#Big Man reminded me of one certain famous chef...

[spiderzlover]

Who let her cook☠️

[i23kazu]

I LOVE YOU STILL (oh, you know i always will.)

warnings – none. characters – zhongli, xiao, ayato, kazuha, childe, kaeya, diluc x gn!reader. genre – romantic fluff. a/n – aaaaa. aaa | please reblog!! it rly helps a starter blog like me ><

[zhongli. | 钟离]

zhongli enjoys seeing your face light up with the gifts he purchased. being a regular customer with connections ensures that this man gets your gifts at a discounted price. small trinkets get passed to you regularly, be it from a present at your desk or even asking venti to use the wind to shift the gift towards you, just to hear your chuckle. some things he loves giving you include our favourite tea flavour – often imported; sweets, and that particular set of stationery you love that is from inazuma. being a distant friend of a certain electro archon yields its benefits.

[xiao. | 魈]

xiao shows his love to you in the smallest of ways; whether you see it or not, that's up to you. he's not one to show big gestures – he'd rather smaller ones that you continually appreciate him for. he gently plucks the pretty flowers from the soil that passed through his master's hands eons ago, smiling as he ties them together with scraps of twine that he found in verr goldet's desk. it makes a good gift, he thinks. he likes seeing your face light up as you look at the wrapped bundle of flowers on your tableside. and the kisses that follow after.

[k. ayato. | 神里綾人]

ayato loves being sneaky – he presses kisses to your cheek when he sees you deep in thought, or lays his head on your shoulder while you're working on something for the yashiro commission, or even poking your cheek when talking to his sister. ayato loves cuddling up to you in the morning as well, in secret – where no one can see this particularly soft side of the kamisato clan's head. he loves surprising you with these small acts of affection and he loves seeing the smile on your face as you recognise your lover.

[k. kazuha | 楓原万葉]

kazuha likes creating poems and songs for you – you're his muse. he weaves his words and breathes his creations to life, watching your eyes light up in recognition of the little things the two of you do, enchanted to a melody. every line is crafted to pertain to a quirk of yours, his words always beautifully strung to portray you as the most beautiful person in teyvat – because that's what you are, in his own eyes. he loves you so very much and isn't afraid to show it to anyone he meets.

[childe.]

childe loves waking up next to you in the morning, your face usually buried in the crook of his neck. it guarantees him kinks in the neck for the next day, but he doesn't mind – as long as you're comfortable, he says. he loves snuggling you for the first few hours minutes of the day, watching your sleep-drowsed face slowly start to wake up in the presence of your lover. he can see the joy in your movements as you reach your arm out to touch his. he whispers "i love you" over and over again.

[kaeya.]

kaeya enjoys going big for dates – he likes setting up that big picnic blanket jean got for him when she first heard about your relationship. he loves to dig out that rattan picnic basket gifted to you from lisa – he assumes that the congratulatory gift is a joint effort from the two women. drinks, dishes, candy, fruit, and such fill the basket, a plethora of wonderful-smelling things making his eyes gleam with excitement at the reminder that he'd be spending an entire wonderful day with you.

[diluc.]

diluc particularly loves cooking and crafting drinks for you. he loves sprinkling his food with salt love and seeing your hand reach for the food he lovingly made for you. the man is a good cook – his tastebuds consist of dishes from all over teyvat, so exotic dishes typically have a place at the dining table. he has a special reverence for liyuean food, and would try his best to recreate the chihu-rock-famous (oh, who are we kidding. he's known all over teyvat!) chef's creations. you love his food, and he's always happy to cook for you.

leave a like, comment, reblog, and please consider following me! it really helps me grow since i'm a small blog :^)

(i do not allow anyone to repost my works! :-D)

taglist: @tiredsleep @loptido @raincxtter @infinn-toru @ladyadii

[restwellsoon]

Happy 2 year writing anniversary, and (a slightly belated) welcome back to tublr, Rest!

As for the event, would it be ok to submit 2 requests, a drabble (either smut or fluff, can't decide) and one for the AMA re: your writing? If 2 requests are too much, I'd prefer if you answered the Spill the Tea question, pretty please. :3

1. 7 Minutes in Heaven - Bakugo x reader - MAN TITS. that's it, that's the kink. do with them whatever you want, just give me man tits. (please)

2. Spill the Tea: from Sugar Scorched! As I may have mentioned, I loved that fic. Did you have any specific inspiration for certain scenes/backgrounds in this story? Like a certain celeb/famous chef as the basis to one of the charas, or a certain show/recipe for some of the dishes shown? I watch a lot of cooking shows so of course a lot of the elements in the story reminded me of things I've seen, but I'm curious to know if there was a specific person/dish/scene you were trying to recreate at any point. If not, then what made you choose that setting?

(and a tiny bonus question, if it's ok. WTF gave you the idea of the fucking talking fish for Pisces and their Ring of Gold????? I have yet to start that as I'm patiently waiting, but I'm almost more excited about the fucking fish than I am about the romance, lmao.)

Hi Tiph! Thanks for stopping by! I'm actually gonna split this into a two-parter if ya don't mind :)

Rest's Summer Slumber Party 2k22 | event open!

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Prompt: man tits

Content warning: body worship, domestic fluff with a hint of spiciness

Minors & Ageless blogs DO NOT interact!

Bakugou could say any iteration of 'my eyes are up here' or 'quit treatin' me like a piece of meat,' but you both knew that he loved the attention. Why else would he walk around your home shirtless? The house being too hot wasn't be an issue, the AC down low to 69F. His nipples darkened to a cuter pink.

He only groaned in fake disgust when you buried your face into his chest. It was like a daily ritual whenever he was home. At least you couldn't tease him about wanting cuddles. You were the one that was all over him, straddling his lap as he tried to catch the last bits of his interview that you recorded.

"Quit staring," he told you, his eyes still trained on the TV.

Tired of kissing and tracing the outline of his chest, you leaned back to appreciate the view. Despite his gruff attitude, he still entertained your nonsense. That's what you loved about him. Your man had big tits but an even bigger heart that was only for you.

A/N: Omg Tiph, even though I'm a tit enthusiast, this was a challenge to get done in 7 minutes lol. Hopefully you liked it and thanks for the request!

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Waitress and the Werewolf

Genre: wlw, urban fantasy, original story

Words: 10k

Summary: A waitress and a werewolf share early morning conversations as the wolf comes in starving from her past transformation and the waitress tries to figure out what this muddy, shoe-less stranger is doing there every month.

Website⭐Ko-Fi ⭐Patreon ⭐ WordPress⭐Twitter

May

Mia walked soberly across scraggly yellow grass, scraping the bottom of her feet and making a sharp crunching sound with each step- like someone chewing on granola cereal.

The early morning smelled of dry earth and a colorless warm breeze. The faint wind itself granted no relief for Mia’s prickling skin, a touch like lukewarm milk being poured over sunburns. Everything always burned the morning after, itching like she was swallowing Pop Rocks in her entire body.

Her vision was boneless and strange, senses coming back to Mia in a fuddled mix of colors and sounds. The reds and greens returned in a slow bloody dawn, her nerves lit up one by one from the depths of numbness, and the scents of the world slowly dried up and left her. The sharpest feeling of all though, was the hunger.

The hunger was inevitable. Perfectly ruthless and all-consuming, distracting her from any thoughts of exhaustion or a shower with soap. Ache gnawed at her insides and rumbled with the force of thunder and stampedes.

Mia pushed forward.

The sun was just a suggestion on the horizon, the faintest brushes of light across the treetops. The trees were thin and closely knit together; their eyes seem to watch her warily, perhaps they had tolerated the wolf, but her human feet were not welcome.

She staggered away from them through a dried field, dark, bleak, and wrung out, her eyes trained on the only light in the whole unfriendly area: a yellow neon sign. It blared in the distance, the color of American cheese that was 50% chemicals and the teeth of evil witches in fairy tales.

The eerie neon reminded her of some desolate cyberpunk world that existed exclusively around a single diner in the middle of nowhere. Mia followed the sign like a beacon to wise men looking for saviors or very drunk men seeking toilets.

An empty road sat next to it, a strip of quiet grey with a faded line in the center and a promise of miles of the same.

When a young woman comes lumbering out of the forest with twigs in her hair, bare skin, and moonlight to her back, poets might write romantic lyrics about the glory of innocent womanhood and nature. Or something. The dried blood and mud coating her skin probably ruined the effect.

Mia had tried to clean herself up as best she could. She scrubbed her face, secured her ragged pants and scraps of shirt, located her wallet still tucked deep in her pockets, and wiped her hands down. She became as person passing as she was going to get that night.

The light of the sign drew closer and closer, Mia steadied herself, her system flooded with thoughts of "hungry" and "aaaaaagh." She was used to both feelings.

Mia faltered into the lit parking lot, crossing the boundary between the world of poets and broken brittle grass and into the glow of a squat, long building. It had giant glass windows peering in at a spotless long counter with fixed stools and overstuffed napkin holders. Red shiny booths sat along the walls, their material sparkly and no doubt squeaky when you sat. Black and white photos cluttered the walls, depicting smiling pictures of famous people in the genre of Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley.

The whole place was a clear imitation of classic diners that the 1950’s would have spit out by the dozen.

It was empty at this time except for a single man with a knit cap, slumped back, and wearing a pair of sagging pants that could only be described as “doing their best.” Mia assumed he was a late-night trucker drinking coffee and forgetting the world. The restaurant was bright, alien, and a little cheap looking.

Mia didn’t care how it looked. It was roughly five in the morning and this was the only thing open, the only option really. She tucked her head down and steeled her nerves, hyper aware of her dirty bare feet and the fact she looked like she wrestled the sludge-monster from a Ghibli film to get here.

Her stomach complained again, noisy as a garbage disposal, the transformation took more calories than she liked to count. Bodies demanded payment for their fancy parlor tricks.

Mia took a deep breath, looked down at herself, cringed, and then pushed the door open. A bell dinged gently, and she blinked into the blaring white fluorescent lights. She shuffled inside, feeling the cool tiles against her toes and whole body shrinking down. The room smelled of grease and black coffee, faint bleach and the slightest hint of perfume. The perfume reminded her of sunscreen and sugar.

There was a simple kiosk by the door that Mia approached cautiously, a woman stood there with her back turned. She wore a blue collared shirt, fitted jeans, and a red company apron tied around her waist.

“Booth for one,” Mia said automatically, quick and as pleasant as she could.

The waitress turned.

The young woman had exceptionally wide eyes, owl-like and appearing prone to looks such as shock or confusion. Her cheeks were delicate, chin softly rounded, and fine mouth smeared with splotchy lip-gloss. Long copper hair piled high on her head and freckles speckled across every piece of vacant skin.

She caught sight of Mia and made a face at her that could be summarized as “an atheist meeting God and being deeply unimpressed.”

Mia sighed internally; it might be a long few months in Nolan, West Virginia.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel was counting down the minutes until the end of her shift, which was unfortunate for her since it began at five am and ended in eight hours and twenty-eight minutes. She usually tried to avoid counting the time until at least five hours in, but sometimes she indulged herself.

The counting did not in fact improve the work experience, but it did manage to amplify her sheer awareness of time itself and the idea she might be stuck in endless loops. Loop after loop of similar faces, usual complaints, and aching feet.

Lionel was waiting for one minute to pass, and then the next, and the next, but they never really seemed to.

The first two hours of a morning shift were the worst, slow, boring, and the chef was often taking a nap in the back. The late-night truckers didn’t even compliment her eye makeup or try to find out her phone number, home address, social security number, and whether she had a boyfriend or not- and if he was big. Though the last part was a perk.

It was the hour for nobodies, people questioning their own place in time and losing their identity to “five am.” Five am wasn’t a time, it was a place, and they were all one person there, similarly weary, adrift, and waiting for the second hand on the clock to tick forward.

Lionel was listening for the chef turning up his podcast from the back, she hoped to God it wasn’t the one she thought it was. But there was a lot of weird noises going on.

She had 8 hours twenty-four minutes left.

The door chimed, bell echoing dimly. “Booth for one.”

Lionel whipped around, preparing herself for at least a little activity and something to keep her busy. And then she stopped, paused, and held herself very still.

She couldn’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose, the monthly weirdos were appearing. The scent of fresh dirt filled the entrance, mud and something distinctly visceral, heady.

A girl looked back at her through short scattered bangs, she had a small mouth and dark olive eyes, meeting Lionel’s gaze with a certain firmness there. Lionel fumbled for her first words.

“Booth for one.” The girl might have said that before, but she repeated it now.

Lionel had a decision to make, and she had to make it quick. She was technically the manager on duty since it was just her and the chef right then, but this felt like something for more of a manager-manager, an adultier-adult.

Lionel cleared her throat and the girl’s eyes darkened, worry lies permeating her sharp face. She pointed down at her tattered clothes, they were streaked in fresh earth and had long tears along the pants cuffs and shirt sleeves. It looked like a war movie where they forgot to add the rest of the set around the actress.

“Construction.” The girl said weakly, pointing down at her neo-grunge appearance. “Hope you all don’t mind.” Lionel pondered on that for a second longer, it was hard to believe. But who hasn’t walked into an establishment completely wrecked and looking for a little bacon? Lionel didn’t have time to judge strangers, she still had twenty minutes left in that hour. She made a snap decision.

“This way,” she turned, spreading a practiced smile across her face like buttering a piece of toast. “Tough morning?” The girl shrugged, “just a bit of a mishap.” Her eyes darted around, “boss gave me the day off after.” Lionel opened her mouth to ask why she didn’t just go home, but it felt a little cruel to poke at her lie.

“Well,” she seated the girl at one of the middle booths, one someone couldn’t see from the front door. “I’ll be your server today.” Lionel placed a menu in front of her and nodded down pleasantly. “Welcome to Millie’s Diner.” “Thanks,” the girl squinted at Lionel’s name tag, “Xena?” Lionel forgot she was wearing one of the other waitress’s name tags, a pastime of sorts. “Like the warrior princess?” Lionel chuckled, touching her hair absently, “Yeah. Exactly like the warrior princess.” The girl’s face lit up for the first time, breaking into something bright and open. “Cool.”

“This job is just my side hustle of course,” she said blithely, “warrior princess gigs don’t pay the bills.” “Naturally,” the girl straightened up in place, a little more life returning to her movements. “Speaking of which,” Lionel flicked her notepad open, “can I get you started with some coffee? Juice?” She shook her head, “just some water.” She went back to mumbling, “and some fried eggs and toast to start with.” “Sounds good,” Lionel started writing.

“Stack of pancakes, do you have those flavored syrup?” “Yeah, blueberry, strawberry, peach,” she kept writing.

“Strawberry then. A plate of bacon, two sausage links, and a, uh, hmm, okay, also a rocky mountain omelet and breakfast burrito. Extra sour cream.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “should I expect anyone else to be joining you?” She asked without missing a beat.

The girl shook her head sheepishly, “nope. Just me.” Lionel looked down at her notes, a silence stretched out a little longer than necessary. “No problem. Yeah.” “Yeah.”

“Well,” Lionel stuffed her pencil back into her apron, “let me put that in for you.” She turned toward the back to prompt Mike to heat up the grill, they were apparently feeding at least three people in one.

“Thanks!”

