#JOs SMolders

[maracllea]

Paul Atreides, the harbinger

bone, yrsa daley-ward, dune exposures, greig fraser & josh brolin / soft (rewritten), kiana azizian / noli foras ire, roberto ferri / prayer for the newly damned, ocean vuong / @toneelspeelster / Satan, Sin and Death (Paradise Lost, Book the 2nd), after 1790 + Dante Alighieri / @won-der-land89 / @lostcap / dune exposures, greig fraser & josh brolin / this / dune exposures, greig fraser & josh brolin / dune messiah, frank herbert @iwasborn-hungry / gloryland, plyxy / ioss, jos smolders / this / for your own good, leah horlick / dune exposures, greig fraiser & josh brolin / this

[katsheadinclouds]

Romance

Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: The night is always easier for Javier when he's with you, even if it means thinking about the possibility of ending up alone. Maybe this time he's done running away from happiness.

warnings: secret relationship, smutty happenings and thoughts, mild angst, smoking, mention of drinking, hopeful ending, no pronouns for reader, no use of y/n, reader is a blank canvas. Not beta read! If I forgot something, please let me know.

word count: 2.4k

notes: The happiest of birthdays to Jo, undercoverpena 💛💛💛 I hope you've had the most amazing time celebrating and I'm wishing you the best on this new trip around the sun. You've written one of my favorite fics ever and to be on this platform and reading the art that you share has been a massive privilege. Thank you for making this fandom feel safe. You gave me this lovely tan color called desert sands as my chosen shade on your birthday bash roulette and my mind went immediately to our man Javier and one of the shirts he wears. I hope you, and anyone else who might read this, enjoy your time with this fic.

dividers by saradika

In the night, Javier stands by the open window. The sounds from the street come in through it, an ambulance and police cars with their sirens blaring make his heart thump uncomfortably in his chest. The cigarette between his fingers smolders bright, the smoke burns in his lungs, yet he relies on it like nothing else could understand him fully.

He’s pouring his stress into it. The already aching muscles irritated from chasing after people who Javier knows are always two steps ahead of them and their efforts to stop the violence. His gun in its holster, unceremoniously laying on the floor, is a reminder of the violence he’s feeding into. What other option does he have? Anything and everything they do, he does, never seems to be enough.

You stir in your sleep. Javier’s tan shirt is resting on your shoulders. It doesn’t cover your bare skin below your hips. Javier pulls another breath of smoke into his lungs, and then one more, while watching your slumber. Your back rises and falls in a slow rhythm, peaceful, far away from the stress and adrenaline you both carry at work every day.

You shouldn’t have asked him to come home with you that one evening a few months ago after a night out at a bar. You shouldn’t have gotten the courage to make a move. You shouldn’t have wrapped your lips around the cigarette he was smoking, still between his fingers, your eyes glued to his when you thanked him for sharing his smoke.

You shouldn’t have touched his thigh under the table with your hand, shown him what you wanted from him. And you certainly shouldn’t have wrapped your lips around him, kneeling on your bedroom floor, your eyes adoring every inch of him. Your hands on him. His hands in your hair, unable to resist your advantages.

You act like nothing ever happens between the two of you outside of work. You wish him and Steve good morning when you see each other in passing. You ask if they got one of the hundreds of memos they receive every day. You wish them a good night at the end of the workday, ready to go home after endless hours in the stuffy office. You’re always around, but you keep your distance.

“I’m being professional,” you said after that hours long fuck fest fueled by stress in the safety of your bedroom. “We’re colleagues. Nothing is going to change.”

Yet everything has changed. Javier comes to visit every night after work when he’s in the city. You open the door for him without questions, you don’t even ask him to come around anymore. It’s an unsaid agreement at this point.

He knocks once, then two times fast, and finishes with one more knock to let you know that it’s him, no one else. You don’t ask who it is, you don’t hesitate to open the door. You just do and let him slip in, your hand always catching his to stop him from escaping from your reach.

The kiss to welcome him in is gentle, a single touch of your lips against his. You offer him a drink, the thick rimmed tumblers always available next to the amber colored whiskey. It’s also an unsaid agreement that he’s there only to have sex. Nothing more. You don’t deny him, you never tell him to stop, you only want more, and you always give more.

“I would let you do whatever you wanted to me. I would let you have me in any way you want,” you said in the afterglow of your release. Your pupils were blown black, and your breath was still out of your reach. Your legs trembled when you tried to get off his lap, off him.

Javier’s hands squeezed your thighs, either to steady you or to keep you deeply seated on his cock for a while longer. It was well past the hours of the early morning; your alarm was going to go off soon. You would curse at him for coming by after midnight, but you would still open the door for him the next time when he got to yours as late, or even later.

“In any way, hm?”

“Whatever you like,” you hugged yourself around him, your knees against his ribs, and he was screwed.

Javier wanted to believe that the words set all his nerve endings on fire because you were still stuffed full of him. That because you spread yourself open for him every time he came around, the words only had a physical meaning.

You absorbed the nausea he had in the pit of his stomach, somehow mixed with the anticipation of having you at the end of the day. You were someone he learned to trust. He could always come to yours no matter what. He could always rely on you to catch him. You always opened the door, and you never denied him access to you.

The offer was too tempting. Javier tipped you on the bed and kept himself lodged inside of you. Your limbs were weak and pliant. You closed your eyes when he ran his hands down your sides, admiring your figure, the curves where his hands fit perfectly on your waist. You emptied your lungs when he pulled out of you, spilling your mixed releases on your sheets.  

You inhaled the heavy air of your bedroom in preparation. One last breath before he’d pin you under himself. Before his lips attached to your sternum.

Tasting you was like coming home. Feeling you squirm under him in anticipation was exciting. Hearing you whine his name was intoxicating. He didn’t need drugs. He had you.

You came on his tongue buried deep in your folds, sucking, playing with you, taking you to the edge over and over until Javier decided when you had had enough. Your thighs were glued to his shoulders, your heels against his shoulder blades. You ground against his mouth, your hands holding onto his hair, pulling him in, and pulling him off you at the same time. Even when the pleasure crossed the line of too much, you still stayed put and lost your breath with another high as his moustache gathered the slick from you like he was saving it for later.

“You shouldn’t say that.” Javier muttered when you got out of the shower. He was sprawled with his legs out on your bed, watching you. You had outrun the moon without a moment of true rest, and the sun had caught up to you, ending the night with its first rays.

Your legs were unstable still and you couldn’t balance on your other foot when you pulled a fresh pair of panties on. You leaned against your vanity and stumbled through dressing yourself.

“I meant it.” When the door closed after you, leaving him to sleep in your bed, the words sunk in. He wasn’t just screwed. He was ruthlessly in over his head.

Javier had already risked it all for desire, but risking opening up was another thing completely. You observed him in ways he wasn’t aware of. You saw him in ways that others didn’t, in the safety of your bed, in his most vulnerable, in his most rageful.

You saw his quietness in the tenderness he showed you. You took it all out of him, one kiss at a time, forcing him to breathe and put the pressure to the side for an hour or few. You took him apart in ways that made him comfortable in his skin, but uncomfortable in ways that you adored him. With your eyes, with your words, with your gentle hands as you undressed him and showed him slowness.

When your hands pulled off his body and left him needing, you gave Javier all the control. He could feel the goosebumps against your heated skin, caress the pebbles of your nipples and hear your shaking inhales and exhales.

His lips on your stomach, on the sensitivity of your inner thighs, smell you dripping against your panties and touch you in the most lewd ways you probably ever had allowed anyone to touch. Your gasps and moans vibrated in his spine and made him painfully hard. Every time, without a question, you edged him without doing it intentionally.

And in the night, Javier could take you slow, take you apart one push of his hips at a time. One moan at a time. One run of your wet lips against his jaw and neck at a time until your kisses would only be little gasps as your high rushed him to reach his release soon after you.  

And he could take you hard, borderline ferociously, your hands trying to hold onto him, your nails scratching against his back until imprints of small half moons would litter his shoulder blades and the back of his neck. He would have them for days, and he would do it again, just to have his skin remember your cries of pleasure that he forced down his own throat to not let you wake up the neighbors.

It was impossible for Javier to stop it. Stop you from wanting him, stop himself from letting you. He watched you act like it didn’t mean anything, like it was just the two of you looking for a release. He heard your promise of this not changing anything over and over again in his head but saw that you had changed in every way possible after letting him in your bed.

“Tell me something about yourself,” you once asked while playing with a curl on his forehead and cracked your own promise into pieces.

“What’s there to tell,” he answered, and you dropped the topic immediately. The disappointment radiated off you in waves, but you hid it in licking your tongue against his, not caring about the friction of his moustache against your upper lip.

His intentions were never cruel, not to you, or to himself. Yet he was like a monster, coming back to you without you asking him to. To himself for letting him knock that pattern on your door.

You sigh in your sleep. Javier stumps the burned cigarette into a bowl and closes the window. Your naked leg is warm with his fingers gliding up against it, the back of your knee still damp from staying with your cheek pressed against the mattress, available for him on your knees for as long as he wanted.

He tilts his head the higher his hand rises. Your skin bursts with shivers when his fingers caress the roundness of your thigh and dips between them. He drags his hand against the crease under your ass, the meatiness of the muscle as his hand continues its exploration of your body, the curve of your hip, and under his shirt.

It’s easy to peel off you. Javier’s sweat still clings to it from the day. Your sweat clings to it from the night. He’s not sure when you had put it on. He only woke up to see you covered in it. He reveals the softness of your stomach, the shape of your waist, the underside of your breast. He draws a line with his thumb there.

Your eyes are open, watching him. Your face is half crumbled against your pillow, the worn out linen of your pillowcase. You’re somewhere between dream and wakefulness.

“Come back to sleep,” you whisper, your throat thick with sleep and the remnants of him. Javier moves the shirt off your shoulder to press his lips there. You sigh, relax against his mouth and move enough to give him space to follow you to the easiness of rest. Your hand follows the scrapes from your nails that are still fresh and tender. Your cold fingers look for the warmth of his skin, the burn you left there.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask, already slipping away from him in his arms. You’re pulling him under with you, the sleep in your scent intoxicating. You lean in a little closer until you’re glued against him. Javier would want to push you away if you knew what he was thinking.

The hope of a future. He has it in his arms.

It would be the easier choice to let you go. When this is all over, when this terror is done, it would be easiest to end this. You don’t deserve the pain he has convinced he always causes.

Yet underneath there’s a promise of the other side. He’d take you out. He wouldn’t let this relationship stay hidden inside the four walls of your bedroom anymore. His imagination runs rampant with the images of himself in public with you.

To see you smile under the sun, with your hand in his with people around. Your voice in his ear when you tell him about everything and nothing, not just you sighing out his name in the dead of night. He would’ve never guessed ending up in Colombia also meant meeting you. Meeting the possibility of a next day that isn’t full of violence and loneliness.  

“You,” Javier breathes into your hair. The slow rhythm under his palm against your ribcage is proof enough that you’re not listening.

He would tell you who he is eventually. He’ll answer who he was before all this, before you stepped into his life and turned it upside down. He’ll let you see him in daylight, not only in the moonlight that smooths out all the edges, regrets and flaws. He’ll let you in on the good and the ugly, the person he, too, sometimes wants to turn his back to.

He’ll tell you about how he grew up too quick, too sorrowful, missing the family he didn’t have anymore. It’s just him, his dad and the house he once called home. Now it’s filled with stories he cherishes in the silence of his own memory.

Javier will forgive himself eventually. For thinking the worst of himself, for needing you to get away from him. He’ll keep on pretending though, with you, that nothing has changed. And this is just a mutual contract of desire.

“I want you to know,” he says into the glowing orange of your bedroom without any sound, the move of his mouth registering in the muscles of his face. He lets the weight of your body drag him over the border of sleep, melt against you and taste the sweetness of bliss.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 Sounds pretty good to me. Can I do one more? 🎶

Night after night, Josephine worked harder than any bar she’d ever been in. Val had been right, her pride and humor got more tips than the smoldering looks she was used to casting. So little by little, their nightly competition became tighter as it turned into some sort of shared ritual they waited for each day. 

Once the last patron was seen to the door they exchanged shared glances, at first instigated by Val, who knew that she would win just as she had the night before, and the one before that too. She always had a smug smile on her face when she asked Josephine to tally up her tips, the same one she invariably wore when her pile was still higher at the end of the night.

It was that look that taunted Josephine in bed at night, lying next to Gio and waiting for the next day to roll around so she could see it again; until eventually, she was the one taunting Valcita, telling her that tonight would finally be the night she would win. Until one night, she was right.

The odds had shifted ever so slightly, just enough that for once, Jo was the one who got to look over her pile of money with a smug smile. She jumped to her feet, letting her good nature take over her desire to stay and gloat. Without a word she rushed behind the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. Lifting it triumphantly in the air, Val waved her away, prompting a confused and defeated look from Jo. Val’s answer came quickly and without unnecessary explanation, just as everything seemed to with her. “Don’t drink, never did.”

Jo hesitated and moved to put it back on the shelf where it belonged, but Val laughed. “No no, go ahead, don’t let me stop you. You won fair and square after all.”

