#handsome lad with cut and bruises

[lologoinsolo]

I’m in my masculine moment again and you know who would affirm me the most??? Price. Price would see me doubting and would not stand a second for it. If I so much as whisper “I don’t feel” he’d be on me in seconds.

It gets fluffy and then mature under the cut so please… no minors!!! FTM/Genderfluid Reader. “Good boy” is mentioned a lot but only because… I like being called that… sorry if that’s cringe but damn does that work for me. Not really edited either… sorry

Price would see you struggling and whisper a “what’s the matter, handsome?” You don’t even have to say it cause he sees it all over your face. Sees how you feel like you’re not enough, that you’re not fitting the ‘mold’ and that just won’t do. Makes a point to use he/him pronouns every second he gets, gives you his clothes, his cologne, his hoodies, gives you his bonnie hat to wear when you want to. God forbid he sees you lifting something heavy and he smiles the proudest saying something like “that’s my strong man, looking good.”

fuckkkkkkkkkk the power he’d have over you as he ties your tie, heavy eye contact the entire time as he fixes your buttons and cuffs. Flattening the fabric and telling you how handsome you look, how dashing you are, he can’t even get past another compliment before diving down to kiss you. Never mind the important event that he was supposed to go to on time, he wants you right now. You end up getting a quickie in and show up nearly 30 minutes late cause he wouldn’t let you leave the car till he got another kiss. You had to threaten him with cutting his cigars for him to get his hands out of your pants.

Maybe when you’re taking a shower and he grabs his shaver so he can place a hand on your throat while he grooms you. Telling you, ’“need to keep up with this, lad. How else are you gonna get it to look like mine?” He says as he tilts your head back so he can get it just right. Never wants to nick or cut you, never marks you in a way that hurts but in a way that heals. Didn’t take long for his hands to start wondering. Didnt take long till he had you moaning against the cold tile wall either.

So affirming that he makes you sit on his lap. Your back to his chest as he slides his hard, leaking cock between your thighs. Growls into your ear about you being so, so needy. “Look at it, leakin’ all over your damn thighs.” It twitches in your hand, “go on. Stroke your cock,” ordering as he spreads your thighs wider, your hand shaky as you grip it— your cock. Sliding it up and down as he bites down a grunt. “That’s it, play with it. Such a pretty cock you have, don’t be shy now. That’s all yours, go on.” It’s all just fog in your mind, your hearts pounding in your chest as you thumb the head. Circling your dick and smearing pre down so you can pump it faster. You’re practically vibrating as you use both of your hands now.

“Good boy,” he whispers right under your ear. Biting on your neck as he watches you play. It’s not about his pleasure right now, he’ll loan you his cock any damn day for as long as you need it. He’ll get to fucking you proper later. Right now he just wants you feeling good, wants you feeling sure of yourself. “My good boy.” The hands on your thighs grip tight enough to bruise, “gonna cum?” He groans, asking you if you’re going to and you feel like you are, god you can feel your dick about to burst. You want to cum so badly, “then cum, boy, make a mess.” And you do, your stomach clenches as he bites down hard, sucking a bruise in your neck that won’t go away for days.

White splatters on you, a real mess you made of yourself. Your hand squeezing and you’re panting hard before finally letting go of your spent cock. John pushes you off just so he can turn you back around and make you sit back on him. This time facing each other as he cups your face. His tongue down your throat in seconds. You’re grinding against him, desperate for more, always wanting more and he’ll give it to you. Always. You’re his after all and his man always gets what he wants.

[roguepen]

Jack / Lucina content and one-shot preview under the cut

Look- this is going to be a long story. I have scenes I want to put in that are not drafted. Enjoy this. Know it could change in edits.

Birth of Alex - Jack’s POV

Lucina and I knew nothing about babies and now that he was born it seemed like a terrible idea in hindsight. The Healer seemed mildly concerned at our combined lack of knowledge on the holding of the minutes old baby boy. Who I already loved beyond all expression, it's ridiculous - I do not know this baby but he's clearly got Lucina's ears and the pert set of her chin and I'm completely gone - the rest of him looks like me, poor thing.

Newborns were generally a bit ugly, but this baby boy was the most handsome, perfect of infants. His head was a bit bruised, perhaps too pointed -that went away right? We didn’t manage to mess him up on the day he was born, right?

By the Twelve, we probably had. At least we were not going to drop him - we were not that incompetent.

“I thought you wanted to name him after your father?”

Lucina blinked slowly as I sat down next to her and passed her the bundle of fresh newborn baby as she bit her lip thoughtfully. “I… don’t think he looks like a Callum.”

“Ainsley then?” I brushed my finger over the boy’s cheek and watched his mouth twitch. “It might please your aunt.”

I would die for him. No questions asked. He would grow up happy and safe, even if I did not live to see it.

Lucina shook her head, her long blonde hair falling moving slightly along the pillow. “No, that sounds nice, but I don’t like it much.”

I exhaled slowly, “Maybe we should have made a list.”

“No. We name the baby something that fits him, not try to make him something he’s not.”

I reached out to Lucina, wordlessly offering to hold him again so she could rattle off a few more names.

“I thought about Alistair, Uncle Tavish’s son, you remember him? Something strong, I think.” Lucina paused. “He seems willful.”

The result of twenty-eight hours of labor being described as willful seemed an understatement.

“That’s a Graves trait, you’ve met my parents.”

Lucina giggled, her face was pink and radiant and the early morning sun was beginning to rise and peer through the window and- she’s an absolute vision.

“Alexander.”

“Hm?”

“His name.” Lucina smiled, tired in a way I was not sure I could ever understand as she lay back on her pillows. Her slender, pale hand reaching out towards me, beckoning me and our son back to her. “I don’t want to inflate Alistair’s ego too much, and Alexander is a nice strong name on its own.”

I grinned wryly, “None of those in the family. I like it. Middle name?”

Lucina looked at me and the smile on her face was so sweet and open that I would have kissed her if I was not concerned I would crush baby Alexander before his paperwork was filled out and formalized.

“Theodore.”

“Mine? You sure about building my ego up like that?”

Lucina nodded, “Alexander Theodore Graves. It’s perfect.”

“Just like him.”

Oo0Oo0

Birth of Audrey- Jack's POV

Having a daughter should not have been different from a son, but there was something so delicate about Audrey. She seemed smaller than Alex had, quicker to open her eyes and focus on me as I held her, despite the fact that I now knew that babies did not have particularly good eyesight, it was the idea that she saw me that squeezed my heart. Audrey had her mother’s eyes, almond shaped and a head of dark hair. Such a beautiful baby girl.

Lucina and I had debated names for several minutes while Alex looked over the newborn with a curious stare while she lay quietly in my arms. He was a handsome lad, I did not see much of Lucina in him but he seemed to favor her father. In short, Alex looked more like an Ainsley than a Graves, despite all of Lucina’s assertions otherwise.

By the Twelve we made pretty babies.

Lucina claimed Ophelia was a beautiful name, I retorted that this baby was already too sweet natured to be compared to my battle-axe of a mother.

I proposed if we wanted to use a name from my side of the family, my great-grandmother Audrey seemed a reasonable idea - a noted philanthropist and not a famous family battle-axe.

Lucina tested the name a couple of times before nodding in approval. “Middle names?”

Oh, this would be a struggle. I was still a no on anything from my mother - Audrey Ophelia rolled off the tongue terribly in any case. Audrey Anne had too many A��s… I had toyed with Rebekah, but I did not feel it was a good idea to invite the strangeness of Rebekah Graves to my baby girl. She would have a simpler life than my great-great grandmother, and Rebekah’s outspoken politics were not something to invite into my growing career through the name of our daughter, and I would not offend Lucina by naming our baby girl after my family’s parselmouth ancestor. There was too much going on in Britain and too much controversy to open that door for scrutiny.

I had been looking at the family tree for ideas and virtue names were a bit common but… Something strong. Defined. I don’t want her to go too far, I want her constantly in my arms…

“Constance.”

“What?”

“Audrey Constance Graves.” I shrugged and caressed her downy black hair before bringing her up to kiss her forehead. “She’s a constant thread tying us all together.”

And she’s never leaving my sight - there will be no boys.

"Where did that come from?"

“Have you been throwing bones again?” Alex raised an eyebrow, looking far older than a nine-year-old should. I thought he would be a little dumb until he was twenty-five or so, but sometimes he reminded me distinctly of an old man. Lucina said he was an old soul, I was not sure what else one could call a kid who liked to read newspapers with his apple juice in the morning. Old soul might have been the politest terminology for this phenomenon.

“Only on full moons.”

“Jack!”

“What? I need to see them.”

If anything happened to either of my children, there would be hell to pay.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

505- S.G ROGERS

Pairing: SteveRogers x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1548

Summary: You and Steve are going back to 505.. except the room only has one bed. This would be fine on normal circumstances right? Except one thing.. you cannot stand Steve's guts. At least thats what you keep telling yourself.

Warnings: name calling, swearing, pet names, kissing, enemies to lovers, feelings get confessed 

Note** ive never wrote an enemies to lovers fic so lord have mercy i apologise if its bad and rushed. i kinda made it as if they've both had feeling for each other but have been pushing it down for a LONGGG time. enjoy!

-claire 

“I’m so sorry sir, you must be mistaken, this room only has one bed!” 

The front lady’s solemn voice rang through your head like a church bell as you trudged up the concrete staircase to floor 5. Your black duffel bag was slugged across your shoulder as you huffed up another flight of stairs impatiently.

  One bed my fucking ass. Fuck you Tony!, you thought, already irked from the mission. 

Having to share the bed with Steve fucking Rogers was not making your mood any better. The golden boy trotted ahead of you, barely breaking a sweat as he jogged up the stairs with ease. God, you despised him. You had hated him ever since you had joined the Avengers.

  Oh look at Steve he’s so perfect! Oh look at Steve he’s so handsome and so good! I bet he helps old ladies walk across the street any chance he possibly can! Blugh. His goodie two shoes attitude and perfect ass did not fool you.

“ Are you coming anytime, Agent?” 

The blonde looked down over the railing at you, eyebrow raised, his gruff voice breaking you out of your thoughts. You stopped and looked up at him, giving him the death glare. His ocean blue eyes shot lasers right back at you.

 “ Was planning on it, Rogers. Think you could help me up the stairs like you do them little old lads?” you grumbled and he rolled his eyes. “ There’s no need for the sass agent Y/L/N” he taunted as you rounded the corner, huffing. 

Steve opened the door leading to the hallway and nodded his head. “ Ladies first.” You rolled your eyes as you stepped into the dim hallway, the plush velvet carpet feeling better on your extremely sore feet. (Note to self! Do not wear high-heeled black boots on a mission. It looks badass but KILLS.) 

Steve tossed you the key and the two of you made your way towards your room. Room 505. It was dead silent along the corridor, the sound of your boots clicking echoed off the walls. Steve sauntered beside you, his presence so close to you made you itch.  Finally, you and Steve had reached your room at the very end of the hall. As you swiped the key, the light showed red. You swiped again, getting more and more pissed off by the second. Red.

 “ God! Stupid fucking key.” You growled impatiently, and Steve snatched the key from your hands with a start. 

 “ Language.”

 He swiped the card and green reflected back at him. As he swung the door open with a creak there was only one thing on your mind. I wish I could shove that shield where the sun don’t fuckin shine.

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

The image that stared back at you was horrendous. Your hair was tangled, lipstick smudged and eyes glassy. A cut was sliced against your cheek, and you noticed purple and blue bruises starting to form across your body. You were a mess. It may not have appeared so, but the mission was a success. You and Steve had got into a HYDRA base and had downloaded the information Tony needed on a USB stick. 

It wasn't smooth sailing, but somehow you managed to come out alive. Just not in top shape. The water was hot and felt refreshing as you rinsed yourself off and washed your hair. You let the water fall as you leaned against the shower wall, feeling the tears starting to leak.

 Everything had been eating at you lately and it was getting to the point where you couldn’t handle it much longer. The stress of this job was something you were expecting, but you didn’t realise just HOW much stress. Tony sent you on mission after mission, and after each one you felt yourself deteriorating a little more. 

The water mixed with your tears as you covered your hands over your mouth to stifle back the sobs.

 If Steve heard you… you didn't even want to think about it. 

Cool air hit you as you turned off the water and stepped out on the white tile. Grabbing a towel, you shivered. And that's when you realised. Your pyjamas were out in the main room. With Steve. Shit shit SHIT! You took a deep breath and creaked open the door. “ Steve?” you mumbled quietly.      

 “ Y/N?” His voice sounded confused and you prayed he wouldn't turn the corner. “ I- Um, I forgot my pjs out here and I’m in my towel. Do you mind turning around or something?” 

He chuckled as you rolled your eyes. God you wanted to strangle him.

 “ Course.” 

You peeked around the corner, and there he was, facing the window. You scurried to your pjs on the bed and ran back to the bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

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

“ I can sleep on the floor.” You whisper as Steve untucks the covers and adjusts the pillows. 

“ Don't be silly.” He huffs, meeting your eyes with a glare.  

  “ Get in. I don't bite.” 

“Steve I swear it's okay-” 

“ Get. In.” Your eyes widen at his authoritative tone and you'd be lying if you said you didn't get a LITTLE flustered. You swallow and begin to climb into bed hastily. 

“ Can I turn out the light?” You hinted and Steve nodded curtly. Click. The two of you were enveloped in dark, minus the faint green 1:46am glaring at you from the bedside table. Dead silence lingers in the air. Minutes upon minutes go by and you’re too scared to move. You really should have slept on the floor. You cannot stand this man, so what on earth were you doing? Well, it’s not like you hated him. You just envied him. Your best coping mechanism was to become distant and cold, making him think you hated him. And if you told yourself you hated him enough maybe you truly would. You hated him. There. You thought it loud and clear. But he wasn’t all that bad was he? He was beautiful and smart and caring and funny and god he smelled so good right now... Y/N SNAP OUT OF IT!! You thought, shaking your head as if it would take away any positive thoughts you had about the man. 

Maybe if you pushed them super deep down and didn’t speak to him for the rest of well... forever, he’d take the hint.

  You shuffle around to attempt to get comfortable when a gravelly voice breaks you out of your trance. “ Y/N?” 

Well, there goes that plan. 

“ Steve?” you question. “ Why were you crying?” Your eyes snap open and you freeze. Fuck. Super soldier hearing. “ I don't know what you’re talking about.”

 “ Don't play dumb with me girl.” 

His hand brushes against your shoulder and you turn to face him, feeling his warm breath flutter against your eyelashes. “ Why do you care?” you sneer, not wanting Steve to know any more than he needed to.      

 “ Because even though you hate me, I care.” 

It went so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “ Why do you hate me?” He whispers, and you pull the sheets higher, attempting to hide yourself.

 “ Because you're everything I'm not.”

 “Y/N-”

 “ No. Don't start. You are everything I want to be Steve. And it kills me to know I can’t ever achieve that. You can do nothing wrong, you’re smart, sweet, and god I’ll admit you’re fucking handsome too. You're perfect and I could never compete with that. I'm in the background, the person no one cares about. It kills me, Steve. It kills me to see you all perfect and pretty and to see everyone love you. I can never do as good as you and I'll never be enough-” 

Your voice cracked and a sob escaped your lips. Steve wrapped his arms around you and brought you close to his chest as sobs racked your body. It was all coming out. Everything you wanted to hide from him, everything you wanted to push down- it came back up. 

You had never felt so vulnerable in your life. Steve brought his hand to pet your hair soothingly as you continued to let the tears fall. “ Shhh it's okay sweet girl let it out.” He whispered and held you closer. “ I'm so sorry I-” 

  “ Do not apologise. Please.” You met his eyes and he wiped the tears from your cheeks as you sniffled. “ Can I kiss you?” he asked hesitantly.

 “ What?” You froze.

 Steve Rogers wanted to kiss you? After everything you just told him? 

“ I said can I kiss y-” You leaned closer to him and kissed him passionately, rolling on top of him and running your fingers through his hair. His lips were soft and he tasted like butterscotch. You felt as if you were floating as if you were on cloud nine. “ You are perfect Y/N. You are more than enough.” He whispered softly, as you placed your forehead onto yours.

 And at that moment you knew that Steve Rogers was not in fact, your enemy. You were your own enemy. With that, you'd decided, that he would help you defeat the negative thoughts that clawed at your brain every waking second. You felt safe. Loved. And perfect.

[damonjuicyscock]

a fluffy damon one shot maybe😁

Ah... Maybe indeed. Just joking, here it is lovie !

Broken I lie, all my feelings denied, blood on your fist.

Pairing: 80’s Damon Albarn X Reader

Warnings: Angst (violence, fight, bullying, absolute disgusting homophobic language forgive me it's for the oneshot and to raise awareness against something that sadly still exists), Fluff, maybe some spelling mistakes

Words: 1304

Summary: You are in high school with Damon Albarn. You have a huge crush on him, and he has a huge crush on you. The thing is you are both too shy to talk to each other. One day, you walk to go to your favourite music store, and you cross the path of guys harassing and beating someone in the street. This someone is Damon. You help him and finally get to talk to him while curing him.

A/N: Here I am for our weekly one shot! The title is inspired from the song Why by Bronski Beat which is a song I love a lot, talking about homophobia and Love between persons from the same gender. I chose it because as you may know, Damon was thought gay by his comrades in school and was beaten up for this (which is absolutely disgusting). Some of you may have started school or studies again and Harassment or school harassment is a topic that touches me a lot, as I’ve been a victim of it, and I punish it severely as you could see in the posts where people were seeing disgusting things to me. I defend people who are victim of harassment in general because no one should live that.

Enjoy!

(The picture is of bad quality sorry, but that's 1986 Damon, how you should imagine him in the One shot ;) )

It was 1986, your last year in high school before college. You didn’t know what you wanted to do later, even if this year was a decisive one.

Since your first year of high school, you had noticed a handsome young man who charmed you. His name was Damon Albarn, and you were in theatre class together. Looks were exchanged, but nothing else, you were too shy or too afraid to be rejected to talk to him. Though, you were both blushing while looking at each other.

One Saturday afternoon, while you were walking from your neighbourhood to your favourite music store, you heard people shouting.

Curious about what was happening, you walked towards the voices.

You saw a band of guys beating a poor boy on the ground, giving him kicks and punches.

you dirty faggot, go back to crying in your mummy's skirt, that's all you can do, right you dirty faggot? You like being grabbed by the ass, don't you? Say it!

No, leave me alone! The boy answered

you couldn’t stand to see this, and you had a temperament. You knew these boys wouldn't touch you if you hit them. Your father had always taught you to stand up for others, and that's what you were going to do. You weren’t going to look away, not ever.

Hey, leave him alone you fucker! I shouted, fist balled up

Go away Y/L/N, it’s none of your business.

In fact it is, do I have to remember you that what you’re doing is illegal and that your father is mine’s employee? So I advise you to stop before I tell him.

You think I’m scared of my dad? He chuckled

Okay, I would have tried.

You took him by the arm and punched him in the face. He fell on the ground.

Hey, you just hit me! He said, his nose bleeding

it's not just the boys who hit. Now fuck off, out of my way you asshole!

He woke up and indicated to his minions to follow him.

You’re going to regret it Y/L/N, it’s a promise!

Yeah, yeah, we’ll see that, piss off!

They left and you helped the young lad who was on the ground, crying.

Hey, are you okay? You said

That when you saw his face even through all the blood, cuts and bruises. It was Damon.

Oh my god Damon, I didn’t recognize you!

Yeah, they kicked my ass, didn't they?

You handed him your hand to help him get up.

Why did they beat you?

They think I’m gay.

You rolled your eyes.

Goddamnit, Do you want to go to the police?

Huh? Oh no thank you, and I’m not Y/N.

It doesn’t change anything that you’re gay or not, they aggressed you, you have to file a complaint!

It’s usual, don’t worry.

What? It isn’t the first time they beat you up like this?

No. I’m used to know. But I think this time they cracked a rib.

For fuck’s sake. My father will definitely hear about this. Do you need help to walk?

No, I’m okay thanks.

Okay, you come with me, I have everything we need at my place.

It’s okay I’m…

No Damon, please, come with me.

The young lad smiled weakly and followed you to your place. Your parents weren’t there, and happily, because otherwise they would make a big deal of it and you knew it.

First door at your left, it’s my room. Sit on my bed and wait for me.

Aye, aye, madam!

You went in the bathroom to grab the first aid kit before going to your room.

Okay, don’t move okay? It’s probably going to hurt and I’m sorry about that.

It’s okay, thanks.

You put on the pair of disposable gloves, opened the small bag containing an alcohol-soaked compress and began to pat the areas of the face where Damon was injured.

He hissed at the feeling, a bit hurt.

I’m sorry…

It’s okay, it hurts less than when they were beating me.

You smiled weakly, pursuing your actions.

So… what are you planning on doing next year?

Oh, going to college. Goldsmith If I can.

do you want to continue with the theatre?

If I can, yes. What about you?

Oh, I don’t know.

You should make law studies.

Oh yeah? Why’s that?

Well… you're always ready to defend others, and above all you're the first girl I've seen give another guy a hard time. You're a born vigilante.

Well thank you Damon, it’s kind of you. But I wasn’t going to let you being beaten up by other guys, what I did was normal.

Yeah, but I’ve already seen you defend other people, in the high school corridors. I swear you should become a lawyer.

He was sincere in his words. You smiled at him.

When you were done curing the cuts on his face, you were ready to tackle the wounds on his chest.

Okay, take off your top.

So soon! You should have told me that’s how you wanted me. He said, winking at you

You rolled your eyes while he was taking his top off. He had cuts in here, but he had a lot of bruises that seemed to make him suffer.

I’m going to get some ice for your bruises, stay here.

Where could I go after all?

When you got in the kitchen, you exhaled shakily. It had taken you a lot of courage to talk to him. Now you had to have the guts to tell him you liked him. Or maybe was it too soon. You didn’t know.

You just took the ice, put the cubes in a tea towel and got back to your room.

Take this. You said, handing it to him

Thank you, Wonder Woman.

Don’t call me that! You chuckled

Do you want to know something?

What?

Do you know you’re cute when you laugh?

You blushed

Thank you. You said, sitting beside him

You were looking at your feet. Oh god the goosebumps invading your belly. The man could get your heart with only one look.

A lock of your hair fell over your face, and Damon tucked it behind your ear.

You know… I may have been beaten up today, but it looks like it was for a good cause... at least I got treated by the most beautiful girl I finally know.

You smirked.

You really do think I’m pretty?

You are Y/N. You really are.

Thank you. You smiled

Can I ask you something? He asked

Yes?

Can I kiss you?

Well well, it goes pretty fast between us, handsome.

He laughed

We've wasted enough time poking around without talking and glaring at each other, don't you think?

Yeah, you might be right.

His face approached yours and he put his lips delicately on yours, in a sweet kiss.

His tongue asked for entrance, and you let him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. Your tongues danced together until you were out of breath.

When the kiss came to an end, Damon looked at you in the eyes, smiling like an idiot.

Well now… we could get to know each other more. Would you like to go for a snack, great nurse?

That would be lovely Damon.

Maybe soon I will be able to call this incredible nurse and lawyer my girlfriend?

Ah, who knows?

[histories-and-mystery]

Kevin and the Coffee Shop

Chapter 3

*Seán’s POV*

Seán led Brian into the emergency room and helped him to the front desk. 

“Hi, ye see Bria-”Sean was cut off by the nurse who took one look at the burned brown-haired man with heterochromia and a sleeve tattoo and ushered both of them back to an examination room. They both waited a few minutes before a second nurse came in. She asked Brian a few questions about the incident and his injury, all of which he answered quite calmly despite the fact that they were quite repetitive. Seán could sense Brian was getting antsy by the time the nurse left

“Brian , they’re just tryin to get the whole story”

“I know! I’m just tired and annoyed. And, oh yeah, my face hurts like a bitch” he snapped, with impeccable timing too as just as he finished the ER doctor came in. with a laugh she said

“Well now, that's what we’re here to help with isn't it” both men turned to her as she introduced herself “My name is Dr. Margret Taylor and as I see your face is burned”

Brian blinked and chuckled a little “yeah, some dickhead threw coffee in my face. Ya know casual Tuesday”

“Its Monday Brian” Seán teased. The man scoffed and turned away as Dr. Taylor came closer. She inspected his face carefully, turning his head gently to look at the wound in more detail.

“Well” she started “it could be worse. Its a second degree burn so I’ll clean it up and bandage it. And of course you’re gonna have to change the bandage every few hours and apply more burn cream but we’ll set you up with that.” Brian nodded and watched as she took a cloth and cleaned off the affected area, Seán could see Brian cringe the moment she started and he himself began to worry more. Walking away Dr. Taylor opened a cabinet and took out a large circular container from the shelf and walked back over explaining

“Its burn cream, we’ll write you a prescription for it when ya leave here, that way you can apply it yourself” she began spreading the cream on Brian’s skin, lightly she continued “you’re real lucky this didn’t hit your eye, you would've been down a brown eye”

“Oh, that would suck” was the only thing Brian had said

 Seán chuckled lightly “Yeah its one of the only traits that make you handsome in any way” 

Brian shifted and glared playfully “Come on lad, I've got my sparkling personality” “Yeah alright Casanova, you haven't proved that once”

Brian scoffed as Dr. Taylor laughed “Alright, alright no fighting in my examination room” she closed the tin and moved back to the cabinet. She took out a gauze pad and some wrapping materials. When she turned to face them she saw Brian sticking his tongue out and Seán mirroring him while pulling on his eyelid. It was like that for a moment till both of them burst into laughter. She chuckled and walked back over. Placing the gauze over the burn she began wrapping it up. Once she was done she smiled at them “Alright boys, you're all set, head to the front and get everything sorted”. They both thanked her and headed to the front desk.

*Kevin’s POV*

It had been at least an hour or so since they had arrived at the hospital. Most of that time had been spent in idle silence. None of the lads that were left really wanted to speak, and even if they did none of them could. To Daithi and Dan it had all happened so quickly. Their once mildly peaceful workplace was thrown into an all out saloon brawl where one of their friends had been horribly burned due to a dickhead with too much attitude and an easily bruised ego. For Kevin it was a bit like lighting a marshmallow on fire and then waiting till it burned, his gut feeling had been right. Something bad did happened today. Kevin looked once more to the hospital door. He was getting more worried

“Do you think Brian’s alright?”

It was silent for a moment till Daithi spoke. “why are you asking that now? He’s at the hospital isn’t he?” He moved his hand away from his chin to run it through his black hair. 

“I don’t know, it’s taking longer then expected” Kevin looked back to his lap playing with the string of his hoodie. Dan placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sure he’s alright Kevin. if he wasn’t Seán would have called us by now.” Kevin didn’t react to Dan’s words, just continued playing with his hoodie. Dan roughly nudged Daithi who grumbled before focusing outside the window again. Dan huffed and kicked Daithi 

“Augh! Yeah I’m sure Brian’s fine he’s tough”

“Alright” Kevin said softly “I guess you’re right”

The car returned to its uneasy silence. Moments later, Kevin saw that Brian and Seán were just at the door and headed back to the car. 

“There they are!” As the others turned to look at the pair the first thing they noticed was the right side of Brian’s face. Where once there was a brown eye, in contrast to the blue of his other eye, there was nothing but bandages. From what Kevin could see, Brian wouldn’t even look in the car. His fists were clenched and there was a grimace on his lips. Seán seemed to be saying something to reassure him but Kevin couldn’t make it out

They opened the door, Seán getting in first and then Brian. Once he was settled he reached for the handle but found it was much farther then he thought it was. He let out a frustrated huff and slammed the door closed

“Jeez Brian” Dan jumped “what’d the doctors say”. Brian crossed his arms and glared ahead. Seán spoke up

“They said it was a second degree burn. he’s gonna have to wear that wrapping on his face for the next three weeks”

Dan nodded “ah that sucks, least it’ll heal soon right?”.

