#going back to my roots with my school job at a bakery...

[blood-mocha-latte]

I would move like. Literal mountains for some kind of luztoye coworker au. Its so vague but you know joe toye is my favorite coworker i just want to see him happy

ALEKS my bestie my beloved. i LOVE this for a thousand years you understand. you Get It truly. i quite licherally never write from toye’s perspective, but i suppose you’ve inspired me in some way to give it a go with (with a bat. at a beehive). i hope this is what you had in mind <3

~

Joe just needs to get up the urge to talk to the guy.

“You look like an idiot.” Malarkey informs him, chewing on a mouthful of some sort of bread and meat monstrosity. Guarnere hums in agreement, mustard on his chin.

“Like a real schmuck, Joe.” He says agreeably, reaching across the table to pat Joe on the shoulder. “A moron, if you will.”

Joe needs new friends.

“I’m not doing anything.” He says, eyes back on his own sandwich, which has been precariously picked at and none so much as eaten. “This is just – do you think that’s a new shirt?”

He feels his face burn as soon as he says it, and hopes to god no one can see it on his face. Still, Malarkey stops chewing to stare at him, briefly, before snorting and shaking his head, taking another bite of his food. He doesn’t say anything, but Bill does for him, like a Philadelphian gremlin invented solely to bother him.

“This is one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.” He says solemnly, mustard still on his chin, and Joe resists the urge to smack it off. “Just go talk to him.”

“I am.” Joe says, and doesn’t move.

“Okay, so go over there!”

“I will!” He stays in place. Malarkey sighs, muffled by a still-full mouth.

“He’s been working here for three weeks, this is ridiculous.” He says, talking to Bill, who snorts. Joe glares at him again, back still to the guy, and Malarkey just shrugs.

“I think what Malark means to say is that you’re acting like a real blockhead and just need to go and talk to the guy.” Guarno says helpfully, gesturing with his hoagie over Joe’s shoulder. “You know. Before you don’t get the chance to and regret it. Or, much more likely, your head pops off and you die from just staring at him.”

“Okay, I am not staring—” Joe starts, because that makes him sound like a creeper, and he’s not creeping, per se, he’s just—

“Hey, Luz!” Malarkey shouts, while Joe is distracted trying to argue with Bill, and Joe resists the urge to duck out of his seat when he looks over his shoulder and sees Luz, in question, coming towards him. 

“You’ve got mustard all over your face.” Luz says easily, like he’s already in the middle of a conversation, sitting kitty corner to Joe at the table they’ve lodged at. Guarnere just grunts, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and shoving at George’s head with the other. Joe says nothing, picking up his hoagie for the first time since he’d grabbed it and taking a bite.

George greets Bill in much of the same way before nodding to Malarkey, shifting in his seat to cross his legs under him. He greets Joe with a silent smile, the corner of his mouth crooked up, and Joe nods around a full mouth.

Guarnere and Malarkey are laughing at him. He knows they’re laughing at him, the bastards, but they’re doing it in their heads so Joe can’t accuse them of laughing at him without sounding like a crazy person.

It’s not awkward, although it has every right to be, mainly because it’s Luz and there’s something about him that just completely diffuses a situation. He was over there, now he’s over here. Nothing strange.

Joe may have tuned out, slightly, from whatever conversation Bill picked up, as when he next actively listens to whatever chatter the other three have adopted, it’s circled around to work again.

“You on break, yet?”

“Nah. In, like—” Luz turned, looking over his shoulder at the clock in the wall before turning back towards their table. He’s fiddling with a paper napkin, folding the corner of it over before smoothing it out again. “—five minutes. So. I’m just sitting here unless there’s something Lip wants me to do.” 

There won’t be, because it’s Lip and Lip never needs help with anything (which is, in Joe’s opinion, a problem). But Malarkey brightens, grinning with lettuce in his teeth, and says, “so you and Joe are off at the same time.”

Murder is bad. It’ll do Joe good to remember that.

George turns to look at him, dark eyes sparkling with something that Joe can’t really read. “That so?” He asks, and Guarnere hums, mustard still all over his face.

“Yeah. Our break ends in five minutes.” He says, which is just an outright lie, and Joe takes another bite of his sandwich, expression impartial. “Someone’s gotta man the mixers.”

“We’re mixer men.” Malarkey agrees. “Real yeasters.”

“Bakery boys.” Guarnere says. “Joe lifts weights.”

Joe coughs around his sandwich and is pushing his chair out from the table before he ever realizes what he’s doing. “I’m gonna go see if Lip needs help with anything.” He says, which Lip won’t, but it’s always good to check.

He pushes through the door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY (handwritten on lined paper and attached with scotch tape, because Skip had somehow broken the actual sign a month ago) with only a small degree of relief, scrubbing at the back of his neck as he moves around the ovens.

He doesn’t find Lip, but Speirs is staring at dough like he’s expecting it to rise out of pure force of will, so Joe figures that’s close enough.

“Need help?” He asks, and Speirs looks up from the dough to stare at him, instead.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a break?” He says, and sometimes Joe forgets he’s a newer addition to the bakery, because he just sort of fits. At times, though, it becomes clearer that it’s only been a few months. Like now, when Speirs stares at Joe like he’s never seen him before in his entire life. Joe shrugs.

“Yeah.” He says. “You folded that dough wrong. The edges are all fucked up.” Speirs turns back to blink at the dough, almost a dismissal, before turning back to Joe.

“I’m waiting for it to rise.” He says. “Go away. You’re on break.”

“It’s – it’s for croissants, it’s not supposed to rise.” Joe says. “That’s the opposite of what you want it to do.”

Speirs squints at him, apparently not concerned by the state of the croissants. “Is this about the delivery boy?”

Joe liked it better when Speirs wasn’t here. “No.” He says, and turns around, looking for gloves. “Lemme fix the edges.”

He can feel Speirs staring at the side of his head, like some sort of intense dog. “No, I’ll fix the edges.” He says, like Joe had instead offered to fix the codes of a nuclear bomb. “Go away. You’re on break.”

Joe grimaces, weighs his options. Deciding that the likelihood of him surviving a confrontation with Luz is more likely than whatever Speirs’ is doing, he turns on his heel. 

“Those croissants are gonna be fucked up!” He says over his shoulder, just because, as Speirs goes back to staring at them.

——

Joe hates his friends.

Luz is eating a sandwich identical to the one Malarkey had earlier, before he and Bill carted up everything at their table and abandoned Joe to his fate. He seems, if anything, unbothered by Joe’s state of affairs, chewing and occasionally remarking on a few odds and ends of whatever crosses his mind.

“Plus, I bet if it wasn’t aired out of order, we would have at least gotten another season.” Luz is saying, pushing his hair back from his forehead absent-mindedly, other hand gesturing nonsensically at nothing. “I mean, it really was good, but I can’t imagine seeing the episodes out of order. Hey, Joe.”

Joe jolts, startled out of his train of thought (which was no thoughts whatsoever), shifting in his seat. “Yeah?” He asks gruffly, and George tilts his head at him, slightly, almost a nonverbal question.

“D’you wanna see a movie with me?” He asks, brusque, and Joe blinks at him. Luz just shrugs. “I’ve been told – and I’m quoting, here, that you’re not as much of an unfeeling hard-ass as you seem.” He says, and it startles a huff out of Joe, who’s half-surprised by the bluntness.

“I hate my friends.” He says dryly, and Luz grins, eyes bright.

“Have you ever seen Firefly?” He asks, and Joe leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a movie.” He said, wry, and Luz waved a hand dismissively. 

“Specifics.” He says, soft and bright and Joe can’t really look away from him, until the EMPLOYEES ONLY door is clanging open and Malarkey is poking his head out of it.

“Hey, man.” He says, and sounds rather casual. “One of the ovens is on fire, which I’m pretty sure is Speirs’ fault.” 

Luz laughs, bright, and it’s not exactly the reaction Joe was expecting, and it makes the corner of his mouth crook up, traitorous. “I’ll be right back.” He mutters, pushing out of his seat a second time. 

“I’ll be right here.” George says evenly, and takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joe turns around and Malarkey is grinning at him like an idiot, lettuce still in his teeth, flashing a double thumbs up. Behind him, the smoke alarm has started to go off.

Yeah, Joe definitely needs new friends.

[cindol]

if ur requests are open can I request earthy black girl! reader x jjk men i love ur writing lots

jjk men and their earthy black gf !

jujutsu kaisen x black fem reader

incl — nanami kento , sukuna ryomen, gojo satoru, geto suguru and shiu kong .

cw + — established relationships, slightly suggestive with gojo, reader has locs, cult leader geto,

| NANAMI KENTO

he originally met you when saving you from a curse on your shoulder before it could develop and kill you in his usual bakery. It confused you when he tapped your shoulder and got you turning to him but he made up the excuse of swatting a fly away and ever since you developed a relationship with you.

Nanami’s favorite thing about you was how in touch you were with your roots and how you weren’t someone very big on technology, a simple tv and android does good for you and that’s just how he liked it with you.

Nanami's usual activity with you was to stroll through your garden with you just picking any fruit or veggie and in season flowers.

You always refuse to let him go without a meal after work. You always saw how drained he looked after work and tutted at that while prepping to cook.

“aye, just stay there baby. You’re crazy if you think I’ll let my boyfriend just go to bed without a meal.” saying it while getting ready to chop up some veggies and greens for a soup.

Your relationship with plants is what impressed, hearing you coo and sing at your venus flytrap while plopping a bug into it’s trapping mouth made him curious and intrigued.

“if you don’t mind me asking dear, what makes you sing to it?”

you were still humming while feeding the plant their bug of the day then stopped to answer.“a venus plant is a living thing, kento and living beings need some love and words of encouragement to grow, don't cha’ think?”

| SUKUNA RYOMEN

sukuna’s old school, always has been and always will be so your earthy nature wasn’t something he was bothered by. How natural you were with everything you did reminded him of his childhood in a way, always seeing his mother in their garden.

As earthy as you are he refused to let you garden in dirty gloves, he actually scoffed in disbelief seeing you in the gloves.” you needed a new pair of gloves you could’ve really told me woman.’’

You abruptly stopped to chuckle at your boyfriend.’’i’m not a materialistic person ‘kuna, these gloves of mine have done just their job for years.’’

Anything you say goes out one ear and the other for him.”nonsense, i refuse to have you garden in those unruly gloves, i’ll call uraume to pick up a pair of gardening gloves the nearest store i’m sure they won’t mind.’’

sukuna likes to see you in your most natural state. You liked to do some little glam, a little eyelashes and lip gloss but he liked when you were all natural. To him, seeing your brunette colored locs in a ponytail and you in your dark green robe showing some cleavage was his favorite sight of you when you entered the kitchen.

sukuna not being careful of his own health doesn’t slide around him. a simple cough or wound makes you immediately take any herbs and first aid kit out.

“uraume won’t be here always to take care of you ‘kuna, you gotta let me take care of you.”

when you try to put an evil eye necklace around his necklace a loud roar of laughter comes from his mouth.“No damn necklace will protect me of all people from any bad spirit.”

| SATORU GOJO

After a long day with his students he enjoyed being with you. When he enters your house you shush up whatever ranting he’s gonna ramble about the elders.

“Let's just forget all of that, yeah? I think a nice fresh water bath would do you some good today.” whilst shutting him up and taking off his black blindfold.

gojo enjoyed bathing with you just to have a front row to see how you untie your locs and see them drop down to your back along with your towel to show your….assets.

gojo liked how natural you were down to your hair. When he asked for you to dye your hair the same color as his he was excited to see your once brown locs now a snow white color in your black headwrap.

“thought hair dye went against like, the earthy thing?”

a small tittering sound came from your mouth at that.“Henna hair dye. The earth has many resources satoru.”

| SUGURU GETO

suguru appreciates how down to earth you are, he sees it as a good influence on his girls. Being a cult leader can be taxing and takes up much of his time so when you’re around to remind them they’re not so alone when geto’s on cult leader duties it makes him happy.

when you both are alone in his master bedroom hearing how you spent the day with the girls picking tender plump fruits from the family garden and putting them into your hand made wooden baskets to bring home.

geto isn't one to restrict how you choose to dress. He’ll gladly wear his yukata with a gold kasaya garment while you walk around the place in a strapless knitted olive green dress and knitted white long sweater, and whoever has an issue with it can take it up with him

[jaylleoo14]

TW: BOTMM is a short drabble leading up to Keratoconus Entrapment. Although nothing explicit happens in this drabble be wary that the following will contain such themes/mentions (along with Keratoconus Entrapment): Horror/dark themes, deaths/murders, butchering/gore, unsettling descriptions, kidnapping, gen violence, blackmailing, alcohol, partying, corruption, morphed views of artistic expression, manipulation and gaslighting. All characters are aged up, you have been warned 

This idea sparked while I was listening to an audio and I was like "hmm, i like how ominous and spooky this can be." then suddenly boom, Jade Leech has spawned. So hear me out okay WAIT IM ACTUALLY KINDA SCARED RN BECAUSE SO MUCH IS BEING ENVISIONED IN MY MIND😭🙏 :') Okay but as the ideas kept on racking and stacking on top of each other I started to get a little "oh wow, this is actually starting to sound kinda good tho-" (im envisioning an uncanny Jade rn and i'm scared-)

Have you heard?

Heard of what?

The Mushroom Man who lives down Rocker Lane.

I. From paints to charcoal, to clay to wood. Then to pencil and pen, then back to your roots of finger painting on cardboard.

You've always had this sort of love for drawing. Since you were little you can recall your mother had always talked about how you were such an artistic child. A crafty one at that. Your dad was always telling his friends that his child was always so expressive and imaginative whenever the topic was brought up. Continuing on keeping up with art along your adolescence, to middle school, to then high school, you felt like you knew what you wanted to do. That being why you decided to go pursue an art major.

The university you are going to attend, University of Arts in Atlantica, was where you'd be heading on over next. Its a funny feeling in your stomach really, moving out and all and going to meet new people as you drift away from your old ones. The feelings welt up inside you slowly, feeling a sad weight bringing you down. You'd be staying in a co-ed dorm, at least then you'd be able to hopefully meet new people and make more friends. That's one of the main things you were looking forward to. It's time to look on the positive side here, and as you make your daily affirmations to yourself you bring out your phone to go to your notes app to remind yourself of the good things that happened and what to look forward to.

I saw a man helping his old relative (not sure) down a street earlier. That was really nice.

I saw some black cats cuddling with each other near the grass yesterday

the weather is nice today, it's not too windy and the sun is out high

I was able to pack another box of my stuff, I should go reward myself now

I was able to send in my resume for a job application nearby. I should also reward myself because I did a good job at tending to it.

Oh, that's right. You recently did submit a job application. You submitted it to a bakery oddly enough.

Art comes in many different shapes and forms, and you personally had another interest. That being the culinary arts. For at least once in your life you wanted to experience the working life of a culinary student, and although pursuing it as a career plan wasn't your solid choice - it was one of the options. And thankfully enough, the man there who skimmed through your resume seemed rather gentle about your chances. Hopefully you get the job, I mean you have plenty of experience before as well with handling and decorating foods. That was the main thing you were interested in. Sure you do enjoy baking, but it was the expression of being able to decorate cakes and pastries there that you were more eager to do.

Trey was the person who introduced himself first, claiming that his family owned the business. After the whole process of submission for your intended new job, something blue catches your eye. A natural call of curiosity causes you to divert your eyes a little away from Trey- who was finishing up the bases of what's to expect- and see a tall man through the window of the kitchen door. He had teal short hair, a longer black length of hair tucked behind his ear and his eyes looked rather sharp and lifted from the side. If for just a moment of observation, Trey caught where your eyes were distracted at.

"Oh, well it's still business hours, you know. He's another employee working here as well. If you get the job you'll see him more frequently." He says it so casually, but you would really hope you do get the job. Fiddling your fingers a little, you show a bit of anxiousness but you keep it professional. "What are the chances of me getting hired? I'm really eager to get this position."

A thoughtful look is splayed on his face, his glasses framing them well. "Well your past work seems promising. It doesn't look professional enough for it to display but I'm sure with enough practice it may work. Just wondering though, you're an art student, yes? Do you think you'd manage the hours alongside your classes?"

His words were a little hard for you to hear but you greatly needed it, a set reminder that you really still are an inexperienced culinary artist if anything. However you proceed to give him a determined answer. "Yes, I'll manage. I will uphold my duties responsibly, please consider taking me."

"They seem eager, don't you agree Trey?" Both your attention is turned and directed on the voice who spoke from behind, the teal haired man coming forward. He had a black plain apron on with the logo of a clover on his right chest, a white chef shirt on as the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “Eagerness and experience are two separate things. I’ll consider it, don't worry.” 

Not knowing what to say, the teal haired man turns his attention onto you. You both meet each other's eyes and his lips curve more upward to be more inviting and polite. “Oh how rude of me, where are my manners? You can address me as Jade Leech.” He goes over to shake your hand as a formal greeting, and ever since then things have been going alright. Would you look at that, you got the job! And you’ve already moved in, meeting friendly people from all over with wild stories to tell. “Ugh, such an extroverted thing to do. I could never.” Idia’s voice is made metallic through your phone as you tell him about how you plan on going to this frat party to welcome the new incoming people. It was a new time of your life, why not let loose and meet new people? “Your reasoning still stinks. Imagine all the sweaty smelly bodies you’d bump into there. Not only that but eee! So many loud normies! My HP would already max out by the time I get there, definitely not.” 

“Look, I’ll be back soon okay? I want to try and enjoy this night before anything real happens like classes and work.” Bringing your coat on, you sling over a fanny pack over your torso with all the required things for what you can expect at this frat party. “If you don't let me know that you came home safely I’ll be adding modifications into that device of yours.” A simple reassurance is all it takes for him to hang up and with some worn converse shoes you slip out of your room. 

Clink!

Here's to a new school life. Surrounded by other lively participants of party go-ers, you hold a drink of alcohol in your cup. Everyone seems to have a good time, the music is blasting, the people are dancing and enjoying their time, and you have crazy party go-ers here climbing the roofs and pulling crazy stunts. It's quite the impression really. Taking a step outside all the way to where the cars are parked from the frat house, you take a deep breath and catch yourself a breather. Idia was right for the most part, and for this to be your first time at a frat party it was definitely overwhelming. However one thing for sure was that you were able to meet new people and enjoy your time there, just needed a little break is all. 

Little did you know though, that nearby deep in hidden trees and bushes laid a beaten up person. Most likely dead. No, definitely dead. For Jade Leech is always one to ensure that the deal is done. Frat parties, loud music, drunken party go-ers, it was all the perfect set up for him to strike and take advantage of. Who would know if just a person or two went missing? Especially ones who come by themselves. He’s got an eye for people you could say, with the way his eyes are arched up so meticulously. The location was just too good to miss out as well. Here it’s a little more isolated with vegetation growing around, the house being more secluded due to its bigger land. Blood is soaked into the dirt, his smile content that the earth is gaining some nutrition. 

Oh, what a surprise. He sees a familiar figure in the distance leaning up against one of the cars on the dirt path. It’s you. He could strike, but it would cause trouble. You aren’t his target. At least not yet. He can play a patient game, and a patient game he will play. The future awaits many things for the two of you, so until then, enjoy your fresh new life and your new job. You clock in the day following tomorrow, where Jade will surely start to learn more about you. And as much as he will learn about you, you my dear reader, will surely start to learn about him much more than what ordinary people see and know about him behind closed, faux smiled, bloodied doors.

I hope this reaches the right audience, but to all my dark/horror/yandere enthusiasts

just know..... JADE IS A BAKER IN HERE WITH NICE MF ARMS>&lt;

Literally the only thing i was fixated on when I was writing this, I was like "oml yes Jade with them nice buff baker arms anfisdifbfiubwif Trey you arent gonna be alone in this✊🤞." I practically melted just thinking about it while writing this ^^;

[periwinckles]

Please tell me you have a middle name - chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“Happy birthday, Katniss.”

Madge’s voice is soft and neutral, trying not to draw Miss Smoak’s attention to us. It still startled me, because I wasn’t really expecting her to remember my birthday. We’re friends, but we’re not really that close, are we? She never acknowledged my birthday before, but I suppose an eighteenth birthday is more noteworthy than the rest. 

“Thank you.” I answer back, keeping my eyes in our assignment. 

The morning goes by in comfortable silence. I’m not really that interested in school, I much rather be outside. But given that we’re in our last months of school before heading for real adult life, most teachers are lenient with school work as long as we’re still in attendance. I still haven't figured out what I’ll do once I graduate. I need to have an official employment and “huntress” doesn't bode well with the Capitol. The morning provides itself to be a good occasion to try to sort out my options. The mines will be my last resort. I don’t really need a job, just a cover up, actually. Maybe Sae can register me as an employee.

When we sit down for lunch, Madge speaks up again. 

“Do you have any plans for the afternoon?” 

All students have Wednesday afternoons off, which means I usually have a habit of going to the woods. Not that I need to. We’re well stocked, with what I hunt in the mornings. But sometimes I like to go there just to watch everything else around me. Other times I take my knife and I make some arrows, while enjoying the sun. That’s probably what I will be doing today, but I can’t really admit it out loud to Madge. She knows about my illegal escaping and hunting, but who knows who might be listening?

“No plans.” I say, instead. “Why?”

She gives me a sheepish look as if she wants to ask me something but is afraid to do so. “My cousin Reese, he’s competing in the wrestling semifinals, this afternoon. He asked me to stay and watch… you know, to show him some support?” 