It was easier than drinking at home, where even after a month had gone by, tension still lingered in the air like cigarette smoke. Everyone there seemed to tiptoe around her, trying to make up for the perceived wounds between them while ignoring the existential tick of a clock. It was in every one of their heads: a constant, ever-present reminder that their loan matured soon. It was easier to ignore here, even if the whiskey was the same and there was a clock in the corner chiming at the top of every hour.

On and on it ticked, but neither Jo nor Val noticed it, as Val rolled one cigarette after another and Josephine admittedly teetered past the point of a celebratory drink into drunkenness. It was simply too pleasant to hear the clock the way she did at home, so Josephine stayed until her bottle grew lighter and the melancholy drone of the hand of time faded in favor of a loud chime, one after the other signaling that it was 4 AM.

Suddenly she saw the thin sliver left in the bottle and registered just how bleary her eyes had become, not quite as used to drinking straight whiskey now at thirty-four as she had been a decade before. Half of her could already feel the headache setting in and hear the purposefully suppressed worry in Giorgio’s voice as she returned home. Fuck. Giorgio. She was usually pleased to know he waited up for her every night; but it would do her no good to push him to his breaking point now.

Jo mumbled some sort of half-hearted apology as she cut Val’s sentence short and stood to look for her gloves and hat. Whatever smug smile Jo had worn upon winning their game was now back on Valcita’s face, who watched her curse under her breath as she struggled to find her belongings. As she ran up the stairs to find them, Val watched her heels disappear and then looked down at her own feet and shook her head.

Before Jo could return the saloon door swung open and a man walked into the room. Val took one look at him and knew that he was in need of a stiff drink. “You missed last call, pal. No more being served here tonight.”

He straightened his collar and looked around, “I, uh, I’m not here for a drink. I’m here for Jo. She’s here, right?” Val looked at him again, seeing the worry in his eyes in a new light. She had been wrong. It wasn’t worry; it was jealousy. Jealousy mingled with inadequacy. She smirked, “You must be Jo’s beau.”

His eyes stopped roaming the room in search of Josephine and settled on the woman addressing him. He couldn’t have said why, but there was a tangible hostility coming from her, like she was assessing her competition and finding it lacking.

“Gio, what…what are you doing here?”

He tore his eyes away from the hard stare of the women he didn’t know to see Jo standing at the foot of the stairs, “I…well, it was getting late and I know you close ‘round midnight. I just…I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Or that, uh, you didn’t have to walk home alone so late.”

Josephine looked back to Val, who needn’t say a word for Jo to read the tone of her expression. He came to fetch you, like a little girl. To catch you in the act of whatever he convinced himself you were doing with another man. It would be a man, wouldn’t it, Josephine?

Josephine bristled under her gaze, unsure if it was the whiskey making her dizzy or if she had really just read that in Val’s expression. How could she know that Gio’s jealousies extended even into this small barroom where only two women sat, not a man to be found?

Josephine turned her gaze onto him, more sure of what she’d find there than if she continued to look into Val’s eyes. It was as easy with him as always, because it was written all over his face: the worry, the panic, the suppressed anger. His eyes told her that he had waited for hours, convincing herself that she had lied about working here, or maybe even found some John at the bar. Right after the clock struck three, he finally reached the conclusion that she wasn’t coming home at all. Of course she wasn’t. Not after what he’d done. He had to find her. To make sure she was still there, that she hadn’t left him like she’d threatened…

All of it was plain as day, reflecting off of him like moonlight on the sand. Jo could sense it, and she knew that Valcita could too. 

Josephine pulled her glove up higher on her wrist, as though in doing so she could hide how exposed she felt between the pair of eyes on her. After looking at Val and her cigarette one final time, she turned for the door and pushed past Giorgio and his lingering questions. She didn’t even bother to answer him, because through one lie, he had started a game with her that he was never truly armed to win.

All it took was one look for her to tell him that in coming here, he had shattered whatever peace he had bought back in the last month. Now he was right back at step one of apologies and deference. As she moved a gloved hand to the saloon doors, Jo didn't even bother to turn around to make sure that he was behind her, because she knew that he would follow her now no matter what. The clicking of his loafers on the floorboards told her that she was right, and about that, at least, she couldn’t help but smile.

[thomasmartinnutt]

Chance Encounters #002

https://www.mixcloud.com/thomasmartinnutt/chance-encounters-002/

Autumn Fair, Christian Renou, Quartetto Prometeo / Agostino Di Scipio, Radio Cegeste, Jos Smolders & Jim O'Rourke, Masayoshi Fujita, Soundwalk Collective with Jesse Paris Smith (feat. Patti Smith), Dawid Szczęsny, Mark Vernon, Hildur Guðnadóttir (feat. Skuli Sverrisson), BJ Nilsen & Stilluppsteypa, Lumen, Robert Lippok, Ola Gjeilo, Claire Rousay, Arve Henriksen, Piotr Kurek, Gier Jenssen, Reinhold Fiedl & Michael Vorfeld, Burkhard Stangl & Christof Kurzmann, Alan Watts & Sumire Jacobs, Jessica Moss, Kirill Richter

[myloveforhergoeson]

for @partiallypearl and all the wonderful tiktoks (or clip clops as we imagine they’d be called in btrtv verse) they send me

—

this would be the last time roxy ever let a stupid internet video whittle its way into her vocabulary. curse camille for sending her the short form video on the new clip platform roxy didn’t fully understand; the ridiculous audio had gotten stuck in her head and now, james sat on his bed beside his girlfriend, completely bewildered at her statement.

they’d been having such a nice evening - james was organizing the items in his vanity, taking inventory of what was needed for his intensive skin and hair care routine, getting rid of expired product, and cleaning the counter top and mirror while roxy sprawled out on his bed, laying on her stomach as she devoured the new paranormal romance book jo had let her borrow.

“any good?” james asked, taking a towel and a bottle of windex to the tri-folded mirror, looking back at the writer in the reflection. while he wasn’t one to pick up a novel himself, he did enjoy letting roxy relay the plot of whatever she picked up to him.

keeping place in the book with her thumb, the girl rolled to her back on the small twin. “well, it’s got a super sexy vampire, a steamy romance plot line, and a twin curse on the main couple that can only be cured through… less than conventional means. i’m certainly not complaining.”

catching the way her face flushed at the last addition to her statement, she realized she probably should have left that part out.

oh god, he’s going to ask, she immediately realized. how can i put it in a way that doesn’t involve actually saying the word? they have to… prove their love? or… share a night of passion?

“sounds like that’s right up your alley!” he said instead, and her pulse stopped racing in her ears. now he was rearranging the items in the big drawer by his lap. “tell me when the aliens show up, or there’s a big car chase… anything with a little action.”

there’s going to be plenty of action, don’t worry, james!

“by the way,” the boy started again, “have you seen my hair brush? normally it goes right next to my flat iron but it’s not in here. i know kendall likes to move my shit around to mess with me but this time he’s gone too far!”

despite cracking her book back open, holding it above her head with extended arms, she glanced to her left and right. something blue was sticking out between his mattress and the wall, right next to the stuffed plushie she’d won him on her birthday in santa monica.

“this it?” she plucked the brush handle, bristles, and all from the hiding spot kendall had chosen. now dangling it over the bed in james’ direction, roxy dove back into her novel.

“yes!” he triumphantly cried, racing over to where she was and gently taking it from her hand before returning it to its proper place in the vanity. “way to go, babe.”

a few seconds of silence, roxy pulled her lip into her teeth as the scene reached its climax, and she felt the bed dip beside her. then, her book was taken from her hands and set on james’ nightstand; there he was, staring down at the girl in his bed with the utmost affection in his gaze.

“thanks,” he murmured, eyes flickering to her mouth, tongue poking out and subtly wetting his lips.

what came over her, she didn’t know, but the only thing roxy could think to say was, “you want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

and james froze, mid hand reaching out to tangle itself in her hair.

“excuse me?”

“sorry! i didn’t mean you look stupid, exact opposite in fact, just that the look you gave-“

“and what look was that?”

“with the eyes and the smoldering… and the lip thing.”

blinking, james finally moved again, hand shifting to lay palm down on her stomach. slowly, he pressed down to dip and give her a kiss and her stomach did an olympic-level somersault routine.

“then that pays off quite well for you doesn’t it?”

breathless. that’s what roxy was after one kiss.

“not sure… try again would you?”

batting her eyes subconsciously and looking up at him through her mascara-coated lashes made james’ shoulders begin to shake with laughter.

“who looks stupid now, songbird?!”

she shifted her position, pulling the bailey plushie from the wedge between the wall and tossing it at his head, “james diamond, i swear to god-“

her words were cut off as her boyfriend kept giggling, falling onto the bed beside her, taking her round cheeks in his hands, and kissing her once again - this time, with a giant smile plastered across his lips.

[talesfromaurea]

Word find tag

Thank you @winterandwords for the tag!

Words are wash, clean, wet, and dry

(These are all from Arc 2 of Tales from Aurea - we're really putting them through the wringer in this one)

Wash

Warm blood from those who tried to take everything from her washed away the rage but fueled her fear. Fear. She couldn’t bear to lose anyone again. “Kaja!” A stirring in her heart. Was that her name? “Kaja!” There it was again.

Clean

Not yet comprehending what had happened, [Jo] instinctively brought her hand to her side and watched as red blood gushed around her cestus. Her first thought was how much of a pain it was going to be to clean later; her second was the surreal realization that this was all her blood.

Wet

Nestled against a rocky outcrop, was a smoldering village. Sputtering embers glowed defiantly in the wet flurries, sending up puffs of steamy vapor whenever the weather touched them. The blackened frames of huts poured gray smoke into the moaning winds.

Dry

“Come on, Kaja! Let’s go!” Saara called from halfway out the door. Kaja chased after her, leaving Sakrattars’ question unanswered. “You get in trouble and Jo’s going to find some way to blame it on me!” he cried as the door slammed. “Children at that age have a hard time listening,” Saara’s grandmother said wistfully in elvish. She placed a mug of tea on the table for Sakrattars and stepped back. “I’m sure you can remember what it was like.” “I wasn’t like that,” Sakrattars said dryly.

No pressure tags for @zmwrites, @loopyhoopywrites, @oh-no-another-idea, @authorlaurawinter, and anyone else! Your words are joke, blanket, respect, and follow

[jolapeno]

✨ Ahh congratulations on your exam!! One of the best feelings in the world! I hope you get to celebrate with reading lots of fan fics now 🥰

I guess my positive thing of the week is I finally reached 500 followers on this platform! I just love the Pedro fandom so much, literally one of the best things in life right now that we can all bond over that beautiful man and all the amazing creators out there.

This is one of my favorite pics of that man because Joel is THE perfect man and just look at that smolder 🫠 I will never get over this man 😍

firstly, LOOK AT HIM. look at those eyes. god, i miss writing this man. like... the sleeves (have i ever shared that rolled up sleeves are kryptonite for me), the glare, the hair... fuck. i can see why it's a favourite, i think I've spent five solid minutes staring.

ANYWAY

thank you so much, but more importantly LOOK AT YOU. BABE THAT'S FREAKING AMAZING. I'm so happy for you!!! i hard agree, it's so lovely that we can collectively all come together and shriek and share fun stories/art/gifs about this lovely man.

thank you so much for sharing your milestone, i hope you do a celebration or at the very least, buy yourself something nice (i always love a good cake)

jo's happy hour of positivity (that will deffo be longer than an hour)

[erenozturk]

setting: the campgrounds, night one

featuring: eren öztürk & jo parker @deputyjparker

His life was no fairy tale, but if it truly had been then Eren’s story would have started simple: Once Upon A Time there was a boy who fell in a hole. Ridiculously sounding at first, until the event which would end up defining his entire existence had been outlined. An event which he had tried to blink away from the hazy corners of his mind as they’d been driving through wooded areas towards the massive clearing for the final exercise of this whole event. Eren had spent decades of his life trying to forget that moment, the tumbling forward over his own bicycle into the murky depths, scraping his knees and elbows, trying to feel around for purchase, only for the deafening squelch as his hand settled into something soft and decaying. He had to swallow down bile at the thought, covertly taking a large swallow from his water bottle and hoping no telepath could hear it as he silently smoldered and reminisced. The last thing he needed was a panic attack where the whole town may see.

Perhaps that was why he’d been so damn surly during all of it. Anger flaring at the “sleeping arrangements” he and his partner had been securing, the only comfortable option for such a low ranking team that ensured they both slept decently without having to explore the potential of accidental touching being stolen away by some douchebag of a witch who by the way was too fucking tall for the sleeping bags anyway. This was asinine, this was messed up, this was—

It's a cruel (Cruel), cruel summer Leaving me here on my own

He liked the way Bananarama put it, the song blaring in his ears as he went about setting up for the night. Perhaps it was karma, for having dealt a somewhat cruel hand to a fellow fae with their own situation during the whole swap and steal mess of the game, but Eren found himself trying to craft a makeshift bed out of what he’d brought for himself beside the weird sack which he unceremoniously dumped on his partner. Perhaps it wasn’t as kind a gesture as it could seem — gentlemanly, because of course the ghost of his mother haunted him and told him he needed to take care of anyone else he was with more than himself, but there was also an odd sort of dynamic between local law enforcement and private investigators. A weird sort of camaraderie that also gave way to some level of animosity and rivalry at times. So he offered Jo the bivy sack while he neatly folded up the jacket and extra long sleeve he brought along for the two night camping, creating a sort of pillow to layer over his duffel and then laying out his unseasonal trench coat he took with him everywhere as a sort of “mattress” to lay on. Perfect by no means, but it would suffice.