Brian didn’t speak. Not even when Seán asked the group if they all wanted to go home and not even when Kevin, Brian and Seán were the last in the car. He was silent the whole way to his house and as he left the car. Kevin watched as he climbed up the driveway of his home, struggled with the key and went inside. 

Kevin turned to Seán “you think he’ll be alright”

“I don’t know honestly. I’m pretty sure right now he’s planning a murder” Seán chuckled “jokes aside he’s not too badly hurt. At least it will heal fine. That’s what the doctors said”

Kevin didn’t really know how to respond except to nod. He was worried for Brian, as were the other lads, he just didn’t know how to help 

“How bout this” Seán started again “I’ll get ya home to rest, ya take the day off and you start training on Wednesday?” 

“Oh” Kevin blinked “I almost forgot I got a job” laughing a little he nodded “yeah Wednesday works for me”

Seán smiled as they drove up to Kevin’s apartment. He parked and unlocked the door. Kevin said a quick Goodnight and headed into his apartment buliding. After that Kevin figured he deserved a nice long rest.

...........................................................................................................................

an: ooooooo POV change, wasnt who some of you were expecting tho but I think I’ll save that bit for later ;)

[lovelylou]

since 2020 is almost over, i thought i’d share (some of) my favorite fics that made my 2020 a lot better.

[note: not all of these fics were written/published in 2020, although most of them are, there are some that are older, but that i’ve read or re-read this year]

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tastes like summer, smiles like may by outropeace

“Is this true?” Harry grabbed the beta by the shoulders. “Bryce, where did you hear that?”

“There’s rumors going around the castle,” he smirked. “stories about his beauty and his cold attitude. They know he is an omega only because of his scent, but he has never had a heat.”

“Do you know what this means?”

Bryce smirk grew into a big smile. “He can’t give you an heir.”

A cold prince, an alpha with nothing left to lose and a kingdom with a secret.

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But It's Useless by thinlines

“Hey.”

Louis was even hallucinating now. He closed his eyes.

“Hey, you.”

He chuckled wetly, head still leaning against the door.

“Can you get out of the way? You're blocking the door.”

He exhaled sharply before slowly turning around. His eyes fixed onto muddy Nike trainers before it traveled up to impossibly short jogging shorts. The yellow color was atrocious, simply ghastly.

“What happened to being polite, Harold?”

OR Omega Louis would never guess that he would be trying to hack into Alpha Harry's Wifi. That is until everything changes when he tries to get to know his enemy.

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haunted by the ghost of you by missandrogyny

He’s tall—that’s the first thing that registers in Louis’ head when he spots him, standing with his hands behind his back. Tall, with curly hair, staring at them with the widest, greenest eyes Louis has ever seen. And wait, are those dimples? Louis didn’t know ghosts could have dimples.

Because he’s definitely a ghost, this boy. At first glance he looks normal, standing there pigeon-toed in a band shirt (The Ramones, Louis can’t help but note incredulously), dark jeans, and some boots, with rings on both hands, and tattoos littering his left arm—a sleeve made of anchors and names and roses and other completely unrelated things. But he’s also a little bit translucent; if Louis focuses, he can see the outline of the furniture, the design of the wallpaper through him.

“Hi,” the boy—the ghost—says to Louis. His face shifts; somehow his dimples dig deeper into his cheeks. His eyes flit from Louis, to Niall, to Liam, and finally to Zayn, and his face goes from shocked to elated. “I’m Harry.”

At in that exact moment, standing between three of his best friends and staring at a (quite handsome) ghost, Louis can only think one thing.

Nick Grimshaw was right.

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On the Edge by zanni_scaramouche

Figure skating is as vital to Louis’ identity as his DNA, so when his skates go missing right before the last Olympics of his career there may be a meltdown only vanilla bath salts can fix. Well, that and the stupidly charming hockey player he met on the plane.

Harry’s too old to be the wonder kid and too young to be taken seriously in the NHL. As an alternate thrown in at the last second, he fights to prove himself on the national team at the largest sporting event known to man. Or he will, once he gets off this flight and can focus on something other than the fussy figure skater and his stunningly blue eyes.

A baggage mix-up skews both of their perfectly laid plans for gold, forcing the two to work together as the clock clicks towards the minute they’re expected to shine on centre ice.

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even the best laid plans by falsegoodnight

“Anyways,” Louis stresses, narrowing his eyes, “just let me say it and then rate how terrible of an idea it is on a scale from one to ten.”

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, sitting up expectantly.

“I want to ask Harry Styles to take my virginity,” Louis blurts, holding his hands out for emphasis.

The way Zayn’s eyes bulge is almost comical. “Negative infinity,” he says, voice choked. “Negative infinity times negative infinity.”

“Technically, a negative times a negative is -”

“Really negative infinity,” Zayn corrects himself, shaking his head wildly. “Louis, what the fuck?”

-

Or, Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

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The Compulsion to Find Love by Toomanytears

The most prestigious English third-level institution, Candling University, accepts omega students for the first time and Louis Tomlinson applies with bright eyes and brighter ambitions. There he encounters personal obstacles, traditional mindsets and a beautiful boy who inverts every prejudice Louis has ever known.

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Mine Would Be You by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks)

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

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UN(RE)SO LVED. by daddyharrie

The ghoul boys are back, but this time around there are some unresolved feelings involved. Harry is a skeptic, Louis is not. Watch them go on their ongoing investigation into the question: are ghosts real?

Or, BuzzFeed Unsolved AU.

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Hate to Smoke (Without Me) by louhazpride

“For fuck’s sake,” he huffs, grabbing the pillow and pulling it on top of his head in an attempt to block out the banging coming from the other side of the wall.

It’s the third time this week that his neighbour has woken him up in the middle of the night with his little ‘rendezvous.’ Honestly, he's quite sick of it. There’s only so much sex he can bear to hear in one week and he has already hit his limit. If he wanted to listen to someone having sex, he’d turn to porn.

As if the noises weren’t enough, Harry immediately becomes aware of the faint aroma of weed filling his flat.

“I’m going to murder him.”

Sleep. Harry just wants one good night of sleep. However, his neighbour has a thing for headboard-banging-against-the-wall-sex every night. After a secret set-up and a bet, Harry may finally get the sleep he so much desires.

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Three Days in February by writing_practice

“We have to get out of here, outside,” Harry whispered, turning his hand in Louis’s grip to hold on and pull them both to their feet.

“And how do we fucking do that?” Louis hissed, carefully rising and pulling Harry to his feet before Harry could do it. His gaze darted to the front then back of the arena. “None of the doors are where they’re supposed to be.”

“What?” Harry looked around again too, couldn’t see any doors, only knew that they must be there, somewhere. “How do you know?”

Confusion slid over Louis's features.

“Because we’ve been here before, Haz. It’s the O2.”

The show. It must be the first night of their tour. They were too late; they were out of time.

Louis is cursed after a night out with the lads and the five have just three days to figure out what happened and how to break it before Harry and Louis both lose their sanity and maybe something more. Louis can hear everything Harry thinks and Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings for Louis a secret from his own mind.

Ridiculous amounts of banter and angst, a lot of Harry and Louis alone together, a healthy dose of OT5 friendship, and one very magical weekend.

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Coming Up For Air by stylinsoncity

It's a long plane ride to LA but sitting beside Harry makes time fly.

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I'd Give Up Everything Just Ask Me To by Rearviewdreamer

They don't usually exchange Christmas gifts, but this year is different. This year, Louis knows exactly what he wants to put under the tree to make his boyfriend smile. He just doesn't know how he's going to get it.

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bruise you like a peach by falsegoodnight

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

-

Alternatively titled 'the peach fic.'

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Sometimes You Just Know by 2tiedships2

“Dear diary. Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why...”

“What are you doing?” Louis mumbled as he bit into a piece of toast.

“It’s been almost two years and today Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson reunite. Louis is very excited about…”

Louis’ chair screeched along the kitchen floor as he flew up out of his seat, quickly grabbing the paper from Niall’s grasp. As he scanned the page he found it amounted to lines of nothing.

“What is this?” Louis asked again. “We’ve discussed how Harry Styles will never be spoken of in this flat. I don’t care how long it’s been.”

Niall snatched the paper from Louis and proceeded to draw a line across the page before writing.

“Today is the day that he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming to dinner.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis don’t believe in soulmates… until they do.

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eyes off you by soldouthaz

“Just promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to keep us all safe while we’re in there,” Liam says.

Through the crack in the door, Louis can just barely make out the broad curve of Harry’s back, the slope of his curls as they tumble down all sleep-soft and lazy, and the sharp twist of his arm - all leading down to where he’s got his pointer and middle finger crossed over each other behind his back.

“I promise,” he tells Liam firmly, “I promise.”

--

or; a charlie’s angels inspired fic where louis is the brains, harry is the charm, liam is the muscle, and niall drives the getaway car - and zayn is there, too. sometimes.

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Welcome to The Rivalry by 2tiedships2

“Welcome home!” Niall yelled, clapping his hands in excitement. “Isn’t it great?”

Louis looked between Niall and the house, unsure how to respond.

“I don’t understand,” Louis finally managed to say. “Aren’t we a little old to be living so close to campus?”

Niall scoffed. “You’re only twenty-four for fuck’s sake. There is still plenty of partying left for us to do. What better place than one street over from where a car was set on fire after the Michigan game last year?”

“Is there proof of that? Did the car have Michigan plates or something? Is there a photo I can send in a DM to Wolfie?”

As if on cue, a Twitter notification popped up on Louis’ Apple watch. He had tweeted again.

Or a reverse You’ve Got Mail au inspired by the Ohio State/Michigan rivalry. Featuring duplex neighbors, (kind of) enemies to lovers, and an anonymous Twitter feud between omega Louis and alpha Harry.

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Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls

Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child

A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.

In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham

Louis really could use the help.

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[harrypotterbrainworms]

Twin Size Mattress

Summary: Sirius runs away after home troubles, a request for a Sirius x reader inspired by Twin Size Mattress by The Front Bottoms. Very angsty, has a comfort ending.

Pairing: Sirius x Male Reader

Key: (Y/N) - your name, (H/C) - hair colour, (L/N) - last name

Word Count: 2380

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, depressive/ptsd symptoms, one gay slur.

They heard a soft knock at the door around 9pm that evening, the rain pouring outside. The thunder striking every other minute at this point. 

“I wonder who that is in this weather” James said, throwing himself up from the sofa and going to get the door. 

The other boy sitting across him set his book down and leaned forward to get a good look at the front door. The door opening to reveal a soaking wet Sirius, the rain hiding the tears streaming down his face. 

“Shit, Padfoot. Get in quickly” James said completely shocked, he ran upstairs to grab a towel and dry clothes. Sirius didn’t look (Y/N) in the eyes when he rushed to his side, only hiding his face and waiting for James to speed him to the bathroom. 

That was a week ago, the three boys were now waiting on the platform. The train pulled in as they waited for Remus and Peter. Sirius had refused to speak to anyone that week, only coming out of James’ room to eat and shower. 

(Y/N) only stared at him, the warm face he knew only a few months ago now cold and distant. The long hair that framed his face cut short. He had barely seen Sirius in this state in the 5 years they knew each other. James was the only person who knew what he went through, (Y/N) wished he trusted him as much as he trusted James. 

When the last two marauders joined they immediately knew the situation, the whole group now treating Sirius with the utmost care in the world. Soft smiles and hugs shared all round as they entered the train together. 

The train ride was mostly quiet, these were the few silent moments they shared in awkwardness. There was almost never a dull shared between them, the five always ready to drown their own traumas in many shots of fire whiskey or pulling pranks. 

“The train is going to stop soon, we better change” Sirius who finally broke the silence in the compartment pointing outside. Hogwarts was coming into view slowly, the tense group quickly changing as they went back into the silence. 

The day went as usual, the large hall filled with students as the new bunch of first years got sorted. The table of Gryffindors in shock as they watched the class clowns eat without much conversation or noise.

 They had never seen the marauders in such seemingly low spirits as they were all guided back to the common room. (Y/N) noticed that Sirius seemed a little happier to be back in his real home, becoming more chatty as they entered their dorm. 

“Weather’s cheering up” He said, as much as weather was a conversation they basically never had, the other four boys seemed happier to see Sirius’s silence was coming to a slow end. 

They all prepared to bed rather quickly, the group being a little drowsy from the long train and big meal. They had almost never had an unanimous bed time, someone was always awake doing something. Whether that was annoying one another or reading. 

“Goodnight, lads.” (Y/N) said, receiving a couple of groans and a few good nights in response. That’s when it started, no more than about an hour later there were four very confused and worried boys jolting awake as they heard Sirius crying and screaming in his sleep. 

James immediately jumped out his bed, going to his friend’s side. Gently stroking his head, trying to calm him down. 

“It’s okay, shh. Don’t worry, we’re all here” James said quietly, wrapping the discarded duvet back over Sirius. He seemed to calm down and stop thrashing about, the other three were a little bit in shock. Sirius had always suffered from nightmares, but they had never seen it this bad. 

With Sirius sleeping soundly again they went back to bed, but not even a few hours later Sirius was crying again, screaming and begging for someone to help him. To avoid no one getting sleep, each one of them took a turn to guide Sirius back to sleep. 

“It’s okay, Padfoot. I’m right here with you” (Y/N) cooed softly at his friend, running his hands through his hair. 

“I don’t wanna go back, I wanna be safe here” Sirius suddenly said like a scared child, (Y/N)’s stomach churned at the thought of what happened. 

“You’re safe” He hushed Sirius, he seemed to stop hyperventilating so (Y/N) got up to leave. Sirius had different plans in his sleepy mind grabbing his friend’s hands. 

“Please don’t go.” He said, his voice quivering with every word. (Y/N) looked at him as he held tightly onto his hands, looking scared to let go. 

“I’m right here” (Y/N) said, holding his breath as his heart stopped. Sirius pulled him closer, hugging his arm like it was the last piece of earth. 

(Y/N) gave in and moved onto his bed as Sirius held his waist tightly. (Y/N) just looked down at him, stroking his hair gently as he listened to Sirius fall back asleep. The warmth in the duvet and the calm boy next to him slowly put (Y/N) to sleep as well. The last thing he saw was the soft morning light across the horizon as he drifted off.

The next morning was quiet as the two boys woke up together, Sirius was looking a lot happier again. Sometimes cracking a few jokes here and there, even suggested a prank idea. A day back in his rightful home was bringing his confidence back, the rest of them followed suit. Feeling happy that their beloved friend was looking a little better. That was until potions. 

“Finally get rid of that mop, I see” A certain blonde asshole snickered behind them. Sirius sunk down in his seat slowly, trying to pretend he didn’t hear anything. He was usually packed full of comebacks and insults, but it hit too close. 

“Maybe finally you can be accepted into-“ Lucius started on his usual spiel, today however it pissed (Y/N) off a lot more than “usual”. He immediately swung around 180° to stare Malfoy right in the eyes. 

“Shut the fuck up, Lucius.” (Y/N) warned him, his voice was full of venom adding a glare that would’ve thrown daggers at the spoiled brat if it could. 

“And what are you going to do about it, mudblood?! I can’t help it if your little boyfriend looked like a fa-“ Lucius was cut off as his classmates gasped. Even his friends did, surprised that (Y/N) was capable of that. 

He had been cut off by an uppercut on the upside of his chin, a rather loud thump as he toppled backwards on his stool. 

“Serves you right.” (Y/N) mumbled under his breath as he moved back to his seat, huffing out in frustration as he put his hands gently on the desk. 

Of course he had gotten detention, but he didn’t regret it. Seeing Sirius, the funniest, bravest, most handsome boy he’s ever known be hurt by such an annoying prat really pissed him off. 

“You didn’t have to,'' Sirius said awkwardly as they left potions. He didn’t want (Y/N) going into detention for fighting his battles for him. 

“It’s alright, it’s boring stuff anyway. The bruise Malfoy is gonna have for the next week is more than worth it” He smiled softly at him as they all headed back to the common room. 

It had barely been 20 minutes before everyone at school heard that “Lucius was in a deadly battle in potions with (L/N) and almost lost an eye” as if he’d even had the chance to lose one. 

“Honestly that was amazing, wish I had the guts to punch that asshole in the face” James shrugged as they opened the porthole into the common room. (Y/N) quickly ran upstairs, shredding all his school supplies onto his bed and wishing the boys goodbye as he went to detention. 

“(L/N) you’re late” Professor Slughorn said looking at his watch as the (H/C) boy burst through the door in a sweat. 

“Sorry, Sir. The common room is a long walk from here” He huffed a little as he took off his robe, ready for whatever task was ahead. Slughorn nodded and looked around the classroom. 

“Not to worry, detention is simple today, just a spotless clean and you’re done” He said, looking at his watch again. Slughorn somewhat trusted the boy, as he was one of the top in his class. 

“Thanks, Professor. I’ll get right to it” (Y/N) nodded and went straight to work, trying his best to hurry. His professor bid a farewell as he left to get tea with some other teachers leaving (Y/N) to clean up. 

He walked diligently and fast as he scrubbed the floors, cauldrons and anything else that looked dirty. He worked top to bottom praying to Merlin he could finish before it got dark outside. 

He heard a small knock on the door as it opened, he immediately looked to see Remus standing there with a few books in hand and some notes. 

“Thought I’d make things a little more interesting for you, asked Slughorn if I could study here” He said, moving to one of the cleaned desks as he set up his study station. 

“Thanks, was getting a little too quiet in here” He said a little out of breath as he moved the clutter of bottles and jars that stood in the way of cleaning. It was nice to have the presence of someone else in the room with him, even if they just sat in silence. 

“You think Sirius is gonna be okay?” (Y/N) asked honestly, the subject leaving a small air of tension in the room, but someone had to ask.

“I don’t know.” He asked back honestly. (Y/N) suspected Remus hadn’t seen Sirius like this either.

The rest of the detention was spent quietly as before while the friends coexisted.

The group of lads sat together once again in the deafening silence of the common as other Gryfinndors made their way in and out for bed. With Remus and (Y/N) back inside again, they almost forgot how thick the air in the common room. 

Sirius looked as though he would crack his own neck, uncomfortably shifting in different positions not happy with a single one he chose. 

“I’m going for a smoke.” He quickly said, almost running out of through the porthole. The other boys were a little startled by the rush and looked at each other as to signal who would check on him. 

(Y/N) immediately got up and followed him outside, seeing him sitting crossed legged on the cold stone floor. He took a seat next to the tired boy who was struggling to light the cigarette in his fingers. 

“Here” (Y/N) said, taking the lighter from his hands, replacing it with a fresh one. 

“It’ll grow back.” He said suddenly, taking out a cigarette of his own. He reached to grab the lighter and to his shock Sirius flinched… hard. All he could think of was what happened during summer that cracked his friend. 

He sighs and looks over to him, being lit by the half moon in the sky. Sirius looked over to him for a second, thinking about how nice his friend looked in the moonlight. (Y/N) thought the same. He reaches a hand slowly to Sirius, resting it on his shoulder. Sirius stiffened up a bit, but relaxed after a few moments. Letting (Y/N) caught his thoughts for that time. 

“I don’t know if you trust me to know what’s happening, but… I don’t know what they did to you there. I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re here.” He looks a little embarrassed by his words, no one in the group really tried to deal with their emotions. Hiding it behind layers and layers of pranks and even saying that made (Y/N) cringe a little. 

He expected Sirius to laugh at him or maybe even push him off Gryffindor tower for being so serious, but Sirius just looked at him and broke down uncontrollably sobbing into his hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” He sobbed as (Y/N) scooped him into his arms, softly rubbing his back. 

“Woah, Woah. Calm down. Breath. Don’t be sorry, it’s okay.” (Y/N) said gently as Sirius abandoned his cigarette on the ground, clasping onto the boy in front of him as if he was the last thing keeping him tied to the Earth. 

They sat there together, hugging each other tightly as Sirius’s violent sobs became a shaky breath while he inhaled the scent of (Y/N). When he felt calm enough, he let go and sat with his hands in the other’s hands while their breathe became visible in the cold night air.

“Let’s get you back inside, come on” (Y/N) said, helping Sirius up with his hands. They left the darkness hand in hand into the common room once again.

“Hey-“ James said, but cut himself off as all the boys saw Sirius’s bloodshed puffy eyes and shaking frame. 

“Come on, Padfoot. To bed with you.” (Y/N) said softly, ignoring everyone as he led the now short haired boy into the dorm. 

He tucked Sirius into his bed and was about to leave when he felt his friend’s hand pull him back. 

“Will you sleep here again?” Sirius asked quietly, looking a little embarrassed. (Y/N) nodded and got under the covers, Sirius moving toward him and hugging his frame. 

For a while they just stayed like that in silence and awake just bathing in each other’s warmth and comfort. (Y/N) let out a yawn and stretched his arms over the boy who was cuddling him. 

“Sweet dreams, Padfoot.” He said while kissing the also very sleepy boy on the forehead receiving a soft kiss on his knuckles in return. 

Sirius drifted off to sleep feeling the warm embrace of his friend, having nice dreams of running far away together. Maybe to a small cottage Merlin knows where… 

[soldouthaz]

hey! beneath the cut you’ll find a list of fics I've read and re-read this month. it’s been almost two months since my last rec so I thought I would update you guys just in case! 

as always, the fics are marked with their details as well as if it is b!L, b!H, or smut free. please make sure to pay attention to this if it’s something that you’re interested in and only interact with the ones that align with your tastes. be kind and considerate and always think about leaving a nice comment or kudos or reblog if you read! I think everyone could use some positivity right now :) 

I'm also putting together a list of halloween themed fics coming out in October so make sure to look out for that as well! 

happy reading! 

read this month 

✰ loving you’s a bloodsport by @rosesau 106k | royal au | no smut

harry is a bratty prince, louis is a guard who works in his palace, and niall is the only one who's got his life in control. as someone once said: this is not a love story, but love is in it. that is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

✰ take my whole life too by @goodmorninglou 18k | dom/sub | WIP | b!L

Louis knows three things, at the base of it all.

He likes when Harry hurts him. He doesn’t know why, not really, but he knows that he likes it. Likes giving up control, likes feeling small and taken care of, likes being praised for taking whatever Harry gives him for as long as he gives it.

He and Harry are meant to be. No matter what time they finally fall together, what day, what age, what place, the moment that they do, that’ll be it. It’s going to be them against everyone else, hand in hand for the rest of their lives. That’s been a given since they met. The half of Louis’ soul that’s missing is Harry’s.

And, sans those two things, he doesn’t really know much of anything at all.

✰ quiet people have the loudest minds by @2tiedships2 38k | a/b/o | heavily implied b!L

The one where Louis is a nonverbal omega who has accepted the fact that he will never find an alpha that will treat him as an equal. On the other hand, he’s never met anyone like Harry.

✰ there’s nothing like it, nothing at all by @falsegoodnight 15k | dom/sub | b!L | sequel

Harry isn’t ready for things to change, and the end is just the beginning.

✰ filthy musings by @smrwine 55k | one shots | b!L

A collection of drabbles for your reading pleasure.

✰ fuck u betta by @jacaranda-bloom 11k | PWP | b!L

There’s something about having Louis like this, exposed and desperate, that makes a primal urge bubble up from deep inside Harry’s chest. Desire mixed with something else, something unquantifiable. It’s the thing that makes them want this, need this. Nothing else will satisfy them or quench their thirst.

OR the one where Harry likes the thrill of the chase, Louis likes to be chased, and everyone gets what they need… in the end.

✰ three days in february by @mercurial-madhouse / writing_practice 189k | slight magic | b!L

Louis is cursed after a night out with the lads and the five have just three days to figure out what happened and how to break it before Harry and Louis both lose their sanity and maybe something more. Louis can hear everything Harry thinks and Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings for Louis a secret from his own mind.

✰ works like a charm by @falsegoodnight 18k | hogwarts au | b!L

Ever since Louis joined the team in fifth year, a few facts have become set in stone.

One: Louis is the best chaser in Hogwarts.

Two: Harry is the best beater in Hogwarts.

Three: They do not get along.

So it’s really unfair of Liam to think that forcing them to spend time together as Louis recovers from his injury will make them the best of friends. The last thing Louis would do is get along with that git.

✰ kings by dolce_piccante 13k | marcel fic | no smut

Marcel receives an invitation to his ten year high school reunion, which brings up some painful memories of his youth. His lifelong best friend and roommate, Louis, is as supportive and kind as ever, but Marcel still has hesitations. Louis was Prom King. Marcel...was not.

Will Marcel make the reunion a night to remember with his former classmate, Zayn, who is newly wealthy, handsome, and reveals his childhood crush on Marcel? Or will Louis finally realize what everyone else has known all along?

✰ until by @allwaswell16 38k | cowboy harry | b!L

Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.

✰ tastes like strawberries by @sadaveniren 5k | a/b/o | b!L* 

I’m stressed. I’m nesting and demand cuddles. Come over

Harry frowned and double checked who the text was from. Yup, it still said Louis - Grad, which meant it was from Louis from his grad school.

aka Louis texts Harry by mistake. It works out. 

re-read this month

✰ until I found you by @comebackassholes / dimpled-halo  45k | a/b/o | b!H

Harry Styles is the popstar of the century, or so the media proclaims. He’s linked to every omega he’s seen with, donned as an alpha lothario who isn’t ready to settle down any time soon. His team works hard to publicise him as an alpha who can’t keep his knot in his pants, but not everything is as it seems.

Louis Tomlinson, an aspiring musician working as a porn star and camboy, is waiting for his big break. When he meets Harry Styles he can’t stand the alpha that only uses his power and fame to bed as many omegas as possible. He runs into him at a party and hopes to never see him again only to find that Harry’s assistant is dating Louis’ best friend. To make matters worse, Harry’s about to embark on a world tour and is in need of a guitarist at the last minute, an opportunity Zayn uses to put in a good word for Louis.

What happens when the opportunity that Louis has been waiting for finally comes, but at the price of having to share the stage with one Harry Styles?

✰ makes perfect by checkthemargins 8k | feminization | b!L

"What if you practiced on like, a mannequin?" Louis presses. "Or one of those blow up sex dolls? Or even just like, I don't know, a pillow or something. Whatever it'd fit around."

Harry tilts his head thoughtfully, curls catching the light so entrancingly that Louis finds himself reaching up to push his fingers through them. "It's different, though, innit? When it's a real person. A pillow won't snog me."

"Why should it?" says Louis. "You can't even take its bra off."

✰ confessions of a fabricated alpha by @jaerie 18k | a/b/o | b!H

Famous alpha Harry Styles has a secret and paying an alpha to roleplay a relationship with him over the phone is the only way he can be himself.

✰ like a siren in the night by @crazyupsetter 24k | a/b/o | b!L

“There is an infestation in my home,” Louis hisses, righting himself quickly and pushing his way past Harry, heading directly for the kitchen. He’s rather haphazardly dressed himself, a coat thrown on over a loose flannel shirt and black pants, slippers on his feet.

Harry resists the urge to sigh, closing the door and trailing behind him slowly. “What kind of infestation?”

For all he knows, Louis is going to claim that there’s a ghost infestation. Harry has no idea what the end game is here – all he knows is that Louis has found at least three complaints a week to bring up since he’s been living on Harry’s property, and he’s been living here for six months.

It’s way too many fucking complaints, is what Harry is saying. Especially when most of them are ridiculous to start with.

fics that have been featured in #ficrecfriday so far

✰ loving you’s a bloodsport (x) 

✰ into the midnight sun (x)

✰ bruise you like a peach (x)

✰ push you out, pull you back in (x) 

+ 

if you guys need any more recs, please be sure to check out @cheershalo ‘s blog for her fic recs! they’re amazing and I can’t wait to see what other lists are coming soon!! :) 

happy reading! remember to be kind and keep calm <3

[choco-glow]

Is This Thing On?

“You, my dear Shan, are a hard man to find at the best of times.” Theron smirked, just a little, as he sipped his drink from the half-hidden booth he’d chosen, gesturing for Jonas Balker to sit in the opposite seat. Both agents toasted one another, and Theron leaned forward a little into the light, chuckling when Jonas swore heavily at the bruises and cuts marring his face. “And what the hell kind of shit have you been in this time?”