Lionel slipped away, putting the order in and then watching the strange girl from afar. She was barefoot. She was as muddy as a dust bowl.

When Lionel brought her food over she descended on her breakfast with the fury of a small tractor flattening a field. Lionel surveyed the scene mildly, picking up the empty plates one by one- discarded corpses on a battlefield.

“Are you from around here?” Lionel asked casually as she picked up the third empty plate.

The girl’s eyes rose carefully, she shook her head, “just passing through.” Lionel smiled, “where are you headed?” She shrugged, “I’ll be here for a few months.” She said instead, “and then, um, new construction site after.” She cocked her head to the side, “sounds like an interesting life.” “It’s a life.” The girl smiled slowly, “I don’t suppose you’re from around here, warrior princess?” Lionel’s expression tightened, “trying not to be.” She wasn’t sure why she said something so telling, but it was five am. The sun was barely bleaching the land and everything tasting of faded colors and forgotten things, maybe they were all the same person at that hour- all trying to be from somewhere else right then.

The dirty stranger ate enough for a small army, paid, and disappeared without another word. She tipped 26% on her card and wrote a small note on the receipt: fight some monsters for me, yeah?

There was a sword drawn next to it, and the doodle of a freckly girl with a crown.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

June

Lionel was snapping her mint gum, popping it and then blowing it out as far as she could again. She popped her gum in the same way people shot paint balls after their parent’s divorce, fast, and with a grudge. Something grated just under the surface of her thoughts, digging it's nails in and beckoning with the sweetest fingertips. Just one last one, it said, that’s always the best one.

She popped her gum again.

Lionel had told her mom she could quit anytime she wanted to, but it turned out that addictive smoke filled with chemicals was very much addictive. She tried not to think about taking a cigarette break.

She leaned against the counter and eavesdropped on the cook’s latest podcast; thank the lord he had switched to true crime dramas. Even if they kept making her glance at the windows and think about bolting them shut.

“Alright, this is an interesting case Alice.” Lionel listened with half an ear, “it’s about a woman who swears a mountain lion-man broke into her condo and stole fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe?” The other podcaster made appropriate sounds of alarm.

“She wasn’t even supposed to be home that night, but she walked into her living room only find what she calls a monster. She saw some yellow eyes in the dark, just eyes, and then teeth wi-" Lionel jumped violently when the diner door chimed, startling her out of her contemplation of smoke and eyes in the dark. She looked up jerkily. A hunched, very muddy person stood in the doorway. Her short dusty brown hair was flattened in all directions and eyes downcast.

Lionel’s eyebrows shot into the air, “the dirty girl.” Her eyes snapped up and Lionel covered her mouth quickly. The girl’s shoulders slumped wearily, “I usually prefer Mia.” She rasped dryly, “But I suppose I’m flexible.” Lionel hurried over to the kiosk with the menu’s; the stranger, Mia, was the first customer of Lionel’s shift that day. She stopped in place, opened her mouth, and then closed it again

Lionel straightened up, “Sorry.” She presented her best service-smile, “How are you doing today?” It seemed like a non-question, empty even, but Mia didn't seem bothered.

She gave a slim smile, “hungry.” “I can help with that,” Lionel turned on her heels, “Same booth?” Mia lifted her head, “You remember,” she squinted at Lionel’s nametag, “Hannah?” Her head tilted to the side, “Hannah today?” Lionel shrugged, “Hannah today.” Mia followed her to the booth.

“I’ll be your server this morning,” she said slowly, “did you want to start off with anything to drink?” Mia smiled slowly, “water.” She said hoarsely, “more than one glass if possible.” Lionel nodded briefly and then looked closely at the stranger, “Are…” She frowned slightly, “are you alright?”

Mia looked up at her, something bruised and strange under her expression, “nothing some pancakes can’t fix.” She said easily, “and maybe a name change I suppose, but you seem to have that covered.” Lionel shrugged, “a girl needs a little variety.” “I see,” Mia threaded a hand through her stray hairs, “Hannah and Xena though, claiming all the good ones. What does that leave me with?” Lionel straightened up, “a girl who could use some eggs.” “Yes,” she grinned, “very good. Though a bit of a mouthful, what about Gabrielle? Or Lucy. Short for Lucifer," she chuckled to herself, "now there’s some variety.”

What a strange person, Lionel noted, but she worked at a 24-hour diner close to a highway, she was well aware the world was filled with strange people.

“Even Lucifer needs water.” She said and turned, “I’ll be right back.” Lionel filled up two glasses of water in the kitchen. The cook was still in the middle of his podcast, but he looked up to examine Mia through his kitchen window. “Wait,” Mike squinted, “is that the one that ordered all that food a month ago?” He frowned, “she smelled bad then too.” Lionel rolled her eyes, “this one doesn't smell that bad. Maybe you’re thinking of that egg lady from two months ago, remember? That woman with all those rotten eggs in her purse.” The cook snorted and responded pointedly, “Nanc kicked her out.” “Yeah, yeah,” she turned, “just start up the grill. I have feeling it will be a big order.” “She doesn't even have shoes on!” He grumbled, “do you have a softer heart than I thought or is this some sort of side-effect of you quitting? I told ya, it’ll do stuff to your head.” She used her hip to open the kitchen door, “let’s both quit. I’ll start with smoking, and you start with bitching.” “I swear Li…” He continued grumbling and Lionel walked back over to her table, the girl was stacking sugar pockets on top of each other. She had already eaten three it looked like.

“Here you are,” Lionel placed the water down and took her notepad out of her apron. “Now,” she clicked her pen, “what’ll it be today?” The girl looked up from under her tousled bangs, “I’ll start with the French toast breakfast and a grand slam steak, and then two eggs, and some hash browns. Then add a side of biscuits and gravy and a fruit bowl with yogurt.”

Lionel gave a wry grin, “is that all?” Mia rose to meet the challenge and shook her head, “No.” She looked up, “I’m thinking a banana crepe too or maybe those honey cakes. What do you recommend?” She asked the last part slowly.

“Huh,” Lionel stuck her bottom lip out, “well, I’ve never had either,” she said honestly, “but my dog’s name is Honey Cakes. So, you know.” “Really?” Her eyebrows lifted, “Honey Cakes. What kind of dog is she?” Mia examined her and Lionel shifted in place uncertainly.

“Border collie mix,” she gave a faint smile, “a pain in my ass, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Best damn dog this side of the Appalachians.” She looked back to Mia, “do you… like dogs?”

Mia looked off up at the ceiling and high fluorescent lights, “not really.” She said evenly, “but Honey Cakes is a very good name. I’ll have those.” Lionel clicked her pen again, “I’ll get them right out for you.” She felt like she had something more to say, but it didn’t come to her. She retreated into the kitchen.

She handed the order over to the cook, “here.” He looked down at it with a scowl, “oh. Is that all? Three entrees and three sides.” She shrugged, “she implied she might be the devil.” He turned over to the give her a firm look, “then don’t associate with that type, Jesus girl!” Lionel looked away, “I’ll associate with who I like. She tips well.” That was the end of that conversation, just as Mike went back to complaining and a new trucker walked in the front door. Lionel finished the hour.

Mia maintained her tradition, she ate quickly, paid, and slipped out the door without another word. There was a second doodle on the receipt this time, it was simple, a freckled girl holding the leash of dog dripping with something labeled "honey."

“You” it said, “possibly committing identity theft,” and then “Honey Cakes, very likely a good girl.”

Lionel had no other choice but to wander about what drove people to show up at strange hours, call themselves the devil, and draw cute dogs on papers. She guessed it was probably just how the world was and that she shouldn’t linger on it.

She did end up lingering on it though. It danced in between her thoughts of “one last cigarette” and true crime podcasts about break-ins, she wandered about it for a long time.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

July

Heat like hot syrup dripped down Mia’s skin, the sun was barely risen but the oppressive warmth of West Virginia summer was already layering the land with a fanged vengeance. Her reborn body was simmering with its own heat, but Mia’s mind was elsewhere. Something was wrong with her arm.

Sticky fluid ran down her right wrist and she couldn’t help but swallow waves of nausea cutting through her gut as she walked. Mia couldn’t feel the cut yet, not enough of her body was back, but she could tell it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The trail of hot blood dripped in between her fingertips, the wound wasn’t deep, but it was long- curving elegantly from the soft of her inner elbow to her shoulder. At first, she worried she had been found, that it had been an Arcadian hunters trap, or worse, a pack. She had been so careful, moved around just enough, kept to herself just enough, didn’t linger anywhere.

Mia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as her mind flew to images of being scented or tracked, gutted or recruited.

Luckily, she retraced the wolf’s steps and found a broken tree branch with some blood and a bit of clothing stuck to it, she exhaled in relief when it all smelled like her own. The dumb dog part of her seemed to have run into a tree; Mia opted to ignore the cut for now.

She turned toward the familiar highway.

Why does the wolf drag me all the way back to this road? All the way back to the neon sign in the dark? She didn’t have an answer for that.

Mia wandered thoughtlessly back toward the 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, she was almost relieved to see the same waitress on duty that night. Does she ever take the day off?

She entered the establishment quietly, feet padding soft on the cold tiles and shoulders hunched as she approached sheepishly from behind. Hannah/Xena/mystery-waitress was attending two other customers. Mia found herself sprouting a tiny smile to the other woman’s back, “booth for one.” The waitress was filling up a coffee cup, two older men in jean jackets and frowns sat at the counter, pointedly ignoring Mia. Xena/Hannah turned slowly.

“Oh my God,” the waitresses mouth fell open, her expression blanking quickly. “You’re bleeding.” Mia hadn’t felt it yet, but she looked down anyway, blood spread down her entire forearm the way tree roots seep into dirt. It was much more than she remembered. “Oops.” She said lamely, realizing that she was surely pushing her luck with this latest antic. “Uh,” she scratched the back of her neck with her good hand.

The waitress put her coffee pot down, “are you-” Mia cut her off before she could finish the thought, “let me just go tidy this up.” She put her finger up, “One sec. Promise not to bleed on your nice floors, just,” She hesitated, “save me a booth.” It somehow made her stomach sink to think of being formally kicked out of this place, though she was no stranger to such things.

“That’s gotta hurt,” the waitress frowned, “don’t tell me there was another accident on your construction site.” Mia took a step backward and didn’t meet her eye, “one second. Right.” She tried to slip out the door, but to her dismay someone else was just behind her, the odds were against her that morning in more than one way. She slid into the corner as the door dinged open and a couple walked through, looking exhausted and irritated. “I told you to take 167.” The woman swore at the man.

“Look Julie, I need coffee and then we can discuss your mother’s original directions.” “I told you not to listen to my mother!”

The waitress gave Mia one last forlorn look and then seated the young couple, Mia slipped out the door and into the dark of the parking lot. She hurried over to the side, past two large trucks and one minivan. Mia planted herself on the hard concrete, neon sign to her back and body hunched over, she tried to tear off a section of her already ragged shirt.

Mia heard not all wolves went completely wild during the moon, that they didn’t roll in dirt, run into trees, and do God knows what every time. She heard they had packs though, and den mothers that kept them all in line.

Mia had no interest in staying in line, however much she resented waking up starving with leaves in her hair.

She inhaled sharply through her teeth when she moved her right arm and a stab of pain shot right up into her shoulder. Her body was becoming fully hers again, she whimpered, “come on,” she tried to move so she could bandage herself, “just this one thing.” She fiddled with her strip of shirt, trying to stop-up the wound while cursing at herself for several long minutes. She tensed every muscle in her body when she heard footsteps approach from behind, Mia sat up perfectly straight and tried not to panic. “Hey there,” a voice called, “you might try not getting gangrene out here.” Mia looked over her shoulder, the waitress was holding out a wet rag and what appeared to be Neosporin. Mia looked blankly back at her.

The waitress joined her at the edge of the parking lot, “I won’t pry.” She said simply, “but you’re gonna want to actually clean that up.” Mia just kept looking, her mouth pinched shut. “It’s not what you think.” She said lowly, and then turned her face away.

“You don’t know what I think,” the waitress sounded wary, “mostly I think credit card insurance is a scam, NSYNC was the best band of the last two decades, full stop, and spam gets a worse rep than it deserves.” Mia couldn’t help but grow a small laugh, “is that all?” The waitress knelt to the ground, crouching in her fitted jeans and looking off into the dry yellow fields. “No, I’ve got more.” Mia shifted in place, “spam is disgusting.” The waitress snorted, “have you had it in rice with eggs and cheese? No, and I don’t accept unsourced opinions.”

Mia’s shoulders untensed, she watched her closely, the light of the newborn sun and ancient sign bathed her freckles in a mix of oranges and yellows. The shadows were long and shifting around them and she seemed like the strangest thing of the night.

“Well alright,” Mia reached out, “you sound like you cite your sources, I’ll take your magic germ-killer.” She shifted toward her, “though I don’t usually trust witchcraft or such.”

The waitress handed over the rag first, carefully passing it to Mia’s good hand. “You’re the one that called herself Lucifer.”

Mia shook her head, “Mia is fine too.” She said firmly, “and I was only trying to keep up with...?” Mia leaned over and squinted into the light, “Carol today?” The waitress gave a small smile, “Carol today.” Mia leaned her head back, exposing her neck to the warm air. “Can I choose your next one?” “Absolutely not.” Mia chuckled and lifted the warm rag to her cut, trying to wipe out the grime and clear away the trail of thick dried blood. She flinched and gritted her teeth when she got to her upper forearm, a burn eating its way into her muscle, she wrinkled her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Oh, give it here,” the waitress snapped, “I only have a fifteen minute break and I’m not being accused of stealing company property if I leave this out here with you.” Mia scowled, “I would give it back.” The waitress, Carol today, took the rag and scooted over to start dabbing and clearing it out, she mumbled to herself as she did. “Really.” Mia curled into herself slightly but let her work, the feel of the warm water and soft touch making her squirm slightly. The waitress paused, “this will sting.” That was all the warning the waitress gave before Mia was yelping, a fresh sting bursting over her whole arm as she slathered disinfectant on the area. Mia shifted in place, looking up at the sky and only twitching a little, the waitress had a big grin on her face.

“And here I thought you’d be all brooding and tough.” She whispered to herself.

Mia stuck her bottom lip out, “I’m not immune to Neosporin, thanks.”

The waitress laughed and then got something out of her back pocket, “where are you from again?” “North.” Mia said shortly, “north-north.”

“First time in the states then?” She hummed, “not at all.” The waitress lifted three band aids in the air, “we’re out of big ones.” She explained, “think about home or something while I put them on.” “I’m not that hurt,” Mia and looked away, “and,” she paused, and something subdued, soft, entered her tone, “thank you for this.” She swallowed thickly, “I didn’t even know I tipped this well.” She snorted gently, “don’t mention it. Now… Hold still.” She delicately applied the three band aids, plastering them up the long cut that ran from her elbow to her shoulder. Mia flinched but held herself still as the waitress worked, it was a quick process done by nimble hands.

“Watch that now.” The waitress said with a gentle pat to the band aids. “You’ll want to change them later.” Mia met her gaze briefly- the waitress’s eyes were large, glimmering, hazel. “I will.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after she finished, looking off into the grasses now glowing golden in the light and waiting for something. The waitress scratched her chin, Mia watched her closely. She spoke in a hush, it felt like the moment for such things, “did you need to go in?” She inhaled, long and noisy. “No.” She looked down at her feet, “give me a moment.” They waited once more, hovering over something. The waitress blinked, “I wanna smoke.”