I nod, in recognition, both of her cousin and the wrestling tournament. I may be a little oblivious to the school’s extracurricular activities, but the wrestling tournament is a big thing, kind of hard to miss. 

“I don’t even know why he’s so adamant that I should be there. We all know he’s not winning. Anyway… do you by any chance… want to stay with me to watch the semifinals?”

I don’t pay that much attention to wrestling to know who has a better shot to go to the finals, but Reese Donner is a tall boy, he appears to be fit and from what I remember from previous years, quite fast too. 

“That’s a bit harsh. He could very well advance to the finals.”

“No way!” She says, with a shake of her head. ”He’s facing Peeta today.`` 

I inhale sharply, and I hope it goes unnoticed.

“Peeta?”

“Peeta Mellark, from the bakery? He sits next to Reese in class.” 

“Yeah, I… I think I know who it is.” 

Who am I kidding? I know very well who Peeta Mellark is. The baker’s youngest son is the reason my family didn’t starve to death when my father died in a mine explosion. To this day my greatest shame is that I was never able to thank him for his kindness and bravery.  

“Peeta won last year, and he’ll probably win this year too. But it might still be fun to watch even if the outcome is somewhat predictable…” 

I guess keeping Madge company isn’t that difficult and at least I’ll be able to root for Peeta, even if in secrecy. As far as “thank yous” go, it’s a lousy one , I know. But it might give me some assurance and peace of mind.

“I know it’s your birthday…”

“How long do we have to stay?” I ask

Her face visibly lightens with a smile. “It starts at three. I’m not sure if Reese and Peeta are the first match or the second one, but either way we should be done by four.”

I suppose I could spare an afternoon. I let my eyes wander through the school cafeteria until I spot Prim, chatting with her friends. When I tell her I’m staying for the wrestling tournament, she is ecstatic. If I’m staying that means she’s staying too. Not that she needs my permission to do so; she’s fourteen years old, and it’s been a while since I had any say in her daily life. But it’s my birthday and I know she wouldn’t be staying unless I did too. I guess it is a good decision, me staying. I’ll be making two people happy. 

When we get to the gym, the bleachers are already at full capacity. I don’t think we’ll be able to find an empty spot, but Reese Donner spots us from the first row.

“Madge! MADGE!”

He gets up and waves her forward, and I follow suit.

“You came!” He says with a bright smile and a one armed hug. He’s already in his wrestling attire and somewhat itchy with excitement. “Hi!” He says, turning to me. “Katniss, right?”

I nod in a tight lipped smile. I don’t think we ever exchanged words before today.

“Full house, huh?” Madge says as she looks around. “Sorry Reese, but I don't think my cousinly affection is enough to make me stand for two hours.”

“No need to stand, you can take my seat, I need to warm up, anyway.”

“What about Katniss?”

He turns to inspect us both and gives a shrug of approval.

“You’re both skinny, you’ll fit. Rye, scoot over.”

Peeta’s brother (Rye?) is sitting in the front row, next to Reese’s vacant seat. I remember him being a couple of years older than us and he used to be a wrestler as well. He moves a bit to his left leaving enough space for the both of us to sit, Madge next to him and me next to Madge. It’s a tight fit. We’re literally squeezed against each other, to the point where the girl sitting to my right gives me an annoyed look when she feels my shoulder pressed against hers.

“Is your girlfriend joining you?” Reese asks him.

“We broke up.” Rye says, shaking his head. “Enjoy it while you can Donner, dating is so much easier when you’re still underage.”

“So she got your shirt off, huh? Caught a glimpse of your chest? That’s precisely why I’m waiting for my soulmark to appear next month. Not worth the hassle, if you ask me.”

I try to look around, so it doesn't appear like I’m eavesdropping. Not that they are making too much effort to keep their conversation private. Reese shows no indication of wanting to warm up as he ends up sitting on the floor in front of Madge and Peeta’s brother. The three of them engage in conversation as I look around.

That’s when I spot Peeta, a few yards away from us, next to the wrestling mat. He’s warming up and, like Reese, he’s sporting a wrestling suit. It’s not a shocker that wrestling is usually dominated by the merchant class. Most merchants have more food than Seam folks, and one look at Peeta would be enough to understand why he’s a crowd favorite. He’s not as tall as Reese, or even his brother, but he’s broad shouldered and visibly strong. As I watch him stretching I notice the white bandage around his bare leg, just beneath his left knee.

“Is Peeta hurt?” I ask out loud before I can stop myself.

Read the rest on AO3

[letarasstuff]

Doesn't she love me anymore?

(A/N): This was requested by an anon, I hope you like it as much as I do!

Summary: Spencer's daughter starts to question why her mother left the small family early on

Warnings: Mentions/undertones of bullying, an absent parent and descreptions of the concequences for the child, So. Much. Angsty. Feelings.

Wordcount: 2.5k

✨Masterlist✨ _________________________________

“Daddy?” Spencer turns around from the frying pan to look at his daughter. Against common belief, he is quite the cook. But this only started when he became a father, after he realized a child won’t be able to live off of a diet consisting of coffee and anxiety, just like he did at the time. “Yes, Sweetheart?”

She looks down to the piece of paper on the kitchen counter in front of her. “Why did Mommy leave us?”

The spatula falls to the ground. It’s a question the father did not expect on a Tuesday morning before school. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? She saw me the first time and didn’t want me anymore. It’s my fault Mommy left us, left you, just like Linda said.” Tears begin to stream down her face.

“No no no”, her father is quick to turn off the heat and walks around the island to hug his daughter. “None of this is your fault. I don’t know what this Linda said, but it is not true. Your mother had her own reasons to stay out of our lives, but it has nothing to do with you.”

This doesn’t calm her down. “What are her reasons? Why did she leave us? Why did leave me?” Frantically she tries to keep her sobs down in order to speak. Spencer never has seen her this upset.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you are in the right state to talk about it now? Why don’t we calm down and get something for breakfast on our way to school and talk about it after I pick you up this afternoon?” He suggests, hoping the thought of a cup of hot chocolate from their favorite bakery would help her.

(Y/N) looks up at him with bloodshot and glassy eyes. Snot runs down from her nose. Spencer is quick to get her a tissue and make her blow into it, cringing internally about all those germs. “Do you promise to tell me more after school?” Big eyes look up at him and the father hurts. It hurts him, because there are so many things in her future that will break her and all that because of her mother. He can’t shield her from all of it, as much as he wants to he isn’t able. Because there always will be people, people like this Linda, who will make the girl conscious of her absent mother.

“I promise”, he tells her and holds his little finger out for her. (Y/N) smiles while linking hers with his, knowing her father will keep this promise just like any other of his. “Good, and now pack up we got a bakery to visit!” Quickly the girl grabs the piece of paper in front of her only to shove it into her backpack.

A little later she sits at her desk and looks at her teacher expectantly, just like her fellow classmates. “Ok children, today we won’t work further on our addition and subtraction worksheets-” The teacher’s sentence is cut short by the eruption of cheerful shouts. Just (Y/N) looks at the multiplication sheet in front of her.

The teacher is quick to quiet the class again. “Instead we will continue our work on the mother’s card you started doing yesterday. Linda was so kind to tell me that you don’t have the chance to finish them at home, because your moms are there. That is why you do it here and your worksheets at home.”

With a frown on her face (Y/N) pulls out the blank piece of paper that made her feel bad ever since her teacher handed it out to her yesterday. While everybody around her chatters happily with other classmates, she just stares at the paper. It is a reminder of something she doesn’t have, something she lacks and will never get: A real mother. A hug from her mother. Not even the motherly reassurance one gets after a nightmare. Nothing.

“Hey orphan. Ya realizing your mom doesn’t love you and that’s why she left you?” Linda, someone (Y/N) later learns to call a Mean Girl, struts up to the younger one’s desk. A sigh leaves her lips before answering. “You do know for an orphan I need to have neither a mommy nor a daddy. And I do for a fact have a dad, a loving one actually.”

A more light than hard slap on the back of her head makes the girl’s body jolt. “I don’t care, but I know that your mom hates you enough just after looking at you to know she doesn’t want anything to do with you.” After that Linda goes back to her table, leaving (Y/N) feeling more miserable than before.

Some starring on the paper later her teacher passes her table. “Is there something you want to talk about, Sweetheart? You seem very sad.” That is an obvious fact. Finally the girl is able to lift her gaze. “Miss Ramirez, I don’t know what to do.” This is probably the first time ever she said this sentence in school.

“Mother’s day is in a few days, Sweetie, and this is why we all make these cards. It’s a thank you to your mom and a way to show her how much you love her. You love your mom, don’t you?” The shake of her head shocks the teacher. Immediately an alarming signal rings through her head, because this is a red flag. “Why? Did she do something?”

“Miss Ramirez, I don’t have a mommy. She- she left Daddy and me.” Tears fill (Y/N)’s eyes. Her teacher is quick to hug and sush her. “Oh Sweetie, this is not a bad thing. I’m sure your mom loves you very much, even if she is not there with you. Do you wanna go out for a bit to calm down?” Meanwhile she connects the obvious signs of a single dad in her mind. Missed parent teacher conferences, unnecessary hovering over the child and the tendency to be categorized as a helicopter parent. Yes, Dr. Reid ticks all of those boxes.

It’s the second time of the day that an adult asked (Y/N) to calm down, and frankly it doesn’t really help with the situation at hand. “Can I do my homework outside? It’s too loud in here”, she asks between sniffles. Both of them know that the class’ volume is not the real reason for the request. “Of course, Sweetheart. If you need something, just come in and ask me. Alright?” (Y/N) nods and gets her multiplication sheet and a pencil before leaving the classroom.

At the end of the school day, Spencer is there to pick up his daughter. For days like these, where are no cases, Hotch gave him a free pass on (Y/N)’s very first day at school to leave the office earlier to be able to pick her up himself. As a father and someone who works the same high demanding job as him, he knows that little things like these are often the most important. And even if there were a case today, Spencer would have stayed back. He promised his daughter the truth and this is what he is going to tell her.

“Hey Dr. Reid. Do you have a moment?” Her teacher greets him at the classroom door. Concerned about his child’s wellbeing he nods and follows her back out of the room. “I gave the children the assignment of creating a card for their mothers, because mother’s day is rolling around. Today (Y/N) told me her mother left you, is that right?” This is the moment Spencer connects the dots. This is the kick off that made her question her mother’s motives about leaving all of the sudden.

The young doctor clears his throat. “Uhm yes, that is right. Actually, I’m going to talk to her about it right after school on her demand.” Miss Ramirez nods with an understanding nod. “Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Reid. I also want to warn you, in two days we will hold a celebration in honor of mother’s day with the kids’ mothers. You are invited as a father, because this is a special situation. But I also give (Y/N) a free pass for this event. It can be very traumatic for her.”

The dad thanks her, but his thoughts are somewhere else. He is mad. He is mad for his daughter, because she will always be the one with a “special situation”. The odd one, because yeah, it isn’t uncommon for fathers to leave (which isn’t anything less sad and traumatic), but an absent mother hits differently.

But Spencer is also hurt. Hurt, because for her young age, there is already the word “traumatic” thrown around. No, it isn’t enough that her dad works a job with the risk of him not coming home from a case again, or being the target of an enemy. No, she also has to go through the experience of missing a parent, never knowing how her life would be if it wasn’t for someone like her mother.

Even with Spencer trying to fill that role, there will be a time where (Y/N) will ask herself all of the “what ifs”. He can’t stop it from happening, and that is his biggest pain right there. Because he can’t shield her from her own thoughts. At the age of six she already is a bright, brilliant and talented mind. Now in a few years or maybe just months, she will start to think about her mother being the root of her pain, bad experiences and hurt. Her thoughts will lead to a downward spiral of how a person can do something like her mother, who acted like that with the knowledge of which consequences will follow. And Spencer can’t stop this from happening.

“Daddy!” A small thud comes from (Y/N) colliding with his leg. Just by the way she squeezes it he knows that she hasn’t had a good day at school. “Hey Baby. Do you want to go to the office for a bit? I think your Auntie Penelope told me something about a new science set she got for you. Or do you want to go straight home?” Spencer asks after lifting her into his arms. Immediately she hides her face into the crook of his neck. “Home”, she murmurs. Home it is then.

“Aaaaaand here comes the little missy’s hot chocolate!” The father says in a funny voice while carefully putting the cup into his daughter’s hands. She sits covered in a blanket on the sofa, looking expectantly at her father.

Spencer sighs at the lack of reaction. “Are you sure you want to hear it?” (Y/N) nods adamantly. “Ok, but I got to go a bit back for this story

“It was about eight years ago, I worked on a case with your Aunties and Uncles back then. I was the one who had to get the last round of coffee for the night at a small 24/7 diner. As I walked in I thought I died, because I was sure an angel stood right in front of me. Well not-” “Is that Mommy?!” (Y/N) cuts him off excitedly. Spencer smiles slightly. “You need to listen to the story!” The girl shifts in her seat. “Right, sorry.”

As I was saying: well in front, because she sat at the bar waiting for her order. I nervously ordered the coffees and had to begin three times, because I kept messing up, mesmerized by her sole atmosphere. As the waiter went to put the coffee pot on, the woman turned towards me and introduced herself. After that she asked me what I was doing late at night in a small town like that and we somehow forgot everything around us by just talking. After that we stayed in touch. Six months later we became a couple, she moved to DC in order for me to still be able to do my job here.

“Two years later your Mom got pregnant with you, and it was quite a surprise to us. But we felt ready at that time and so she moved in with me and we had you. The first few months were great, we couldn’t be happier. BUt then you continuously became ill. At first just a cold, then the pocks and so on. I think it was the third night in a row where you held us up all night. I took a year off from work to care for you with your Mom. I carried you through our apartment the whole night, giving you a bottle, singing, reading, doing anything.

“Then I saw her standing in the doorway. Even though there was baby vomit on her sweatpants and I had never seen her eye bags being this dark, she was the most beautiful woman to me. I approached her with a smile, but her frown only deepened. I thought it was because she worried about you and your health. Instead she told me she can’t do it. She can’t be a mother, that she wasn’t cut for this job.” Her exact words still resonate in Spencer’s ears to this day. He knows exactly what she said, word for word, and they never stopped to sting any less.

“So Mommy left us because I was too much trouble?” (Y/N)’s voice sounds even sadder than before. “No, it never was because of you. She knew exactly what it meant to have a child. Your mother knew what kind of work it takes and what the future brought. You have absolutely nothing to do with it. Some people are just not made to be parents and it’s better when they realize it themselves and leave the situation.”

(Y/N) nods, her mind running wild. All of that makes plenty of sense but at the same time not. “Sweetheart, that doesn’t change the fact that I love you and I will never leave you. You are my everything and I’m so happy to be a dad to such a wonderful little girl like you. I want you to remember that your Mom may not be here with us, but she still loves you. And I’m here for you, for anything you need, want or don’t want. Do you understand me?”

She nods again and curls up into her father’s lap. “Can we watch something?” She asks after a bit of silence, where both of them indulged their own thoughts. Quickly the TV turned on and some kids movie plays. The rest of the day the small family spends all the time cuddled on the couch, because at the moment they need to feel the other there with them.

The next two days Spencer calls (Y/N) in sick at school and himself at work, because together they fly to Vegas. Just because her own mother wasn’t ready for the job, doesn’t mean they can’t appreciate the work her grandmother did as a mother. That and you never know how much time you have left with the people who are dear to you.

Taglist:

All works:

@dindjarinsspouse @big-galaxy-chaos @jswessie187 @kneelforloki

Criminal Minds:

@averyhotchner @mggsprettygirl @herecomesthewriterwitch @ash19871962 @ellyhotchner

Spencer Reid x child!reader:

@ilovetaquitosmmmm

[starryevermore]

hey!! can you make a spicy story of bucky but he’s chubby! i would love that!! something like i had a crush on him back in high school and i hadn’t seen him for over 5 years and i met him like in a coffee shop and we catch up with things!! and like spice it up a little;)

old crushes, new lovers

pairing: chubby!bucky x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, unprotected sex, slight cockwarming, pet name (doll)

Seeing Bucky Barnes brought back a tidal wave of emotions that you hadn't thought about since graduation. The moment you walked across the stage, threw your cap in the air, said goodbye to the people you grew up with, you had fully intended on putting your crush on him behind you. You were the quiet, nerdy girl that sat in the front of the classroom. He was the flirt, the Casanova, that could have anyone he wanted. You were on completely different ends of the social spectrum. You'd long since accepted that your crush would be nothing more than a crush. And now that you've graduated, you knew that you should just fully leave him behind.

You had college to worry about, after all. Just a few weeks after graduation, you were going off to college. You were in an early acceptance program that was part of the school's honor's program, so you got a bit of a headstart to it all compared to your classmates. When you said goodbye at graduation, it was goodbye til your next break.

Except, you didn't come back for Christmas break. Or summer break. Or any breaks. You found other things to do, other places to go. You weren't intent on coming back to a place where no one, save for your family, actually cared about you. When you were finally eligible to live off campus, you got yourself an apartment close to your school and just lived there year-round until you graduated.

This was the first summer you'd been back in your hometown since high school. Four long years you'd been gone, and so little yet so much had changed in that amount of time. You'd just come back from a promising job interview—though you had wanted to get away from your hometown, even you had to admit you'd missed it and wanted to put some roots down—and you'd decided to treat yourself to some coffee from the café you once worked at in high school.

That was where you ran into Bucky, who was right behind you in line. You'd chatted as you waited for your coffees at the pick-up counter, the conversation coming easily which was a far cry from the quiet squeaks you'd let out whenever he spoke to you in passing in high school. But things were different now. Bucky was different. He was no longer the muscular athlete you once knew. He had put on some weight and it somehow made him look even more appealing to you, something you once thought to be impossible.

You sat down at a booth in the corner of the café, laughing and talking about how your lives had turned out. Bucky had gone to culinary school to become a pastry chef, and now he owned a little bakery on the corner of 107th Street and Main Street. Said it was pretty popular, and that you should check it out sometime soon. But it wasn't just all about him. He was interested, genuinely interested, in what you'd been getting up to in college, why you hadn't been around.

And then he said the one thing that made you follow him to his apartment and fall into bed with him: "You know, my one regret in high school was never asking you out. Always had a massive crush on you, but you were way out of my league. Smart and gorgeous? Yeah, I knew you'd never want to be with a guy like him."

And now you were wrapped around him, straddling him as you sank down onto his cock. God, he fucking filled you and you hadn't even taken his full length yet.

"Shit, doll, you're so fuckin' tight," Bucky hissed, his hands grabbing at your hips, guiding you as you rode him. "Fuckin' perfect, made just for me, ain't ya?"

"Yes, oh god, feels so good!" you cried, your hands gripping his shoulders.

"No god, doll, jus' me."

Your nerves were on fire, the pleasure, the euphoria, you were experiencing far greater than anything you ever felt in your entire life. You squeezed your eyes shut as you approached your high.

"I think I'm gonna—"

"Go ahead, doll, come for me."

The wave crashed over you, and you collapsed against Bucky's chest as he reached his own high. He circled his arms around you, holding you close as he stayed inside you, his and your quiet pants the only thing filling the room. You nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck as he held you even tighter.

"I know this isn't the typical way people go about these kinda things," Bucky said, "but would you like to go out to dinner sometime?"

You smiled softly. "Yeah, yeah I'd love that."

[thenovelartist]

Burned Beginnings, Chapter 3

<<Previous  Next>>

7. Homemade Gifts

Marinette prided herself in not caring about the looks of others. After all, beauty meant nothing if their heart was trash. They’d always just be a pig in lipstick.

Unfortunately, if they did have a good heart, Marinette discovered that she did care for their looks a little more than she would have cared to admit. Particularly when it came to a former model turned baker.

Which was why, much to her chagrin, she’d ended up losing the bet.

It was just a pair of glasses. A simple, functional accessory. However, with the frame he had, ones that held a dark green hue that accented his eyes and were square in form—somehow, a perfect match for his angular face—she couldn’t help but to have stared a bit.

By the time she caught herself, Adrien was already grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

She hoped beyond all hope her cheeks hadn’t colored, or at the very least, Adrien hadn’t caught it.

And now, she was having to bite the bullet and watch an anime of his choosing. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad loss.

Hopefully.

Depending on what he chose…

Oh, please don’t be anything stupid.

Marinette finished her work, then clocked out, hurrying to go shower quickly before Adrien came over. Not that Adrien hadn’t seen her covered in flour and looking like a hot mess already, but she’d rather be clean and comfy if she was going to have to suffer through her punishment for losing the bet. They had planned to meet at her house for the viewing. Adrien would bring over his computer and cables to hook it up to their tv so that he could easily access his anime accounts. He said it would be a piece of cake.

She threw on a comfy t-shirt and lounge pants, then she dried her hair. Once that was done, she went downstairs to begin preparing the dinner she’d prepped earlier that day.

Halfway through, a knock sounded on the door, signaling Adrien’s arrival. She answered, only for her gaze to fall to the box in his hands. “What’s that?”

One of his hands reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I wanted to bring some homemade food since I knew you’d be working all day. And I need to practice my cooking skills, anyway.”

She smiled, taking the offered gift. “Thanks, but I actually started making something thinking that it was the least I could do since you were bringing everything over.”

Adrien looked surprised for a moment before he chuckled. “We should have planned that better.”

“Oh well. Left overs for days, right?” she said with a shrug, stepping aside to let him in.

“That’s one way to look at it.”

 8. Commissions

“Can I ask a question?”

“I don’t know? Can you?”

