The only thing that could come up to your mind was the Hamelin’s flautist, driving the mice to their demise, something that made a sudden shiver fall down your spine, even more when you noticed that they were all somehow armed.

And that wherever the moon didn’t touch, their skin seemed anything but human, having some present slight deformation and animalistic traits, enough that you thought to have wandered in a fairy tale.

A dark one, such as the ones that the Grimm’s brothers wrote.

‘Lady (Y/N)’ somebody called out to you, but you couldn’t identify anyone speaking, almost as if the voice had its original place in your mind, calling out to you loudly, in a way that gripped tight your skull, keeping your eyes on the fable-like cortege ‘… we hoped to meet you again’.

‘… I don’t…’ your voice sounded silly and echoed in your empty head, suddenly cleared of anything else other than that voice and the images of that magic in front of you.

This must be a crazy nightmare.

Or a horrible joke.

‘…  she doesn’t know when to shut up’ this time it was a feminine voice, harsh and tight ‘… are you sure, my son, that she is the one you want to choose?’.

Her voice concealed an obvious disgust, almost as if it was painfully obvious that you were beneath her.

Then why had they come for you.

‘I don’t understand what is going on’ you breathed out, finally able to push the words out, although the woman’s words still echoing in your head ‘… I should be in bed… is this… is this a dream?’.

You almost wanted to mutter that ‘it must have been “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” ‘.

‘… no, it isn’t’ the male voice was low, almost comforting and the tightness in your skull was lightly relieved allowing you to feel more comfortable.

Suddenly you felt your breath quickening up, enough that you feared a panic attack.

‘… then if this is a joke, it isn’t funny!’ your voice spoke loudly ‘… you take the newcomer in city and give her the scare of her life! That’s what you fuckers do! If this is it, I won’t tell the cops, but you have to let me go!’.

‘It isn’t either a joke’ the male voice was different, evidently deeper, almost as if who spoke was more grown up ‘… and whatever human forces you want to conjure they won’t help you’.

This brought dread to your stomach and your breath quickened, enough that you felt choking yourself up deeply, and soon all the air in your lungs finished, and it didn’t take you much to see black.

You woke up in an unknown place, smelling heavenly, something that eased your senses, meanwhile whatever you wore was as delicate as a petal, comfortable enough that it brought you to shift in bed, till you realized that your pajama would have been quite less comfortable.

Hence somebody had had to change you in whatever you were now wearing.

For a few minutes you hoped unrealistically that it had been your grandmother, although you were aware of not owning such luxurious garments.

It would have been a nice dream, before you woke up to the reality.

That seemed more like the dream itself.

You were inside what seemed like a flower, the light barely flicking through the rosy walls of utter silk, meanwhile they closed and opened around you almost as a flower, and the smell was also delicious, lulling and clean.

But then your reason finally came back.

And you realized that you weren’t at home, no matter how reassuring the atmosphere was.

You had been kidnapped.

By some kind of weirdos in tight robes.

Gosh, could it have sounded more like a drugged-out dream?

Had you accidentally taken some medicine from your mother’s cabinet?

But then as you turned lightly your skin was scratched by something and you saw a rose being laid on the pillow next to you, its thorns lightly gracing your face, making you realize that if you were feeling pain… this wasn’t a dream.

And you had seriously fallen asleep inside a flower, like Thumbellina.

But what truly got a scream out of your throat as your senses came back was the purple-skinned girl next to your bed, checking on you, as she folded a ridiculously puffy dress, unlike the simple one she wore, matching her golden feline eyes.

Her legs were also animal-like, almost as the one of a tiger, slender and hairy, colored of a bright orange that clashed with much strength against her skin color, effectively taking your mind away from the thought of being in danger.

Till she screamed back at you.

And you jumped out of bed, grabbing the first thing that you could see in your line of sight, which was a lamp, made of wood, with a small spirit inside of it, shielded by glass, the small being protesting loudly, with its fists, something that almost made you lose your grip onto the delicate object, saved by the purple girl, half-tiger and half-human.

If she was human.

Although you hadn’t seen many blue humans.

But if she wasn’t human… this opened so much possibilities that tricked with your mind.

“… my lady…” she didn’t seem to be in slightest much more informed or calmer than you “… you should calm down”.

But you didn’t and moved to collect something else, to shield and protect yourself, eventually settling on a pillow full of daisy, the same one where you had laid your head till a few minutes before.

“… where the fuck am I?” your voice was low, but it broke lightly in the end with hysteria.

“My lady, you are safe” the purple being spoke, as she settled down the lamp on its rightful place, lightly brushing against you, as you pushed the pillow in front of your chest, accidentally making a few daisies fall down onto your feet “… nobody will hurt you”.

“… I was kidnapped! You have already hurt me!” you replied tightly, choking on the words, as you felt another attack coming onto you, and the woman gently held you up “… I should go back home! I need to go back home!”.

“You are home, my lady” you were honestly annoyed by the way she pronounced your title, almost as if it was the most normal thing ever.

As if you belonged there.

“… this isn’t my home! My grandma isn’t here brushing away my hair and there isn’t even that bitch of my mother… Gosh I am fucking missing her right now!” your outburst strangely excited the small fire being in the lamp and as you looked at it too closely, shielded from it by your pillow, meanwhile the tiger-lady moved away, clearly thinking you needed your space.

The small creature was male-like, naked and with flaming hair, changing colors as the intensity of the flame became stronger.

And it talked, although it whispered lowly, almost child-like, chanting what seemed a bawdy dirge and you cursed again, being mimicked by the small being.

“… perfect! Kidnapped and pushed to meet a fucking perv of a fire spirit” you commented, gently caressing your forehead “… this can’t be true! Magic doesn’t exist!”.

“It does” the voice was different from the one of the blue-skinned being and it was much louder than the fire spirit’s one, although it seemed quite young, and you remembered you had heard it in the clearing.

And when you raised your eyes from the pillow you found a charming young man, barely younger than you, with long flowy hair, coming to his shoulder in light waves at its end, of a dark color that highlighted his enchanting blue eyes.

He wore a complex robe, although it seemed much more relaxed than the one you had seen in the clearing, having shed any elegant and expensive detail, except for a few earrings that caught your attention, pushing itself onto the peculiar shape of his ears.

They were pointy.

Like faeries.

You knew that people sometimes would undergo surgery to obtain such a shape, and you had been blessed with slightly pointy ears, something that had made many Halloween costumes easy for you.

But the way his ears looked…

… it seemed natural.

Because it was.

“Niahm, can you please leave us alone?” he spoke, although again his lips didn’t open, and you wondered whether it was again only in your head or you were starting to go mad.

But also the tiger-lady seemed to have heard it, bowing her head to the beautiful man, as she  moved outside, leaving you alone with him and you quickly managed to grab again the lamp, moving into a defensive position.

“Don’t think of hurting me, bastard” you muttered between gritted teeth “… I’ll destroy this and set you on fire”.

A sad smile appeared on his face, almost as if he was amused, but understood your reasonings and something in you relaxed strangely, as the man moved to push himself onto the bed, putting a lengthy distance between you and him.

And then you ran.

Ran outside, but before you could do much more, as soon as you shifted the curtains that were the walls of the chamber you found yourself almost falling to your demise, since outside of the whatever you had waken up in, there was nothing.

And underneath it, the ground… many many meters under you.

“… what the hell” your voice was low, and you quickly turned behind, closing the curtain behind yourself, as the young man looked at you with a knowing smirk.

“Smart move” he commented “… you don’t have wings sadly. Pixie sometimes are lucky enough to have them, but you don’t seem to be the type”.

“… pixie?” you asked, as slowly you felt everything you knew crumbling to the ground, your own knees buckling up underneath you “… this can’t be true”.

“It is true” replied the young man, adjusting on the bed, although he seemed rather elegant, also with his legs crossed in a relaxed position, making you notice that although his legs were lithe, he certainly had the posture of a royal person.

Head straight and clear eyes.

“… faeries exist, exactly like magic, and deep down you know, (Y/N)” again that voice in your head and you stupidly went to close your ears to prevent yourself from listening onto him “… you know because you are one of us, truly”.

And slowly, almost as if a cover had been opened from one of the trunks of your memory, slow images appeared in your mind, of you seeing faeries everywhere.

Meanwhile you were lost in the woods, after your mother had left you, small dwarves leading you back home, as they gifted you a wreath of roses and thorns that didn’t bite your skin.

Meanwhile you collected flowers for your grandmother, a few small faeries helping you, as they played with your hair, taunting you with soft whispers.

Meanwhile you left Ireland, a small cohort of little magical creatures accompanying you as you left your home.

And all of this had been hidden in your mind since you had left Ireland.

You had known magic, indeed, because you were one of them.

You were a changeling.

As your mother had told you.

“… my life…” you felt yourself choking up on your own tears, as the man quickly moved closer to you, dropping on the floor in front of you, as you shifted your face away, not wanting to show weakness, although again your eyes were beginning to be quite clouded “… my life is a lie”.

“And my mother knew it all about it” blame shifted in your body, as you remembered how easily you had called her ‘crazy’ all this time, when she had known all the truth about it “… this isn’t right, still… aren’t… aren’t changelings supposed to live with the humans?”.

The young man retreated from you, almost as if your lips had mumbled a tight accusation against him.

“… you are to marry my brother”.

Hadn’t all of this been quite crazy already, you would have started crying.

But instead you giggled hysterically, before you realized that he wasn’t joking.

“I don’t even know you!” you screeched, and before he knew it, your hands had clawed at his shirt, but as your hands came in your full view, you noticed that if you had thought that the crazy tiger-lady looked weird in blue and orange, you were now a shade of mauve that almost made you think you weren’t in your body anymore.

But you were a faery, after all, now.

It shouldn’t have shocked you that much.

Although it was utter crazy.

“… well then I can solve that quickly!” replied the boy, almost as if you hadn’t broken down two times already “… I am Alfred, and you are marrying my brother, Aethelred!”.

“That doesn’t solve much” your voice was grim, but you were too tired to fight, already thinking about the fact that you had discovered that you were a faery for a minute and you already were in a crazy amount of troubles.

“I can’t marry him”.

“Not with that attitude!” commented another voice, deeper and definitely much more mainly and you turned to take a small peak at whoever had joined you, discovering that the man was quite the picture of Alfred.

Same light eyes and dark hair, but he had a more mainly appearance, with a fresh unshaven beard and tight muscles, definitely much more robust than Alfred, who lightly ducked his head low, at that appearance, some sense of uneasiness shining in his eyes.

Meanwhile the other man’s showed arrogance as they took you in.

And it didn’t take you a genius that you were looking at your future husband.

“… I don’t think that I am even remotely ready to marry someone” you spoke loudly, spurred on by that amused annoyance you saw in his eyes, meanwhile his lips moved in a smirk and you pushed yourself up, although it didn’t solve much since you were still much smaller than him.

“Who is every ready?”.

“Don’t you have something smarter to say than idiotic answers” you replied, hissing through his teeth, as you pushed him away lightly, feeling like you were trying to push away a wall of muscles.

“… I don’t want a stupid changeling as my bride” he uttered wickedly, his humor certainly reminding you more of the faeries you had read about, accompanied but the dangerously darkness that characterized them, although they might dress in pink tulle and ride white unicorns.

“… I don’t want whatever the fuck you are as my husband” you mimicked him, crossing your head over your chest, solely now noticing that you weren’t wearing anything more than a nightgown that was the same color of your skin, making you seem naked.

“Aethelred, don’t taunt her” Alfred’s voice suddenly seemed deeper, laced with a troubled annoyance, and he set himself between you both, almost thinking that there might have been some kind of fight from you two, and you just watched the haughty faerie in front of you with your best glare.

“Mother wouldn’t like it to see you talk like that to your future bride” continued on reprimanding him loudly Alfred, and this time the arrogant annoyance became a truly hateful feeling and you couldn’t deny that you wouldn’t have liked it either, if your younger brother treated you like that.

“Mother doesn’t fucking care. She just wants to continue on screwing her pathetic humab lover…” the comment scandalized Alfred, but before he could say anything, Aethelred’s attention turned to you “… you aren’t one of us, you’ll only taint my bloodline, with your dried up blood”.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any intention to even come near your prick” you retorted loudly “… I do think that you probably find much more pleasure from whatever is showed up your fucking ass”.

This seemed to take him by surprised, as a strange mixture of admiration appeared in his eyes before turning in a devious smirk, his eyes shifting onto your body, as you shielded it, eventually turning around, wanting to grab your pillow and smother the arrogant asshole.

“… you shouldn’t have sent away the maid” now he talked with his brother like you didn’t exist anymore, but you were thankful they weren’t using the mind trick anymore “… you know that mother won’t appreciate it if she is either late or in a nightgown for the Promise”.

“What Promise?” you intervened, but the brothers now kept on talking between themselves, an embarrassed look on Alfred’s face “… somebody will fucking tell me what is going on? Or will I be also kidnapped for this fucking Promise?!”.

“Preferably not” sarcasm and sass was much better than nothing “… it is a ceremony before our marriage, where we promise that we won’t stab each other in the back”.

“… romantic” you muttered “… but believe me, even a swear won’t hold me back from stabbing you”.

