#instead of why don't you stay it should be why don't you die sung in the bg lile pls 😭

[yilingbee]

there is something fishy about nampheung, she looked scared shitless the entire time, that is not a woman who has lost her memory, that is a woman trying very hard not to step out of line and fall victim to korn's wrath

[skylarstark4826]

Cuba has the best doctors. After fighting and eating her way through the rest of the Caribbean islands, she needed a break. To heal, and to think.

Wakanda was her home, yet it felt impossible to return. Her purpose, her destiny was to die protecting her home, and now, she didn't know what to do. What was all this training for? Why did she get her ass kicked in Jamaica, or her lip busted in Barbados? Why was she scouring islands searching for secret schools of the best of the best fighters? What was she bleeding for? What was she living for?

A sob left her lip as she pulled a green balm from her bag. When she bought it from the grandmother offered her refugue, the older woman placed it gently in her hands. She pointed to Okoye's temple, staring right through her, and whispered, "tu maletín."

She rarely wore her kimoyo beads. Reminded her too much of home. She hadn't been wearing them then, and she wasn't now. They stay in the her backpack, carried on her shoulders with all the hurt and pain that she has.

The pads of her fingers were rough on her bruises, and she was confused. They have never strung this hard before, grew this purple before, stained this long before. But maybe they did. Maybe they never left. Maybe they stayed from her first year as a Dora, or from fighting her exile husband, or from the intergalactic invaders, or from the bridge and Sea Leopard. Maybe from her ego.

Have I not given everything? Maybe she didn’t give enough. She should've died on that bridge. Instead of returning home a failure. Doras do not fail. Generals do not fail. They die. In battle, for Wakanda. Everything for Wakanda.

The dreadful tears were back. She clawed at them in frustration, but they kept coming. And they burned like hell. Sore muscles, cuts and bruises painted her body, and a sob broke through her teeth, who was she? What is she? Who will she bleed for? Who will she live for?

The sand was so warm under her feet that she expected it to have a heartbeat. The sounds of the shoreline, of the seagulls and wind, felt like music. A melody of salt and blue, a chorus of sun and sand. She breathe into nature - a tradition she learned from Trinidad Orisha practitioners. As her tears became bearable, she did not push them away. She embraced them.

She removed her sandals first, humming a song of her childhood. Her mother wrote her a song that told of Okoye - the legendary woman of war and peace. The balm cooled her screaming ankle as her voice raised to sing. She worked up her leg, soothing herself as she removed her shorts to get some bruises

"Oko- ye. Oko- ye," she sung as she worked her shirt off her shoulder. "yomelele! Usana! Ikhuselekile! Oko-ye!"

Okoye. Strong, baby, safe! Okoye. Her mother's words comforted her for only a moment. As she glanced across the tide, her mouth dropped in horror that a pair of piercing eyes were staring back. "Shark man!" she growled. When he disappeared into the water, she lunged for her bag to snatch her beads and retracted her spear. Her arms whined in tear, but her heart pounded out of her chest. You can take the warrior out of the army, but the war is never over.

Soon, he surfaced on the shore. Seeing her furious stance and an angry fear in her eyes, he hunched over, arching his back to make himself seem smaller as he surrender to her. "I am not here to fight," her beads translated.

"You should not be here at all," she bite back. "Return to your home, Fish Man, or I will send you back there myself."

He laughed. "You don't seem to be in the state to do so."

She twirled her blade, not taking being mocked lightly much like her sore shoulder burned from overuse. "Do you wish to test that theory?"

"No," he, calmly, approached her at his full height and removed the sack from around his torso to reveal fruits and offerings. "I wish to speak with you. I have brought food and-"

She rested her spear next to her. "You stalked me from island to island to talk and eat?" When he nodded with a goofy smile on his face, she rolled her eyes and moved to finish applying her balm as he explained the spread that he had prepared.

Once she finished, she told him of her first mission as a Dora, and he spoke of his coming-of-age ceremony that resulted in his shark teeth scarification beautifully etched on his stomach. They developed into a smooth conversation of laughter and singing and dancing. For a moment, the Mighty Okoye forgot about being disgraced, about war, about Wakanda, about this man being from a superpower tribe underneath the oceans. Because for a moment, as the sun settled, and the cold warm forced her back into her clothes, he looked at her in a way that she hadn't seen since-

Where is her treacherous husband now? And she placed her hand on his shoulder to keep him at bay. He respected it, but couldn't help but laugh at her sudden shyness. She did her best to avoid his eyes, and he whispered to her neck, "What is troubling your mind? Can you not meet my eyes?"

"I cannot," the softness of her voice shocked him. She was on the verge of tears. After hours of joy and wonder, what could have driven her to this point?

"Why not?" His hands snaked against her waist. Both her hands shot to his shoulders, but they didn't push. She was keeping herself steady.

"Because you are looking at me like my husband used to," she thought that would send him running, but he only hummed in affirmation.

"Why does he not look at you like I am looking at you anymore?" his breath danced around her neck. She shivered as a tear broken through its seal.

"Because we do not see each other anymore," she cried. "He is a traitor, and I am an exile."

"Why would your nation send away their greatest warrior? I do not understand. Your place is with Wakanda!" he muttered.

"I have failed her," and a hot wetness washed her face. "I have failed my home. I am dead to Wakanda. I should’ve died on that bridge. I am not strong enough to do the one thing that I was trained to do."

"Is this why you are taking your pilgrimage? To punish yourself?" he spat. She snapped her neck to glare at him. They were nearly nose to nose, but neither cared. Both filled with pain and sorrow.