Adrien looked up from his computer screen to shoot a grinning Marinette a flat look. This was the fourth time he’d come over so they could continue the anime he’d chosen. He had known from Mr. Dupain that he and his daughter both loved video games, and henceforth, he’d chosen accordingly in hopes to get Marinette hooked.

He knew he’d succeeded when they binged the first four episodes the first day. He’d then hung it over her head that “why would he come back again? He’d won the bet, and she’d paid her price, so for what reason did he have to come over again?”

He had had fun teasing her, because her huffy, unamused expression was too darn endearing.

“Look,” she’d said. “I just need to know what happens to Princess Bitch.”

He’d snorted, trying and failing to withhold his laugh. “You don’t get to call her that yet.”

“Why not? You don’t get to pull that level of manipulative bullshit, ruining the other person’s life like that, and not be dubbed with the title ‘Princess Bitch’.”

“So…” he drawled out, teasingly. “Are you saying you care about this anime?”

She’d fallen silent, and he couldn’t help but to laugh once more.

In the end, after more teasing on his part, he’d caved and said he’d come over again so they could finish it out.

Hence why he was here now.

“Haha, funny,” Adrien deadpanned, turning back to his screen.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be nice,” she said a little too sweetly, placing two plates of food on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch. “What’s on your mind?”

He took a second to log into his account before turning back to her. “I don’t know if this is overstepping, but… are you happy working at your parents’ bakery?”

Marinette froze, and for a moment, Adrien grew worried.

Thankfully, she seemed to take it well, although it was clear she was confused. “What brought that on?”

Adrien shrugged, looking at his screen again to select their anime of choice. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I feel like we’re close enough to be friends. Right?”

Marinette didn’t hesitate to nod. “Yeah, I would consider you one.”

Adrien pushed aside the very happy feeling that blossomed in his chest. “I guess I’m just… curious… about you… as a friend, of course.”

“No, I get it,” she assured. “Now that you mention it, I guess I could say the same for you.”

Adrien felt extra warm now. “So, do I get an answer to my question?”

Marinette paused, her expression falling as she bit her lip. “Only if you promise to keep it secret from my parents.”

“Yeah, totally,” he promised, smile falling from his face. “Cat’s honor.”

Marinette sighed. “I… I am happy,” she said. “Really. It’s not an issue of me being happy here. But running my parents’ bakery wasn’t my dream, you know?”

With the episode loading, Adrien decided to take a seat next to Marinette. “What was your dream?”

“I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

That came as a surprise to Adrien. “Really? What stopped you?”

“Chloe.”

Somehow… that answer shouldn’t have surprised him. “Chloe?”

“She got her mom to block me from going to any fashion or design school.”

“She what?!”

“Shhh!” Marinette shushed, finger over his lips. “Not so loud.”

Adrien felt his face heat at her touch. “Er…sorry.”

She then took her finger away, and Adrien tried not to think about why he was disappointed. “Chloe did that?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “How? And how’d you know?”

“Um…” She suddenly turned sheepish, and that spitfire edge he’d come to love diminished a bit. It made her look younger and sweeter. He didn’t mind that change. “Well, due to the methods used to acquire such information, I must refrain from answering that. Just know I trust my source and the information that was found.”

Adrien sighed. Honestly, even if he wanted to come to Chloe’s defense, he couldn’t. She ran in a pretty elite crowd and had some powerful connections. If she wanted to block someone from entering a fashion school, she could. And since Adrien knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t be above such tricks, Adrien accepted Marinette’s word as truth.

Besides, he knew Marinette well enough by now to know she hated liars. He doubted she’d lie about this.

“So, have you thought about applying outside the country?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “I just… didn’t. It felt too overwhelming.”

“So, what about skipping the education entirely? Find a niche and start your own business taking commissions or what not?”

Marinette paused, her eyes glazing over a moment as she thought. “I… it’s an idea that’s come up before.”

“So, what’s stopping you?” Adrien asked. “Even if you got an education later, you’d at least have a reputation you’re building up now.”

Again, Marinette was silent. “You know…” she began, her tone softer and more earnest than he’d ever heard before. It felt raw. Open. And that did something to his heart.

Protect her. The words popped up in his head, and his heart clenched onto them before he could even realize it. But all he could do at the moment was listen. So he would.

“I decided I’d step back and do a lot of thinking.”

“About?”

She sighed. “It’s easy to say ‘I love fashion so I want to be a designer’. It’s easy to have those dreams. It’s easy to think that your hobby can become your profession. But the easy stuff isn’t all the fashion world consists of. It’s a competitive world filled with both nice people and people like Audrey Bourgeois. It’s filled with more than fashion, and when faced with the reality that I’d been barred from fashion college because one person in the industry had that much power, I had to do some reflecting. If I accept fashion as my career, I get to set foot into that world. And I had to face the question of ‘am I ready and willing to accept that?’”

When Marinette came to a pause, Adrien stopped to think of his response. “Honestly, as someone who comes from that world, I completely understand your feelings. I’ve seen the good, and I’ve seen the bad. I’ve watched people succeed and climb the ladder, and I’ve watched people crash and burn. And I think there’s such a fine line between the two.”

“See, that just feels validating,” Marinette said, small smile on her face. “I understand that that is basically every job field. I understand some are better than others. But with what I’ve seen from the fashion world… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m as adamant about it as I was when I was in high school.”

Adrien sighed. “I don’t understand what it’s like to have a passion,” he admitted. “I’ve never had one, so this might not mean anything coming from me, but I think… it would be better to keep your passion a hobby… if the profession will burn you out. Because then you’re not just loosing your profession, but the hobby meant to bring you joy.”

Marinette was silent for a minute, and Adrien thought he’d said something wrong. But that tension in his chest eased hen a small smile crept up on her lips. “That’s good advice,” she finally said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Adrien reached out to pat her shoulder, surprising her a moment. When she turned to him, eyes wide and clear once again, he gave her a smile. “I’ll be rooting for you. And if there’s anything I can help you with, I’d be happy to assist.”

Slowly, her small smile grew. “Thanks,” she said, her voice surprisingly sweet. But she soon turned away, and Adrien pulled his hand back. “So, um… fair’s fair,” she started up again. “Are you happy working here?”

Adrien didn’t hesitate to nod. “Honestly, it’s hard work, but it’s something that I chose, for once. This is something I myself am doing. I don’t want to say the novelty of doing this hasn’t worn off yet, but it feels… worthwhile.”

Marinette nodded. “Have you considered other paths or what you want to do for the future? Or do you see this being long term?”

Adrien shrugged. “I don’t know, yet,” he said. “Honestly, this whole ‘I’m my own person and on my own’ thing still hasn’t fully caught up to me yet. I feel like I’m still playing pretend. It’s… weird.” He turned back to her, forcing a smile. “Hazard of growing up super sheltered, I guess.”

Marinette hummed. “Well, I think you know Papa will love having you around as long as you plan to stay.”

He smiled, a genuine grin this time. “Yeah, I know. And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you mind having Asshole Agreste around?”

Her expression changed from shock to irritation. “Are you really gonna dredge up that old nickname? No, wait!” Her brow furrowed in a mix of anger and confusion. “Where did you even hear that? I never called you that here!”

He grinned a little wider than he’d thought he would. “Chloe.”

Marinette growled.

He couldn’t help but laugh.

“You know I don’t think of you like that anymore, right?”

He couldn’t help teasing her a bit more. “I don’t know. Do I?”

Marinette glowered at him, and he burst into laughter again.

With a growl, she turned away, crossing her arms with a huff. “Just turn on the anime again. I need to see Princess Bitch get her comeuppance.”

Adrien laughed. “We’re only on episode fourteen. You still don’t get to call her that yet.”

“Why?” she cried. “What’s gonna happen in the next few episodes that changes? Does she get worse? And if so, how? She’s already about as low as she can go. Like, almost past Chloe-level.”

He shook his head. “Nevermind. Just wait and see.”

 9. Baking Lessons

Marinette felt like she was up to her ears in information.

After her talk with Adrien, she decided that she should do her research on the fashion industry as much as she could. But she also knew to take everything with a grain of salt. Only once she felt prepared enough would she make a decision on her future.

On one hand, it was satisfying to pick up her dreams again, dust them off, and put plans to them. On the other, it was overwhelming, and more did once did Adrien’s warning of “don’t burn out your passion” cross her mind.

It was well into the afternoon that she realized a break might be in order and food would be beneficial.

She headed down into kitchen, only to startle at the unfamiliar face there.

“Um… what are you doing in my house?”

Adrien glanced over his shoulder to look at her, then shot her a smile. “Your parents asked me to. They each had their break and said you hadn’t been down all day. So now it’s my turn for a break, and they asked if I’d take a minute to make sure you ate.”

Marinette looked at the sandwich on the plate he extended towards her. After staring at it a moment, she realized she should take it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Busy?”

“Yeah. I… kinda forgot the last time I was so engrossed in something that I forgot to eat like this.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Um… I decided to dig into researching the fashion industry.”

Adrien turned back around, glancing at her with surprise. “Oh? How’s it going?”

Marinette’s lips pursed in thought. “Up and down. Every other article seems to pull me the opposite direction.”

“Fair,” he said with a nod. “Which way are you leaning now?”

“The ‘This is bullshit. Why do I want to be in this hellish industry?’ direction.”

A lopsided grin flashed across Adrien’s face. “I feel that on a personal level.”

“I’m sure you do,” she muttered, walking over to the table to have a seat. “But enough of me griping. You? Have you thought of your future at all since our talk?”

He grabbed a paper bag on the counter, pulling out a tupperware container with a sandwich of his own inside. “Not really.”

“Not really?” she probed, pointing at the seat directly across from her.

He took the hint and took a seat. “I haven’t given much thought to anything beyond the baking lessons your father has been giving me. I mean, maybe one day I’ll go to school for something, but I’ve really decided to give myself a full year of this before committing to anything. Let me learn how to be an adult on my own first before I move forward, you know? It’s easier to start running when your feet are solidly under you.”

“Understandable,” Marinette said. “But just so you know, I’m going to hold you to that, now.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. I’d like you to know you have six months, three weeks, and five days remaining before you have to make a decision.”

Adrien froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

Marinette couldn’t help but giggle.

“Is that a legit number or one you just threw out.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think that when it comes to you, I don’t always know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

She giggled, feeling a little too giddy for her liking. She played it off with a wink. “Got to keep you on your toes somehow.”

Adrien scoffed. “Don’t worry about that,” he dismissed with a charming smile that she hated to admit could knock her off her feet if she were standing. “You already do.”

[thr-333]

Mismatch- Part 13

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

The twins find out!

First< Previous > Next

------

Ladybug lands on the building across from the city hall, where Marion had asked to meet up after patrol. She stretches out, enjoying the exercise after being cooped up in the hospital keeping Marion company. She looks over the city, with clear skies that Gotham simply didn't have. Then again she didn't mind so much Gotham has is own style that didn't want or need to change. Chat Noir lands in front of her a minute later, Dupain bakery box in hand.

“I don’t know how other people deal with homesickness,” Chat Noir drops down opening the box.

“Don’t let Kaalki know you're using her miraculous to eat cookies,” Ladybug sits next to him, legs dangling over the edge.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I also use them cause I look great in glasses,” Marion poses despite not wearing them as Chat Noir.

“Sure you do,” She turns back, looking over the city hall, “Thats why your most popular identity wears a mask,”

“Well all my identities- hey!” Ladybug snorts, not needing to look to know Chat Noir was pouting, “You’re just saying that cause your jealous how loveable and popular I am, especially Chat Noir,”

Yeah right. There was a little girl walking on the street below them right now wearing a Ladybug dress MDC had designed. She internally scolds herself for smiling.

“It’s not about popularity, we must take our jobs seriously to protect pari-”

“Do you dare me to steal the Mayor’s sash?” Chat Noir interrupts her speech, talking through a mouthful of cookies.

Ladybug releases a long suffered sigh.

“Yeah, I do,” She takes a cookie from the box.

“Good because I already did it,” She looks over, Chat Noir grinning ear to ear holding the Mayor’s sash, “Let's watch,”

He points towards a window where they have a clear view of the Mayor’s office. He was looking in the mirror and had only just realised it was missing. When Marion stole it she didn’t care to find out. He starts rooting around his office pulling out the contents of draws and cupboards haphazardly. Chat Noir laughs when he starts checking under furniture.

“So how are your ribs feeling,” She asks, noticing he wasn’t cringing at the movement.

“Purrfect,” He purrs, playing with the sash he was now wearing.

“I walked right into that one,” She doesn't tell him off, taking the last cookie instead,

“Yes you did,” Chat Nori reaches for another cookie.

Frowning at her Ladybug sticks out her tongue. Disgusting, covered with mushed up chocolate chips. Chat Noir blanches and turns away.

“Look he left to get help,” Chat Noir grins, both looking towards the window, “Just a sec,”

Chat Noir jumps over to the large window they've been watching through. Slipping inside he places it on top of the desk covered in wayward papers. Ladybug smiles, feeling her yo-yo buzz. They had synced their hero phones up to their normal ones long ago. She had just received a text from Aunt Selina that they were on their way with lawyers. Chat Noir jumps back to her side, grinning as the door opens. Officer Roger steps through instantly spotting the sash on the desk. Marinette can practically feel the officers disbelief as the Mayor tries to explain.

“Aunt Selina texted, we got to go,” Marinette tells him as Chat Noir starts cackling.

“Just a sec,” Chat Noir snaps a picture with his Baton, “Purrfect,”

“Two in a row? Really?” She raises her eyebrow, as he takes out the horse miraculous.

“If it ain’t broke,” Marion shrugs, slipping the glasses over his mask.

“It’s broke, it’s really, really broke,”

Marion only grins transforming and opening a portal back to Gotham.

“Why do I need to be here?” Jason asks, leaning against the wall next to Marion.

“Because the press have several pictures of you driving them away without helmets,” Bruce scowls, standing by the lawyer's seat next to Marion's bed.

“I haven't crashed my bike yet, so what's the issue?” Jason shrugs, grin on his face revealing he knew the exact issue. Marion couldn't help but mirror it.

“You’ve crashed it many times,” Bruce corrects, scowl deepening.

“What! Are you ok?!” Marion snaps towards Jason, scanning him for injury.

“Yeah I’m fine,” There's an amused curl to Jason's lips, “What about you?”

“Oh I’m fine, I heal pretty quickly,” Marion doesn't lean back on bed, forgetting he was meant to be injured.

“You realise your ribs are broken right?” Jason smirks down at him.

“I’ve had worse,” Marion smirks right back, meeting his challenge.

“What! When!” Oh right, their Aunt is here, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Happens all the time in Paris,” Marion hopes he can pass it off, and avoid the wrath of his sister next to him, “The cure usually heals us pretty quick,”

“The cure?” Bruce prompts, frown lines deepening.

“Yeah Ladybugs cure, she beats the Akuma then releases a whole bunch of Ladybugs like whoosh, that come and fix everything,” From Marinette's face he can tell that he sounded crazy, and she knew what he was talking about.

“... where to start?” Jason looks confused down at him, Marion tries to avoid the same looks from everyone.

“Ladybug? Akuma?” Bruce apparently does know where to start.

“Auntie, don’t you remember last time you were in Paris?” Marinette steps in to save him, “We came home early because school was canceled because of an Akuma attack,”

“I thought you were just skipping!” She exclaims, both shocked and defensive.

“And you didn’t send us back?” Marion cracks a smile.

“Did you really think we’d skip?” Marinette frowns.

“Wouldn’t blame you for it,” Aunt Selina shrugs, Marinette looks like she's about to start a one sided argument. Marion was not about to back her up.

“Who’s Ladybug?” Bruce cuts in, whether he knew of the brewing argument or not is up for debate.

“Hero of Paris?” Marinette meets Marion's glance.

“Paris has no heroes,” Bruce says, with far too much confidence for someone completely wrong.

“Well you might want to let her and Chat Noir know that,” Marion smirks, he'd make sure to deliver the message.

“Not to mention the rest of the Guardians,” Marinette adds, perhaps a little more concerned they didn't know than he was.

“There's more than one?” Jason speaks up, Marion can’t help but feel he and Bruce are having their own secret conversation through glaring.

“Of course, Paris is attacked by super villains every other day,” Marion answers flippantly, doing nothing to dissolve the tension.

“Ok, no, I’ve been to Paris plenty and it’s never been attacked,” Their Aunt says, time for them to hold their own secret conversation.

“Um…” She was definitely privy to one attack, not that people in her position usually remember what happens, “Guess you must of just missed it,”

Smooth he can practically hear Marinette scoff. A silence traps them, likely shorter than it feels.

“Moving on,” The Lawyer, who had introduced herself as Emma, frees them,“I highly recommend there be a press statement released immediately,”

“That isn’t going to stop anyone,” Marion frowns, first hand experience teaching him well.

“No, but we can start pursuing legal action,” Emma agrees, bringing documents out of her briefcase.

“Several news sources can be sued for slander and endangerment,” She hands Marinette the documents, Marion resting his chin on her shoulder to see, “They also played a part in informing villains of your whereabouts, allowing the attack and making you vulnerable to another, I’m not saying this to scare you-”

“It’s fine, we know,” Marinette gives a friendly smile, “Please be honest, it’s more efficient to just be blunt,”

“Right... so several official news sources should be taken to court,” Emma takes on a more professional air, “There are many independent sources that can receive lawsuits, however the most prudent one would be those confirming your presence at the aquarium,”

“I don’t really think we need to go after regular people,” Marion looks over the file that includes pictures of the group he had scared off at the aquarium before the attack.

“It’s your choice, but I strongly encourage you to think over at least sending them charges,” Emma urges, Bruce nodding along, “If nothing else than to discourage others from doing the same,”

“Give us some time to think it over, please,” Marinette sifts through the documents, organising them, “We’re fine with any press release that we can look over first,”

“Very well,” Emma meets Marinette's smile, “Mr Wayne if I can discuss the press release with you?”

He nods, he and Jason leave the room with Emma. Leaving the twins with their Aunt.

“When did you become so cool?” She grins, moving up the bed.

“I’ve always been the coolest twin,” Marinette shrugs, Marion rolling his eyes.

“Nope I distinctly remember you running into the same pole three times in six minutes,” His smirk meets Marinette glare.

“How did you manage that?” Aunt Selina asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Clumsiness has always been a special talent of mine,” Marinette puts the papers down, not quite pulling off the overconfident air he carries, being a little too close to honesty.

“Sure has,” Marion sits back, pulling up his legs for their Aunt to move closer.

“So what do you think we should do?” Marinette questions, when she's seated just across from them.

“...I think it’s complicated,” Aunt Selina hesitates, looking towards the door, “More complicated than they realise,”

“What's wrong?” Marion follows her gaze, another hesitation thats so unlike her, “... Aunt Selina?”

“I’m not your Aunt,” They both go stiff, waiting for more in the silence that follows her not meeting their eyes.

Right now Marinette’s head is probably buzzing with ideas and theories on what that means.

Marion’s mind remains blank, waiting for an answer that she seems to be battling with.

“............ I’m your Mother,”

“Excuse me, what?” Marion’s voice is just as blank, words refusing to process.

“And Bruce is your Father,” She adds, jumpstarting them out of their shell shocked state.

“What!” They both shout, turning towards each other.

“Look, I was young when I had you, I didn’t know what to do,” Selina runs a hand through her hair, still not meeting their gazes as they snaps back towards her, “I knew I wasn’t good enough to raise you, and Bruce wasn’t exactly in the best place back then, at least not enough to raise a child, so I didn’t tell him,”

That is… that is information.

“But, there was Tom and Sabine who wanted kids so bad, I knew they would be amazing parents,” Well yes, “So I gave you up,”

Now Marion's thoughts were a storm. Whipping around his head too fast to get a hold of and actually understand.

“I’m not saying this to pressure you into anything,” Selina follows after a long silence,  “You don’t have to tell anyone, and if you like I can walk out of this room and we can never speak of this again, everything can go back to normal,”

“... do you think we can have a moment?” Marinette sounds just as blank as he had.

“Of course,” That slight fake smile clearly trying to hide the hurt allows Marion to grasp hold of one thought.

“Hey… no matter what we still love you,” The smile turns to a genuine one, Marinette agreeing.

She doesn't reply, leaving the room, door closing with a soft click.

“.... Oh my god,” Marion whispers, staring at the door.

“Oh my god,” Marinette says, Kwamis coming out of hiding, concerned looks going unnoticed.

“Oh my god!” Marion shouts, reality hitting all at once.

“OH MY GOD!” Marinette can surely be heard from outside.

“She’s our Mother!?” Marion turns to Marinette for confirmation.

“HOW is this possible!” So that's a yes.

“Why didn’t anyone tell us!” Marion feels himself getting hysterical.

“Hold on, let's think this through calmly and rationally,” Marinette takes a deep breath, hand on his shoulder.

“Screw that!” Marion pushes her hand off, standing “After something like this we’re allowed to freak out!”

“This is so weird!” Marinette groans, sliding back in bed.

“I know!” Marion starts to pace, latching onto random thoughts and memories, “And everything makes so much sense!”

“How did we not see this?!” Marinette asks the ceiling.

“It’s alright, it probably just never occurred to you to even think about it,” Tikki tries to placate.

“Did you know Tikki?!” Marinette asks, Kwami of creation.

“No I certainly didn’t,” She shakes her head, Marion turning to Plagg.

“I did think she’d make a good Black Cat,” Plagg shrugs, a little too casual compared to Marions current state, “Didn’t think it was because of this,”

“Not to worry, if you were to have any true lineage it is a privilege to be descended from a family such as the Waynes,” Kaalki declares, Marion taking a moment to dissect the sentence.