“C’mon now, Balker, I know you know what I’ve been up to, I’ve been fending off your droids for months now all over Rishi so that Lana didn’t stab me. Besides, they look worse than they are.” Jonas glared him down…and sighed a little, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a long draught off his own whiskey.

“Force help me, I do. So, the Revanites…”

“Currently in rout on Yavin-4; we’re now working with the Grandmaster of the Jedi and Darth Marr to build a joint operation…which you also know about, because I know I saw you in and out of the Imperial camps at least twice. You fit the uniform just fine, but that accent sucks.” Jonas flipped him the bird, but shook his head and smiled anyway, and they fell into familiar roles, bantering back and forth as they exchanged information both useful and already used, that rare combination of being both spies and best friends since they were teenagers…and as they ordered fresh drinks, Jonas paused a little bit, and looked like he’d bitten a lemon. Theron just sighed.

“C’mon, out with it.”

“…are you alright after that torture?” His voice was low, soft, and honestly concerned…and Theron gave his friend a faint smile, lacing his gloved fingers together and leaning in a little. Closing his eyes, Theron took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, calming his thoughts, his whole being, drawing on everything Master Zho had ever taught him, because even with the stunt he’d pulled to escape…it had been horrific. The pain wasn’t as bad as the mindprobe, and even now, Theron shuddered at the memory of Revan’s casual perusal of his very soul…but he’d gotten his revenge, in the sweetest way possible, and that had also gotten him the opportunity to break free.

“It was…it was bad. Very bad. But you remember those holovids I had to watch all the time when I was a kid? The ones that were made specifically for the Shan family?” Jonas blinked, suddenly confused by the change of subject, but nodded anyway, well aware even now of the ranting Theron used to go off on about the utter stupidity of those vids…and Theron grinned. “Well, I kept a special link of ‘em for the explicit reason of throwing it back in Revan’s face if I ever got the chance. And that idiot gave me the perfect opening.”

“…No.”

“Yup.”

“You didn’t.”

“Damn right I did.”

“How the fuck were you not stabbed?”

“I have no clue. But it worked, I escaped, and here we are.” Jonas narrowed his eyes, and pointed accusingly at Theron now, who was trying to pull his best injured innocent face over the wicked grin.

“Bullshit, there’s so much more to that story, and you owe me the whole thing, Shan.”

“Fine, fine, but we’re gonna need more drinks.” He slapped down a full credit chip on the table, and Theron felt his grin widen even further. “Alrighty then, strap in, because this is gonna be fun…”

---

Eighteen years earlier…

Padawan Theron Shan, thirteen, arms crossed, robes a mess, his lip busted open from the last scuffle, stared resolutely at the wall as Masters Kaedan, Bakarn, and Zho tried to figure out a suitable punishment. Fighting between Padawans was strictly prohibited, of course, short of controlled sparring, but defending a Padawan who was disabled from several of the wealthier children of the elite on Coruscant did merit some praise…but he’d still started a fight. Ngani Zho sighed faintly, and turned to his wayward pupil.

“Theron, please speak to us. We understand why you fought as you did, and we want you to know that defending Padawan Ask’lil is a noble, kind thing…but you still cannot brawl as you did today.” Theron shrugged, slouched as he was in the chair, still glaring a hole in the wall, and it was Syo who shook his head.

“I fear we won’t be getting through to him this way, Ngani; however, there are the old holovids we could show him. It might be good to give Theron a sense of right.” Master Zho noticed Theron glance up at that, but didn’t call him on it, only nodding a little in confusion. Certainly, they had many holovids for Padawans to learn from, but he wasn’t sure what Syo was talking about…until a familiar figure appeared, and Zho had to keep himself from dropping his head in his hands.

“Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem.” Righting the microphone in the vid, they watched as none other than Revan himself smoothed his robes down, gave the camera a weak smile, and launched into what was possibly the most boring ‘you must keep to the side of Light!’ speech Ngani had ever heard. Now he knew why he’d forgotten this; he’d repressed the memories from when Satele was young.

Theron was staring in horror now, glancing around the room as if looking for escape, and Ngani grimaced in sympathy, because this was just…painful to sit through. Everything from “even thinking impure thoughts can lead to the Dark side” to “Remember, the best way to end a fight is by talking out your differences.” It was cringe-worthy at best, and as the holo finally came to a close, he resisted the urge to punch Kaedan and Bakarn both. Barely.

“…and remember the Jedi Code. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.” Revan winked out, the room finally quiet…and as the Masters stood up to leave, Theron took his chance and bolted out the door. Ngani didn’t have it in him to stop the boy, and though both Syo and Jaric were disgruntled, he calmed them down with a few words and made his way back to their rooms.

“Master, please please do not let them show me that again.” Theron’s voice came from his hiding place in the vents, and Zho chuckled, motioning for his Padawan to come down.

“I’ll do my best, lad, but you’ve got along way to go. Now, come down and let us work on your form…”

—-

“Oh c’mon, not another round of this stupid vid…”

“Then stop picking fights with other Padawans, Theron!”

“It’s not my fault they have punchable faces…”

“Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem. Welcome, young Padawans, and may the Force be with you…”

“Arrrrrrrrrrgh.”

---

“No.”

“You have to watch it.”

“No.”

“Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem. Welcome, young Padawans, and may the Force—-”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”

“THERON.”

---

“Snooooooooooore.”

“I know you’re awake, Theron.”

“Snooooooooooooore.”

“Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem. Welcome, young Padawans, and may the Force—-”

“…..SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE.”

---

“Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem. Welcome, young Padawans, and may the Force—-”

“I hate this shit.”

“I do too, lad.”

“We could just leave and let it play…or destroy it.”

“And risk listening to Jaric scream all week long? I’d rather listen to Revan.”

“Dammit.”

“Theron, stop swearing.”

“All due respect, Master: fuck no.”

"Remember, the best way to end a fight is by talking out your differences.”

“Did you hear that, Theron? We should talk things out.”

“Arrrrrrrrrgh.”

---

Six weeks prior

Panting, blood trickling from his half-fried implants, head pounding, Theron closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting back a whimper as his two broken ribs seared through his abdomen. He hated interrogation tables for a number of reasons, as did any other sane being, but at least he was lying down at the moment; gravity was not kind to injuries when vertical. And the blinding light that they’d been using on him was off too, small mercies for that…and Revan had also left, which allowed Theron to rest a little before figuring out his next move.

I could just…break out and leave, there’s enough little ways to escape, but with my ribs, the vents and holes in the cave ceiling aren’t possible…I could take out a guard and dress up, but I don’t know the codes…and his people are too paranoid. Dammit…shooting my way out might be the only option… He turned his head to the right to peer through the darkness, narrowing his eyes as he studied the console…and a spark of joy leapt in him when he realized he could see a link between his implants and the console. It’s a Republic model! These idiots must have stolen from Alderaan, because I know that code all too well…

Then, a sudden, vicious grin stretched over his handsome features, and Theron Shan activated the link, uploading an obscure old video to the whole of the Revanite compound as he also had his manacles unlocked and the door opened.

“Take this, you fucking hypocrite.”

"Is this thing on, love?”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh good—-CRAP. Uh…okay. Ignore that. Ahem. Welcome, young Padawans, and may the Force be with you…”

Theron’s laughter could be heard over the alarms sounding as he grabbed up his blasters and hightailed it out the door.

—-

Sipping his fourth drink now and feeling a delightful buzz, Theron grinned at Jonas’ face. The older spy looked like he’d been slapped by a fish, jaw dropped, drink frozen in midair, and Theron couldn’t help the laughter bubbling up, wheezing a little as his ribs twinged in warning under the bandages.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You’re a mad bastard.”

“And you’re surprised by this?”

“No, just…impressed. Honestly so impressed. How in the name of the Force did that go down?”

“Oh, I probably got us shot at a whole lot more when Revan saw that, he was furious, but damn, it was worth it. My…partners in crime were confused until I explained it, then Lana actually congratulated me for throwing the whole base into chaos.” Jonas just shook his head, finally downing his drink, and Theron slouched back into the warmth of the booth, content to rest for a while longer yet.

“So…how did your…ah…the Grandmaster take it?” Theron smirked at that, and Jonas groaned.

“Let me guess, she hated it too?”

“With a passion. Apparently, all the Shans have been…rather combative since then, I wonder why, and so the Order kept that vid in safe keeping for any future Shans to watch and ‘learn from’. Which…really, has never worked. She thought it was the funniest fucking thing and that was the most bonding we had in years, pretty much since I was born. She patched me up as we talked about it, might just make a habit of spending time with her after all, especially since she’s mellowed out with age.”

“…Wow, I never would have guessed that that would be the outcome of all of that…but what about your old master? I know you lost him before all of this…” Theron gazed out over the cantina, and felt a faint smile touch his lips in fond memory.

“…Master Zho would be proud.”

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

before the otherness came (2)

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Two years go by.

Warnings: Language, some violence and sexism. 

A/N: Part 2 of my “As It Was” fic set. Once again, big love to my darling Tumblr wife, @inber​ ,for helping me sus these bad boys out. This was a beast to write, and I think the longest think I’ve banged out. I will always and forever second-guess my ability to write angst, but I did it and it’s y’all’s problem now.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves​ - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @inber​ - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

Part 1 can be found here.

Tell me if somehow, some of it remains How long you would wait for me? And how long I've been away

Heartache has a particular bite to it. It’s bitter – metallic - like holding a copper coin in your mouth, it sits heavy on the tongue. You’ve been trying to choke back the taste of it since Geralt left.

He always takes a piece of you with him when he goes but gods it feels different, this time.

This time the empty space left behind is jagged. It splinters. It breaks off sharp little pieces that slice deep as you try to go about your life. As you try to pretend that it’s fine, when you try to keep moving, and working – walking and talking and living as if there isn’t a piece of your own heart missing. It’s exhausting. You end your days almost too tired to sleep, curled up in your empty bed and each night. Your fingers reach out and drift over the space where he should be and the chasm widens.

More jagged bits break away. More cuts, more pain.

You hadn’t started to worry, really worry, until Geralt had been gone for two months. It wasn’t uncommon, but the longer you went without hearing word, the more you worried. When you still hadn’t heard anything in four months, the fear set in. The Continent is vast and wide, though – he could be anywhere. 

After six months, the fear turns to dread. After ten months and no word, nothing, you’d reached out to Jaskier, but even his connections had their limits and that was when the sorrow found you. There was a chance the White Wolf didn’t want to be found, but the more likely alternative, well.

The Path is dangerous. Geralt of Rivia is big, and bad, but he’s not invulnerable.

You haven’t seen him in over two years. No one has.

With a shaky inhale, you pull your gaze from the flame of the candle at your elbow. You make another attempt to focus on the open ledger in front of you with middling success. The sharp bits, the cutting bits he left behind have mostly been pieced together. Some days you can almost ignore them, but today it feels like you’re on the verge of breaking apart again. Swearing quietly, you tally the last of the earnings for the week and flip the book closed before rubbing at your aching eyes.

You take the small flask from your desk drawer. The brandy is smooth and warm on the way down, dulling the edge of your pain until you feel like you might be able to stand and smile in the land of the living. Another sip and you decide to try and do just that.

It’s not terribly crowded tonight, but the people eating your food and drinking your ale are in good spirits. It warms you some, watching them smile and laugh over your recipes. You cast your gaze across the room, grinning and waving when your name is called until your eyes light on a newer face at the bar. He’s certainly handsome. Curly copper-colored hair, pretty green eyes – some manner of tradesman by the cut and styling of his clothes. Not poor, but certainly no well-moneyed type; that lot doesn’t drink here. The copper-haired stranger catches you looking. He has one of those secretive smiles, dimpled and cheeky, and you find yourself returning the one he flashes your way.

You touch the necklace at your throat. It’s almost enough to give you pause, but…

The redhead’s name is Nathaniel. 

A carpenter and a shameless flirt, you let him buy you a pint of your own ale and don’t mind when he touches your hand. He listens to you when you talk about the tavern and your cooking, tells you that you make the best rabbit he’s ever had, and you let him slide closer as the evening wears on. His hand is warm on your lower back, his voice lilts in a sweet Skelliger brogue, and he’s entirely too charming for his own good.

When he starts to call you ‘darling’, you don’t feel like correcting him.

You let him tuck you against his side, relishing in the way he bows his mouth close to your ear and you nearly miss the way the room goes quiet. You’re not sure what makes you tear your gaze from Nathaniel’s lips, but then you meet a pair of honey-gold eyes across the room, your heart stops.

Geralt’s face passes through a number of emotions in a split second before you see him shut down.

Gods on high. The bastard’s alive.

Elation and relief make you feel dizzy, you such in a breath and it feels like being punched square in the ribs. Fuck’s sake. The bastard’s alive – he’s been alive this whole godsdamned time.

It suddenly feels as if the stays of your bodice are laced too tight. The room is too loud, too crowded, and the copper-haired man at your side far too close. Nathaniel’s hand brushes down your spine and you bristle, squirming away with a muttered apology. You hear him call after you and ignore it, at least until he grabs your wrist and pulls.

“Hold on, darlin’,’ the redhead leers down at you. “I dun’ think we’re through yet.”

“Let go – “

“Nooo, I dinna think so – “ He pulls again, hard, and his palm chaffs against your skin until you hiss in pain. “You cannae just leave a man high and dry like this, lovey,” Nathaniel says with a smirk. “Come on. Why don’t ye take me upstairs and you can make it up to – “

Over the Skelliger’s shoulder you see the hulking form of the white-haired Witcher and you’ve never seen Geralt so angry. Soft lips are curled back into a deadly sneer, bright eyes flashing with malicious intent. You say his name, warning him off to no avail; you’re not his focus. He grips Nathaniel by the collar and pulls; the smaller man is yanked away and you stumble as his hold on you is broken suddenly.

“Geralt, stop,” you bark.

Nathaniel regains his footing before glancing between you and the Witcher. He looks gobsmacked, at first, and then he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s mean; spiteful.

“You let a Witcher have you?” he scoffs. “Fuck all, love – if I’d-a known you were that easy, I would’nae tried so hard. You’ll let jus’ about anythin’ settle between those pretty legs, won’t ye?”

Geralt snarls, actually snarls, before grabbing the redhead by the shirtfront and slamming his fist across his face. You shout at him to stop. Nathaniel breaks the grip on his shirt with a sweep of his arm before returning blows; man and Witcher ignore your furious cries for cessation, trading blows like brawling idiots, until you roar, “Enough!”

You throw all your weight at Geralt, shoving him hard enough to knock him off balance and away from Nathaniel. “I said enough!” you bellow.

Man and mutant are panting, the former bleeding from his nose and the latter sporting the beginning of a good shiner. Nathaniel sneers at you, “Mutant-humping bitch.”

With a snarl of your own you spin – a flash of metal, and the point of your dirk sits at the redhead’s pulse. “This is my bar, boy,” you snap. “You don’t speak to me like that. Set foot in here again and I’ll finish what he started – do you understand me?”

Nathaniel’s eyes go wide before he glares and spits at the hem of your skirt. Regardless, he does as he’s told. You watch him skulk out the door with your teeth grit so hard that your jaw starts to ache. The rest of the bar is silent as the grave and you can feel embarrassment flush your cheeks with heat. Poor Lucja behind the bar gapes like a fish in a dry stream. It takes a second to find your voice. The dirk slides smoothly back into your bodice.

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, friends,” you call out, grateful that you sound steadier than you feel. “Accept a round, on me.”

At the bar, one of your old regulars makes a show of clearing his throat. “See that, lads?” he growls. “That’s why you don’t tangle with the lady of the house.”

The unbearable tension breaks, laughter rippling lowly over the room. You almost smile, and then you look back to see Geralt. Something awful and prickling hot starts to claw through you when you meet his gaze. The terrible, gut-wrenching feeling only gets worse when you turn towards your study and he follows. You know the sensible thing would be to throw him out on his ass, but you let him follow and turn to face him when the door slams shut.

He just… stares at you. His gold eyes are flat and impassive, handsome face gone hard, and the heat in your gut goes so cold that it hurts. You’re on him in two short strides, both hands shoving hard at his chest. Geralt barely wobbles.

You haul back and slap him hard across the face instead.

The momentum snaps his head to the side; you hear him exhale, slowly. When he turns back to pin you with his gaze again, his eyes flicker dangerously. “Don’t,” he growls.

You strike him again.

He bursts into movement so quickly that you give a short scream of surprise. You swear at him, punching at his chest, trying to kick at his knees – or his groin – before your back hits the wall hard enough to rattle your teeth together. Geralt pins your wrists with bruising force, presses his full weight into you until you’re immobilized. “Don’t you fucking hit me,” he snarls.

You bare your teeth at him. “I oughta black your eye. Put me the fuck down.”

“You gonna calm down?”

“Try it and find out.”

Each short exhale rushes over your face, disturbing the curls that have fallen over. Geralt moves slowly, flint-cold eyes fixed on yours as he eases back. You yank yourself away from him as soon as your feet hit the ground and rub at your sore wrists. Beneath the anger, beneath the hurt and embarrassment, you feel the sharp stab of your old heartache. It shifts in your chest, pieces of jagged glass that drag over the bits of yourself that you had so carefully packed back together.

Oh, it hurts. It scrapes you raw. The pain snags at the breath in your lungs, but your fury surges to the foreground and you shake with it. Your nails dig crescents into the flesh of your palms.

“You asshole,” you spit. “You do not come here and attack my fucking customers – “

“Sweetheart – “

The petname makes you see red. “Don’t fucking call me that. Don’t you dare – you do not get to storm in here half-cocked after you vanish and try to, what, defend my fucking honor?”

Geralt growls from low in his chest. “He all but called you a whore.”

“And you all but treated me like one,” you bite back.

“That’s not fucking fair – “

“Not fair? You fucking left, Geralt. You were gone – “ You choke on the words - they sit too heavy in your mouth.

“For fuck’s sake – it’s my life, the Path! What the fuck am I supposed to do –“

“Try picking up a godsdamned quill.”

Geralt’s teeth click together. You see his jaw twitch, watch his golden eyes flash with barely contained anger and you feel your eyes begin to smart. His face goes hazy and you hate it – it feels like weakness when all you want to do is put your fist through something. The tears spill over your lashes and you wipe at them, angry and embarrassed.

“Two. Years,” you snarl. “Two fucking years I waited, and you couldn’t be arsed to send word?”

The Witcher barks out a laugh, sharp and cold as splintering ice. “You call that waiting? Found the first hard prick looked like he had money and hopped on, so maybe the ginger cunt wasn’t wrong - “

The rage, the hurt surges – bonfire hot – and you turn, grabbing the inkwell from your desk to pitch straight at the Witcher’s head. He dodges with curse and the glass shatters, but the cacophony does nothing to cover your howl:

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, YOU BASTARD!”

The words tear their way up from your heart, breaking open the makeshift cage where that fear had been desperately packed after weeks, then months of nothing and damn him. Jagged bits of yourself run you through and let the grief well up. You try to grit your teeth against it, try to force it down, but those sharp pieces cut and bleed you.

“You unimaginable bastard,” you hiss. “I thought you were dead and – and Jaskier didn’t know where to find you – no one did. Gods damn you, Geralt. I thought I would never see you again.“

Your voice cracks. Geralt’s stares at you, wide-eyed, and you have to drop your gaze. You bite your tongue and close your eyes, shoulders trembling with each silent sob. If only the earth could open up and swallow you whole – you wish for it, pray silently for it, to no avail. The sound of the Witcher’s footfalls breaks through and you expect to hear the door closing as he leaves. Instead, you feel his fingers close on your elbow. You open your eyes, staring hard at the ground; you can see the toes of his heavy, dirt-caked boots butted up against the edge of your skirt. Geralt’s fingers pull once, gently, and that’s all it takes; you stumble forward against his chest with a low keen.

His grip is just shy of too tight. You feel the press of his face against your hair, so familiar that it hurts. He whispers your name, curls his fingers in your hair to keep you close. Your hands fist in the black of his shirt. He lets you cry until there is nothing left.

When your breathing evens and the tears have ebbed, you let him tilt your face up to his, but his expression is no easier to read. It stings at you – salt in the open wound – and the space around your heart aches. His gloved thumb drags gently over the apple of your cheek and you’re tired, of a sudden. Too tired to keep fighting this.

“Damn you, Witcher,” you breathe. “I love you.”

Geralt goes utterly still. Frozen like a cornered cat. You see a flash behind his pretty golden eyes before his hand drops away from your cheek. The look on his face makes your stomach turn over. “I never meant to hurt you, sweetheart,” he mumbles.

Humiliation has a particular taste to it.

The bitter, copper bite coats your tongue and, this time, you can’t swallow it down. It has thorns now, burrs that stick in your throat. You’re not sure why you laugh – it’s a hollow, bitter sound.

“Of course you didn’t,” you say as your voice shakes. “No, you just… you just ran. I said I was yours, and you made a promise, and then you ran.”

The leather cord on your necklace is old enough that it gives with little resistance when you pull. Geralt’s brow creases when you take his hand, but you watch his face go ice cold as you press the wolf’s tooth into his palm. You retreat, move away and behind your desk to pick mindlessly at a few papers before you stop and simply brace there. The smooth, polished oak is cool under your hands.

Geralt’s voice is rough over your name – you grit your teeth and snap, “No. No more. I have done with you, Witcher. Leave me be.”

He doesn’t move, at first. You can just make out his still form in your periphery, and you feel the weight of his eyes on you before he turns, making his silent way to the door. There’s a creak of old wood on ancient hinges. The tavern noise rushes back in for a moment and is cut off with a slam. You screw your eyes shut against a fresh wash of tears to no avail.

You manage to bite your cheek hard enough to keep your sobs muffled.

[hopelikethemoon]

exile (weeping monk x oc) {part I/?} [netflix’s cursed]

Title: exile  Rating: PG-13  Length: 2,800 Warnings: The rating is for mentions of injuries otherwise this is PG.  Notes: This is the first part of who knows how many chapters, it honestly depends on if there’s any interest in this little idea. I was also inspired by Taylor Swift’s ‘exile’ so listen to that. The story picks up right at the finale of Cursed. 

Summary: The Weeping Monk seeks out an old friend. 

Deep in the densest point of the forest, far beyond Hawksbridge and the surrounding villages — beyond where the common traveler ventured — there was a copse of trees that stood like fortress walls surrounding the modest hovel of a reclusive healer. 

Isolde had called the hovel home for nearly fifteen years. A fever had stolen her parents from her and the aged healer who had once lived in the hovel had taken her in when her cures had failed to heal them. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps it was divine sight. 

The hovel protected her — shielded her from a tumultuous world that had turned against her people. Those who needed her could find her, but those that meant to do her harm could not seek her out among the woods. 

Since the siege of Red Paladins had overtaken the surrounding villages, Isolde had prepared herself for their arrival. But as each day passed, no wounded traveler or wayward horseman had come upon her home.

Until today. 

The distinct sound of hooves on the moss-covered soil drew her out into the woods. She could feel an energy — a familiar pull — stirring in her veins. The woods had permitted their presence, but the hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end told her to be cautious nevertheless. 

It was a boy and a man who had clearly seen better days. 

Isolde’s hand lingered at the dagger sheathed at her hip as she stared at the mounted pair, “You’re trespassing.” 

“Are you a healer?” The young boy questioned, his voice slightly strained as he struggled to keep the grown man behind him upright on the stead. The hooded man slumped forward against the boy’s back, despite his best attempts to stay alert. 

She hesitated. 

With the way that Paladins had wiped out entire villages of Fey folk, she had every reason to reconsider admitting to them that she was a Fey — and yet, that invisible pull she felt assured her that they were not dissimilar to her. 

“Yes,” Isolde conceded, moving towards the pair, her brows drawn together as she studied the barely conscious man. “What’s happened to him?” 

“We were attacked by Paladins.” He gritted out, “They tried to kill him, but we escaped by the skin of our teeth! But he’s hurt. Badly.”  He explained with a shocking amount of enthusiasm. 

“Yes, I can see that.” Isolde retorted, taking hold of the horse’s reins as she led it closer towards her home. She looped the reins around a post, hands on her hips as she turned back to regard the pair. “I’ll get a gurney, but I’ll need your help, lad.”

Isolde couldn’t shake the feeling that still had her on edge. There was no outward reason to doubt a wounded man and a beleaguered child with a black eye. 

Though she needed time to take account of the man’s injuries, it was safe to assume that neither of them would be leaving any time soon. 

Isolde vanished back into her home to gather up the materials she needed to transport the man, before returning with the gurney as promised. 

“I’m impressed he’s made it this far,” Isolde remarked as she helped to heft him off the horse and onto the gurney. It took an incredible amount of strength to navigate the man off the horse without further injuring him or hurting herself and the boy in the process. 

She had no idea how the boy had managed to get them to her hovel, given the man’s condition. 

“You’re both Feyfolk.” Isolde stated as they hauled the injured man into her home and got him settled onto her work table. She tilted her head as she looked down at the man’s wounded face. His jaw was badly swollen, his face bruised, and there was strange bruising around his eyes. 

The man grunted quietly, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he fought the pull of unconsciousness, but he didn’t stir any further than that. “Do you have a name, boy?” Isolde questioned, glancing back at the boy.

This time, he was the one who hesitated. “I’m Percy and this is… Lance.”

“Lance.” Isolde repeated as she glanced back down at the injured man, who seemed no older than she was. Beneath the blood, bruising, and swollen flesh she figured he might’ve been handsome. 

“Percy, will you fetch me water from the creek you passed to enter here?” She questioned, grabbing a wooden bucket from beneath the table and passing it to him. 

“Will you treat him?”

“I’ll do what I can to stave off infection.” Isolde told him, a hand at her hip as she regarded the boy. “But I’ll need clean water to do that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Percy said, before snatching the bucket from her and darting back out the door. 

Isolde hummed to herself as she looked down at Lance, her brows furrowed as she brushed her fingers gingerly over his swollen jaw. “Can you hear me?” She questioned, as she worked to remove his cloak, letting it drape beneath him on the table. “I’m going to have to remove this garment. You’re lucky I’m a decent seamstress too.” 

She retrieved a pair of shears from a drawer, returning to cut off the dark tunic he wore. His chest was covered in dark, angry bruises. Blood clinging to his pale skin where his attacker’s weapon had pierced his skin. 

“I’m impressed you managed to escape from the Paladins with these injuries. They’ve brutalized you.” Isolde walked around the table to find her healing balms, but she stopped dead in her tracks as she caught sight of an injury at the crown of his head. Mostly hidden by his chestnut color hair was the grisly imprint of the cross. 

He was a Red Paladin. 

Had the boy been a clever ruse? Unassuming and charming — meant to catch her off guard. Playing to her good nature; presenting her with an injured man in need of care. And she’d fallen for it. 

Isolde’s fingers twitched as they reached for the blade she had strapped to her hip, she drew it from its sheath, creeping back towards the prone figure on her table. 

She could kill him now — rid the realm of one more Red Paladin, before he had the chance to kill more innocent people. 

Isolde jumped as the door swung open, knocking into the shelves behind it as the boy returned with the water, “What are you doing? I thought you were a healer!”

“Are you aware of what he is?” Isolde questioned, brandishing the weapon in his direction. “That you’ve delivered a fox into the house of a hen.”

“He’s not like that!” Percy pleaded, sitting the bucket of water down and holding up his hands. “Maybe he’s done some really heinous things, but he saved me!” 

Isolde’s gaze flickered back towards the table, “And you trust a Red Paladin not to spare you, only to save you for another day? Have you not seen what horrors they’ve brought against our kind?” 

“Don’t—“ Lance muttered, stirring on the table as he fought against the obvious pain of his injuries, groaning as he sat up. “Don’t hurt him.” His hand fumbled at his waist, like meant to reach for a blade that wasn’t there. “He’s just a boy.”

“I only hurt Red Paladins.” Isolde spat, aiming the blade in his direction then. It would be so easy to end it all. One sweep of the blade across his throat. It would end it all. 