Mia wrinkled her nose, “okay?” She glanced over to her, “I’m trying to quit.” She reached into her pocket and seemed to dig up a slim, nearly broken cigarette. “Do you mind? Last one.” Mia reached out hesitantly, “you just said you’re trying to quit.” “I want to quit,” she looked down at the end of the white stick. “Yeah. I really do.”

She brought the cigarette to her lips and looked visibly upset, Mia plucked it back out of her mouth. “Then do it.” Mia took the cigarette from the waitress and put it into her tattered pocket, the waitress exhaled and nodded, they both stood up together to go back into the restaurant.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel found an extra forty dollars added to her tip that day, her pride smarted from the display, but her wallet was more than hungry enough for it. There was another picture drawn on the receipt this time.

Thanks for the save :)

Buy yourself some new disinfectant or spam I guess. I’ll see you around, warrior princess Carol-Hannah.

-Mia.

Lionel shouldn’t, but she did. She stuffed the receipt into her apron until she could take pictures of it on her phone and hide that away too.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

August

Mia brought flowers. It was stupid, she knew it was stupid, but flowers were how you thanked people, right? Whenever her mom got mad her dad always brought flowers, got down on one knee and said "thanks for being the honey to my milk" or something just as foolish.

Mia was not going to say that. She was however going to thank the waitress very politely, hand over some flowers, and do it all much more presentably than usual. She’d be ready this time.

She had resigned herself to the fact that the wolf wanted to end up around this highway, dropping Mia off in the middle of the woods somehow always close to the diner. She didn’t question the animal. She was long past that.

Mia set up a box, placed where she could find it with extra clothes, baby wipes, and a pair of good shoes. She made sure she was prepared this time.

It was hid in a part of the woods where wildflower’s grew in bundles, vicious in their pursuit of the sun and unhindered by any walls or roads. Mia looked at them for a long moment, transfixed by their scraggly long stems and purple blossoms. She had grown up in the city and things like them almost made her glad she left.

She gathered up the purple flowers one by one, feeling the grainy stems and watching the sun rise over their silky delicate heads. Fastened together they were unkempt and crooked, but Mia had an odd feeling the waitress might even like that.

After gathering more than a dozen she headed toward the empty dry field and the glow of a silent building. Mia had taken her time gathering the plants and actual cars were driving up the road by then, either having just pulled off the highway or found themselves terribly lost.

Mia didn’t pay them much mind, she couldn’t feel the brittle grass against the soles of her feet for once and she was on high on her own purpose. That purpose certainly involved toast and hash browns first, but something a little more as well.

She strode into the diner, spine upright and chest puffed out, planning the first words she would say to the waitress. She hoped the first words back would be "you clean up nice," but there were only so many moments in life that could be like the movies.

Mia deflated like a popped balloon when a different woman turned around as the door dinged, a different woman with bright blue eye shadow and rose-bud lips. A different woman who wore the apron.

“Oh,” Mia’s flowers fell to her side and her smile fell with it.

The new waitress, Tilda the tag said, didn’t even bat an eye, Mia was wearing shoes this time- she wasn’t the strangest person in the joint anymore.

“Table for one?” Tilda asked as she reached for the menus.

Mia could only look around, somehow hopeful in a small way. “No,” she found herself saying, and then her stomach grumbled. “Yes.” “Alright, this way,” the waitress seemed nonplussed, “gonna be a hot one today.” “Yeah,” Mia could feel her chest concaving, this wasn’t how the scene went in her head. “It’s going to be terrible.” “I hear ya’,” Tilda sat her down and placed the menu gingerly in front of Mia, “my name is Tilda, I’ll be server today. What can I get you started with?” Mia looked down at her flowers, and then back to the woman. “Um.” Tilda glanced at the present now too, “or are you waiting for someone?” Mia just shook her head, “I had… a question.” She said stiltedly, her tongue running away with her.

Tilda raised one very fine eyebrow up into the air, “shoot.” Mia took a deep breath, “I had a waitress here a month ago, and uh, sometime before that. She went by Xena or Hannah or Carol…” Mia realized she really didn’t have a chance. She didn’t even have her real name. “She’s freckly?” Tilda just nodded shortly, “Name changer? I know her, she’s worked here forever. She’s out today though.”

“Oh,” Mia lifted her chin, “Is she… alright?” Mia wasn’t sure if she was crossing a line or not, “a friend told me to give her these.” She indicated the flowers. Both of Tilda’s eyebrows rose like questions marks now, perfectly in tune with each other. “I wouldn’t worry.” Tilda played with her pen, flipping it back and forth in her fingers, “she’s a piece of hardwood that one. Heard she was a bit of a mess on the phone, but she’ll be back soon.” Tilda’s eyes darted to the flowers, “though maybe Li will like those, she’s out in Nolan I think.” Mia sat with that for a long moment, words echoing in her head, was a bit of the mess on the phone.

Mia was reminded she didn’t know anything about this girl, mostly that the woman had bad opinions on things and helped strangers out on their worst nights.

“Should I leave you with the menu?” Mia shook herself out of her thoughts, “No, I’ll start with a bowl of oatmeal, hash browns, and a plate of pancakes with…”

The flowers wilted next to her.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

This is a bad idea. It is definitely, very much, a terrible, bad idea.

Mia Kotsiopoulos moved to the outskirts of Nolan, West Virginia in order to disappear, places like this tended suck the memory out of anything. But this was definitely going to be memorable.

She stood outside a beige building wearing oxford shoes, brown slacks that went to her shins, and a short-sleeve blue button-up. It was much better than her usual "tatters and questionable hygiene" approach.

She had even showered before she showed up.

But nonetheless, she had shown up to a service-workers house in the middle of the day, holding flowers. She never thought the movie she played out in her head would be the "creepy stalker" variety.

Mia was standing outside a mini condo with a beige outside and beige door and a scraggly bush in the front. A house cat peered at her from one of the windows across the street and the sun beat hot against her neck from up above.

She stared at a door with cheap silver numbers on the front and flap for mail, it looked unassuming and quiet. It was in a small neighborhood that was made smaller by the size of the town itself; Mia had followed the scent of sunscreen perfume and grease all the way here.

She tried to deny in her head that she memorized the waitress’s scent, but that would be a bold-faced lie at this point. She kept staring at the door.

The cat hissed at her from across the way and Mia hung her head, “what am I doing?” She turned to leave, she wasn’t this, she promised she wouldn’t be.

She crept back toward her Mitsubishi and slammed her wildflowers in the passenger's seat, trying to suppress any nascent feelings bubbling up. All she did was bandage your arm, Mia reminded herself, it was nothing.

Then she heard a voice calling, “Honey Cakes!” The voice carried, “Honey-Honey!” Mia lifted her chin up and peered down the long sun baked street, a figure stood cupping her hands around her mouth and wearing a fluffy lilac robe. The figure looked left and right, walking frantically in Mia’s direction without looking at her. “Here girl! Honey Cakes.” “Oh,” Mia straightened up, her mouth making a small perfect circle. The waitress looked visibly distraught, her eyes red-rimmed and long hair undone and tumbling lankly down her back. Her robe had a yellow stain on the sleeve and a thin nightshirt peaked out from underneath, crumpled and forgotten.

Mia took a couple uncertain steps forward; the waitress looked every which direction on the ground before she noticed Mia. Her eyes went wide, “you.”

Mia suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands, or face, or any part of her body. “Are you missing your dog?” She asked quickly. The waitress seemed to take a long second to respond, frowning slightly and probably weighing this all in her head. Maybe she was thinking of calling the police on one of her customers randomly showing up near her house.

Then she nodded hesitantly, “yeah…” “I was just on a walk,” Mia tried to justify her presence, “and I heard you calling out.” The waitress touched her messy hair and looked down at her feet, they were bare. “Cool. Alright. Enjoy your walk.”

Mia straightened up, “also,” she struggled, her face flushing slightly. “I wanted to thank you. Really thank you.”

The waitress seemed to look at her for the first moment, eyes focusing out the depths of their worry. “Don’t mention it,” she said with a familiar breezy note to her voice, “only a dick would leave you out there to bleed out.” “I don’t know about that,” Mia rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, “most people probably wouldn’t even let me eat there in my state the first time.” The waitress shrugged loosely, “most people suck.” Mia gave a newfound smile, “can I help you look for your dog?”

She paused again, lips puckering and noticeably bare of makeup that day. She gave a tight nod, “you have good eyes?” “No,” Mia said simply, “but I can, uh, I can help.” The waitress gave her a perplexed look, “alright, yeah, this way.” They walked down the sidewalk together and the waitress pointed around. “I lost her a night ago…” She said weakly, “it’s been almost 72 hours.” Her voice sounded strained and fragile.

Mia looked both directions, “I can definitely help. Does she respond to a whistle?” The waitress nodded, “I trained her with my brother, he’s big on dogs. Before she became just mine, he used to do this big wolf whistle to get her to come," she smirked in a private way, "he was such a show-off.” Mia broke into a fond expression, “K.” She wet her lips, put two fingers in her mouth, and let out a truly impressive sound, a ringing golden whistle that echoed down the street like a shot arrow.

The waitress let out a whistle of her own in response, “woah.” “Honey Cakes!” Mia called next, “Honey.” They walked down the cracked sidewalk and toward the center of town, Mia tried not to stare at the other girl, and tried even harder not to bump into her. It was a long walk.

The waitress started slowing down once they passed the post office, ten minutes had passed by then and she had started flagging, her chin drooping down toward her chest and expression cracking like porcelain.

Mia tried to move quick, “we’ll find her.” She reassured softly, “I’m sure she’s looking for you too.” The waitress shook her head, she closed her eyes and took a jerky turn down a narrow alley, walking purposefully ahead, but making no noise or move to call for her dog. Her shoulders sloped into two perfect arched hills, trembling slightly.

“Wait,” Mia chased after her, “it’s only been a night, dogs come back from much longer trips than this.”

The waitress put her face in her hands, “it’s my fault.” She said, voice wobbling, “it’s all my fucking fault. I left the door open.” Mia reached out toward her, suddenly unsure of what to do. “Anyone could do that. We can fix it.” The waitress sniffed and shook her head violently, “I was yelling on the phone. She hates when I yell, and her dinner was late. I should have known this would happen! She deserves better, I can’t even keep one fucking thing right.” Her voice was wet now and heavy.

Mia risked putting her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “hey, hey now,” she spoke softly, as if to not to spook a frightened deer. “I’m sure she knows you love her, and it was just a bad night. I’m sure she wants to come home.” The waitress made a tiny, hiccuping sound and turned her large hazel eyes on her, watery and full. “I promised her I’d buy a place with a big yard by now. I promised, and,” she wiped at her face, “I lied. And kept lying and forgetting. And now she’s gone.”

Mia took a deep breath, “are carrying her leash? Or any of her things?” The question seemed to surprise the waitress out of her self-pity, “any of her things?” Mia just nodded, the waitress reached into her pocket and produced a yellow collar. “I take her collar off when we’re at home since she hates wearing it.” Misery was apparent in the waitress's tone.

“Okay,” Mia centered herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Alright.” She also shouldn’t do this; it wasn’t something she allowed herself to do. Mia tolerated the wolf when it forced itself out once a month but tolerating and tapping into were two different things. This was fraternizing with hostile forces.

Mia’s sense of smell was already acute, but this was going take something fantastical.

She couldn’t "turn" in broad daylight like this, but the full moon was simmering just above, barely contained by the blanket of silky blue sky. Mia could feel the cool, surging power latent in her veins. Just a little, she promised herself, just enough for this.

Her sense of smell piqued all at once, sensations rushing in like a floodgate being opened and storming the fort. Everything came into focus, the coffee shop next door brewing bitter smells, the lady down the street lathering her hands with coconut lotion, old meats, rotten fruits, sneakers.

She reeled back, taking a step toward the walls and clutching her chest. Mia quickly collected herself, took the collar in hand, and lifted it to her nose, taking a deep breath.

“This way.” She started walking decisively back toward the street, not sparing a look toward the waitress.

“Wait,” the other woman stumbled after her, “where are you going?” “Follow me,” she said, “we’re going to find your dog.” She glanced over her shoulder and wet her lips, “trust me.”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel had no idea what she was doing. She had no idea what she was doing last night when she yelled at her credit card company for an hour and no idea what she was doing when she called into work that morning for a "personal day." She never took work off.

She couldn’t lose Honey Cakes though, she just couldn’t.

The "five am woman" was back, Mia, and Lionel was watching her wide shoulders as she strode fixedly down the street. Her short hair was styled now, sides cropped short and bangs smoothed back, she was wearing pressed, clean clothes that flattered her sturdy figure.

Her skin was moon-bright under all the mud Lionel had seen coating her before. She had a mole on her chin and clear blue eyes in the daytime.

She cleaned up nicely.

Lionel, however, did not. She was fully aware that she was in her “lazy day robe” and her nose was no doubt still leaking, it couldn’t have been a worse day.

“No, I’m serious,” she spoke to the other woman’s back as they strode out of town, “where are we going?” Mia didn’t look back, “we’re getting close.”

They left the main street and passed the last few houses in the town of Nolan, population 1,022. The rest of the houses clustered farther back and further out.

They were on bare road soon, where the sidewalk disappeared, and the world stretched out into trees, old tires, and white shacks in the distance that hosted scavengers and drug deals. Lionel followed mutely behind, she didn’t like crying, she liked it less when it was in front of other people.

“So,” Mia spoke up gently, “when did you get Honey Cakes?” Lionel ducked her head down. “When my grandma died.” She said without inflection, “My brother thought it would cheer the family up… and then she just became my dog.” Mia looked over her shoulder and nodded, “what’s she like?” “Terrible,” Lionel rubbed her face, “but she’s so sweet I forgive her for chewing up all my good shoes anyway.” Mia chuckled and looked down at Lionel’s bare feet, her face flushed slightly. “Would you believe me if I said a dog got rid of all my shoes too?” She smoothed her hair back, “twinsies.” Lionel couldn’t help but grow a small smile, “why do you think I let you in? Kindred spirits.”

Mia laughed, a round and full sound. “I’m not sure about that.” She paused, “but I would like to help.” Lionel became somehow even more perplexed, where are we going?

“I’m trusting you,” she said slowly, “I don’t follow just anyone out into uninhabited areas without my phone on me.” Mia’s back muscles bunched together, “it’s not uninhabited,” she pointed ahead, “there, that’s what I thought.” A stray mechanics shop appeared just around the corner, white with two garages and a tiny office attached to the side. It probably serviced the locals and whoever was unlucky enough to break down out here.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Lionel sped up, “and you think she’s…?” Mia just nodded, “see? Trustworthy.” Lionel lit up, heart suddenly lifting for the first time that day. “If she is really here…” She said slowly, “will you trust me too?” Mia frowned, “what do you mean?” Lionel lifted her head, “my name is Lionel by the way. Lionel Campbell.” “Oh,” Mia smiled, her entire face stretching into an enchanting excitable thing. “Oh, that’s a great name.” Lionel shifted in place, “Xena is better.” Mia shook her head, “completely not. I love lions.” “And not dogs?” Mia looked ahead, “Maybe some dogs.”