“Oh my- Bruce Wayne really is our Father!” Marion slams his hands down on the bed railing.

“Keep your voice down!” Marinette hisses, sitting up.

“That’s not important!” Marion throws his hand up, gesturing wildly to the general area, “We really are the Wayne twins!”

“The tabloids actually got it right,” Marinette muses softly, leaning back.

“That never happens!” Marion agrees, having spent plenty of time laughing at bad tabloids about themselves, “How could complete strangers be able to tell when we couldn’t!?”

“Now, now, it was a lucky guess, you had no reason to think it was true,” Tikki tries to bring order to the chaos.

“Other than the fact we’ve known her our whole lives and easily could have seen how similar she is to us,” Marinette mumbles out.

“And she’s really bad at pretending us calling her Aunt doesn't bother her,” It wasn’t until now he actually knew why.

“So I guess the first question is how do we feel about this?” Marinette tries to follow her Kwami’s lead.

“Too big a question,” Marion groans, flopping down onto the bed.

“What should we do?” Marinette asks, he turns his head to fix her with a glare.

“Way too big a question,” Marion feels Plagg curl up against his side, Kaalki also sitting near.

“What will this change?”

“Tikki! Take over!” Marion yells into the covers.

“I think you should start at the beginning,” Tikki says calmly, “How do you feel about being given up,”

“I don’t know,” Marion groans into the covers, another coming from Marinette.

“Angry, sad, betrayed?” Tikki prompts, making Marion frown.

“Not really, it’s kind of hard to,” He answers, turning away from the sheets, “It’s not like she just up and abandon us,”

“And we don’t know the full story,” Marinette adds, Kwami resting in her hands.

“Then maybe you can ask her,” Tikki suggests with a smile. “How do you feel about Bruce-”

“Nope, still processing, not touching that with a ten foot pole,” Marion refuses, causing the Kwami to giggle.

“Ok whatever you're comfortable with,” She smiles, giggles dying down.

“Tikki you have to realise I am so far outside of my comfort zone right now, that sitting in the middle of Hawk Moth's lair surrounded by every Akuma we’ve ever fought sounds more comfortable,” The sad thing is, he isn’t even exaggerating.

“Kid you do have an out,” Plagg flies into this field of vision, “You can ignore it and go back to normal, or confront it and see what happens, which do you want,”

Marion frowns, not at Plagg he’s right, for once. Neither of them speak. Every time Marion tries to think of the future, memories pull him back. Until one catches his attention. It was something he thought of often, usually when trying to avoid getting Akumatized, but sometimes just to smile. However, now it has a new meaning, he isn’t sure if it ruins the memory or improves it.

“... Hey, Nette, do you remember what happened when we found out we were adopted?” Marion breaks the silence, turning to the smartest person he knows, and that includes the person who created an AI at fourteen.

“We asked who our real Maman was?” Marinette watches as he sits up.

“Aun-she sat us down and told us off,” Marion scoots up the bed to sit next her, “Said that even if we didn’t have the same blood as Maman, no one in the world was closer to our Mother than her,”

“.... She always looks so in pain when we call her Aunt,” Marinette leans her head against his shoulder.

“.... I don’t want to ignore this,” Marion decides, enough time passing for them to relax against each other.

“... Neither,” Marinette eventually agrees.

“So what now?” Marion asks aloud, “We just change everything ?”

“I guess so,”

They share a soft smile, wouldn’t be the first time.

------------

Taglist:

@technicallyburninggarden @fusser90  @misslenamooney

[wisteriashouse]

a little jealousy.

pairing: kamado tanjirou x sumiyuri hayami (oc)

genre: fluff; kimetsu academy!au

word count: 7429

remarks: another commission by @hinokami-s​!! honestly this one was a bit of a struggle trying to not make it too kdrama like but also with trying my hand with a new character who i don’t really know, so thank you for challenging me with this! i hope you enjoy it <3

The stage lights dim all at once, adding a dramatic flair as the curtains fall - slowly concealing the scene of a young woman bleeding out on the floor and the man cradling her in his arms. The theatre is hushed except for the sound of gears and wheels turning to move the heavy curtains, the audience still reeling in shock over the twist in the plot and the bittersweet ending.

Well, except one person, perhaps.

“Ooh, is the next performance Hayami’s?” Nezuko whispers from next to him, nearly bouncing up and down in her seat with excitement. She hasn’t been able to concentrate much on the entire series of performances showcased by the other clubs at their school, too distracted by the prospect of the finale. Tanjirou only gives a fond smile and nods. Although he’s a lot more calm than Nezuko is, he can’t help but anticipate the next performance as well.

After all, Hayami is going to be the one performing.

“I’m so excited,” Nezuko gushes. “Hayami showed me a bit of what they were working on a while back, and it was already so cool!”

“Well, she is the president of the dance club,” Tanjirou reminds his sister. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”

Even in the dim light of the auditorium, he can see Nezuko’s teasing little smirk. “Of course you would think so, brother, with your massive crush on Hayami-”

Tanjirou puts his hand over Nezuko’s mouth before his younger sister can blurt it out to the whole world. “Shush, Nezuko,” he tries to say, but Nezuko only laughs playfully, looking far too amused for a younger sister who’s bullying her dear older brother. “What if someone hears?”

“All the better! You’d have more reason to confess to Hayami then!”

“Nezuko, I swear-”

All the stage lights suddenly blink to life in unison, nearly blinding Tanjirou and making Nezuko squeal in excitement. “It’s starting! It’s starting! Wait, I need to get out my phone and take some videos for Instagram…”

Tanjirou, on the other hand, simply relaxes back into the plush seat of the performance hall, intent on watching the performance properly. It’s rare that he has free time like today, oftentimes being too busy with school, his part time job or his responsibilities at the family bakery to really enjoy himself like a regular high school student would. But Hayami had insisted, even going as far to offer both him and Nezuko free tickets in one of the front row seats, just so the two of them could have some fun and relax.

Well, when she had looked at him so excitedly, explaining all the different shows the performance clubs would be putting on, how could he possibly refuse her good intentions?

Lights flood the stage, the curtains falling to the sides to reveal a group of performers standing on the stage in various confidant poses, their silhouettes outlined against the glowing backdrop. All around them, the speakers start to blare a song - one that Tanjirou is quite sure he’s heard before, but isn’t entirely sure what it is - and it sends the entire audience into loud cheers.

“Oooh, Really Bad Boy by Red Velvet! I approve of this song choice!” Nezuko cheers, waving her phone in the air as the group breaks into a dance. Squinting against the bright lights, Tanjirou tries his best to concentrate on the performance, but he always finds his eyes roaming the performers, as if searching for someone…

“Sing along with us!”

Tanjirou looks up at the stage in surprise at the familiar voice, and his eyes widen when he sees Hayami standing at the very edge closest to him. There’s striking makeup done artfully on her face and she almost glows under the lights of the stage, a fierce yet ethereal aura radiating from her. The sight is almost enough to take Tanjirou’s breath away.

Just at that moment, Hayami glances down at the front row when Tanjirou looks up, and their gazes meet for the briefest of seconds. Hayami’s eyes gleam like fine cut amethysts, sparkling in the light, her platinum hair swinging out behind her in a high ponytail. And when their gazes meet in the middle, Hayami grins at him - a bright, unrestrained sight that has Tanjirou’s heart skipping in his chest.

“Brother, your blush is showing, you know!” Nezuko calls over the heavy bass coming over the speakers, and Tanjirou instantly clasps both hands over his cheeks, feeling slight heat along his palms. At his mortification, Nezuko only laughs harder, tears nearly escaping her eyes and raising her phone to his face. “You’re so cute, brother! Let me take a photo, I’m sure Hayami would love to see it.”

“No.” Tanjirou tries to make a grab for the phone but misses, and he hears the telltale click of Nezuko’s camera phone. With a long, drawn out sigh, he simply gives up and slumps back into his seat, resigned to watching the rest of the performance. There’s no stopping Nezuko when she’s in a playful mood like this, he thinks to himself with fond ruefulness. Well, he doesn’t really mind it, though…

The performance ends with a bang, and Tanjirou joins the audience in giving a standing ovation as the rest of the performers stream onto the stage for their final bow. And as confetti rains down from the ceiling, gold streamers and coloured paper dancing through the air, Tanjirou thinks that Hayami looks absolutely radiant.

As soon as the performance night is over and the performers have all retreated backstage, the audience begins streaming out of the halls, chattering excitedly about all the different shows that were put on that night. Tanjirou, on the other hand, remains firmly rooted to his seat, his bag held tightly to his chest as if he’s carrying glass with him.

“Hayami’s performance was so cool! God, if I knew how to dance I’d join her club right away - wait, I’m not even in high school yet. That’s fine, that’s fine. It just means that I have more time to learn how to dance,” Nezuko glances back to see her older brother not listening to her in the least, instead dedicating his attention to checking the contents of his bag carefully. Curious, she leans over to catch a glance. “What’s that?”

Tanjirou jumps at Nezuko’s question, before he relaxes slightly, chewing at his bottom lip with nerves. “Oh, nothing much. It’s just… um, some flowers.” Nezuko’s eyes widen in interest. Who knew her brother had a romantic bone in his body? “Zenitsu mentioned yesterday that it’s customary for other students to bring flowers for their friends who perform as congratulatory gifts, so I stopped by Kanae-san’s flower shop after school today to get some for her...”

Nezuko immediately reaches for his bag, and Tanjirou holds it high out of her reach, suddenly feeling embarrassed for no reason at all. “What flowers did you get her?” Nezuko chirps, waving her hands high in the air as she attempts to get a look. “Please don’t tell me you got her a head of cabbage or, god forbid, a broccoli flower. Knowing you, brother…”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Finally giving up on trying to get her hands on Tanjirou’s mystery bouquet, Nezuko only pouts and relents. “Well, since you’ve got flowers to give to Hayami, let’s head backstage! I know a few friends in the drama club who performed today, so they’ll let us in.” Tanjirou frowns a little at how excited his younger sister seems to be in his place.

“It’s almost as if you’re the one giving the flowers to Hayami,” he says. Nezuko beams at him.

“Of course I have to be involved on your behalf, brother!” She explains, her smile all too wide to be innocent, before she leans in to nudge his side and give him a subtle wink. “Just remember to mention me as your wingwoman during your speech on your wedding day, got it?”

Tanjirou groans.

>>>

Backstage is more chaotic than Tanjirou would have thought.

Even though the performance is already over, participants still rush to and fro different rooms, their arms laden with crumpled costumes or props, faces still done with dramatic stage makeup that looks rather strange in the lighting of the corridors. Nezuko leads Tanjirou down to where the dance club’s room is supposed to be, coaching him on how to present a girl properly with flowers with words of advice such as, “don’t do anything Zenitsu-san would do” and “brother, why didn’t you dress up a little for today’s performance”. After reassuring her for the third time that, no, he hadn’t let Inosuke chomp on his bouquet (although the boy had tried to earlier), Nezuko comes to a stop outside an unassuming room at the very end of the corridor.

The paper stuck on the door reads ‘dance club’, the blank spaces decorated with smiley faces and hearts in various doodling styles. He recognises the wink done in purple ink as one done by Hayami’s hand, and a slight smile touches his lips at the sight of it. He’s seen it many times before - left scrawled in the corner of his exercise books when he visits the maid cafe and on post-its during exam periods - so he recognises her handwriting almost instantly.

“Your hair is awful,” Nezuko complains, reaching out to flatten the top of his hair. His hair looks the same as it always has, but it apparently doesn’t quite pass Nezuko’s standards, so he’s forced to stand stock still with his sister trying to fix his hairdo as people walk by. “You could have thought to dress up a little for today, you know?”

Tanjirou frowns, confused. “For what occasion?”

“You, brother,” Nezuko says delicately as she arranges his bangs, “are so dumb sometimes.”

“What do you mean-”

“Unfortunately, that’s the best I can do right now, and we really need to get going before the dance club needs to leave.” Both hands on his shoulders, Nezuko steers him to the door of the dance club before shoving something into his hand. When he looks down, he’s surprised to see himself holding a bouquet of light purple lilies - when had Nezuko taken them from his bag? “Come on, brother! It’s time to shoot your shot! Make Hayami yours! Put a ring on her-”

“I am not proposing, wait, I’m not even confessing to her!” Tanjirou cries, suddenly panicked. Confessing? He doesn’t even know how she feels about him that way! “I’m just giving her some flowers, like Zenitsu told me to do-”

Behind the two of them, the door suddenly swings open.

“Hey, what’s with all the racket right outside our door? If you have something to say, just-” Tanjirou’s wide eyes meet Hayami’s, and for a moment, the two of them simply stare at each other in surprise. Hayami still hasn’t removed her stage makeup, her lips painted crimson red and bold eyeliner only accentuating her clear lilac eyes.

She looks stunning.

“Oh, Tanjirou, Nezuko, I was just about to go find the two of you myself!” Hayami is talking, but Tanjirou doesn’t really hear her words, a deer caught in the headlights and the lilies growing all too weighty in his hands. “I hope you guys liked the performance! We had to rush to change the formations today since one of the members got sick, so I hope it wasn’t too noticeable.”

“I didn’t even notice, that was amazing!” Nezuko smiles, reaching out to squeeze Hayami’s hands reassuringly. “I really loved the performance, and all the song choices! Keep a spot for me in the team when I finally get to high school, yeah? Or better yet, how about you teach me dance? You were so cool today, I really want to be able to dance like that in the future!”

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” Hayami says bashfully, twirling a lock of platinum hair around her finger. Tanjirou catches a hint of a rosy blush on her cheeks. So cute... “I’m sure you’ll be able to do it if you just try!”

Next to him, Nezuko nudges him in the side and gives the flowers in his hands a meaningful look.

“Oh, right,” Tanjirou fumbles over his words, mind seemingly blank. Flowers. “Uhm, Zenitsu said that I should bring flowers as a congratulatory gift when there are friends performing, so…” He holds out the bouquet, and Hayami’s eyes widen in surprise, seemingly noticing it for the first time. Tanjirou can feel his own cheeks burning. “You looked amazing on the stage today, Hayami.”

Hayami looks down at the small bouquet of lilies in his hands for a moment, before she breaks out into an incandescent smile, almost too bright for Tanjirou to look at. “Thank you,” she says, reaching out to take the bouquet. “I’ll take care of them-”

“Darling!”

Right before Hayami can take the bouquet, a taller figure sweeps past Tanjirou with long, confident strides - making a beeline straight towards Hayami - and plops a massive bouquet of red roses into her outstretched hands. “For you!”

He’s tall, taller than Hayami, with dark hair and matching eyes that shine with mirth. His ears are pierced with little black hoops. Tanjirou thinks he’s seen him around a few times before, constantly surrounded by different people while he remains the nucleus of the conversation. Who is he? From his athletic build and height to the easy way he carries himself, light on the balls of his feet… a sports player, perhaps?

“Hey!” Nezuko protests, possibly indignant at watching her brother’s future romantic relations being ruined on the spot, but Tanjirou doesn’t notice, eyes fixed on the newcomer with a furrowed brow. While Tanjirou normally tries to be patient and polite with everyone he meets (save for his first meeting with Inosuke, but to be fair, the boy had thought that Nezuko had stolen something from him), but he can’t help the strange awkwardness he feels around the taller boy. A little rude, but he seems to know Hayami, so…

“Ginjiro, you shouldn’t have,” Hayami lets out a sigh as she looks over at the bouquet. Her fingertips trace the velvet petals. “How much did this cost? A kidney on the black market?”

“Not quite, but close enough!” The boy, Ginjiro, grins wolfishly at her. There’s a sort of… easygoing, unruly charm to him that Tanjirou can’t quite put his finger on, but he can see why the boy is so popular. “Ninety-nine whole Ecuadorian roses! I’m sure you know what that number means, my dear Hayami.”

Hayami rolls her eyes, shaking her head, but she doesn’t look very put off by his blatant flirting, much to Tanjirou’s surprise and slight unease.

“Ninety nine roses… doesn’t that mean eternal love? Usually given to romantic partners…” Nezuko mutters from behind him, and Tanjirou feels his heart drop in his chest. His sister turns to Hayami, eyes wide with shock. “Hayami, don’t tell me this… guy is your boyfriend?”

“No,” Hayami says flatly, just as Ginjiro sings, “Not yet!” and proceeds to laugh merrily as if he hasn’t just declared his intentions to date Hayami in front of them all. To Tanjirou’s shock, Hayami simply sighs and places a hand on her forehead before turning back to him.

“Ignore him, he’s an idiot.” Hayami tells Tanjirou, attempting a smile to lighten the mood. Try as he might, however, Tanjirou just can’t seem to bring himself to give a genuine one in return. “Let me take those flowers from you. I’m really grateful that you made the time to come today, I know how busy you are at the bakery.”

Even as she does take the flowers from him, Tanjirou can’t help but feel that his lilies are dwarfed in comparison by Ginjiro’s scarlet bouquet, crimson red overpowering the delicate lilac. Tanjirou isn’t one to feel ashamed of his family’s financial situation, but in times like this… he can’t help but feel uncomfortable with the wealth displayed in front of him. And for Hayami to not even bat an eyelash, but seem so completely unimpressed...

The gap between him and Hayami seems to grow just a little wider.

“Anyways, I booked a table at the rooftop restaurant you like, just for the two of us,” Ginjiro continues, without giving Tanjirou a single second to speak. “Let’s go hang out, you’ve been so busy the past few weeks… it’s as if I haven’t seen your face at all for months! I am feeling extremely neglected.”

���It’s because I’ve been busy with planning the dance performance,” Hayami retorts with a shake of the head. “Besides, didn’t you just crash the Student Council meeting yesterday just to steal some snacks off me? Don’t lie about neglect, you little ass.”

“What?” Ginjiro puts a hand over his chest, batting his eyelashes so furiously Tanjirou wonders if they’ll fall off. “You know it’s because I missed you, Hayami dear.”

Tanjirou does not know how to act - not when another man is so clearly vying for Hayami’s attention. If he were making Hayami uncomfortable in any way, Tanjirou would have been more than happy to see him off, but Hayami seems to know him, and actually seems… rather close to him.

It makes Tanjirou slightly uncomfortable.

“Oh right, Tanjirou, Nezuko, you haven’t met Ginjiro before, have you?” Hayami says. Stiffly, Tanjirou nods in agreement, but Nezuko pipes up.

“You’re Sato Ginjiro, aren’t you? Captain of the basketball club? I heard Zenitsu complaining about him before, saying that he’s too popular with the girls.” She mutters, folding her arms over her chest and Ginjiro grins widely as Hayami only rolls her eyes. “He’s got quite a… reputation.”

As if trying to ease the awkwardness in the air, Hayami only gives a placating smile, stepping between the two of them. “Right, that’s Ginjiro for you. He’s one of my friends from back since middle school, but he can be overbearing sometimes.” Ginjiro gives a dramatic gasp, acting offended, which Hayami pays no attention to. She then gestures at the siblings, eyes softening slightly as they fall on Tanjirou. “Ginjiro, these are Tanjirou and Nezuko, both dear friends of mine. Nezuko is Tanjirou’s younger brother, still in high school, so you might not have seen her around before. I hope that you all get along.”

That might be a little difficult, Tanjirou’s lips press together uneasily. Nezuko, who’s far more vocal about her opinions, pouts openly. “I don’t want to-”

“Wow, didn’t know that even the middle school kids knew about me,” Ginjiro laughs, and out of the corner of his eye, Tanjirou catches Nezuko making a face. “Only good things, I hope?”

“Hmph, just so that you know, Hayami-” Nezuko begins, but before she can say any more, Tanjirou tugs at her arm lightly, stopping her words in her tracks.

“We should be leaving first, we need to catch the last bus home before it’s too late.” Tanjirou interjects quickly, giving Hayami and Ginjiro an apologetic smile that seems just a hint forced. Nezuko looks like she wants to argue, but a stern look from her older brother has her falling quiet. “I hope you enjoy your dinner later.”

Ginjiro doesn’t seem to notice the tightness of Tanjirou’s mouth nor the reason behind Nezuko’s sulking, only grinning in response. “Oh yeah, we definitely will! The restaurant is a Michelin star that Hayami’s been wanting to try for ages, so I had to tip the receptionist extra to get a reservation. Still,” he winks at Hayami, who only sighs in response, “anything for my dearest Hayami, don’t you think?”

“You’re always like this,” Hayami complains, and Ginjiro laughs, oblivious to the siblings’ discomfort. It feels as though they’re intruding, and Tanjirou would hate to do that if Hayami really did have feelings for her, well, long time friend. Turning to Tanjirou and Nezuko, Hayami frowns a little. “Sorry, I intended on spending some time with the two of you after the performance, but the restaurant’s booking is really, really expensive…”

“It’s no problem.” The words taste wooden in Tanjirou’s mouth but he forces them out, along with the reassuring smile on his face. “I’ll see you next Monday at school, then.”

Ginjiro steps forward, his ever present grin on his face as he extends a hand to Tanjirou. “It was nice meeting you.” As Tanjirou grasps his hand to shake, he swears that Ginjiro squeezes just a little harder than what would be polite. His smile seems more reminiscent of a smirk now. Tanjirou has to bite back a slight wince. “Hope to see you around, buddy.”

He doesn’t sound like he means what he says.