One less Red Paladin to kill her kind. 

“I’m not—“ Lance started, his voice strained as he clutched at his ribs. Whatever had been done to him, had certainly done a number to him. 

Would the Red Paladins turn against one of their own?

Lance opened his eyes slowly, pain marring his expression as his unfocused gaze settled on her then, “Isolde?”

She held up the dagger once more, brows drawn together, “How do you know my name?”

He grimaced, lips clenched closed as a wave of apparent nausea passed through him. “Your father was the falconmaster.” 

Isolde’s grip loosened on the blade and it slipped from her hold and landed onto the straw covered floor beneath her. “Lancelot?” The realization washed over her and suddenly it made sense. That strange familiarity she had felt. 

It had been a lifetime since she had last seen him. 

They had both been children — innocent and unaware that their inherent natures would eventually lead to their persecution. 

“How—“ Isolde started, stepping towards the table. “Your father, Ban… How did the Red Paladins—?” Isolde couldn’t understand how it had come to this. “How did this happen to you?”

Lancelot wavered, blinking slowly as he tried to keep his eyes focused on her face. “Squirrel, tend to the horse.” The boy started to protest. “Now, please.” The door shut behind him as he left. 

“What happened to you, my sweet Lancelot?” Isolde questioned, lifting her hand to carefully cup his injured cheek. 

“It’s a long unpleasant story.” Lancelot whispered as he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Do you have feverfew?”

“Yes, of course.” Isolde murmured, reluctantly stepping away from him as she sorted through her stash of herbs. 

Ginger, willow bark, and feverfew — mashed together with a sprinkle of purified water would ease the pain and swelling. 

“What was the damage done by?” She questioned, glancing back at him warily. 

All the fears of what he might be capable of doing to her faded away now. Perhaps she should’ve been cautious, but it was Lancelot. 

The boy who braided Pentas into her hair, the boy who had giggled when he kissed her beneath a night sky filled with stars. She hadn’t forgotten him or the way she’d once felt. It was like muscle memory. Her heart remembered. They had only been children — no older than the boy he called Squirrel. 

“A morning star… or eight.”

Isolde frowned, “Lancelot, it’s a miracle your face isn’t sunken in.” 

“Feels like it should be,” He grunted out as he reached up to touch his face. 

“Your jaw is likely fractured. I won’t know for certain until the swelling has gone down,” Isolde explained to him as she dusted turmeric into the paste and presented it to him. “Once you’re settled, I’ll start cleaning these open wounds.” She gestured to his face, brows furrowed as she carefully examined the bruising and injuries he’d sustained.

Lancelot took the wooden bowl from her, using two fingers to scoop up the mixture before sticking them into his mouth. He gagged a little, but managed to swallow it down. “I’d forgotten how bloody bitter that shit is.”

Isolde laughed softly, “And we haven’t even gotten to the fun part.” She carefully peeled the cloak off his back, before helping him out of his cut shirt.

Her heart sank as her gaze fell upon his ruined back. Angry welts and oozing wounds from a fresh lashing, criss-crossed over faded scars as well the raised and gnarled scars that protruded from the pale skin of his back. “Lancelot, what has been done to you?”

Isolde stepped back around him, lips drawn into a thin line as she met his gaze. 

His eyes seemed heavy again, like he was using every bit of his strength to stay upright. She wanted to urge him to lay down, but she desperately wanted answers. 

“Isolde…” He whispered her name with a short shake of his head. “I am not the child I once was. Forget whatever you think you know of me.” He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I am not a Red Paladin, but perhaps I am worse than one.”

She took the empty bowl from him, her fingers brushing over his. It warmed her straight to her very soul. But the creeping fear that slid up her spine quickly put out the fire. 

“Worse than a Red Paladin?”

He grabbed at the edges of the table as he wavered, his head falling forward as a pitiful sound escaped him. “Isolde…”

“Tell me.”

“Have you…” He started, lifting his head just enough to look at her through his dark lashes. “Have you heard of the sword of the Red Paladins? The Weeping Monk who can sniff out the Fey?”

Isolde didn’t mean to, but she took a step backwards, a hand resting at her heart as she stared at him. 

It wasn’t bruising that stained the skin beneath his eyes, she realized. 

She had heard the tales. 

Isolde had ventured to nearby villages, she had heard the bards with their songs of the horrors that came to Feyfolk. The burnings on crosses, the throats slit, the mutilation of women and children. 

The whispers of a man, cloaked in black who wept tears of blood as he sought vengeance for his people’s god. 

Only he wasn’t one of them. 

He was a Fey.

He was Lancelot. 

Isolde’s fingers trembled and she quickly busied herself with cleaning out the wooden bowl, wiping away the turmeric stain. 

“Is that how you found me?” 

Lancelot was quiet for a long moment, so long that Isolde was forced to glance back at him, in fear that he’d slumped over dead, but he sat there — staring at her. 

“I have passed this way before,” He confessed, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as a whine of pain escaped him. “Sweet Izzy, will you spare me?” 

“I haven’t any foxglove to spare you with,” She retorted with a shake of her head. “I’m a healer, Lancelot, of course I’ll spare you.” Isolde’s heart softened as she stepped back towards him. “How many of our kind have you killed?”

Lancelot opened his eyes slowly, his bottom lip trembling as he looked up at her. “I cannot place a number on the lives I’ve brought to untimely ends, Isolde. Saving Squirrel cannot atone me for the children who have been massacred.” 

“How did it come to this?”

“I was spared by Father Carden.” Lancelot confessed, flinching away from Isolde as she reached out for him again. “And turned into a weapon for them to slay my own kind.” 

Isolde let her hand fall to her side, “What do you mean when you say that you’ve… passed this way before?”

He worked his jaw slowly, lowering his gaze. “We have been searching for The Wolf-Blood Witch, scouring every corner of the realm and…” Lancelot laughed humorlessly. “It’s been twenty years, Isolde, but I still sense you. I caught a glimpse of you as the path opened to me… your hair like flames as you fetched water from the creek.”

She exhaled slowly as she stared at him, “But the Red Paladins never came…”

“There was no Wolf-Blood Witch here.” Lancelot sank back against the table, the pain growing to be too much for him. “I knew Squirrel would be safe here, Izzy.”

“You’re safe here too,” Isolde sighed, moving to stand beside him. “I’m not going to let you die, Lancelot. No matter what you’ve done. I made a promise to the goddess that I would use my gifts to heal, not kill.” 

She reached out and gingerly swept her fingers over his forehead, brushing aside a loose curl of hair that was sticking to the blood on his skin. “Just rest. I’m going to clean your wounds and then work on the poultices.”

“Thank you.” He murmured, lifting his hand to catch hers as she brushed her knuckles against his cheek. 

Isolde smiled softly, “You’re welcome, Lancelot.” 

Once upon a time, they had been just children. Isolde’s father had been employed by Lancelot’s father — heir apparent to a throne that had crumbled. Lancelot was a special child, touched by the Fey just as Isolde had been. 

They bonded as children; laughing and playing in the stables, using their gifts to make flowers blossom and flutter through the air, terrorising their parents by vanishing for hours on end. 

Isolde had been old enough to understand that her gift was the reason her parents abruptly left Ban’s service. 

Not a summer passed that she didn’t wonder what had become of Lancelot. Every time the Pentas bloomed and the summer nights glowed with a sky full of stars — she wondered if he’d survived the wrath of the Red Paladins. 

But that boy was gone and in his place was a man who had been corrupted by the darkness of false prophets and vengeful religious mercenaries. A man who had turned against his own kind. Who wept tears let from the blood of his victims. 

Isolde wiped a dampened cloth over his skin to wipe away the blood, but she knew it wouldn’t be easily cleansed from his hands.

[hockeysweetheart]

CCCSweet Moments Between these two Including every Kiss This wont Include the Bread story or When Katniss Pushed him and Regreated it.  ( Beause those are in other posts)   It’s a very long one 

Hunger Games. 

Chapter 5   But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise. 

Chapter 6 

"You're shivering," says Peeta. The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my body. The girl's scream. Had it been her last? Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?

Chapter 9/10  ( Peeta Confessing his love) 

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head. "Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar. Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to. "She have another fellow?" asks Caesar. "I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning. won't help in my case," says Peeta. "Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified. Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because. because. she came here with me."

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries. "It's not good," agrees Peeta. "Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?" Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now." I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.

Chapter 19 

"Katniss," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me." "You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die. "Yes. Look, if I don't make it back  - " he begins. "Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say. "I know. But just in case I don't  - " he tries to continue. "No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," I say, placing my fingers on his lips to quiet him. "But I  - " he insists. Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway since he's right, we are supposed to be madly in love. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?" "All right," he whispers. I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Peeta's leg. Instead I find a pot of hot broth. Haymitch couldn't be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy's dying. Give me something I can work with!"

And he's right. If I want to keep Peeta alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance. Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died. "Peeta!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff. I hold up the pot. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."  

 Chapter 19 ( Had to add some Flirting from the stream 

"Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say. "Lean down a minute first," he says. "Need to tell you something." I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it." I jerk my head back but end up laughing. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." At least, he's still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I realize he's unable to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. The mud and plants seem to have imprisoned him and I finally have to give a gigantic tug to break him from their clutches. He's still two feet from the water, lying there, teeth gritted, tears cutting trails in the dirt on his face. "Look, Peeta, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say.

Katniss?" Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it.

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I. I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I've no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

Chapter 20

Getting the broth into Peeta takes an hour of coaxing, begging, threatening, and yes, kissing, but finally, sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. No new casualties. Still, Peeta and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night.

The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Peeta. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic. I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very sick person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one.

Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. "No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though. "You didn't sleep," Peeta says. "I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted.

It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep. Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Peeta's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days.

"Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." "You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say. "Yes, that's a good plan," he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit. "You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say.

Chapter 21

And Gale. I know him. He won't be shouting and cheering. But he'll be watching, every moment, every twist and turn, and willing me to come home. I wonder if he's hoping that Peeta makes it as well. Gale's not my boyfriend, but would he be, if I opened that door? He talked about us running away together. Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of survival away from the district? Or something more? I wonder what he makes of all this kissing. Through a crack in the rocks, I watch the moon cross the sky. At what I judge to be about three hours before dawn, I begin final preparations. I'm careful to leave Peeta with water and the medical kit right beside him. Nothing else will be of much use if I don't return, and even these would only prolong his life a short time. After some debate, I strip him of his jacket and zip it on over my own. He doesn't need it. Not now in the sleeping bag with his fever, and during the day, if I'm not there to remove it, he'll be roasting in it. My hands are already stiff from cold, so I take Rue's spare pair of socks, cut holes for my fingers and thumbs, and pull them on. It helps anyway. I fill her small pack with some food, a water bottle, and bandages, tuck the knife in my belt, get my bow and arrows. I'm about to leave when I remember the importance of sustaining the star-crossed lover routine and I lean over and give Peeta a long, lingering kiss. I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol and pretend to brush away a tear of my own. Then I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night.

Chapter 22 

"No! Just don't, Katniss!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?" I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who. who worries about. what it would be like if. " I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. "If what, Katniss?" he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says.

Chapter 23 

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12. Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss. "We're wasting hunting time," I say when I finally break away. "I wouldn't call it wasting," he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"  

He grabs my hand away. "What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," says Peeta, pulling me to him. "Come on," I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss

Chapter 23 ( Just a sweet moment) 

"Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says. "Scoot over, I'm freezing." I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. "So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" I ask him. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," he says. "I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," I say. "Hardly. But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," he says.

Chapter 24 

"Can't we go back to the cave?" he asks. "It's near water and easy to defend." I sigh. Several more hours of walking  -  or should I say crashing  -  through the woods to reach an area we'll just have to leave in the morning to hunt. But Peeta doesn't ask for much. He's followed my instructions all day and I'm sure if things were reversed, he wouldn't make me spend the night in a tree. It dawns on me that I haven't been very nice to Peeta today. Nagging him about how loud he was, screaming at him over disappearing. The playful romance we had sustained in the cave has disappeared out in the open, under the hot sun, with the threat of Cato looming over us. Haymitch has probably just about had it with me. And as for the audience. I reach up and give him a kiss. "Sure. Let's go back to the cave."

Chapter 24 

By the time we reach our destination, our feet are dragging and the sun sits low on the horizon. We fill up our water bottles and climb the little slope to our den. It's not much, but out here in the wilderness, it's the closest thing we have to a home. It will be warmer than a tree, too, because it provides some shelter from the wind that has begun to blow steadily in from the west. I set a good dinner out, but halfway through Peeta begins to nod off. After days of inactivity, the hunt has taken its toll. I order him into the sleeping bag and set aside the rest of his food for when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's still here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought. So glad that I don't have to face Cato alone. 

Chapter 25  "You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out. "Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around. We both know they have to have a victor. Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country. If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were. My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. "No, I won't let you." "Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?" Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. "The count of three," he says. We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight. "Hold them out. I want everyone to see," he says. I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare. The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you  -  the tributes of District Twelve!" 

* NOT A Kissing but cuddling moment sorta* 

"Don't go to sleep," I tell him. I'm not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I'm terrified that if he drifts off he'll never wake again. "Are you cold?" he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It's a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop.

Chaper 26 

  I spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt to make sure no juice remains. Peeta pulls me to the lake where we both flush our mouths with water and then collapse into each other's arms. "You didn't swallow any?" I ask him. He shakes his head. "You?"

  "Guess I'd be dead by now if I did," I say. I can see his lips moving in reply, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd in the Capitol that they're playing live over the speakers. The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.

Chapter 26 ( Had to add this one in here ) 

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty. Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch? And now I know. It's because you have no choice. I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.

Chapter 27 

Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that's when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's kissing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right

Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia's put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point.

Chapter 27 Rewatching the games 

Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Peeta's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met. And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta's name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night.

Chapter 27 Final interview of the book 

Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." "Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta. I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him. Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta. Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar says. "From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Peeta. "But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Caesar. "Oh, that's a hard one. " I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help. "Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Caesar. Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say. "Why do you think that was?" urges Caesar. "Maybe. because for the first time. there was a chance I could keep him," I say. Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his "new leg" is working out.

"New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Peeta's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh.

"No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. I shake my head.

"I haven't had the chance," says Peeta with a slight shrug.

"It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Peeta.

"He's right," says Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

"Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind. hm?" he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Peeta that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just. couldn't bear the thought of. being without him."

"Peeta? Anything to add?" asks Caesar.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," he says.

Caesar signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Haymitch. "Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers.

Chapter 27   A sweet moment then Freaking Haymitch Ruined it... I guess Peeta had to learn the truth at some point 

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale. Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home. "What's wrong?" Peeta asks. "Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come. Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Peeta's eyes. "What's he mean?" Peeta asks me. "It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out. "What? What are you talking about?" he says. "It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," I say. "Coaching you? But not me," says Peeta. "He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say. "I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Peeta. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess. back in the arena. that was just some strategy you two worked out." "No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer. "But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" says Peeta. I bite my lip. "Katniss?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance. "It was all for the Games," Peeta says. "How you acted." "Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers. "Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says. "I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming. "Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Peeta has disappiared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12. He gives me a nod, his face expressionless. I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through? I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part. So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

CATCHING FIRE 

Chapter 1 ( 

I can't stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It's stupid, of course. Hardly anybody knows me better than Hazelle. Knows the bond I share with Gale. I'm sure plenty of people assumed that we'd eventually get married even if I never gave it any thought. But that was before the Games. Before my fellow tribute, Peeta Mellark, announced he was madly in love with me. Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta. I'm not sure what it was for me. But I know now it was nothing but painful for Gale. My chest tightens as I think about how, on the Victory Tour, Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again.

A little later on Chapter 1. 

He seems to remember. "Why am I all wet?" "I couldn't shake you awake," I say. "Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta." "Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there's some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. "Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch's knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It's not until he's handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. "Would you like a piece?" "No, I ate at the Hob," I say. "But thank you." My voice doesn't sound like my own, it's so formal. Just as it's been every time I've spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. "You're welcome," he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." He's right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I say is, "Take a bath, Haymitch." Then I swing out the window, drop to the ground, and head across the green to my house.

Chapter 3 

For a moment I can't quite see right because of the snow, which is now coming down in earnest. Then I make out Peeta coming through his front door. In my head I hear President Snow's directive, "Convince me." And I know I must. My face breaks into a huge smile and I start walking in Peeta's direction. Then, as if I can't stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips - he still isn't entirely in command of his artificial leg - and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that's where we have our first kiss in months. It's full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I'm not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won't expose me in front of the cameras. Won't condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He's still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way.

Okay ( I skipped over the Talk between Snow and Katniss ) Basically hes not convinced about that Katniss loves Peeta and is kinda a Di** about Katniss having the company of another guy when  Gale Literally  just surprised kissed her  Taking her By Surprise so  yeah this is what this post is below about basically 

His face sobers, grows older in the glow of the red tail-lights. "Then you can't fail." "If you could just help me get through this trip - " I begin. "No, Katniss, it's not just this trip," he says. "What do you mean?" I say. "Even if you pull it off, they'll be back in another few months to take us all to the Games. You and Peeta, you'll be mentors now, every year from here on out. And every year they'll revisit the romance and broadcast the details of your private life, and you'll never, ever be able to do anything but live happily ever after with that boy." The full impact of what he's saying hits me. I will never have a life with Gale, even if I want to. I will never be allowed to live alone. I will have to be forever in love with Peeta. The Capitol will insist on it. I'll have a few years maybe, because I'm still only sixteen, to stay with my mother and Prim. And then ... and then ... "Do you understand what I mean?" he presses me. I nod. He means there's only one future, if I want to keep those I love alive and stay alive myself. I'll have to marry Peeta.

Chapter 4 

Favourite colour 

After a while I hear footsteps behind me. It'll be Haymitch, coming to chew me out. It's not like I don't deserve it, but I still don't want to hear it. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture," I warn the clump of weeds by my shoes. "I'll try to keep it brief." Peeta takes a seat beside me. "I thought you were Haymitch," I say. "No, he's still working on that muffin." I watch as Peeta positions his artificial leg. "Bad day, huh?" "It's nothing," I say. He takes a deep breath. "Look, Katniss, I've been wanting to talk to you about the way I acted on the train. I mean, the last train. The one that brought us home. I knew you had something with Gale. I was jealous of him before I even officially met you. And it wasn't fair to hold you to anything that happened in the Games. I'm sorry." His apology takes me by surprise. It's true that Peeta froze me out after I confessed that my love for him during the Games was something of an act. But I don't hold that against him. In the arena, I'd played that romance angle for all it was worth. There had been times when I didn't honestly know how I felt about him. I still don't, really. "I'm sorry, too," I say. I'm not sure for what exactly. Maybe because there's a real chance I'm about to destroy him. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You were just keeping us alive. But I don't want us to go on like this, ignoring each other in real life and falling into the snow every time there's a camera around. So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends," he says. All my friends are probably going to end up dead, but refusing Peeta wouldn't keep him safe. "Okay," I say. His offer does make me feel better. Less duplicitous somehow. It would be nice if he'd come to me with this earlier, before I knew that President Snow had other plans and just being friends was not an option for us anymore. But either way, I'm glad we're speaking again. "So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first." "Don't be afraid to lay it on thick," Peeta tells me.

Chapter 4  * The Speeches In district 11* 

Peeta had his personal comments written on a card, but he doesn't pull it out. Instead he speaks in his simple, winning style about Thresh and Rue making it to the final eight, about how they both kept me alive - thereby keeping him alive - and about how this is a debt we can never repay. And then he hesitates before adding something that wasn't written on the card. Maybe because he thought Effie might make him remove it. "It can in no way replace your losses, but as a token of our thanks we'd like for each of the tributes' families from District Eleven to receive one month of our winnings every year for the duration of our lives." The crowd can't help but respond with gasps and murmurs. There is no precedent for what Peeta has done. I don't even know if it's legal. He probably doesn't know, either, so he didn't ask in case it isn't. As for the families, they just stare at us in shock. Their lives were changed forever when Thresh and Rue were lost, but this gift will change them again. A month of tribute winnings can easily provide for a family for a year. As long as we live, they will not hunger. I look at Peeta and he gives me a sad smile. I hear Haymitch's voice. "You could do a lot worse." At this moment, it's impossible to imagine how I could do any better. The gift ... it is perfect. So when I rise up on tiptoe to kiss him, it doesn't seem forced at all.

"Wait!" I stumble forward, pressing the plaque to my chest. My allotted time for speaking has come and gone, but I must say something. I owe too much. And even if I had pledged all my winnings to the families, it would not excuse my silence today. "Wait, please." I don't know how to start, but once I do, the words rush from my lips as if they've been forming in the back of my mind for a long time. "I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven," I say. I look at the pair of women on Thresh's side. "I only ever spoke to Thresh one time. Just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn't know him, but I always respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the Games on anyone's terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn't do it. I respected him for that." For the first time the old hunched woman - is she Thresh's grandmother? - raises her head and the trace of a smile plays on her lips. The crowd has fallen silent now, so silent that I wonder how they manage it. They must all be holding their breath. I turn to Rue's family. "But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she'll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim." My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. "Thank you for your children." I raise my chin to address the crowd. "And thank you all for the bread." I stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me. There's a long pause. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles Rue's four-note mocking-jay tune. The one that signaled the end of the workday in the orchards. The one that meant safety in the arena. By the end of the tune, I have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. His eyes meet mine. What happens next is not an accident. It is too well executed to be spontaneous, because it happens in complete unison. Every person in the crowd presses the three middle fingers of their left hand against their lips and extends them to me. It's our sign from District 12, the last good-bye I gave Rue in the arena.

Chapter 5  Katniss Tells Peeta everything  

Peeta relates all that occurred in the square. The whistle, the salute, our hesitation on the verandah, the murder of the old man. "What's going on, Haymitch?" "It will be better coming from you," Haymitch says to me. I don't agree. I think it will be a hundred times worse coming from me. But I tell Peeta everything as calmly as I can. About President Snow, the unrest in the districts. I don't even omit the kiss with Gale. I lay out how we are all in jeopardy, how the whole country is in jeopardy because of my trick with the berries. "I was supposed to fix things on this tour. Make everyone who had doubted believe I acted out of love. Calm things down. But obviously, all I've done today is. get three people killed, and now everyone in the square will be punished." I feel so sick that I have to sit down on a couch, despite the exposed springs and stuffing. "Then I made things worse, too. By giving the money," says Peeta. Suddenly he strikes out at a lamp that sits precariously on a crate and knocks it across the room, where it shatters against the floor. "This has to stop. Right now. This - this - game you two play, where you tell each other secrets but keep them from me like I'm too inconsequential or stupid or weak to handle them." "It's not like that, Peeta - " I begin. "It's exactly like that!" he yells at me. "I have people I care about, too, Katniss! Family and friends back in District Twelve who will be just as dead as yours if we don't pull this thing off. So, after all we went through in the arena, don't I even rate the truth from you?" "You're always so reliably good, Peeta," says Haymitch. "So smart about how you present yourself before the cameras. I didn't want to disrupt that." "Well, you overestimated me. Because I really screwed up today. What do you think is going to happen to Rue's and Thresh's families? Do you think they'll get their share of our winnings? Do you think I gave them a bright future? Because I think they'll be lucky if they survive the day!" Peeta sends something else flying, a statue. I've never seen him like this. "He's right, Haymitch," I say. "We were wrong not to tell him. Even back in the Capitol." "Even in the arena, you two had some sort of system worked out, didn't you?" asks Peeta. His voice is quieter now. "Something I wasn't part of." "No. Not officially. I just could tell what Haymitch wanted me to do by what he sent, or didn't send," I say. "Well, I never had that opportunity. Because he never sent me anything until you showed up," says Peeta. I haven't thought much about this. How it must have looked from Peeta's perspective when I appeared in the arena having received burn medicine and bread when he, who was at death's door, had gotten nothing. Like Haymitch was keeping me alive at his expense. "Look, boy - " Haymitch begins. "Don't bother, Haymitch. I know you had to choose one of us. And I'd have wanted it to be her. But this is something different. People are dead out there. More will follow unless we're very good. We all know I'm better than Katniss in front of the cameras. No one needs to coach me on what to say. But I have to know what I'm walking into," says Peeta. "From now on, you'll be fully informed," Haymitch promises. "I better be," says Peeta. He doesn't even bother to look at me before he leaves. The dust he disrupted billows up and looks for new places to land. My hair, my eyes, my shiny gold pin. "Did you choose me, Haymitch?" I ask. "Yeah," he says. "Why? You like him better," I say. "That's true. But remember, until they changed the rules, I could only hope to get one of you out of there alive," he says. "I thought since he was determined to protect you, well, between the three of us, we might be able to bring you home." "Oh" is all I can think to say. "You'll see, the choices you'll have to make. If we survive this," says Haymitch. "You'll learn." Well, I've learned one thing today. This place is not a larger version of District 12. Our fence is unguarded and rarely charged. Our Peacekeepers are unwelcome but less brutal. Our hardships evoke more fatigue than fury. Here in 11, they suffer more acutely and feel more desperation. President Snow is right. A spark could be enough to set them ablaze. Everything is happening too fast for me to process it. The warning, the shootings, the recognition that I may have set something of great consequence in motion. The whole thing is so improbable. And it would be one thing if I had planned to stir things up, but given the circumstances ... how on earth did I cause so much trouble? "Come on. We've got a dinner to attend," says Haymitch  

 Basically the rest of Chapter 5 

Effie arranges us in formation for our entrance. First the prep teams, then her, the stylists, Haymitch. Peeta and I, of course, bring up the rear. Somewhere below, musicians begin to play. As the first wave of our little procession begins down the steps, Peeta and I join hands. "Haymitch says I was wrong to yell at you. You were only operating under his instructions," says Peeta. "And it isn't as if I haven't kept things from you in the past." I remember the shock of hearing Peeta confess his love for me in front of all of Panem. Haymitch had known about that and not told me. "I think I broke a few things myself after that interview." "Just an urn," he says. "And your hands. There's no point to it anymore, though, is there? Not being straight with each other?" I say. "No point," says Peeta. We stand at the top of the stairs, giving Haymitch a fifteen-step lead as Effie directed. "Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?" I'm so startled I answer. "Yes." With all that has happened today, has that question actually been preying on him? "That's fifteen. Let's do it," he says. A light hits us, and I put on the most dazzling smile I can. We descend the steps and are sucked into what becomes an indistinguishable round of dinners, ceremonies, and train rides. Each day it's the same. Wake up. Get dressed. Ride through cheering crowds. Listen to a speech in our honor. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now. Sometimes a brief tour: a glimpse of the sea in one district, towering forests in another, ugly factories, fields of wheat, stinking refineries. Dress in evening clothes. Attend dinner. Train. During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone. On the train, we are quietly miserable as we try to assess what effect we might be having. Even without our personal speeches to trigger dissent - needless to say the ones we gave in District 11 were edited out before the event was broadcast - you can feel something in the air, the rolling boil of a pot about to run over. Not everywhere. Some crowds have the weary-cattle feel that I know District 12 usually projects at the victors' ceremonies. But in others - particularly 8, 4, and 3 - there is genuine elation in the faces of the people at the sight of us, and under the elation, fury. When they chant my name, it is more of a cry for vengeance than a cheer. When the Peacekeepers move in to quiet an unruly crowd, it presses back instead of retreating. And I know that there's nothing I could ever do to change this. No show of love, however believable, will turn this tide. If my holding out those berries was an act of temporary insanity, then these people will embrace insanity, too. Cinna begins to take in my clothes around the waist. The prep team frets over the circles under my eyes. Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don't work. Not well enough. I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train. When Effie brings it up to me, I think, Good. Maybe it will get back to President Snow. I tell her we'll make an effort to be more discreet, but we don't. The back-to-back appearances in 2 and 1 are their own special kind of awful. Cato and Clove, the tributes from District 2, might have both made it home if Peeta and I hadn't. I personally killed the girl, Glimmer, and the boy from District 1. As I try to avoid looking at his family, I learn that his name was Marvel. How did I never know that? I suppose that before the Games I didn't pay attention, and afterward I didn't want to know. By the time we reach the Capitol, we are desperate. We make endless appearances to adoring crowds. There is no danger of an uprising here among the privileged, among those whose names are never placed in the reaping balls, whose children never die for the supposed crimes committed generations ago. We don't need to convince anybody in the Capitol of our love but hold to the slim hope that we can still reach some of those we failed to convince in the districts. Whatever we do seems too little, too late. Back in our old quarters in the Training Center, I'm the one who suggests the public marriage proposal. Peeta agrees to do it but then disappears to his room for a long time. Haymitch tells me to leave him alone. "I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say. "Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real."