“Faerie swears mean much more, although I do have to admit that you have the amazing ability to lie, having lived with humans for so long…” he commented “… that’s why you are here, our secret weapon”.

“What do you mean?”.

Why had these people all made this without even asking for your opinion.

“…call her maid” Aethelred simply sent you one last look before turning around.

Pity.

And you never wanted to feel like that.

Alfred seemed almost halfway through doing that when your voice became a tight whisper.

‘… can you give me a minute?’.

A minute of privacy.

A minute with the only person who didn’t seem to know everything that had been going on.

A minute to understand what you’d truly have to do to escape all of this.

Because there was no way you’d get married to that prick.

In the end you had tried not to question too much your faerie origins.

You had a much more urgent problem in your hands.

A marriage you didn’t want to attend.

A marriage in which you were a bride.

It was still difficult for you to understand what they truly wanted from you, but you wouldn’t have stayed for the real ceremony, although you hadn’t yet figured out a way to run away and go back to civilization, since you were closed off in some kind of ancient tower that looked like a flower.

Stranded away in the middle of nowhere.

So, you would have played the nice girl, till you found out how to run away.

You might not have had wings, but faeries usually had some kind of magic, so maybe you would have been lucky enough to have the power to teleport you away from all of this shit, something that you had childishly tried when the faerie maid, Niahm, had left you in bath alone.

You hadn’t found any kind of sharp objects you could use as a weapon.

You had tried breaking some kind of smelly bottles, probably filled with perfume, but they had just bounced off the wall even when you had thrown them across the bathroom, making you feel even more at unease.

Because not only you felt at danger.

But you felt damnably useless.

And pitiful.

Almost a child being dressed up in elegant gown and long dresses.

A child who had been stolen away and brought up in the human world.

You almost expected some fairy to take your hand and push you by their side as they brought you down the wedding hall.

Which should be what had happened, had they thought that they could marry you off, easily.

You would have thrown a worse tantrum than a spoiled brat in front of an entire faerie court, for sure.

Because if there was one thing that you knew in your bones about the people that you had seen around you, those two brothers were royals, truly with the way they acted and how expensive their dresses seemed.

And you wouldn’t have been married off easily.

Because you were wanted for some talent of yours.

Your had something they wanted.

And that made you valuable cargo.

No matter how annoyed Aethelred was with you.

And if there was one thing you were looking forward more than simply running the hell away from here, it was pissing off that asshole.

You were soon ready and when you stepped out of the bathroom Niahm checked you further, adjusting your dress and pushing your washed hair up, meanwhile she smudged lightly some make-up on your eyes.

‘It’s the trend of the season in the court’ she spoke as she took you in ‘… you’ll be the prettiest’.

“I better” you mumbled, annoyedly “… I might be kidnapped but I refuse not to look anything but the bestest”.

She didn’t seem to understand what you truly meant, but she simply smiled and you almost felt pity for the horrible way you had treater her.

She obviously wanted to be there as much as you did, and you couldn’t put much blame on her, although she certainly wouldn’t have helped you.

“… sorry” you simply mumbled, as she turned to you with a small smile, her voice telling you ‘not to worry about’, purring out the ‘r’s, but her eyes shone of acceptance, and then she told you to wait a bit more.

And then suddenly the sun, seeping through the petals of your new home, became more orange, hitting low the petal that opened almost on his own and then lowered itself on the ground on some kind of slide

‘This isn’t even the weirdest thing I have seen today’ you thought as Niahm moved to you.

“Would you prefer that I go first, my lady?” she probably noticed your uneasiness, since you had never been one to do this kind of things “… it is safe as life, as you humans say”.

“That isn’t reassuring” you commented, but insisted that she went first, seeing her disappear quickly over the silky slide of the pinkish petal, onto which you moved, in your pinkish dress, a shade clearer that your skin right now.

You didn’t even have to push yourself, you moved down calmly, although the fastness of it made you ditzy and you weren’t comfortable till you were again on the ground, seeing that everyone you had seen last night was now looking at you, and at your disheveled state.

And you were glad to have Niahm come and collect you, almost as a doll in embellished clothes and thick blush over its cheeks, meanwhile Aethelred, you recognized him by the elegant clothes and the piercingly blue eyes, whispered something to a creature that looked like the elves you had read about when you were younger.

Slender and so light that she blinded you.

They spoke with an intimacy that showed that your soon-to-be-husband had much more experience than you thought in womanly business.

You wouldn’t have for sure stayed around enough to see if that was true or not.

Alfred came onto you, once Niahm was done with your set-up, guiding you through a court of creature that even in your wildest fantasies you wouldn’t have been able to conceive, although you recognized a few, asking yourself whether there were humans, since some seemed almost ‘normal’, but then a twinkle of their eyes would reveal much more.

And you felt a stranger.

A powerless stranger.

“Dear sister!” welcomed you Alfred, and although you weren’t sure to trust him or even like him, you were grateful for his help, since he had been the sole source of information you had met “… let me show you around! We have all been so eager to meet you!”.

And the court did seem eager.

But in a wicked away.

As if they expected nothing more than some kind of mistake from you.

One that would have sent you away from them, since they all looked positively plotting and you could only guess what they were thinking of you, although your shade of skin wasn’t human-like, but the way you moved… was clumsy.

Horridly clumsy, if confronted with theirs.

Alfred named ladies after lords as he guided you through them, and soon you were in front of two thrones, both pushed upward to distance them from the crowd below, as if they were stronger and you could only guess this meant they were the royal-est of the royals.

One seat, still, was left empty beside them, halfway through earth and sky.

But soon you had a bigger surprise waiting for you, as Alfred informed you that the older man and the younger woman sitting on the thrones were his relatives, making him the prince of the faeries.

Exactly like his brother.

The one you’d have to marry.

As if your situation hadn’t been already bad.

“My grandfather Ecberth, he is the one who organized your wedding” and he bowed lightly his head, making you a small sign to do the same, as the annoyed old man turned his attention on you suddenly.

The whispers all around you being immediately silenced.

And you felt judged.

“… lady (Y/N)” it was the woman who spoke, and had you been intimidated by the older man, the woman’s voice spoke of pure poison, something that made you extremely uneasy “… we are blessed to see your face and not hear your horrendous screams, this time”.

You honestly thought of a few comebacks but held back your tongue.

For now, you had to play the docile card.

You couldn’t make them worry when you were in their territory, if not for your own personal safety, to make your escape easier.

“… and this is my mother, queen Judith” exhaled softly Alfred and you had to push your eyes back onto your feet, because surprise shone in them.

Alfred hadn’t seriously inherited a single drop of that poisonous woman.

And now you did understand why Aethelred didn’t like her.

“… Judith!” reprimanded her quickly Ecberth, although something similar to amusement shone in his eyes as he said that name, before turning his full attention on you, something that made you almost feel like an ant being looked up by an enormous human foot “… excuse my lovely daughter-in-law, she knows nothing of our hospitality”.

“I am grateful for your hospitality” you spoke lowly, trying to keep your sarcasm contained, although you heard Aethelred laugh at your clumsy response, his snicker catching also Ecberth’s eye, who smirked back, but with harshness in the twinkle of his eye.

“… my eldest grandchild seems to have taken after his mother” and his eyes became harsh and heavy, and you almost felt bad for the public humiliation that befell on Aethelred “…do come forward, my foul boy”.

And Aethelred almost pushed by the same enchantment that had brought you in the woods, moved himself forward and marched with a harsh expression to you, till he was by your side.

“… isn’t your wife lovely?” he asked him, a tone of mockery in his words and soon purple coated Aethelred’s cheeks in a show of embarrassment that made you almost think that this wasn’t simply an advantageous wedding, although they had told you so.

This was a punishment for him.

“I don’t have to find my wife lovely” Aethelred shot back, hissing roughly through his teeth “… I just have to find her a liar”.

Again, that accent on your lying abilities.

What did it mean?

These people could enchant others, they could fly on their own wings and sprout fire, but they were suddenly interested in a girl that could lie.

“And can she lie?” the fact that he spoke like you weren’t there got on your nerve.

But you clutched your fists harder, raising your head immediately with a smile.

“I am very pleased to have this marriage with the lovely Aethelred” each word sounded fake, but the lie smeared itself on your mouth, making the man look at you as if you were some kind of strange animal.

One that pleased him greatly.

But could bite.

“… oh Gosh isn’t it marvelous?” he commented, laughing loudly as the entire court mirrored him as if they were one with him “… a blessing upon our house”.

Everybody agreed, even the scorned queen, although her eyes marveled with something that seemed almost envy, you held your head tighter, taking in your small victory, but it didn’t last much, because soon king Ecberth looked at you again and ordered to move onto the royal dinner.

‘… we’ll get something in our stomach and then raise our cups to the promise”.

And that would have made everything painfully real.

No matter the fact that you didn’t understand what this promise fully entailed, but the thought of food might have been helpful, since you honestly just started feeling the pain in your stomach due to the hunger.

Although you weren’t sure you should have eaten everything.

You had read too much Christina Rossetti to trust any fairy food.

And in a blink of an eye, tables appeared, almost blooming from the ground, and solely now you realized you weren’t in some magical land, but you were beneath the grass, as small as an ant, enough for to inhabit the small flower you had woken up into.

You wondered how the hell had it happened, even more when your captors had been your same height the previous night.

Had you become too small?

Or had the world grown too big around you?

They didn’t call them ‘Little People’ for anything, after all.

You almost shrieked as one chair came right behind your huge dress, the layers of fabric shielding you from unwanted attention, but you couldn’t hide your embarrassment at that sudden apparition, unused to such ordinary magic, as Alfred giggled innocently, meanwhile Aethelred smirked dangerously, but still sat next to you.

The food made you nervous so you simply played around with it, wondering whether you should have tasted the purplish substance in your glass, since your throat was suddenly aching for water, but you didn’t want to die or either worse be enchanted and driven mad.

You might have had their blood, but you weren’t used to their magic and their tricks.

“… it is safe to eat” commented Aethelred as he saw your hesitation “… people will be annoyed if they find out that I intend to starve my bride”.

“Will this make me dance like crazy around the table?” you muttered holding out the purplish liquid in the elegant glass.

“No” and he noticed that you didn’t look in the slightest convinced “… I can’t lie”.

“Is it true?” you retorted, but slightly dipped your lips in the liquid, your throat begging for a bit of relief.

“… I lo…” and his mouth pushed itself in various shapes till he renounced saying whatever he wanted and instead muttered darkly “… I hate all of this”.

“Don’t even start” you shot back, as you then moved to dip your mouth further in the glass, discovering that what you had thought was an horridly powerful potion turned out to be simple grape juice, not even alcoholic “… you weren’t kidnapped for this”.

“You know why my grandfather agreed to this?” he commented loudly, as if you were seriously interested in his own problems, not having already enough of your own “… because although you might be so special for your lying abilities, you are nothing more than a human girl”.

“My skin color would suggest otherwise” you muttered, showing off a naked arm, since your arms were exposed, through light sleets “… what the hell do I have to do to turn back to my original complexion?”.

“… get away from here” it was almost a suggestion “… changeling show their true nature only in Fae reigns. Run away and you’ll be a simple human again”.

“Oh, believe me, I’d love to do just that” a sugary sweet smile appeared on your face, matched by Aethelred, showing you that although he might not lie, he was completely able to fake “… just let me know which one is the emergency exit door and I’ll be far swiftly out of your hair”.

“You have such a way with words” he spoke loudly, a bright laugh escaping from his mouth, as he raised his cup towards his mother and grandfather “… keep your tongue tame or you won’t survive in here”.

“I have every intention of not even living in here” you replied, although the threat had gotten the hair on your skin to raise, as the goosebumps went all over your body, and you weren’t sure if it was for the veiled threat or the way Aethelred was so close to you.

He was as handsome as an amazing statue, a strong facial structure and a tight smile, and eyes that shone of much more interest than he led on.

“… what is this ‘promise’ thing? Seriously” you muttered, your voice a bit lower than it should have been, but Aethelred spared you any harsh remark, instead choosing to focus onto your question, although his eyes shifted onto what had been left in his plate.

He had eaten voraciously, almost as if he expected everything to be brought away from him.

“It is the first bonding ritual to link two faeries together” he explained with a dark and ancient voice, definitely tired “… we don’t swear upon chastity or faith since it is quite common to have lovers and such, in Fae realms…”.

“… that is reassuring” you commented darkly, unsure of why you’d be jealous of Aethelred, when the sole thought of sharing a bed with him, as handsome as he might be. put you at unease.

“… I am a prince” he replied, as if that was a justification enough “… sex is simply a mean to gain power, and you should know it as well”.

“That’s what men always say and then stone women as whores”.

Aethelred seemed surprised at your affirmation and something of almost reflective shone in his face.

“We wouldn’t stone you for cheating on me” he said, and then his voice had a tougher intonation, returning to the silk-veiled threats he had been launching at you since the start of it all “… we would kill you for betraying our family”.

“… that surely reassure me”.

“The promise will prove that and ensure it” he continued on explaining “… we swear of being loyal to our families, joining us under one, in order for us to forge an alliance that will never be broken if not in Death”.

“That shit seems serious” you muttered, as you also started eating the meal in your plate, knowing that if you truly wanted to escape, you’d have to be strong.