“Let’s go, Nezuko.” With a last wave at Hayami, Tanjirou turns on his heel and walks away from the two of them, Nezuko hurrying to catch up with her brother’s longer strides. Behind them, Hayami bites her bottom lip, wondering what on earth has just happened in front of her earlier. For her own sanity, it would probably be a good idea to keep Ginjiro and Tanjirou very far apart...

“So, shall we get going, darling Hayami?” Ginjiro turns around to look at Hayami, who quickly banishes the pensive expression on her face. Yes, Ginjiro might be an ass and his flirting might be overbearing at times (all the time), but he’s still one of her good friends, and he’s done so much for her too. With a sigh, she can only shake her head. “Don’t bully Tanjirou, okay?”

Ginjiro shrugs airily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Reaching out, he tugs at her wrist. “Come on, let’s go! They have these artisanal doughnuts that I am absolutely dying for you to try… And of course, it’s my treat!”

Hayami allows Ginjiro to pull her by the hand to his car, but for the rest of the night she can’t help but think of the slightly bitter expression on Tanjirou’s face as he walked away earlier, and how she’s never seen him make such a face before. Slight worry builds up in her as she wonders if she’s done something to upset the ever placid Tanjirou, and Hayami makes up her mind to ask him about it come Monday.

But for now, even the doughnuts don’t taste as sweet.

>>>

Hayami does not get to ask Tanjirou anything come Monday, mainly because Ginjiro does not seem to have any intention of leaving her side and giving her and Tanjirou some alone time. The second her classes are over, Ginjiro appears at the door to walk her to the next, chattering to her excitedly about his new modelling gig and whatnot, and Hayami is far too polite to interrupt when he’s talking about something he’s clearly so passionate about.

It doesn’t help that Ginjiro is suddenly being a lot more…. flirty than usual, with an abundance of sweet and suggestive words paired with a lot of indecent hands that she’s had to slap away. She’s used to this sort of behaviour from Ginjiro, having known him for so long, but today seems more… excessive. Hayami doesn’t know what exactly is up with the boy.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can sometimes see a head of chestnut hair lingering behind pillars or around the bends at corridors, but the second she tries to approach it, Ginjiro either steers her attention away, or the person she’s increasingly desperate to talk to vanishes of his own volition. Tanjirou can’t possibly be avoiding her, can he? Worry gnaws at her insides, even as she sits down to have lunch with Ginjiro in the canteen.

What if he really doesn’t like Ginjiro?

Looking down at her food, Hayami chews on her bottom lip. Today morning has killed her appetite completely, to the point she almost doesn’t feel like eating anything. Still, she already skipped breakfast because she overslept, and it wouldn’t be healthy to miss two meals in a row…

Taking her hesitation for dislike, Ginjiro nudges her in the shoulder. “What’s the matter? Don’t like your bento today?” Hurriedly, Hayami shakes her head, moving to pick up her chopsticks.

“Oh, no, no, I was just spacing out,” she says, but Ginjiro only raises an eyebrow, the perceptive little bastard.

“Well, I have some strawberry mochi here for you, if you want something for your sweet tooth,” Ginjiro smiles, picking up the sweet and holding it up to her lips. Hayami stares at him with an exasperated face, but Ginjiro doesn’t let up. “Come on, Hayami dear. Say ahh-”

“Here, have some takoyaki, Hayami,” someone interrupts all of a sudden, and Hayami looks down to see a round octopus ball being put on her bento. Glancing up in surprise, Hayami is shocked to see the very person that she’s been trying to find all day - Tanjirou. If Tanjirou notices how shocked she is, he doesn’t mention it, only sliding into the seat next to her with his usual placid smile on his face. “I made that this morning myself. Try some and tell me what you think.”

“W-Where’s Inosuke and Zenitsu?” Why is she stuttering? “Don’t you usually have lunch with them?”

“Zenitsu had to go for remedials with Rengoku-sensei, and Inosuke wanted to try catching some of the fish in the school pond,” Tanjirou tells her calmly as he sets down his bento next to hers. Vaguely, Hayami wonders if she should inform Aoi about this so that the discipline council can stop the boar headed boy before the fish meet their ill fates, but then decides it’s better to pretend she never knew about it in the first place. Ignorance is bliss, after all. “Since I was left alone, I thought that I should join you for lunch, Hayami.” Tanjirou smiles politely at Ginjiro, who’s wearing an unusually stoic expression. “I didn’t expect you to be here, Ginjiro-san. I hope you don’t mind me intruding.”

“Not at all,” Ginjiro replies before Hayami can. Although he’s still wearing an easygoing smile, it’s one that he wears around prospective business clients he doesn’t like or when he meets with Hayami’s parents - not a genuine one in the least. “Please, feel free to sit with us. It wouldn’t be right of me to be possessive over a girl I’m not dating yet, would it?”

At Ginjiro’s goading tone, both boys’ eyes lock and Hayami feels electricity rise in the air, static prickling along her skin. Awkwardly, she picks up the takoyaki and puts it in her mouth. It does taste good, but she can’t really enjoy the savoury flavour when this is happening right in front of her.

“Right, just as it wouldn’t be to be possessive over friends, like you and Hayami. Don’t you agree?” Tanjirou says calmly, reaching for his sandwich. Ginjiro’s eye twitches at Tanjirou’s provocative words, but he keeps his cool. Hayami doesn’t understand what is going on.

“That’s true, although Hayami and I are more than just friends,” Ginjiro answers. Hayami frowns, opening her mouth to clarify Ginjiro’s words, but Tanjirou cuts across before she can answer.

“Oh? The two of you must be so close that she sees you as a brother, then. That’s really admirable.”

“You too. Hayami always tells me about how you take care of her like how you take care of your younger sister.”

At a total loss to what’s happening, Hayami slumps back in her seat, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. Watching the two of them take verbal snipes at each other is somehow even less pleasant than watching her parents squabble, so she only gives up and shakes her head, letting them duke it out on their own terms.

Men, she thinks with a sigh. Hopefully, this will wear off by the end of the week.

>>>

Much to Hayami’s exhaustion, it doesn’t end there.

As if that little meeting had only spurred on their competitive urge, Ginjiro and Tanjirou both have started acting very differently from what they’re usually like. On one hand, Ginjiro has turned unbearably flirty, constantly dropping suggestive one liners and his hands somehow always finding their way to her in Tanjirou’s presence. On the other hand, Tanjirou has become excessively helpful whenever Ginjiro is around, offering to help her carry books or papers between classes. While his altruistic personality is something that Hayami has always admired, this goes far beyond what she’s used to.

Ginjiro and Tanjirou only act like this in each other’s presences, though, so Hayami works out that there must be some sort of tension between them - whether they’ve fought before or they just don’t like each others’ faces, Hayami doesn’t know. All she knows is that she doesn’t like being caught in the middle of this.

Which is why she will try her best to avoid having both of them meet, instead choosing to only hang out with one of them at the time. Today, Tanjirou has offered to help her clean the student council room (after Aoi had accidentally let this slip in the corridors), hence here they are, Hayami finally getting to enjoy Tanjirou’s presence for the first time in the entire week.

It’s already the end of the week, and Hayami realises that this is the first time she’s managed to get Tanjirou alone… without Ginjiro butting in some way or another.

When he’s not trying to one up Ginjiro at whatever little game they’re playing, Tanjirou’s presence is as soothing as a gentle summer breeze on a hot day. Instead of being overbearingly nice, with those strange half smiles and hard eyes directed at Ginjiro, his mouth is tilted in a slight, content smile as he wipes at the desk with a cloth, pausing occasionally to sweep his chestnut hair back from his forehead.

“Hayami, you missed a spot here,” Tanjirou points at the corner of the window, and Hayami startles out of her thoughts, suddenly very aware that she was staring. Quickly, she hurries to bring her cloth to the area, but finds it too high for her to reach. Her height has failed her.

Moving to stand on her tiptoes, she tries again, the cloth just inches from the spot of dust on the window. Slightly embarrassed now, Hayami turns to Tanjirou and gives him the most pitiful expression she can muster. The boy’s laugh is gentle, and the sound makes Hayami’s heart flutter in her chest.

“It’s no problem,” Tanjirou tells her, moving towards the back of the room. “I’ll just grab a stepladder from the storage room that we can use.”

“Thanks, Tanjirou!” Hayami calls after him, smiling. Right, this is the pleasant, well mannered Tanjirou that she knows.

“Hey, Hayami-chan, cleaning the council room again?”

At the sound of Ginjiro’s voice, Hayami has to bite back a groan, forcing a suitable smile onto her face as she turns around to face her friend. As usual, one of his hands comes up to rest on her shoulder and she has to fight the urge to bat it away. What is he doing here?

“Yeah, I was rostered for cleanup today since I drew the short end of the stick at the last council meeting. And you,” she pokes his shoulder hard with a finger to emphasize her point, “are not supposed to be in the student council room without express permission from a teacher. Who did you get caught by the last time you were in here, Shinazugawa-sensei?”

Ginjiro’s unflappable grin falters a little at that, looking more like a wince now. “That man chased me all the way to the school gates, I swear my ass was black and blue by the time he let me go.” Hayami rolls her eyes. “ ‘sides, I saw you cleaning the windows from the ground floor and thought I’d give you a hand. Aren’t I perfect boyfriend material?”

Hayami scoffs, fighting the urge to smack him. When on earth will he cool it with the flirty lines?

“Perfect pervert material, more like. It’s your own fault for giving yourself such an awful reputation for peeping.” Shaking her head, Hayami busies herself wringing out the cloth in her hands before returning her attention to the window behind her. When she does, however, she spots Tanjirou standing there with a stepladder in his hands, lips drawn into a tight line as he stares down Ginjiro.

He does not look pleased to see the older boy there.

As if noticing him for the first time, Ginjiro raises a hand in greeting before Hayami can intervene, a sly smile growing on his lips. “Hey, Tanjirou! Coincidence seeing you here.”

“Coincidence, much?” Hayami mumbles under her breath, exasperated. Can they please just let off for five minutes and let her clean her windows in peace? Shaking her head, she turns around to face the window so that she doesn’t have to look at either of them. Why can’t she just reach that spot?

“It’s a coincidence seeing you here too, Ginjiro-san.” Tanjirou’s voice is clipped. “I was just helping Hayami clean the student council room today. What are you doing here?”

You’re not supposed to be here, Hayami can hear the underlying meaning to his words. And while she does agree that Ginjiro really needs to stop sneaking into the student council room as and when he likes, Hayami feels like Tanjirou is being a little too hostile towards her friend.

“Oh, I was just coming by to ask Hayami something, but I guess I could help with the cleaning too.” To Hayami’s surprise, the cloth in her hands is suddenly plucked out of her grasp. Turning around, she sees Ginjiro standing there with a grin. “Here, let me help you out. I’m perfect boyfriend material, remember?”

Hayami is about to argue that Tanjirou is right there with a stepladder, but Ginjiro is already leaning forward to wipe at the window without giving her any time to move out of the way. As a result, Hayami ends up caught between the glass panes of the window and Ginjiro’s front, far too close for her liking.

“I can’t believe that for all your height, you’re still shorter than me,” Ginjiro teases in a sing-song voice, leaning over to wipe at the window. Part of her swears that he’s doing this on purpose, the little bastard. Hayami scowls, pushing at his chest with both hands in annoyance.

“Wait, Ginjiro,” Hayami snaps, patience quickly running out. “Get out of the way and let me out before-”

There’s a sudden crash behind both of them, and Ginjiro and Hayami whirl around to see Tanjirou standing there with a tense expression on his face. The stepladder lies at his feet, but he makes no move to pick it up.

For a moment, Hayami wonders if Tanjirou might say something unkind - the look on his face is truly something to behold. Tanjirou’s usually good at controlling his emotions (how else would he be able to put up with both Inosuke and Zenitsu at the same time), but this time, he doesn’t seem to be faring as well at reigning in his emotions. Ginjiro, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice just how much he’s managed to rile Tanjirou up, instead slinging one arm over Hayami’s shoulder.

“Right, Hayami, I wanted to ask if you’d like to come over to my house later after this. I’ve got some problems with literature homework, I just don’t get Macbeth.” Grinning, he nudges Hayami in the side. “We can catch a movie after, too. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It’s a weekend tomorrow, and I’m sure your parents wouldn’t mind if you slept over at my house for the night.”

“I-” Hayami begins to say, but is interrupted by Tanjirou.

“Hayami usually comes over to my house on Friday nights, so I don’t think she’ll be able to go with you,” Tanjirou says tersely. Hayami frowns. She was about to say that herself, sure, but the fact that Tanjirou is speaking for her instead leaves her indignant. Hayami can speak for herself. “My mother’s already cooked for her, and besides,” he turns to her, “Nezuko misses you too. She says she hasn’t seen you for the entire week. Hanako, Shigeru, Rokuta, especially.”

Well, Hayami has been busy planning the next dance performance - it’s competition season for the performing arts, so she hasn’t had the time to go over to Tanjirou’s house as often as she likes. Still-

“Masako misses you too,” Ginjiro interjects, before Hayami can get a word in once more. “You know how my little sister is, she adores you. Besides, you’ve known my family longer, haven’t you? You should come with me, I’m sure you can visit Tanjirou’s family another day.”

At that statement, Hayami can feel her temper starting to rise. For Ginjiro to claim that his sister misses her is one thing, but to bring up their friendship to strong-arm Tanjirou’s aside is a huge no-no for her.

“I-”

“What exactly,” Tanjirou’s voice is completely level, and Hayami nearly has to bite back a shiver at his cold tone, “are you trying to imply here, Sato Ginjiro?”

She’s never heard Tanjirou like that before.

Ginjiro scoffs, shaking his head, that easygoing smile dropping to reveal a face full of seething jealousy. “Look here, Kamado, you’re the one who brought up the topic of family first. As if you weren’t trying to manipulate Hayami into visiting your house for your own gain-”

“Enough!”

At the sound of Hayami snapping, both boys immediately shut up. Hayami’s arms are folded over her chest, teeth gritted, and she pauses a moment to take a deep breath before she starts laying it all on the two of them.

“The two of you have been unbearable this entire week! I don’t care about whatever is going on between the two of you, but don’t you drag me into this! I already have my own issues with the dance performance coming up, and my parents,” she has to fight back tears at this point, the words simply spilling out of her as if a dam has broken somewhere inside of her, “are coming home sometime next week! I’m already massively stressed, and I don’t need the two of you adding on to it! So if the two of you aren’t done with your petty little argument, then I’m leaving first!”

With that, she storms out of the student council room, too angry and tired from her little rant to think too much about what she’s just said. Behind her, Ginjiro and Tanjirou stare after her back in shock at her little outburst, too stunned to respond.

Out of nowhere, the shrill sound of a ringtone fills the air between the two of them. Ginjiro fumbles to pick up his phone, pressing it to his ear.

“Masako? Yeah, yeah… I’ll buy some sushi for you on the way home. You’re hungry right now? Alright, I’m coming…” When he hangs up, Ginjiro gives Tanjirou a look out of the corner of his eye, the air between them so thick with awkwardness Tanjirou thinks he could choke on it.

“Okay, look, man, I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier.” Ginjiro says all of a sudden, words stilted as he fumbles with them. Tanjirou looks at him in surprise for a moment, before he sighs and relents.

“I get it. For what it’s worth, I’m… sorry for what’s been happening the past week.” Ginjiro gives an awkward laugh in response, before moving towards the door.

“Well, I gotta go now, so…” He purses his lips, glancing over at the Hayami’s bag on the table. “Could you take that to Hayami and tell her I’m sorry?”

“I got it.” Tanjirou watches as Ginjiro makes a face, as if he wants to say something, but he apparently decides against it and simply leaves without another word. Once left alone in the student council room, Tanjirou runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long, heavy exhale. What exactly came over him just now?

Regardless of whatever it was, it was still unacceptable behaviour for him, and Tanjirou knows that he needs to apologise. With a sigh, he picks up Hayami’s bag and moves towards the door, intent on clearing up this mess before he heads home for the day.

She’s nowhere to be seen, but Tanjirou has a feeling that he knows just where she is.

Walking out of the school gates, he makes his way towards a small neighbourhood playground nearby. And sure enough, beneath the large cedar tree that flourishes there, he sees Hayami sitting beneath it with her knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. Her hair is undone, and slightly messy from where she must have run her fingers through it in frustration.

Tanjirou feels awful, but he continues to step towards her. If Hayami notices his presence, she doesn’t say anything, not even when Tanjirou moves to take a seat beside her, but neither does she tell him to leave her alone. He decides to see that as a positive.

“Your bag,” Tanjirou offers, setting down her bag next to her. Peeking up, Hayami gives the bag a look before she buries her face in her knees again.

“Thanks.” Short and curt. But not… angry. That sends relief flooding through Tanjirou, and gives him the courage to do what he came here to do.

“I’m sorry,” he offers meekly, but his words and intentions are genuine. For a moment, Hayami doesn’t respond, but eventually she seems to relax just a little before she speaks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too… for blowing up like that.”

Tanjirou winces as he recalls Hayami’s anger on full display. “Well, we deserved it,” he tells her honestly, and Hayami turns her head so that she can pin him with a stare.

“I don’t blame you for being so tense, Ginjiro is unbearable at times and I completely understand that.” Tanjirou can’t help but nod along as Hayami speaks. “But I really didn’t know why you weren’t just… I don’t know, ignoring his antics or whatever! Surely you know better than to play into his hands?”

Tanjirou presses his lips into a line as he thinks about all the times during this past week that Ginjiro has put his hands on Hayami, or tried to monopolize her time, and the same, irksome feeling rises up in him once more. Ah, Tanjirou’s eyes widen in realisation. It was-

When he glances up, Hayami is still looking at him, waiting for an answer. However, Tanjirou can only give a slight smile, and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope it doesn’t,” Hayami huffs, but Tanjirou can tell that she’s calmed down now. Both of them sit in silence for a moment, until Tanjirou feels something tugging gently at his sleeve. Turning around, he looks at Hayami, who’s glancing away towards the playground where the children are running about, the sounds of their laughter filling the air. There’s slight colour dancing along her cheeks, but Tanjirou can’t tell whether it’s from the light of the setting sun or something else...

“Still,” she begins to say, looking slightly hesitant, and Tanjirou tilts his head to the side as he waits for her to continue. “Still… Can we go to your house for dinner? I mean, it’s like you said, I miss Rokuta and Hanako, and the rest of them as well…”

Tanjirou laughs. “Of course we can. You’re always welcome at my home, remember?” Rising to his feet, he extends one hand to Hayami. “Come on, Hayami.”

Hayami blinks at his hand before she reaches out to take it. Her fingers wrap around his calloused ones, and he hoists her to her feet. “We should hurry. Mother cooked takoyaki and karaage for dinner tonight, so if we don’t hurry, Nezuko and Takeo will eat them all.”

Hayami’s eyes widen at the sound of Kie’s home cooking waiting for her. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tightening her hold on Tanjirou’s hand, she pulls him down the road towards his house. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Tanjirou only smiles, and follows Hayami with slower, steadier steps as she practically skips down the road. Although this storm has blown over without much incident, Tanjirou is more than aware that these affections for Hayami will only continue to grow with the passing of time.

He really should tell Hayami about these feelings that he has for her soon.

[otomeramblings]

And then the Sun Shone so Bright

Pairing: None; Tenma-centric A/N: hhhh I’m sorry this took me so long! I was having a hard time finding motivation to write during these past 2 weeks. But! inspiration finally struck. I originally was gonna make this romantic but then parts of the song gave me natsugumi feels and well, here we are lol But also! I’m sorry I didn’t include Kumon but I haven’t read episode 6 yet;;; Thank you so much, @chewie-santatoast​​!! You’re very kind and I’m glad you like what I put out there!! I hope you like this one too and thank you for requesting~~ 

🎵 Song: Best of Me by BTS 🎵

As Igawa finished sending a message, he pocketed his phone and lifted his gaze to see Tenma still eyeing the rack of keychains in the back corner of the store. The bags with sweet treats they had picked up still hung from Tenma’s wrist as he stood there, one hand on his hip and one on his chin, clearly trying to find something.

After shooting wrapped up, they went to one of the local bakeries to buy some souvenirs for Tenma’s theatre troupe. It was something he had taken the habit of doing and while he was surprised by it at first, Igawa was fast to encourage this new development; after the first time, he always made sure that whenever the boy had a shoot out of town or overseas, they would always be able to find a moment in their schedule so that he could buy something he could bring back.

They had been doing some window shopping after successfully purchasing the treats when Tenma stopped in front of one of the stores and insisted on going inside.

If he had to venture a guess, Igawa would say that the object that had originally caught Tenma’s attention was the small bonsai keychain that now dangled from in between his fingers. He couldn’t help the small smile that bloomed in his face at that; Tenma’s love for bonsai, while strange in the eyes of his peers for a boy his age, was actually something Igawa himself had grown incredibly fond of since it was one of the topics (besides acting) that actually made Tenma ramble with excitement. Since he had already had his hands on it, though, Igawa had an inkling as to what he was now searching for.

After a few minutes, and having four more keychains in his hands, Tenma strode towards the register. As he placed the items on the counter, Igawa could see that his hunch had been spot-on. Tenma threw a quick glance his way and he must have seen the way in which his manager was fighting back a smile because he quickly spoke up:

“They would just bug me later if I only got one for myself.”

“Of course, Tenma,” he replied with a small nod. It was an excuse but Igawa knew better than to try to get Tenma to admit it, so he didn’t press for more.

As his eyes inspected each of the designs as the cashier rang them up, he understood what had taken the boy so long when he was picking them. He could tell exactly which one would go to each person just by looking at them. Igawa admittedly didn’t know the members of the Summer Troupe very well, but he had gathered quite a bit of information from his conversations with Tenma.