Lionel looked ahead too as the mechanics shop approached like a mirage, she was about to prompt Mia again, but a stray bark coursed through the air. A familiar high-pitched sound that was equally fussy and warm.

“Honey Cakes?” She called carefully, and then she heard another bark, “Honey-Honey!”

She started running as she saw the face of a floppy-eared brown and yellow dog stick her head up in the office window. “Girl!” Lionel was sprinting toward the door, hands outstretched, another bark followed.

They had found her dog.

—　❈　—

The mechanic had found Honey Cakes wandering by the side of the road the night before, seemingly turned around and confused. He brought her to his shop and gave her some food and water, he had planned to bring her to the nearest shelter the next day. Lionel had gotten there just in time.

Honey Cakes jumped up on her the second the door opened, and she wrapped her arms around the dog, “I missed you too!” She could have cried again.

She thanked the mechanic and put the collar back on her happy, dumb dog. Honey Cakes ran around in circles and barked at her, tongue out. It was a muggy warm day, but it somehow felt lighter than ever.

Afterward, Lionel, Mia, and the dog retreated toward the wild green grass near the shop, sitting down in a field to rub the dog’s belly.

“Thank you,” Lionel gushed again, “I would have never found her if that mechanic had drove her all the way to the shelter in Edward’s Town.” Mia wasn’t looking at her, staring off into the distance instead, “no problem.” She grinned, “Lionel.” Lionel stretched out across the thick grass, still petting her shaggy friend. “Well you’ve got my name now.” She steadied her gaze, “what’s your magic trick?” Mia turned in profile, angling her head slightly toward her, expression blank, “what do you mean?” Lionel leaned forward like it was a secret, “how’d you find my dog?” Her eyes went wide, “are you psychic?” Mia chuckled, but it wasn’t exactly a happy sound. “You got me,” she lay back down in the grass, stretching out spread eagle and bathing in the sheets of sunshine. “I’m psychic.” Lionel turned over on her side to face her, “A psychic who sniffs things and follows their tracks?” She said quietly, “and always shows up during the full moon covered in dirt?” Mia glanced back at her, eyes filling with panic and brow denting inward. “Lionel…” Lionel just shook her head, crawling up closer to her. “I never listened much to rumors and newscasters.” She spoke ever so softly, “it’s not my business.” She gave her a smile, a real one, “all I know is that you found my dog.” Mia shifted away from her, she didn’t seem to be breathing. “It isn’t...I.” Lionel reached out, clamping down around the other woman’s arm, “where are you from, really?” “Ottawa.”

Lionel just nodded, “Good. How do you like Nolan so far?” Mia relaxed, just ever so slightly. “Well.” She said simply, words slow and pointed. “Best service I’ve gotten anywhere so far.” Lionel rolled her eyes spectacularly, “Careful,” she said dangerously, “Honey Cakes could get the wrong idea. She bites people who she thinks are even close to flirting with me. A real puritan like that.” “It’s okay,” Mia scratched the sprawling Honey Cakes behind the ears, “I have a way with dogs.” Lionel ducked her head down, a flush creeping up her neck. This isn’t good, she swallowed. “So, what do you do, Mia? Dog whispering?” “God no,” Mia sniffed, “Freelance coding, but I’m hoping to switch jobs when I, you know, grow up. Past thirty I’m thinking. Maybe forty.” Lionel laughed, spirits lifting, “and what would you like to be when you grow up?"

Mia's eyes gleamed impishly, “I’m thinking tiny foods food blogger or custom shoelace knitter, that sort of thing.”

“Something practical,” she nodded solemnly.

Mia grinned so wide it looked like it might eat her face, “butterfly-dust expert maybe, professional harmonica tuner, wild hamster tamer.”

Lionel giggled, actually giggled, "that's what I was gonna guess! You took mine." They snickered together, and something was so light in the air it felt like it might burst. Honey Cakes didn’t even try and bite the new girl, not that she ever would.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

September

Lionel still didn’t know what she was doing, but something about this had become increasingly right. Increasingly like something she couldn’t escape and didn’t want to. The minute hand had ticked forward.

It was the end of her shift on a Friday, she kept glancing out the windows and checking the streets. Tilda was examining her, “why are you so jittery, Li?” She poked her as they passed each other, “this from the quitting? I’m with you there, Brad won’t even look at me if I sneak one nowadays.”

“No,” Lionel kept her eyes on the window, “it’s nothing." “Nothing,” Tilda just grinned with her bright red knowing smile. Lionel wrinkled her nose, “this is normal.” She looked out the door again, “I’m acting normal.” Her expression softened, the sun was far in the sky and it would only be twenty more minutes, she's coming.

Tilda laughed like aluminum foil being crinkled, “damn. I knew Mikey said you were smiling more, but I’ll have whatever stuff you’re on now.” Lionel rolled her eyes, picking up a stack of dirty plates. “It’s called a good work attitude.” She turned on her heels, “try it.” Tilda laughed again, huge and exuberant, Lionel had a weird notion she would miss that if she ever did manage to leave.

Another fifteen minutes passed, Lionel’s heart had moved into her throat and the world was turning in slow motion. Somehow, she didn’t mind.

She felt like she was giving herself whiplash turning each time the door dinged, she was only finally right the fiftieth time. A woman came through the door wearing a pair of slacks, oxfords, and a clean purple shirt buttoned to her throat, she smiled with all her teeth.

Mia was holding an array of flowers and a small box. “Hey.” She said gently and Lionel hurried over.

“I’ve got five minutes left,” she whispered, “but I don’t think they’ll notice.” Mia tilted her head to the side.

“Take your time,” there was something reserved in Mia's tone, her voice deep and sending a shiver down Lionel’s spine.

“Take a table, anywhere.” She ran to the back room to sign out, proper hours be damned. This was close enough.

“Is that what this was about?” Tilda commented, she still had five hours left in her shift and was a little grumpy for it. She squinted at the young woman seated in a middle booth.

Lionel just shook her head, “no judging. It’s not about anything.” She grinned so widely it felt like it might hurt, she winked. “Yet.”

“I ain’t one to judge," Tilda said loosely, "the lord made girl’s like that to tempt nun’s themselves.” She waved a hand in the air and snorted, “it’s a step-up from Rickey, I’ll give you that. This one actually know their way around a downstairs department store?”

“Oh my God,” Lionel threw her apron into her purse, “I’ll see you later Tilda.” She waved, “Tell Mikey absolutely nothing is happening.”

“He thinks that girl is a demon or something.” “I know!” She ran through the door, “not even close.” Tilda was just laughing again.

Lionel darted up to Mia's table with wings on her heels, “Come on.” She came grabbed for Mia’s left hand, “Let’s get out of here. There’s a farmer’s market in Edward’s today, Edwards! I’ll pay for the gas.” “Wait,” Mia said stiltedly, the reserved tone was back. “Wait. Just a moment. I wanted to… well, I have this for you.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “Ah, Mia,” she grinned, “you know I love flowers, but I’m running out of vases. I’ll be filling the bathtub with them soon.” Mia shook her head, and suddenly Lionel recognized the diving sadness behind her gaze. “Want to sit for a moment?” Lionel frowned and folded into the booth across from her, heart sinking. This was supposed to be the day. After a few dinner’s out at other restaurants and a trip to the fair Lionel had decided it had been long enough, she was ready to kiss a wolf.

But maybe Mia knew that.

“What is it?” She held herself perfectly still.

Mia looked at her hands, tapping her short nails on the table. “Open this.” She passed a present to Lionel, it was elaborately wrapped in shiny blue wrapping paper and the bow on top might as well have been a work of art onto itself. Uh-oh. Lionel hesitantly took the box, she picked at the ribbon on the top tepidly, then she put it down again. “No,” she lifted her chin up, “I won’t.” Mia’s eyes went wide, a half-hearted smile followed, “I promise it’s not a dead bird or something.” She said delicately, “I’m not actually that much like Honey Cakes.” Lionel shook her head, “I know what this is.” She huffed, “and I’m not having it.”

“What is it?” Mia blinked rapidly and then sighed. Lionel made a face, “it’s only been a few months,” she whispered, “passing through should take longer than that I say. A little longer. I have an uncle who’s been passing through here since ‘75.” Mia’s head fell, broken down on the spot, she looked away. “You’re too smart for your own good.” “I know a going-away present when I see one.” Lionel made a face at her, “I suppose you were hoping I was an idiot.” “No!” Mia squirmed in place, “it’s one of those things I really like about you... it just makes this so much harder.” “Then don’t do it,” Lionel swiftly looked toward the road outside. Mia sighed, reaching for Lionel’s hand and taking it. She stroked the top of Lionel's hand with her thumb, “don’t worry.” She whispered, “your life will be better for it. Wolves… are carnivores. They eat everything good whole."

“They’re pack animals too,” Lionel took her hand back and looked down at her lap, “are you just going to keep being alone after this? Is that really better than being with…” She hummed for a long moment, “you know.”

She looked up just in time to see Mia bow her head, “nothing would be better than that.” She reached for her again, “but we can’t.” Lionel’s pulse spiked, I can't do this, it was too much, she couldn’t. She sprang to her feet, hopping up and slipping out of the booth and dashing for the door. She ran out into the parking lot and took deep gasping breaths. “Goddammit.” Mia ran after her, “Lionel.” She called desperately. “Lionel, you know what I am. You already guessed a long time ago; I have a target on my back.” “So?” Lionel looked up at the puffy white clouds and gritted her teeth.

“Wolves are bad news. Lone one’s are even worse…” Mia struggled with her words. “I have to keep moving. There are hunters, and other packs. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Lionel turned, slowly, carefully, around. “But it happened.” She whispered, “you really want to go back?” Mia shook, barely moving at all. “I can’t do it to you. I can’t, it’s not a stable life.” Lionel’s hair tickled her shoulder tops as she moved, “fuck stable.” She took a bold step toward her, “I let you into my restaurant, all grubby and sad-looking. Let me in now.” Mia didn’t move back, “God, this is hard.” She murmured, “I won’t be able to replace any of it you know.” Her brow dented, “you, arguing with telemarketers, cooking everything with that weird cheese, yelling at the TV. I won’t be able to replace it.” Lionel put her hands out, “then don’t.” Lionel crept closer and Mia didn’t pull away, her expression softened. Lionel slowly rested her arms around Mia’s neck, inhaling her earthy scent and drinking in her clear eyes, Mia let her. It was bright out, bright and heart-pounding, but Lionel found a way forward, moving their faces so close together it stung.

Mia put a hand through Lionel’s hair and her breath tickled her cheek. “You might regret this.” Lionel shrugged, “try me.” And then they came together, golden and impossible. She kissed her, a sugar rush of lips and firm touches, they had been waiting for this. Mia’s fingers pressed into her waist and drew her close, kissing like an undertow with no ground to catch yourself on.

Lionel kissed back, hungry and soft for it, soft with the warm breathy sighs and movements and all the things she hadn’t hoped for. She got lost in the heady world of a girl and something she didn’t know was possible.

She was new again.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mia drew one last thing on a receipt for the diner: thanks for everything. I’ll return her in one piece.

Lionel added something as well: I won’t.

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

if you enjoyed the story please consider donating to my ko-fi or subscribing to my website

[keatsblue]

Want a Piece of Me?! - a Kiribaku Baking AU fic, pre-slash.

*** 

It was something he’d picked up from his mother, before she’d gotten too sick.

She’d let him roll out flour-dusted dough into thinned sheets, let him taste a batter mix or two on the tip of her spoon. Whenever he was tasked with packing the buttercream, he’d unerringly return to her with a dollop of icing on the end of his nose. She’d let out a laugh like windchimes as she wiped his face off with a multi-stained washcloth, would murmur, warm against the skin of his cheek as she kissed it—did my little dragon get greedy for some sugar again? Well, here’s some sugar!

Kirishima was her little dragon, and she’d made sure his early life was filled with candied nights and warm bellies, gingerbread castles with marshmallow spires.

After she passed, he kept it up to feel close to her.

He was far from an expert baker, but he knew his way around an oven. His hands were large and not the most suited to handling delicate fondant, but he managed. His arms were strong, good for hefting bags of fresh ingredients.

Pineapple upside-down. Triple-tiered, Italian wedding crème. Chocolate lavender truffles, topping his signature cherry cordial mousse. Delicate macaroons and finicky meringues, mirror glazes so seamless he could see his reflection. Kirishima baked his way through the entire grieving process, inviting his closest friends over for tastings, and he won.

I’m okay, mom.

He wasn’t certain when it had really started, this online business. Mina had actually made the first post, snapped the first photo. He hadn’t expected it to get a single comment.

It got hundreds. Then thousands.

People contacted him, wanting to know how they could make their own cakes look like that.

Kirishima obliged, of course. How could he not? He was going to bake anyway. Might as well help a few other amateur chefs while he was at it!

Mina helped him film. “I discovered you, so I’m your manager for life,” she’d say, with a wink. “Don’t forget about me when you make it big and become a world-famous baker, somewhere.”

World-famous, my ass, he always thought, whenever she’d suggest such a thing. He still made far too many mistakes, for that.

It was okay, most of the time. Many of the people who followed his little baking ‘show’ were more than understanding, and incredibly supportive. When he read their kind comments, it gave him a warm, fluttery kind of feeling—almost like one of his mother’s secure hugs.

There were always those few, though.

He was just getting off the rickety bus that stopped near his neighborhood when he saw it. He almost missed the last step on his way down, stumbling for a few paces as the telltale sound of a screen door sliding shut behind him signaled the bus’s departure.

However, Kirishima wasn’t paying attention to any of that. Instead, his eyes were glued to the screen of his phone, where he’d just called up his latest baking stream.

xxxx: ur cakes suck a**

He frowned down at the comment, checking the timestamp. So, it was just posted a few minutes ago.

Huh.

It was obviously a troll, no doubt about it. They didn’t even have a profile picture to go with the nondescript name. And usually, usually, Kirishima would just let comments like that slide right off his shoulders.

But he’d had a bad day. And it was funny, how something so small could pierce his heart sometimes, a sharp spear to the mighty dragon’s soft underbelly.

It was safe to say, making his way up the rusted-out stairwell to his college-budget apartment took a little more energy than usual. He jammed his key into the lock with punishing force, twisted.

The door swung upon under his palms, and the familiar scent of his home wafted toward him, riding along the sudden gust of warm air escaping. Kirishima was careful to shut the door quickly, before too much of the heat was let out. Breathed in the fruit-sweet smell from his kitchen, so if nothing else, the familiarity of it could ease his scattered mind.

His phone chimed, before he could get too relaxed. When he checked the message ID, though, he couldn’t help but smile.

alienqueen: ughhhhh I hate this asshole already

alienqueen: obviously, he’s never tasted 1 of kiri’s cakes

ducktapes: kiri’s cakes <3 ahhhh my heart

sparksmcgee: dude same, want me 2 get sweet vengeance?

As soon as Kirishima’s smile had appeared, it vanished. He frantically opened the chat, his thumbs too large to type with the speed he needed.