“… it is” he confirmed “… but the promise is the least show-like of our ceremonies, then there is ‘The Dressing’, ‘The Ceremony’, ‘The Undressing’…”.

“They all explain pretty well what they entail” you commented loudly, embarrassment written all over your cheeks in a show of uneasiness that made you a weak target for Aethelred’s laugh, although he kept the conversation between you two, as he promised.

“I’ll be gentle with you, little virgin”.

Your cheeks became even redder, and you dropped half the glass onto his expensive pants for revealing your embarrassing secret, as he smirked almost playfully.

He was like a big feline waiting for his prey to lower her guard.

The stain didn’t last even a sole minute on the pants, before it vanished in thin air.

“… don’t worry, I’ll wait” he grinned at you, before he leaned in, and you found yourself stuck on the chair “… there is no intention in me to take a fruit that isn’t offered, but either way I always seem to wait for the more mature ones, falling right in my hands”.

You were too hot.

And you almost thought about drenching yourself with grape juice, to relieve that.

But Aethelred quickly moved away from him, his entire playful attire disappearing as his eyes focused on the sight of Judith hand-feeding Alfred, although he shouldn’t have the need of it, but you didn’t miss Aethelred’s longing gaze, desperate for affection.

“… my mother, too, didn’t like me” you didn’t know why you blurted it out, but it just did.

“Mothers can feel when their children isn’t theirs, so I don’t blame her” he commented, and you were surprised he hadn’t said anything truly cruel “… my situation is worse, believe me. My mother hates me for the sake of my brother’s love”.

It was an heartfelt confession and you wondered whether you should have said something but you just stared at him, unable to stop yourself from doing literally anything, as your hand held out for his, but he just shifted it away, facing forward.

And although you had no intention or interest in comforting your captors, not wanting to develop Stockholm Syndrome, you couldn’t help but feel bitter at his rejection and when you were turning around to collect yourself in a private moment, you saw something, a thick creature, dark green and horridly scaly, almost like a snake.

But before you could scream more wretched creatures appeared, and from the scream that erupted, you knew that they weren’t invited.

Aethelred was quick, noticing the creature near you, as he pushed you back, almost getting you to bump into the ground and he exited the sword and pushed it right into the creature’s chest, horridly killing him as some kind of acidic blood was emitted by the horrifying nightmare, and you shielded yourself with the fabric of your dress.

“… grab my knife, soon-to-be wife” he commented loudly, as another creature screeched appearing onto the table with a warrior scream that made you immediately cover your ears, as Aethelred shook you to your feet “… the knife! Idiotic human girl!”.

And you did grab the knife he had stitched onto his thigh, getting it out of his sheath, as he sent you a little look to where a running mob was forming, before the creatures completely circled you, leaving you no escape.

“… run forward and never stop” he explained to you, as he easily fought off another attack and you shamelessly used him as a human shield “… there’ll be an arch… it’ll make you human again just by stepping over it”.

That was your way out, although chaos erupted around you and you screeched loudly making you heavy, but you nodded at what Aethelred had said and quickly moved towards where he had pointed, trampling over a furious crowd, as guards appeared shielding the royals, Alfred disappearing under the tight arm of an armed man.

And you ducked down, sure that nobody would notice you.

But hands came for you, both scaly and both faerie, and the knife in your hold moved on its own, pushing itself through flesh and coming out marred in blood, although you never wanted to hurt anyone.

But had you stopped they would have hurt you.

You tried not to do too much damage, simply stabbing at the hands, hoping that whatever happened they’d have some kind of healing magic you had never known, and just pushed forward, eventually leaving behind the small war, and for a bit you thought it was a trap.

Some kind of dangerous ploy to prove your loyalty.

No arch was in sight.

And you were losing hope, thinking that maybe it was all a game.

A game of chase that would have belonged to those savage people, but then your eyes caught a beautiful sight: an arch, right in front of your eyes.

And you were just moving to pass it, when something blunt hit the back of your head and you went down again, cursing yourself for having thought this would have ended up well.

You were getting annoyed at waking up like this.

Not in your room and with a burning headache.

This time you knew from the start that you hadn’t woken up for sure in your childhood home, since everywhere around you was cold and wet, almost as if you were being held under earth and when you opened your eyes, you saw that you hadn’t been wrong.

Around you everything was brown, barely lighted up by the dying flame of a candle.

You couldn’t help but feel buried inside a good amount of mud, all around you in a strange structure that was reinforced with metals and rocks, such as the things that blocked you from moving out.

No soft petals, but metal bars.

You were in prison.

Had they imprisoned you for having run away?

But at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel like you had shifted away completely by the cheery light of the faerie world and you were now closed off in mud and something that smelled much worse.

You moved closer to the small candle, as you cradled it closer to you, moving towards the bars to look outside to try to understand what was going on as you realized that your color of your skin hadn’t gone back to normal, showing you that you hadn’t passed the arc.

That you were still in faerieland.

Or whatever they called it.

But you weren’t anymore in any royal court, something that you dreaded to admit but you almost missed.

Even more when you noticed what was outside for you.

Or better in the bars in front of you.

Frightened creatures that you identified as similar faeries, backed up and scared, a few of them wounded and you couldn’t help but think that although the faeries seemed true savages, they wouldn’t have done this to their same people.

Had it been the creatures that had attacked you at the royal banquet?

But soon your thoughts were answered, as you heard heavy steps starting to sound, as the creatures shrieked away from the bars and towards the darkness of their cells and your heart started speeding up, as you finally realized that you were in deep shit.

You definitely missed your small private flower chamber.

But it wasn’t the creatures you had seen at the wedding that came face to face with you, although they resembled them in the color of their skin, a deep unhealthy yellowish green.

And it didn’t take you much to understand they were goblins.

Although they were quite more handsome than you thought.

But they had an almost aggressive beauty to them, something that made you uneasy as they inched closer to your bars, snickers coming from them, as they noticed your surprised face, and you took in how many they truly were.

Four men, all with long hair, braided elegantly, almost in warrior-like fashion, but two were bigger, although at least four of them were relatives for sure, meanwhile one stood out with his tattooed face and hair falling onto his face.

But they all shared their hungry smiles, and you almost crawled back in the back of the cell when they walked in the bar, opening it up to you.

“… don’t you smell the lovely perfume of a scared faerie?” commented the smaller one, his tongue wetting his lips, in a suggestive way that made you tremble “… they always taste sweeter when they cry”.

“Hvitserk!” called him back who looked like his brother, an elegant braid of brownish blond hair and pure blue eyes “… you aren’t allowed to touch her, don’t you remember?”.

… oh, that certainly put your mind at ease.

“… yeah yeah, I know… Ivar wants her alive” commented harshly the man backing up from you, as instead the tattooed man walked forward you, grabbing harshly your arm to push you to move alongside him, meanwhile the only man that had been silent, the older of the brothers, also blonde hair and damned blue eyes, looked at you.

You kept your back straight and pushed yourself to stand taller towards him, because showing that you feared them made you uneasy.

And it would have just brought you deeper.

You might play the compliant princess.

But you wouldn’t have played the scared one.

From what you had heard you weren’t to be touched, hence you were safe.

For now.

Although Hvitserk, or whatever that troll was called, kept his eyes for the entire time on your ass.

You tried to take in the road for where you were lead, up to a pair of stairs, although you couldn’t see any windows in sight, probably because if you remembered correctly the light of the sun turned goblins into stone.

But still you weren’t able to catch the passing of time, whether you had moved away from the bloody tint of the dawn you had experienced or if it was already the rosy-fingered dawn, coming for you.

The walls still became much more sturdy and stable, made of rocks than instead mud, almost as if you were slowly walking towards the true castle, meanwhile the prisoners were simply returned to the earth where they had all come from.

You hadn’t been wrong at thinking that you had been buried alive.

And then you walked in what looked like a dark hall, straight from your darkest fairytales, with black rocks everywhere and barely a fireplace shining through the darkness of the room, as you took in the elegant and cruel assemble.

And the man who sat on a chair in the middle of it.

He looked young, probably a few years younger than you, the color of the fire making his face shine with a more normal color, almost human.

But you were sure he was a goblin.

Hadn’t it been for his horrifying teeth, sharp and pushed forward, you would have thought he might have been quite the handsome lad.

But villains always looked wonderful in fairytales.

And from what you had seen and heard, he was one of them.

“… lady (Y/N)” he welcomed you, raising himself up, although you noticed that he was in a croaked position, making you wonder whether he had been wounded or was simply tired.

Or wanted to mock you.

“… welcome in my humble home” he commented with a devious light in his eyes, again  predator taunting his prey and you honestly couldn’t help but hate that behavior, rolling lightly your eyes as you were laid onto a chair that was propped in front of him “… I take it that your staying was well”.

“My hair got a bit dirtied due to the humidity” you commented, taking on the persona of the spoiled brat “… if I get split ends, I’ll forward you my hairdresser’s bill”.

You knew that you were toeing a thin line, but the beautiful goblin simply looked at you with a smirk, as his eyes shone of interest, probably not expecting of you reacting that way.

But he didn’t let it impress him.

“… we’ll pay, goblins certainly don’t miss riches” he said, as he then moved to turn around, showing you that on the wall in the barely-lighted up a trophy shown: a golden armor, encrusted with gems all over it, definitely expensive “… my uncle Floki, made it for me”.

“… seems heavy” you commented unimpressed.

And this time his eyes showed that he had taken offense at your comment.

Good.

“You aren’t one for pretty words, are you?” he questioned you, and you felt the aggressiveness that told you this wasn’t a curtesy call.

“I might look like a cupcake in this dress, but believe me, I am not” you shot back, and although he seemed quite confused by what you said, he seemed to get the gist of the discourse, for which you were thankful.

Since it meant he might have stopped treating you like an idiot.

“… I am Ivar, the king of goblins”.

Again, you were unimpressed, pushing your face to rest itself.

“… and I am (Y/N), princess of being kidnapped, it seems”.

“This is serious” he commented, and you felt the surprised being met with annoyance, something that got you to assume a more serious expression, as you straightened your position “… and it’ll be advantageous to both of us, if you accept my deal”.

“… will you allow me to go outside to poo? Because believe me… the faeries also offered me that”.

“I can offer you your freedom”.

And that got you to finally shut up.

And stop with the sass.

Because Ivar’s eyes seemed honest.

So, it was impossible.

“… I don’t believe you”.

“I belong to the Little People, I can’t lie” but something told you that he would run around the truth, and hence you couldn’t believe him and wouldn’t have.

Till you had proofs.

“Why would you offer me freedom?” you asked, knowing that this wouldn’t be free “…what do you want for yourself?”.

“A spy” that left you surprised truly “… not many faeries can be good spies, but somebody like you, linked to the royal family and able to lie at command, might come quite handy to me… and all you’d have to do is to be my little bird, chirping information on my shoulders”.

Which wasn’t what you wanted in the slightest.

“… if I accept… how will you give me my freedom?” you asked, as your eyes danced around the room, not wanting to let him see how much you were considering his proposal.

Some part of you told you that goblins had their own agenda and you would have been caught in something in between and any way to escape would have been ruined.

But still… you didn’t see many ways to escape this prison.

Goblins weren’t certainly as gentle as faerie, and certainly although Ivar had ordered not to touch you, it certainly wouldn’t have lasted much.

So, you should have accepted, but…

… but you just wanted a normal life.

“… easily, I’ll turn you back in the human you always believed yourself to be” it seemed easy said by his mouth and although you knew that he couldn’t lie, for a minute you felt like this had a second meaning and you should be careful for that.

Everytime the villain offered the easy solution out, it meant that the main characters had sold their soul out.

“… you make it seem easy, but I don’t trust easy things” you commented, as you readjusted on the chair, lightly focusing your attention on the dress, noticing how utterly tattered it look, completely ruined.

It represented perfectly how you felt inside.

“It isn’t an easy thing, but… it is possible” he replied “… many of our species ditch our skin to enchant elegant wives, a few of my brothers can confirm it”.

A choir of snickers made you aware that it was indeed true.

“… it’s an enchantment” he explained “… it’ll make you human again”.

“How?”.

“I am not telling you till you decide whether you accept my deal or not” his mouth turned in a devious smirk.

“You might trick me”.

“… I could force you into this” he commented loudly, and suddenly you were aware that although he hadn’t shown you that he was powerful, he was much stronger than he let on “… I could have you spying for me with worse methods”.

And he meant it from the bloodthirsty expression which appeared on his face.

“But I am feeling generous, and I know that satisfied employees are the best ones” he reached out to you, as he lightly staggered down from the throne, making you notice that he wore braces, metal braces onto his body, although you assumed they couldn’t be iron, but he looked quite strong, holding his body straight.

But your eyes shifted as he moved his hand forward to you and his hand lightly moved itself in your hair, before settling on your face and strangely his touch seemed ice-cold and wet, but it didn’t startle as his eyes shifted onto you.

“… will you be my spy, little one?”.