Arriving back sometime later from the bathrooms, toothbrush still sticking out of his mouth and the nightwear combo of a potentially surprising white short sleeved t shirt and less shocking joggers, (because he’d been boiling all day in his layers and perhaps needed the cool night air on his skin to calm) Eren settled down onto his makeshift bed, flattening his leather gloves before carefully placing them between his folded clothes pillow and the duffle. Shaking his fingers out, flexing the digits that had been choked all day in their comfort confines, he turned then to the sack which was a few feet away and lifted his chin in an acknowledgement nod towards Deputy Parker. “Are you settling in fine?” He asked, words soft and expressing a sort of care though his tone was painted in his frustration with the whole thing. He was spraying his bare arms, the sleeves extra short and hugging his shoulders, with big repellent and had his head phones around his neck, volume up enough to hear the low hum of his music, but not enough to fully register the words. Eren stopped the casette player a moment later, digging out the tapes he’d brought along and flipping through to find a calming music mixtape he had made a while back for anxiety inducing moments such as this, shoving it into the Walkman and placing his small collection back into the duffle but not playing it just yet. “I’m sorry I didn’t spring for something better, but I assumed off that hiking pack that you may potentially be used to some level of roughing it while camping?” And at least it was ground level, as he could originally tell with one of their other options that the deputy disliked heights.

[music-concrete]

Concrète Poetry One : featuring : Olivar Premier , Mark Daelmans-Sikkel , Ian Andrews , Ostacoli Sonori , Dan Opalenik , Johannes Rainer von Wrochem , Lawrence Casserley , Brume , JenJen , Shaun Robert , Marco Dibeltulu , Cell Division , jos smolders , Thomas_Park & pseudonymous

[lemonluvgirl]

Hitting The Target (Now with Ch 4)

By SparklingStella & LemonLuvGirl

 I know I said I wasn't going to post much context but I figured I should just post everything I have for this story just in case some people aren't caught up yet.

Summary: “When you shoot, you’ve got to keep both eyes on what you want to hit.” Katniss tells him seriously. “Do you bring this kind of tenacious focus with you to all aspects of your life?” Peeta asks, hoping his wildly mounting attraction for her isn’t as obvious to her as it feels to him. “When the situation calls for it. I’m good at going after what I want. And I find my mark almost every time.” She tells him with such a straight face he would have believed they were still talking about archery if her smoldering grey eyes weren’t glued to his mouth. 

When hot shot college archery rookie Katniss Everdeen makes it to the USA Archery Collegiate National Championships in her first year on the team, the university’s newly appointed college sports reporter Peeta Mellark is sent on assignment to cover her and the archery team’s meteoric rise to fame. What he never intended was to get so invested in the subject of his article, or to get so infatuated with the girl herself. 

~

“Where’s this afternoon’s advance run? And why wasn’t it on my desk 30 minutes ago?” 

A frustrated feminine voice rings out through the university newspaper workroom, and the clicking sound of her power heels marching across the linoleum heralds the end of the afternoon’s peace. 

It’s never a good sign when the editor of the Panem Chronicle steps out of her office to check up on the underlings that scurry around nervously and do her bidding. The woman is intimidating and has a tongue so sharp it’s been known to leave the first-year interns emotionally scarred. 

She might be small, even in her 4-inch stilettos, but she casts a long shadow.  People start fidgeting at their desks and shuffling their papers nervously. One girl actually backs out of the workroom before she can be spotted, when she sees Johanna “The Axe” Mason has left her lair and is on the prowl for unsuspecting victims. 

“Where’s that article on the golf team’s latest tournament?” She questions in a clipped tone that is all business. 

“Fuck me,” I mutter tiredly under my breath while trying to simultaneously shrink down to inconspicuous levels so that Jo Mason, won’t hear or see me. 

But I know that no matter how hard I hunch my shoulders and try to turn invisible, it won’t help me now. She knows I’m here. She knows I’m not done. I feel a sweat break out on the back of my neck as she approaches my workstation. 

Knowing Johanna she’d take my avoidance of this confrontation as an invitation to initiate a few rounds of verbal sparing, not as an expression of utter unenthusiastic dread. She always seems to get a kick out of finding any excuse to go toe-to-toe with one of the only guys in the department who wasn’t terrified of her. It was fun at first, but now it’s getting old. I find myself almost resenting her in recent weeks. She's the reason I’ve got writer's block right now. I’m dreading having to finish this article. It's driving me nuts. 

I hate golf, (I told Johanna this when she gave me the assignment) and I’ve been doing nothing but covering their university’s shitty golf tournaments for the last few weeks. And even though I’ve seen enough mediocre college golf to last till the end of eternity, I can’t for the life of me finish this pathetic golf article that was due half an hour ago. The thing is just a boring, uninteresting, cold fish piece of shit. And I hate myself for writing it. I hate Johanna even more for assigning me this piece. It's like she knows exactly which soul-sucking assignments I desire least and saves them just for me. 

 “Mellark! Are you still stuck on the conclusion? Stop playing with your dick and finish the fucking article already! We’ve got a deadline to meet!” Johanna says when she finally reaches my desk and stands over my shoulder, only to find I’m still stuck in the same spot I was an hour ago. 

“I’m trying Johanna! But this--this story is just--”

“Just what asshole? Too hot for you to handle? It's a damn 600-word news piece, not a 60 minutes interview for god sake!” 

“It's BORING! And there’s no way to make it interesting! I’ve tried! It's just---garbage! Dry, utterly boring, and sleep-inducing garbage!” 

Johnna stands stock still for a minute. I worry I may have gone overboard, for a second. 

Then she starts shaking with silent laughter. 

“Well, yeah duh! I mean it's college golf, not exactly riveting stuff. ” She says in between involuntary shoulder shakes. 

I inhale sharply. 

“So you knew. You knew it was a crap assignment and you made me write it anyway! That’s just great Jo. That’s terrific. Why couldn’t you assign it to Beetee or Wireless or something? They’ve been asking to go out on assignments instead of always getting stuck on research or box design. Didn’t you tell me when I joined the paper that I had the best ‘authentic writing voice’ you’d heard in years? And yet Marvel and Cato get to cover our basketball and football teams every season! What am I doing here JO? How is this a good use of my skills?” I explode in frustration. I’m so tired of getting stuck in this cycle. But I can’t just put up with her shit quietly like the rest of them. If it’s a fight she wants today, then I guess it’s a fight she’ll get. 

Instead of spitting some quickly thought-up insult at me, she surprises me by sighing and shifting to lean against my desk next to me, looking directly at my face instead of over my shoulder. 

“Mellark, you’re talented. That’s exactly why I give you the tough assignments. You can dress up a pile of shit and make it look like a chocolate sundae. But, you’ve only been on the team for a year. You still have to pay your dues, rookie. Look, I’ll make you a deal. Finish this shit show of an article, and make it readable. If you can do that I’ll give you a better assignment this coming week. Not basketball or anything super big, because you know, baby steps, but I promise it will be a step up from the golf crap.” 

“Fine Jo. But I’m holding you to your promise! Maybe I should make you sign a contract so you don't go back on your word,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. 

“Yeah, yeah, Mellark. No need to break out the ritual sacrifice knife to make me sign my soul away in blood. I'm a woman of my word. I'll deliver on my promise. But, you better wow me with this conclusion, or else it's back to the golf carts, pretentious khakis, and designer sunglasses for you.” She threatens, but there’s a twinkle of respect in her eye that boosts my confidence.  

“It's going to be the best shit sundae you’ve ever had Jo. I promise.” I vow. 

I managed to tweak and finish the article until it was an interesting and engaging college sports piece, and by the time the story had to go to print Joanna was smiling.

“So, I take it that smile means I’m going to get assigned something decent this coming week?” 

“Well, since you pulled it off, I’d say so.” Johanna slams a piece of paper down on my desk. It contains a name, email address, and office phone number.  

Haymitch Abernathy -coachabernathyarchery@PanemUfaculty.edu 555-451-1213

“What’s this?” 

“Contact info for your next assignment. Email this guy and set up a time to go and observe his team at practice. He’s the head coach for the university’s archery team. Word around campus is a new freshman is blowing all the competition out of the water. The team’s got a shot at nationals this year. I want you to do a full piece on her, and the team. You can interview the coach too. The higher-ups want to make this feature article a two-page spread.” 

“Two pages?!” 

“Yep. So don’t say I never did anything for ya Mellark. Oh, and take your camera and get some candid shots. She’s a real hot shot. Hits the target every time. And she looks good doing it, or so they say. That’ll be good for the article too.”  

I laugh, only Johanna would so openly comment on sex appeal as a way to increase our reader base. 

“Ok, Jo. Sure thing. And thank you! You won’t regret it!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Bring me back something spectacular and we’ll see if you deserve to be bumped up permanently to something more substantial after this.” 

I nodded and smiled. I was hopeful, enthusiastic, and most of all intrigued to find out more about this newest assignment and the girl who seemed to be lighting the college archery scene on fire.

(Katniss POV) 

I lifted my bow, breathing in steadily, and lined up the tip of my arrow with the target. Shooting with a recurve barebow required a different technique than the modern sighted bows, with their fancy pins and bubble levels. String walking was my preferred method of aiming, and even without the technical assistance of an adjustable sight component, I was still the best shot on Panem University’s archery team. I brought the string back and adjusted my bare bow tab slightly since this was a 40-yard shot. I took another breath in and as I began exhaling the carbon dioxide from my lungs, I felt my hands still. Then I blew out the silent puff through my parted lips and released. 

The arrow flew fast and true and hit dead center. 

I heard Finnick and Gale and my other teammates whooping in appreciation behind me. I resisted the urge to smirk. Lest our coach, Haymitch, the surly old man who sometimes came to practice just a tad hungover, started giving me shit about being cocky. 

“Girl you are on FIRE! You haven’t missed the mark once today!” Finnick cheered as I tucked my bow underneath my arm and walked back to the cooler filled with ice water where my teammates gathered for breaks in between shots. I grabbed a paper cup and proceeded to pour myself a drink to cool my parched throat before I replied. 

“It's just practice, Finnick. No need to get so excited.” I reminded him and he chuckled. 

“He’s just stoked that now we have enough high-scoring members to register as a team this year for the collegiate 3D nationals,” Gale states proudly as he looks over at me. He had practically begged me to try out for the archery team when I got to Panem U. 

He had promised the team could use someone like me and after a few weeks of his pestering I’d given in, thinking they’d take one look at me and my old hand-me-down bow and cheaply homemade arrows and laugh me off the field. But to my surprise, no one mocked me when I showed up with my old recurve bow, they just gave me quizzical looks. And they didn’t laugh when I sunk arrow after arrow into the bullseyes of the targets. I’d been invited to join the team right afterward. Our coach had even put in a good word for me with his friends at the sporting goods store closest to campus. After saving up for a month, and using some of my financial aid surplus, I’d been able to buy a new recurve bow. It was a beautiful SAS Courage and I’d never owned anything more beautiful or powerful in my life. And my shooting only improved soon after.  

“You mean you didn’t go as a team last year?” I asked Gale and Finnick, as we all drank down gulps of water greedily. We were all a little sweaty since practice had been running longer and longer to prepare for the upcoming competition. Archery was an outdoor sport, which meant a lot of time in the sun. So hydration was important. 

“The university wouldn’t pay the team fee to send everyone, since only Gale and I showed a chance of placing. So it was just me and Finnick and Haymitch, and they put us all in one room. With only two beds. It was cruel and unusual punishment, and I considered contacting the human rights advocates.” Finnick jokes. 

“But now that you’re here Catnip, and kicking ass, they’re going to spring for the team registration this time around. And since you’re a girl, they’ll probably spring for two rooms! And I won’t have to listen to Abernathy’s snoring or twist myself into a pretzel trying to sleep on a tiny hotel couch.” Gale said hopefully. I frowned, wondering how my getting my sleeping accommodations would translate into his not sleeping on the couch. 

“Hey, man you gotta be quick to call dibs next time!” Finnick joked and Gale shot him the middle finger with a scowl. 

“I don’t feel like sharing a hotel room with any of you-” I began but Gale interrupted. 

“Oh, come on Catnip, we can share. It's not like it's anything I haven’t seen before,” Gale says with an unconcerned grin. I tense up immediately and shoot him a warning look. 

Sure, Gale and I had dated in the past. And yes, we’d slept together before, so he’d seen me naked. But we hadn’t been anything more than friends and hunting buddies for a very long time. And one of the conditions of my joining the same archery team with him had been that he wouldn’t make things awkward by bringing up our past dating history. I was naturally a very private person and didn’t want to get around the team that Gale and I used to sleep together. I narrowed my eyes on him. 

His grin quickly fades and is replaced by a repentant expression. 