Next to the small bonsai tree, there was a little white kitten wearing a pink bonnet;

“Dammit,” Tenma clicked his tongue seeing the traffic-jam they were stuck in. “I know it’s frustrating but can’t you let them know that you’ll be late for rehearsals?” Igawa spared a glance his way and saw that Tenma was already typing something on his phone. “Yeah, but that’s not the problem,” he grumbled. “We are trying on the new costumes today and Yuki’s already difficult enough normally. I don’t need to give him another excuse to call me- a hack, oh for the love of-.” Judging from the exasperated tone in his voice and the quick typing that followed, Igawa could guess what response Tenma had received and he tried his best to squash down his amusement before commenting again. “Yuki? That’s….Rurikawa, right? You mentioned he’s in charge of making all of the company’s costumes? He did a really good job for your debut performance.” After seeing the state in which the theatre was, a part of him had honestly been worried about the production quality, but he had been blown away by it and the costumes were one of the things that had impressed him the most. “Yeah,” Tenma sighed before putting his phone down. “I hate to admit it, but the kid’s got some real talent in that department and he has potential in acting as well. Now if only he could do something about that snarky attitude of his,” Tenma complained but Igawa could hear the tint of fondness that hid in his tone behind his initial annoyance.

next to it, there was a pink crown with white and gold accents;

“Is that a new script?” Igawa asked when he saw the manilla envelope resting on Tenma’s lap once he entered the car. He knew Tenma wasn’t scheduled to shoot anything soon but it wouldn’t be long until the Summer Troupe started their rehearsals for their new play. “No, this is one of dad’s old scripts.” Seeing the surprise on his face, Tenma added: “I asked him if I could lend it to one of my troupe mates and he agreed.” “Oh?” “Yeah, remember when dad had to play that prince character in a drama?” He did remember; that performance had earned Mr Sumeragi a couple of awards when he was just starting his career. At Igawa’s hum of affirmation, Tenma continued: “Well, one of my troupe members wants to act in a similar role in the future, so I thought giving this a look would help him have a more concrete idea of what it’s like.” Igawa nodded with a smile. “His acting and his presence on stage still need some work, but I think reading this can not only motivate him but also give him some inspiration since it has all the annotations dad made on it when he used it.” Tenma was using that determined and straightforward tone that often laced his voice whenever he spoke about anything related to acting; it reminded him that despite his young age, he was a professional through and through. One thing that had always been true about Tenma was that he was a perfectionist and someone incredibly proud of his work; because of that, he expected that everyone met the same standards he had for himself. That hadn’t changed after he started performing with Mankai, but the way he went about it when talking to his colleagues was definitely different and he was now seeing exactly where it rooted from.

next to that one, there was probably the most unique keychain of the bunch: a small almost translucent triangle protractor,

“Is that homework?” Igawa asked as he closed the door of the trailer. Tenma paused his furious scribbling when he heard his manager’s question and the guilty darting of his eyes told the answer before he even opened his mouth. “......no…...I’ll do it after I finish this!” he scrambled to answer. Igawa sighed a bit in response; Tenma hated doing his school work and usually he would push him to work on it but since he knew that there was a professional tutor in the dorms that could help him, he decided to let him off the hook this time.

“So, what were you writing then?”

“Oh!” Tenma’s eyes lit up at the question. “I just thought up a few ideas I want to try out the next time we have to do street acts. Some of them are a bit advanced but I think Misumi and I could pull them off.” “Really?” he inquired, sitting across from the boy and taking a sip from his coffee. “Yeah.” he shook his head as he closed the notebook. “Misumi’s talent is kinda terrifying; if we could do something to help him focus more, he could probably be as good as me.” Igawa’s eyebrows shot up at that since Tenma was not one to give out praise freely to anyone. If he recalled correctly, Ikuraga’s performance had probably been the second best on their show next to Tenma’s, so while he was shocked by the admission, he could definitely see where the actor was coming from. “I didn’t know you started putting stickers on your things.” Igawa pointed out when his gaze fell on the notebook. “What? No, I don’t-” Tenma exclaimed but stopped himself when his eyes landed on the stickers that adorned the back of his notebook. An ice-cream cone, a slice of watermelon and onigiri surrounded a bigger yellow triangle that had a few words scribbled on with a marker. Twisting his neck, he was able to make out the words: “Good luck, Tenma~~!! (*^▽^*)”

and, finally, there was a paint pallet with a small brush dipped in green paint.

“Yes, yes, I’ll ask him about it. Yes, mom, I won’t forget. Okay, bye.”

“Everything okay?” Igawa asked once Tenma hung up, his eyes focused on the road. “Huh?” the boy asked absentmindedly as he opened another app on his phone. “Yeah, it’s nothing serious. She told me she wants a copy of the poster of Water Me! since it was our first performance. I told her that they already had the flyer with the picture but she says it’s too small, so I told her that I could probably ask Kazunari to make another copy since he’s the one that designed the final version.” He was trying to act nonchalant about it, but Igawa could hear the pride in his voice, happy that his parents were openly acknowledging and accepting his theatre career.

“It is an important milestone,” the manager nodded and then added. ”And it was a beautiful poster.” Tenma hummed in agreement. “Yeah, Kazunari can be obnoxious as hell but he’s got a real eye for design. All of the company’s posters and our website are a testament to that,” he admitted as he scrolled on his phone. “He’s probably gonna be over the moon once I ask him for a copy.” They had arrived at the dorms so Igawa could see Tenma rolling his eyes in what could be mistaken for exasperation were it not for the slight smile on his face. He had seen Kazunari Miyoshi once after their first (eventful) meeting and in that occasion the older boy had Tenma in a side hug while they took a selfie together and what had caught Igawa’s attention was that despite the fact that Tenma didn’t really like taking selfies with people (besides the occasional fan), the protests that came from his mouth were half-hearted at best and it didn’t take long for him to settle and smile for the picture. After it was taken, he could hear Miyoshi saying he would caption it with “Nothing better than some Ice-cream after rehearsals with TenTen!!”

Each of the keychains had gold chains and gold borders and detailing, making it obvious that they were part of the same set despite the wide variety of designs.

As the employee put them all in separate bags after Tenma told her they were gifts, Igawa couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth nor the fondness that seeped through his voice when he said: “I’m sure they’ll love them.”

The actor just shrugged in response. “Of course they will,” he replied with confidence but his manager could see the redness in the tips of his ears.

Tenma had always been a good kid. Arrogant and too blunt at times, yes, but never with the intention of hurting others. However, being in the spotlight from such a young age had isolated him from his peers and his parents' constant travelling only served to make him build even more walls around himself; be confident and keep your head up, your work is what matters, that was the motto by which Tenma lived his life and that was a big detriment in any interpersonal relationships he could have formed. But now, seeing him fuss over which souvenirs to bring to his friends, the deep mark the Mankai Company left on him was glaringly obvious. 

He remembered the genuine concern he showed when his parents wanted him to quit. It was one of the few times he saw Tenma’s eyes tainted with fear; and at first, Igawa had thought he had been afraid of the possibility that this project he had worked so hard towards would be crushed, but later on he learned that it was more than that, it was the fear of having to let go of the people who had managed to bring down his walls and had put their all in supporting him so he could turn his past regrets into victories.

Tenma had never looked happier than he did now and that translated to his acting as well; he still carried himself with confidence but now there was also a lightness to his steps that wasn’t there before. Igawa knew that Mankai and the Summer Troupe probably didn’t really understand how much they had truly helped Tenma become a better version of himself in every sense but he would forever be thankful for it.

🎵 Part of the song-based requests [closed] 🎵

[trickstermiraculous]

Not sure if I sent this to you. But a class salt prompt. After getting exspelled than told oops a mistake was made you can come back. Only Marinette doesn't and bustier forgets to tell the class she is no longer exspelled and they start to think she did what was said. And the send stuff to her phone and such but for some reason one of her family members have her phone and they are nit pleased

To Marinette’s parents, it was a quick discussion. The school expelled their daughter off the word of one student, not even checking the security cameras but the word of one girl with evidence that can easily be faked and then they suddenly want her back because the girl admitted she lied with another lie to keep herself from getting in trouble.

Enough was enough until they could find another school, one where they did favour bullies who were rich. As soon as Marinette got told she could come back to school, her mother loudly announces that they can clear Marinette’s record but she will not be coming back to school that expells students without a proper investigation.

The problem came that none of the teachers told Miss Bustier’s class that Marinette was innocence so thought she had done it and with Lila continuing to lie about Marinette even with her gone, they started to hate the baker girl.

It had been a month after the Miracle Queen incident and informing her parents about her job as the new guardian and ladybug because of this they decide it would be better for her to be homeschooled as she didn’t have to keep making up excuses to leave class due to an Akuma attack. Although she had been signed up to a gymnastics club and her mother started to teach her martial arts so she was better in a fight and still did some form of PE.

Marinette had been more focused on her school work as well as plans to stop hawkmoth and because of the fact as soon as she left the school it had been clear that her old class was not on her side if the texts she was sent, were anything to go by. So, she had taken to ignoring them but had forgotten to block them so when she had left her phone on the side, she forgot her parents would see the notifications.

Marinette had just gotten done with doing some maths work and came down for a snack when she noticed her mother holding her phone while sitting at the kitchen table. “Care to tell me, why your old classmates are sending text messages calling you a lier, a bitch and other things I rather not say out loud?” Her mother questioned placing the phone down,“I-” Marinette was cut off with a look from her mother,“sigh, none of the teachers informed them that I was proven innocent and Lila has used that to her advantage” Marinette replied sitting down across from her mother, “I know that I should have blocked them but decided that I should at least know what Lila has spread about since when they text me insults, they just happen to tell me the rumour”.

“Hmm, Have you taken screenshots?” asked her mother,“yes” replied Marinette catching onto what her mother was getting at,“This is cyberbullying and slander so would you mind give me those screenshots,” her mother said,“They don’t need to be sued, mum” exclaimed Marinette,“They’re not being sued, it’s called a warning” retorted her mother,“Fine” as soon as Marinette agreed, her phone went off, grabbing her phone she realised it was a notification from the Lady Blog.

“You know what mum, you may actually need to sue Lila and Alya,” said Marinette passing her phone to her mother, watching her mother face change to pure anger as she read the article, “get your father and close up shop, while I contact Miss Green” her mother demanded.

Like every other day since Marinette left the class, everyone was hanging off Lila’s words while ignoring that we were supposed to be working while Miss Bustier was out. The classroom door open, revealing Miss Bustier and an older lady holding a pile of papers, looking very anger at the class.

“Class, if I could have your attention please?” asked Miss Bustier with a nervous tone, everyone turned round to face her with Adrien looking very worried as she recognised the women as her father had hired them before. “This is Miss Green and she needs to talk to Lila and Alya” she continued, “Oh, hello are you here for the young journalist competition?,” asked Alya who looked extremely excited.

“No, I’m not Miss Césaire, I’m here to give you and Miss Rossi, these” Miss Green answered placing to pile of paper in front of the girls, “What are these?” asked Lila rooting through the papers, “Lawsuits for slander against Dupain-Cheng family” the women stated causing an uproar.

“What but why?” demanded Alya, “You wrote an article about their bakery accusing them of buying the products insted of making them like the shop advertised as well as treating other workers like dirt on the sidewalk as the reason why only the family works the shop now” the women explained, “but-” Alya was cut off by Miss Green, “You posted this on the Lady Blog which is used by most of Paris for info about Ladybug meaning most of Paris now thinks these accusations are true”,“But they are” replied Alya,“Oh and where is your proof?” retorted Miss Green,“Lila said-” she was cut off again by Miss Green,“One accuser is not enough proof especially one who is a serial lier that can be provided to belying by a quick google search, you need more people to back this up and physical evidence before you accuse people like this” snapped Miss Green, “you are all luckily they didn’t plan to sue for those texts messages you all sent as it is cyber bullying which is a crime” and with that, she left leaving Miss Bustier to deal with the fallout.

Notes:  I'm aware this is my best writing but I did struggle with how to answer this prompt but I hope this is still entertaining. College got shut down due to the virus so since I'm stuck at home, hopefully, I can write more.

Wattpad 

AO3

[eternaliax3]

Moving On

Slowly migrating my fics onto here from AO3!

One-Shot | AO3 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Relationship: Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Rating: G Summary:  Adrien's off-handed comment spurs Marinette to accept that she wouldn't be anything more than a friend and to consider someone else.

Marinette was left wondering at what she should do about Adrien as time went on. While her love for him never dwindled, she was steadfastly losing hope for their future as he never showed more interest than friendship.

It was when she was pondering this while she sat with Alya and Nino during lunch that she made up her mind, because Alya brought up the topic of Luka.

“So Marinette, what's going on with guitar boy?” She wiggled her eyebrows at her as she nudged her arm. Marinette looked at her not amused.

“Nothing, Alya. And you know that.”

“But he's so into you!”

“I know, he even confessed to me earlier.” Her eyes turned rueful as she remembered his words as Silencer, and then as himself.

At this moment, as she was staring at her sandwich, Adrien walked up to the group and overheard what she said.

He waved as a greeting, his smile sunny as ever.

“You guys talking about Luka? He's a really cool guy Marinette, you should definitely go for him!”

It was that moment where one could see a young girl's heart break, and the other two people could only look on in a mixture of horror and pity as the one who said it remained oblivious. And yet he continued on, driving the knife even further into her heart.

“You two would definitely make a great couple. I’m rooting for you!”

Marinette plastered a smile onto her face. “Thanks, Adrien.”

Alya and Nino started talking about something else, anything, that Marinette didn’t hear as she zoned out staring at her sandwich. She spent the rest of the school day quiet and thoughtful.

The next week Marinette was sitting on her balcony in the evening, staring at Luka’s contact information on her phone. During the week, she made her resolve to move on. It was painful, oh, it was so painful, but she accepted that Adrien didn’t see her as anything more than a friend. The first few nights were spent crying and writing sad diary entries. But she eventually accepted it.

That night, she sent a text message to Luka asking to meet.

                                                ━━━━━━━━

Luka agreed to meet her at the theater to watch a movie, and then get dinner together at a restaurant near the Seine. While the day of the date loomed closer and closer, Marinette decided to craft some new clothes to commemorate the occasion. After all, it was special and she wanted Luka to know that too. She decided to make a circle skirt in her signature color with white and black flowers, and a ruffly white off-the-shoulder top with straps going over the shoulders. She paired her signature flats and purse with them and on the day of the date she twirled in front of her mirror, proud of the new outfit.

Her hair was also left down, and she tied a pink ribbon with a bow on top of her head.

Tikki smiled at her outfit, beyond ecstatic that Marinette was going to be happy. It was also never a bad thing that her ladybug was creating.

Marinette walked down to the theater, butterflies exploding at her stomach, but calming once she saw Luka. The butterflies melted into excitement, and she ran over to give him a hug.

“You look beautiful, Marinette.” His eyes glinting with appreciation at her new outfit and hairstyle. Marinette blushed and thanked him. She noticed that he also wore a new outfit, ripped black jeans that accentuated his tall legs, and a Jagged Stone t-shirt with a black vest over it. His guitar in its case was on his back. It was casual, but definitely Luka’s style.

“You look good too, Luka.” Marinette smiled genuinely at him.

“Thanks, Ma-ma-Marinette.” She had to laugh at that, a slight tinge of embarrassment wafting over her face, but knowing that he was more affectionate with the endearment.

“Shall we go in, then?”

“Of course.”

Luka took her hand in, her much smaller hand in his, and lead her inside.

                                               ━━━━━━━━

The movie was enjoyable, and halfway throughout Luka put his arm over her shoulders and she leaned into his warmth. Her heart skipped a few beats as she felt more happy than she did the last month being there with Luka.

After the movie, they both went down to the Seine. Grabbing a bite to eat from a local restaurant, they talked about anything that came to their minds at the moment. Kitty Section and practice, designing new outfits, schoolwork; Marinette found herself rambling at times, but Luka was ever patient with her, finding it endearing when she would gesture  with her hands. It spoke of her passion when she was talking about designing.

It came to the topic of music, and Luka took out his guitar and started strumming the chords of a song he was writing. Marinette closed her eyes and let the notes circle around her, the two stuck in their own little world.

“I think I just came up with a new song, Marinette.” He smiled and started strumming a few upbeat chords and humming along with it. His voice was a low timbre, and Marinette found her heart flip flopping and a blush rose to her face.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the music, one she recognized as the melody he played to her when they first met, but different. Revised into a more complicated but accompanied with lower notes at times. She found herself more inspired and her already happy mood lifted higher.

And she pulled out her sketchbook, a mini one that fits into her purse so she could take it with her anywhere. She shot a smile to Luka who closed his eyes and continued playing. They sat together on the steps of the Seine, a guitarist and a designer, finding inspiration from each other and enjoying their time together.

They both didn’t realize how much time had passed as they sat together.

                                               ━━━━━━━━

Two months have passed, and Marinette found herself thinking less and less of Adrien, and more of Luka. Pictures of Adrien that she took down that first day of those fateful words that were spoken to her were replaced by pictures of Marinette and Luka together, and of other friends.

Her stutter was nonexistent now, and she found herself becoming good friends with Adrien. She started wearing different outfits that she created and wearing her hair in different styles that she finds online.

Luka and her meet some days after school, sometimes on the weekends, though with Luka’s part time job it was sometimes difficult to schedule a date. Most of the time, it was planned on the spot, after a stray text message sent to each other saying I miss you , it usually led to them meeting up after school. It was instantaneous and improvised, and Marinette wouldn’t have it any other way. Her favorite activity was listening to him play his guitar and sing. She smiled fondly as she remembered the keychain she made him that was now on his guitar case—a little black music note, dangling off of a keyring that seemed to wink in the light.

She found herself missing him every moment he was away, and counting down the seconds she could see him again, even though it was sometimes for days if their schedules didn’t permit it. Marinette found out that he was quite the gentleman, being polite towards every one of her friends and respecting her space. It also seemed like they were on the same wavelength, as if Luka was so in tune to her and she to him, that whenever she tripped or was about to, Luka would catch her and hold onto her.

One of her favorite memories together is when they were walking, and she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Luka caught her by the waist and swung her around to hold her in an embrace, as if it were straight out of a romance movie. She laughed and poked his nose, and he responded by pulling her into a sweet kiss.

Sabine and Tom even adored him, saying that he was welcome to visit the bakery anytime and that he was always welcome to stay for dinner. Which surprised her, since Tom was extremely protective of Marinette. It spoke of Luka’s character in spades, if they were taken with him so easily.

                                               ━━━━━━━━

It was a few more months that passed and Hawkmoth sent out akumas with a vengeance. Akuma sightings that had to be dealt with in the middle of the day, past midnight, and then in the early morning at times. It drove Marinette mad, and Luka was ever so understanding about Marinette having to leave in the middle of their dates. It ate at her inside, she didn’t think she deserved him.

On the other hand, Marinette hadn’t made any progress into tracking down Hawkmoth, and she felt so guilty towards the people of Paris. How is she doing her job correctly aside from purifying akumas if she couldn’t even figure out who the person starting it all was?

One day she was at Luka’s house for one of their usual hangouts, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She wasn’t enjoying his presence as much as she usually would have, and she was distracted and mopey. Luka couldn’t help but ask what was wrong. And she crumbled. She tried to be strong for so long that it was all let out once he asked that.

“There’s just too much pressure, Luka!” She said in between tears. “There’s just too much. I’m only sixteen years old and have to handle so many things!”

There was so, so much she wanted to say to him, but couldn’t. The next thing she knew, she was wrapped up in a warm embrace.

“I’m here for you, Marinette. You’ve done an amazing job so far. Just let it all out.” His warm voice wrapped around her and she cried harder.

“I don’t deserve you, Luka.” She sobbed.

“Yes, you do.” He smiled at her and gave her a sweet kiss that she reciprocated. 

She felt lighter after that, as if the world wasn’t resting solely on her shoulders anymore, and she wasn’t alone.

                                               ━━━━━━━━

It was when they were sitting at a café eating lunch together on a lazy weekend that she decided to ask something that was on her mind for a while.

“Hey, Luka? Why did you start liking me?” Her eyes bored into his as they crinkled into smiles. “Was it when you saw me for the first time?” She joked.

“I actually started to like you before then.” He replied with total honesty. At her gape, he continued.

“It was during the time after Juleka came home and started to talk about you. She said that you helped to include her in the class picture a few years ago. She said so many good things about you, and you made my sister so happy that day. I knew you were a good person.”

Marinette couldn’t help but blush, her face heating up. “Wow, that long? That was years ago!”

“Yes, for that long.” He reached over and held her hand on top of the table. “I’m really happy you gave me a chance, Marinette.”

“I’m really happy too, Luka.”

                                               ━━━━━━━━

It was during patrol and when she was transformed into her alter ego that Chat Noir asked why she was in a happy mood for the past few weeks. And she told him the truth.

“I’ve started dating someone.”

Chat Noir could feel his own heart breaking as she said that. While she looked into his eyes, he couldn’t help but try and keep a happy facade. After all, she was his dear partner and he had to be happy for her in the end.

“Are you happy, milady?”

She smiled, one that genuinely reached her glowing eyes. Eyes that weren’t happy because of him.

“Very much so, Chat.” She turned towards the glowing city lights around them. “He’s...amazing. Really inspirational and he’s there for me all the time.”

She giggled and started swinging her trusty yoyo in her hands.