There was no way to tell if Denki was serious. And his friend could do it, too—every day, Kirishima thanked his lucky stars he was on the excitable hacker’s good side.

kiricakes: no need!! it’s just a troll, guys

kiricakes: super manly of you to think of me, though

sparksmcgee: ur too nice, fams

sparkmcgee: guess the troll lives… for now

ducktapes: TROLL IN THE DUNGEON! THERE’S A-

alienqueen: aksnfkasnof

kiricakes: lolllllll

Before long, he was able to lose himself in mindless chatter. The antics of his friends never failed to bring his spirits up. He plugged his phone into one of the few outlets in his crummy apartment, embedded into the wall just over the kitchen counter, so he could continue the conversation even as his battery started to wane.

The hours grew long, though, and time was scarce mid-week for exhausted, assignment-laden college kids. It wasn’t a surprise when Denki soon begged off on some coding or another that he had to re-run, or when Sero and Mina similarly slipped away (they were researching something together for Comparative Physiology, it was all very much over Kirishima’s head). In the end, he was left with only his thoughts, and an empty kitchen.

He locked his phone, and the screen went dark. He could see his reflection in it, baggy eyes and downturned lips. A shock of red hair, which had once been midnight-black.

Like his mother’s.

Kirishima turned his head. In the low light, his appliances gleamed from their shelves. Almost mocking, in a way.

“My cakes don’t suck,” he said, to no one. His grin stretched wide, and he could tell from the burn of it that he was showing far too many of his sharpened teeth. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He set his phone to record, and made another cake. It was triple-tiered, funfetti, because that was the batter mix he had on-hand. He watched the batter rise within his dented iron pans with all the patience of a general considering the battlements—or perhaps, a dragon considering its’ hoard.

Any spare buttercream was packed into a dispensary, silken and primed to hold his creation together. He spliced it evenly between his cakes with a practiced ease, layer after layer.

Then, the whipped frosting. It was a simple recipe, one of the first he’d learned. He worked the whipping cream within a chilled bowl, adding scoop upon scoop of powdered sugar until the mixture obediently began to rise, forming soft peaks.

He made several batches, and then added some orange food coloring to each.

Fuck it. I’m in an orange sort of mood.

His second favorite color, after red.

All that remained was assembly.

… throughout the process, he talked.

Kirishima didn’t typically make a habit of speaking while he baked. He certainly didn’t speak while he recorded, but this—this was a special occasion. Soon, he found himself opening up in front of the camera like never before. He spoke of his mother, briefly. Of his love of baking, and how much he didn’t want to lose that little piece of her he had left.

It was all he had left.

The whipped frosting went on like a dream for him, a smooth and even ombre that when he finished, reminded Kirishima just a bit of an orange sunset. It was soothing, and right, and exactly what he needed.

He didn’t think much of posting the video, largely unedited, to his public account. His was still a small corner of the internet, after all—a solitary baking channel in a sea of thousands. Maybe even millions. How many people would even see it, really?

“Oh, and by the way, can you guys stop saying my cakes look like shit?”

It was only one cake.

With great effort, Kirishima stumbled his way to his bedroom. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how much all that time in the kitchen had taken out of him.

Before his head even hit the pillow, he was out.

He dreamed of his mother’s sweets, and orange.

***

sparksmcgee: dude wake up

sparksmcgee: wake uppppp

sparksmcgee: KIRI

sparksmcgee: KIRI U GOTTA SEE THIS

sparksmcgee: KIRIIIII

sparksmcgee: fine, ignore me, Mr. Internet Sensation

sparksmcgee: wait I was joking, I was joking!

sparksmcgee: I’ll call u! I’ll do it!!

sparksmcgee: damn it kiri

sparksmcgee: just watch the fuckin’ video

sparksmcgee: https://twitter.com/Simplemachines_/status/1297739774795509761

***

Kirishima groaned, slamming a fist down on top of the source of that incessant beeping. It was too early in the morning for such ear-splitting noise.

But what was done couldn’t be undone. He was awake now, for better or worse.

He cracked one eye open, squinting against the bright blue light of his phone screen. Still bleary-eyed, he scrolled through all of Denki’s messages (seriously, man?) and pressed a thumb over the hyperlink his friend sent. It was probably just some dumb meme—

Wait. Wait.

That was his cake video from last night. And… that wasn’t all.

Some blond guy with an angry face took up the other half of the split screen, but he wasn’t doing anything. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Kirishima blinked. A… reaction video…?

He heard himself begin to speak, to layer the buttercream. Internally, he cringed.

Well. In his defense, he had been having one of those days—

He almost dropped his phone when the blond guy yelled at the top of his lungs.

“WHO WAS MEAN TO YOU?!”

Huh? Was this guy speaking… in Kirishima’s defense?

“WHO SAID YOUR CAKES LOOK LIKE SHIT?! POINT ‘EM OUT!”

Slathering on his nice, ombre whipped frosting, now. The blond guy (who was kinda cute, actually, even with his angry face) continued to watch and listen with rapt attention, occasionally letting out another unholy screech.

The video progressed to the part where Kirishima had begun describing his day, and really, he could’ve kicked himself. It’d just been a math test. He’d been excited at the time, because he’d gotten his grade back and hadn’t completely failed it, but now, he wondered. Who would want to listen to such inane, boring—

“YES! I’M SO FUCKING PROUD OF YOU, SHITTY HAIR!”

Shitty hair? Inadvertently, he felt the hand that wasn’t currently occupied supporting his phone drift up toward his hairline. He knew he applied a lot of gel, spiked it up on purpose. Surely it didn’t look that bad.

But even with that last comment, the guy had said a lot of nice things. And how manly, to post such a wholesome reaction video, where all the world could see?

His phone beeped again as a message banner flashed across the top of the screen. He opened it with a flick of his finger.

It seemed this time, Denki had messaged in the group chat. He didn’t have long to wonder whether his other friends had seen the video, either, messages were fired at rapid speed.

sparksmcgee: did you see it?!?? I found the guy! Your dream man!

sparksmcgee: his name is **drumroll**

kiricakes: denki, no

ducktapes: denki, YES

sparksmcgee: BAKUGOU KATSUKI, HE’S FROM JAPAN

alienqueen: Kiri go get your mans!!

sparksmcgee: if you want I can also get his credit card

kiricakes: DENKI NO

Bakugou Katsuki. Huh.

As his friends continued to bicker amongst themselves, Kirishima stretched out his limbs. He let out a soft sigh when his shoulders popped, already considering what he would bake himself for breakfast.

Maybe he’d have a slice of orange funfetti. And perhaps as he did, his mind would drift to an angry fan.

One he hoped to meet, someday.

[xerxia31]

I wish you would write a fic where peeta has a failing bakery because he isn't able to implement anything new and exciting due to parents etc, and katniss is like gordon ramsay in kitchen nightmare trying to convince peeta that he's not an idiot sandwich. Is that too specific? sorry if it is, i've just been thinking about this for a while...

This took an incredibly long time to write, anon, if you’re still around, I’m sorry for that! But this idea gripped me, and wouldn’t be satisfied with a hundred word drabble…

The B Word

rated T

He had watched her all through middle school, and high school too, had spent years of his life imagining her walking into the bakery his parents owned where he could woo her with artisanal breads and fancy cakes.

But this was definitely not part of his fantasy.

“You are an idiot sandwich!” Katniss Everdeen hollered as she pressed two pieces of bread to the sides of his head. It was the good hearty bread too, filled with raisins and nuts, a bestseller at the bakery and one of his favourites. A myriad of emotions played through his mind; horror and humiliation, a feeling that he just might cry, but beneath was that familiar quickening of his heart rate at the way her white chef’s coat strained to cover her pert breasts. Thump thump thump his heart pounded, and she smirked, even as she pressed the bread more firmly to his ears.

Thump thump thump. “Peeta! Get your ass out of bed!” Peeta Mellark groaned as he pried his eyes open in the darkness and glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 3:45 am. The alarm wasn’t set to go off for another fifteen minutes.

“Dammit, Rye, it’s not even four,” he grumbled, dislodging the pillow - flat and slightly drool-dampened - from over his ear.

“That TV show chick is coming today,” the voice hollered through the door. “It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” Rye was far too perky for a quarter to four in the morning. But despite his pique at being awoken early, Peeta couldn’t blame his brother for being excited. Their little bakery was going to be featured on a brand new show from one of the hottest television personalities in Panem.

Kat Flickerman was a household name, her sarcastic and expletive-filled television show, Kitchen Nightmares, was must-watch TV. And her new show, The B Word, featuring small-town bakeries, was promising to be even better. Mellark’s, a staple in District Twelve for over seventy-five years, would be the first establishment showcased. The publicity and sales uptick that came from being featured on the program more than made up for the embarrassment of having a five-foot-nothing firebrand rip apart every aspect of your business. Or so the producers that contacted his brother said.

Peeta wasn’t convinced. After all, he’d been making a fool of himself in front of the former Katniss Everdeen his whole life, and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

Neither Rye nor their father seemed to remember that world-famous Kat Flickerman had once been Katniss Everdeen, from the poor part of Twelve. But Peeta remembered. He remembered everything about her, though she’d never paid him any attention.

He remembered her sparkling silver eyes as she skipped through the halls of their elementary school, singing to herself. Eyes that dimmed and hardened after her father’s death. He remembered how hollow her cheeks were in the months after that, when he’d leave part of his lunch in her cubby each morning. He remembered how she’d grown into a solitary, sometimes sullen but always striking young woman who worked and studied and never participated in any of the meagre social activities District Twelve offered.

He even knew how a quiet, shy girl from the wrong side of the tracks parlayed a gig reviewing restaurants for her college’s newspaper into fame and fortune, though that part he’d read on her Wikipedia page. He wasn’t sure he understood it though. The Katniss who’d stolen his heart when he was only a boy wasn’t a lot like the girl on fire he saw on television. Not that he watched her shows.

(He definitely watched her shows.)

But none of that mattered anymore, not really. Because Katniss Everdeen left District Twelve five years ago and had never, as far as Peeta knew, come back. There was no mention of District Twelve in any of her bios or interviews. Katniss Everdeen had essentially disappeared. Kat Flickerman - foul-mouthed, foul-tempered, fire and fury Kat Flickerman - was the woman he was going to meet today. And he was fairly sure she wouldn’t remember him anyway. Probably wouldn’t even notice him, unless it was to berate some mistake he’d made or pick apart the menu items.

o-o-o

Peeta had the display cases full of glossy frosted cookies and perfect cupcakes long before the production crew showed up. He knew that there wouldn’t be any filming that morning, save for some generic ‘before’ shots, but still he wanted to put his best foot forward. Mellark’s might not be world-class, but it had been in his family for generations, it was a part of him. Rye, too, was beaming, polishing the countertops until they gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that came through windows so clean they looked devoid of glass. Their father spent an hour on a ladder, writing the day’s wares on the menu board in practiced chalk strokes. Though District Twelve was nothing more than a tiny backwater village, the Mellark men had their pride.

The group that descended on their small shop was definitely not from around there. Loud voices and loud colours shattered the sleepy District Twelve ambiance. The TV crew consisted of a pair of burly cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who had a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On careful observation, it appeared his tongue had been pierced, too, and he was wearing a stud with a silver ball the size of a marble. Peeta shuddered slightly. But missing from the crew was the one woman he’d been longing to see.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. She was the star after all, doubtless she’d breeze in only for her own scenes. But his disappointment was almost tangible.

Peeta opened the front shop and kept it running while Rye and their father walked the crew through the back, mapping out electrical outlets and places where spotlighting could be temporarily installed. Occasionally, the sound of laughter floated forward, but for the most part it was a typical Tuesday morning. The regulars wandered in and out, and he chatted with everyone, the comfort of familiarity soothing him.

He had just packed up some cookies for old Sae’s granddaughter when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Standing in the doorway of the shop was a ghost. Katniss Everdeen.

She wasn’t dressed like Kat Flickerman. Instead of a chef’s coat and crisp black pants, she was wearing jeans and a muted orange sweater. Her black hair was in the braid he remembered from their school days, long and thick, glinting blue in the morning sun. She was stunning.

She’d been glancing around the front shop but then froze, lifting her eyes to Peeta’s, as if feeling the weight of his stare. So many times in school she’d caught him staring, and each time he’d looked away quickly, blushing. But not today. Today he held her silver gaze. And then she smiled. “Katniss,” he whispered, or maybe he just thought it. Either way, her smile widened.

“Hello, Peeta,” she said, and his name in her mouth evoked a rush of arousal so potent he was certain she could see it stealing across his face. “It’s been a long time.”

“Five years,” he said without even realizing. He was stunned she even knew his name. Her eyes widened a little, but her soft smile didn’t fall.

“It looks exactly the same in here,” she said, and Peeta stiffened. It was true that the decor hadn’t changed in a long time, except for the addition of some of his paintings, and the fancy European coffeemaker he’d insisted on when he became a partner after college. He’d always thought that was part of the charm of Mellark’s, it’s dependability. He viewed the warm wood and twinkling glass as classic, elegant. But he’d watched enough of Kat Flickerman’s shows to know that she was seeing only tired and shabby. It hurt to envision what her team might do.

“Well,” he drawled. “Not much ever changes in Twelve.”

“You have,” she said, her eyes sweeping over him and he felt the heat rising in his cheeks. She was right, though it felt kind of shitty to be reminded. In high school, he’d been all state in wrestling, had worked out every day and watched his diet carefully to make weight. Had been even more serious about his sport in college, until a torn ACL killed that. Nowadays, he stayed fit running and playing pick-up football with the guys. He was in good shape, but he knew he wasn’t lean like before. “Yeah,” she said, distracted, her pink tongue snaking out to sweep over her lower lip. He had the distinct impression that she was checking him out. But that couldn’t be. “You look good,” she murmured.

He crooked an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

Her eyes widened. “I just, uh. I mean. Working here. If, uh. If I worked here I’d weigh a ton for sure.”

Peeta laughed; Katniss couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’d always been tiny. “You’re around food every day,” he said. She shrugged.

“But everything you make is fantastic.”

A small, pleased smile teased his lips. But before he could respond, one of the Capitol people came through the swinging doors that separated the front shop. “Kat,” she practically yelled. “We weren’t expecting you for a few hours yet, we haven’t started assembling the tasting.”

Katniss stiffened, seeming to grow taller and more menacing before Peeta’s eyes. Her expression darkened and shuttered, a mask sliding into place. It was a fascinating and frightening process. The woman who acknowledged Cressida with a scowl bore only a superficial resemblance to the woman Peeta had been chatting with.

“I told you I would be choosing the menu items to feature,” Katniss said, and the frostiness of her tone made Peeta shiver.

“Of course,” the other woman said. “We could start now?” All of Cressida’s brashness faded into supplication.

Rye and their father had come into the frontshop and were watching the exchange warily. Peeta stood back as Cressida introduced the rest of his family to Kat. “We can set up in the office,” Mr. Mellark said.

Katniss nodded and followed the others through the swinging doors. His father turned back to Peeta. “Could you bring back some coffee?” he asked, and Peeta’s heart sank. Twenty-six years old, and still low man on the totem pole, still the one who was given the grunt jobs, relegated to the wings, or just dismissed outright. As much as he loved the family business, he hated the family dynamic.

Stuck in the shadows or not, Peeta remembered a few things about Katniss that the rest of his family didn’t know, and one of those was her hatred of coffee. Oh, it was likely that she’d learned to tolerate it over the years, as he’d done himself. Still, he thought as he steamed milk; coffee drinkers are born, not made.