“Sorry, Katniss. I shouldn’t have said that.” Gale apologizes quietly and after staring at him for a second I nod. Finnick looks between us with a highly amused expression. 

“Don’t worry mighty huntress, I’d be more than happy to spoon with you in your hotel room when we head to the 3D competition,” Finnick says with a suggestive tilting smile and a slightly raised eyebrow. I feel Gale bristle a little beside me. 

I rolled my eyes and prepared to tell Finnick that he’d only be spooning at the 3D competition would be Gale or Haymitch again, when I was interrupted. 

“Odair, keep it in your damn pants. I don’t need you or Hawthorne fucking up this team dynamic with your overzealous libidos and underwhelming dicks.” Haymitch, our grouchy old coach cut into the conversation with his usual crudeness. 

I couldn’t fight a loud snort that escaped, and neither of the guys could hide a flash of embarrassment at the comment aimed at their male egos. 

“Now that we’re going to register as a team this year, does that mean the girls have to bunk together?” Glimmer, the only other female on the team, asked as she eyed Gale appreciatively. 

I wanted to snort again. Glimmer was a terrible shot, even though she’d been on the team a whole year longer than I had. But that probably wouldn’t matter to Gale. She was blond and giggly and slutty. I saw him holding back a smile at her apparent attraction to him and I rolled my eyes. She had no real interest in archery and had probably only joined the team to meet guys. I doubted the university would even pay for her to go. 

Objectively, there were a lot of hot guys on the team. Finnick and Gale probably stood out the most but there was also Thresh Anderson who doubled as a university basketball player as well when he wasn’t going to classes or shooting targets. And Thom wasn’t bad-looking either, just kind of lanky and lean. But I had zero interest in dating any of my teammates. One, because Haymitch was right. Sex and relationships tended to fuck up team dynamics. I mean, look at me and Gale. We’d only dated for two months and it had almost ruined our ability to hunt together. It took almost a year for us to get back to some semblance of normalcy and even then we still had our past to contend with at times. Like just now, when he not so subtly alluded to sharing a room with me. 

“Sorry to break it to you, Glimmer, but we’re not taking the whole team this year. Only the ones who placed in the preliminaries. So that means Hawthorne, Odair, Anderson, and Everdeen here are the ones going. And nobody’s bunking with Sweetheart. University policy. If they pay for the room, it's not going to be co-ed.” Haymitch announces to us all and Glimmer’s face falls. But Thresh and Gale and Finnick quickly start celebrating amongst themselves, with plenty of fist bumps and back pounding. Soon, even the other team members who didn’t qualify began to offer their congratulations. I smiled over at Thresh, who was probably my second favorite team member after Gale, and he flipped me a thumbs up. 

“Alright, alright, before you animals start planning a kegger, I need your attention. Now, since we’ve had such a good year the university newspaper is looking to do a story on us. They’re sending one of their reporters down today to interview the team, and take photos. I need you all on your best behavior. Show ‘em what you got and maybe next year they’ll spring for some new equipment. God knows our targets are practically falling apart!” Haymitch orders with surly annoyance. Everyone begins to disperse and go back to shooting. But I hadn’t failed to notice that throughout his whole speech, his eyes kept darting back to me. 

I crunch my paper cup aggressively and throw it away and turn to face Haymitch. I’m nervous and wary about this turn of events. 

“A reporter?” I ask and Haymitch nods. 

“Yep.” That is all he says. 

I feel my palms grow sweaty. I have never liked being in the spotlight, or the center of attention. And right now I am getting the sinking sensation that this reporter coming to interview us might have something to do with the judges at the last competition calling me the ‘Ken Griffy Jr.’ of archery. 

“Do I have to talk to him?” I ask. 

“No, you have to take him to the prom and divest him of his virginity," Haymitch said with a straight face and my eyes widened before I glared at him. Him and his stupid jokes. 

"Everyone has to talk to him, Sweetheart. He’s interviewing the team. And last time I checked, that includes you.” He says more seriously. 

“Fine.” I bite the word out in annoyance. 

“Oh, and Princess? Might want to towel off some of that sweat. You’re glistening like a pig over a spit, and not in an attractive way.” He comments in a falsely pleasant voice. 

“Alcoholic old son of a bitch.” I mutter as I stomp away. 

“I heard that!” Haymitch calls and I resist the urge to flip him off as I resume my place and knock back an arrow. I imagine that the center of the target is Haymtich’s eye and start shooting at a rapid pace, ignoring everyone else around me and getting lost in the feeling of hitting my mark time and again. 

~

(Peeta POV) 

We arrived at the archery field a little later than I’d planned. I had decided to pick up my friend Annie Cresta last minute to help me take pictures. Annie was a good photographer, having taken pictures for her high school newspaper before she started at Panem U, and a lot of reporters on the paper knew about her talent. Seeing as I needed to interview the whole team and get their pictures too, I figured I could use the extra set of hands and a friendly face. 

“Whoa, I didn’t even know there was anything back here!” Annie exclaimed in surprise. 

“Me neither,” I muttered as we exited my vehicle and started to grab our equipment. 

There in the back lot of one of the university’s unused outbuildings, was Panem U’s archery practice field. It was dotted with rows of targets at various distances. There was a group of people lined up and practicing with bows and arrows dutifully despite the heat. The grass was a little long, and the sun beat down almost mercilessly in the late September afternoon. Hot days like this were rare this late in the season. But this year had been unusually warm, and the extra sun was probably contributing to the grass growth. The field was covered in a blanket of mixed grasses and weeds. 

Their green and yellow tips brushed against us at ankle-high length and outside of the car’s air conditioning the warm air threatened to make anyone who was too used to sitting down in lecture halls and at a desk in the university’s school newsroom break out in an uncomfortable sweat. I sighed. Going on location to interview a subject was just another part of reporting that could either be great or terrible. Today it was just mildly uncomfortable. 

“So, what do you need from me today Peeta?” Annie’s gentle voice asked as I took the camera bag from her and hoisted it over my shoulders. I had offered to get her a gift card to her favorite restaurant as repayment for her helping me out last minute, but I was still a gentleman. I didn’t want her carrying the bags if she didn’t have to. 

“Johanna just said to get some candid shots of the team, especially the new girl. Katniss Everdeen.” I told Annie.

“Katniss? That’s an interesting name. You don’t hear that very often.” She commented. 

“Yeah, I looked it up. It's a type of edible water plant.” I explained and she shot me a contemplative look. 

“Maybe her parents were botanists,” Annie says with a shrug. 

“Or hippies.” I offer with a humorous smile. And Annie chuckles. We’ve been friends since freshman year of college and she’s almost like a sister to me. I find her quiet unassuming demeanor restful, and she says she remains friends with me because I bring her baked goods on her birthday. It's an easy sort of friendship that works for both of us. 

“Alright then, ready when you are, Captain!” Annie announces with a sarcastic little salute. I laugh and wave her on as we walk towards the group of people shooting in the field. 

As we reach their general vicinity, I lay the equipment bag down next to the table with the water cooler and Annie starts to unpack. I scope out the individuals I’ll be interviewing. There’s a middle-aged paunchy-looking man who’s growling out corrections to a cute looking blond in yoga pants and twin ponytails. But by the way, her arrows have all landed outside the blue third ring of the target I’d say she’s not the new wonder girl. My eyes sweep over the group again and I find the rest are male. One extremely large guy, with chocolate brown skin and close-cropped hair, who looks more like he belongs on a football field or a basketball court than an archy field stands with intense focus, eyeing the target but not shooting yet. Two other taller, but less bulky men with dark hair and olive-toned complexions shoot arrows at targets that are marked as 30 paces away. One of them, the more muscular and good-looking of the two, hits almost all his arrows inside the yellow of the target, the bullseye. Next to them is a bronze-haired smiling guy who looks more like he belongs in a catalog than on a forgotten old archery field in the university's back lot.  

“Hello there!” The bronze-haired man calls out as he approaches us. When he gets close enough to make out his features more clearly, I notice his eyes are a startling aquamarine color. 

I feel Annie shift nervously next to me. 

“Hiya! The name’s Finnick Odair, I take it you’re the people from the University newspaper?” Finnick asks as he holds out his hand to Annie with an award-winning smile. She blinks at him blankly for a second before tentatively shaking his hand but doesn’t move to introduce us. That’s Annie for you, shy as they come around new people. That’s another reason our friendship works. I’m better with people in general. 

“Yes, hi. I’m Peeta Mellark, one of the sports writers for the Panem Chronicle. And this here is my photography assistant Annie Cresta.” I say as I thrust out my hand to Finnick in greeting with an easygoing smile. Finnick shook my hand in a  perfunctory way, but the majority of his attention remained on Annie. She squirmed underneath his gaze and I started to get a little concerned. So I take a step closer to Annie, in an effort not to leave my friends defenseless against this guy’s charms. His gaze darts between the two of us in concern. 

“Peeta and Annie, that’s nice. Are you two a team when you’re not interviewing local athletes?” Finnick asks with an interested stare. But he still looks a little nervous looking back and forth between us. 

“What?” Annie asks, perplexed. It's the first word she’s spoken but by the way Finnick is smiling at her with rapt attention you’d think she’d given an eloquent speech. 

I shake my head at Annie’s confusion and bite back a grin. The guy, Finnick, was trying to ask if we were together. He’s interested in her, and they just met. 

“Annie and I are good friends. Have been ever since we met in freshman psyche two years ago. She’s got pretty high standards for the people she dates.” I tell him good-naturedly but also add a serious look at the end to let him know subtly that I’m looking after Annie. He smiles, at us both, a little more relaxed this time, and nods. 

“Well, that’s good to hear. Come on, let me introduce you to the team.” Finnick says with a tilt of his head towards the field. Annie picks up her camera and snaps a shot of him just like that, with his head tilted and his hand beckoning, and the sunlight behind him. He smirks at her, but her face remains expressionless. I grin at Finnick’s confusion and move toward where the rest of his teammates are practicing. 

We quickly got introduced to the team. Turns out there are six members and one coach. Haymitch Abernathy sounds just as grumpy and impolite in person as he did over the phone, but he does seem to try his best to accommodate us. 

“Where’s your last team member?” I ask Coach Abernathy and he scowls.

“Little Miss Sunshine is taking a powder break. She’ll be back soon so you can get your story, kid.” He replies gruffly. 

I nod and Annie and I set about taking pictures and talking to the other teammates. I get to learn their rankings, their scores from the last competition, and who’s been selected to go to an upcoming tournament in Arizona. I get so invested in taking notes for my article that I don’t notice when the number of people on the field increases by one. I didn’t hear or notice her return, even though she takes up a spot very close to where Annie and I are standing as we take shots and interview the 2nd best-ranked archer on the team. His name is Gale Hawthorne and he’s kind of taciturn, but he does look impressive as he pulls his bow back, lets the arrow fly, and hits the target just a half-inch shy of the absolute center. Annie is shooting him from the left, trying to get a profile shot. I turn, trying to see if we could get a better angle. And that’s when I see her. 

She’s smaller than I imagined, maybe 5’3 at the most, petite and slim. But the way she holds herself, with such a straight posture, without being rigid as she draws her bowstring back, makes her seem larger than life. Her ebony dark hair trails over her left shoulder, a couple of flyaway strands dancing in the breeze. Her eyes are almond-shaped and luminous, and I’m startled to see a glint of silver grey where I expected to find chocolate brown. She wears a grey tank top, and shorts, obviously accounting for the heat and hours she had to spend outdoors. But the miles of smooth golden brown skin that’s exposed, from her thin muscular arms to her toned and well-shaped legs are practically mouth-watering. Most of all it's her calm and stoic demeanor that captivates my attention. She’s so focused and determined. I watch as she waits for just a beat, steadying herself, before taking the shot. I don’t have to look at the target to know she hit a bullseye. It's written in the way her eyelids lower for just a second, with a pleasure she tries hard to conceal. 

I suck in a ragged breath. Damn. This girl was more than hot. She was something else altogether, something incredible. 

“Good one.” The guy we had been interviewing, Gale, tells her and she nods at him in acknowledgment. I look back at the two of them and wonder if they are somehow related. They have very similar features, but different last names. Cousins maybe? 

“Hi,” I call over to her and she turns her head to look at me, and I feel the weight of those intense grey eyes land with almost as much force as her arrow did hitting the bullseye. 

“Hello.” She replies curtly. Ok, so maybe they are related. They both seem so reluctant to speak. But I just adjust my smile so it’s a little bigger, a little more friendly, and start over to her side. 

“My name’s Peeta Mellark. And I’m a reporter with the Uni’s Chronicle. You must be Katniss.” 

“Yes. Katniss Everdeen. I’m a first-year student, and I have yet to declare a major. I’ve been hunting since I was 6. I’ve never shot competitively before, and I hope to make the university proud in the next tournament. You can take my picture but don’t get in the way of my shots.” She states dryly and returns her attention to the target. I hear Gale behind me trying and failing to stifle a snicker. 

“Was that your way of trying to shut down the interview?” 

“No. Of course not. Those are all the relevant facts you need to know for the article. I’d rather not waste valuable practice time any more than I already have. We have a tournament coming up and I need to focus.” 

“Your aim seems fine, best I’ve seen today. Are you telling me you couldn’t spare a minute or two to answer some questions?” 