That night, on the stage before the Training Center, we bubble our way through a list of questions. Caesar Flickerman, in his twinkling midnight blue suit, his hair, eyelids, and lips still dyed powder blue, flawlessly guides us through the interview. When he asks us about the future, Peeta gets down on one knee, pours out his heart, and begs me to marry him. I, of course, accept. Caesar is beside himself, the Capitol audience is hysterical, shots of crowds around Panem show a country besotted with happiness. President Snow himself makes a surprise visit to congratulate us. He clasps Peeta's hand and gives him an approving slap on the shoulder. He embraces me, enfolding me in the smell of blood and roses, and plants a puffy kiss on my cheek. When he pulls back, his fingers digging into my arms, his face smiling into mine, I dare to raise my eyebrows. They ask what my lips can't. Did I do it? Was it enough? Was giving everything over to you, keeping up the game, promising to marry Peeta enough? In answer, he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Chapter 6    So Katniss and Peeta gave it all and Snow is still not convinced so Katniss is like screw you I’ll run away. 

Only not here, not quite yet. It's essential to get back to District 12, because the main part of any plan will include my mother and sister, Gale and his family. And Peeta, if I can get him to come with us. I add Haymitch to the list. These are the people I must take with me when I escape into the wild. How I will convince them, where we will go in the dead of winter, what it will take to evade capture are unanswered questions. But at least now I know what I must do. So instead of crumpling to the ground and weeping, I find myself standing up straighter and with more confidence than I have in weeks. My smile, while somewhat insane, is not forced. And when President Snow silences the audience and says, "What do you think about us throwing them a wedding right here in the Capitol?" I pull off girl-almost-catatonic-with-joy without a hitch. Caesar Flickerman asks if the president has a date in mind. "Oh, before we set a date, we better clear it with Katniss's mother," says the president. The audience gives a big laugh and the president puts his arm around me. "Maybe if the whole country puts its mind to it, we can get you married before you're thirty." "You'll probably have to pass a new law," I say with a giggle. "If that's what it takes," says the president with conspiratorial good humor. Oh, the fun we two have together.

Chapter 6  ( The Party of the year) 

Peeta and I make no effort to find company but are constantly sought out. We are what no one wants to miss at the party. I act delighted, but I have zero interest in these Capitol people. They are only distractions from the food.

Just then Portia appears with a large man who looks vaguely familiar. She introduces him as Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker. Plutarch asks Peeta if he can steal me for a dance. Peeta's recovered his camera face and good-naturedly passes me over, warning the man not to get too attached. I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm's length as we turn on the floor.  ( Leaving room for Jesus as they say )  

Chapter 6 On the way home 

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home.

Chapter  7  ( Basically The 

"Been hunting?" he asks. You can see he doesn't think it's a good idea. "Not really. Going to town?" I ask. "Yes. I'm supposed to eat dinner with my family," he says. "Well, I can at least walk you in." The road from the Victor's Village to the square gets little use. It's a safe enough place to talk. But I can't seem to get the words out. Proposing it to Gale was such a disaster. I gnaw on my chapped lips. The square gets closer with every step. I may not have an opportunity again soon. I take a deep breath and let the words rush out. "Peeta, if I asked you to run away from the district with me, would you?" Peeta takes my arm, bringing me to a stop. He doesn't need to check my face to see if I'm serious. "Depends on why you're asking." "President Snow wasn't convinced by me. There's an uprising in District Eight. We have to get out," I say. "By 'we' do you mean just you and me? No. Who else would be going?" he asks. "My family. Yours, if they want to come. Haymitch, maybe," I say. "What about Gale?" he says. "I don't know. He might have other plans," I say. Peeta shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile. "I bet he does. Sure, Katniss, I'll go." I feel a slight twinge of hope. "You will?" "Yeah. But I don't think for a minute you will," he says. I jerk my arm away. "Then you don't know me. Be ready. It could be any time." I take off walking and he follows a pace or two behind. "Katniss," Peeta says. I don't slow down. If he thinks it's a bad idea, I don't want to know, because it's the only one I have. "Katniss, hold up." I kick a dirty, frozen chunk of snow off the path and let him catch up. The coal dust makes everything look especially ugly. "I really will go, if you want me to. I just think we better talk it through with Haymitch. Make sure we won't be making things worse for everyone." He raises his head. "What's that?" I lift my chin. I've been so consumed with my own worries, I haven't noticed the strange noise coming from the square. A whistling, the sound of an impact, the intake of breath from a crowd. "Come on," Peeta says, his face suddenly hard. I don't know why. I can't place the sound, even guess at the situation. But it means something bad to him. When we reach the square, it's clear something's happening, but the crowd's too thick to see. Peeta steps up on a crate against the wall of the sweetshop and offers me a hand while he scans the square. I'm halfway up when he suddenly blocks my way. "Get down. Get out of here!" He's whispering, but his voice is harsh with insistence. "What?" I say, trying to force my way back up. "Go home, Katniss! I'll be there in a minute, I swear!" he says. Whatever it is, it's terrible. I yank away from his hand and begin to push my way through the crowd. People see me, recognize my face, and then look panicked. Hands shove me back. Voices hiss. 

  Chapter 9  * After Gales Whipping* The next day.

Someone gives my shoulder a shake and I sit up. I've fallen asleep with my face on the table. The white cloth has left creases on my good cheek. The other, the one that took the lash from Thread, throbs painfully. Gale's dead to the world, but his fingers are locked around mine. I smell fresh bread and turn my stiff neck to find Peeta looking down at me with such a sad expression. I get the sense that he's been watching us awhile. "Go on up to bed, Katniss. I'll look after him now," he says. "Peeta. About what I said yesterday, about running - " I begin. "I know," he says. "There's nothing to explain." I see the loaves of bread on the counter in the pale, snowy morning light. The blue shadows under his eyes. I wonder if he slept at all. Couldn't have been long. I think of his agreeing to go with me yesterday, his stepping up beside me to protect Gale, his willingness to throw his lot in with mine entirely when I give him so little in return. No matter what I do, I'm hurting someone. "Peeta - " "Just go to bed, okay?" he says. 

  Chapter 9    Basically 

"I've heard worse," she says. "You've seen how people are, when someone they love is in pain." Someone they love. The words numb my tongue as if it's been packed in snow coat. Of course, I love Gale. But what kind of love does she mean? What do I mean when I say I love Gale? I don't know. I did kiss him last night, in a moment when my emotions were running so high. But I'm sure he doesn't remember it. Does he? I hope not. If he does, everything will just get more complicated and I really can't think about kissing when I've got a rebellion to incite. I give my head a little shake to clear it. "Where's Peeta?" I say. "He went home when we heard you stirring. Didn't want to leave his house unattended during the storm," says my mother. "Did he get back all right?" I ask. In a blizzard, you can get lost in a matter of yards and wander off course into oblivion. "Why don't you give him a call and check?" she says. I go into the study, a room I've pretty much avoided since my meeting with President Snow, and dial Peeta's number. After a few rings he answers. "Hey. I just wanted to make sure you got home," I say. "Katniss, I live three houses away from you," he says. "I know, but with the weather and all," I say. "Well, I'm fine. Thank you for checking." There's a long pause. "How's Gale?" "All right. My mother and Prim are giving him snow coat now," I say. "And your face?" he asks. "I've got some, too," I say. "Have you seen Haymitch today?" "I checked in on him. Dead drunk. But I built up his fire and left him some bread," he says. "I wanted to talk to - to both of you." I don't dare add more, here on my phone, which is surely tapped. "Probably have to wait until after the weather calms down," he says. "Nothing much will happen before that, anyway." "No, nothing much," I agree. It takes two days for the storm to blow itself out, leaving us with drifts higher than my head. Another day before the path is cleared from the Victor's Village to the square. During this time I help tend to Gale, apply snow coat to my cheek, try to remember everything I can about the uprising in District 8, in case it will help us. The swelling in my face goes down, leaving me with an itchy, healing wound and a very black eye. But still, the first chance I get, I call Peeta to see if he wants to go into town with me.

Chapter 9 Katniss and Peeta realize People fear them and the Peacekeepers too 

Nothing much will happen during the blizzard. That's what Peeta and I had agreed. But we couldn't have been more wrong. The square has been transformed. A huge banner with the seal of Panem hangs off the roof of the Justice Building. Peacekeepers, in pristine white uniforms, march on the cleanly swept cobblestones. Along the rooftops, more of them occupy nests of machine guns. Most unnerving is a line of new constructions - an official whipping post, several stockades, and a gallows - set up in the center of the square. "Thread's a quick worker," says Haymitch. Some streets away from the square, I see a blaze flare up. None of us has to say it. That can only be the Hob going up in smoke. I think of Greasy Sae, Ripper, all my friends who make their living there. "Haymitch, you don't think everyone was still in- - " I can't finish the sentence. "Nah, they're smarter than that. You'd be, too, if you'd been around longer," he says. "Well, I better go see how much rubbing alcohol the apothecary can spare." He trudges off across the square and I look at Peeta. "What's he want that for?" Then I realize the answer. "We can't let him drink it. He'll kill himself, or at the very least go blind. I've got some white liquor put away at home." "Me, too. Maybe that will hold him until Ripper finds a way to be back in business," says Peeta. "I need to check on my family." "I have to go see Hazelle." I'm worried now. I thought she'd be on our doorstep the moment the snow was cleared. But there's been no sign of her. "I'll go, too. Drop by the bakery on my way home," he says. "Thanks." I'm suddenly very scared at what I might find. The streets are almost deserted, which would not be so unusual at this time of day if people were at the mines, kids at school. But they're not. I see faces peeking at us out of doorways, through cracks in shutters. An uprising, I think. What an idiot I am. There's an inherent flaw in the plan that both Gale and I were too blind to see. An uprising requires breaking the law, thwarting authority. We've done that our whole lives, or our families have. Poaching, trading on the black market, mocking the Capitol in the woods. But for most people in District 12, a trip to buy something at the Hob would be too risky. And I expect them to assemble in the square with bricks and torches? Even the sight of Peeta and me is enough to make people pull their children away from the windows and draw the curtains tightly. We find Hazelle in her house, nursing a very sick Posy. I recognize the measles spots. "I couldn't leave her," she says. "I knew Gale'd be in the best possible hands." "Of course," I say. "He's much better. My mother says he'll be back in the mines in a couple of weeks." "May not be open until then, anyway," says Hazelle. "Word is they're closed until further notice." She gives a nervous glance at her empty washtub. "You closed down, too?" I ask. "Not officially," says Hazelle. "But everyone's afraid to use me now." "Maybe it's the snow," says Peeta. "No, Rory made a quick round this morning. Nothing to wash, apparently," she says. Rory wraps his arms around Hazelle. "We'll be all right." I take a handful of money from my pocket and lay it on the table. "My mother will send something for Posy." When we're outside, I turn to Peeta. "You go on back. I want to walk by the Hob." "I'll go with you," he says. "No. I've dragged you into enough trouble," I tell him. "And avoiding a stroll by the Hob ... that's going to fix things for me?" He smiles and takes my hand. Together we wind through the streets of the Seam until we reach the burning building. They haven't even bothered to leave Peacekeepers around it. They know no one would try to save it. The heat from the flames melts the surrounding snow and a black trickle runs across my shoes. "It's all that coal dust, from the old days," I say. It was in every crack and crevice. Ground into the floorboards. It's amazing the place didn't go up before. "I want to check on Greasy Sae." "Not today, Katniss. I don't think we'd be helping anyone by dropping in on them," he says. We go back to the square. I buy some cakes from Peeta's father while they exchange small talk about the weather. No one mentions the ugly tools of torture just yards from the front door. The last thing I notice as we leave the square is that I do not recognize even one of the Peacekeepers' faces.

Chaper 11  Katniss comes home to a surprise I freaking love this part 

By the time I reach my house, my left heel will bear no weight at all. I decide to tell my mother I was trying to mend a leak in the roof of our old house and slid off. As for the missing food, I'll just be vague about who I handed it out to. I drag myself in the door, all ready to collapse in front of the fire. But instead I get another shock. Two Peacekeepers, a man and a woman, are standing in the doorway to our kitchen. The woman remains impassive, but I catch the flicker of surprise on the man's face. I am unanticipated. They know I was in the woods and should be trapped there now. "Hello," I say in a neutral voice. My mother appears behind them, but keeps her distance. "Here she is, just in time for dinner," she says a little too brightly. I'm very late for dinner. I consider removing my boots as I normally would but doubt I can manage it without revealing my injuries. Instead I just pull off my wet hood and shake the snow from my hair. "Can I help you with something?" I ask the Peacekeepers. "Head Peacekeeper Thread sent us with a message for you," says the woman. "They've been waiting for hours," my mother adds. They've been waiting for me to fail to return. To confirm I got electrocuted by the fence or trapped in the woods so they could take my family in for questioning. "Must be an important message," I say. "May we ask where you've been, Miss Everdeen?" the woman asks. "Easier to ask where I haven't been," I say with a sound of exasperation. I cross into the kitchen, forcing myself to use my foot normally even though every step is excruciating. I pass between the Peacekeepers and make it to the table all right. I fling my bag down and turn to Prim, who's standing stiffly by the hearth. Haymitch and Peeta are there as well, sitting in a pair of matching rockers, playing a game of chess. Were they here by chance or "invited" by the Peacekeepers? Either way, I'm glad to see them. "So where haven't you been?" says Haymitch in a bored voice. "Well, I haven't been talking to the Goat Man about getting Prim's goat pregnant, because someone gave me completely inaccurate information as to where he lives," I say to Prim emphatically. "No, I didn't," says Prim. "I told you exactly." "You said he lives beside the west entrance to the mine," I say. "The east entrance," Prim corrects me. "You distinctly said the west, because then I said, 'Next to the slag heap?' and you said, 'Yeah,'" I say. "The slag heap next to the east entrance," says Prim patiently. "No. When did you say that?" I demand. "Last night," Haymitch chimes in. "It was definitely the east," adds Peeta. He looks at Haymitch and they laugh. I glare at Peeta and he tries to look contrite. "I'm sorry, but it's what I've been saying. You don't listen when people talk to you." "Bet people told you he didn't live there today and you didn't listen again," says Haymitch. "Shut up, Haymitch," I say, clearly indicating he's right. Haymitch and Peeta crack up and Prim allows herself a smile. "Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up," I say, which makes them laugh more. And I think, This is why they've made it this far, Haymitch and Peeta. Nothing throws them. I look at the Peacekeepers. The man's smiling but the woman is unconvinced. "What's in the bag?" she asks sharply.

I know she's hoping for game or wild plants. Something that clearly condemns me. I dump the contents on the table. "See for yourself."

"Oh, good," says my mother, examining the cloth. "We're running low on bandages."

Peeta comes to the table and opens the candy bag. "Ooh, peppermints," he says, popping one in his mouth.

"They're mine." I take a swipe for the bag. He tosses it to Haymitch, who stuffs a fistful of sweets in his mouth before passing the bag to a giggling Prim. "None of you deserves candy!" I say.

"What, because we're right?" Peeta wraps his arms around me. I give a small yelp of pain as my tailbone objects. I try to turn it into a sound of indignation, but I can see in his eyes that he knows I'm hurt. "Okay, Prim said west. I distinctly heard west. And we're all idiots. How's that?"

"Better," I say, and accept his kiss. Then I look at the Peacekeepers as if I'm suddenly remembering they're there. "You have a message for me?"

"From Head Peacekeeper Thread," says the woman. "He wanted you to know that the fence surrounding District Twelve will now have electricity twenty-four hours a day."

"Didn't it already?" I ask, a little too innocently.

"He thought you might be interested in passing this information on to your cousin," says the woman.

"Thank you. I'll tell him. I'm sure we'll all sleep a little more soundly now that security has addressed that lapse." I'm pushing things, I know it, but the comment gives me a sense of satisfaction.

The woman's jaw tightens. None of this has gone as planned, but she has no further orders. She gives me a curt nod and leaves, the man trailing in her wake. When my mother has locked the door behind them, I slump against the table.

Chapter 11  They all know Katniss is hurt and Peeta is literally the sweetest human out there

"What is it?" says Peeta, holding me steadily. "Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tail-bone's had a bad day, too." He helps me over to one of the rockers and I lower myself onto the padded cushion. My mother eases off my boots. "What happened?" "I slipped and fell," I say. Four pairs of eyes look at me with disbelief. "On some ice." But we all know the house must be bugged and it's not safe to talk openly. Not here, not now. Having stripped off my sock, my mother's fingers probe the bones in my left heel and I wince. "There might be a break," she says. She checks the other foot. "This one seems all right." She judges my tailbone to be badly bruised. Prim's dispatched to get my pajamas and robe. When I'm changed, my mother makes a snow pack for my left heel and props it up on a hassock. I eat three bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread while the others dine at the table. I stare at the fire, thinking of Bonnie and Twill, hoping that the heavy, wet snow has erased my tracks. Prim comes and sits on the floor next to me, leaning her head against my knee. We suck on peppermints as I brush her soft blond hair back behind her ear. "How was school?" I ask. "All right. We learned about coal by-products," she says. We stare at the fire for a while. "Are you going to try on your wedding dresses?" "Not tonight. Tomorrow probably," I say. "Wait until I get home, okay?" she says. "Sure." If they don't arrest me first. My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I'm so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs. He tucks me in and says good night but I catch his hand and hold him there. A side effect of the sleep syrup is that it makes people less inhibited, like white liquor, and I know I have to control my tongue. But I don't want him to go. In fact, I want him to climb in with me, to be there when the nightmares hit tonight. For some reason that I can't quite form, I know I'm not allowed to ask that. "Don't go yet. Not until I fall asleep," I say. Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. "Almost thought you'd changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner." I'm foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I'd made a run for it, maybe with Gale. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

I'm further reassured when Peeta casually tells me the power is off in sections of the fence because crews are out securing the base of the chain link to the ground. Thread must believe I somehow got under the thing, even with that deadly current running through it. It's a break for the district, having the Peacekeepers busy doing something besides abusing people. Peeta comes by every day to bring me cheese buns and begins to help me work on the family book. It's an old thing, made of parchment and leather. Some herbalist on my mother's side of the family started it ages ago. The book's composed of page after page of ink drawings of plants with descriptions of their medical uses. My father added a section on edible plants that was my guidebook to keeping us alive after his death. For a long time, I've wanted to record my own knowledge in it. Things I learned from experience or from Gale, and then the information I picked up when I was training for the Games. I didn't because I'm no artist and it's so crucial that the pictures are drawn in exact detail. That's where Peeta comes in. Some of the plants he knows already, others we have dried samples of, and others I have to describe. He makes sketches on scrap paper until I'm satisfied they're right, then I let him draw them in the book. After that, I carefully print all I know about the plant. It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off my troubles. I like to watch his hands as he works, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to our previously black and yellowish book. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the Peacekeepers' guns away from me in District 11. I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks. One afternoon Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. But he only says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together." "Yeah," I agree. Our whole relationship has been tainted by the Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change." Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television. Usually we only watch when it's mandatory, because the mixture of propaganda and displays of the Capitol's power - including clips from seventy-four years of Hunger Games - is so odious. But now I'm looking for something special. The mockingjay that Bonnie and Twill are basing all their hopes on. I know it's probably foolishness, but if it is, I want to rule it out. And erase the idea of a thriving District 13 from my mind for good.

Chapter 12 

Staying quietly in bed is harder after that. I want to be doing something, finding out more about District 13 or helping in the cause to bring down the Capitol. Instead I sit around stuffing myself with cheese buns and watching Peeta sketch. Haymitch stops by occasionally to bring me news from town, which is always bad. More people being punished or dropping from starvation.

Chapter 13

"Thanks," I say. I should go see Peeta now, but I don't want to. My head's spinning from the drink, and I'm so wiped out, who knows what he could get me to agree to? No, now I have to go home to face my mother and Prim. As I stagger up the steps to my house, the front door opens and Gale pulls me into his arms. "I was wrong. We should have gone when you said," he whispers. "No," I say. I'm having trouble focusing, and liquor keeps sloshing out of my bottle and down the back of Gale's jacket, but he doesn't seem to care. "It's not too late," he says. Over his shoulder, I see my mother and Prim clutching each other in the doorway. We run. They die. And now I've got Peeta to protect. End of discussion. "Yeah, it is." My knees give way and he's holding me up. As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I hear the glass bottle shatter on the floor. This seems appropriate since I have obviously lost my grip on everything.

Chapter 14  ( Basically they Start training like Caeers the way it’s writen the song  Under pressure would  fit well so Now they are  on there way to the games again) Also sobering Haymitch up...    ( And Peeta has been the drill sargent )  In this part he has a change of heart.

So I go to bed and, sure enough, within a few hours I awake from a nightmare where that old woman from District 4 transforms into a large rodent and gnaws on my face. I know I was screaming, but no one comes. Not Peeta, not even one of the Capitol attendants. I pull on a robe to try to calm the gooseflesh crawling over my body. Staying in my compartment is impossible, so I decide to go find someone to make me tea or hot chocolate or anything. Maybe Haymitch is still up. Surely he isn't asleep. I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor. Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me. "Couldn't sleep?" "Not for long," I say. I pull the robe more securely around me as I remember the old woman transforming into the rodent. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head, feeling weak that people I haven't even fought yet already haunt me. When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them. It's the first time since they announced the Quarter Quell that he's offered me any sort of affection. He's been more like a very demanding trainer, always pushing, always insisting Haymitch and I run faster, eat more, know our enemy better. Lover? Forget about that. He abandoned any pretense of even being my friend. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck before he can order me to do push-ups or something. Instead he pulls me in close and buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me. It feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? I have said good-bye to Gale. I'll never see him again, that's for certain. Nothing I do now can hurt him. He won't see it or he'll think I am acting for the cameras. That, at least, is one weight off my shoulders. The arrival of the Capitol attendant with the warm milk is what breaks us apart. He sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table. "I brought an extra cup," he says. "Thanks," I say. "And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room. "What's with him?" I say. "I think he feels bad for us," says Peeta. "Right," I say, pouring the milk. "I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions." "I'm guessing they'll get over it once the blood starts flowing," I say flatly. Really, if there's one thing I don't have time for, it's worrying about how the Quarter Quell will affect the mood in the Capitol. "So, you're watching all the tapes again?"

Chapter  14  They decide to watch Haymitch’s Games  ( Okay call me mean I am skipping over Haymitch’s Games because this would be extra long) 

"It's the only Quell we have. We might pick up something valuable about how they work," I say. But I feel weird. It seems like some major invasion of Haymitch's privacy. I don't know why it should, since the whole thing was public. But it does. I have to admit I'm also extremely curious. "We don't have to tell Haymitch we saw it." "Okay," Peeta agrees. He puts in the tape and I curl up next to him on the couch with my milk, which is really delicious with the honey and spices, and lose myself in the Fiftieth Hunger Games. After the anthem, they show President Snow drawing the envelope for the second Quarter Quell. He looks younger but just as repellent. He reads from the square of paper in the same onerous voice he used for ours, informing Panem that in honor of the Quarter Quell, there will be twice the number of tributes. The editors smash cut right into the reapings, where name after name after name is called.  

Peeta clicks off the tape and we sit there in silence for a while. Finally Peeta says, "That force field at the bottom of the cliff, it was like the one on the roof of the Training Center. The one that throws you back if you try to jump off and commit suicide. Haymitch found a way to turn it into a weapon." "Not just against the other tributes, but the Capitol, too," I say. "You know they didn't expect that to happen. It wasn't meant to be part of the arena. They never planned on anyone using it as a weapon. It made them look stupid that he figured it out. I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one. Bet that's why I don't remember seeing it on television. It's almost as bad as us and the berries!" I can't help laughing, really laughing, for the first time in months. Peeta just shakes his head like I've lost my mind - and maybe I have, a little. "Almost, but not quite," says Haymitch from behind us. I whip around, afraid he's going to be angry over us watching his tape, but he just smirks and takes a swig from a bottle of wine. So much for sobriety. I guess I should be upset he's drinking again, but I'm preoccupied with another feeling. I've spent all these weeks getting to know who my competitors are, without even thinking about who my teammates are. Now a new kind of confidence is lighting up inside of me, because I think I finally know who Haymitch is. And I'm beginning to know who I am. And surely, two people who have caused the Capitol so much trouble can think of a way to get Peeta home alive.

Chapter  15  

It's interesting, though, when I think of what Peeta said about the attendant on the train being unhappy about the victors having to fight again. About people in the Capitol not liking it. I still think all of that will be forgotten once the gong sounds, but it's something of a revelation that those in the Capitol feel anything at all about us. They certainly don't have a problem watching children murdered every year. But maybe they know too much about the victors, especially the ones who've been celebrities for ages, to forget we're human beings. It's more like watching your own friends die. More like the Games are for those of us in the districts.

For some stupid reason, I blush, but I force myself to hold my ground. "No, I'm an open book," I whisper back. "Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself." He smiles. "Unfortunately, I think that's true." His eyes flicker off to the side. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." He tosses another sugar cube in his mouth and saunters off. Peeta's beside me, dressed in an outfit identical to mine. "What did Finnick Odair want?" he asks. I turn and put my lips close to Peeta's and drop my eyelids in imitation of Finnick. "He offered me sugar and wanted to know all my secrets," I say in my best seductive voice.

Peeta laughs. "Ugh. Not really."

"Really," I say. "I'll tell you more when my skin stops crawling."

"Do you think we'd have ended up like this if only one of us had won?" he asks, glancing around at the other victors. "Just another part of the freak show?"

"Sure. Especially you," I say.

"Oh. And why especially me?" he says with a smile.

"Because you have a weakness for beautiful things and I don't," I say with an air of superiority. "They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you'd be lost entirely."

"Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness," Peeta points out. "Except possibly when it comes to you." The music is beginning and I see the wide doors opening for the first chariot, hear the roar of the crowd. "Shall we?" He holds out a hand to help me into the chariot.

I climb up and pull him up after me. "Hold still," I say, and straighten his crown. "Have you seen your suit turned on? We're going to be fabulous again."

"Absolutely. But Portia says we're to be very above it all. No waving or anything," he says. "Where are they, anyway?"

"I don't know." I eye the procession of chariots. "Maybe we better go ahead and switch ourselves on." We do, and as we begin to glow, I can see people pointing at us and chattering, and I know that, once again, we'll be the talk of the opening ceremonies. We're almost at the door. I crane my head around, but neither Portia nor Cinna, who were with us right up to the final second last year, are anywhere in sight. "Are we supposed to hold hands this year?" I ask.

"I guess they've left it up to us," says Peeta.

I look up into those blue eyes that no amount of dramatic makeup can make truly deadly and remember how, just a year ago, I was prepared to kill him. Convinced he was trying to kill me. Now everything is reversed. I'm determined to keep him alive, knowing the cost will be my own life, but the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it's Peeta, not Haymitch, beside me. Our hands find each other without further discussion. Of course we will go into this as one.

The voice of the crowd rises into one universal scream as we roll into the fading evening light, but neither one of us reacts. I simply fix my eyes on a point far in the distance and pretend there is no audience, no hysteria. I can't help catching glimpses of us on the huge screens along the route, and we are not just beautiful, we are dark and powerful. No, more. We star-crossed lovers from District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek the fans' favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses. We are unforgiving.

And I love it. Getting to be myself at last. 