---

Aethelred Taglist:

@flowers-in-your-hayr​

[fanficflaneuse]

To Love Again

A/N: Dearest magical tumblr friends, it’s me again, bringing you yet again another little piece of writing nobody asked for. Here I was, thinking I’d only write Draco x reader inserts (exhibits A and B). But I got this idea a couple of days ago and I couldn’t stop until I wrote it. I haven’t read a lot of Wolfstar (anyone care to explain why this ship is called like this?) fanfics, but I hope I have done a decent job here and you can enjoy it. Also, I don’t really know how the mechanics of it all work just yet, but if you have any suggestions for me to write (like a ship, a reader insert, or just any advice to make my writing less sucky), just send me a message and I’ll try to give it a go <3 

Details: 

Sirius x Remus (Wolfstar?) 

Word count: 2215 (oops!)

Summary: Remus and Sirius survived the war and now, scarred and scared, are trying to figure out how to deal with their feelings for each other. 

Disclaimers: A bit of internalized homophobia. One cuss word. Also, the portrayal of Remus’ internal conflict might be laughable. Oh well, hopefully I’ll learn. 

For a few months now, Remus found himself waiting eagerly for Friday nights. He’d cradle his little boy in his arms, telling him stories until his hair turned blue and his breathing slowed down. He’d tuck him in bed, close the door, careful to leave it ajar, and wait by the fire until Sirius knocked on his door.

Things had been a little (read very) awkward between them before and during the war. It had taken them a while to even carry a normal conversation that didn’t end up in deafening silence. Remus, who for twelve years had to remind himself every day that his best friend, his love, had betrayed them, was a little apprehensive at first. Even after they proved his innocence, he found himself doubting, longing for what could’ve been instead of allowing himself to live his present. He had grown accustomed to playing the part of the lone wolf. After all, for a long time he had seen himself alone, rejected and betrayed. When he felt ready to let go, he found a very different person than the one he had loved back in his Hogwarts’ days.

Roughened and deteriorated by the dozen years of solitary confinement, Sirius had also changed. He was a fiery, hungry creature. Starved of love, friendship and freedom. Often than not, he lived in his memories. He dreamed about the past and wanted it back, every single bit of it. He wanted Lily’s playful eyerolls and James’ cackling as he played with tiny little Harry. He wanted the laughter when he’d say he’d be the world’s best dogfather. He wanted the get togethers with Andromeda and Ted and their sweet little daughter. He wanted to confide in Peter again, not think of him as the man who had ruined their lives. He wanted Remus – the young Remus – back. The man he had fallen in love with, who wore his ring proudly as they announced they’d get married eventually. Disappointed by reality, Sirius was rough and volatile. Sometimes he wouldn’t know how to act with people around him, not even his beloved Remus, who looked older and more defeated than he ought to be. He no longer wore his ring.

And just when it seemed that they were both healing, that they could start building something again, Nymphadora appeared on the picture. The sweet little girl from the Sunday get togethers with the Tonkses, now a brave Auror, snatched his love away from him. She had brought warmth in Remus’ heart, something Sirius had failed to do. She made him feel loved and wanted. And Remus loved and wanted her in return. As the other members of the Order exclaimed who cute of a couple they were, Sirius said absolutely nothing. He didn’t even dare to mention his ring, much less his feelings again. And he stood on the first row, solemnly, as Remus put a different ring on her finger, imagining it was him in her place. He was also there when she gave birth to a tiny little boy who, much to his father’s relief, wasn’t a werewolf. He was also there when his own not so tiny little Harry had been named godfather to the baby boy, Teddy Remus Lupin, metamorphmagus son of his werewolf.

He had been there as Remus cradled Nymphadora’s limp body in his arms, close to his chest. He was crying and sobbing because his love had been murdered. It was him – Sirius – who had avenged her death. In the most chaotic turn of events, she had been murdered by his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. And as the dark bitch witch died with the flick of his wand, he knew that nothing he could do would ever bring his love’s love back. He felt useless, even as the people around him celebrated Voldemort’s second fall.

They had both survived. Scarred and grieving, but they had both survived.

Three years after the war, Remus had taken yet again the position as DADA teacher in Hogwarts. Sirius himself had taken the Transfiguration department and, much to Headmistress McGonagall’s chagrin, had turned it on its head. Students loved him. It did help that his teaching approach involved turning into a dog half of the times. Thanks to him, students were more motivated than ever to learn how to be animagi. He didn’t think he’d enjoy it as much as he did.

Being so close to Remus and Teddy was also a big plus. The first year after the war was rough and more than just a little awkward. Their relationship had suffered greatly and they didn’t know where they stood. The unsaid agreement was that they wanted each other’s company. As Remus learned how to be a good father to baby Teddy, he had hardly any time left to think about something else. After the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts flew by, Remus and Sirius found themselves increasingly acknowledging their feelings for each other. Even if the feelings were not exactly as in their memories, the affection manifested itself in shy compliments and gifts, memories, some hand holding here and there. And, as of lately, cuddling sessions on Friday nights.

They hardly ever spoke directly of the matter. Not for a lack of trying, at least on Sirius’ part. But Nymphadora still loomed over Remus’ heart and whenever they even tried to bring it up, Remus would recoil and they would avoid each other for weeks. Today, though, Sirius was determined to change that. He wanted Remus to be his boyfriend. He wanted the three of them to be a family. And he would never replace his first cousin once removed, but he felt he couldn’t spend the next three years or more waiting without no chance of a change.

As he knocked on Remus’ door, he took a deep breath. He was set on not giving in, no cuddles or kisses until the situation was sorted. Then Remus opened the door and engulfed him in a hug he just couldn’t resist. He hugged back and they moved towards the couch in front of the fire. For a while, they sat there, huddled together, in a silence they both felt a bit uneasy.

“What’s got your wand in a knot, Sirius?” Remus asked, sitting up a little bit straighter to look at him in the eyes.

“You,” he answered a bit more harshly than he would have liked.

Remus shot him a worried glance. “Why?”

“I…what is this?” Sirius asked, motioning with his finger the (very short) space between them.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he answered.

Remus looked away and said nothing. If the silence that engulfed them was deafening.

“You’re allowed to move on, Moony”, Sirius added softly.

Remus furrowed his brow in response. Apart from the love he had for Dora, he felt a sense of duty to her. Old, poor and ugly, she had loved him for who he was. They had gotten married. She had given birth to their son during the war. And she had lost her life for a better world for their son. She was gone for a little over three years and there he was, cuddling and kissing with her cousin, his first love.

“You’re allowed to love again!” Sirius exclaimed, a bit exasperated now.

“Not you!” Remus countered, which left Sirius a bit taken aback.

“Why?” he asked, unable to conceal the resentment in his voice.

“Because you’re…” Remus looked at him from head to toe.

“Is it because I’m a man? Would it be any different if my name was, say, Serena?” he barked.

Remus couldn’t lie to Sirius; he was, indeed, conflicted. What would people think? After marrying a woman much younger than him and having a child together, a relationship with a man? During his schooldays, Sirius had helped him come to terms with his pansexuality, just like his friends had helped him accept his lycanthropy. But still, after so many years, he still shamed himself for both. What would Andromeda say? Him, dating her first cousin. Raising her grandson together. They were much too old for that. Remus couldn’t look at Sirius in the eye.

“You’re Nymphadora’s cousin. You are my son’s cousin!”

“I am Nymphadora’s first cousin once removed. And it doesn’t matter. Moony, what we had was –“

“A phase,” Remus muttered under his breath. It seemed as though he was trying to convince himself as well as Sirius.

“Don’t you dare to say it was a phase, Remus John Lupin. I proposed to you. We…we even talked about adopting. We dreamed about a life together before all of this happened,” Sirius said, his eyes pooling with tears.

“That was a very long time ago, Padfoot,” he said, afflicted by his own words.

“Look at me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel anything for me,” he countered, taking Remus’ chin in his hand and motioning him to look his way.

“Sirius…”

“What?” Sirius moved closer to Remus, still holding his chin delicately. Sirius was crying now.

“Tell me you don’t love me anymore. Tell me you don’t want me by your side and I’ll leave. I’ll leave immediately. I swear. But don’t make me wait any longer. Don’t made us both suffer anymore under the weight of your prejudices against yourself,” Sirius almost pleaded.

“Please,” Remus said in a very weak voice, “please just let me go”.

Remus was also crying now.  The only man he had ever been with was Sirius. He had been his first everything: first kiss, first time, first love. They had discovered each other together. He had dreamed of a life with Sirius. The children, the house, absolutely everything.  They complemented each other in ways he had never managed to find in someone else. And he would be lying if he said he wasn’t still in love with him. For as much love he held in his heart for Dora, he had never stopped feeling absolutely everything for his best friend.

Sirius stood up to leave. He wiped away the tears and opened the door, not looking back. As he walked down the corridor to his own quarters, he busied his mind with thinking the exact words he’d write in his resignation letter to Headmistress McGonagall. He didn’t want to process what had just happened. He didn’t want to feel the emptiness in his heart, the feeling that his heart was irremediably shattered. Sirius was so distracted he didn’t hear someone calling his name.

Remus had seen Sirius leave the room. It all felt so definitive that it finally dawned on him: he couldn’t let Sirius go. He was his love. Dora would always be in his heart, in his mind, in his memories, in the son they had together. But Sirius was here. They had a second chance to be happy and he couldn’t waste it anymore.

It was now or never. He ran after his love, calling his name. He saw Sirius, standing in the middle of the hallway and practically ignoring him as he called him. Remus felt his heart break a little over the thought that maybe he had already given up, but he had to be determined now, just as Sirius had been a while ago.

Remus reached Sirius, who kept walking at a very slow pace and wiping away his tears. He tried talking to him, to no avail. So, he resorted to more un-Remus like tactics; he yanked Sirius by the arm and made him turn around. Sirius was taken aback; Remus looked like he had run a marathon. He scanned his lover’s expression for a second, trying to find any clue to his uncharacteristic action, when Remus attacked him with his lips. Sirius gladly complied, giving in to a fiery, hungry kiss that tasted of need and want and love. They were both panting as they pulled away.

Sirius was about to say something, but Remus, still out of character, didn’t let him.

“I love you, Sirius Orion Black. I want you. I want to be with you, forever. I want us to be a family. I’m sorry I have hurt you with my doubts. I was afraid. I still am. Oh, Merlin! But I can’t lose you again. I really…I really don’t know what else to say. Give me another chance, please?” he said impetuously, not even bothering in making sense anymore.

Sirius smiled widely and wiped away a treacherous tear. “I love you too, Moony. I have never stopped loving you”.

They kissed again. This time it was soft and tender. They hugged for what seemed like an eternity and then walked together, hand in hand, to Remus’ quarters.

After a while of cuddling, kisses and promises by the fire, Remus stood up and walked towards an old cabinet on the other side of the room. He rummaged through it for a while, until he found what he was looking for. He walked back and sat next to Sirius, their knees touching just slightly. Sirius distinguished a little velvety box and felt a smile playing on his lips as Remus opened it. There it was, Sirius’ ring, immaculate as ever.

As he put it on Remus’ finger, they both felt whole and happy again.

[katefiction]

A Royal Christmas Carol

by katefiction (Maria) / 2013

The voices of hundreds of feverish and excitable people rose and fell through the crowd. Occasionally, snippets of conversation could be heard like little balls bouncing up from the ground. ‘How much? Ten pounds?’, ‘Oh she’ll absolutely love that!’, ‘It looks yummy…I might just have to try one’.

Catherine Middleton’s voice was just one of them.

‘Brutwurst for the pretty lady?’ a vendor said, thrusting a long German sausage in her direction.  

‘Oh no thank you’ she replied politely.

‘Only two pounds for you’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye, his thick German accent adding extra charm, ‘it’s delicious!’

‘I’m sure, but I’ve just had some stollen and mulled wine from that stall over there’ she said pointing to one of the wooden huts that were lined neatly in a row.

‘Stolen my business!’ he said, throwing his arms theatrically in the air, followed by something in German that Kate presumed to be an expletive.

Kate giggled, pushing William along gently before they were convinced into buying any more food. They both already had a bag each filled with meats, gingerbread and fudge. 

It seemed to William that his new housemate wanted to stop at every stall possible at the Christmas Market that had landed in St Andrew’s that December day.

‘Oh that’s gorgeous!’ Kate enthused, looking at some blown glass baubles with a hand painted design.

William trudged on behind her, his feet sore from the walking and fingers numbing in the wintery air. He pondered for a second whether this was what having a proper girlfriend felt like. The constant pretence of being interested in the wooden toys, sparkling decorations and handmade crafts that Kate had insisted on showing him that afternoon. Not to mention always having to carry the heavier shopping bag.

Still, William might not mind all that much if Kate were his girlfriend.

‘What do you think Will? Should I get one for Mum?’ she said holding a bauble up to the last bit of daylight there was left.

‘Urm, yeh?’ he replied, looking over to his protection officers who blended into the crowd like two bored men waiting for their wives.

‘Oh I don’t know though, she might not like it. It’s one of those marmite things, you know, she’ll either love it or hate it’

William nodded, ‘how much is it?’

‘Twelve pounds’

‘For ONE bauble?!’ he exclaimed.

‘You’re paying for the quality and the craftsmanship’ she explained.

‘Extortionate’ he muttered so the vendor couldn’t hear him.

‘Oh don’t start that again’ she laughed putting the bauble down and walking away from the little wooden hut a little mournfully.