“I already answered everything you need to know. So just take your pictures and get it over with.” 

“You should widen your stance. If you displace your weight a little more, your feet and knees will probably feel better at the end of a long day after standing and shooting for hours.” 

“Excuse me? Are you an archery expert or something?” 

“No.” 

“Well, I’ve been shooting for years. I know how to stand. Forgive me if I don’t take your word as worth anything on the subject.”

“Are you a writer, or a reporting expert?” 

“What?” 

“Do you have any experience with interviewing or writing an article?”

“No.” 

“Ok, well, excuse me, if I don’t accept your bare minimum responses for my article. I know nothing about archery. And you know nothing about my field of expertise. So why don’t we just agree to let each other do what we do best?” 

“Are you also an expert in acting like a dick?” 

I let out a stunned, strangled sound that is followed by Annie’s subsequent gasp. 

Katniss stands, defiant eyes blazing, her bow lowered and one hand on her hip. 

“That was rude.” I point it out to her but she doesn’t even flinch. 

“I don’t win tournaments because I’m sociable. I win them because I focus. And you are taking away my focus. So I’d appreciate it if you would just ask whatever pointless questions you need to so I can move on with my life.” 

“Do you honestly have no respect for someone else’s work? The time and energy put in? Annie and I are here to do a story about you and your team! It's for the university paper, it could mean more exposure for the archery department, maybe even donations! Will you just let me do my job without being such a--” 

“Such as WHAT?” 

I stumbled for a word, mortified that this had escalated into a full-blown argument, with a person I’d just met nonetheless. But she’s impossible, insufferable, no matter how good-looking she may be. 

“An asshat!” I finally exclaimed. And Annie behind me started giggling to my utter humiliation. But Katniss didn’t seem amused. She seemed livid. 

She stalked towards me, like a predator stalking its prey, all lithe-limbed and graceful even in her anger. The look in her eyes was deadly. 

“The only ass I see around here is YOU!” She yelled, shoving a thin delicate finger into the middle of my chest. I freeze, seeing her this close-up. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are flashing, she’s breathing hard and our gazes lock for a long inexplicable moment. And I fight the urge to crush her to my chest and kiss that scowl off her beautiful face. 

I stare down at her, my eyes catching for a moment on the swell of the tops of her breasts visible because of the scoop of her tank top. My chest is heaving as I feel a drop of sweat trail from my temple to my jaw. Her eyes trace the movement reflexively and I see her lips part just a tiny bit, to curse me out some more no doubt. But I stay mutely silent, unable to form a response as I stare at her slightly parted full lips. 

“Everdeen! What the hell did I say? Didn’t I tell you to play nice? God damn it, girl, don’t need you to fuck up the one piece of good publicity our department has gotten in years!” Coach Abernathy’s angry voice rings out somewhere behind me and the spell is broken. 

Katniss takes a step back and looks down, seemingly chastised. And I swallow thickly around the dryness in my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Abernathy isn’t the only one who witnessed the argument. The rest of the team was staring at us in obvious dismay. The old archery coach makes his way to my side and sighs tiredly. 

“Look, kid, it's getting late, practice is supposed to be over by now. Maybe the heat’s making everyone touchy. Why don’t you and Red come back tomorrow? Finish the interview then?” Abernathy points his finger in Annie’s direction, his voice inquiring in a tone as close to diplomatic as I think he can get. 

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and nod. Maybe he was right. Maybe things will go better tomorrow.

“Yeah, ok. We’ll try again tomorrow. But the university wants to do a 2-page spread. And I can’t do that if the whole team doesn’t cooperate.” I warn him and he nods seriously. 

“Don’t worry kid. Everyone is gonna do their part, I promise.” He says, staring Katniss down. She huffs indignantly and picks up her bow and turns on her heel to walk away. 

“I hope so. Alright Annie, let’s pack up.” I conclude, wanting to get off this field and out of this heat. It's driving me crazy. That must be the explanation for the raw and incomparably powerful sexual attraction I felt for a woman who almost tore my head off. 

Annie nods and we both head back to the water cooler table to pack our equipment away. The rest of the archery team is packing away their bows and arrows already, preparing to leave as well. But when we get back to the car I spare a glance over my shoulder and catch sight of her. The girl with the bow and the dark braid, still sinking arrows into the targets despite being utterly alone on the field. 

I wonder if she’ll be able to work out her frustration before tomorrow’s redo interview. I wonder if I will as well. 

(Katniss POV) 

I empty my entire quiver into the target, once, twice, almost a full third time before I’m hitting bullseyes with my usual accuracy. Today was an incredibly slow start. And I blame the before practice ‘pep talk’, that was more of a guilt trip/gossip session. 

It had been a full day since the blond pretty boy reporter showed up causing a ruckus with his 1000-watt smile and his thickly laid-on charm. But everyone was still completely hung up on the visit. He was a tool. Most likely. Probably. 

 How could he not be with his eager and earnest introduction that lasted all of two seconds before the real him came out when we argued? And instead of being the all-around ‘nice guy’ he pretended to be, he was a condescending know-it with a thing for control when it came to his interviews. 

But that didn’t stop Glimmer from announcing before practice in front of everyone that she’d definitely ‘do’ him if need be to salvage the archery team’s publicity. 

“I appreciate the dedication to the team honey, but let’s not bring out the big guns just yet. I have a feeling Everdeen can still salvage this if she manages to pull that stick she’s got that’s the size of Montana out of her rear end. And just answer some damn questions.” Haymitch lets Glimmer down in a half-satirical, half-appreciative tone. She pouts like a twelve-year-old.

“Whatever, I was just saying. You know, because he's mega-hot.” Glimmer replies with a shrug. I stifle my immediate distaste at the off-hand comment. I mean, I know this is college and hookups are the norm, and of course, Glimmer can do whatever she wants with her body, but wow. The girl works almost at the speed of light, is all I’m saying. 

“If worse comes to worse, I’ll just throw Finnick at him,” Haymitch replies sarcastically. 

Finnick is the first one to laugh at this, while I roll my eyes. Coach Abernathy doesn’t even know the meaning of tact. 

“Oh, I don’t know Coach. He’s good-looking, but the redhead he was with was stunning.” Finnick’s praise of the camera girl surprises me. It's so...G-rated. And so unlike him. Usually, he’s the first to come up with sexual innuendos and double entendres when he meets a pretty girl. But this time he simply called her stunning. How strange. 

“And besides, I think our resident Girl on Fire had a really strong hate-fuck vibe going on with Peeta. And I would never cock-block a dear friend.” Finnick needles me with a laugh and I fight the urge to shoot him in the foot with my bow. After I gasp indignantly, of course. Gale scowls and mutters something angrily under his breath. I just hope no one took Finnick seriously. But several people were looking at me curiously. 

“That’s complete and utter bullshit Finnick! You should probably get your eyes examined. I can’t even stand the guy!” I spit out the words irately. Finnick just grins slyly back at me in response. 

“Whatever, I just call them like I see them. And blondie got you more worked up than any guy I’ve seen you with all year.” Finnick’s sea-green eyes glint playfully at me in the late fall sun and I grit my teeth to keep from chewing him out because something about what he said gave me pause. 

Finnick usually hangs out with Gale a lot, and Gale was pretty much the only other friend I had at this school besides my quiet roommate Madge. So I did spend an inordinate amount of my social time around Finnick, plus archery practice. If only because we had common friends and hobbies. And he may have witnessed me turning down a few guys who asked me out, and some casual flirting with guys who I shared classes with when we all ate together in the student cafeteria. Ok, sure I wasn't usually that welcoming to men’s advances. But to say Peeta had gotten me worked up? As in, a sexual way, was just ludicrous. 

And yeah ok, Peeta was attractive, in that popular boy band, mass appeal, widely marketable way, with blond hair, blue eyes, a dimple when he smiled. It was like a teenybopper’s wet dream. But it sure wasn’t my wet dream. Because he was a nosey pencil-pushing pain in the ass. 

 Even if he was fit and toned. (How that was possible was a mystery to me, the guy worked a desk job for crying out loud). It was obvious in the way his jeans clung to his thick muscular thighs and firm rounded backside that he worked out. In the stifling heat yesterday he had quickly almost sweated through his shit. And not in an unappealing way. More like someone had staged a rugged outdoor photoshoot and specifically planned the way his shirt clung to his muscled torso...molding itself onto his defined abs and stomach...stretched tight across his wide shoulders and chest...

And ok...maybe for a minute while we were yelling at each other I’d considered licking the sweat off the hollow of his collarbone and trailing my tongue down his body so I could feel and taste every delicious dip and groove. But it was only for a moment. And it was only because I hadn’t had sex in...how long had it been again? God, Gale and I had broken up over a year ago. I just hoped my vagina hadn’t acquired cobwebs from lack of regular use by now. I’d just been so busy with a new school, and then the archery team. I was on a scholarship so my grades came first and I studied religiously. I hadn’t had time for dating or sex. But last night for the first time in a long time I had pulled out my vibrator from the bottom of my nightstand and gotten myself off, twice, before bed. Luckily Madge had stayed late with Gale in the library to study for a mutual class they had and I’d had the room to myself. 

But the masturbating hadn’t been specifically because of anyone. And certainly not Peeta. More specifically, it was because I hadn’t gotten laid in forever. This was due to the fact I hadn’t found anyone interesting enough or worth the effort to get to the stage where getting laid was possible. So I just needed to scratch an inch at the end of a long and stressful day. 

And when I pictured big hands gently kneading my breasts and ass cheeks it wasn’t Peeta’s hands I was picturing. A lot of guys had big hands. And when I’d imagined full soft pink lips kissing all over my body trailing up the insides of my thighs and finally stopping between my legs to kiss and suck and nibble at me until I was a quivering frantic sopping mess, it wasn’t Peeta’s infuriating mouth I had pictured. 

They were all abstract images. Random things I found attractive and used at the moment to get me off. 

Except...maybe the second time I had pictured sparking blue eyes full of intense heat staring up at me underneath an adorable mop of ash blond waves right before I exploded in a fit of orgasmic bliss of gargantuan proportions. 

Shit. 

Finnick was right. 

I wanted to hate-fuck the goddamn reporter. 

That was just great freaking news. I could hear the announcement now. 

“This just in! New archery team 3D collegiate national qualifier Katniss Everdeen is too horny to function. She’s lusting after obnoxious blond acquaintances and starting arguments for no reason!”  

It was pathetic. And I needed to do something about it. But what? 

Well...I could handle this revelation in two ways. I could repress my desires, stuff them deep down so they would never see the light of day again. Or….I could do the opposite. I could screw him and get him out of my system. The 3D collegiate archery competition was coming up in two weeks. And I needed to get my head back in the game. Needed to focus. I was kind of a mess in my classes this morning. And my shots had been off since yesterday and I thought it might have been because of Haymitch nagging me to play nice. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe I just seriously need to let off some steam. But could I bring myself to hit on the guy who almost drove me nuts within five minutes of meeting him?

I didn’t know if my ego could handle it. I mean he had said some pretty nasty things about me, including calling me an asshat in front of the whole team. Not that asshat was the be-all end of all of the insults. It was a pretty weak comeback. But still, it was the principle of the thing. Could one bed someone as obnoxious as Peeta Mellark and live with the shame afterward? Probably not. At least for me, I didn’t think so. 

Unless he apologized. Maybe. But what were the chances of that? A know-it-all like him admitting he messed up? Yeah, right. I guess repression was the way I was going to have to go. 

And yet when he showed up 15 minutes into practice, wearing an obscenely low-side-cut olive green tank with some grey athletic shorts that hugged his ample backside, every single fantasy I had tried to shove down from last night came surging up. Made all the more intense and worse because even at this distance I could see something I had never expected from the wholesome pretty boy I thought I met yesterday. 

He had tattoos. And not just one douchey-looking tribal band around his bicep that a lot of college guys had that screamed ‘fuckboy’ loudly and obnoxiously. No. Peeta Mellark had a nice collection of several decent-sized motifs all along his upper arms. They had been hidden yesterday by his casual striped button-down with the white undershirt. He has even nicer arms than I originally thought. Thick muscular arms, that catch me off guard by how much I squirm at the sight of them. And to top it off they were accentuated by the impressive collection of ink.

Then he had to go and turn to the side just enough that I caught a glimpse of his exquisitely sculpted obliques, latissimus dorsi, and serratus anterior muscles. Over which was tattooed a block of flowing script that I couldn’t follow because his tank obscured the rest of the view but undoubtedly it had to continue over his ribcage. 

Not fair. It was not fair for him to be this attractive. As if she read my thoughts, Glimmer speaks up right then. 

“Well, dick me dead and bury me pregnant. And here I thought he couldn’t get any yummier.” Glimmer murmured lowly so that only the team could hear. Amused laughter and Gale’s annoyed huff could be heard despite the steady thunk of arrows hitting the targets. The team is used to these kinds of comments from Glimmer. And most find it charming if not predictable. But today I find it annoying as hell. 

“God, Glim, could you get any thirstier?” I muttered in aggravation and she smiled over at me indulgently. 