Chapter 16

"What are you so angry about?" Peeta asks, wiping the gravy from his shirtfront. "Because I teased you on the elevator? I'm sorry. I thought you would just laugh about it." "Forget it," I say with a shake of my head. "It's a lot of things." "Darius," he says. "Darius. The Games. Haymitch making us team up with the others," I say. "It can just be you and me, you know," he says. "I know. But maybe Haymitch is right," I say. "Don't tell him I said so, but he usually is, where the Games are concerned." "Well, you can have final say about our allies. But right now, I'm leaning toward Chaff and Seeder," says Peeta. "I'm okay with Seeder, not Chaff," I say. "Not yet, anyway." "Come on and eat with him. I promise, I won't let him kiss you again," says Peeta.

After training, Peeta and I hang out, waiting for Haymitch and Effie to show up for dinner. When we're called to eat, Haymitch pounces on me immediately. "So at least half the victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally. I know it can't be your sunny personality." "They saw her shoot," says Peeta with a smile. "Actually, I saw her shoot, for real, for the first time. I'm about to put in a formal request myself." "You're that good?" Haymitch asks me. "So good that Brutus wants you?" I shrug. "But I don't want Brutus. I want Mags and District Three." "Of course you do." Haymitch sighs and orders a bottle of wine. "I'll tell everybody you're still making up your mind." After my shooting exhibition, I still get teased some, but I no longer feel like I'm being mocked. In fact, I feel as if I've somehow been initiated into the victors' circle. During the next two days, I spend time with almost everybody headed for the arena. Even the morphlings, who, with Peeta's help, paint me into a field of yellow flowers. Even Finnick, who gives me an hour of trident lessons in exchange for an hour of archery instruction. And the more I come to know these people, the worse it is. Because, on the whole, I don't hate them. And some I like. And a lot of them are so damaged that my natural instinct would be to protect them. But all of them must die if I'm to save Peeta.  

Chapter 17   Okay short form prior they admitted in there  seassons what they did and Kinda forbidden stuff. Now Haymitch has to do DAMAGE Control. 

"No, but there's a first time for everything," Cinna answers. And it turns out he's right. Because when Peeta and I each pull a twelve, we make Hunger Games history. No one feels like celebrating, though. "Why did they do that?" I ask. "So that the others will have no choice but to target you," says Haymitch flatly. "Go to bed. I can't stand to look at either one of you." Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say good night, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair. "I'm sorry if I made things worse," I say. "No worse than I did. Why did you do it, anyway?" he says. "I don't know. To show them that I'm more than just a piece in their Games?" I say. He laughs a little, no doubt remembering the night before the Games last year. We were on the roof, neither of us able to sleep. Peeta had said something of the sort then, but I hadn't understood what he meant. Now I do. "Me, too," he tells me. "And I'm not saying I'm not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But if I'm perfectly honest about it ..." "If you're perfectly honest about it, you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena anyway," I say. "It's crossed my mind," says Peeta. It's crossed my mind, too. Repeatedly. But while I know I'll never leave that arena alive, I'm still holding on to the hope that Peeta will. After all, he didn't pull out those berries, I did. No one has ever doubted that Peeta's defiance was motivated by love. So maybe President Snow will prefer keeping him alive, crushed and heartbroken, as a living warning to others. "But even if that happens, everyone will know we've gone out fighting, right?" Peeta asks. "Everyone will," I reply. And for the first time, I distance myself from the personal tragedy that has consumed me since they announced the Quell. I remember the old man they shot in District 11, and Bonnie and Twill, and the rumored uprisings. Yes, everyone in the districts will be watching me to see how I handle this death sentence, this final act of President Snow's dominance. They will be looking for some sign that their battles have not been in vain. If I can make it clear that I'm still defying the Capitol right up to the end, the Capitol will have killed me ... but not my spirit. What better way to give hope to the rebels? The beauty of this idea is that my decision to keep Peeta alive at the expense of my own life is itself an act of defiance. A refusal to play the Hunger Games by the Capitol's rules. My private agenda dovetails completely with my public one. And if I really could save Peeta ... in terms of a revolution, this would be ideal. Because I will be more valuable dead. They can turn me into some kind of martyr for the cause and paint my face on banners, and it will do more to rally people than anything I could do if I was living. But Peeta would be more valuable alive, and tragic, because he will be able to turn his pain into words that will transform people. Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?"

"I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies.

"Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.

It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows.

"No nightmares," he says.

"No nightmares," I confirm. "You?"

"None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.

We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled.

"Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves."

"It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully.

"Who says we can't?" he asks.

The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.

No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask.

"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.

Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."

I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?"

"I'll allow it," I say.

His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says.

"Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.

We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us.

"I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.

We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.

The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

Peeta has to return to his room for prep, and I'm left alone with Venia and Flavius. The usual chatter has been suspended. In fact, there's little talk at all, other than to have me raise my chin or comment on a makeup technique. It's nearly lunch when I feel something dripping on my shoulder and turn to find Flavius, who's snipping away at my hair with silent tears running down his face. Venia gives him a look, and he gently sets the scissors on the table and leaves.

Katniss talking about the toasting 

Back home everything is so much simpler. A woman usually rents a white dress that's been worn hundreds of times. The man wears something clean that's not mining clothes. They fill out some forms at the Justice Building and are assigned a house. Family and friends gather for a meal or bit of cake, if it can be afforded. Even if it can't, there's always a traditional song we sing as the new couple crosses the threshold of their home. And we have our own little ceremony, where they make their first fire, toast a bit of bread, and share it. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but no one really feels married in District 12 until after the toasting.

Chapter 17 Katnisses Interview 

By the time I'm introduced, the audience is an absolute wreck. People have been weeping and collapsing and even calling for change. The sight of me in my white silk bridal gown practically causes a riot. No more me, no more star-crossed lovers living happily ever after, no more wedding. I can see even Caesar's professionalism showing some cracks as he tries to quiet them so I can speak, but my three minutes are ticking quickly away. Finally there's a lull and he gets out, "So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?" My voice trembles as I speak. "Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding ... but I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just ... the most beautiful thing?" I don't have to look at Cinna for a signal. I know this is the right time. I begin to twirl slowly, raising the sleeves of my heavy gown above my head. When I hear the screams of the crowd, I think it's because I must look stunning. Then I notice something is rising up around me. Smoke. From fire. Not the flickery stuff I wore last year in the chariot, but something much more real that devours my dress. I begin to panic as the smoke thickens. Charred bits of black silk swirl into the air, and pearls clatter to the stage. Somehow I'm afraid to stop because my flesh doesn't seem to be burning and I know Cinna must be behind whatever is happening. So I keep spinning and spinning. For a split second I'm gasping, completely engulfed in the strange flames. Then all at once, the fire is gone. I slowly come to a stop, wondering if I'm naked and why Cinna has arranged to burn away my wedding dress. But I'm not naked. I'm in a dress of the exact design of my wedding dress, only it's the color of coal and made of tiny feathers. Wonderingly, I lift my long, flowing sleeves into the air, and that's when I see myself on the television screen. Clothed in black except for the white patches on my sleeves. Or should I say my wings. Because Cinna has turned me into a mockingjay.

Chapter 18 

I'm still smoldering a little, so it's with a tentative hand that Caesar reaches out to touch my headpiece. The white has burned away, leaving a smooth, fitted veil of black that drapes into the neckline of the dress in the back. "Feathers," says Caesar. "You're like a bird." "A mockingjay, I think," I say, giving my wings a small flap. "It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token." A shadow of recognition flickers across Caesar's face, and I can tell he knows that the mockingjay isn't just my token. That it's come to symbolize so much more. That what will be seen as a flashy costume change in the Capitol is resonating in an entirely different way throughout the districts. But he makes the best of it. "Well, hats off to your stylist. I don't think anyone can argue that that's not the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview. Cinna, I think you better take a bow!" Caesar gestures for Cinna to rise. He does, and makes a small, gracious bow. And suddenly I am so afraid for him. What has he done? Something terribly dangerous. An act of rebellion in itself. And he's done it for me. I remember his words ... "Don't worry. I always channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself." ... and I'm afraid he has hurt himself beyond repair. The significance of my fiery transformation will not be lost on President Snow. The audience, who's been stunned into silence, breaks into wild applause. I can barely hear the buzzer that indicates that my three minutes are up. Caesar thanks me and I go back to my seat, my dress now feeling lighter than air.

Chapter 18 Peeta’s interview 

As I pass Peeta, who's headed for his interview, he doesn't meet my eyes. I take my seat carefully, but aside from the puffs of smoke here and there, I seem unharmed, so I turn my attention to him. Caesar and Peeta have been a natural team since they first appeared together a year ago. Their easy give-and-take, comic timing, and ability to segue into heart-wrenching moments, like Peeta's confession of love for me, have made them a huge success with the audience. They effortlessly open with a few jokes about fires and feathers and overcooking poultry. But anyone can see that Peeta is preoccupied, so Caesar directs the conversation right into the subject that's on everyone's minds. "So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you've been through, you found out about the Quell?" asks Caesar. "I was in shock. I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and the next ..." Peeta trails off. "You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" asks Caesar gently. Peeta pauses for a long moment, as if deciding something. He looks out at the spellbound audience, then at tin floor, then finally up at Caesar. "Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?" An uncomfortable laugh emanates from the audience. What can he mean? Keep a secret from who? Our whole world is watching. "I feel quite certain of it," says Caesar. "We're already married," says Peeta quietly. The crowd reacts in astonishment, and I have to bury my face in the folds of my skirt so they can't see my confusion. Where on earth is he going with this? "But ... how can that be?" asks Caesar. "Oh, it's not an official marriage. We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District Twelve. I don't know what it's like in the other districts. But there's this thing we do," says Peeta, and he briefly describes the toasting. "Were your families there?" asks Caesar. "No, we didn't tell anyone. Not even Haymitch. And Katniss's mother would never have approved. But you see, we knew if we were married in the Capitol, there wouldn't be a toasting. And neither of us really wanted to wait any longer. So one day, we just did it," Peeta says. "And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us." "So this was before the Quell?" says Caesar. "Of course before the Quell. I'm sure we'd never have done it after we knew," says Peeta, starting to get upset. "But who could've seen it coming? No one. We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere - I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that?" "You couldn't, Peeta." Caesar puts an arm around his shoulders. "As you say, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together." Enormous applause. As if encouraged, I look up from my feathers and let the audience see my tragic smile of thanks. The residual smoke from the feathers has made my eyes teary, which adds a very nice touch. "I'm not glad," says Peeta. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially." This takes even Caesar aback. "Surely even a brief time is better than no time?" "Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar," says Peeta bitterly, "if it weren't for the baby." There. He's done it again. Dropped a bomb that wipes out the efforts of every tribute who came before him. Well, maybe not. Maybe this year he has only lit the fuse on a bomb that the victors themselves have been building. Hoping someone would be able to detonate it. Perhaps thinking it would be me in my bridal gown. Not knowing how much I rely on Cinna's talents, whereas Peeta needs nothing more than his wits. As the bomb explodes, it sends accusations of injustice and barbarism and cruelty flying out in every direction. Even the most Capitol-loving, Games-hungry, bloodthirsty person out there can't ignore, at least for a moment, how horrific the whole thing is. I am pregnant. The audience can't absorb the news right away. It has to strike them and sink in and be confirmed by other voices before they begin to sound like a herd of wounded animals, moaning, shrieking, calling for help. And me? I know my face is projected in a tight close-up on the screen, but I don't make any effort to hide it. Because for a moment, even I am working through what Peeta has said. Isn't it the thing I dreaded most about the wedding, about the future - the loss of my children to the Games? And it could be true now, couldn't it? If I hadn't spent my life building up layers of defenses until I recoil at even the suggestion of marriage or a family? Caesar can't rein in the crowd again, not even when the buzzer sounds. Peeta nods his good-bye and comes back to his seat without any more conversation. I can see Caesar's lips moving, but the place is in total chaos and I can't hear a word. Only the blast of the anthem, cranked up so loud I can feel it vibrating through my bones, lets us know where we stand in the program. I automatically rise and, as I do, I sense Peeta reaching out for me. Tears run down his face as I take his hand. How real are the tears? Is this an acknowledgment that he has been stalked by the same fears that I have? That every victor has? Every parent in every district in Panem? I look back to the crowd, but the faces of Rue's mother and father swim before my eyes. Their sorrow. Their loss. I turn spontaneously to Chaff and offer my hand. I feel my fingers close around the stump that now completes his arm and hold fast. And then it happens. Up and down the row, the victors begin to join hands. Some right away, like the morphlings, or Wiress and Beetee. Others unsure but caught up in the demands of those around them, like Brutus and Enobaria. By the time the anthem plays its final strains, all twenty-four of us stand in one unbroken line in what must be the first public show of unity among the districts since the Dark Days. You can see the realization of this as the screens begin to pop into blackness. It's too late, though. In the confusion they didn't cut us off in time. Everyone has seen.

The moment we step off the elevator, Peeta grips my shoulders. "There isn't much time, so tell me. Is there anything I have to apologize for?"

"Nothing," I say. It was a big leap to take without my okay, but I'm just as glad I didn't know, didn't have time to second-guess him, to let any guilt over Gale detract from how I really feel about what Peeta did. Which is empowered.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest. Cinna and Portia arrive with the dawn, and I know Peeta will have to go. Tributes enter the arena alone. He gives me a light kiss. "See you soon," he says. "See you soon," I answer. Chapter  19 

Finnick has reached Peeta now and is towing him back, one arm across his chest while the other propels them through the water with easy strokes. Peeta rides along without resisting. I don't know what Finnick said or did that convinced him to put his life in his hands - showed him the bangle, maybe. Or just the sight of me waiting might have been enough. When they reach the sand, I help haul Peeta up onto dry land.

"Hello, again," he says, and gives me a kiss. "We've got allies."

"Yes. Just as Haymitch intended," I answer. "Remind me, did we make deals with anyone else?" Peeta asks.

"Only Mags, I think," I say. I nod toward the old woman doggedly making her way toward us.

"Well, I can't leave Mags behind," says Finnick. "She's one of the few people who actually likes me."

Chapter 19 and 20 

But there is no other side. I know this before anyone else, even though I am farthest from the top. My eyes catch on a funny, rippling square hanging like a warped pane of glass in the air. At first I think it's the glare from the sun or the heat shimmering up off the ground. But it's fixed in space, not shifting when I move. And that's when I connect the square with Wiress and Beetee in the Training Center and realize what lies before us. My warning cry is just reaching my lips when Peeta's knife swings out to slash away some vines. There's a sharp zapping sound. For an instant, the trees are gone and I see open space over a short stretch of bare earth. Then Peeta's flung back from the force field, bringing Finnick and Mags to the ground. I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. "Peeta?" There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.

"Peeta!" I scream. I shake him harder, even resort to slapping his face, but it's no use. His heart has failed. I am slapping emptiness. "Peeta!" Finnick props Mags against a tree and pushes me out of the way. "Let me." His fingers touch points at Peeta's neck, run over the bones in his ribs and spine. Then he pinches Peeta's nostrils shut. "No!" I yell, hurling myself at Finnick, for surely he intends to make certain that Peeta's dead, to keep any hope of life from returning to him. Finnick's hand comes up and hits me so hard, so squarely in the chest that I go flying back into a nearby tree trunk. I'm stunned for a moment, by the pain, by trying to regain my wind, as I see Finnick close off Peeta's nose again. From where I sit, I pull an arrow, whip the notch into place, and am about to let it fly when I'm stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta. And it's so bizarre, even for Finnick, that I stay my hand. No, he's not kissing him. He's got Peeta's nose blocked off but his mouth tilted open, and he's blowing air into his lungs. I can see this, I can actually see Peeta's chest rising and falling. Then Finnick unzips the top of Peeta's jumpsuit and begins to pump the spot over his heart with the heels of his hands. Now that I've gotten through my shock, I understand what he's trying to do. Once in a blue moon, I've seen my mother try something similar, but not often. If your heart fails in District 12, it's unlikely your family could get you to my mother in time, anyway. So her usual patients are burned or wounded or ill. Or starving, of course. But Finnick's world is different. Whatever he's doing, he's done it before. There's a very set rhythm and method. And I find the arrow tip sinking to the ground as I lean in to watch, desperately, for some sign of success. Agonizing minutes drag past as my hopes diminish. Around the time that I'm deciding it's too late, that Peeta's dead, moved on, unreachable forever, he gives a small cough and Finnick sits back. I leave my weapons in the dirt as I fling myself at him. "Peeta?" I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine. "Careful," he says weakly. "There's a force field up ahead." I laugh, but there are tears running down my cheeks. "Must be a lot stronger than the one on the Training Center roof," he says. "I'm all right, though. Just a little shaken." "You were dead! Your heart stopped!" I burst out, before really considering if this is a good idea. I clap my hand over my mouth because I'm starting to make those awful choking sounds that happen when I sob. "Well, it seems to be working now," he says. "It's all right, Katniss." I nod my head but the sounds aren't stopping. "Katniss?" Now Peeta's worried about me, which adds to the insanity of it all. "It's okay. It's just her hormones," says Finnick. "From the baby." I look up and see him, sitting back on his knees but still panting a bit from the climb and the heat and the effort of bringing Peeta back from the dead. "No. It's not - " I get out, but I'm cut off by an even more hysterical round of sobbing that seems only to confirm what Finnick said about the baby. He meets my eyes and I glare at him through my tears. It's stupid, I know, that his efforts make me so vexed. All I wanted was to keep Peeta alive, and I couldn't and Finnick could, and I should be nothing but grateful. And I am. But I am also furious because it means that I will never stop owing Finnick Odair. Ever. So how can I kill him in his sleep? I expect to see a smug or sarcastic expression on his face, but his look is strangely quizzical. He glances between Peeta and me, as if trying to figure something out, then gives his head a slight shake as if to clear it. "How are you?" he asks Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?" "No, he has to rest," I say. My nose is running like crazy and I don't even have a shred of fabric to use as a handkerchief. Mags rips off a handful of hanging moss from a tree limb and gives it to me. I'm too much of a mess to even question it. I blow my nose loudly and mop the tears off my face. It's nice, the moss. Absorbent and surprisingly soft. I notice a gleam of gold on Peeta's chest. I reach out and retrieve the disk that hangs from a chain around his neck. My mockingjay has been engraved on it. "Is this your token?" I ask. "Yes. Do you mind that I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match," he says. "No, of course I don't mind." I force a smile. Peeta showing up in the arena wearing a mockingjay is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it should give a boost to the rebels in the district. On the other, it's hard to imagine President Snow will overlook it, and that makes the job of keeping Peeta alive harder. 

Chapter 22 

"Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?" I say. "It must be. The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?" he asks. "Just avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it," I say. "Not if I keep looking at you," he says. We slather ourselves down, even taking turns rubbing the ointment into each other's backs where the undershirts don't protect our skin. "I'm going to wake Peeta," I say. "No, wait," says Finnick. "Let's do it together. Put our faces right in front of his." Well, there's so little opportunity for fun left in my life, I agree. We position ourselves on either side of Peeta, lean over until our faces are inches from his nose, and give him a shake. "Peeta. Peeta, wake up," I say in a soft, singsong voice. His eyelids flutter open and then he jumps like we've stabbed him. "Aa!" Finnick and I fall back in the sand, laughing our heads off. Every time we try to stop, we look at Peeta's attempt to maintain a disdainful expression and it sets us off again. By the time we pull ourselves together, I'm thinking that maybe Finnick Odair is all right. At least not as vain or self-important as I'd thought. Not so bad at all, really. And just as I've come to this conclusion, a parachute lands next to us with a fresh loaf of bread. Remembering from last year how Haymitch's gifts are often timed to send a message, I make a note to myself. Be friends with Finnick. You'll get food. Chapter 23

Johanna narrows her brown eyes at me in hatred. "Lay off her?" she hisses. She steps forward before I can react and slaps me so hard I see stars. "Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You - " Finnick tosses her writhing body over his shoulder and carries her out into the water and repeatedly dunks her while she screams a lot of really insulting things at me. But I don't shoot. Because she's with Finnick and because of what she said, about getting them for me. "What did she mean? She got them for me?" I ask Peeta. "I don't know. You did want them originally," he reminds me. "Yeah, I did. Originally." But that answers nothing. I look down at Beetee's inert body. "But I won't have them long unless we do something.

Chapter 24

know it's stopped when I feel Peeta's hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins. "It's all right, Katniss," he whispers. "You didn't hear them," I answer. "I heard Prim. Right in the beginning. But it wasn't her," he says. "It was a jabberjay." "It was her. Somewhere. The jabberjay just recorded it," I say. "No, that's what they want you to think. The same way I wondered if Glimmer's eyes were in that mutt last year. But those weren't Glimmer's eyes. And that wasn't Prim's voice. Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something and distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying," he says. "No, they were torturing her," I answer. "She's probably dead." "Katniss, Prim isn't dead. How could they kill Prim? We're almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?" Peeta says. "Seven more of us die," I say hopelessly. "No, back home. What happens when they reach the final eight tributes in the Games?" He lifts my chin so I have to look at him. Forces me to make eye contact. "What happens? At the final eight?" I know he's trying to help me, so I make myself think. "At the final eight?" I repeat. "They interview your family and friends back home." "That's right," says Peeta. "They interview your family and friends. And can they do that if they've killed them all?" "No?" I ask, still unsure. "No. That's how we know Prim's alive. She'll be the first one they interview, won't she?" he asks. I want to believe him. Badly. It's just ... those voices ... "First Prim. Then your mother. Your cousin, Gale. Madge," he continues. "It was a trick, Katniss. A horrible one. But we're the only ones who can be hurt by it. We're the ones in the Games. Not them." "You really believe that?" I say. "I really do," says Peeta. I waver, thinking of how Peeta can make anyone believe anything. I look over at Finnick for confirmation, see he's fixated on Peeta, his words. "Do you believe it, Finnick?" I ask. "It could be true. I don't know," he says. "Could they do that, Beetee? Take someone's regular voice and make it ..." "Oh, yes. It's not even that difficult, Finnick. Our children learn a similar technique in school," says Beetee. "Of course Peeta's right. The whole country adores Katniss's little sister. If they really killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands," says Johanna flatly. "Don't want that, do they?" She throws back her head and shouts, "Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!" My mouth drops open in shock. No one, ever, says anything like this in the Games. Absolutely, they've cut away from Johanna, are editing her out. But I have heard her and can never think about her again in the same way. She'll never win any awards for kindness, but she certainly is gutsy. Or crazy. She picks up some shells and heads toward the jungle. "I'm getting water," she says. I can't help catching her hand as she passes me. "Don't go in there. The birds - " I remember the birds must be gone, but I still don't want anyone in there. Not even her.

THE BEACH SCENE  Chapter 24 if your wondering 

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. I watch the water as he watches the jungle, which is better for me. I'm still haunted by the voices of the jabberjays, which unfortunately the insects can't drown out. After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss," he says softly, "it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do." No, I guess there isn't, but it's no fun discussing it, either. Well, not for us, anyway. The Capitol viewers will be glued to their sets so they don't miss one wretched word. "I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." Of course, I know this, too. He told Peeta they could keep me alive so that he wouldn't be suspicious. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us." This gets my attention. A double deal. A double promise. With only Haymitch knowing which one is real. I raise my head, meet Peeta's eyes. "Why are you saying this now?" "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockingjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling. There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon ... it is the perfect weapon. "Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels. "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. It's the first crack of the lightning storm - the bolt hitting the tree at midnight - that brings us to our senses. It rouses Finnick as well. He sits up with a sharp cry. I see his fingers digging into the sand as he reassures himself that whatever nightmare he inhabited wasn't real. "I can't sleep anymore," he says. "One of you should rest." Only then does he seem to notice our expressions, the way we're wrapped around each other. "Or both of you. I can watch alone." Peeta won't let him, though. "It's too dangerous," he says. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." I don't object because I do need to sleep if I'm to be of any use keeping him alive. I let him lead me over to where the others are. He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. "You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick. His reference to the baby signals that our time-out from the Games is over. That he knows the audience will be wondering why he hasn't used the most persuasive argument in his arsenal. That sponsors must be manipulated. But as I stretch out on the sand I wonder, could it be more? Like a reminder to me that I could still one day have kids with Gale? Well, if that was it, it was a mistake. Because for one thing, that's never been part of my plan. And for another, if only one of us can be a parent, anyone can see it should be Peeta. As I drift off, I try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no Games, no Capitol. A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.

Chapter 25 

Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water and hands it to me. "For you." I hold it out on my palm and examine its iridescent surface in the sunlight. Yes, I will keep it. For the few remaining hours of my life I will keep it close. This last gift from Peeta. The only one I can really accept. Perhaps it will give me strength in the final moments. "Thanks," I say, closing my fist around it. I look coolly into the blue eyes of the person who is now my greatest opponent, the person who would keep me alive at his own expense. And I promise myself I will defeat his plan. The laughter drains from those eyes, and they are staring so intensely into mine, it's like they can read my thoughts. "The locket didn't work, did it?" Peeta says, even though Finnick is right there. Even though everyone can hear him. "Katniss?" "It worked," I say. "But not the way I wanted it to," he says, averting his glance. After that he will look at nothing but oysters.

I have the pearl, though, secured in a parachute with the spile and the medicine at my waist. I hope it makes it back to District 12. Surely my mother and Prim will know to return it to Peeta before they bury my body.

Chapter 26  

I don't like the plan any more than Peeta does. How can I protect him at a distance? But Beetee's right. With his leg, Peeta is too slow to make it down the slope in time. Johanna and I are the fastest and most sure-footed on the jungle floor. I can't think of any alternative. And if I trust anyone here besides Peeta, it's Beetee. "It's okay," I tell Peeta. "We'll just drop the coil and come straight back up." "Not into the lightning zone," Beetee reminds me. "Head for the tree in the one-to-two-o'clock sector. If you find you're running out of time, move over one more. Don't even think about going back on the beach, though, until I can assess the damage." I take Peeta's face in my hands. "Don't worry. I'll see you at midnight." I give him a kiss and, before he can object any further, I let go and turn to Johanna. "Ready?"

Mockingjay . 

Chapter 3 

I feel around for the parachute and slide my fingers inside until they close around the pearl. I sit back on my bed cross-legged and find myself rubbing the smooth iridescent surface of the pearl back and forth against my lips. For some reason, it's soothing. A cool kiss from the giver himself.

skim my list. "Gale. I'll need him with me to do this." "With you how? Off camera? By your side at all times? Do you want him presented as your new lover?" Coin asks. She hasn't said this with any particular malice - quite the contrary, her words are very matter-of-fact. But my mouth still drops open in shock. "What?" "I think we should continue the current romance. A quick defection from Peeta could cause the audience to lose sympathy for her," says Plutarch. "Especially since they think she's pregnant with his child." "Agreed. So, on-screen, Gale can simply be portrayed as a fellow rebel. Is that all right?" says Coin. I just stare at her. She repeats herself impatiently. "For Gale. Will that be sufficient?" "We can always work him in as your cousin," says Fulvia.

"We're not cousins," Gale and I say together.

"Right, but we should probably keep that up for appearances' sake on camera," says Plutarch. "Off camera, he's all yours. Anything else?"

I'm rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I'm in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I'm devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. "When the war is over, if we've won, Peeta will be pardoned."

Dead silence. I feel Gale's body tense. I guess I should have told him before, but I wasn't sure how he'd respond. Not when it involved Peeta.

"No form of punishment will be inflicted," I continue. A new thought occurs to me. "The same goes for the other captured tributes, Johanna and Enobaria." Frankly, I don't care about Enobaria, the vicious District 2 tribute. In fact, I dislike her, but it seems wrong to leave her out.

"No," says Coin flatly.

"Yes," I shoot back. "It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena. Who knows what the Capitol's doing to them?"

"They'll be tried with other war criminals and treated as the tribunal sees fit," she says.

"They'll be granted immunity!" I feel myself rising from my chair, my voice full and resonant. "You will personally pledge this in front of the entire population of District Thirteen and the remainder of Twelve. Soon. Today. It will be recorded for future generations. You will hold yourself and your government responsible for their safety, or you'll find yourself another Mockingjay!"