“He really sees who I am under the mask.” Her eyes turned wistful.

“But you know what’s funny?” She turned back towards him. “It was actually the boy I loved before that told me to go for it.”

Chat Noir realized he never had a chance with Ladybug. And he had to accept it in that moment.

“I’m happy for you, Ladybug.” And he truly meant it, as he went home trying to mend his broken heart.

                                               ━━━━━━━━

The next day, Adrien went to class looking a mess. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was slow in responding to people when they tried to talk to him. It even really worried Marinette throughout the day as she was able to see how he was acting in front of her.

The end of the school day came around and she put her hand on his shoulder as the students ushered out of the classroom, chattering about.

“Adrien, are you ok?” She was wearing a small pout as she looked at his defeated demeanor.

“Hey Marinette, I’m fine.” He tried to hold it together by giving her a small lopsided smile. “Don’t worry about me. Aren’t you meeting Luka soon?”

“Yes, but I wanted to check up on you. If you need to talk or anything, I’m here for you.” She smiled.

“Thanks, Marinette. I really appreciate that. I’m glad things are going well with you and Luka, by the way.” He started walking towards the front gates of the school.

“Yeah, he’s really great. I’m really glad I gave him a chance.” She spun around next to him to look earnestly into his eyes. “Hey, maybe we can all go on a triple date! Nino and Alya, Luka and I, and you and Kagami!”  

“Ka-Kagami?” He sputtered.

“Yeah! Isn’t she the one you’re pining for?” She nudged his arm.

He laughed. “Not Kagami.” If only she knew.

“But let’s change the topic here, is Luka treating you right? After all, you only deserve the best.” He winked at her and she laughed.

“He definitely does, Adrien. He really sees me.” She said, and he had to stop right in his tracks in confusion.

“What do you mean by that?”

Marinette also stopped as she realized what she just said and scrambled for an explanation.

“Oh well, you know, I just feel like I have a mask on sometimes, with how much I have to do with the bakery, schoolwork ,and being class president.” And being a superhero that fights akumas at all times of the day , she thought. “Luka just sees past all of that. He really sees the person  under the mask.”

Marientte smiled as past Adrien, she saw Luka waiting for her at the school gates.

“Well, try and get some rest today, ok Adrien? I’ll see you tomorrow!”

She left and ran towards Luka, and Adrien could only stand gaping as the deja vu almost knocked him over. Words that were spoken in the night kept repeating in his head and he kept cycling Marinette’s face with Ladybug’s face over and over and over in his mind.

Oh my god, what have I done?

[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.

[what-big-teeth]

Reveal (Cambion Boyfriend, pt. 1)

Gender Neutral Reader x Male Monster [Part 2] [Part 3] tw: mentions of alcohol ; kidnapping White rum, mint leaves, soda water, lime juice, and sugar… “Your mojito on the rocks. Enjoy!”

The middle-aged diner gives you a hearty thanks and slaps a fresh 20 dollar bill on the counter with a brown hand. He yells for you to keep the change over the noisy weekend crowd, and you’re more than happy to take the offer. 

It’s another step closer to paying your way through graduate school. 

At first, the idea of becoming a bartender after college didn’t sit well with your parents. Not because of the job choice, however. Your aunt’s popular mixology book collection is something they’re rather proud of. No, according to your folks, taking a long break from school could lead to you never going back. 

They suggested taking out a few student loans to make ends meet. Live on campus to deal with a much lower residency fee. You agreed to staying in a dorm, but you couldn’t stomach being in near-perpetual debt for years to come. Very few people have gone through a higher educational career without incurring any debt. The odds of such a thing happening to you are astronomical. But damnit if you were at least going to try and curb whatever debt you could with your paychecks. 

It helped that your place of employment was one of the more popular restaurants in town. Owned by a local, African-American family, Papa Ruben’s gained acclaim with time and great customer service. Hell, you were one of the diner’s loyal customers before Ben helped you land your job. Since starting, you’ve seen many familiar faces at the bar, but also just as many newcomers. Mostly family members joined by an undergrad or graduate student. And with the quick, accurate service you provide, many customers tip handsomely. 

As you make a mental note to thank your aunt (who also served as your teacher), another rush of customers approach the barstools. All of them look at you expectantly, with the first customer who arrived dipping a pale hand into her purse. 

You grin and flex your fingers.

Two gin and tonics; a round of tequila shots, four daiquiris, six red eyes, a sex on the beach. Change, bills, and even a few slips with scrawled phone numbers pile into your tip jar. The former is more important than the latter. More so as your heart is set on someone already. Too bad he wasn’t able to come tonight…

“I’ll take a Black Velvet in a Pilsner if you’ve got one.”

You pause from wiping down a cleaned, glass tumbler, perking up. There’s only one person you know who heavily favors such a drink.

A Black woman with deep brown skin leans onto the counter with her jacketed forearms. She shoves her thick natural hair—pulled back into a long braid— over her shoulder. Then grins.

“How’s my favorite barkeep?”

Her smile is infectious. “Holy shit, Jacqui? Is that you?!”

“The one and only,” she says. “Well, the one Jacqui that really matters.”

You chuckle, setting aside the tumbler. “I can’t believe you’re here in the flesh. I haven’t seen you in, what, four months?”

Her painted, red lips tremble and her smile falters.

“Five, actually.” 

She goes quiet soon after and glances your way. For a moment, you think the odd light in her dark brown eyes is something akin to guilt. But it’s gone the next second, replaced by her usual confidence.

“But I’m back in town for a few days. You haven’t gone on break, have you?” 

You shake your head, already knowing what she plans to ask.

“Got a minute to catch up?”

“For you? More than. Cass will be here soon to start her shift. When she comes, I’ll go on break.”

Jacqui plasters another grin on her face while you get to work on her drink. Once it’s ready, you set it in front of her on a coaster. Her hand quickly replaces yours as she takes a long sip. 

“Thanks, babe. When it’s time, you know where to go.”

And with that, she slips off her barstool and past the bustling crowd gathering for more rounds. 

This isn’t the first time Jacqui’s made herself at home at the restaurant. Mainly because she and Ben go back to their teenage years and he’s always had a soft spot for her. He treats her like the older sister he never had, mainly as all his elder siblings are boys. In turn, she treats him like a little brother. 

It’s understandable; not having anyone around to claim you while growing up can get lonely. Ben will be just as pleased to see her, if he hasn’t already.

Cass arrives on time at a quarter ‘til nine, punctual as always. As she finishes tying her apron, she nods at you and effortlessly takes over once you finish making an appletini. 

You squeeze past the busy wait staff and their large trays, waving at a few regulars who greet you by name. By the time you reach the break room, your stiff legs are crying out for relief. And you swiftly provide it by plopping down onto the old couch opposite the door. 

The cushions are sunken and the fabric’s fading, but it’s part of Papa Ruben’s earlier days. The Moore family is wonderfully sentimental and this room is chock-full of older times. Photos of Papa Ruben himself, a younger snaggletoothed Ben and his two older brothers, their parents. There’s even a photo of a teenaged Jacqui surrounded by the Moore family. 

Speaking of, the door opens, revealing Jacqui carrying a large sleeve of fries. She hops onto the couch next to you, offering some of her food. You snag four piping hot fries, juggling them between your hands.

“Courtesy of Ben?” you ask.

“Of course! My little bro always looks out for me.”

You lick your fingertips free of salt and ‘secret seasoning’ to cool the surface burns. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Just like how the Moores would welcome you with open arms.”

She goes quiet, her expression turning neutral. She stares down at her food instead of replying. 

“Whenever you visit, you always say you haven’t found a place to put down your roots,” you say. “What if that place is here with the Moores? With me and Cam?”

“It can’t be.” She places the still warm sleeve between the two of you. “I’ve done some stupid shit in the past, and it always find me when I let my guard down. I don’t want Ben, the Moores, Cam or you to get dragged into my mess. It’s something I have to deal with myself.”

You’ve had inklings about Jacqui’s rough past, but never any of the details. This is the closest she’s ever come to emphasizing just how bad things are. You try to think of a way to reason with her, but the break room’s door opens again. 

Ben pokes his head inside, prompting Jacqui to slide a convincing smile onto her face. 

“Here to offer me more free food?” she says with humor. “How sweet!”

“And have you eat my family out of house and home? No thanks,” he says. 

You stifle a laugh, already used to their bickering. Ben rolls his eyes as Jacqui calls him a brat, opening the door fully while rubbing a golden brown hand over his bald head. 

“To answer your question, someone’s here to see you. He rushed right over after I told him you were back in town.”

“You’re making it sound like I committed vehicular terror on the way over.” 

A pleasant tingle runs down your spine at the familiar voice, in spite of the slight snark. 

“With the way you drive,” Ben says, stepping out of the doorway, “Can it be anything else?”

“What’s that? You don’t want to bum another ride in the future?”

At that, Ben’s mouth snaps shut. You all know he’d rather enjoy some peace and space in a car not shared with his brothers. Cam steps through the doorway, chuckling.

“That’s what I thought.”

It doesn’t matter how many times you see him. Every time is new and comparable to that quiet moment during a movie night in college when you realized your feelings for him. A charming smile stretches the rich, golden brown skin of Can’s face and his thick lips as he steps past Ben.

Before you’re able to calm your pulse, Jacqui hops off the couch. You’re able to save her lukewarm fries before they fall over as she pulls Cam into a tight hug. 

“Good luck dealing with her,” Ben says.

After reminding you of the end of your break, he heads out. Leaving you to watch Jacqui smack Cam on the back a few times while laughing.

“Look at you!” Jacqui pulls away from him, giving him a quick look over. “I see you decided to upgrade your fashion sense to show off your good looks. Finally. The red bomber jacket and Timbs look good, but the bottle coke glasses? Not so much.”

“Tell that to my eye doctor,” he says. 

You watch as they fall into a seamless conversation, filled with snark and laughter. Jacqui even reaches up to playfully tug at one of the short dreadlocks on top of his head. As she comments on how well they pair with his fade haircut, a heavy weight forms in your stomach at the sight. They’re just friends and you know this without a doubt. But that doesn’t stop the bitter jealousy from welling up inside. 

As if hearing your thoughts, Cam’s gaze finds yours and he smiles. His dark brown eyes make your stomach flutter in the best of ways.  

“I-I thought you had a test to study for,” you manage to say. 

“Still do,” Cam says. “But it’s kinda hard to think on an empty stomach. My brain needs some fuel and a break. Plus, I wanted to check on you since you mentioned tonight would be busy.”

Heat fills your cheeks as a small smile stretches your lips. 

“Thanks,” you say. The light in Cam’s eyes grows soft. 

Of course. We’re friends, after all.

”The moment between the two of you swiftly ends. Because that’s all you are. Just friends. You nod in reply, helping yourself to a few of Jacqui’s fries as she teases him about gunning for an anthropology degree. Cam just rolls his eyes at her before fishing his smartphone from his jacket. 

“Order’s ready. I should get back to studying.” He glances up at you with a caring smile. “Let me know if you want to cancel tomorrow’s trip to the bakery. I’ll understand if you’re too tired—”

“I’ll be fine,” you quickly say, “promise.”

“Cool. Have a good night, and be safe on your way home.”

As Cam heads out with one last wave, a gentle tug pulls the now crumpled sleeve of cold fries from your hands. Jacqui lifts a brow at the food then you, giving you a knowing look.

“Oh honey.”

You stiffen. Your brain attempts to think of any excuse or denial, but falls short. You lean back against the couch, sighing in defeat.

“Am I really that obvious?”

“Sure, to Ben and me. But to Cam? Not so much, which is ridiculous. You haven’t tried kissing the living daylights out of him yet?”

“Jacqui.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. You guys grew up together, lost contact, then reconnected in college. What’s the hold up?”

You purse your lips, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t want to mess up things between us. Yeah, I may like him more as a friend, but I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

A gentle touch grips your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, you wouldn’t ruin anything by letting him know. Seriously.”

You just shake your head, attempting to give Jacqui a reassuring smile. The concerned light in her eyes tells you it falls horribly short. 

“You should join us tomorrow morning after visiting the Moores,” you say, getting up. “Let me know if you want another Black Velvet, alright?”

You leave before Jacqui is able to get another word in. 

The rest of your shift is busy, but uneventful. You accrue a huge amount of tips from pleased customers and more slips bearing phone numbers. You and Cass split the money based on the number of hours you both work. When she offers to take some of the number off your hands, you let her. The rest, you crumple and toss into the trash. 

The doors to Papa Ruben’s closes at 11 PM sharp, with you, Cass, Ben, and the other staff members congratulating each other on a job immensely well done. After grabbing your belongings, you bid your co-workers a good night.

With the way your stiff legs are throbbing, you’re wishing you hadn’t parked down the way to avoid the early rush. You sigh with relief as your vehicle comes into view. Just a little bit more, and you’ll be on your way home. 

You aren’t able to take another step. 

The grip on your upper arm surprises you. It tightens to a painful vice and brings you to your knees. 

Quick as lightning, another hand swiftly grabs the back of your neck, forcing your nose to the concrete. 

“If you try and scream,” a feminine voice says, “that breath will be your last.”

There’s no hesitation in your assailant’s voice. Just a menacing promise laced with danger. You fight against your mounting fear and swallow audibly. Then go lax.

“Good.”

You barely hear the sound of shoes scraping against the sidewalk over your frantic pulse.

“Well?” an unfamiliar, male voice asks.

“You were right. This one’s got the pheromonal stink of a cambion on them. Strong, too.”

“Bear with it a bit longer.” You can hear a smile in the male’s voice. “It’ll be a scent relegated to your memories soon enough.”

One moment you hear shuffling. The next, your wrists are tightly bound together. A piece of cloth is forced past your teeth and tied tightly behind your neck.

Then, a sharp prick to your wrist. Your body seizes.

“Pleasant dreams,” the female voice mocks.

Black spots begin to overtake your vision as you’re lifted from the ground. 

“Let’s go. We’ve got a trap to set.”

It’s the last thing you hear before everything goes dark. 

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 4

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 4: Ella and Alfie go out for the first time. Tommy attempts to reconcile with his sister. 

          “What happened last week?

           Tommy was just a second into lighting a cigarette and raised an eyebrow. His aunt strode into his office without warning. “I got married, Pol, you were there.” He replied tongue in cheek.

           Polly glared at him. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” She snapped. “I’m talking about why your sister left without telling us.” As far as Polly was concerned, her nephew was lucky she’d given him a week to enjoy his wedded life. Now she was going to confront him about Ella.

           Tommy exhaled a breath of smoke and set his lighter down to the side. “She decided to leave. I don’t see what that has to do anything with me.”

           She narrowed her eyes. “She left after talking to you. Now she won’t speak to anyone, not even Ada. You need to tell me what you said to her.” She folded her arms over her chest and rooted herself in his office, a clear indication she wasn’t going to leave until he was honest.

           He already felt a headache coming on. “She was asking ‘bout things that weren’t any of her business.”

           “Like what?” Polly demanded. She didn’t care when he pinched the bridge of his nose with a look of displeasure at her persistence. “Like what?” She pressed.

           “Don’t know what to tell you. She’s the one who left for London. It’s not my job to keep tabs on her. She can’t get upset if things happen here and she’s not told.”

           Polly rolled her eyes. Sometimes getting the Shelby siblings to all get along was like pulling teeth. And it usually fell to her to keep the peace. “Life is short, you two need to make amends and stop with this fucking tantrum.”

           Tommy didn’t react. He had a feeling his aunt would step in and try to make them play nice. “She’s not the little girl we helped raise anymore. She's changed.” He replied and went back to his ledger.

           “What are you on about?” Polly asked with a frustrated sigh.

           “M’fraid she might be getting involved with a man.”

           “For Christ sake, she’s a grown woman. You three can’t lock her up in a tower to keep all the men away.” She retorted and turned on her heel to leave.

           “I think you’d lock her up in a tower if you knew it was Alfie Solomons,” Tommy spoke just loudly enough for his aunt to hear.

           She stopped dead in her tracks in the doorway. That was one name she didn’t want to hear associated with her niece’s. “You better not be playing with me.” She warned sternly and spun back around.

           He raised his eyebrows as if he were surprised that would rattle her. Of course, he was fairly good at pushing Polly’s buttons. “She asked John about him. I asked and she lied to me.”

           “How do you know she lied?” Polly reached over his desk to snatch up his case of cigarettes.

           Tommy helpfully held out his lighter for her as she sat. “Because our Ella doesn’t take part in gossip. If she heard his name in passing then she wouldn’t bring it up days later. The only reason she’s asking is she knows who he is and what he does. I would bet a lot of money that they’ve crossed paths.”

           Polly took in the information with a disappointed look. She assumed Ella would stay far away from men like Solomons. Wouldn’t she be able to tell the parallels between him and her brother? “So you got in a row about that.”

           “Partially.” He nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. He leaned back in his leather desk chair and tilted his head back. “I’ve already sent men out to keep tabs on her.”

           She gave him a look. “You really think that’s going to win her trust back? If she finds out, she’ll kick your teeth in.”

           “She can kick me teeth in when I know she’s not involved with that man.”

           Polly sighed and closed her eyes. “You know that the more you press, the further you’re pushing her away.” She warned thoughtfully. “She’s a young woman, she’s got your mother’s blood in her. She may dress a bit nicer now but she’s still a gypsy girl at heart.”

           “That’s what I’m fucking afraid of.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           To say Ella was excited was an understatement. Wooing men had never been her strongest suit. As a young girl, she would much rather punch a boy in the face than hold his hand. Consequently, she left a lot of bad impressions on the boys who grew up around her. It didn’t help that her older brothers would threaten any guy who decided to invade her personal space. So the odds were stacked against her.

           But now, Alfie had taken an interest in her. Just thinking about him was thrilling. She didn’t know what had attracted him to her, perhaps she would find out in due time.

           The location of their meet up wasn’t too far so Ella was going to walk. She donned a scarlet red dress that the shop girl had convinced her to try. It turned out she was right as Ella did a few turns in the mirror, appreciating the beaded bodice and stylish fringe. She smiled and slipped on her heels, hat, and coat before stepping out.

           It didn’t take long before her excitement was doused with icy water. Standing on the block corner near her apartment were two men in familiar caps.

           Blinders.

           She knew they were, even if her brother thought he was being tricky. They were men who weren’t around when Ella lived in Birmingham, but she had spotted them at Tommy’s wedding. Despite how clever her brother was, sometimes he overlooked how observant she could be.

           “Tommy fucking Shelby.” She muttered under her breath and saw one of the men glance her way. The taller one, a lanky boy who looked like he had the devil in his eyes, attempted to look casual. But he stuck out like a sore thumb. The other looked like he was nothing but skin and bones in his hand-me-down coat.

           Ella held her head high and strode past the men. They weren’t very well trained because they followed her far too closely. She rolled her eyes at her brother’s incompetent men. If you wanted a job done correctly, you did it yourself, but Tommy rarely did his own stunts anymore.

           It wouldn’t take a lot to shake them off, especially in London’s evening crowd. She inserted herself into the thickest crowds, slipping through the thin cracks between groups of young men and women or families out on the town. When she figured they had lost her, she dipped into a back alley and took off her hat. Pausing for a second, she spotted the taller man walk by with a confused look on his freckled face.