“If you wouldn’t jump on that deliciousness and ride it six ways to Sunday you’re even more uptight than I thought Katniss.” She hissed and I immediately shut my mouth. There was no point in furthering the conversation. As much as I wanted to argue with Glimmer about how I didn’t want to ascend Peeta's throne, I worried I wouldn’t sound convincing enough. Especially while he looked like hot sex on a stick.

“Hi, there!” He says with a friendly wave aimed at all of us while he sets down the equipment bag he had with him yesterday and begins unzipping it. I don’t even bother attempting to wave back. 

The red-headed girl was with him again. The one Finnick had called stunning. And looking at her today, in her cute cut-off jeans shorts and a breezy peasant top with the camera hanging low beneath her sternum I could see why. She looked younger and freer in her casual clothes, much like Peeta. Her red hair lit up like strands of fire in the (thankfully more muted and less heated than yesterday’s) afternoon light, and her green eyes were spectacular. Like shards of polished jade that stood out even though she stopped by the water cooler table some yards away. 

I turn to see Finnick entranced, eyes following her every move. His mouth even hangs a little open. 

“Close your mouth Finnick, or you’ll wind up swallowing a bug.” I tease him right back for the comment he made earlier about me and Peeta. 

Finnick snaps his mouth shut and blushes. Like actually gets pink-cheeked and bashful looking for a second. I snort through my nose like an uncultured swine and he shoots me the evil eye. 

“Don’t be a dick Katniss.” He hisses at me. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s physically impossible, Fin. But I’ll let you off easy this time if you promise to keep your wildly unfounded theories about who I want to take to bed to yourself.” 

“Deal.” He says quickly. We both nod at each other and I watch in abstract fascination as Peeta lifts a bright blue box out of the equipment bag gently and places it next to the water cooler on the table. It looks oddly like a large cardboard donut box, with a shiny reflective plastic window on top. 

Had he brought some kind of food for everyone? Or maybe for him and his partner while they worked? 

He spoke with Coach Abernathy for a minute. They seemed to be discussing the box, and although Haymitch looked like he grumbled and scowled at the reporter, in the end, he nodded and looked out toward the team members on the field 

“Alright, listen up. Everyone take a 5-minute break and grab some refreshments if you want, courtesy of the University’s journalism representatives. As a gesture of goodwill and cooperation… What’d the hell you call it again boy?” Haymitch breaks off and looks at Peeta for a second, Peeta says something behind his hands I don’t catch, “Respect for the spirit of cooperation. To cut the shit, take a goddamn break and load up on carbs kids.” Haymitch finally just spits the words out impatiently and walks off, grabbing a muffin from the box before he leaves in the direction of his car. Probably to find a half-open bottle of liquor to wash the muffin down with. His liver must be cringing in fear. 

What follows next is a loud and almost desperate migration towards the newly dubbed ‘refreshments’ table, by everyone but me. 

I don’t feel like selling my soul for the price of some mediocre coffee shop baked goods that are probably stale having been left out all day. So, I return my focus to the target and keep shooting. Albeit my shots are slightly off-center, I tell myself that’s just because I’ve got to work harder and focus more. 

It's not until I hear his arrestingly soothing voice from behind me that I snap out of my angry determined reverie. 

“Why didn’t you grab any of the snacks? Got some kind of gluten allergy?” His blue eyes assess me lightly. 

“No,” I say, uncooperatively as he comes to stand a few feet away from me, on my right side. 

“Ok, no allergy. Maybe some weird trendy diet where you have to cut out bread?” Peeta asks. 

I scoff. “No.” In a mildly offended tone. 

“Oh, good, because dieting would be a bad idea for you.” He says, blurts out even, like he wasn’t thinking. And then his face freezes in anxiety. 

I flush in anger. I know I’m not as big-chested as Glimmer, or as round-hipped as a lot of other girls on campus but I wasn’t anorexic or anything. If he was telling me I needed to eat more because I was too skinny then he was an even bigger douche canoe than I originally thought. 

He seems to pick up on the anger in my eyes and backpedals quickly, his hands palm out in surrender. 

“I didn’t mean you don’t need to--wow. And here I thought today would be so much easier with a peace offering and ample time for both of our tempers to cool down.” 

“Well, you’ve managed to kick things off to a great start. So kudos to you.” I snap. He sighs, and runs a hand absentmindedly through his hair, musing up the soft waves. 

“Look, I’m sorry for losing my temper yesterday and cursing at you. I’m also sorry for patronizing you. It was wrong. And I’d like to start on a better foot before we try the interview thing again. But, well, I keep putting said foot in my mouth so…” He trails off in embarrassment. And his pink cheeks look so….humiliated and adorable like a kindergartener getting sent to time out. It's like kryptonite and I feel my indignation slipping. I make a joke instead of starting another argument. 

“Now you barely have one leg to stand on.” I quip without looking at him and pull back my bowstring. 

“Something like that.” He says, and his voice is closer. I fight the urge to look over at him to determine exactly how close. I can feel his eyes on me, but not in a leering or critical way. It was almost like he was studying the mechanics of it, my shooting, anticipating the shot as much as I am making it. It should have felt nerve-wracking. But with my bow in my hands and him having gone peacefully silent, it didn’t feel nerve-wracking at all. I breathe in and out deeply before letting go. 

This time my arrow flies straight into the target, dead center. The corner of my mouth kicks up slightly. 

“Damn, that’s impressive.” He mutters under his breath and I let out a shaky exhale. It was probably the best shot I’d made all day. And I’d done it with him nearly two feet away from my side. Strange. 

“Hopefully impressive enough to place at the 3D competition,” I tell him as I lower my bow and turn towards him fully. He was extremely attractive looking from across the field, but he’s magnificent up close. My eyes run over his sunlit golden waves, strong sturdy shoulders, down his thick and pleasingly decorated arms. Before I have a chance to examine him further he asks me another question. 

“Are you looking forward to going?” He asks and my eyes snap back to his face. I wonder if he caught my casual perusal of his goods. I don’t want to keep talking about myself, but Haymitch did say to play nice. So….

“Sure. I’ve never been to a national archery competition before. Actually, before this year, I hadn't ever competed officially. So, it's kind of exciting making the team and getting to go to nationals right away.” I responded honestly.

Peeta nods at me, his blue eyes clear and bright and behind them, I can see a sharp intelligence that is mentally cataloging every word I divulge. It's like an inner world hidden behind the boyish smile and easy-going mannerisms that are so disarming. 

He’s good at this, I realize. Offhand compliments and getting people to talk about themselves, asking seemingly unimportant questions that lend themselves deeper explanations. Now he’ll probably probe deeper into my background. Find out why I started university so late, and why I’ve never competed before. All the sordid little details of my depressing life. I brace for the inevitable. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try some of the pastries I made?” He asks again, catching me off guard. I fumble with my bow a bit. 

“Made?” I say in shock. I wasn’t expecting the question, or to find out he cooked something for the team. He smiles that sweet but just the perfect hint of a shy smile of his and I have to bite my lip to keep from returning it.

“Yeah, um, I grew up in a bakery all my life. I still bake sometimes as a hobby.” Peeta tells me and I blink at him in surprise. I did not expect that. He was catching me all sort of off guard right now. 

“Really?” I ask stupidly, still incredulous. What college guy liked to bake in his spare time? Was he for real? But judging by the look on his open and guileless face I could tell he was being honest. 

“Yeah. I enjoy it. It's a stress reliever, allows me to take my mind off things you know?” He says as he stretches his back lightly and rocks heel to toe. I catch another glimpse of the rib cage tattoo and I feel my curiosity sparking. I wonder if it would be strange to ask him about his tattoos. Probably. I mean I supposedly can’t stand him. 

“Archery is my stress reliever,” I answer him shortly, to distract myself from ogling him. 

“Oh, I can tell. It's like your whole being quiets down when you shoot. Like everything else in the world is just white noise and the only important things are you and whatever you’ve got your eye on.” He says as he looks back at the target and then back at me. His gaze is weighted, but not uncomfortably so. Just heavy with the feeling of an unexpected truth that settles in the air. 

I flush involuntarily at his words. It kind of did feel like that whenever I shot. But how did he know? How could he? We’d met one time, and hadn’t spoken long enough to get much further than introductions before the argument started. Was he simply that observant? 

“It's just something in the way you hold yourself and concentrate.” He tells me, answering the question that must be in my eyes, nonchalantly, as if he’s just described me walking to my car instead of the unexplainable and undefinable feeling that connected me to my beloved sport. 

“You certainly have a way with words,” I tell him dryly. And he chuckles, a deep amused sound that has me trying not to stare at the way his eyes crinkle and his abdomen tightens attractively underneath his thin shirt. 

“I’m even better with baked goods. Come on, accept a carb-laden olive branch from me?”  He asks and there’s a little something in his voice, and his offer that feels slightly like flirting. But that can’t be right. 

“Alright, but only because it's kind of sexist of you to think a woman won’t eat bread because she’s watching her figure. Or has some kind of allergy.” I tell him with a scowl. 

He groans, but it's the exaggerated, joking kind of groan. 

“I’m sorry about that too.” He pleads and beckons me after him with an outstretched hand and curling of his thick strong-looking fingers. I mentally chide myself to stop looking at his fingers. 

“Well, if your pastries are as good as you claim, I might let you interview me without the threat of bodily harm.” I tease and he visibly brightens. 

“Alright, then you have to try the cheese buns. They are the best thing I make and they’re my recipe too.” He suggests as I fall into step behind him. 

“A cheese bun? What’s that?” I ask, intrigued. Anything combining bread and cheese catches my interest. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He offers. We make our way to the snack table and I catch sight of Finnick nervously trying to chat up the shy-looking red head. 

“Peeta man, this stuff is amazing!” Finnick calls out enthusiastically when we make our way over. 

“Thanks, man,” Peeta says happily. He practically trots over to the box and starts searching. 

“Shit!” He exclaims in frustration a second later. My head snaps to him, leaving whatever question Gale was asking me unanswered. 

“What? We left stuff for you and Kat,” Finnick says, coming over and looking in the box. And from where I stand I can see there are a couple of muffins and cinnamon rolls but I don’t see anything else. 

“All the cheese buns finished,” Peeta says in an extremely dejected voice. 

“Oh,” I say, surprised to hear the disappointment in my voice.

My teammates look a little sheepish, probably at having eaten the best of the baked goods. But our team is made up of mostly robust young guys, who are always hungry, Peeta’s lucky nothing was even left at all. 

“It's fine,” I tell him and try to brush it off. 

“No, it's not. This was the white flag. The peace offering! I should have set one aside.” Peeta chastises himself and I shake my head. 

“You want something else Katniss? There’s still muffins and they’re hella good.” Thresh offers and I politely decline. I tell them I’m more of a savory than a sweet eater. Peeta looks kind of devastated. I feel bad about it. 

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get started with the interview.” I tell him and he looks over at me, seemingly to gauge my sincerity. 

“Alright, I’ll just owe you one.” He replies. 

I shake my head again.

“No,” I reply and his countenance falls. I feel bad but I don’t want there to be any sort of debt between us. I hate owing people and I hate it when people feel like they owe me too. Then I get an idea. 

“How about this, you ask a question and I ask one back? Would that be fair?” I offer and he looks up at me suddenly. He nods. 

“Yeah, that could work.” He agrees and his perfect pink mouth sketches into a tentative smile. I nod back. 

“Ok, so where do you want to do this?” I ask and when something like interest sparks across his gaze I fight the urge to blush. Parapraxis is bitch sometimes. 

He looks over at Annie and she marches to his side. 

“Can you get some candid shots of the whole team, like wide angle lens with silhouettes and a few close-ups on profiles and faces? But stay in the background this time? I don’t want it to feel posed” He tells her, and the photography jargon is hard to follow. I have no idea what a wide-angle lens is for, but it seems Peeta is not only good with words and pastries, but he also knows quite a bit about photography. Annie murmurs a quiet yes and sets off towards the 20-yard targets where some of the others have already started shooting again. 

But unluckily not everyone has scattered yet. 

“I’m ready for my close up Mr. Reporter,” Glimmer throws out in a flirty voice and even winks at Peeta. 

“Oh, that’s great Glimmer, but I’m gonna try to catch up on Katniss’ interview today since we didn’t get much usable info yesterday.” He tells her gently. I bite my lip and turn away. Of course, the two best-looking blonds would find a way to flirt with each other. She looks especially cute in her yoga tights and crop top. People could say whatever they wanted about her intelligence but Glimmer was still beautiful. 

“You poor thing,” She coos and tries to place a conciliatory pat on Peeta’s shoulder but he turns at the last second and faces her so her hand ends up patting empty air. 

“I love my job. And I’ve learned over the years that usually the more difficult the subject the more amazing the collaboration turns out.” He says firmly. She looks taken aback. 

“Collaboration? I thought you were the reporter. Aren’t I just here to answer your questions?” I ask him in a concerned voice. Momentarily forgetting to reveal too much in the shocked look of disappointment on Glimmer’s face. 

“Nope, in fact, you have the biggest part to play in this article. You’re a newcomer to the sport and the university, you’re talented, and you're unbiased. So you can give an extraordinary window into the dynamics of collegiate archery and life at Panem U. If I let you tell your story correctly, this thing is going to be a smash, for the university and the archery department.” Peeta says confidently and begins to walk back to my spot at the 40-yard targets. I follow him silently. 