My words hang in the air for a long moment.

Chapter 16 

"Always." In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It's a gauzy, violet-tinted world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint tracks, catch the scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my fingers.

I wish I could meet with Peeta privately. But the audience of doctors has assembled behind the one-way glass, clipboards ready, pens poised. When Haymitch gives me the okay in my earpiece, I slowly open the door. Those blue eyes lock on me instantly. He's got three restraints on each arm, and a tube that can dispense a knockout drug just in case he loses control. He doesn't fight to free himself, though, only observes me with the wary look of someone who still hasn't ruled out that he's in the presence of a mutt. I walk over until I'm standing about a yard from the bed. There's nothing to do with my hands, so I cross my arms protectively over my ribs before I speak. "Hey." "Hey," he responds. It's like his voice, almost his voice, except there's something new in it. An edge of suspicion and reproach. "Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me," I say. "Look at you, for starters." It's like he's waiting for me to transform into a hybrid drooling wolf right before his eyes. He stares so long I find myself casting furtive glances at the one-way glass, hoping for some direction from Haymitch, but my earpiece stays silent. "You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?" I know he's been through hell and back, and yet somehow the observation rubs me the wrong way. "Well, you've looked better." Haymitch's advice to back off gets muffled by Peeta's laughter. "And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I've been through." "Yeah. We've all been through a lot. And you're the one who was known for being nice. Not me." I'm doing everything wrong. I don't know why I feel so defensive. He's been tortured! He's been hijacked! What's wrong with me? Suddenly, I think I might start screaming at him - I'm not even sure about what - so I decide to get out of there. "Look, I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow." I've just reached the door when his voice stops me. "Katniss. I remember about the bread." The bread. Our one moment of real connection before the Hunger Games. "They showed you the tape of me talking about it," I say. "No. Is there a tape of you talking about it? Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?" he asks. "I made it the day you were rescued," I answer. The pain in my chest wraps around my ribs like a vise. The dancing was a mistake. "So what do you remember?" "You. In the rain," he says softly. "Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead." "That's it. That's what happened," I say. "The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn't know how." "We were outside at the end of the day. I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then...for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion." I nod. He does remember. I have never spoken about that moment aloud. "I must have loved you a lot." "You did." My voice catches and I pretend to cough. "And did you love me?" he asks. I keep my eyes on the tiled floor. "Everyone says I did. Everyone says that's why Snow had you tortured. To break me." "That's not an answer," he tells me. "I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers." "I was trying to kill all of you," I say. "You had me treed." "Later, there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?" he asks. "Sometimes," I admit. "You know people are watching us now?" "I know. What about Gale?" he continues. My anger's returning. I don't care about his recovery - this isn't the business of the people behind the glass. "He's not a bad kisser either," I say shortly. "And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?" he asks. "No. It wasn't okay with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission," I tell him. Peeta laughs again, coldly, dismissively. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?" Haymitch doesn't protest when I walk out. Down the hall. Through the beehive of compartments. Find a warm pipe to hide behind in a laundry room. It takes a long time before I get to the bottom of why I'm so upset. When I do, it's almost too mortifying to admit. All those months of taking it for granted that Peeta thought I was wonderful are over. Finally, he can see me for who I really am. Violent. Distrustful. Manipulative. Deadly. And I hate him for it.

Chapter 17 

"Yeah," I say. "Made it through somehow." I don't want to talk about Peeta. One of the best things about training is, it keeps me from thinking of him. "Haymitch says he's getting better," she says. "Maybe. But he's changed," I say. "So have you. So have I. And Finnick and Haymitch and Beetee. Don't get me started on Annie Cresta. The arena messed us all up pretty good, don't you think? Or do you still feel like the girl who volunteered for your sister?" she asks me.

"No," I answer.

"That's the one thing I think my head doctor might be right about. There's no going back. So we might as well get on with things." She neatly returns my keepsakes to the drawer and climbs into the bed across from me just as the lights go out. "You're not afraid I'll kill you tonight?"

"Like I couldn't take you," I answer. Then we laugh, since both our bodies are so wrecked, it will be a miracle if we can get up the next day. But we do. Each morning, we do. And by the end of the week, my ribs feel almost like new, and Johanna can assemble her rifle without help.

Peeta makes a little gesture with his spoon, connecting Gale and me. "So, are you two officially a couple now, or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?" "Still dragging," says Johanna. Spasms cause Peeta's hands to tighten into fists, then splay out in a bizarre fashion. Is it all he can do to keep them from my neck? I can feel the tension in Gale's muscles next to me, fear an altercation. But Gale simply says, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself." "What's that?" asks Peeta. "You," Gale answers. "You'll have to be a little more specific," says Peeta. "What about me?" "That they've replaced you with the evil-mutt version of yourself," says Johanna. Gale finishes his milk. "You done?" he asks me. I rise and we cross to drop off our trays. At the door, an old man stops me because I'm still clutching the rest of my gravy bread in my hand. Something in my expression, or maybe the fact that I've made no attempt to conceal it, makes him go easy on me. He lets me stuff the bread in my mouth and move on. Gale and I are almost to my compartment when he speaks again. "I didn't expect that."

Chapter 18 

I consider saying a final good-bye to Peeta, decide it would only be bad for both of us. But I do slip the pearl into the pocket of my uniform. A token of the boy with the bread.

The following evening, the newest member of our squad arrives. With no manacles. No guards. Strolling out of the train station with his gun swinging from the strap over his shoulder. There's shock, confusion, resistance, but451 is stamped on the back of Peeta's hand in fresh ink. Boggs relieves him of his weapon and goes to make a call. "It won't matter," Peeta tells the rest of us. "The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up." Maybe they do. But if Coin sent Peeta here, she's decided something else as well. That I'm of more use to her dead than alive.

Chapter 19

Squad 451 and the television crew collect dinner from the canteen and gather in a tense circle to eat. At first I think that Peeta is the cause of the unease, but by the end of the meal, I realize more than a few unfriendly looks have been directed my way. This is a quick turnaround, since I'm pretty sure when Peeta appeared the whole team was concerned about how dangerous he might be, especially to me. But it's not until I get a phone call through to Haymitch that I understand. "What are you trying to do? Provoke him into an attack?" he asks me. "Of course not. I just want him to leave me alone," I say. "Well, he can't. Not after what the Capitol put him through," says Haymitch. "Look, Coin may have sent him there hoping he'd kill you, but Peeta doesn't know that. He doesn't understand what's happened to him. So you can't blame him - "

"I don't!" I say.

"You do! You're punishing him over and over for things that are out of his control. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't have a fully loaded weapon next to you round the clock. But I think it's time you flipped this little scenario around in your head. If you'd been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?" demands Haymitch.

I fall silent. It isn't. It isn't how he would be treating me at all. He would be trying to get me back at any cost. Not shutting me out, abandoning me, greeting me with hostility at every turn.

"You and me, we made a deal to try and save him. Remember?" Haymitch says. When I don't respond, he disconnects after a curt "Try and remember."

After about an hour, Peeta speaks up. "These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth." That seems grossly unfair, and my first impulse is to say something cutting. But I revisit my conversation with Haymitch and try to take the first tentative step in Peeta's direction. "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as...an ally." That's a good safe word. Empty of any emotional obligation, but nonthreatening. "Ally." Peeta says the word slowly, tasting it. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." He weaves the rope in and out of his fingers. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up." The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or have never really been asleep at all. I suspect the latter.

At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

Chapter 20 

Isn't it obvious?" No one even knew Peeta had regained consciousness. I don't know how long he's been watching, but by the look of misery on his face, long enough to see what happened on the street. How he went mad, tried to bash my head in, and hurled Mitchell into the pod. He painfully pushes himself up to a sitting position and directs his words to Gale. "Our next move...is to kill me."

Chapter 21 

That makes two requests for Peeta's death in less than an hour. "Don't be ridiculous," says Jackson. "I just murdered a member of our squad!" shouts Peeta. "You pushed him off you. You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot," says Finnick, trying to calm him. "Who cares? He's dead, isn't he?" Tears begin to run down Peeta's face. "I didn't know. I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!" "It's not your fault, Peeta," says Finnick. "You can't take me with you. It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else." Peeta looks around at our conflicted faces. "Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol. Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?" Peeta. Back in Snow's hands. Tortured and tormented until no bits of his former self will ever emerge again. For some reason, the last stanza to "The Hanging Tree" starts running through my head. The one where the man wants his lover dead rather than have her face the evil that awaits her in the world. ‘

Chapter 21

   Peeta buries his face in his hands for a few moments, then rises to join us. "Should we free his hands?" asks Leeg 1. "No!" Peeta growls at her, drawing his cuffs in close to his body. "No," I echo. "But I want the key." Jackson passes it over without a word. I slip it into my pants pocket, where it clicks against the pearl.

In the fluorescent light, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. "There's still time. You should sleep." Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn't recoil. So I continue to gently smooth back his hair. It's the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena. "You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers. "Real," I answer. It seems to require more explanation. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

Chapter 22 

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs

Chapter 23 

While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta's wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs. "You've got to keep them clean, otherwise the infection could spread and - " "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." I'm jolted back in time, to another wound, another set of bandages. "You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?" "Real," he says. "And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?" "Real." I shrug. "You were the reason I was alive to do it." "Was I?" The comment throws him into confusion. Some shiny memory must be fighting for his attention, because his body tenses and his newly bandaged wrists strain against the metal cuffs. Then all the energy saps from his body. "I'm so tired, Katniss." "Go to sleep," I say. He won't until I've rearranged his handcuffs and shackled him to one of the stair supports. It can't be comfortable, lying there with his arms above his head. But in a few minutes, he drifts off, too.

Chapter 23 

I think it's time I give myself up. When everyone finally awakens, I confess. How I lied about the mission, how I jeopardized everyone in pursuit of revenge. There's a long silence after I finish. Then Gale says, "Katniss, we all knew you were lying about Coin sending you to assassinate Snow." "You knew, maybe. The soldiers from Thirteen didn't," I reply.

"Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin?" Cressida asks. "Of course she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he'd clearly wanted you to go on."

"I never even told Boggs what I planned to do," I say.

"You told everyone in Command!" Gale says. "It was one of your conditions for being the Mockingjay. 'I kill Snow.'"

Those seem like two disconnected things. Negotiating with Coin for the privilege of executing Snow after the war and this unauthorized flight through the Capitol. "But not like this," I say. "It's been a complete disaster."

"I think it would be considered a highly successful mission," says Gale. "We've infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol's defenses can be breached. We've managed to get footage of ourselves all over the Capitol's news. We've thrown the whole city into chaos trying to find us."

"Trust me, Plutarch's thrilled," Cressida adds.

"That's because Plutarch doesn't care who dies," I say. "Not as long as his Games are a success."

Cressida and Gale go round and round trying to convince me. Pollux nods at their words to back them up. Only Peeta doesn't offer an opinion.

"What do you think, Peeta?" I finally ask him.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow."

I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way. I pull my paper map from a pocket in my uniform and spread it out on the floor with new resolve. "Where are we, Cressida?"

Chapter 24 

"I'm leaving in the morning," I say. "I'm going with you," Gale says. "What should we do with the others?" "Pollux and Cressida could be useful. They're good guides," I say. Pollux and Cressida aren't actually the problem. "But Peeta's too..." "Unpredictable," finishes Gale. "Do you think he'd still let us leave him behind?" "We can make the argument that he'll endanger us," I say. "He might stay here, if we're convincing." Peeta's fairly rational about our suggestion. He readily agrees that his company could put the other four of us at risk. I'm thinking this may all work out, that he can just sit out the war in Tigris's cellar, when he announces he's going out on his own. "To do what?" asks Cressida. "I'm not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me," he says. "What if you...lose control?" I say. "You mean...go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back here," he assures me. "And if Snow gets you again?" asks Gale. "You don't even have a gun." "I'll just have to take my chances," says Peeta. "Like the rest of you." The two exchange a long look, and then Gale reaches into his breast pocket. He places his nightlock tablet in Peeta's hand. Peeta lets it lie on his open palm, neither rejecting nor accepting it. "What about you?" "Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss," says Gale with a smile. "She won't give them the satisfaction of taking me alive." The thought of Peacekeepers dragging Gale away starts the tune playing in my head again.... Are you, are you Coming to the tree "Take it, Peeta," I say in a strained voice. I reach out and close his fingers over the pill. "No one will be there to help you."

Chapter 27

I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes. "You're back," I say. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?" "I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her," he says. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house." I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the wordrose registers. I'm about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I give Peeta a nod of assent and hurry back into the house, locking the door behind me. But the evil thing is inside, not out. Trembling with weakness and anxiety, I run up the stairs. My foot catches on the last step and I crash onto the floor. I force myself to rise and enter my room. The smell's very faint but still laces the air. It's there. The white rose among the dried flowers in the vase. Shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow's greenhouse. I grab the vase, stumble down to the kitchen, and throw its contents into the embers. As the flowers flare up, a burst of blue flame envelops the rose and devours it. Fire beats roses again. I smash the vase on the floor for good measure. Back upstairs, I throw open the bedroom windows to clear out the rest of Snow's stench. But it still lingers, on my clothes and in my pores. I strip, and flakes of skin the size of playing cards cling to the garments. Avoiding the mirror, I step into the shower and scrub the roses from my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. It takes half an hour to comb out my hair. Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I feed the clothes I had shed to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife

Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. I try to follow Dr. Aurelius's advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again. I tell him my idea about the book, and a large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol. I got the idea from our family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory. The page begins with the person's picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or painting by Peeta. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. Lady licking Prim's cheek. My father's laugh. Peeta's father with the cookies. The color of Finnick's eyes. What Cinna could do with a length of silk. Boggs reprogramming the Holo. Rue poised on her toes, arms slightly extended, like a bird about to take flight. On and on. We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory that surfaces. A late primrose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie's newborn son. We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of themselves. We're not alone. A few hundred others return because, whatever has happened, this is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again. Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

epilogue

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much. The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the girl knows we played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the words of the song for granted:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow A bed of grass, a soft green pillow Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes And when again they open, the sun will rise. Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.

My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away.

I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.

But there are much worse games to play.

[ric0cheted]

distraction tactics (fic)

In which Geralt needs to sleep, Jaskier has no chill, and Yennefer is perfectly happy to take one for the team. 

(aka time for messy, shoddily-written witcher porn(ish)! all hedonism, zero redeeming qualities. all sorts of permutations of geraskefer. they’re all fucking in my world, lads.)

Upon returning to the manor house, Geralt managed exactly three things: getting undressed, bathing, and crawling into bed.

He wouldn't call the residence at which Yennefer had--temporarily--allowed himself and Jaskier to stay home, exactly. But it certainly beat out the ratty, shit-smelling inns that the nearest town boasted. 

Especially since Geralt's most recent hunt had lasted two days longer than it should've, the monsters had numbered threefold more than they should've, and the coin he'd been paid hadn't reflected either of those developments. Thank the gods he'd managed to, for once, convince Jaskier to stay back. 

All told, Geralt was looking forward to nothing more than sinking into the mattress and letting sleep take hold.

Which meant, of course, that barely three minutes of blessed silence passed before Geralt heard someone kneel beside the bed. He cracked an eye open, right in time to see Jaskier swoop in for a kiss. Geralt rolled his eyes and indulged it, winding his hand in Jaskier’s hair and moaning despite himself when Jaskier's tongue curled around his.

Jaskier pulled away, grinning. "Bring us back anything good?" Jaskier was feeling particularly agreeable, then, if he was referring to himself and Yennefer together like that. "Absolutely fine if the answer happens to simply be your lovely Witcher self. Because we missed you quite a bit." Without further ado, Jaskier slipped under the covers and plastered himself to Geralt, the distinct aroma of arousal wafting from him. 

Geralt had a tendency of forgetting how solid Jaskier was under his clothing, tailored as they were to lend a deceptive waifishness to his frame. Geralt was still taller, still broader, but Jaskier could drape himself across Geralt and cover a good stretch of his body. Much like he currently was. Geralt usually appreciated it, but this time his muscles ached in protest.

Geralt snorted. "Jaskier, I'm fucking tired. I don't even know if I could."

"I'll be good for you," Jaskier promised, kissing Geralt's throat. "Or be good to you. Whichever you'd like." His voice broke into a purr towards the end of his sentence.

"Jaskier," Geralt groaned. He wrapped his fingers around Jaskier's waist, the slimmest part of him, regretfully. He was a hair's breadth away from dislodging the bard himself when Jaskier yelped and jerked out of his grasp, nearly tumbling off the bed.

"You're insufferable," Yennefer told the bard from where she stood in the doorway. Jaskier sat up and rubbed the side of his head, which Geralt could only assume she'd magically slapped. "Now, come with me. I require assistance, and it seems as though yours will have to do.”

Jaskier sighed, deeply put-upon. "You never need my help, so I'm going to assume that you've finally decided to murder me." Jaskier gazed at Geralt with woeful eyes. "Geralt. Geralt. I expect at least a full year of mourning out of you. Also, I'd like my lute donated to a museum, possibly one devoted to the paraphernalia and personal effects of the continent's greatest artists."

Geralt didn't even stay awake long enough to roll his eyes, much less wryly ask why Jaskier would go with her if he was so convinced of his imminent demise.

***

Geralt awoke an hour later. He would've desperately liked more, but it seemed as though sleep would elude him for the moment.

It was all Yennefer and Jaskier’s fault, Geralt thought, grouchily, dragging himself out of bed to bitch at them. He hadn't seen where they'd vanished to earlier, but he didn’t need to guess at their whereabouts, given the overwhelming scent of lust and sex drifting from the library. He'd smelled it in his fucking sleep. It had woken him up. 

In retrospect, Geralt really, truly wished there was something that could've prepared him for what he was walking into.

Dressed in a soft, lace-trimmed robe that ended at her thighs, Yennefer lounged in an armchair, using one hand to page through a thick tome and the other to feed blackberries to Jaskier, handsome and unclothed at her feet. Jaskier was reclining against the chair, one knee pulled to his chest, tilting his head back to take the fruit from her with shocking obedience. His mouth closed around it and Geralt could see his tongue licking at her fingers. Jaskier's soft lips were berry-dark, but his chin and cheeks glistened with something else. His cock was hard, leaking, and untouched.

Geralt choked on his own saliva. Jaskier's eyes, half-closed with bliss, flew open. Their gazes met. Geralt blushed, and then, to his utter bewilderment, Jaskier blushed, scrambling to arrange his limbs in some semblance of modesty and opening his mouth to blurt something out. 

"Geralt." Yennefer said, calmly, twisting her fingers in Jaskier's hair to cut him off. "How was your rest?" Her hold was tight and kept Jaskier from looking away from Geralt. Geralt had no such excuse for failing to tear his own gaze away.

"Fine," Geralt wheezed. It was a terrible lie, but the blood that should've been making its way to his head was traveling decidedly southwards. 

"Good," Yennefer hummed, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. She relaxed her grip and petted Jaskier's hair instead. "Now, it took quite a while to get him like this, and I'd hate to see all of that time and effort undone. Do you intend to stay?" 

Jaskier tilted his head into her touch. There was a still touch of embarrassment about him, burning hotly in his eyes and cheeks, but a dizzy lust was starting to bleed into it. He relaxed his legs, just slightly, letting Geralt catch a glimpse of his cock. It was still very, very hard.

Geralt's mouth watered, his own cock making a valiant effort. But he'd been telling Jaskier the truth, about the degree to which he felt as though he was about to unravel at the seams and fall apart.

Besides, there were things that Geralt hadn't quite worked out about Yennefer and Jaskier, together, certain intricacies to their relationship that Geralt didn't feel equipped to navigate when exhaustion was making him feel the weight of each individual bone in his body. This seemed like one of those occasions.

"I'm going back to sleep." Geralt forced out, voice strangled. "Don't fuck each other to death before I wake up." Taking the coward's route, he turned and fled, Yennefer's peal of laughter following him out.

Geralt made it back to the bedroom and immediately started rifling through the chest of drawers. After a moment of searching, he found a vial of the sleep potion Yennefer had once specially brewed for him. He paused in consideration. It did work, but it was difficult to make, expensive, and usually only granted him a few extra hours, given how quickly his Witcher metabolism burned through it.

Distantly, he could just barely make out Yennefer's purred oh, good boy, followed by Jaskier's low moan. Without hesitation, Geralt downed the entire bottle and welcomed the sweet embrace of sleep. 

***

Geralt slept for three or four more hours before the potion wore off. It took the edge off, at least, bringing him firmly into tired from his previous death walking.

He was stretching, trying to ease the tightness in his muscles, when Jaskier slipped into the bedroom, freshly-bathed and smelling of Yennefer's various soaps and oils. He met Geralt's eyes and blushed. 

"Ah! So. About that." Jaskier rubbed the back of his head and flashed Geralt a charming, sheepish grin. The bruised look to his mouth spoke more of thorough use than of berries. "I--"

Rolling his eyes, Geralt looped his arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him down into the sheets, savoring his surprised yelp. After all, his cock was now very, very capable of participating. 

***

Geralt left Jaskier passed out and drooling on the bed to seek Yennefer out. It took a little longer without the ludicrous trail of arousal to follow, but he eventually found her in the alchemical workshop.

She'd traded the shimmering cream of her robe for one of her traditional black dresses. Jaskier probably could've waxed poetic about the finer points of this particular garment compared to the others. Geralt couldn't tell the difference between them like that; he just knew that she looked beautiful in all of them.

Geralt made his way to her and nuzzled at the hollow of her throat before tugging her in for a kiss. Yennefer wound her hands through his hair and deepened it, tilting his head for a better angle.

After a moment, Geralt pulled away. He'd come here to see her, but he figured he might as well ask. "So, about that." 

"Oh, that," Yennefer replied. There was a vaguely smug twist to her lips. "I've found that he occasionally benefits from a firm hand and something to keep him...occupied. For everyone's good, really." 

"For everyone's good," Geralt repeated, dryly, as though her comment didn't have his cock perking up.

"Yes, for everyone's good. It isn't my fault that you both woke up and turned us down." Her lavender eyes glinted. "Consider joining us next time. It'll likely be impossible to keep him behaved with you around, but there's fun to be had, regardless." 

"Next time," Geralt growled, sliding his hands down her body. He couldn't stop picturing it. "How about you wait until I'm awake."

"No promises," Yennefer purred, allowing Geralt to lift her up onto the nearest unoccupied table. "But maybe. If you're lucky."

[chequeredwhitpost]

🏰💙Protective💙🏰

           (Douxie X Oc ) `````````````````````````````````````

“You can be SO stupid, you know?!” I shout, directing my anger at Douxie. 

This is another fight. And it’s not a pretty one either. Started over how Douxie wasn’t paying any attention and spilled some enchanted copper I had set aside into my latest brew. And, what do ya know? It. Exploded. And melted. And sizzled. And did SO much damage to the Apprentice Study Hall!

“Don’t call me stupid!! You’re the one who never tidies up!!” 

“What does that have to do with smarts?!” 

“Tidiness!! It has to do with tidiness!!” 

I scoff, pushing the broom into his hands. 

“Whatever. I’m leaving. And I suggest if you don’t want a black eye, you don’t follow me.”

“Wait, hold on, where are you going?” 

“Why do you care?” I snip.

“Who says I do?” 

I glare at him and make way for the door. 

“Courtyard. Now leave me alone.” 

I walk out of the hall and head outside. 

`````````````````````````

I have to admit. It’s a beautiful day. Too bad it got squished out with that fight, now having zero significance to me. I sigh, leaning up against the wall of the well. The courtyard is bustling and people are passing by. I can't help but notice a pair of friends walk by, paying no attention to me whatsoever. I sigh. Why do we have to fight so much these days? I mean, I know we both have a lot going on--- especially with all of Merlin’s assignments--- but still. And ever since that … girl has become Morgana’s Handmaiden, we’ve been seeing a lot of her. Correction: Douxie has been seeing a lot of her. 

What was her name again? Rylee? Riar? Oh, right. Her name’s Rose. Miss small and innocent never leaves Doux’s side, it seems. I sigh, realizing that I may just be a tad jealous. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, but what’s a cute dame like you doing out here, all alone?” 

I look up and see a handsome looking lad in knight’s armor, staring right at me with a common smile-- the casanova smile. I mentally groan and smack myself upside the head. 

‘Maybe coming out here wasn’t such a good idea after all….’

“My gorgeous? If you could answer, I would much appreciate it.”

Ugh…

“It’s nothing. I just needed to get some air today, that’s all.” 

“What a coincidence! I happen to be in the same boat! Mind if I keep you company?” He winks at me.

I try not to gag. “Uh, no.”

My abrupt answer --- and rejection--- takes him back a bit. I quickly go to recover.

“I mean-- uh-- No thank you, good squire! I was just heading home anyways.” 

“Hmm. Well, I can walk you home if you like?” 

He takes a step closer to me, narrowing his eyes and smiling.

“No thank you.” I play it pretty… for now.

“But I insist!” 

He takes a hold of my hand and tries to pull me along. I snatch myself free of his grasp. 

“I said, no thank you!” I shout,

By now people are starting to look. “Now, my sweet, don’t make a scene…” 

“I’m not your anything! Now you’re going to let me leave or else things are about to get ---” 

“Or what? You’ll kick me in the shin?” 

I glare at him,

“Try where the sun don’t shine.”

I give a sturdy kick to his groin. He doubles over in pain.

“Why you little--- agh! You’ll pay for that!!” 

“Humph!!” 

I turn to leave but he forces himself to stand up. The squire takes my wrist and grabs me harshly. 

“I was trying to be a gentleman, but clearly that approach isn’t working.” 

As I start to fear the worst, I turn my head away. But his grasp on my wrist suddenly lets go. I look over and see the squire laying in the dirt, a good five feet away from me. And guess… who’s come to my rescue… 

“Doux?” I utter. 

He turns to me with a worried expression. 

“Are you alright,love?” He asks, cupping my cheek with his hand. 

He gently turns my head, checking for injury. But I’m caught on the term he used to refer to me with. 

‘Love.’

Douxie looks at my wrist and sees a slight bruise forming. 

“Son of a…”

Douxie turns to face the squire with a nasty scowl on his face. The squire stands up-- somehow-- and meets Douxie’s gaze. 

“You listen here, got it? If I EVER catch you near my friend again, you’ll be in for more than a bruising. Understand?” 

His tone is dark and serious-- so much so that it sends a chill down my nerves. The squire opens his mouth to reject, but is cut off.

“I mean it! I’ll show you what wrath really looks like! So. Stay. Away.” 

The squire gulps, and nods. 

“Better.” 

Douxie turns to me and wraps a protective arm around my shoulders. 

“Come on, Vin. Let’s go.” 

I hum in response and we leave. 

````````````````````````

Back at the Apprentice Study Hall, the both of us sit in silence, staring out the window. 

I feel bad. Guilty even. Even after all those nasty things I said to him, he still came to help me… I’m such a bad---

“I’m sorry. For not paying attention and ruining your potion.” Doux says suddenly.

“What?” 

“You were right. I don’t pay that much attention.”

“No, Douxie, I should be the one apologizing. I went too far, I was just being stubborn and jealous!” 

“Jealous? Of who?” 

Shit…

“Uh, d-did I say ‘jealous’? What I meant was, um, overzeal..ous?” 

I let out a great big sigh. 

“Yeah. OK, I meant jealous.”

Douxie turns to me and holds out his hands. I put mine in his, feeling comforted by the gesture. 

“Who are you jealous of?” 

“Does it matter?”

“...Yes.” 

I look into his eyes and instantly cave in. So full of sadness and at the same time, intrigued. It makes me curious. 

“That girl. Morgana’s new handmaiden.” 

He chuckles, “Rose?” 

I shrink. 

Douxie smiles ever so lightly and leans a little closer, but now much. 

“You think I have eyes for Rose?” 

“...” 

“Of all the people I know, why her?” He clicks his tongue and bends over to meet my gaze, as it is fixed on the ground. 