           Ella smiled and returned to the street, continuing on.

~~~~~~~~~~

           Alfie did his best to look cool and collected. However, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on a date. Maybe when he was a teenager? A young man? Even then, it was very rare. Most fathers would shield their pure, Jewish daughters from the Solomons boy who liked trouble. During the war, he had his fill of the nurses and French whores. But they weren’t meaningful.

           When he returned, he had no time for women. For Ella Thorne, however, he would make time.

           Still, his stomach was in knots. Why in the world was a man like him afraid of a little dinner? He’d faced death hundreds of times before and didn’t bat an eye. The battlefield, both in France and in London, was his forte. He was a force to be reckoned with and he didn’t care how he came across as long as people respected or feared him. Yet, he didn’t want Ella to fear him. He wanted her to look at him the way she had before. Gently and with care.

           “Fuck, I’m sorry, I should’ve sent a car ‘round to pick you up.” Alfie realized his mistake when he saw Ella walking towards him.

           “That’s okay.” She smiled reassuringly. “It wasn’t a long walk, did I keep you waiting?”

           “’Course not.” He felt his chest tighten. Yet again, he forgot how blue her eyes were. It was as if God had taken his time with her, sitting her down and mixing all the blues he could until he found the right combination. Experimenting with the strongest pigments to see how stunning he could make the woman.

           “Thank you for taking me out tonight,” Ella said softly. “I really needed this.”

           Alfie held out an arm to escort her down the sidewalk. It was polite, something his mother would be proud of. “Yeah, s’been a while since I’ve taken some time for meself.” He agreed. “Always working.”

           Ella toed the line while still remembering Amelia’s warning. “You’ve got a very busy bakery then?” She kept her eyes to the sidewalk to make sure her heels didn’t catch in gaps of the cobblestones.

           “Very busy.” There was a hint of a smile behind his mustache. “And you, what do you do?” He was much more interested in talking about Ella than himself. He couldn’t divulge too much about himself until he knew she could be trusted. A set of blue eyes wouldn’t loosen his lips.

           “I’m a typist for a law firm.” She answered with a shrug. “Nothing too exciting.” She kept close to Alfie to avoid running into people passing on the sidewalk.

           Alfie caught a whiff of her perfume and felt his heart quicken. He was sure they were quite the sight, a sinful man next to such a warm, tender creature. “Sometimes exciting ain’t always a good thing.”

           Ella glanced up at him as if he’d read her mind. “You’ve no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Alfie Solomons was a charming man. He’d been so brutal in the bar the night they’d met, but Ella realized that was all a front. A man who needed to establish himself as someone who would resort to violence if necessary. But sitting across from her, he was a smooth talker and a charismatic personality. He was warm but twisted his way around certain questions. It led Ella to believe he didn’t want to talk about his business.

           Still, they didn’t run out of things to talk about. He was much more than his business dealings. He was much more educated than Ella expected on face value. Education wasn’t as important in her family. You couldn’t learn the tools necessary to be a Shelby at school. The siblings were street smart and quick-witted.

           Alfie seemed to be similarly raised, yet he had taken time to become more learned on elite subjects. Perhaps it was to fit in better in London. It would be extremely helpful to speak the language of both street rats and aristocrats. Ella had a feeling her brother was trying to accomplish the same thing.

           “You’re a quiet little thing, ain’t ya?” Alfie asked about halfway through the dinner. “Not boring you to death, am I?”

           “No, no, of course not,” Ella said hurriedly. “I’m just not as…worldly as you.” She admitted shyly. “Never even been outside the country. I mean, you’ve been to France. I’ve always wanted to go there, I just don’t think I’d fit in very well.”

           Alfie simply shook his head. “Love, those Parisian women would kill to be as fucking gorgeous as you are.”

           Her face went bright pink and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “Oh, I dunno.”

           “Here’s the thing,” He reached over and tilted her chin up with the lightest of touches. “I wouldn’t lie ‘bout something like that, right?”

           Her eyes searched his face, lingering on the long scar across his jaw. “Would you lie about something else?” She asked quietly.

           “I don’t lie often, love. I wouldn’t lie to you, know that for certain.”

           She chewed on her lower lip and thought about all the things she was keeping from Alfie. Maybe he would lie to her, but she knew for a fact, that she was the first to lie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Despite the secret she was keeping, Ella was unable to stay away from Alfie. He was one of the most intriguing men she had ever met and that was saying something coming from a girl raised by Irish Travelers.

           Not only was he interesting but he also treated Ella like she was one of the world’s natural wonders. She had never gotten attention quite like the type Alfie gave her. He took every lull in the conversation to compliment her. No matter how many times he called her beautiful, it still made her flustered.

           It got to the point that Ella stopped thinking about their dates as an insult to her brother. In fact, she rarely thought about her family when she was with him. He had a way of capturing her full attention and making her forget about the world around them. She often forgot about his reputation as well. There would be some hints to it, several people dodging his path and giving Ella a side-eye when they saw her on his arm. It wasn’t much different to the way she was once treated in Birmingham. People would either greet her politely to stay in the Shelbys’ good graces or avoid her entirely. She could only imagine the things they whispered about her behind her back. Gypsy girl. Sister of demons. Hellion.

           Now, she’d created a new image for herself. One that was unique to London. And it was far from the woman she wanted to become in her new home. For a moment, she wanted a quiet life with no fuss or activity.

           But Shelbys were never satisfied with silence. Something deep in their blood craved the adrenaline. And men like Alfie Solomons were akin to a drug.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           “Lucky guess.” Alfie frowned. He squeezed her hand while they walked through Regent’s Park. Spring was in full bloom and the gangster was happy to spend the warm morning with Ella.

           “It was not a lucky guess. I had one-twelfth of a chance of guessing correctly.” She replied firmly. “And I knew you were born in November.”

           “You guessed that I was born in November.” He smiled and shook his head. “Anyone could guess that.”

           “Mhm, sure. It’s in me blood, I know when people were born.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “But you don’t have to believe me, not everyone does.”

           He chuckled. “I like you a lot, Thorne.” He murmured. Alfie did, he truly did. In fact, outside of family members, he wasn’t sure he’d ever cared so much about someone. Ella was the type of woman he didn’t think existed. A beautiful woman with a clever wit, sharp tongue, yet a softness that was underappreciated by others. Most would focus on her strong will rather than the gentleness in her eyes and touch.

           Ella smiled and glanced up at him. “I like you a lot too.” She replied with a blush spreading over her cheeks.

           Alfie found them a bench to sit so they could talk. “M’fucking glad I met you.” He said quietly, tilting his head down to converse privately with her.

           She took his hand in hers, the tips of her fingers grazing over his calloused palm. She smiled at the memory of one of the Lee girls insisting little Ella would be married before she was thirty just by reading the lines on her palm. Ella had merely laughed and proclaimed she was never getting married. Now, it appeared the Lee had really predicted something viable.

           “I feel the same way.” Her nails grazed across his wrist, over the veins, and to the bracelet he usually wore. “I always used to scoff at love.” She admitted. “I thought it was just blind foolishness.”

           Ella’s soft touch sent a shiver down Alfie’s spine. He felt undeserving of her affection but wasn’t going to deny it. “What do you think ‘bout it now?” He murmured.

           She smiled at him. “I still think it’s foolish. But I’d rather be foolish with you than miserable with anyone else.”

           He chuckled. “Cheeky girl.”

           She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she replied by touching his cheek and leaning in to kiss him.

           Alfie was unsure what he did to deserve such a gesture. Surely God wasn’t blessing him after all the atrocious sins he’d committed. But there was no way in hell she was some sort of punishment or demon in disguise. She was far too tender and her touch was sincere.

           Ella’s hand rested on his cheek, her thumb grazed against the scar cutting through his beard. The pads of her fingers tickled across the skin as if she were healing him, cleansing him of sin.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           “Thorne residence.” Ella got to the phone as she walked into her apartment.

           “Ella, it’s Lizzie.” Tommy’s secretary greeted on the other line.

           She furrowed her eyes in confusion. She hadn’t spoken to Lizzie in a few years. The woman had a complicated relationship with the Shelby family and Ella didn’t have too much of an issue with her. But, she couldn’t ignore the grief she had caused John. “Oh, hello.”

           “Tommy asked me to call you and see if you were available this weekend.” She explained.

           “Really?” Ella raised an eyebrow. Now Tommy was resorting to having his secretary call her? “Why?”

           “He invited you to come to Warwickshire and come hunting with him.”

           Tommy always had a reason for everything. He never just set up a casual gathering. Tommy Shelby didn’t waste time. Either he wanted something from her or wanted information from her.

           Fine. Two could play at that game. “Tell my brother that I would love to.” She replied. “Have him send a car for me Saturday morning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

           It had been a while since Ella had gone hunting. For a while, they didn’t have the opportunity when they were in Birmingham. But she learned to shoot a gun when she was only eight-years-old. She’d trail along with her brothers through the forest, hunting rabbits and hedgehogs a short distance away from the vardos. Her aim was good, not as good as John’s, but she was shit at trying to sneak up on an animal. Tommy was always able to get the closest to the critters.

           When she arrived at Arrow House, she was a little annoyed. Not because of her brother’s behavior, but because she had been excited on the drive to Warwickshire. Hunting with just Tommy was always the best when they were younger. She still held out hope that things could go back to the way they once were. But her rational brain knew that was impossible. Not after all Tommy had done and not after she’d kissed Alfie Solomons.

           Mary, Tommy’s maid, directed her to the stables where he was waiting.

           Tommy was standing outside with his black gelding and the gray she’d been admiring at his wedding. “Thought you might want to try him out.” He said as if offering the horse as an olive branch. “He’s a smooth ride but stubborn.”

           “I put up with you and you’re stubborn,” Ella replied and took the reins from him.

           He tossed his cigarette to the side. “I’d like to apologize for the way I spoke to you.”

           His sister studied his face. He appeared genuine, but she was sure he still had ulterior motives for the day out. “Well, I’m sorry as well. I think we both said things we regretted.”

           “You’re a part of this family. But you have the right to live where you wish. I should’ve told you about Charlie and Grace.”

           “Mhm…” Ella was worried that he could sense the guilt radiating off her. Surely he knew she was hiding something from him.

           But he merely smiled. “Should we head out?” He asked. “Need a boost up?”

           She rolled her eyes. “’Course not, m’not little anymore.”

           “Right, of course.” He watched as his sister heaved herself up into the saddle from the ground. It looked difficult but she’d never ask for his help, not like she used to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           They began down the trail, the two horses plodding along side by side. There was a chill in the air and fog hung low in the meadows they passed through. The remained in silence for a bit. Ella focused on getting used to the horse underneath her. As Tommy said, the gelding had a smooth gait but continued to try and bend to the left. He was strong, but she had fought with stronger horses before.

           “Do you miss riding?” Tommy asked. They could probably talk about their shared interests in horses without breaking out into an argument.

           “Yes.” She nodded without explaining it away or defending her actions.

           “Well, whenever you need fresh air, you can come out here.” He offered. “There’s a bay mare that loves to jump. There are a few stonewalls on a path that she could get over without breaking a sweat. Very fast too, but couldn’t get her to behave on the track.”

           Ella nodded. He must remember how she loved horses that could leap over fences and fallen logs with ease. She adored the feeling of being airborne even for just a few seconds. The thrill was unlike anything she would ever know. Although, the swooping feeling in her stomach could probably be compared to kissing Alfie. She smiled faintly.

           “So, how’s London?” Tommy asked.

           “Don’t you know?” She raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her brother.

           “I haven’t been in some time. Been in Birmingham or here.”

           “Well, I’m sure your men could tell you. They are shit at their jobs though.” She shrugged casually. “You should find someone better.”          

           Tommy let out a low chuckle. “Can’t get anything past you, can I, El?”

           “It’s patronizing, Thomas.” She replied sharply. “I don’t need your daft boys on me tail whenever I leave the fucking house.”

           “Can you blame me for being worried?” He kept a level head. The last thing he wanted was to break out into another fight with her. One more and she might move across the Pond to get away from him.

           “I’ve been on my own for four years. I think I can handle myself perfectly well. If you were really worried, you could’ve sacked up and come to me personally. Instead, you’re treating me like one of your enemies.”

           “No.”

           “Yes, Tommy. Do you have John or Arthur followed? What about Ada?” She pointed out. “No, just me because I’m not under your thumb."

           “You’re my baby sister.” He insisted. “If Finn was in London on his own, I’d do the same. You two are still young and don’t know just how dangerous the world can be.”

           Ella stopped the gelding in the middle of the path. “Tommy, I’m older than John was when he went to war.” She pointed out.

           Tommy paused, slowing his horse down as well. Was that true? He’d been twenty-five going on twenty-six when they left. John was five years younger. Ella was now twenty-three. He sighed. “Yes, I s’pose that’s true.”

           “I think I have a right to worry about you more than you have to worry about me.” She nudged the horse on when they came into another open field. “I’m going to let him stretch his legs.” Before her brother could get another word in, she clucked her tongue and prodded the gray into a canter.

           Tommy lengthened the reins, allowing his horse to extend his neck out. The gelding trotted a few steps through the long grass, tossing his head about every so often. He kept an eye on his sister, thinking about how little control he had over her. It terrified him and made him worry about the trouble she could get into. Trouble that he might not be able to get her out of until it was too late. Then he thought about the men who he’d tasked with watching her. They were definitely ready for a job evaluation when he returned to Birmingham.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           After bagging three hares, Tommy and Ella rode back to Arrow House. The sun was high in the sky and they were both generally in pleasant moods. The hunting trip had reminded them of how it used to be and how silly it was to keep arguing. It was a compromise of sorts. Tommy said he wouldn’t have her watched anymore and Ella said she would keep in better contact with the family. They could both be satisfied with the stipulations.

           Grace had arranged to have tea outside when they came back. She and Charlie were in the back lawns, the toddler sitting and pulling at the grass.

           “Successful hunt?” Grace asked with a smile when she saw them return.

           “No stags, although Tommy promised we’d find one.” Ella shot her brother a look.

           He chuckled and sat down next to his wife at the iron-wrought table. “If we’d found a stag, you would’ve made me carry it the whole way home.”

           Grace was happy to see they were in good spirits. She’d talked to Tommy before his sister had arrived. She reminded him that they were family and no matter how he felt about the wedding night, he needed to make amends as Polly had said. But she had her doubts. The woman knew how volatile Shelby siblings could get with each other when they had a reason to be.

           Still, it appeared that the morning out together had been a success. Ella hadn’t left and they weren’t at each other’s throats.

           Ella knelt down in front of Charlie. “I swear you’ve grown a meter since I saw you last!” She cooed and picked him up. The little boy laughed and grabbed at his aunt’s hair.

           “Careful, he’ll yank out a few pieces if you let him,” Tommy warned.

           “Well, he is a Shelby. Finn was a terror growing up. Took off running from us the moment he could stand on his own.”

           “We were all like that.” He nodded. “Luckily, he’s taken on Grace’s personality as well.” He took his wife’s hand and she smiled.

           “You’re a natural with him, Ella,” Grace said gently.

           “I’ve helped Ada with Karl after Freddie passed.” She explained and smiled fondly at her nephew.

           “Do you think you’ll have any of your own?” Her sister-in-law inquired.

           Ella laughed with a wince. She stood up with Charlie on her hip and sat at the table. “I’d have to be married first, wouldn’t I?”

           “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of London boys falling over themselves to win you.” Grace smiled and poured her a cup of tea. “You’ve got those Shelby blue eyes.”

           Tommy sighed and offered to take Charlie from his sister. “Ella used to spit at any boy who tried to kiss her. We had to make sure she wouldn’t bite them too.”

           Ella rolled her eyes and plopped two sugar cubes into her teacup. “Yes Tommy, I still spit at any man who would dare speak to me.�� She said sarcastically.

           Her brother looked amused and let Charlie hold his pocket watch. “Forgive me if I can’t imagine you with a man.”

           “I do just fine, thank you for your concern.” She replied and thought about Alfie.

           “So we’ll get to meet him soon then, aye?” Tommy let Charlie down as the boy began to squirm and whine. The boy toddled off to pluck a few dandelions out of the ground and carry them around in his pudgy hand. Tommy pulled out a cigarette and offered the pack to Grace and his sister.

           “Don’t know what you’re on about.” Ella took a cigarette but Grace turned it down. “Meet who? There isn’t anyone to meet.”

           “Maybe you’ll just end up on your own in the countryside then?” Tommy chuckled. “Like you always wanted. Small cottage with stables full of horses.”

           Grace smiled. “Sounds like a lovely retirement plan to me.” She took the dandelions that Charlie offered her. “Thank you, love.” She kissed his forehead.

           “A couple of horses and a dog.” Ella shrugged. “Don’t need much else.”

           “Didn’t think you liked dogs.”

           She thought about Cyril who had grown attached to her. Alfie took him along whenever they took walks in the park. If they sat, the bullmastiff would rest his head on her lap. His sad eyes would close contently when she scratched his ears. His droopy cheeks would leave drool on her coat but she never minded.

           “You did like Jeta Lee’s, foxhound as a girl.” Her brother recalled the dog that would always hunt for a little snack from the Shelby children if they were in the Lee camp.

           “Yeah, or something bigger.” She shrugged casually and sipped her tea to hide her small smile.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​

Tag list: @deaflikehawkeye​ @octaviareina​ @mylovelykelsifer​

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[tommyplum]

- transcription by maggie of @tommyplum

You see the idea I fucking hate the most, right, is that everything starts off perfect, yeah, and then it gets worse. That is demonstrably not fucking true. Some things are just born bad. Some people are born with no intention to do anything good on this earth, and they carry out their plan to deceive and cheat and rob and de-sanctify all that is holy just because that is the way that they were born. That's how they are. That's what they do, it is relentless. Relentlessly! Their creed runs thus: if I can, I will rob you. If I must I will kill you, if you let me I will fuck you, when I've fucked you I will leave you.

My father, Alfred Solomons Senior, was such a man with such a creed. He was a dispenser, a dispenser of semen to the gullible and the bewildered, a maker of bastards on a scale unseen since Genghis fucking Khan. A barbarian for whom every empty womb was Rome. He planted the seeds but he did not tend the gardens; he stayed only long enough to piss on the compost. And behead the roses to sell at Summerstown at the market there. With his stolen roses in his pockets he would leap the garden gate, leave them behind, only to send around marzipan, tobacco, and Portugal Water, which he did – he sold out of his suitcase, right, at sixpence a bottle.

At least, that is what I've been told. Yeah, so I'm fucking told, because all I ever saw of him was his fucking hat! It was hanging on the wall, on a nail, above the seat where my mother washed other people's laundry. That hat was a holy relic. Was size eight-and-a-half, made in Luton, where the hat-makers go insane on the fumes of their trade and leave little messages sewn under the hat-bands. The message in my father's hat was this:

THIS HAT, RIGHT, IS A KETTLE. IN WHICH TO BOIL UP YOUR WICKED DREAMS AND MAKE A SOUP OF YOUR SOUL.

It is the hat that actually I wear to this day. It still smells of Portugal Water and when I wear it the schemes and proposals come out of the darkness as if seeping out of the felt and the leather that is stained with his erotic sweat. My mother washed bedsheets. My father was a fucking hat. No kisses, no bedtime stories, just parcels of sheets to deliver to the hotels and the brothels of Camden Town for nothing more than black bread and a pinch from the priest who would then open up his robes when I passed and from that, I drew my dark and accurate conclusions on religion.

So, Alfie Solomons Junior grew untended and wild, a stem with a-hardly a root sticking up like a skinny cock out of the gutter so every nasty little Christian kid walking by their nasty little Christian school with their gropey old Christian masters could kick it down, and stomp on it, and shout, "It was you lot who killed Jesus, ahhh! So have that in your belly, and have that in your face, and see it as charity we're not nailing you up like you did our Lord." But every time I got stomped down I fucking stomped back up again, mate. I survived out of spite. And instead of learning how to fight, I learned how to put right the wrongs done unto me tenfold. A hundr—a thousandfold, yea, unto the fucking stars, right? By using the bit of my body that God had cleverly put inside a strong bone box so the kicks and the digs could not reach it.

The bit of me that is my brain. 

With the help of the alchemy of my Portugal Water hat, and the strong bone box, I processed the schemes and solutions the mad hatters of Luton and my father had put there; my brain a factory producing schemes and solutions, dodges and speculations, ways around, ways to undermine, a trickle at night and a flood in the day when I unlock my bakery and smell the aroma of secrets, and sin, and begin the process of accumulation. 

I am the chairman of Alfie Solomons’ Aerated Bread Company, of Bonny Street, Camden Town, to be precise. My two vice chairmen are Mister Threat and Mister Violence, and the former I prefer, but! But. The latter is necessary to support the former, because without  violence there is no threat, and without threat there is no accumulation. Without accumulation? Well there's just no fucking point, mate. 

As a baker, I occasionally sell bread. As a bookmaker, I occasionally let the fastest horse win. As a landlord, I occasionally have a roof fixed. But mostly I find it is quicker and it is easier to deal with the complainant, right, rather than deal with the complaint.

From all of this you are drawing your conclusions: Alfie Solomons, begat from a bad man, and – beguiled by a hat-band – became a bad man who inspires bad men to do bad things in bad ways to good people who have bad bad luck! But is good enough to at least admit he's a fucking bad, bad man! Hnnnnff.

…but. Consider this, right? In all my years, yeah, as a baker in Camden Town, I have overseen – I have organized, or otherwise been responsible for – the deaths, right, of thirty-five fucking men. All of whom, I'll have you know, attend my dreams each night in various disguises, in regular order, with no pattern or logic to it but with the consequence that I wake up each morning in sheets that have been – they have to be wrung out, from sweat, right, by my maid Edna. Who, it should be noted, I have never had an evil thought about in fifteen years because when she washes my sweat from the sheets she reminds me of my poor mother, now residing in Hell and washing the robes of Satan himself.

So. Thirty-five men, thirty-five times … I am a bad man. But here is where mathematics comes to my rescue. Logic rides in like an accountant on a penny-farthing just in time to wave proof of mitigation before moral bankruptcy is officially declared, yeah? Here it is, ahrummm, here is what logic puts forward in my defense:

In France, right, Passchendaele for example, take one day, one hour, one fucking second: I am standing, right, in the uncultivated mud, a stem with hardly a root; in my hands, I have an artillery shell. It is the size and weight of a newborn baby. A little bastard, made in Birmingham, sharp-nosed, the colour of the morning sky; and in that one second, one fucking second of one day, of one month, of four years, in that one second I feed that baby to the upturned mortar barrel arse-first. I turn, I put my fingers in my ears, and … BOOM. I send my baby into the morning sky, to do the only job it was ever, ever intended to do. Two seconds later, another boom, and there, in the mud, over there, lie thirty-six men.

Brown bread.

The thirty-six killed by the soldier, right, are just as dead, right, as the thirty-five killed by the baker. But the thirty-six, they do not attend my dreams and are not there in God's ledger counting the good against the bad. I was given a medal for the thirty-six. But I took a bullet from the Peaky Blinders for the thirty-five. So.

Therefore, my beloved congregation, I will leave you with this conclusion, right:

There is no good and there is no bad that is categorical in this world beyond the calculations of powerful men, right, who shift the definition according to their own selfish schemes of accumulation. The only things that are categorical are life and death, and for argument's sake we say life is good, and death is bad – purely, purely, for argument's sake. Which means … which means my father was fucking right, mate. You dispense your semen, you piss on the compost, you deadhead the fucking roses, leap the garden gate, take what you’ve stolen to market and you sell it at a reasonable price, leaving behind only your hat and the scent of your fucking wares, mate.

That is the creed of Alfie Solomons. A lame shepherd among nimble goats who nevertheless at the stable doors shall be counted and accumulated as lambs to my gentle slaughter. Because never forget this, right:

Alfie Solomons is always waiting.