I suddenly feel nervous as I take in his words. Is that true? Is that what everyone is expecting of me? I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of pressure. 

When I get back to the targets Peeta seems to sense this, maybe because of the terrified look I’ve probably got written all over my face. 

“Hey, hey, sorry. That must have sounded like I expected you to do all the work in this interview. But really, you won’t. The burden’s on me to ask the right questions. All you have to do is answer honestly. I’ll be doing the majority of the heavy lifting ok?” 

I swallow past the lump in my throat and will myself to calm down. 

“How about this, you take a couple of shots to relieve the stress I unfairly and idiotically put on you, and  then you ask me a question to start.” Peeta offers gently and I find myself nodding. 

“Don’t you need a pen and paper or something to take notes with?” I ask. 

“No, I’ve got a pretty good memory. But if it makes you feel more comfortable I can use an audio recorder so you won’t be misquoted.” He jokes. 

“Um, no, that’s fine. Unless you need it, then go ahead.” I tell him quietly. 

“Alright, well let’s just see how far we get. If I start having trouble remembering I’ll use the recorder. You go ahead and set up your shot. And ask me your first question when you start feeling comfortable.” Peeta tells me. 

So I do. I shoot for a bit and then start by asking him how he got assigned this story. He tells me a little bit about being on the journalism team for the university newspaper and makes me laugh when he talks about how he begged his boss for a more exciting assignment after he got stuck with golf last time. 

“Little did I know I’d be meeting you the next day.” He jokes and I laugh, unable to stop myself. 

“Be careful what you ask for I guess,” I tell him as I sink another arrow into the target.  

“Oh, I’m glad I asked for this assignment. It's probably the most intriguing subject matter I’ve studied all year.” He tells me with a sly smile, looking right at me when he says it. 

My eyes flit back to the target and I pretend to study it for a bit. I still am having a hard time reconciling the fact that he’s flirting with me. But I’m getting that vibe. At least, I think he is. He’s been sweet and disarming and courteous all afternoon. 

That alone is shocking, after the extremely rough start we had. But maybe pretty boy Peeta isn’t so easily deterred by surly dispositions or bad first impressions. He seemed to handle Haymitch pretty well at the start of practice. Even got him to deliver that funny little speech. Maybe he’s good with difficult people. What’s even more startling is that I hope he is. Good with difficult people and also that he is interested. In me. 

Because the longer we talk, the more interested I become. And I want to find out what the heck his tattoo says. I look back at him and find him openly admiring my stance, the way I pull back my bow. I may not have the bust size of some other girls, but I’m pretty fit. I’m particularly proud of my toned arms and legs, not to mention my shoulders which stayed in good shape because of archery. Also, Gale had once told me after we broke up that he missed my ass because no other girl he’s met had one like mine. I’d threatened to break his nose if he ever said that in public but privately I’d been pleased. Maybe Peeta was an admirer of derrieres as well. 

Only one way to find out. 

I shoot my last arrow and it sinks just right of center. But of course, there are so many arrows clustered together in the center there hadn’t been any more room for my last one. I had been aiming for the spot to the right anyway. 

“Let me just go and retrieve my arrows,” I tell Peeta sweetly and he looks a little surprised. 

“Need some help?” Peeta offers immediately. 

“No, you just stay right there,” I told him. You’ll have a better view if you do. I think to myself. He obliged me and just looked on as I walked off. 

I jog over to the target and begin pulling out arrows one by one and placing them back into my quiver. I’m so nervous my palms are sweating. By the last arrow, I don’t even have to pretend to drop it by accident. I feel my heartbeat racing a little. I’ve never been this bold or suggestive with a guy. But if I want to get Peeta out of my system so I can go back to concentrating on my studies and the competition coming up, then I can’t wait for him to make the first move. Peeta seems like the type to want to date and woo a girl. And I’m not interested in a relationship. I need to work out this sexual tension I’ve got with someone who I can see myself getting off quickly with during sex. And Peeta checks a lot of my boxes. All of them if I’m being honest with myself. I turn for a second to see if he’s looking and thankfully he is. He’s staring right at me. 

So, I just go ahead and go for it. 

I bend over to retrieve the fallen arrow, slowly. I’m wearing tiny black athletic shorts that are loose enough at the bottom to not be distracting when I’m standing. But when I bend down, especially at the right angle….

I grab the arrow and stand back up after what I surmise is an appropriate amount of time. I’m still facing away from him. But I know since I didn’t wear any tights underneath my shorts today that I just gave Peeta an eye full of my ass cheeks and he probably knows what color my underwear is now too. (olive green like the tank he’s wearing). 

When I look back at him he looks different. Startled for a second. But when he sees the look on my face it's like something clicks. Gone is the friendly smile. The casual charm that usually emanates from him is nowhere to be found as I slowly walk back, my flushed cheeks betraying me. Instead, there is just this quiet anticipation that rolls off him in waves. 

Good, I think to myself. 

Hopefully, after tonight Peeta Mellark will become a college fling I had once. 

But the way he bites those perfect lips of his and crosses his arms over his chest so that his muscles stand out attractively I think that maybe one might be underestimating him. Because Peeta Mellark looks like he wants to devour me twice over. 

And judging by the slickness of my underwear I think I might want him to do just that. 

(Peeta) 

I’m struck speechless by the tantalizing view of Katniss bent over in those little shorts of hers. I can’t talk, I can’t move. I can barely think. It’s like my operating system has crashed and I need a second to try and reboot it.  

My efforts seem to be failing spectacularly and what’s worse is that I don't seem to mind their apparent failure.

The only thing that does seem to be working properly is my dick. Which is rapidly growing harder in my shorts the longer my eyes linger on the delicious golden fleshy globes of Katniss’ perfectly sculpted ass that are peeking out of her shorts and lacy-edged green underwear. 

The green itself is doing wonders for her complexion, the artist in me notes.

I quickly adjust my hard-on so that my erection is trapped against my stomach and the waistband of my shorts. It’s uncomfortable but it’ll have to do until my cock starts to behave again. I really don’t want to be walking around with a huge tent in front of the entire college archery team. 

I refocus on Katniss again, and I get this sudden urge and mental image of me pulling down her shorts and smacking her ass hard, with an open palm just to watch the perky swells retreat from impact and then bounce back. 

I’d love to see what her bare ass looks like decorated with the outline of my hand on it. 

The thought floats up unbidden from somewhere in the recesses of my mind. 

Whoa, where did that thought come from? 

Great, now I was having spanking fantasies about her. Which was weird because usually, I wouldn’t consider myself a kinky guy. But damn. Katniss just brought out a whole different side of me and I don't know if that discovery is appreciated or not.

 As if it wasn’t bad enough before this. Yesterday I couldn’t get her out of my head and I had jerked off this morning in the shower to the mental image of her flushed face and sweaty cleavage during the argument we had when we met. 

Ok, that’s it. I have to do something about this, or I’ll go insane. I have to try to get this girl to go out with me. At least. 

From the look she threw my way before she bent over I’d say I have a good shot. She checked to make sure I was looking before she pulled her little stunt. 

Suddenly she straightens up and turns back around to face my direction. The look on her face is different. For a moment she seems unsure, but then our gazes lock and even at this distance I can see it in her eyes. 

She wants me. Maybe as bad as I want her if that's even possible. 

Fuck. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on by a girl I haven’t even seen naked yet. 

But there was just something about Katniss that stirred up my blood. From the lusty yet slightly embarrassed look on her face as she walks back towards me, cheeks flushed and gray eyes flashing in the afternoon light I know that she has no idea. The true extent of the effect she has on me. I don’t even think it's purely physical. 

But I think I’d give my left leg to get to know her better on a purely physical level to start out with. 

 Man, that little show she put on. That was all for my benefit. And the way she’s looking at me right now, as she sexily bites her lip is making it very clear what her intentions are. 

Well, two can play at this game I think as I cross my arms over my chest and return her gaze, spark for spark. 

“We match,” I tell her quietly, tugging on the front of my muscle shirt and letting my eyes drift down to her lower half. Those olive green panties of hers may be covered up right now but I had seen enough to know that my shirt and her underwear were almost the same shade of green. 

She blushed even harder and blinked at me for a second before swallowing thickly and nodding. 

Shooting her a coy smirk, I run one hand through my hair, making sure to flex my arm as I do. I’m gratified to see her molten silver stare flit over my arms and chest before struggling to settle back on my face. 

My smirk deepens. 

“Makes you wonder what other things we might be a match in,” I say smoothly, my eyes trained on her face to gauge her reaction. 

“Possibly.” She replies quietly, her eyes shifting down to my mouth. 

If we were alone I’d probably kiss her right now. But I take a quick look around the field and see that Coach Abernathy has made it back from his liquor break and is watching the two of us intently from some distance away. No doubt waiting to see if Katniss and I blow up at each other a second time. 

The bronze-haired guy named Finnick is following Annie around like a lost puppy, but it seems she’s barely acknowledging his attempts at conversation as she moves around the field taking pictures of the other archers. 

Everyone else seems to be focused on practicing. 

I take a deep breath and look back at Katniss trying to gather my courage. 

“I feel really bad you didn’t get to eat any of the food I baked. I mean, by the time practice ends you must be starving, what with a long day of classes you probably have.” I try to segue into my pitch carefully. 

Katniss is eying me expectantly and it gives me the confidence to continue. 

“Would you wanna grab a bite to eat after this?” I ask, deciding to just go for it. 

She looks down and does that thing where she bites her lip and I stare as she worries a little piece of skin in between her teeth. 

“Maybe you could take me back to your place and whip up some more of those, what did you call then? Cheesy buns?” She proposes in a slightly suggestive manner as she fiddles with the end of her braid. 

I let out the breath I’ve been holding in. It's becoming more and more clear the direction she wants to take this in. 

“Yeah, I think that could be arranged,” I say quietly before reaching out and running one finger down the smooth texture of her plaited dark hair and stopping at the end of her braid before giving it a playful tug. 

“But first we really should finish the interview. My boss chewed me out something terrible when I came back to the office yesterday empty-handed.” I admit with a chuckle and she has the decency to look embarrassed. 

“Sorry if I got you in trouble.” 

“No worries. Johanna can be a bit of a hardass but she’s alright. I just promised her I’d get some really interesting stuff today.” 

“How could you promise that before you even interviewed me? I mean what if I’m totally boring?” 

“Katniss, you may be a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them. That much I’m sure of.” 

She rolls her eyes at me and huffs a little, before taking up her stance again. She pulls out an arrow and notches it on her bow. Then she turns her head slightly to look at me as she raises one eyebrow. 

“Well, start asking your questions already.” She instructs and I grin at her. 

.

.

.

“Tell me about your aiming process. How do you ensure such accuracy everytime you fire?” I ask. 

“When you shoot, you’ve got to keep both eyes on what you want to hit.” Katniss tells me seriously. We’ve been at this for the last 20 minutes. She shoots while I ask her questions. Sometimes she asks me stuff back. Its been working well, and I am pleasantly pleased with the amount of material I’ve collected for the interview so far. 

Even though the words we’ve exchanged have been entirely professional ever since she gave me the green light to continue with the interview, the fire hasn’t left her eyes. Nor my blood. I’m just counting down the minutes until I can end the interview and get her all to myself back at my apartment. 

“Do you bring this kind of tenacious focus with you to all aspects of your life?” I ask as evenly as I can, I find myself almost out of breath as I watch her lean muscular arms go through the motions of pulling an arrow out of her quiver.

 I wanna know what those strong but delicate arms feel like wrapped around me. This leads me to think about her legs wrapped around me too. 

Which leads to….distraction. 

I shake my head and try to refocus, hoping my wildly mounting attraction for her isn’t as obvious to her as it feels to me.

 “When the situation calls for it. I’m good at going after what I want. And I find my mark almost every time.” She tells me with such a straight face I would have believed we were still talking about archery if her smoldering gray eyes weren’t glued to my mouth again.

I lick my lips in a knee-jerk reaction. I see her eyelids lower, fractionally, and she purses her lips just slightly. It's enough to make my heart speed up and my hands clench. 

“So does that mean you feel confident about Panem U’s chances at placing in the upcoming D3 National Archery Competition?” I ask, after clearing my throat and bridging up back on topic. 

At this, she smiles a bit. It's not a conceited or cocky smile. It's enthusiastic and dare I say, hopeful. 

“Yes. We’ve got a great team this year and one of the most knowledgeable coaches in the sport. I think the odds are in our favor this time around.” She says as she looks back over in the direction of her teammates and Haymitch. 

I can see the affection she has for them, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. The more I get to know her the more I realize that her tough exterior is most likely hiding a softer side. 

Which is a side of Katniss Everdeen I’m just dying to get to know. But I know I have to proceed cautiously. She didn’t seem like the kind to open up right away. 

“I think the D13 competition isn’t going to know what hit them this year.” I agree quietly. 

Just like me, when we first met, I add, in my head but don't say it out loud.

[consumeronionbulletin]

That Winter, The Wind Blows (2013)

This show is not meant to be believable and is about feeling all the feels. It's not worse than other dramas I've finished, but the tricks it pulls to keep your interest are dated, and I've lost patience with this kind of show.