It was a fact well known that William Wales hated Christmas. He thought it a brazen excuse for companies to rip people off. Who says you should have a turkey, a tree, and a mound of brussel sprouts at the table? And why, oh why must Christmas songs be obligatory from November onwards?

As they walked back to their little home in Hope Street, Kate rattled off all the things she still needed to get for their house Christmas meal.

‘We still need crackers, and to decorate the tree, oh and I should fish out my snowman slippers!’

If William weren’t as enamoured with Kate as he was, he would find this irritating. But the plain fact was that just recently, he found nothing about Kate irritating.

The way she threw her hair behind her shoulders, sending a gentle waft of her shampoo scent in his direction. The manner in which she gently touched his arm when she was teasing him. He liked everything, every little thing.  

‘I think the snowman slippers are going a bit far’ he said drily.

‘Oh bah humbug!’ she retorted.

Just as he was about to tell her how her festive spirit was all a concoction of the media driven world, a small ball of energy, about knee height crashed into them.

‘Whoa’ Will shouted, almost dropping his bag.

‘Tim!!!’ screeched a high Scottish voice.

From around the corner leading up to Hope Street came a rather dishevelled looking woman. From a far, she looked like she could be fifty, with dark thin hair and bags under her eyes. As she grew closer, however, it was clear to William and Kate that she was thirty at the most.

‘Say sorry Tim!’ she shouted at the little boy, who was now peering into William’s carrier bag.

‘Sorry’ he said.

‘It’s fine’ Kate said kindly.

Tim, like his mother, was scrawny and tiny too for his ten years.

‘Righ’ come on’ Tim’s mother said, grabbing him and pulling him along the street.

‘But Ma, they’ve go’ a turkey!’ they heard him say, ‘you said  the shops were all out o’ turkeys!’

‘They must’ve gone somewhere fancy, we can’nae afford somewhere fancy’ she replied.

It was true, William and Kate had queued for half an hour for their turkey from a high end butchers in town.

‘But I want a turkey this Christmas!’ he moaned.

‘I said no! We’ll have ham’

Their voices were cut off when they entered one of the terraced houses on the street William and Kate were walking down.

‘I feel terrible now’ Kate said, looking down at their overflowing bags.

‘Don’t, if we hadn’t been preconditioned to associate turkeys with Christmas, that little boy wouldn’t know any different’

‘Do you ever get tired of being a Scrooge?’ she asked.

‘No’ he laughed.

‘What made you hate Christmas so much anyway?’ Kate said as they approached their house.

‘No reason’ William said. ‘I just do’

 Christmas Past

‘Where are you going!?’ she shrilled.

‘I told you, I have a meeting’ he responded calmly.

‘I don’t believe you’ she said defiantly.

‘Well that’s not my problem’

William stood behind the door, peeking through the crack at the two figures inside his father’s study. He couldn’t see much, just the odd shadow or a splash of blonde hair going back and forth.

‘I don’t want you to go!’ she continued.

‘I have to’

‘Please Charles…’

Sometimes the shadows would come closer and William would jump back quickly, scared to be found eavesdropping.

After a minute’s silence, the voice of his mother came again, but quietly this time. ‘I know where you’re really going’ she said at almost a whisper.

‘I am going to a meeting’ he said sternly.

‘Why must you lie? Why must you lie to me?’

William could hear the familiar closing of her throat, her voice becoming wobbly. He pressed his eye closer to the door crack.

‘William, what are you playing?’

William was almost thrown backwards by his heart jumping at the shock of his six year old brother’s voice behind him.

‘Shhhhhh’ he ordered quietly, turning around with his hands on his hips. ‘Go away’

‘Why?!’ Harry said at his normal volume.

‘I said shhh!, it’s grown-ups only’

‘You’re not a grown up’ Harry sulked.

‘I’m more of a grown up than you now push off’. He attempted to push his brother down the hallway, but he wouldn’t budge.

‘I’m gonna tell mummy and papa you were spying’ Harry said, poking his tongue out.

The voices inside the study began to raise once again, footsteps approaching the door.

‘It’s Christmas in two days Charles! Please think of the boys!’

The footsteps stopped briefly. ‘I must go, I’m sorry’.

Darkness covered the whole crack of the door and William sprang to action.

‘Go, move!’ he said, pushing Harry down the hallway and around a corner just as the door swung open. Neither Harry nor William dared peek to watch their father descending the stairs, but they heard him. Seconds later, their mother’s heels clicked on the hardwood and she shouted over the bannister.

‘I hope you’re happy! You’ve ruined Christmas! Ruined it!’

A door slammed. Then there was silence.

‘Go back to the playroom’ William told Harry as they released themselves from the soldier like stance against the wall.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ll come in a minute’

‘And we can play spies again!?’ Harry brightened.

‘Yes, we can play spies’ he agreed.

Harry ran off, leaving William to tread carefully down the hall, purposely avoiding the creaky floorboards he knew so well. He went into the study and pulled a few tissues from the tissue box on his father’s desk and set off to find the familiar sound of sobbing.

It wasn’t long before he found it, at the end of the hall in the first floor bathroom.

‘Mummy?’ he said to the shut door. There was no response, just the harmony of sobs.

‘Mummy?’ he said again. She couldn’t hear him, so consumed by her sorrow as she was.

Deftly, William kneeled onto the floor and pushed each tissue under the door one by one. Then he waited, and waited and waited until finally she came out, mascara wiped from her cheeks, her smile back on her face, but the sparkle gone from her eyes.   

Christmas Present

William had never told anyone that it was that Christmas when he was eight years old that has ruined it for him for years to come. No-one need know how his parent glared at each other in stony silence over the turkey at the dinner table. They didn’t need to know how Charles had lavished gifts on the boys that year, only for Diana to say he was ‘trying to make up for something’ when she thought they weren’t listening.

He’d never enjoyed Christmas since that year, and after his mother passed, it seemed even more meaningless.

‘We’re home!’ Kate called to their housemates, as she brushed her boots onto the door mat.

Fergus bounded down the stairs, eager to lay his hands on the sweet treats they’d bought.

‘Don’t let him near them!’ Kate said immediately to William, ‘they’re for tomorrow’

‘What a taskmaster’ Fergus laughed. ‘Was she like this all day?’

William stared at Kate dopily but said nothing. Their hands had just touched when she took his bag off him and he was reeling from the after effects.

‘Helloooo?’ Fergus said. ‘Bit distracted are we?’

William frowned at his friend, but Kate was so caught up in her festive haze that she didn’t notice.

‘Can you two unpack this stuff? I need to put up the tree’ she called from the kitchen where she placed the shopping down. ‘But no snacking, Will I’m trusting you to keep him in check’

She flashed a wide grin at him, causing butterflies to flutter inside his stomach.

‘I’ll rugby tackle him if I have to’ he said.

After Kate had gone upstairs to relay the wonders of the Christmas Market to Olivia, Fergus set about interrogating William.

‘So did you talk to her?’ he said, inspecting a gingerbread man.

‘About what?’ he replied, his cheeks flushing.

Fergus sighed, ‘About you two, you should do it before Christmas’

‘There’s no rush’

‘Not if you’re not worried about her going home for a few weeks and kissing some loser from Bucklebury under the mistletoe’

William didn’t reply to this, focussing instead on a bottle of wine.

‘I’m just saying, you don’t wanna leave it too late, Kate’s a good one’

‘I know that’

William more than knew that. But beneath it all, he was shy and insecure and did he really want a steady girlfriend anyway? He tore open the gingerbread man to distract himself.

‘William!’ came Kate’s voice from the stairs as she spotted him eating the biscuit.

‘Sorry’ he smiled. ‘Couldn’t resist’

She tutted and rolled her eyes at him.

‘You keep telling me to get into the festive spirit, so I did!’ he teased and read from the label of the gingerbread, ‘“enjoy your Christmas with Gingerbread George” – see he told me to eat him’

Kate pulled it off him and snapped off the arm to taste ‘Gingerbread George knows that festive spirit isn’t about eating yourself silly’

‘You tell him Kate!’ Fergus chimed in. ‘It’s about drinking yourself silly too’

Kate scowled at Fergus playfully, ‘it’s about spending time with your loved ones and being thankful that you have them’

‘Isn’t that thanksgiving?’ William teased.

‘Yeh and Christmas is about Jesus?’ Fergus added.

‘You two are impossible!’ she huffed jokingly.

As Kate went over to the living area to decorate the tree, Fergus saw an opportunity to leave them alone, patting Will on the back and sprinting upstairs.

‘So what do you do on the actual day?’ Will asked, helping her to attach some baubles to the tree.

‘We usually go to church, and take a nice walk, play board games…oh and dad usually buys some kind of fancy dress outfit and turns up in it’

Will laughed at the thought of Mr Middleton in fancy dress.

‘Pretty similar to our family Christmas then, minus the fancy dress’ he said.

‘See, not so different, you and me’ she said with a nudge.

‘Apart from you actually like Christmas!’

‘I’ll make a convert of you yet, just you wait’

‘I doubt I’ll ever enjoy it’ he said, his mother’s dulled blue eyes suddenly popping into his head.

‘Maybe when you have kids you’ll change your mind’ she said placing the star at the top of the tree.

William scoffed, ‘doubt it’

Then would’ve been the perfect time to talk to her about how he felt. Surely that little nudge was a sign?

Kate looked at him expectantly, like she was waiting for him to say something. But his thoughts had been clouded by memories of Christmas’ past, the stale feeling it gave him, the one he thought he’d never get over.

‘No, Christmas is about money and pretending to like people you wouldn’t talk to any other time of the year’

Kate shook her head; clearly her patience with William’s attitude was waning.

‘Well I’ll enjoy it regardless’ she said plainly, getting up and heading upstairs again.

Will cursed himself; he’d just missed his chance.

 Christmases Yet To Come  

That night, he slept fitfully, images of Kate and Gingerbread George floating in his mind. He had probably eaten too much of it, he thought as he drifted uncomfortably from reality to dream.

He found himself standing in a large living room, a sparkling tree in the corner, a cream sofa covered in thick throws and a fire crackling under the mantelpiece.

To his shock, out from one of the rooms came someone who looked very much like himself. Well a version of himself that he almost didn’t recognise. This William had bags under his eyes and much less hair, but he was smiling, beaming even at something he was holding in his arms.

‘Rockin’ around the Christmas tree, at the Christmas party shop’ he sang, bouncing the thing up and down in his arms.

‘Those aren’t the lyrics’ came a voice he knew so well.

Kate appeared from the room looking just as, if not even more beautiful than William knew her.

‘It’s Christmas party hop, not shop, that doesn’t make any sense’ she added.

‘Alright Mother Christmas!’ he laughed. ‘Mummy’s such a know-it-all isn’t she?’

It was only then that Will noticed what his older self was holding. A bouncing baby boy.

Was it his? Surely it couldn’t be his.

‘George, tell daddy that mummy does know it all, yes I do’ she said tickling the baby’s stomach. ‘Especially about Christmas’

Kate held up a tiny red knitted jumper that she’d had behind her back, a reindeer design was on the front.

‘That’s ridiculous’ the two Williams said in unison. The younger clapped his hand over his mouth before realising that no-one could hear or see him.

‘It’s cute Will!’ Kate insisted.

‘He’s gonna be boiling in that thing’

‘He’ll be fine for a few minutes while we take some pictures, won’t you my pumpkin?’

William sighed in defeat.

As he stood observing from the corner, William recognised the look that his older self was giving Kate as the same dopy look he often gave her in their home at Hope Street. Was it conceivable that this could be his future? Married to Kate and with a baby that he sang Christmas songs to?

George screamed out as Kate tugged the jumper gently over his head.

‘He hates it!’ William shouted over the noise.

Will walked over to the sofas and sat close to the three of them, finding himself grinning at their domesticity.

Kate managed to get the jumper on and began snapping away with her camera, while William stood behind her making faces at the baby until finally after all the fuss, George cracked open a huge smile.  

‘That’s my boy!’ Kate beamed.

For the next hour, or what felt like an hour as he had no sense of time, Will followed the family around the house. He watched them as they laughed together, chatted about a trip to Australia and other everyday things. He smiled with them when they fed George, and got frustrated with them when he wouldn’t eat.

When George was safely tucked up in bed, they sat down again at the couch, and he was surprised to see his older self voluntarily switching on Miracle on 34th Street. What had happened to him?

‘I love this film’ Kate said happily, tossing her legs up onto William’s.

‘It’s a good one, especially that scene at the end in the court room’

‘Do I need to get you some tissues?’ Kate teased.

William smirked at her, as did Will.

So this was what normal family life was all about, he thought.

Just as he was about to get comfortable and watch the film with them, darkness clouded over his dream, pulling him away.

He tossed and turned in his bed, neither waking nor going back to that room in Kensington Palace. Instead, he found himself plunged into a study, just like the one his father had.

There was William, the older, sitting at the desk, writing letters. Only this time, he was even older, fifty maybe. He sat with no expression on his face, a lamp flickering on his desk. There were no pictures on his desk, no sign of his wife or child, just emptiness.

 ‘Oi’ Will shouted.

But William couldn’t hear him.

He walked around the desk and behind the chair, where he could see William dating the letters as 24th December.