He carried a tray ladened with hot beverages back to the room that acted as staff lounge and office for the Mellark men and the handful of part-timers they employed. Already, half-filled plates littered the table top, various bakery items cut open, then abandoned. And at the head of the table like a queen commanding her court was Katniss, still wearing her Kat Flickerman expression, sheafs of yellow notebook paper scattered around her. Peeta set the tray of coffee in the middle of the table, but he grabbed the lone different cup and placed it wordlessly beside Katniss, then backed away, unwilling to disrupt her.

He couldn’t resist glancing back as he exited the room, and he found Katniss watching his retreat, surprise in her silver eyes and the barest hint of a smile stealing across her lush lips as she traced the rim of the mug of hot chocolate he’d brought her with a single slender finger.

o-o-o

Peeta was busy the rest of the day, manning the ovens, covering the phones, serving the lunch rush. His father reappeared a few times to make more coffee or grab something specific from the display cases, but there wasn’t an opportunity to talk. And with Rye occupied in the back, catering to the Capitolites, there wasn’t time for Peeta to take a break either. By the time the rush was over, and Peeta staggered to the back full-bladdered and empty-stomached, the film crew - and Kat Flickerman - were gone. His father was cleaning up the mess they’d left behind in the office, and Rye was staring at a sheet of yellow paper with a particularly sour expression on his face.

“What’s going on?” Peeta asked as he stuffed half a day-old scone in his mouth. Rye grunted, and tossed the paper his way.

“They want all of this ready and plated for that woman tomorrow evening.”

Peeta scanned the list. There were only six items, and all were things they’d typically make anyway. All except the goat cheese and apple tart - they hadn’t made that particular recipe in years. “I don’t understand–” he started, but Rye cut him off.

“She hated everything, she’s going to rip us to shit.” Peeta rolled his eyes, but held his tongue. There was no point in reminding Rye that this had all been his idea.

“It’s going to be fine,” their father’s tired voice broke the silence. “She never said she hated anything, Rye.”

“You saw her,” he barked. “Cutting everything up, barely picking at it before tossing it aside. Big city bitch, probably never tasted real bakery bread in her life.” It was on the tip of Peeta’s tongue to tell his brother that not only was Katniss not a big city girl, but he knew for certain she’d had Mellark’s cheese buns before. But before he could defend Katniss, Rye turned back to him and smirked. “She wants you to be the one on camera with her.”

Peeta nearly choked on his scone. “What?”

“Yeah,” he sneered. “Guess she can tell you’re easy to push around. Bet she makes you cry.” Rye had inherited their late mother’s cruel streak, though he hadn’t aimed it in Peeta’s direction much since her death.

“Fuck you, Rye,” Peeta spat. Rye only laughed.

“Save the backbone for the camera.”

“Boys,” their father groaned, but Peeta had had enough.

“You can close up alone, asshole,” he snipped at Rye, tossing his apron on the table and heading out the back door.

o-o-o

Filming would take place after normal working hours, when the bakery was closed, both to keep compliant with health codes, and to keep small-town busybodies from trying to usurp the spotlight. But that didn’t change the fact that it was a Wednesday. There were customers to serve and orders to fulfil on top of the list of bakery items the show producers wanted ready for closing.

Apparently, Rye’s bad mood persisted. He stormed into the kitchen hours late, after Peeta had done the entire morning prep himself and had been forced to call in frontshop reinforcements - his father and one of the summer students. Rye bashed around the kitchen and snapped at the customers for an hour until their father simply sent him home again.

“He’s just jealous,” Mr. Mellark told his younger son, “Because Katniss asked for you specifically.”

Peeta looked up from the cookie he was painting with delicate white blossoms and arrow-shaped leaves. “You remember her?” he asked, though it was clear his father did. The older man laughed.

“I’m not yet senile, Peet,” he smiled. “She looks different on television, but seeing her in person yesterday, she hasn’t changed much from that little girl who used to come in here with her daddy way back when.”

Peeta chuckled. “I’d say she’s changed a whole lot, Dad. She used to be so reserved.”

“I have a feeling she still is,” he said cryptically. “She certainly wasn’t having any of your brother’s flirting.” Peeta huffed out a laugh; after the way Rye had treated him over the previous twenty-four hours, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit of pleasure in the idea that Rye had struck out.

His own crush on Katniss had nothing to do with that satisfaction.

“She’s a big celebrity now, Dad. She wouldn’t have time for a small-town baker.”

“Not so sure about that either, but Rye wasn’t the baker she was watching,” he muttered before wandering out to the front shop to help the lone part-timer clean up.

Peeta didn’t have time to ponder what his father meant. There were still cupcakes to frost and cheese buns to bake, and the film crew was due within the hour.

o-o-o

A prep team came twenty minutes before closing to get him ready, parking their small trailer in the lot out back. They clipped and tousled and gelled his hair, then powdered his face. Peeta had dressed in a nice blue button down shirt, but that was nixed in favour of a soft red Henley the crew brought along with them, surprisingly in the right size. They even let him push the sleeves up, the way he was most comfortable.

The woman who arrived later with the film crew was the one he knew from television. In a starched white chef’s jacket, and with hair and makeup done, she was gorgeous, fierce, unforgettable.

Peeta was a goner.

He barely saw her, though, as the director demanded his attention, coaching him on what to expect. “Kat doesn’t work well with being told what to say,” she admitted. “So all of the questions tonight will be unscripted.” Peeta nodded. “Think of it as a laid-back chat with a friend,” Cressida smiled, and Peeta barely bit back a snort. Twelve years in the same schools and they’d barely exchanged ten words; a conversation with Katniss Everdeen would be anything but relaxed.

Another half hour of explaining camera blocking and marks, and finally Cressida led him to the front shop, which had been transformed into a stage. Hot lights blinded him, microphones dangled over his head and it felt like a thousand people were crammed into the space.

Then she was there, Katniss. But no, not Katniss, Kat Flickerman. Aloof and business-like, gorgeous but cold. Untouchable.

Everything went exactly as Cressida had explained. Kat asked him questions, about the history of the shop, about the recipes, about the little town where they’d both grown up (though she didn’t mention that part).

Though Peeta was gregarious by nature, this was so far out of his comfort zone, the cameras, the crowd, all of them fixated on him, watching him interact stiffly with the woman he’d had a crush on since before he even knew what that meant. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and more than once he stammered, fell over his own tongue or outright blanked on an answer. He could feel Katniss’s frustration mounting. The fourth (fifth? thirtieth?) time it happened, Katniss cringed and turned away. “Clear the set,” she bellowed.

The crew leapt to attention; within moments, they were alone. Peeta stared at his shoes while he waited for Katniss to dismiss him too. His father was back in the office, perhaps he could take over and save the show.

Then a small, cool hand landed on his forearm, startling him from his misery. “Take a deep breath,” she said. Her voice was gentle, not Kat Flickerman anymore, but Katniss, the woman he often thought of as his Katniss, though she wasn’t that either. But she smiled at him, the barest quirk of her perfect peach lips. And a deep, guttural sigh escaped him as he started to relax. “Good,” she murmured, her hand on his arm squeezing lightly. “Feeling better?” He could only nod.

She pulled over the plate with the delicate painted cookies, smiling softly at the flowers she clearly recognized. “These were always my favourite when I was a kid,” she murmured.

Peeta looked up in confusion. He knew how much Katniss liked Mellark’s cheese buns, but he couldn’t remember a single time she’d bought the cookies. As if reading his mind, she shrugged. “I’ve never eaten one,” she admitted, softly. “They’re far too pretty to eat. But I used to come by with my sister and look at them in the display window.

He could see it in his mind’s eye; Katniss, her hair in two glossy braids, holding the hand of a smaller blonde girl, both peeking through the window. “Not very often,” she whispered. “Your mom was kind of scary, she’d chase us off if we got too close to the glass.”

Peeta cringed, and started to apologize, but Katniss waved him off. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, still speaking softly, intimately. “You’ve never been anything but kind, always.” She looked away, laughing just lightly under her breath. “I always wondered how you could be so nice, having grown up with her.”

He shrugged, and deflected. “You should try a cookie now. Better late than never.”

Her smile widened, and it transformed her face, elevating her from beautiful to radiant. “Better late than never,” she murmured.

She didn’t eat the cookie, but they continued to talk, and Peeta got more and more comfortable. They talked about recipes - the age-old traditional wares that Mellark’s had been making for generations and the newer flavours and he and Rye enjoyed experimenting with. She admitted that she’d asked for the apple and goat cheese tart because it was one she remembered fondly, something her father had loved all of those years ago.

He filled her in on the things that had happened in Twelve since she moved away, their classmates, who had gotten married, who had children now. She was engrossed and engaged, reminiscing about people Peeta hadn’t even been sure she knew. She laughed at his anecdotes, and it was like bells ringing, clear and bright.

He even found himself telling her how much he loved the bakery, but how he longed to make it more, how he wanted Mellark’s to be a gathering spot, in tradition of the great Parisian cafés. “Have you been to Paris, Peeta?” she asked, and his smile faltered a little. Here he was talking about big cosmopolitan ideas when he’d never even left the district. Katniss, he knew, had been everywhere, had reviewed restaurants not just in Paris, but in Milan and Amsterdam and Vienna… what a fool she must think him, backward, small-town boy with grandiose ideas. He shook his head, embarrassed.

Katniss didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “Paris is awful,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Crowded and loud and it smells like cigarettes and pee.” Peeta laughed lightly and she grinned at him, disarming him completely. “But Twelve isn’t any of those things,” she murmured. “I think this is a perfect spot for a café. People are already drawn here, they already gather at Mellarks. It’s always been so warm and inviting here.” Her words tugged at his heart. That’s exactly how he’d always felt about the family business too, how he’d always hoped others would see it. “I know I’d love to sit here and watch the world go by.”

“With a hot chocolate?” Peeta teased lightly, and she looked away, shyly.

“And a cheese bun,” she murmured.

“I wish you would,” he said, barely breathing. “Come back sometime, I mean.” She met his eyes then, and a myriad of emotions played across her expressive face. He just couldn’t understand what they meant.

She took his hand, shocking him with how good, how intensely right it felt. She guided him over to where the largest of his paintings hung, a spring landscape of the meadow that was on the edge of town, dotted with clover and dandelions. “This is yours, isn’t it?” He nodded. “It’s gorgeous,” she breathed reverently. She paused, and Peeta could see her weighing her words. “I always thought you’d make a career in art, open a gallery maybe.”

Peeta sighed, looking down at where their hands were still linked. He knew she wasn’t intentionally trying to pick at the barely-healed wound of his dead dreams, but it stung.

“You were always drawing in school,” Katniss continued, oblivious to his turmoil. “You designed the yearbook cover one year, and you won that award when we were seniors.” She trailed off, and they stood silently for several long moments. Finally, Peeta blew out a forceful breath.

“My eldest brother was supposed to take over the bakery. He and my mom, they, uh. There was a car accident,” he whispered, voice cracking. He’d been offered a job right out of college, with a studio in the Capitol, but the accident that took his mother and brother forced him home. Katniss squeezed his hand, hard.

“I heard,” she admitted, and it surprised Peeta. The accident was almost four years ago, well after she moved her mother and sister out of this dumpy town, never to return. “I’m sorry.”

Peeta cleared his throat. “Anyway, my dad was all alone here after that, trying to run this place. So Rye and I agreed to become partners.”

They stood silently, looking over the meadow painting, lost in their thoughts. “Are you happy, Peeta?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“Sometimes,” he said. He was happy in that moment, talking with the girl of his dreams, holding her hand, feeling the warmth of her body just inches away. He was happy right then, and that was something at least.

There was a scuffling sound behind them and they sprang apart. It was the red-headed cameraman, tucked unobtrusively to the side. Peeta hadn’t noticed his return until that moment, so focussed was he on Katniss, on talking and connecting with her, something he had never imagined possible.

But all good things must come to an end. “Do you think you can go on? Just the three of us?” Katniss asked. And Peeta nodded.

o-o-o

It was late when Peeta finally staggered home to the apartment he shared, often reluctantly, with Rye. The set tear-down had been pandemonium, people and equipment flying like a tempest, a whirlwind of follow up questions and paperwork and releases and by the time he could take a deep breath, Katniss was gone, slipped away like a thief in the night without even a farewell, before he could ask her if she’d like to go out with him sometime. And while he was trying not to be disappointed, the fact that after they’d shared what he had thought was a real connection she’d simply vanished without a word hurt more than he wanted to admit.

“How did it go?” Rye’s voice drifted from their shared living room. Peeta popped his head in. Rye was slumped on the couch, a tumbler of what could only be whiskey balanced on his thigh.

“Seemed okay,” Peeta said, carefully. It was hard enough to gauge Rye’s mood when he wasn’t drinking, with the addition of alcohol he wasn’t sure which version of his brother he’d find.

Rye smirked, then lifted his other hand, tipping the bottle in Peeta’s direction. “Have a drink with me,” he said. Still, Peeta hesitated. Rye shook his head. “I’m not going to rip your head off, little brother.”

Peeta grabbed a glass from the sideboard and Rye filled it with a couple of fingers of liquid fire. For a while, they simply sipped in silence. “I’m sorry I was a dick earlier,” Rye said quietly.

Knowing how much it cost his brother to apologize, Peeta nodded. He wasn’t really a grudge holder anyway. “It’s fine,” he said.

“It’s not though.” Rye sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “I was really hoping this show would be the wake-up call Dad needed to let us make real changes at the bakery. It was supposed to be him in front of the camera, getting dressed down by that woman. When she insisted on you, I saw red.” Rye sighed, and downed the remainder of his glass. “You know he’s going to blame us now for every shitty thing she says.” Rye’s bleary eyes met Peeta’s. “If we’re going to be stuck here forever, we should at least be able to drag this place into the modern era.”

Peeta felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. He wasn’t the only one who’d had to give up his dreams for the future to come help their father run the business that neither of them had ever planned on inheriting. Rye’d had big city plans and a big city girlfriend who dumped him when he moved back home to sleepy District Twelve. He had every right to be bitter, even if he sometimes chose inappropriate targets to lash out at.

“She didn’t say anything mean, anyway,” Peeta said. “The whole thing was pretty tame. Not at all what I was expecting.” The beginning had been rough, but he felt good about what they’d filmed after he’d calmed down. He thought he’d presented Mellark’s in a pretty good light, all things told.

“Naw,” Rye said with a sigh. “They’ll add all of that in later. It’s always voiceovers.” That idea shocked Peeta. Was that possible? Would the screaming, nasty Kat Flickerman only make an appearance in the finished version? Surely not?

o-o-o

Days, and then weeks, passed, and while Peeta thought about Katniss often, there wasn’t a peep from her. Not an email, not a phone call, nothing. A cameraman returned to film some exterior and kitchen shots, and though Peeta tried to ask him about Katniss, he was all but mute on the subject.

There had been something between them, that evening in the bakery, he was sure of it, sure she’d felt it too. He couldn’t understand why she’d disappeared. She hadn’t even said goodbye. As if he hadn’t mattered at all.

Rye’s words rolled around his head, festered, made him doubt everything from that day. He compulsively rewatched old episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, looking for any hint that the screaming and cursing was added in after the fact. It was impossible to tell. But with every installment, his memories of sweet Katniss faded, replaced by the snarling mutt.