It doesn't help that the premise is a bit bonkers...

There's two guys with the same name. One of them is a con man who is suddenly in deep trouble with the mafia. The other guy is the (disowned) older son of a rich man who is in a coma. And on the day the second guy is about to finally meet his long lost sister and come into his inheritance—he dies in a car accident, and the con man takes his place. That works because his long lost sister is blind and no one has seen the guy for twenty years so they don't know what he's supposed to look like anyways.

I mean, there's a few other twists to it, but that's basically it. And over the course of the series we learn lots of terrible family secrets and have crazy plot shenanigans happening. I stopped watching after five episodes.

The Good:

The two leads are great, both separately and together. Jo In-sung puts in a great performance as a con man who has just enough of a moral compass to get caught when he ends up doing the decent thing a few too many times. Song Hye-kyo put in an amazing performance as someone who is strong outside and in complete emotional turmoil. The sidekicks are fun, too. There's a weird faux-cest plot that kind of keeps things entertaining for awhile. The tragic backstory is suitably tragic and gut wrenching in places.

I'm starting to see a pattern in the roles Song Hye-kyo has been cast in. She starts out playing this coldly competent character that is missing something in her life. And once she finds a good man, then suddenly she'll be complete and all the trauma and bad stuff will finally be healed. She's played that kind of character in every role I've seen her in, and this is where that started. Overall, that's not a bad kind of character, and I enjoy watching her play it, but it seems like the rest of the show has been hit or miss.

The Bad:

The plot doesn't make sense. It will never make sense. From what I've read, the ending won't make any sense either. I can put up with alot of lapses in logic, depending on the show, but just know that going into it.

The Ugly:

Oh Young (Song Hye-kyo's character) keeps trying to kill herself. For reasons that kind of make sense. And Oh Soo (Jo In-sung's character) decides that slapping her is a good idea. I just cannot be cool with that. All the other toxic masculinity BS in the show—stuff that is supposed to be smoldering and show how much the man cares—just feels dated and tired.

I know where the show is coming from—I just can't keep watching when that kind of thing happens in a show. I've got a three wrist-grab limit, at this point (though I do subtract from that count for reverse wrist-grabs; it's a complicated system). I know some of this is cultural, but some of it isn't... and I'm tired of seeing it.

TL; DR:

Don't go into this show expecting logic. Don't expect it to be objectively good. But it can be entertaining for some people. Just not me.

[novemberthewriter]

oc rambles: [dex/jo], [jo & baz]

the 1st is a very casual thing i rattled off in response to a writing club prompt for star wars day 2 weeks ago. dex & jo proving yet again why rick ross - hustlin' should be their theme song

the 2nd is the beginning of a short story that i need to rebuild from the ground up, but i like this scene by itself sm that i wanna preserve it. this one is jo & baz' initial bonding moment in a convenience store

-> dex & jo are are the same characters (black girl n redhead guy) from my finished flash piece 'blank'!

-> baz is my delightful faith evans-lookalike oc who gets a girl crush (and eventually a Crush crush) on jo lmao

-

STAR WARS [dex/jo, 150 wds]

You fumbled the bag, Dex says.

How so? Jo’s incredulous, sounding that way she always does when she’s convinced she can do no wrong. Which is most days. Dex is used to it.

You missed the window.

Fuck you, i missed the window. Isn’t today that nerd thing? May 4th. I put stuff on sale just for it.

You don’t put things for a special on the day of – well, you can if it’s a flash sale, but you don’t do a unannounced flash sale on a major holiday–

/Why/, Dex, get to the point–

He rolls his eyes, keeps counting the money. You advertise sales AHEAD of time JoJo, I didn’t think I needed to tell you some 101 on how to fleece nerds.

It’s not Comic Con, hubby, you really think a extra couple hours –

--If I didn’t think it makes a difference I wouldn’t have brought it up!

Boy, I am thiiis close to taking a damn. Aggrieved spouse tax out on that shit. Interest out the wazoo. Won’t have any coins left to get a STAMP of a lightsaber.

2. FAWN [jo & baz, 600 wds]

Baz met Jo in a mirror. 

It was the chrome dome in the low ceiling by the liquor aisle. Baz was out of high school graduation before her cap hit the ground. She’d peeled out of the parking lot in her junker car with the broken A/C and had completely sweat out her baby hairs by the time she got to the corner store. As she fixed them – craning her neck and squinting at her reflection while she gelled synthetic blonde edges back into submission – a tall girl came up beside her and started primping too. 

The girl broke the ice before Baz could even get the bad anxiety hot flashes. 613 gang, she said, nodding at Baz’ bent glass image and fussing with her own jet black high pony. She did it one handed; the other hand cradled a liter of Grey at her bony hip. She noticed Baz noticing. Got the Goose by the neck, she said. The Black lovechild of JLo and Jolie. Smolder eyes, pillow lips. Swan neck. Fat ass. Rocking Matrix chic just like Baz.

The good anxiety hot flashes came on and Baz was saying way too much about finally leaning into years of Faith Evans comparisons with the 613 platinum wig. The girl listened like Baz was a Normal Person and then talked about another famous blonde, one Ms. Barbara Eden, whom she was always trying to channel with hair style if not color. Then she explained that that was just her go-to bullshit response to years of I Dream of Jeannie jokes. If it’s one thing about Jo James, she said, it’s that she will not be leaving the house with her hair down, okay? 

I dream of Joey with the jet black hair, Baz thought. 

I’m Baz, she said aloud. 

What’s that mean? 

I don’t know if it means anything by itself. Baz slicked down the last of the errant edges. She put her brush and gel back in her purse without looking away from Jo in the mirror. But it’s short for Basilica. People say it’s pretty and I swear they’re lying. 

Jo kept looking right back. Baz is pretty too. 

Jo finished her hair (which hadn’t looked undone to begin with, in Baz’ eyes) and pulled Baz down about six more conversational rabbit holes that culminated in the two of them exchanging socials. They both had to look away from the mirror to find and follow the right accounts.

Then they faced each other. 

Jo was a dark sun and Baz was the overfed flower trying to take in the weird, lovely rays. They stood in silence. Jo suddenly seemed to register Baz’ blue grad gown unzipped over her outfit.

Hey, she said. Congrats.

She slipped out the store the back way.

Baz let herself be dazed for a few moments before she finally went about picking up her graduation presents to herself. Precious snack cakes and Slim Jims cradled in one arm like Jo with her vodka. Used the other hand to point out the Swisher Sweets she wanted behind the clerk’s counter. Carded and checked out by one clerk while the other worked on a midshift count.

By the time Baz left (out the front way, like a Normal Person), the clerks were bickering about the count. 

Baz was on the road before she realized the till was short the exact amount of a liter of Grey Goose plus tax. 

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

Silver Lady by Mary Jo Putney

Dangerous Gifts #1

Interesting, intriguing, introduction to a new series that will showcase paranormal gifts in the main characters of historical romances. Great start to a new series!

What I liked:

* The introduction in which Rhys and Gwyn Tremayne find two small, gifted children – Caden and Branock – and take them home

* Bran: abandoned at three, escaped with Caden and made it to London, taken in and raised by the Tremaynes, works for The British Home Office, problem solver, researcher, knows people and can see threads – knows he needs to go to Cornwall and not because he is last in line to inherit a barony

* Girl: a mind-wiped woman, kidnapped, gifted, to be used against her will for something big – liked finding out who she really was and how her life would play out

* The closeness that Caden and Bran have both as tiny boys and later as men

* The idea of “gifts” and how they are explained in the story

* The plot, pacing, setting, and writing

* The way the gifted characters felt and followed their intuition

* The relationship between Bran and Merryn and how gifted often find the perfect mate

* Getting to know Tamsyn, Matthew Davey, Glynis, Annie, Alice, and wondering about Cade’s younger half-sister and if she will show up later in this series will be

* That I liked and cared about the characters and felt I would like to have them as friends

* Knowing that there is another book in this series to look forward to

* All of it really except…

What I didn’t like:

* Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about war, spies, treasonous acts, and the evil men and women will do for money

Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more in this series? Yes

Thank you to NetGalley and Kensington Books for the ARC – This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

Cornwall calling! From New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney, the first in an intoxicating historical romance series set on the rugged Cornish coast, filled with swashbuckling adventure and real-life history, intrigue and an unshakeable love—perfect for fans of Poldark . A smoldering nobleman and a beautiful amnesiac with paranormal gifts discover they share a powerful passion, a unique legacy—and a common enemy. Together they faced the past . . . A sense of duty sends Bran Tremayne to Cornwall to confront his heritage of British nobility. Abandoned at birth, Bran wants nothing to do with the embittered remains of his family. But as a special agent for the Home Office, he senses trouble brewing along the coast. And he can’t turn away from the vulnerable woman he encounters in the Cornish countryside. Merryn’s amnesia makes her past a mystery to them both, but with her life in danger, the only thing Bran knows for sure is that the beautiful stranger needs his protection . . . But would they share a future? Leaning into Bran is difficult enough, but can Merryn trust the strong bond—and the powerful passion—she feels for her rugged rescuer? She has no choice once Bran uncovers that she is at the center of a plot between French agents and Cornish smugglers. From misty woodlands to stormy shores, the two join forces with a band of loyal Cornishmen to bring down a common enemy. Yet will their growing love survive the coming peril?

[dertaglichedan]

Joe Biden nearly tumbles while exiting Air Force One — just hours after his plans to avoid falls were revealed

Just call him Jo-slip Biden.

President Biden, 80, slipped and nearly tumbled down a 14-step staircase while exiting Air Force One on Tuesday — just hours after it was revealed that the commander in chief is working with a physical therapist and using shorter stairs to avoid further trip-ups.

The near-miss occurred moments after Biden touched down at the Detroit Metro Airport, where he was greeted by United Auto Workers president Shawn Fain, Michigan Lt. Gov. Garland Gilchrist and US Reps. Debbie Dingell, Rashida Tlaib and Shri Thanedar, all Michigan Democrats, the clip shared by radio reporter Alex McLennon shows.

Despite the hair-raising moment, Biden recovered his footing and appeared unbothered by the gaffe.

Footage of the incident, however, quickly caught fire on social media — which was already smoldering from earlier reports that Biden has been doing balancing exercises in order to avoid more public spills as his team frets over polls showing that three-quarters of Americans think he is too old for a second term.

In addition to meeting with physical therapist Drew Contreras, the veteran politician has been spotted opting for sneakers rather than slippery dress shoes, and is using the shorter staircase to help him reach Air Force One’s flight deck.

Go Joe Go!

[earaercircular]

Belgian waste processor itself sets a good example

Afval Alternatief (Waste Alternative), the name says it all. The Dessel[1]-based company on the Kastelsedijk - right next to the Graspop[2] sites - is unpacking with circular waste containers and foil bags.

Ten years ago, Aart Van Oekelen and Jo Smolders set up their own company. Afval Alternatief[3] now employs ninety people.

“We specialise in the selective collection of waste and recycling streams,” explains Van Oekelen. “We collect waste from companies and provide advice on sorting and recycling. Now we are setting a good example ourselves.”

Circular

The new collection containers from Waste Alternative are made from recycled plastics. Circular, as it is called. “The word is often used in a marketing context, but here we really get to work.”

“We are switching to gray containers that consist of up to 95% recycled granulate,” the manager continues. "For coloured containers the recycling material has to be purified with new 'virgin' material, and that is bad for the environment."

“The bags with which we collect wrapping film from our SMEs are also converted into granulate to make the same product again. By reusing materials, we save energy and reduce our CO2 emissions by 80,000 kg.”

These are challenging times for entrepreneurs, including brands at Waste Alternative. “We are investing heavily in new trucks, but therefore we now have to look two years ahead. There is a lot of uncertainty and we also notice the same feeling within our customer base. Unfortunately, I do not know an entrepreneur with a crystal ball.”

Circular is part of the solution, emphasizes Van Oekelen. Because this is the only way companies can make themselves less dependent on expensive raw materials and variable delivery times. “Our new waste containers and foil bags fit into a broader circular economy story. That will be our focus in 2023.”

Source

Mip, Desselse afvalverwerker geeft zelf het goede voorbeeld, in: Made in Kempen, 21-12-2022, https://www.made-in.be/kempen/desselse-afvalverwerker-geeft-zelf-het-goede-voorbeeld/

[1] Dessel is a municipality located in the Belgian province of Antwerp. The municipality comprises only the town of Dessel proper. In 2021, Dessel had a total population of 9,659 inhabitants. The total area is 27.03 km².

[2] Graspop Metal Meeting is a Belgian heavy metal festival held in Dessel each year since 1996, excluding 2020 and 2021 due to covid restrictions. Despite the small size of the festival grounds (upholding a perimeter of only ~4 km) the festival draws a large number of spectators from around Europe, with a total of 220,000 visitors in 2022, up from 200,000 visitors over the course of the 2019 edition, and 152,000 in 2015.

[3] Alval Alternatief (Waste Alternative) is known for its personal approach within the recycling & waste market. Through flexible cooperation and services, Afval Alternatief thinks along with you about alternatives for collection and finding the right solution for processing waste flows for companies and private individuals. https://www.afvalalternatief.be/aanpak/