‘Oi’ he repeated. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, what are you doing here alone? Shouldn’t you be with your family or something?’

Will knew instinctively that there was no Kate or George in this scenario. This was the William of a future without a family.

And he hated it. He wanted to see himself ice skating with his kids, or chasing after them with snowballs. He wanted to be forced to watch Christmas movies, and eat turkey and brussel sprouts, and spend ridiculous money on visiting Father Christmas’ grotto with George.

‘Get off your arse!’ he shouted at his older self. ‘It’s Christmas!’

‘Get up! You’re married remember?! Go to your family!’

Of course the older William didn’t move, he merely sat solemnly, and just like he’d seen somewhere before, the sparkle gone from blue his eyes.  

*

Will woke with a start, feeling like he hadn’t been asleep at all. He sat up for a few minutes dazed from being snapped out of the particularly vivid dream. But it had felt so real, he thought. He could almost taste the crackling fire from his apartment. 

On walking downstairs, unable to stay in bed any longer, he found Kate warming some croissants in the oven.

‘Morning’ she said brightly. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Not really’ he said rubbing his eyes, ‘I had the weirdest dreams’

‘About what?’

He considered for a moment telling her the truth, but maybe it was a little too strange. ‘Um Gingerbread George…he came to life’ he said.

Kate laughed.

‘Can I help you with the lunch today?’ he asked.

She eyed him suspiciously, ‘you want to help?’

‘What’s wrong with that?!’

‘No, nothing’ she said, waving a butter knife in the air, ‘just surprised that you want anything to do with Christmas, that’s all’

William smiled, ‘I promise I won’t do anything without your approval’

‘Fine, you can start on the turkey stuffing, that’s hard to mess up’ she joked.

So William and Kate set about making Christmas lunch. William was pleased to spend this time alone with Kate before they went home and once or twice he almost plucked up the courage to ask her out. The dreams from last night still ran through his mind. If he didn’t ask her now, would he end up that lonely old man working on Christmas Eve? Was it even possible that he could know a happy family life so different from those tense Christmases of the past?

By the time Olivia and Fergus emerged in the kitchen, William was still mulling over his thoughts and was alone with Kate no longer.

Timed perfectly by Kate, at one o’clock, the four of them sat down at their small table, food and drink almost falling over the edges.

‘It all looks amazing’ Olivia enthused, ‘I can’t wait for you to cut into that turkey’ she said to Kate.

The turkey was the centrepiece of the table setting, golden brown and oozing with juices and stuffing.

‘Actually I think Will should have the honours’ Kate said, slipping on her snowman slippers for the occasion.

‘Me?’ he said unconvinced.

‘You’ve shown your Christmas spirit today, plus you made most of it, it’s only fair you should carve it’.

They exchanged a look over the table, and Will knew he was doing the dopey eyes again, realising how much he liked Kate’s attention.

‘There’s enough to feed a small army here’ Fergus remarked as William picked up the knife.

Just as he was about to slice the knife through the turkey, he stopped abruptly.

‘Will?’ Kate said.

‘You’re right…you’re absolutely right’ he said vacantly.

He dropped the knife on the table and picked up the entire turkey, platter and all.

‘Um Will, are you ok? … where are you going with that?’ Kate said, concerned as William headed for the front door.

Kate, Fergus and Olivia exchanged worried glances.

‘Come with me’ Will said, attempting to put on a baseball cap while balancing the turkey with one hand.

‘Where?!’ Kate asked, but William was already on the doorstep, so she was forced to jump up and follow him.

William turned right from their home, and strode up the street purposefully. ‘Keep up!’ he teased as he turned and saw Kate rushing behind him.

They rounded a corner onto the next street and William looked searchingly at each door, finally recalling the one he wanted.

It was then that Kate understood what was happening, and she couldn’t help smiling to herself as William rang the doorbell at his chosen house.

The door opened a few inches, ‘we haven’t got any spare change’ a voice snapped from behind the door, and began to shut it again.

‘No we’re not collecting for charity’ William said quickly. ‘I’d just like to…well I have something I’d like to give you’

‘I’m not interested in finding Jesus’ she said spikily.

‘Wait please’ he said before she could slam the door in his face, ‘we met yesterday, we live down the road, your son’s Tim isn’t it?’

‘What has he done now?! TIM!!!!!!!!!!’ she screeched.

‘Nothing!’ Kate attempted, ‘please could you open the door’

The woman finally relented; opening the door fully as tiny Tim came storming down the stairs.

‘Wow! Ma look a’ tha’ turkey!’ he said, his eyes transfixed.

William grinned at his excitement. ‘It’s for you, if you’d like it’

‘Wha’ for?’ the woman said suspiciously.

William pondered for a second and then said, ‘call it Christmas spirit?’

Kate beamed and placed a hand on William’s back.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it honestly, we made it this morning, I know it’s a bit large…’

‘…but you can cut it up and put it in the freezer until Christmas day if you’d prefer’ Kate finished for him.

‘I’ve go’ three more kids in there’ she said, ‘they’ll polish that off’

‘So you’ll accept it?’ Kate said hopefully. ‘As a gift’

‘I can’nae really say no, can I?’. For the first time the woman smiled, softening her face considerably.

William handed the turkey to her, and ruffled Tim’s hair, who was still transfixed.

‘Thank you’ the woman said. ‘From all o’ us’

‘No problem’, Will said, lowering his hat and turning away.

‘Wait, what are your names?’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter’ William said. ‘Merry Christmas to you all’

‘Merry Christmas’ she said back to them both.

*

William and Kate walked back to Hope Street partly in silence, nothing really needing to be said.

‘Do you think Olivia and Fergus will be pissed off I’ve given their turkey away?’ William asked eventually, as they walked purposely slowly.

‘We have more than enough other food’ Kate said sensibly. ‘Besides they’ll have the same opinion as me when they know where it went’

‘Which is?’ he said, smirking.

‘That you’re very sweet and even a little awesome’

William stopped in the pavement, ‘you think I’m awesome?’

‘You know I do’ she said rolling her eyes as if it was a silly question.

‘Right…well the thing is, I think you’re kind of awesome too’ he said, with all the confidence he could muster.

‘Do you?’ she gave him a smile that made him blush.

‘And I was thinking…maybe when we come back after the break, we could…um…you know’ William was bright red and running out of words.

‘Be awesome together?’ Kate suggested.

‘Yes, exactly, if you wanted to, obviously’ he mumbled.

‘I thought you’d never get the hint’ she chuckled.

‘Well I’m not very observant’ he said calmly though his spirits soaring.

Kate reached on her tip toes and kissed him on the cheek, sending the flush roaring back to his face.

Maybe that dream last night wasn’t just a dream, perhaps it was the push he so badly needed, he thought optimistically.

He looked down and saw that to his great amusement, Kate was still in her snowman slippers.

‘Nice slippers’ he teased, pulling a face at their gaudiness.

‘Oh bah humbug!’

[hockeysweetheart]

So This post will be about the realitonship Between  Peeta And Katniss this will be a long one  PART 1... Catching Fire and Mockingjay will be in another post

Peeta Mellark! Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will. It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer. The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her. I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret. But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then. Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one. On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes. I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope. I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck. All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied. When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare. Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain. There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black. His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer. The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life. By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts. I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions. We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.  

Can I just say How much Peeta must be like Oh my god yes I am with the  girl I love. But how will I tell that when we are trying to kill each other 

I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim. did Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd. All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

"What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.  

IS CINNA A Matchmaker  and The others because shit I be dammed. 

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.  

Just you wait soon you’ll see  What Peeta’s Plan will be. 

Then Peeta totally covers for her... and They go talk on the rooftop about it and Peeta does... 

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here." He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt again. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn't do me much harm. It was just something I witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Delly Cartwright. I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story.

  Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right? "They were from here?" he asks, and he secures a button at my neck.  ( UMM SURE “ friends”  do that Katniss... 

"It's getting chilly. We better go in," he says. Inside the dome, it's warm and bright. His tone is conversational. "Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" "Yes. Do you know him?" I ask. "Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," he says. "No, we're not related," I say. Peeta nods, unreadable. "Did he come to say good-bye to you?" "Yes," I say, observing him carefully. "So did your father. He brought me cookies." Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after watching him lie so smoothly, I don't give this much weight. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Peeta's house gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out of the room. "He knew your mother when they were kids," says Peeta. Another surprise. But probably true. "Oh, yes. She grew up in town," I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned the baker except to compliment his bread. We're at my door. I give back his jacket. "See you in the morning then."   

Okay Peeta I see what your doing...  Seeing if anything Is going on between Katniss and Gale... I totally almost missed this. 

When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now." "Why would you coach us separately?" I ask. "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch. I exchange a look with Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels." I never thought about Peeta eating the squirrels I shot. Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken and horse. "You can coach us together," I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods. "All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch. "I can't do anything," says Peeta. "Unless you count baking bread." "Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Haymitch. "Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow." "And you're good?" asks Haymitch. I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. I've better aim than Gale, but I've had more practice. He's a genius with traps and snares. "I'm all right," I say. "She's excellent," says Peeta. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer." This assessment of my skills from Peeta takes me totally by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up. "What are you doing?" I ask him suspiciously. "What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," says Peeta. I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing." "Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," he shoots back. "He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother." "What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Peeta in disgust. "There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger. "But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta. "Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal. "She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta. That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta's eyes and know he isn't lying. Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me." Peeta's eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. "People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you." "No more than you," I say. Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. "She has no idea. The effect she can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me. What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

I glower at the roll sure he meant to insult me. After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?" "I know a few basic snares," I mutter. "That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod. "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Haymitch. We both start to object, but Haymitch slams his hand on the table. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training." I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Peeta can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hating Peeta, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain. It's such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other's strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries. Which I'd be prepared to do right now if it wasn't for Haymitch's stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either. I hear Peeta's voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

 OH MY GOD someone stop me before the whole freaking book is on this 

Okay I am skipping the training the Katniss shot an arrow at the gamemakers scored 11 bla bla read that in the book  and to Peeta asking to train alone. 

The stew's made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?" "That's right," says Haymitch. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and cat at the same time," I say. "Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Haymitch. "What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember. Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills. was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him? On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta's decision  -  and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training  -  I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.  

Ha no sweety he has a bigger plan he doesn’t want you to know yet. 

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head. "Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar. Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to. "She have another fellow?" asks Caesar. "I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning. won't help in my case," says Peeta. "Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified. Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because. because. she came here with me."

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries. "It's not good," agrees Peeta. "Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?" Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now." I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.  

Okay How Katniss shows her love is this 

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands. "What was that for?" he says, aghast. "You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him. Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia. "What's going on?" says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?" "After she shoved me," says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up. Haymitch turns on me. "Shoved him?" "This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" I answer. "It was my idea," says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Haymitch just helped me with it." "Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" I say. "You are a fool," Haymitch says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own." "He made me look weak!" I say. "He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch. "But we're not star-crossed lovers!" I say. Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?" The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head. Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Katniss." I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid." "No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia. "She's just worried about her boyfriend," says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn. My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. "I don't have a boyfriend." "Whatever," says Peeta. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?" The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I'm forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training. But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we're in love. I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask. "I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush." They others chime in, agreeing. "You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Haymitch. I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. "I'm sorry I shoved you." "Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal." "Are your hands okay?" I ask. "They'll be all right," he says.  

Okay I have to admit that was kinda sweet  but Honey Pushing him  yeah hes gonna love that.  

There  Nerves of the Hunger Games talk is kinda cute I will admit  but Then its like wtf 

My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I'm only yard behind him when I say, "You should be getting some sleep." He starts but doesn't turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. "I didn't want to miss the party. It's for us, after all." I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. "Are they in costumes?" "Who could tell?" Peeta answers. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn't sleep, either?" "Couldn't turn my mind off," I say. "Thinking about your family?" he asks. "No," I admit a bit guiltily. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands." "It doesn't matter, Katniss," he says. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway." "That's no way to be thinking," I say. "Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and. " He hesitates. "And what?" I say. "I don't know how to say it exactly. Only. I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not." I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask. "No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to. to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Peeta. "But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work." "Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," he insists. "Don't you see?" "A little. Only. no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" I say. "I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer. I take a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive." Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. "Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart." It's like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch's patronizing endearment. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve." "Wouldn't surprise me if you do," says Peeta. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. 

Okay The 74th Games ( shit this is long) 

   When suddenly I notice Peeta, he's about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he's looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out. And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I'm so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I can't stand leaving with virtually nothing. 

  An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta 

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I've rolled sideways off the fork and I'm facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it. "Go on, then, Lover Boy," says the boy from District 2. "See for yourself." I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there's a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he's limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he'd planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do. Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this. this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they're the Capitol's lapdogs. Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they're saying about him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace? Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don't kill him first myself. The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices. "Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?" "Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife." Is he? That's news. What a lot of interesting things I'm learning about my friend Peeta today. "Besides, he's our best chance of finding her." It takes me a moment to register that the "her" they're referring to is me. "Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?" "She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke." "Wish we knew how she got that eleven." "Bet you Lover Boy knows." The sound of Peeta returning silences them. "Was she dead?" asks the boy from District 2. "No. But she is now," says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?" The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard. Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he's helping them find me. The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta knows better than anyone. But he hasn't told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it's all that keeps him alive? Is he still pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on in his head? 