With every day that passed, his mood plummeted further. Because Rye was right: the majority of the screaming and vitriol could well have been voiced over. He just couldn’t tell what was real and what was not real

A message on the bakery phone almost two months after the filming convinced him. One of the producers wanted to give them a ‘heads up’ on what to expect for the broadcast, scheduled for the next week. It could only have been a warning. He was about to appear on national television looking like a chump, as useless and pathetic as his mother had always told him he was. Peeta deleted the message without even telling his father or brother about it.

There were two more calls after that. Peeta deleted both of those messages too, unheard. The only thing he couldn’t delete was the ache in his heart.

Every gentle thing she’d said to relax him, to ease him back in front of the camera, it had all been lies. Katniss, no, Kat, had used their past, their tenuous connection, just to manipulate him. Just to make him look like the idiot he was.

o-o-o

“I booked the lodge for our viewing party.”

Peeta glanced up from the wedding cake he was working on to stare at his father in confusion. “What?”

“With how many people want to watch the show, I can’t fit them all in at the house.” Peeta’s father still stubbornly lived alone in the bungalow where Peeta had grown up. It was large enough to host two dozen or so, at least.

“They all have televisions, they can watch at home,” Peeta grumbled. Despite his best efforts to ignore the existence of Kat Flickerman’s show entirely, the local station had been aggressively promoting the upcoming episode. Someone from the morning news had been in the week before, interviewing Rye and their father. Peeta had refused to take part.

“My boy,” his father laughed, steadfastly ignoring Peeta’s pique, as he had for weeks. As they’d all done for weeks. His mood had gotten progressively worse the more he thought about Katniss and how she’d used him, and he knew everyone around him could tell. “This is a great occasion! Our little bakery on national television. Of course we’re going to celebrate with all of our friends and customers.” Peeta cringed, but his father continued, undeterred. “I wish my own father was here to see it.”

The reminder of how much this meant to his father had Peeta feeling even worse. “Dad, it’ll be embarrassing, for all of us. I’m going to look like an idiot. People are going to stay away from Mellark’s after that.” He knew he sounded petulant but he didn’t care.

His father smiled. “I spoke with that director, Peet, the one with the strange tattoos? She called the house the other night.” Peeta groaned inwardly; he’d underestimated that woman’s tenacity. “She says the show looks great, that you were a natural.” Peeta knew there was no point arguing with his father. Once the elder Mellark had his mind set, he was intractable.

“How many people did you invite?” Peeta groused.

“Oh sixty, maybe. Plus the guys from the bowling league.” Peeta’s heart sank; at this rate, the entire town was going to be witness to his humiliation. “But don’t worry, I’m having Rooba cater it.”

“Geez, Dad, don’t you think that’s too much?” The elder Mellark set down his own piping bag and grasped his son’s shoulders, turning him until they were face to face.

“What’s gotten into you, son? You’re not usually this pessimistic,” he said, his hands squeezing soothingly. It took every bit of Peeta’s strength to hold his tongue. As much as he loved his father, the shame was his alone to bear.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “I just don’t think it went very well.” The two men stared at each other, and Peeta knew without a doubt that his father hadn’t bought his explanation. But he wasn’t ready to share his heartbreak, his stupidity. He’d been so caught up in that long-held crush he’d almost willfully ignored reality. Mr. Mellark simply sighed.

“I wish you’d talk to me Peeta. But okay.” He clapped Peeta on the shoulder, and turned back to his work.

o-o-o

Three days before the show was to air, there was a call on Peeta’s cell from an unfamiliar number. He let it go to voicemail. The bakery phone had been ringing non-stop it seemed with calls from media outlets, wanting interviews in advance of the airing. He assumed one of his well-meaning friends had given his number to someone at the D12 Gazette.

But when he picked up the message later, he nearly dropped his phone in the sink.

It was Katniss.

The message was brief, simply a request for him to return her call and a number, her number.

Peeta had no intention of calling her back. But it didn’t stop him from listening to the message five, ten, fifteen times.

There were two more messages the next day. He wanted to delete them unheard, but he couldn’t. Even wounded and wary, the bone-deep need to hear her voice prevailed. The content of each was the same, but her tone seemed progressively more urgent. The sound of her voice, the way she called herself Katniss instead of Kat, all of it pulled at his heartstrings, confused him even more.

The same cowardice and insecurity that had kept him from seeking her out their whole childhood silenced him now. Though his fingers twitched to redial her number, he did nothing.

o-o-o

“I said no, Dad.” Peeta knew he was being petulant but on this point he was firm: he was not going to his father’s viewing party. He’d capitulated to helping his father set up, he wasn’t a complete dick. But he’d decided the best thing for him to do would be to hole up in his apartment during the actual airing.

If only because he couldn’t get a last minute flight out of the country.

Rye, ironically, had been the most understanding about Peeta’s desire to avoid the show and all of the insanity their father was planning around it. “I’ll text you,” he said the evening before, when Peeta told him he wasn’t even intending on watching. “Let you know how bad it is.”

“I just don’t understand what you’re afraid of,” Mr. Mellark said with a shake of his head. “You’re going to be on national television, it’s exciting. The promos look terrific.” Those, Peeta had been unable to avoid. And while they hadn’t looked scathing, he no longer trusted his instincts.

“You’ve watched her other shows,” he groaned, the thousandth time he’d made the same argument, but his father was having none of it.

“This was different and you know it. You had a connection with Katniss, we could all see it.”

“Stop,” Peeta barked, and his father’s eyes widened. Peeta cringed, sad and ashamed of himself for taking his foul mood out on his father. “That was just for the cameras,” he said softly, giving voice to what his head had been telling him for weeks. “None of that was real.”

“You’re wrong, Peet. I know what I saw.”

“You know I had a crush on her, that’s all,” Peeta groaned, but his father cut him off.

“No,” has said firmly. “I saw how she looked at you.”

“Then why did she disappear? Two months, Dad, and not a word.” It wasn’t completely accurate, but Peeta wasn’t going to mention the messages to his father, who would surely read more into them than was there.

“I don’t know, son. Maybe for the same reason you’re avoiding her now.” Peeta shot a startled look at his father, who simply shook his head.

o-o-o

Peeta paced his apartment like a caged tiger, the dark television taunting him. The broadcast was scheduled to start any minute, his father’s party was more than an hour old, and he was alone with only a six pack of microbrew and his demons to keep him company.

One last message had come to his phone just a couple of hours earlier, a text message this time. Please talk to me, Peeta, was all it read. He’d been so tempted, so damned tempted to reply. Had started typing a dozen times, but erased every word. What could they possibly have to say to each other now? Too much time had passed.

The television called to him though, a siren song he was powerless to resist. He told himself he’d only watch the beginning, would shut it off as soon as she started yelling. But the moment Katniss appeared onscreen in the opening credits, beautiful face larger than life with glossed lips smirking, he knew he wouldn’t be able to look away.

The tone of the program was markedly different from her Kitchen Nightmares shows. The camera showed flattering pictures of the exterior and interior of the bakery while his own voice spoke overtop, recounting the history, the generations of Mellarks who had lovingly built the bakery into the the hub of District Twelve that it was.

But that was only the beginning.

The video unfurled almost like a love letter. But not to the bakery, or not exactly anyway. Instead, it showed Peeta himself, over and over. Peeta painstakingly frosting gorgeous cupcakes. Peeta laughing with a customer. Peeta kneeling before one of the small children that frequented the shop, handing her a cookie from the jar he kept behind the counter. Typical scenes from his everyday work, scenes he hadn’t even realized he’d been filmed in. Over and over he was shown smiling, laughing, creating.

Finally, Kat Flickerman began to speak. Rye was right that her part would be voiceovers, would be words she hadn’t spoken during the interview. But there was no swearing, no cursing. No yelling about the quality of the food or the shabbiness of the surroundings. No idiot sandwiches.

Kat Flickerman, Katniss, talked about the warm, welcoming atmosphere at Mellark’s, the three kind bakers who treated every customer like a friend. She paraphrased Peeta’s own hushed confessions about the improvements he wanted to make, and presented them as if they were things already planned to be implemented. Peeta, sitting on the couch in his apartment, laughed out loud. Somehow, Katniss had managed to manipulate the entire show in a way that would force his father to bring Mellark’s into the modern era after all. As if she knew exactly what he wanted.

Of course, she had known. He’d told her, when they’d spoken so intimately, about his hopes. He hadn’t realized how closely she was listening. But now, as he thought back, he understood that she’d directed their discussion back to his dreams for the future, time and again, and then worked all of those things into the show.

All but the one he hadn’t confessed. How he felt about her. How he thought she was gorgeous, more radiant than the sun. And now, because he’d wasted so long being wounded, he’d never get the chance.

His phone buzzed near continuously on the table beside him, but he didn’t spare it a glance.

As the ending credits rolled, there was a gentle tap-tap-tap at the apartment door. It could have been any number of people, friends or neighbours who knew he was home. But as he stood to answer, he was struck with the certainty that it was Katniss standing on the other side.

His hands shook as he unbolted the door and pulled it open. She wore a dress the colour of candlelight, her hair was loose and she had just a hint of makeup. “You didn’t come to the party,” she said, a glint of accusation in her silver eyes.

“I didn’t know you’d be there,” he said honestly, unblinking as he took her in. As if he could have forgotten how beautiful she was, watching her shows compulsively over the past few weeks. But the camera never captured her luminosity, the way she lit up a room, commanded the attention of everyone within it. He was awestruck.

“Your father invited me,” she murmured. “Can I come in?” Peeta shook off his stupor and ushered her into his space with a muttered apology.

The television still blared, playing a Food Network promo, and Peeta quickly muted it. “Did, you, uh. Did you want a drink? Beer?” Peeta asked, not meeting her eyes. She nodded.

Only when they were settled side by side on his couch did Katniss speak again. “You watched?” It wasn’t a question, not really. Peeta nodded. She raised a single eyebrow at him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“It wasn’t what I expected,” he said quietly. She frowned.

“You were waiting for me to scream, rip apart your family business, destroy your reputation?” There was no amusement in her tone. Peeta felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Kind of,” he admitted.

She’s silent for a long time, picking at the edge of the label on her bottle. “Did you really think I’d do that to you?” she asked, and there was a fragility, a vulnerability to the words.

Peeta sighed. “I didn’t know what to think,” he said.

“I thought…” She sighed. “The way we… connected,” she whispered. “I guess I thought you’d know.”

Peeta battled with himself briefly, whether to be honest with her or not. The warm room, the beer and the uncertainty in her eyes convinced him. “I couldn’t tell what was real,” he said, “and what was for the camera.”

“You really thought I’d manipulate you like that?” Katniss stared at the bottle in her hands, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I know my reputation, I know that people think I’m a bitch,” she said softly. “But we’ve known each other since we were children. I thought you knew me. The real me, at least a little.” She glanced up at him and his breath caught. She was so open, so guileless. But he still wasn’t certain what to believe.

“We never really spoke, back then,” he said. “And I know that was my fault. I was a coward.”

Katniss shook her head. “You were always kind, even when no one else noticed I existed. You saved me back then, you know. When my mom lost herself.” Those stunning silver eyes searched his own. “I owe you.”

“You’ve never owed me anything,” Peeta said, but Katniss wasn’t done talking. She set her bottle on the table and turned slightly to face him.

“That’s why I did this show. To pay you back.” Peeta was more confused than ever. “I had a plan,” she continued. “When I heard that you were here, instead of in the Capitol, I started lobbying the network to create this show.”

“What?”

“Delly Cartwright,” she said. “My sister keeps in touch with her brother. She said that you were back home, running the bakery. It took awhile to get the go-ahead for this show.” He’d been at the bakery more than three years, surely she didn’t mean that long? “I’ve always kept track of you,” she said, answering his unasked question.

“Why?” His voice was hoarse. She shrugged helplessly. “You disappeared, after the taping,” he blurted. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was really confused. And afraid.”

“Of me?” Peeta was incredulous.

“I’ve never been able to forget you, Peeta. I only intended on breezing in, giving you some publicity, then leaving again.” She brushed her hands together, as if wiping him away. “I thought paying you back would get you out of my mind.” Peeta flinched; that hurt to hear. He dropped his gaze to the bottle in his hands and swallowed back his disappointment.

“But then I got here,” she continued. “And you were even nicer than I remembered. And…” He glanced up at the pause. She was biting her bottom lip, her cheeks were flaming. “And even more handsome. I didn’t expect to be so attracted to you,” she whispered.

They stared at each other, the air between them charged. Then Katniss began to squirm, as if embarrassed.

“I’ve had a crush on you for as long as I can remember,” Peeta said, and Katniss’s eyes widened.

“Me?” she squeaked.

“You really don’t understand the effect you have on me. That’s why I was such a doofus when you were at the bakery. I’ve never known how to talk to you.”

“You did just fine,” she smiled, tiny and tentative, but real. “I didn’t want to leave. It, uh. Well, it scared the crap out of me. I’m not very good with people.”

“You’re here now,” he said. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Katniss said. “But I want to find out.”

She shuffled just a tiny bit closer to him, and he reached out a tentative hand to cup her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, thick black lashes brushing her cheek. When he finally pressed his lips against hers, she sighed, and in that tiny, involuntary noise he found certainty.

The kiss was slow, almost chaste, a teaser of what could be possible.

A slow smile spread across his face as he pulled back, staring into her hazy silver eyes. Was it possible, that they could be on the same page? But as quickly as the hope flared it his chest, it was extinguished. Katniss, Kat, had a life, a busy life full of travel and tapings and all of it far from sleepy District Twelve. What they shared at the bakery, what they were sharing now, that was all they’d ever get. His hand dropped into his lap, his eyes followed suit.

“I, um. I’m going to be producing the new show out of a little studio in Victor’s Village,” she said. “I signed the lease on the studio space three weeks ago.” They were still so close that he could feel the words on his skin, a caress. A promise.

Victor’s Village was only a twenty minute drive away. Peeta shook his head, certain he’d heard wrong. “I thought you lived in the Capitol?”

“I do, or, well, I did anyway,” Katniss said. “I moved my mother there as soon as I could afford to. It was too hard for her, being in Twelve, surrounded by all of her memories.” Katniss pursed her lips, and Peeta’s eyes were drawn to them, plump and perfectly kissable. Lips he’d now tasted, after so many years of imagining. “But it’s the opposite for me,” she continued. “I hate the Capitol, I hate the noise and the crowds and the smell. Being back here, it made me realize how much I missed it. Missed home.”

“You’re going to be living in Victor’s Village?” Peeta asked, still struggling to understand what was happening. Katniss shrugged.

“I was thinking twenty minutes isn’t such a bad commute. Maybe…” she trailed off, then sighed. “Maybe it’s time for me to come home, where I belong.”

“To Twelve?” He could hardly breathe.

“I’d still have to travel a lot, for filmings. But yeah.” She laughed. “The people here, they don’t care about Kat Flickerman. To them, I’m Russ Everdeen’s kid, not some hot shot television personality. I walked here, from your dad’s party, and there was no paparazzi, no TMZ following my every move. There was just old Mr. Mitchell waving at me from his porch and asking after my mother.”

This time, Katniss reached for him, her small hand cool against his feverish skin. “And you’re here,” she whispered, just before she kissed him. This time, he was the one moaning as her tongue curled around his own.