“I actually find it hard to believe that you haven't noticed yet.” 

I grip his hands a bit tighter.

“Noticed what?” 

“That .. I have eyes… for you.” 

My jaw drops.

“For… ME?” 

He nods, blushing brightly. 

He quickly leans in and places a kiss on my cheek. Which completely stuns me. 

So he continues to talk.

“Vin, all these years and you’ve always been there for me-- who else was I going to fall for? You have helped me. You have made me laugh. Shown me a great trueness to what it means to be friends.”

He lowers his head and huffs a content breath.

“So now… I ask you something that is very important to me.” 

“A.. ask away.” I say, voice hushed.

“Will you… be mine?” 

I can’t believe my ears. Is this really happening? In the flesh, like literally reality?? 

Douxie smiles mischievously and pinches me. 

“Ow! Hey, Doux!!” 

He laughs,

“Just making sure you knew.” 

He squeezes my hands.

“But seriously. Be mine?” 

I hum an devious note. 

“Weeelll,” 

“Heh. Cheeky,”

I giggle, “Yes. I’d love to.” 

As the sun sets out the window, we lean in and close the gap between us, in a soft, and forgiving kiss. 

`````````````````````````````````````````````````

Thanks for reading.

[erosofthepen]

A Dwarf and his Child

So this is the second chapter of my OC fic, and I think it’s pretty good. Dwalin and Clara travel to the Blue Mountains.

Chapter One

Dwalin didn’t speak very much. But once Clara warmed up to him, he had no choice but to listen. She spoke very openly and it rarely ceased. But it wasn’t as annoying as it was endearing. She would ask very inquisitive questions for such a young girl, and Dwalin could tell she was very bright. In two weeks he learned much about her. And she learned much about where she was going to live.

“Are there any other children I can play with?”

“Aye. Actually, I’ve made arrangements with my friends sister, and you’ll be with her and her two boys while I am away.”

“Boys?’’ Clara said with a face. Dwalin chuckled.

“That bother ye?’’

“Boys are yucky.”

“Indeed they are. But these two are plenty of fun to be around and no doubt you’ll get into all sorts of trouble with them.”

‘’How old are they?’’

“One’s about your age. 32, no? His name is Kili. The other is just a few years older, he’s 38 and named Fili. You’ll be thick as thieves.”

“Thieves are bad!”

“Just a saying lass.”

“Oh. Wait. Kili and Fili? They sound just the same!”

“You’ll tell them apart, no worries.”

“How?’’

“Kili has brown hair, Fili’s a blond.”

Claira narrowed her eyes and was quiet for a bit.

“I’ve got it! Fili the fair! Because he has blonde hair. Now I won’t forget. Though, i’ll have to think of something for Kili. There’s no words for brown hair that start with K.”

Dwalin smiled and nodded before leaning back and taking a draw from his pipe.

The Blue Mountains looked very intimidating to a little one. Clara and Dwalin rode their way through different villages and rocky paths. Finally, just after noon one day, the two of them arrived at a village populated with mostly dwarrow. They stopped on the outskirts of town at a little house made of oak.

“Is your hole underneath?” Clara asked.

“Hole?”

“Yeah, your hole. Where you live.”

“Ah. Lass, we live in houses. Not holes. Holes are for hobbits and rabbits.’’

“Oh.”

“You’ll get used to it lass, don’t ye worry.”

“Alright.”

“Afternoon Brother! How was the journey?” A voice called. Clara looked over at the house and standing in the doorway was a grey-haired dwarf with a long beard and red robes.

“Afternoon! We fared just fine.” Dwalin called in return, getting off the pony before helping Clara off.

“Is this the wee lass then?” The grey dwarf asked, making his way over.

“Aye. Clara’s her name. Clara, this is yer Uncle Balin, or Irak’adad Balin, if you will.”

“Earackadad?” She questioned, jumbling the word.

“Irak’adad. It means uncle in the language of dwarves. You’ll learn.”

Clara narrowed her eyes and looked Balin up and down.

“I’m just going to call you Uncle Balin.”

The older dwarf chuckled.

“That’s quite all right. Tell me, did you have a good journey Clara?”

“Indeed I did. I didn’t think the mountains would be so big, but they were absolutely huge. In Hobbiton, there’s no mountains at all, did you know that? But there’s plenty of hills. I lived in the biggest hill, Bagend. Well, sometimes I did. Mostly I lived in Tuck-burough, but my family there didn’t like me very much. They kept calling me a bastard, whatever that means. I don’t think it means something very good. We also live in Holes, but I suppose dwarves don’t. Are houses very cozy?”

Balin looked a bit taken back by her speech, but smiled nonetheless.

“Aye, I think ours is cozy enough. I’ve made up a room for you, and made sure to find the warmest blankets in Ered Luin.”

“I get my own room?” She asked with wide eyes.

“Aye, would ye like me to show ye?”

“Yes indeed!” She said excitedly.

Balin looked up at his brother.

“We’ll meet inside?”

“Aye, shouldn’t take long to unpack.”

Balin took Clara’s hand and led her up the steps. The inside of the house was large, and there were three rooms on the bottom floor. One was the bathroom, another was the study, and the third was Balin’s room. The space that wasn’t closed off was the hearth, table, pantry, and kitchen. There was a stairway that led up to the upstairs.

“That’s where ye and Dwalin be sleeping. He has a room and I’ve added yours.”

Balin eagerly led her up the stairs and opened the door to her room. There was a small bed in the corner and a wardrobe, as well as a vanity with a mirror, with a handsomely woven rug on the wood floor. But Clara wasted no time in letting Balin know her favorite part.

“That’s a ginormous window!” She said, letting go of his hand and crawling up on the bed to press her nose against the glass. It was chilly in the autumn weather but she could see the mountains and forrest’s.

“Aye, I installed it just last week. You like it lass?”

She nodded vigorously.

“I’ve never seen one so big! Not even in the Brandybuck’s lands!”

“I’m glad ye like it.”

They heard thumping coming up the stairs and Dwalin came in with her pack and lambie.

“Right. Let’s get you unpacked and then some luncheon.”

Balin had fished for lunch and they had some nice, plump, rainbow trout. When Balin was dishing the meal out, Dwalin interjected.

“She’s going to need a bit more than that, brother.”

“It’s already a plenty large portion!”

“She’s half-hobbit. Their appetites are something to be feared. And she is a growing girl.”

During luncheon, they spoke of taking Clara to the markets the next day to get fitted for warmer clothes.

“This isn’t the Shire, after all. Those dainty wee dresses won’t do much to keep out the frost.”

“Aye. And we’ll have to get her a pair of boots. Did she go bare-foot this whole way?”

“That’s the way of hobbits. Though, she has more cuts and bruises than I like to see. Seems like she didn’t inherit the hobbit feet.”

“Seems so. Oh, did ye tell her we’re dining with Thorin, Dis, and the lads tonight?”

“No, but might as well tell her now.”

“Can I meet Kili and Fili?” Clara asked, interrupting them.

“Of course lass. You know of them already?”

“Dwalin told me. Are they really princes?”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a look.

“Aye, they are. In title at least.”

Clara shrugged and bit into a roll before letting her mind wander while the brothers talked.

After luncheon, Balin and Dwalin agreed to draw with Clara.

“Bilbo and I always drew after lunch, while Aunt Bella was cleaning up. She got me some fine charcoal from a craftsman and a sketchbook. They should be up in my room, Let me go get them!”

The brothers were certainly impressed by Clara’s skill. It wasn’t as if she could draw portraits, but it was far better than your average 32 year old.

“Ye must get it from your Adad,” Balin commented. Indeed, despite Dwalin’s fierce manner, he always was the most careful with crafting, and patterns and art in silvers and golds were his specialty.

They spent much of the afternoon drawing (with a snack or two in between), before they got ready to sup. Balin helped Clara choose an outfit and Clara sat patiently as Dwalin braided her hair half up, down the back. At 5 o’clock, they left the house and walked to the other side of the village, coming to stop at probably the grandest of houses. Balin knocked thrice and soon the door was flung open and they were greeted by a Dwarrow with beautiful brown hair. She hugged both the brothers and kissed their cheeks before smiling broadly at Clara.

“And what’s your name Lass?’’

“My name is Clara Took.”

“It is very nice to meet you, Clara. My name is Dís. I hear you are the same age as my son Kili, is that so?”

“Dwalin said he’s thirty three, and I’m thirty three, so it is true!”

A sudden shriek and shouting came from somewhere in the house. Dis closed her eyes and sighed.

“There be the boys now. They’re playing fox and rabbit, but I’m sure they have room for one more.”

“I love fox and rabbit! I always got chosen to be the fox whenever I played with my friends in Hobbiton.”

“That’s very well, my dear. Come in, come in.”

Clara, Balin and Dwalin stepped over the threshold and were nearly run into by two blurs of blue and brown.

“Boys!” Dis scolded. The two of them stopped and turned to look at their mum and the guests.

“Is that the girl?!” Kili asked excitedly. Dis was about to reply when Clara answered for her.

“I’m Clara! You must be Kili, since you have dark hair. Dwalin said you have dark hair and Fili has blonde hair!”

“Hi Clara!” Fili and Kili said as one.

“We’ve never had a friend our age! I mean, a friend whose a girl our age! A girl who is our age! You’re pretty special! What’s your favorite game? I hope you like hide-and-seek! That’s my favorite. Fili likes fox and rabbit, but he always wins because he’s a whole lot stronger and faster. But he won’t be for long. I’ll bet I’m taller than him one day!”

“You wish! I’ll always be taller than you, because I’m older than you!” Fili said.

“Boys,” a new voice said. All three of the children turned to look at a dwarf with black curly hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Hi.” Clara said shyly. The dwarfs glare turned into a smile as he met Clara’s eyes.

“Hello there lass. What’s your name?”

“My name is Clara. And you have got to be King Thorin! Adad said you’re the bravest King ever born!”

Thorin smile faltered for but a moment and his eyes flickered to Dwalin’s before coming back to Clara.

“He exaggerates. You may just call me Thorin.”

“Oh, alright!”

“Why is your voice like that?” Kili asked.

“Like what?”

“The way you talk, it’s so different!”

“That’s because she’s from a hundred miles away Kee!” Fili said with a sure nod, “All people from far away sound different.”

“Oh okay.”

“You sound different to me too. No hobbits talk like you!” Clara said.

“Hobbits are like rabbits, right?” Kili asked.

“Not at all!”

“Don’t you live in strange burrows?”

“No, we live in hobbit-holes!”

“In the ground?’ Fili asked.

“Yes, In the ground.”

“Then you are a rabbit!”

“No I’m not!”

“Oi!” Dwalin called. “That’s enough I think. Best to stop arguing.”

“Aye,” Thorin agreed. “How about you two show Clara your toy chest?”

“Great idea!”

The older dwarves all watched in amusement as Kili and Fili both grabbed Clara’s hands and dragged her away down the halls.

Chapter Three

[soyeahitsmiddleearth]

Return Her pt. 5

The Company (and friends) x Reader

Womanly charm and Laketown. The company only hates Bard more and more as time passes.

Bard had you close his jacket around you to hide your odd clothing and sat you next to him like before, telling you quietly to let him do the talking because he’s not too popular with the local authorities. 

So you did just that, hanging out by the helm with his jacket covering your odd jeans and shirt while he steered into the port thing with a big gate blocking the way. 

You’ve never seen anything like it. A town completely on the water that should be beautiful, only it’s dark and gloomy and reeks of poverty and hunger. 

Bard exchanges a few words with the man at the gate, they glance back at you at one point before the new man suddenly declares that everything is in order. 

Before the approval slip thingy can be given back, though, a slouchy, long-browed, greasy man slinks up and snatches the paper and hisses, “Not so fast." 

This new dark-haired man reads over the papers, then looks up and observes the barrels lined up in his boat, "Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm. Only, they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

He drops the papers and takes a few steps forward, a weird delighted gleam in his eye at having caught the bargeman off guard. “If I recall correctly, you’re licensed as a bargeman, not a fisherman.” As he says this he picks up a fish from the barrel that Bombur is in, sneering when Bard replies. 

“That’s none of your business." 

“Wrong. It’s the Master’s business, which makes it my business- Oh.” He pauses when his eyes suddenly fall on you, his facial expression shifting slightly. “What have we here?" 

Bard looks over at you, then back at the man with irritation, "Who she is, is no concern of yours. But if you must know she is the sister of my past wife.” He lies smoothly and you find yourself feeling a bit impressed. 

“The sister of your past wife, you say?” He doesn’t seem to believe him as he saunters over towards where you’re sitting, “She’s very pretty if you look past them bruises on her face, but I do wonder why she would live outside of the city when your wife was born ‘ere." 

Oh, okay he’s attracted to you. That’s good. 

Well, it’s gross, but good because you can definitely put that to good use. 

You stand up and rack your brain for a fake name before you remember the name of one of the Elvish guards in Mirkwood, "Hello, sir. My name is Aerin.” Despite not wanting to be anywhere near this man, you take a step forward and offer a dazzling smile. 

He seems taken aback by your positive response, but not displeased for he also takes a step forward and bows slightly, “I am Alfrid, the right-hand man of the master of this town. At your service.” After he says that he throws the fish into the water and reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you try your best not to cringe. 

“Bard, you did not tell me there were such n-noble men living here in your town.” Alfrid wasn’t looking at your face, but if he was he’d see that you don’t look very happy. 

Bard stares at you blankly for a few moments. He knows what you’re doing, they all do except for Alfrid apparently, and he just feels so bad for your poor soul. 

The slimy man lets go of your hand and steps back, smiling at you with his crooked, odd teeth before turning back to Bard with the same scowl on his face. “Anyways, these fish are illegal." 

"Empty the barrel-”

Before he can finish you speak again. “Bard! How much longer is it going to be? I’m simply yearning to see my nieces and nephew again.” You put extra emphasis on the word yearning and look the creepy man directly in the eyes, smiling coyly before looking back at the dark-haired bargeman. “I know that your devilishly handsome friend here is cross with you, but I really must go see Ta-er- Tilda and the other two.” You think you got the name right. 

Flattery get’s you everywhere in life, because your seductive euphemism and shameless compliment seem to make him forget all about dumping the fish out over the edge of the barge. “Handsome?” Ugh, he sounds all too happy about that. 

“Aerin I’m afraid Alfrid is upset with me, so I’m not sure how much longer we will be.” Bard plays along, crossing his arms over his chest as he shakes his head, “Forgive me my dear, I pray that this won’t take much longer." 

Alfrid looks between the two of you a few times before settling to look at your face, a sickly pleasant smile coming to his face, "No, no. I won’t hold you any more.” He walks back a few paces and steps off the boat, raising his arm, “Raise the gates and welcome our new guest warmly." 

And just like that the gate is being raised and the lot of you are gliding through the entrance with no further obstacles. 

"Until we meet again, my dear.” He says as you pass by, that same unnerving smile on his face. 

You release an all too enthusiastic giggle at his words and wave with faux-shyness, turning only once you’re at least a few meters away.

As soon as you’re out of sight you collapse down on the box and start rubbing the back your hand against his coat, “Ewww, I can’t believe I let him kiss me.” You complain while still rubbing your hand in an attempt to wipe away the awful feeling. 

“I can’t either. That was quite the performance.” He sounds amused, and when you glare up at him he looks it too with only hints of sympathy, “If I hadn’t known better I would’ve truly thought you were taken by him." 

"Ugh, shut up.” You stop wiping your hand on the coat and look down at it as if you expect there to be something smeared all over it from his too wet lips. “God, maybe I should just cut it off." 

"No need for that. Allow me.” The bargeman leans down and takes your hand in his, lifting it up so he can press a kiss in the same place. “There." 

Holy shit. 

Your face goes hot and when he lets go you allow it to fall back to your side, "W-Well now you’ve indirectly kissed him, so while I may be fine now you’re stuck with the knowledge that your lips have technically touched his.”

At your words there is raging that comes from inside the barrels. 

Bard grimaces at your words, it seems he didn’t think of it like that, but he doesn’t allow that to deter him, “I need not worry about that for long, because once your friends get out of those barrels I’m afraid I won’t last much longer.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Or perhaps you can return the favor?" 

No one can hear it, but you’re screaming internally. 

The raging only gets louder, so you shake your head and stutter out, "N-No way, I don’t want your blood on my hands." 

He laughs at that, nodding along as he listens to the grumbles and yelling coming from the barrels of dead fish. "If I am to die anyways then surely you can make an exception.”

“You’re really pushing your luck, Bard! Your death is of when, not if anymore." 

—

Eventually you did get near his house, but then one of his kids came running up saying something about their house being watched, and so your poor friends ended up having to come through their toilet. 

Dwalin came in first, and the glare he threw at Bard was so withering and dark you nearly cried. Not really, but it was scary.

Bard only seemed to find it funny, though. 

Everyone is inside and wrapped up in record time (since it’s the only recorded instance of dwarves and a hobbit coming in from a toilet, it’s only natural that it would set a record), and none of them seem to happy about any of this. 

You get along with Bards children rather easily, his youngest is a total cutie pie, but ultimately after that fiasco at the gate you’ve got to hang out with the company a bit more so they don’t murder the poor bargeman. 

They’re given some extra clothes to change into and you elect to stand outside with his daughters while everyone changes, conversing with the younger one about her hobbies and other things she likes. 

Eventually their brother pokes his head outside and says it’s okay for you all to go back in, and when you do you’re met with the sight of shirt dresses and too long coats. 

You feel bad for them right away and head over to where they’re all hanging out by the fire, your eyes immediately falling on the shivering Bilbo.

Right away you go to his side and sit next to him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders to share some of your own heat (since you dried off quite a while ago and changed your jeans out for a pair of leggings you had in your backpack). You pull him closer into your side so his cheek rests against your chest, rubbing his arm lightly to create some warmer friction."I hope you don’t get sick…” You mumble worriedly, looking down at his red face. “Oh god, you’re already going red. You’re not coming down with a cold, right?" 

There’s some laughter from the others but you ignore it since you’re suddenly feeling very worried for the small hobbit. 

He doesn’t have much body-mass or fat, so surely he’s absolutely freezing. 

"Oin, maybe you should come check on Bilbo!” You call, looking up to see that they’re all laughing at you and not something stupid like usual. 

You pause and look around in bewilderment, “What’s so funny?" 

Nobody responds to you, instead they just keep on chuckling and laughing like they’ve just been given an entire stand-up comedy performance. 

"Gosh, let the lad breath, Y/N!” Bofur exclaims between laughs, only causing everyone else to laugh harder. 

You furrow your eyebrows and look back down at Bilbo, still completely confused, “What are you talking about? He’s breathing just fine, isn’t he?" 

This goes on for a few more minutes, you being baffled and asking questions while everyone else takes jabs and makes jokes, before you finally realize what they’re laughing at. And the only reason you realize is because of the very inappropriate comment Kili makes (despite looking a little pale).

"Hey Y/N, I’m feeling rather cold too, can I have a turn?" 

And then there’s more boisterous guffaws and unmanly giggles. 

You look back down at Bilbo and see that you’ve pressed his poor face right into your breast, and while you definitely didn’t do it to be weird or anything it seems that you’ve successfully embarrassed him. 

"Oh you complete idiots!” You yelp, loosening your hold on Bilbo so he isn’t pressed so firmly against you, “He's cold !” You cry disapprovingly, shaking your head at these immature and lecherous jests, “You wouldn’t be joking like that if I were a guy. Or if it were you!” You grumble, looking away from their overly humored gazes in favor of looking at the wall. 

They don’t quit their laughing for another minute or so, but when they do calm down you and the poor hobbit are both successfully humiliated. 

“And this is why Bard is my favorite.” You hiss at them, eyes narrowed with an irritated expression on your face.

There’s no more laughter after you say that, and you feel smug at the frustrated and angry looks that pass over their faces. 

“I can’t believe you let those men kiss you. They’re all hideous.” Dwalin growls, crossing his arms over his chest like he usually does. “You could do much better." 

"Kiss me? My hand you mean?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in question, “Hey, if I didn’t play up that charm y'all woulda been found out so fast. You should be thanking me." 

"Wait, so it wasn’t an actual kiss?” Bofur pipes up next, an expression that looks way too relieved on his face. 

“Um, no. Why would I let them kiss my mouth? I care about you guys and all but I gotta draw the line somewhere." 

"Maybe not that other guy, but you sure seem fond of Bard.” Fili grumbles.

“Oh my god, this again? Are we really gonna have this conversation again?” You really thought they were over it. How foolish of you.

Nori sits up a bit and exclaims, “That was before he kissed your hand!" 

You groan over dramatically and throw your head back, "Guyyysss,” you begin in a whiny voice, “It was my hand! My flipping hand!" 

A few of them huff, but nobody says anything else about it. Thank god. 

—

When Bard returns from whatever he’s doing the dwarves immediately bombard him about the weapons they were promised, and he leaves to go get them.

Only, when he comes back he’s met with a lot of outrage cause his weapons are pretty shitty. 

You watch from the opposite side of the table as Bard, looking at the weird grappling hooks and stabby 'weapons’ he provided them with. Also some weird hammers too. 

From what you’ve seen, these guys only accept the best of the best when it comes to weaponry, so this just ain’t cutting it. "Um, is this all you’ve got?” You wonder out loud, looking at the pathetic bundle of makeshift things. “Like, you haven’t got any swords or fancy things like that? These guys are total divas about that kinda stuff, so…" 

The others around you grumble at your slight jab and at the poor quality of the things they were given until they start to complain about paying him for weapons and these being trash, bla bla bla. 

Yeah, you totally called it. 

They all continue to argue and Bard says something about an armory, but your attention is grabbed by the sight of Kili and his old man walking stick. 

He’s struggling to sit down, no doubt from the awful wound on his leg, so you zoom over quietly (but quickly) and say in a hushed voice, "Hey, you’re not lookin’ very good, Kili." 

The brown-haired prince doesn’t look up at you right away, but when he does you can see very clearly just how pale and tired he’s looking. 

You take a seat next to him and place your hand on his non-injured knee, glancing over to make sure everyone else is distracted before whispering, "Are you okay?" 

He doesn’t do or say anything at first, looking down at your hand for a moment before looking back up at your face, "I’m fine." 

Fucking liar. 

"Kili, come on. Everyone else might just take that and roll with it, but you’re clearly not. You need to rest more." 

Your concern only seems to frustrate him, though, for he rolls his eyes and shakes his head stubbornly, "No, I already told you I’m alright. This will pass, and when it does you’re going to feel really silly for being so worried." 

You fix a glare at him, not removing your hand still, and shoot back, "And when it doesn’t, you’re gonna get your ass kicked by me. If you’re not gonna rest or deal with this, then at least let me clean it up so it doesn’t get infected." 

He stares at you for a few moments as if trying intimidate you into dropping it, but you return the look with a steely glare that says you’re not asking. 

Eventually he sighs and drops his head back, "Fine. Do as you wish." 

"Good choice." 

You pull your trusty backpack off your back and open it up, looking through it quickly to see if there’s anything there that you could use. When you catch sight of some cotton balls your expression brightens. "Oh, nice.” You take the bag out and place them next to you, then grab the water skin that they gave you and some tweezers you kept in your makeup case. 

Without hesitation you move onto the floor on the other side of him and kneel down so you’re closer to eye level with his nasty wound. 

Ew. 

You unwind the wrap slowly, glancing up occasionally to make sure you’re not hurting him, and once you’re done you drop it on the ground and crinkle up your nose at the unsightly hole in his leg. “Yikes, you’re the biggest fucking liar in the world." 

He doesn’t get a chance to retort because right away you gently grab the front of his leg to add a bit of press to test just how tender it is and if it’s still bleeding. 

It is. 

More blood begins to well up and you barely keep yourself from gagging, and he groans quietly in pain. 

You take your tweezers and cotton balls and place them on the bench next to you, then go for your waterskin. 

A handful of cotton balls and a bit of splashing later, and you’ve got some wet cotton to work with. 

The tweezers tips clink together softly when you close them a few times just to make sure they work right, then you grab one of the cotton balls with it and begin to gently clean up the area around his arrow wound. 

Very quickly the white fluff of the wet cotton turns red and smushy, so you drop it with the gross bandaging and grab another. 

This process of cleaning, dropping, and getting another goes on until it looks mostly cleansed, and once it is you begin to search for something else to bind his leg with. 

You sit there and think for a moment before an idea strikes you. 

Once said idea comes to your head, you sit up a bit straighter and wrap your arm around his thigh from the bottom, reaching up to touch your shoulder to see if your sleeve can properly wrap around his leg. 

"Uh, Y-Y/N? What are you doing?” He mumbles, looking at you oddly. 

“I’m trying to see if it’ll fit…” You say absentmindedly, slowly letting go. 

He chokes on air and splutters, “What?!" 

You don’t reply and instead pull both your arms out of your sleeves, lifting it a bit so your head goes in and you can get your arms out properly, and once both arms are poking through the hole for your head, you pull your head through too and secure it just above your chest. "There we go." 

Once that awkward sight is through with, you grab the sleeve of the arm just wrapped around his leg and begin trying to rip it off. 

It looks so much easier in the movies. 

You pull and tug and even try to bite at it, but it won’t give like you thought it would. 

After a minute or so of trying to rip it off with brute strength, you stop and glare at the offending piece of fabric, "Awh, freak…" 

You put your arms back into your shirt properly and return them through the sleeves, standing with irritation on your face, "Don’t move a muscle or I’ll cry and tell everyone you called me fat.” You threaten before approaching Sigrid, Bard’s oldest daughter. 

The two of you whisper for a moment, then disappear into another room only to appear again minutes later. 

You’re now wearing a soft red blouse (one of her nicer shirts) with your long sleeved white (it’s not really white anymore) ringer shirt hanging over your arm. 

With quick steps you walk over to Fili, who was speaking with everyone else, and tug lightly at the back of his borrowed shirt. 

He pauses in his listening and turns to look up at you, raising an eyebrow in question. “You’re wearing something new.” He comments. 

You ignore said comment and hold out your shirt to him, “I need you to get the sleeves off. It’s for Kili." 

Before he can ask questions you go back to said brother and kneel back down, taking a dry cotton ball to soak up the blood that had begun to gather while you were busy. 

Right before you finish with dabbing at the blood, Fili approaches with your now tattered and destroyed shirt, both sleeves held out to you in pretty good condition (though the same can’t be said for the torso…) all things considered. 

"Thank you Fili.” You beam, taking the sleeves from him without hesitation. 

With deft movements you tie the ends of the sleeves together tightly, pulling on it to make sure the knot is good, before beginning to wrap it around his leg. “Do I have to do it tightly, or is that not a good idea?" 

"Wrap it tightly enough to where it’ll stay on and clot the wound, but not too tight that it’ll make his leg numb.” Fili responds, crouching down to watch as you begin to gently but firmly wind it around his thigh. 

“Like this?” You ask, pulling on it a bit to make sure it doesn’t loosen or fall. 

“Yeah, that’s good." 

Once you’re done, you tuck it under one of the first coils and tie it firmly. "Is it too tight?” You ask, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows. 

Kili shakes his head, releasing a shaky sigh, before reaching down to smooth his hand over it, “Thank you, Y/N…" 

A small smile comes to your face as you get up to sit down next to him. "Where would you fools be without me?” Your voice is good natured and humorous, but he can see the worry hidden in your expression. 

“Probably dead.” He jokes, looking over at Fili who laughs lightly. 

“That sounds about right." 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders much like you did to Bilbo earlier, looking down at the stark white of your now ruined shirt being used as a binding for his leg, "So long shirt.” You mumble. 

You look back at Fili and open your mouth to say something, but you cut yourself off when you feel a weight pressing against your left boob. 

Fili starts to laugh, and you don’t even have to look to know that he’s trying to be sly. 

Kili elected to lean against you much like Bilbo earlier, and though your eye twitches and the thought of flicking his nose passes your mind, you allow it.

He’s wounded, but as soon as he gets better you're definitely going to kick his ass.

And you tell him as much. 

“You’re so freaking lucky you got shot.”