  But it's too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. I'm helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta's face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his arm drops to his side. "What are you still doing here?" he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he's been dipped in dew. "Are you mad?" He's prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. "Get up! Get up!" I rise, but he's still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. "Run!" he screams. "Run!" Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He's sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the blisters on my hands and I can't shake them free. They're climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone's screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death. Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life. 

  The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they're from the same district. Both can live. Both of us can live. Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta's name. 

I clap my hands over my mouth, but the sound has already escaped. The sky goes black and I hear a chorus of frogs begin to sing. Stupid! I tell myself. What a stupid thing to do! I wait, frozen, for the woods to come alive with assailants. Then I remember there's almost no one left. Peeta, who's been wounded, is now my ally. Whatever doubts I've had about him dissipate because if either of us took the other's life now we'd be pariahs when we returned to District 12. In fact, I know if I was watching I'd loathe any tribute who didn't immediately ally with their district partner. Besides, it just makes sense to protect each other. And in my case  -  being one of the star-crossed lovers from District 12  -  it's an absolute requirement if I want any more help from sympathetic sponsors. 

Hugging the rocks, I move slowly in the direction of the blood, searching for him. I find a few more bloodstains, one with a few threads of fabric glued to it, but no sign of life. I break down and say his name in a hushed voice. "Peeta! Peeta!" Then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to mimic my tones so I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down. My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice. "You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I whip around. It's come from the left, so I can't pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak. Still, it must have been Peeta. Who else in the arena would call me sweetheart? My eyes peruse the bank, but there's nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks. "Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. "Close your eyes again," I order. He does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off." Peeta smiles. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying." "You're not going to die," I tell him firmly. "Says who?" His voice is so ragged. "Says me. We're on the same team now, you know," I tell him. His eyes open. "So, I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me." I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. "Did Cato cut you?" I ask. "Left leg. Up high," he answers. "Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say. "Lean down a minute first," he says. "Need to tell you something." I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it." I jerk my head back but end up laughing. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." At least, he's still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I realize he's unable to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. The mud and plants seem to have imprisoned him and I finally have to give a gigantic tug to break him from their clutches. He's still two feet from the water, lying there, teeth gritted, tears cutting trails in the dirt on his face. "Look, Peeta, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say. "Excellent," he says. I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don't stop until he's in the water. "On three," I say. "One, two, three!" I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he's making. Now he's on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway. "Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in," I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I'd ever be able to get him out? "No more rolling?" he asks. "That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" I say. It's hard to know where to start. He so caked with mud and matted leaves, I can't even see his clothes. If he's wearing clothes. The thought makes me hesitate a moment, but then I plunge in. Naked bodies are no big deal in the arena, right? I've got two water bottles and Rue's water skin. I prop them against rocks in the stream so that two are always filling while I pour the third over Peeta's body. It takes a while, but I finally get rid of enough mud to find his clothes. I gently unzip his jacket, unbutton his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife and drench him again to work it loose. He's badly bruised with a long burn across his chest and four tracker jacker stings, if you count the one under his ear. But I feel a bit better. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Cato did to his leg. Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he's lying in what's become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he's burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1 and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually breaks down and buys these on occasion when her home remedies fail. "Swallow these," I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine. "You must be hungry." "Not really. It's funny, I haven't been hungry for days," says Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. That's when I know how sick he is. "Peeta, we need to get some food in you," I insist.

"It'll just come right back up," he says. The best I can do is to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. "Thanks. I'm much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?" he asks.

"Soon," I promise. "I need to look at your leg first." Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Cato's sword made in the fabric over his thigh, but it in no way prepares me for what lies underneath. The deep inflamed gash oozing both blood and pus. The swelling of the leg. And worst of all, the smell of festering flesh.

I want to run away. Disappear into the woods like I did that day they brought the burn victim to our house. Go and hunt while my mother and Prim attend to what I have neither the skill nor the courage to face. But there's no one here but me. I try to capture the calm demeanor my mother assumes when handling particularly bad cases.

"Pretty awful, huh?" says Peeta. He's watching me closely.

"So-so." I shrug like it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." I refrain from saying how I usually clear out of the house whenever she's treating anything worse than a cold. Come to think of it, I don't even much like to be around coughing. "First thing is to clean it well."

I've left on Peeta's undershorts because they're not in bad shape and I don't want to pull them over the swollen thigh and, all right, maybe the idea of him being naked makes me uncomfortable. That's another thing about my mother and Prim. Nakedness has no effect on them, gives them no cause for embarrassment. Ironically, at this point in the Games, my little sister would be of far more use to Peeta than I am. I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the worse the wound looks. The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well, just one tracker jacker sting and a few small burns that I treat quickly. But the gash on his leg. what on earth can I do for that?

"Why don't we give it some air and then. " I trail off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" says Peeta. He looks almost sorry for me, as if he knows how lost I am.

"That's right," I say. "In the meantime, you eat these." I put a few dried pear halves in his hand and go back in the stream to wash the rest of his clothes. When they're flattened out and drying, I examine the contents of the first-aid kit. It's pretty basic stuff. Bandages, fever pills, medicine to calm stomachs. Nothing of the caliber I'll need to treat Peeta.

"We're going to have to experiment some," I admit. I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg. I tell myself this is a good thing and bite the inside of my cheek hard because my breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance.

"Katniss?" Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it.

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I. I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I've no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

After three applications and what seems like a bucket of pus, the wound does look better. Now that the swelling has gone down, I can see how deep Cato's sword cut. Right down to the bone.

"What next, Dr. Everdeen?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?" I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton. Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion. I pull out Rue's backpack. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," says Peeta.

"You're just like the rest of my family," I say. "I care, all right?" I turn my back and look at the stream until the undershorts splash into the current. He must be feeling a bit better if he can throw.

"You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," says Peeta as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks. "I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."

I wrinkle my nose at the memory. "What's he sent you so far?"

"Not a thing," says Peeta. Then there's a pause as it hits him. "Why, did you get something?"

"Burn medicine," I say almost sheepishly. "Oh, and some bread."

"I always knew you were his favorite," says Peeta.

"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me," I say.

"Because you're just alike," mutters Peeta. I ignore it though because this really isn't the time for me to be insulting Haymitch, which is my first impulse.

I let Peeta doze off while his clothes dry out, but by late afternoon, I don't dare wait any longer. I gently shake his shoulder. "Peeta, we've got to go now."

"Go?" He seems confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," I say. I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. "Come on. You can do this."

But he can't. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards downstream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he's going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area. Of course, I'd love to get him up in a tree, but that's not going to happen. It could be worse though. Some of the rocks form small cavelike structures. I set my sights on one about twenty yards above the stream. When Peeta's able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I'd like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is shot. Paper white, panting, and, even though it's only just cooling off, he's shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it. I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he's not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit. Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave. The result is unsatisfactory. An animal might not question it, but a human would see hands had manufactured it quickly enough. I tear it down in frustration.

"Katniss," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back  - " he begins.

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say.

"I know. But just in case I don't  - " he tries to continue.

"No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," I say, placing my fingers on his lips to quiet him.

"But I  - " he insists.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway since he's right, we are supposed to be madly in love. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.

I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Peeta's leg. Instead I find a pot of hot broth.

Haymitch couldn't be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy's dying. Give me something I can work with!"

And he's right. If I want to keep Peeta alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died.

"Peeta!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff.

I hold up the pot. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."

Getting the broth into Peeta takes an hour of coaxing, begging, threatening, and yes, kissing, but finally, sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. No new casualties. Still, Peeta and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night. I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before I realize that's over. At least for a while. I can't very well leave Peeta unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding place on the bank of the stream untouched  -  how could I conceal it?  -  and we're a scant fifty yards downstream. I put on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle down to keep watch. The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Peeta. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic. I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very sick person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one. When the sky turns rosy, I notice the sheen of sweat on Peeta's lip and discover the fever has broken. He's not back to normal, but it's come down a few degrees. Last night, when I was gathering vines, I came upon a bush of Rue's berries. I strip off the fruit and mash it up in the broth pot with cold water. Peeta's struggling to get up when I reach the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," he says. "I was worried about you." I have to laugh as I ease him back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?" "I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," he says, still serious. "Clove? Which one is that?" I ask. "The girl from District Two. She's still alive, right?" he says. "Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface," I say. "That's what I nicknamed the girl from Five. How do you feel?" "Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud," he says. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag. and you." Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. "No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though. "You didn't sleep," Peeta says. "I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted. "Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," he says. I hesitate. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever." He's got a point there. I'll have to sleep eventually. And probably better to do it now when he seems relatively alert and we have daylight on our side. "All right," I say. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me." It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep. Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Peeta's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days. "Peeta, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," I say. "For what? Nothing's going on here," he says. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot." This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. That's when I notice how dry his lips are. I test his cheek. Hot as a coal stove. He claims he's been drinking, but the containers still feel full to me. I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. Then I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement. I steel myself and unwrap the leg. My heart drops into my stomach. It's worse, much worse. There's no more pus in evidence, but the swelling has increased and the tight shiny skin is inflamed. Then I see the red streaks starting to crawl up his leg. Blood poisoning. Unchecked, it will kill him for sure. My chewed-up leaves and ointment won't make a dent in it. We'll need strong anti-infection drugs from the Capitol. I can't imagine the cost of such potent medicine. If Haymitch pooled every donation from every sponsor, would he have enough? I doubt it. Gifts go up in price the longer the Games continue. What buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. And the kind of medicine Peeta needs would have been at a premium from the beginning. "Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." "You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say. "Yes, that's a good plan," he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit. "You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say. "Don't light a fire," he says. "It's not worth it."

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast. Well, we're not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately." I do need something desperately. Something to heal Peeta's leg. "Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance," says Claudius. There's nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. "No," he says. "You're not risking your life for me." "Who said I was?" I say. "So, you're not going?" he asks. "Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid," I say, helping him back to bed. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there." "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me. "I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going. He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says. Anger flushes my face. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!" "I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he says. "You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," I say. "Then I'll drag myself," says Peeta. "You go and I'm going, too." He's just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods. Even if a tribute doesn't find him, something else might. He can't defend himself. I'd probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him? "What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I say. He must know that's not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn't even try. "I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," he says. We're at something of a stalemate. I know I can't argue him out of this one, so I don't try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap at him. "Agreed. Is it ready?" he asks. "Wait here," I say. The air's gone cold even though the sun's still up. I'm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn't taste too bad. Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don't know what fever does to people. He's like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely. As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he's going to die if I don't get to that feast. I'll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he'll be gone. And I'll be here all alone. Again. Waiting for the others. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Haymitch has done it! He's gotten the medicine  -  I don't know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels  -  and I can save Peeta! It's such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Peeta. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There's no question, it's sleep syrup. It's a common medicine in District 12. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone's had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Peeta out for a full day, but what good is that? I'm so furious I'm about to throw Haymitch's last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That's more than I need. I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won't be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream." Peeta opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. "They're very sweet." "Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth. "No," he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?" "Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say. Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go. "They're sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgivable. I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't lie, Peeta?" I say, even though he can't hear me. It doesn't matter. The rest of Panem can.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I'm vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I'm allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I've been asleep a long time. My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don't trust her. Then there's a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother's, and I'm scared. "Katniss," it says. "Katniss, can you hear me?" My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I'm not home, not with my mother. I'm in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. "Peeta." "Hey," he says. "Good to see your eyes again." "How long have I been out?" I ask. "Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he says. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything." I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. "You're better," I say. "Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick," he says. "By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone." He doesn't seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I'm just too beat-up and I'll hear about it later when I'm stronger. But for the moment, he's all gentleness. "Did you eat?" I ask. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," he says. "No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon," I say. "Not too soon, all right?" he says. "You just let me take care of you for a while." I don't really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin. "Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," he says. There's a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me

The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. "He did. But he let me go." Then, of course, I have to tell him. About things I've kept to myself because he was too sick to ask and I wasn't ready to relive anyway. Like the explosion and my ear and Rue's dying and the boy from District 1 and the bread. All of which leads to what happened with Thresh and how he was paying off a debt of sorts. "He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" asks Peeta in disbelief. "Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain," I say. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it." "It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," I say. "The bread? What? From when we were kids?" he says. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead." "But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," I say. "Why did you, anyway?" "Why? You know why," Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing." "Haymitch?" I ask. "What's he got to do with it?" "Nothing," Peeta says. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?" But the thought only upsets me. "I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve," I say. "Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," says Peeta grimly. I don't want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don't want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?" I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. "I want to go home, Peeta," I say plaintively, like a small child. "You will. I promise," he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. "I want to go home now," I say. "Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," lie says. "Okay?" "Okay," I whisper. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch." "I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don't know, but I'm ion sad and tired to ask. It's evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I'm absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It's clear he's been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started.

ither that or he's got very generous sponsors," says Peeta. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread." I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn't know about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It's not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all. Somehow, believably, I've got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," I say mischievously. "Yeah, about that," says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. "Don't try something like that again." "Or what?" I ask. "Or. or. " He can't think of anything good. "Just give me a minute." "What's the problem?" I say with a grin. "The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," says Peeta. "I did do the right thing," I say. "No! Just don't, Katniss!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?" I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who. who worries about. what it would be like if. " I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. "If what, Katniss?" he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says.