With a little tug, she was in his lap, and he marvelled at how perfectly her body fit against his, how right she felt in his arms. Kissing Katniss Everdeen was incredible, something he was certain he’d never get enough of.

“Peeta,” she whispered against his lips. “I want–”

The door to the apartment crashed open, startling Peeta, pulling them apart. “Peet, why aren’t you answering your phone? You’ll never– oh.” Rye stood before them, slack-jawed. Katniss buried her face in Peeta’s shoulder, but he could feel her smile.  

“Okay,” Rye chuckled. “Yeah. This uh. This makes a lot of sense. I’ll just…” He turned back towards the door.

“Rye,” Peeta called before his brother could leave. “Is Dad okay?”

Rye glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. “Yeah, man. He really is. I’ll tell you more later. Or tomorrow.” And with one last laugh, he was gone.

“Cockblocked,” Peeta groaned, and Katniss laughed, hugging him tightly. He stroked her hair as his heart rate slowed.

Peeta smiled down at the woman in his arms, who was still laughing softly. He kissed the tip of her nose. Though he longed to go right back to making out with her, he was grateful for the interruption. After waiting so long, they both deserved to do things right. “Have you eaten?” he asked. She shook her head. “Let me take you out for dinner,” he said, the words he’d wanted to say all of those weeks ago.

“I’d like that,” Katniss smiled.

————–

I wish you would write a fic where...

[mastcomm]

‘Gentefied’ Asks, Can a Show About Gentrification Be Funny?

LOS ANGELES — On a crisp afternoon in Boyle Heights, just weeks before the Feb. 21 debut of the new bilingual Netflix series “Gentefied,” the main cast gathered at Santa Cecilia in Mariachi Plaza, a restaurant named for the patron saint of musicos. The Mexican actor Joaquín Cosío, best known in these parts for playing a wisecracking narco in the cult hit “El Infierno,” sat dressed in a gray sport coat over a plain black shirt as the plates were passed around. He smiled wide.

The younger cast members of “Gentefied,” who play his four grandchildren, call him by his character’s name, Pops, even in real life. This day was no exception.

“This is the strength of ‘Gentefied,’” he said in Spanish. “Each character is so well-defined that it feels like we are actually a family sometimes.”

Carlos Santos, who plays Chris, one of the grandchildren, agreed. “It’s that feeling of that you want to belong,” he said. “You want to be a part of something.”

That spirit of belonging was one the creators, Marvin Lemus and Linda Yvette Chávez, had worked hard to cultivate for “Gentefied,” a comedy that makes gentrification a central theme. But making sure the community felt like part of the project, too, had been challenging. At its core, gentrification is about what it means to belong. And few places in Los Angeles are more hotly contested in those terms than Boyle Heights, the mostly Hispanic neighborhood where the series is set and was filmed.

Reminders were everywhere. Lemus and Chávez got one last month while walking down a nearby block of First Street, drinking cafe de olla from polystyrene cups. It was a chilly morning for Los Angeles, and they were geeking out because their official trailer had just dropped. Soon they were standing a few steps from the coffee shop where they had written the original pilot.

Except that the coffee shop had been squeezed out; in its place, a large pink building was fenced up for construction. A homeless man slept out front.

“At least I heard this is going to be a new Mexican spot,” Chávez said.

Had they written this moment into the pilot, it might have felt contrived. Instead it underscored the challenges of creating a series that will bring underrepresented voices to the screen but also more attention to a community already besieged by rising rents: Can a show about gentrification be funny? And who gets to tell the story of Boyle Heights?

“Everybody’s trying to figure it out — all we know is that we love our people and we don’t want them to be hurt,” Chávez said.

The challenge, she added, was to determine how to “create something that shows their humanity” but also pushes viewers to ask, “‘How the hell am I impacting things with gentrification?’”

Few shows depict the Hispanic experience in the United States from a Hispanic perspective, which seems to place an extra burden of responsibility on those that do. Reboots of the family drama “Party of Five” and the sitcom “One Day at a Time,” both of which swapped out the white families of the original versions for Hispanic ones, have centered on heavy issues like racism and immigration. The Starz series “Vida” tackled gentrification in its first season — and was boycotted by the activist group Defend Boyle Heights for making one of its lead characters a member.

In “Gentefied,” a family owned taco shop faces a rent hike that may shutter the business and break apart the family. Meanwhile, the family itself is being pulled in different directions by its members’ needs and ambitions.

It’s a tension common to immigrant clans, including those of the creators, both children of Latin American immigrants. (Lemus is originally from Bakersfield, Calif.; Chávez is from southeast Los Angeles County.) It also complicates the picture of gentrification, which is often oversimplified: The show’s title — a play on the English word “gentrified” and the Spanish word “gente,” for people — refers to when educated and affluent Hispanics return to their old neighborhoods and wind up negatively affecting existing residents.

“That was what we try to explore with every single character in the show,” Lemus explained. Chris is an aspiring chef with bourgeois tastes who gets grief for being “too white” or not “a real Mexican.” The other grandson, Erik (J.J. Soria), wants to get his life together and build a family in a changing Boyle Heights.

“Some characters really are ride-or-die for the community,” Lemus added. “Some are a little more about self.”

The granddaughter, Ana (Karrie Martin), embodies both impulses. A queer artist with an insatiable appetite (literally and figuratively), she wants to become famous and travel the world. And she wants to help her grandfather. And she wants to please her girlfriend, a community organizer who equates art galleries with gentrification.

Martin, whose Honduran family settled in New Orleans “because it was the port that felt most Caribbean,” said that she and Ana were very different (except for the big appetite). The differences, however, had pushed her to explore her own identity more deeply.

“There’s pieces of me that I found when playing her,” she said as her castmates ordered another plate of carnitas. “I was like, ‘Oh, I can live in this power, in this strength.’”

The show itself has had a complex life, too. Pitched in 2015 as a series of web shorts, it drew attention early from the Emmy-winning actress America Ferrera (“Ugly Betty,” “Superstore”), who read and loved the original pilot.

“When I dig deeper into the gentrification as a metaphor, it feels so personal to my experience growing up,” she said in a phone interview. “That kind of push and pull between being rooted in history and ancestry and that mission to progress: It’s a very complicated conversation.”

Ferrera signed on as an executive producer and appeared in a cameo, and by May 2016 the web series had wrapped production and released a trailer. (“No cartels, no guns, no drugs,” an interstitial text reads. “Maybe a little weed.”) It was clear there was an audience right away.

“The trailer dropped and that went viral,” Chávez said. “People were loving it.”

The shorts debuted at Sundance the next year, around which time, Lemus said, they received six offers to produce a network version. But the team went with Netflix because they believed it would have the widest distribution. (The original web series never appeared online.)

“I want my little cousins who live in, like, the hood of Bakersfield with their stolen passwords to be able to watch it,” he said. “We wanted everyone to watch it.”

Ferrera, who directed two episodes and was born in Los Angeles to Honduran immigrants, said she was “more than certain there are millions of people like me who would love to see the world that Marvin and Linda created.”

True as that may be, feelings were complicated in Boyle Heights, where some activists have accused the producers of trying to profit from their plight.

“As we started to learn more about the bigger struggles in Boyle Heights and the community members who fight so passionately for it,” Chávez said, “we started to realize: ‘OK, how are we contributing or complicating this issue?’”

In response, Lemus and Chávez made efforts to involve people from the neighborhood, eventually winning some of them over. They met with community leaders and recruited locals to act in the original trailer from 2016. Even an activist from the group Defend Boyle Heights praised “Gentefied” during a public event at the time, though the group has been more critical of the show since.

Lemus admits he has at times felt guilty about not being from Boyle Heights. But ultimately, he and Chávez decided it was good for Hispanic creators to tell Hispanic stories.

“Every show or every film that’s been done about us for the longest time were only told through this poverty-porn mentality,” Lemus said. “It’s always like, we’re riding down a dusty road in the back of a truck. And I’m like, we’re American. We wanted to make something American.”

Chávez added: “I grew up here. I can see the beauty in every person walking down the street and see my cousins and the people I love in them, and I’m going to write from that place.

“A lot of times people aren’t that, and they’re writing about our community. So what they see is what they’re scared of.”

Back at Santa Cecilia, Soria, who plays Erik, laughed and ate tacos de carnitas with his castmates. He knows about the fear Chávez described — how it precludes opportunity, influences behavior. He’s from a neighborhood much like Boyle Heights, El Sereno, just a few miles away — a Los Angeles hood kid who once got blocked from joining the police department because he was still on probation for trying to stab a person.

“I realized I was trying to prove I was tough to people who didn’t even care about me,” he said.

He has played a lot of gangsters in his career, but his real life today looks nothing like that. One might think that as a local Mexican-American who carries much of the show, he would feel most acutely the various pressures surrounding it. But he didn’t seem worried, or preoccupied with the task of representing an entire community.

“Nah, I don’t have that,” Soria said calmly between bites. “This is my experience of it, you know?”

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/entertainment/gentefied-asks-can-a-show-about-gentrification-be-funny/

[doodlenomics]

Food is comforting. Reading about food is as comforting if not more because as you read, you become aware of that feeling (which we often define as ‘comfort’) shared by others. In other words, maybe you had an omelette at a certain time of the day with some things on your mind or perhaps nothing at all, and you believe it to be the best omelette you’ve had. The reason for this, unclear but you just know it. And then you read something similar about someone else and think, “YES!” (because that overwhelming feeling is indescribable so let’s stick to ‘YES!’). A book that did something similar for me was My Life in France by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme.

Julia Child needs no introduction but if you want to know a bit, the easiest, most charming way to know her is to watch Julie & Julia (again, one of my favorite movies. I love you, Nora Ephron), a movie based on a novel by Julie Powell who as a young New Yorker, tired of the monotony of her job, seeks to channel her love for cooking in a disciplined manner by setting up a blog about actually cooking ALL of Julia Child’s recipes! If you haven’t watched this movie, watch it later tonight with a bowl of onion soup (Julia’s recipe, of course!) or if you’ve watched it already, watch it again- I’m sure you do anyway. I know I do :)

Here’s an excerpt from My Life in France where Julia recollects her initial food experiences in France:

  CHAPTER 1 – LA BELLE FRANCE, PART II – SOLE MEUNIÈRE

It was warm inside, and the dining room was a comfortably old-fashioned brown-and-white space, neither humble nor luxurious. At the far end was an enormous fireplace with a rotary spit, on which something was cooking that sent out heavenly aromas. We were greeted by the maître d’hôtel, a slim middle-aged man with dark hair who carried himself with an air of gentle seriousness. Paul spoke to him, and the maître d’ smiled and said something back in a familiar way, as if they were old friends. Then he led us to a nice table not far from the fireplace. The other customers were all French, and I noticed that they were treated with exactly the same courtesy as we were. Nobody rolled their eyes at us or stuck their nose in the air. Actually, the staff seemed happy to see us.

As we sat down, I heard two businessmen in gray suits at the next table asking questions of their waiter, an older, dignified man who gesticulated with a menu and answered them at length.

“What are they talking about?” I whispered to Paul.

“The waiter is telling them about the chicken they ordered,” he whispered back. “How it was raised, how it will be cooked, and what side dishes they can have with it, ad which wines would go with it best.”

“Wine?” I said. “At lunch?” I had never drunk much wine other than some $1.19 California Burgundy, and certainly not in the middle of the day.

In France, Paul explained, good cooking was regarded as a combination of national sport and high art, and wine was always served with lunch and dinner. “The trick is moderation,” he said.

Suddenly the dining room filled with wonderfully intermixing aromas that I sort of recognized but couldn’t name. The first smell was something oniony – “shallots,” Paul identified it, “being sautéed in fresh butter.” (“What’s a shallot?” I asked, sheepishly. “You’ll see,” he said.) Then came a warm and winy fragrance from the kitchen, which was probably a delicious sauce being reduced on the stove. This was followed by  whiff of something astringent: the salad being tossed in a big ceramic bowl with lemon, wine vinegar, olive oil, and a few shakes of salt and pepper.

My stomach gurgled with hunger.

I couldn’t help noticing that the waiters carried themselves with a quiet joy, as if their entire mission in life was to make their customers feel comfortable and well tended. One of them glided up to my elbow. Glancing at the menu, Paul asked him questions in rapid-fire French. The waiter seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth with my husband. Oh, how I itched to be in on their conversation! Instead, I smiled and nodded uncomprehendingly, although I tried to absord all that was going on around me.

We began our lunch with a half-dozen oysters on the half-shell. I was used to bland oysters from Washington and Massachusetts, which I had never cared much for. But this platter of portugaises had a sensational briny lavor and a smooth texture that was entirely new and surprising. The oysters were served with rounds of pain de seigle, a pale rye bread, with a spread of unsalted butter. Paul explained that, as with wine, the French have “crus” of butter, special regions that produce individually flavoured butters. Beurre de Charentes is a full-bodied butter, usually recommended for pastry dough or general cooking; beurre d’Isigny is a fine, light table butter. It was that delicious Isigny that we spread on our rounds of rye.

Rouen is famous for its duck dishes, but after consulting the waiter Paul had decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole: A large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said: “Bon appétit!”

I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvellously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection.

In Pasadena, we used to have broiled mackerel for Friday dinners, codfish balls with egg sauce, “boiled” (poached) salmon on the Fourth of July, and the occasional pan-fried trout when camping in the Sierras. But at La Couronne I experienced fish, and a dining experience, of a higher order than any I’d ever had before.

Along with our meal, we happily downed a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, a wonderfully crisp white wine from the Loire Valley. Another revelation!

Then came salad verte laced with a lightly acidic vinaigrette. And I tasted my first real baguette- a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale-yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum!

We followed our meal with a leisurely dessert of fromage blanc, and ended with  strong, dark café filter. The waiter placed before us a cup topped with a metal canister, which contained coffee grounds and boiling water. With some urging by us impatient drinkers, the water eventually filtered down into the cup below. It was fun, and it provided a distinctive dark brew.

Paul paid the bill and chatted with the maître d’, telling him how much he looked forward to going back to Paris for the first time in eighteen years. The maître d’ smiled as he scribbled something on the back of a card. “Tiens,” he said, handling it to me. The Dorin family, who owned La Couronne, also owned a restaurant in Paris, called La Truite, he explained, while Paul translated. On the card he had scribbled a note of introduction for us.

“Mairci, monsoor,” I said, with a flash of courage and an accent that sounded bad even to my own ear. The waiter nodded as if it were nothing, and moved off to greet some new customers.

Paul and I floated out the door into the brilliant sunshine and cool air. Our first lunch together in France had been absolute perfection. It was the most exciting meal of my life.

  These days, I have been watching episodes of Julia’s show The French Chef on YouTube (Thanks to all the wonderful people posting meaningful content online!). Yesterday, while watching one of those episodes, more specifically, The Omelette Show, I began sketching as Julia instructed her viewers about which pan to opt for the perfect omelette and of course, what really IS a perfect omelette?

Here’s my sketch of The French Chef | The Omelette Show with Julia Child- 

Watch the video of The Omelette Show here:

    The most exciting meal of Julia Child's life. A morsel of perfection, she called it. Food is comforting. Reading about food is as comforting if not more because as you read,