I'm not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I've never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn't enough anymore clearly because if it was we'd have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn't just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I'm rotten at it, but Peeta's not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking. "Peeta," I say lightly. "You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?" "Oh, let's see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair. it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up," Peeta says. "Your father? Why?" I ask. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" Peeta says. "What? You're making that up!" I exclaim. "No, true story," Peeta says. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings. even the birds stop to listen.'" "That's true. They do. I mean, they did," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it's a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father. "So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta says. "Oh, please," I say, laughing. "No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew  -  just like your mother  -  I was a goner," Peeta says. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you." "Without success," I add. "Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck," says Peeta. For a moment, I'm almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love. But Peeta's story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don't remember the song. And that red plaid dress. there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father's death. It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true. could it all be true? "You have a. remarkable memory," I say haltingly. "I remember everything about you," says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention." "I am now," I say. "Well, I don't have much competition here," he says. I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can't. It's as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, "Say it! Say it!" I swallow hard and get the words out. "You don't have much competition anywhere." And this time, it's me who leans in. Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there's no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, lie's out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there's a feast  -  fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. "I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve." 

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta's voice stops me. "We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then." "You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" I say regretfully. But I don't. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls  -  they even sent us silverware and plates  -  savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. "I want more." "Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," Peeta says. "Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour." "Maybe not that long," says Peeta. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me. no competition. best thing that ever happened to you. " "I don't remember that last part," I say, hoping it's too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush. "Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says. "Scoot over, I'm freezing." I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. "So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" I ask him. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," he says. "I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," I say. "Hardly. But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," he says. That's right. If we win, we'll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games' victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all. A disturbing thought hits me. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" "Ah, that'll be nice," says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales." "I told you, he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal. "Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta. "He's never sober!" I protest. "That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymitch. well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you." "I thought you said I was his favorite," I say. "He hates me more," says Peeta. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing." I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch's expense. He has been around so long, he's practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they'll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he's made up. He's at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he's holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive. It's funny. Haymitch and I don't get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn't something to ease Peeta's pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn't made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I'll see the strings attached to it. A thought hits me, and I'm amazed the question's taken so long to surface. Maybe it's because I've only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. "How do you think he did it?" "Who? Did what?" Peeta asks. "Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" I say. Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he's so surly, it's hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There's only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I'm reaching this conclusion myself. "He outsmarted the others," says Peeta. I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I'm wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn't always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind. About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta's too hungry himself to put up an argument. While I'm dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky. "There won't be anything to see tonight," I say, far more interested in the stew than the sky. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon." "Katniss," Peeta says quietly. "What? Should we split another roll, too?" I ask. "Katniss," he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him. "I'm going to split one. But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow," I say. I see Peeta staring at me. "What?" "Thresh is dead," says Peeta. "He can't be," I say. "They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," says Peeta. "Are you sure? I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything," I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh's picture and then he's gone. Just like that. I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I'm not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. "You all right?" asks Peeta. I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who's going to bet on a tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh's murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn't say it aloud. That's not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, "It's just. if we didn't win. I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue." "Yeah, I know," says Peeta. "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve." He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. "Eat. It's still warm." I take a bite of the stew to show I don't really care, but it's like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. "It also means Cato will be back hunting us." "And he's got supplies again," says Peeta. "He'll be wounded, I bet," I say. "What makes you say that?" Peeta asks. "Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He's so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory," I say. "Good," says Peeta. "The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out." "Oh, she's fine," I say peevishly. I'm still angry she thought of hiding in the Cornucopia and I didn't. "Probably be easier to catch Cato than her." "Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," says Peeta. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times." "Me, too," I admit. "But not tonight." We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," I say when I finally break away.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"

"Not us," I say. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," Peeta says. But I can see he's surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. "All this?"

"We'll earn it back today," I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it's one of the best things I've ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."

"Hey, Effie, watch this!" says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, "We miss you, Effie!"

I cover his mouth with my hand, but I'm laughing. "Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave."

He grabs my hand away. "What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," says Peeta, pulling me to him.

"Come on," I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss. 

We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss

The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we're back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg  -  well, you're naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he's stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him. "What?" he asks. "You've got to move more quietly," I say. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius." "Really?" he says. "Sorry, I didn't know." So, we start up again and he's a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he's making me jump. "Can you take your boots off?" I suggest. "Here?" he asks in disbelief, as if I'd asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he's still not used to the woods, that it's the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread. It's eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have fallen and it's a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel certain he's laughing back home. "Yes," I say patiently. "I will, too. That way we'll both be quieter." Like I was making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there's some improvement, I could swear he's making an effort to snap every branch we encounter. Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I've shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work out a solution. Ideally, I'd dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore and go hunt, but then he'd be left with only a knife to defend himself against Cato's spears and superior strength. So what I'd really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn't going to go for that suggestion. "Katniss," he says. "We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game." "Only because your leg's hurt," I say generously, because really, you can tell that's only a small part of the problem. "I know," he says. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful." "Not if Cato comes and kills you." I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still sounds like I think he's a weakling. Surprisingly, he just laughs. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?" Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That's what I want to say, but I can't. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try another tactic. "What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?" I say, trying to make it sound like very important work. "What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" he says, mimicking my tone. "Just don't go far, in case you need help." I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won't last long. I'll just go a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off. I teach him a bird whistle  -  not a melody like Rue's but a simple two-note whistle  -  which we can use to communicate that we're all right. Fortunately, he's good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off. I feel like I'm eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it's enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Peeta's roots, this will be enough for now. As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven't exchanged signals in a while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he? "Peeta!" I call out in a panic. "Peeta!" I turn to the rustle of brush and almost send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into the foliage. My fear comes out as anger. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!" "I found some berries down by the stream," he says, clearly confused by my outburst. "I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?" I snap at him. "I didn't hear. The water's too loud, I guess," he says. He crosses and puts his hands on my shoulders. That's when I feel that I'm trembling. "I thought Cato killed you!" I almost shout. "No, I'm fine." Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don't respond. "Katniss?" I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?" "All right!" he says. "All right. Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!" I say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water, although I still have some in mine. But I'm not ready to forgive him. I notice the food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone's definitely picked away part of the cheese. "And you ate without me!" I really don't care, I just want something else to be mad about. "What? No, I didn't," Peeta says. "Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," I say. "I don't know what ate the cheese," Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if trying not to lose his temper, "but it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?" I would actually, but I don't want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at them. I've never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These aren't Rue's berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between my fingers. My father's voice comes back to me. "Not these, Katniss. Never these. They're nightlock. You'll be dead before they reach your stomach." Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards or so away. What's left of Foxface's emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see the red glint of her hair in the sunlight. I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. "Climb. He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance fighting him from above." I stop him, suddenly calm. "No, Peeta, she's your kill, not Cato's." "What? I haven't even seen her since the first day," he says. "How could I have killed her?" In answer, I hold out the berries.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Cato, but as I anticipated, he doesn't make an appearance.

Okay I skipped to the   Mutt Part with Peeta and Katniss ( After Catos down on the ground)  

I turn my attention to Peeta and discover his leg is bleeding as badly as ever. All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the mutts. I have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of blood from his calf. Although I'm shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control. Peeta's face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I've seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don't have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It's risky business  -  Peeta may end up losing his leg  -  but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lay down with him. "Don't go to sleep," I tell him. I'm not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I'm terrified that if he drifts off he'll never wake again. "Are you cold?" he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It's a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop. Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice. "Cato may win this thing yet," I whisper to Peeta. "Don't you believe it," he says, pulling up my hood, but he's shaking harder than I am. The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Cato, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end. "Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Peeta. "You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him. And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment. It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn. Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I'll go completely insane. He's fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it's hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can't let him go. I just can't.The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato's voice."I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?" Peeta asks.If he's near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point."My last arrow's in your tourniquet," I say."Make it count," says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta's hands grip me for support.It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty."Did you get him?" he whispers.The cannon fires in answer."Then we won, Katniss," he says hollowly."Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A moment  not matter what I will always Watch

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor." There's a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it. "If you think about it, it's not that surprising," he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt  - Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. "No," he says. "Do it." Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands. "I can't, I say. "I won't." "Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato," he says. "Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!" And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two. "You know I can't," Peeta says, discarding the weapons. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth. "No, you can't kill yourself," I say. I'm on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound. "Katniss," he says. "It's what I want." "You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out. "Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around. We both know they have to have a victor. Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country. If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were. My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. "No, I won't let you." "Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?" Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. "The count of three," he says. We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight. "Hold them out. I want everyone to see," he says. I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare. The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you  -  the tributes of District Twelve!"  

And we are not done Yet...

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty. Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch? And now I know. It's because you have no choice. I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.

I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team. I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Peeta. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so. But I need to see him for myself. "Peeta!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness. Effie. I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall  -  Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms first. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Effie's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling. "Where's Portia? Is she with Peeta? He is all right, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out. "He's fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony," says Haymitch. "Oh. That's all," I say. The awful moment of thinking Peeta's dead again passes. "I guess I'd want to see that myself." "Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready," says Haymitch. It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest. 

When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Okay I know this part doesn’t really have Peeta in it but It’s super important 

Haymitch's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"

Okay, that's an odd request from Haymitch but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing his lips.

"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem," says Haymitch.

I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?"

"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Haymitch pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Got it, sweetheart?" He could be talking about anything now.

"Got it," I say. "Did you tell Peeta this?"

"Don't have to," says Haymitch. "He's already there."

"But you think I'm not?" I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.

"Since when does it matter what I think?" says Haymitch. "Better take our places." He leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it." He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my knees. Then I realize it's pointless. My whole body's shaking like a leaf. Hopefully, it will be put down to excitement. After all, it's my night.

  The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Caesar Flickerman greeting the audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking ridiculous, bobbing bows. It's a safe bet they're clueless. Then Effie's introduced. How long she's waited for this moment. I hope she's able to enjoy it because as misguided as Effie can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and must at least suspect we're in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of course, they've been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna's choice of dress for me for tonight. I'll need to look as girlish and innocent as possible. Haymitch's appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least five minutes. Well, he's accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes alive. What if he hadn't warned me in time? Would I have acted differently? Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol's face? No, I don't think so. But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage. Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that's when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's kissing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right. Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia's put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point.

All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Peeta  -  his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn't have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them. Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I'm glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that's my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won't have as much time to linger over the deaths. The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead. Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Peeta really, there's no question he's carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I seem heartless in comparison  -  dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up supplies  -  until I go hunting for Rue. They play her death in full, the spearing, my failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1's throat, Rue drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the song. Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Peeta's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met. And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta's name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night. The anthem's playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown. There's just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd's confusion  -  whose head will he place it on?  -  until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two halves. He places the first around Peeta's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's. That's when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I am to blame for having the idea. I'm the instigator. I'm the one to be punished. Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving when Caesar Flickerman finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice. Peeta and I are whisked to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet, where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us. Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch, which is reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta's hand. The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I'll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door. "Why can't I talk to him?" I ask. "Plenty of time for talk when we get home," says Haymitch. "Go to bed, you're on air at two."

The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least. Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I. come in. "Congratulations, Katniss. How are you faring?" "Fine. Nervous about the interview," I say. "Don't be. We're going to have a fabulous time," he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat. "I'm not good at talking about myself," I say. "Nothing you say will be wrong," he says. And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of "accident" for me as we speak. Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." "Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta. I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him. Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta. Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar says. "From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Peeta. "But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Caesar. "Oh, that's a hard one. " I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help. "Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Caesar. Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say. "Why do you think that was?" urges Caesar. "Maybe. because for the first time. there was a chance I could keep him," I say. Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his "new leg" is working out.

"New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Peeta's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh.

"No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. I shake my head.

"I haven't had the chance," says Peeta with a slight shrug.

"It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Peeta.

"He's right," says Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

"Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind. hm?" he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Peeta that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just. couldn't bear the thought of. being without him."

"Peeta? Anything to add?" asks Caesar.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," he says.

Caesar signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Haymitch. "Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers.

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there's nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and the train's waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and Portia, although we'll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a round of victory ceremonies. It's the Capitol's way of reminding people that the Hunger Games never really go away. We'll be given a lot of useless plaques, and everyone will have to pretend they love us.

The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Effie is accompanying us back and Haymitch, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants. As I slowly, thoroughly wash the makeup from my face and put my hair in its braid, I begin transforming back into myself. Katniss Everdeen. A girl who lives in the Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure of Peeta's arm around my shoulders feels alien.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale.

Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks.

"Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come.

Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Peeta's eyes.

"What's he mean?" Peeta asks me.

"It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out.

"What? What are you talking about?" he says.

"It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," I say.

"Coaching you? But not me," says Peeta.

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Peeta. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess. back in the arena. that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" says Peeta. I bite my lip. "Katniss?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance.

"It was all for the Games," Peeta says. "How you acted."

"Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

"Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says.

"I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming.

"Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Peeta has disappiared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12. He gives me a nod, his face expressionless.

I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through?

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.