"I am not punishing myself," she shot back.

"You are!"

"I am not strong enough!"

"You are! Have you forgotten our last meeting? How it ended with me flying back into the water? I-"

"You are not the only enemy that Wakanda has! I must be ready to-"

"I am not enemy of your people. You are not an enemy of mine," when he spoke, he moved closer to her lips. "You have exiled yourself from your people because you feel shame. I do not know how your husband lost his way, but you are not him. Even as you venture far from your home, you are preparing yourself to fight for it. You are strong."

He was dangerously close to kissing her, and that scared the shit out of her.

"Attuma?" she said his name in alarm and understanding. That his people to said his name with admiration, that his parents, too worried for his mind, that he, too, was troubled with the balance of war and peace.

"Okoye," he whispered. "In your journey around the world, I hope you will stop close enough to Talokan, and allow me to teach you how strong you already are, and how soft you can allow yourself to be."

He kissed her, and his lips felt like the balm on her bruises and a song on her tongue.

[torc87]

How I learned that Opera is not for me because fan fiction has spoiled me - An Essay.

So I went to a screening of Puccini's Turandot this evening. Metropolitan Opera so it was Beautifully performed, Beautifully sung, lovely costumes and stage settings ( ok, those lost out a bit from not being live but not by much) .... And I was Annoyed to Death by EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER.

Like, I genuinely wanted the main characters to be executed already annoyed.

And sure, watching requires some suspension of disbelief. Love at first sight, with someone who just ordered a man executed, ok. Fine. But...

So to start. The main male lead, the romantic prince risking his life to wed Turandot, is a Selfish freaking asshole. Like omg, he has No redeeming qualities.

First off, how selfish is it to abandon the father he Just found, the blind father that just minutes ago he was delighted to see alive, in order to risk his life on a bunch of riddles that dozens of other men failed to answer.

Like, I don't know if it's pure arrogance believing he alone can win, but it is flat out selfish of him to try when his father begs him to help him and stay with him. He very selfishly puts his filial responsibility of Liu, the slave who has taken care of his father till now. It's self centeredness of the highest order. From the moment he ignores not just the advisors telling him dozens of men have tried so he will be executed too, but also his father's begging? I have zero sympathy for him.

Next follows the three advisors scene. And that one...i am confused by. Like, how does that fit the rest of the Opera? What does the three advisors longing for home in the country have to do with Turandot's bloody challenge? Even if she wed someone, they would still be advisors and still reading their sacred texts in the capital instead of their house far away with a lake and a forest.

They annoy me both bc I don't see how their complaint has anything to do w Turandot's wedding and also bc...if you miss your house in the country, quit, resign and go. You arent slaves, you are civil servants in high positions. Ones I presume you worked for to get. Pretty sure you won't be executed for resigning or asking for a vacation. That scene just didn't fit at all.

Ok, next.

Turandot is admittedly horrible. Bc ok, having her suitors killed? Fine, she's justified. They knew the risks, knew she didn't want to marry them, they made the choice to pursue her against her will anyway.

( also how haven't all the countries whose princes were executed start a war yet? Good diplomacy this is not)

But ok, no sympathy for the suitors. She doesn't wish to wed or have sex with anyone. Fair enough, maybe she's gay or asexual or just doesn't want to go from princess to possession. Ignore that and try to coerce her with the challenge and you basically brought the consequences on yourself.

Calaf included in this by the way. He's an asshole to ignore that she doesn't want to be wed and just focus on his lust and how he desires to make her his. The main romantic hero is a Selfish asshole. Greaaat, pretty sure that's not what Puccini intended.

But then Turandot also orders the city not to sleep ( what is That meant to accomplish?) And has an old blind man and a servant girl tortured.

And yeaaah, at that point she stops being sympathetic. She is violent and cruel in her fear and hurts innocents. She must be doing more than executing her suitors bc the entire city is terrified of her and convinced she will have them tortured if they don't figure out Calaf's name. Great, so that's the main heroine who in theory should be getting a happy ending...and is a horrible human being.

Who do we have left?

Three advisors again. The scene where they offer Calaf women and jewels and power if he tells them his name. Um...do they think he forgot that if he gives them his name he will die at dawn? Not much use for those jewels if he is dead. Why not try bribing him to just go away? Pretty sure the princess will be delighted and will reward them if they manage it, name or no name.

So, advisors are annoying.

Emperor? Not annoying just kinda absent. Not really an active enough character to be annoying.

Liu and Timur.

So not much to say about Timur. He could probably try harder to keep Calaf from taking the challenge. And the stereotype of blindness as helplessness is...not great. Like, he was a king, deposed or not. What, nothing was left? It would be much more original to have him be an active strong character. Hell, have him kill himself instead of Liu, a noble sacrifice. Kingly. And ok, it's an 800 year old tale, have to let sone things go. Deep breath.

Then there's Liu. Noble, caring, self sacrificing Liu. Why is she annoying? Well first, bc she could have just lied and said that the stranger had helped her out when her master fell and didn't introduce himself. I know, suspension of disbelief. But it is annoying.

And second....Calaf does Not deserve that sort of devotion. The selfish son of a bitch watched his father be roughed up and Liu tortured in front of him. All he has to do to stop it was say 'i will leave and willingly refuse to marry you'. There, he lives, and torture stops.

That sort of suicidal devotion bc he was kind to her once...its annoying and to me felt very undeserved. More like self effacement than love.

So then Liu dies. And Calaf is intended and tells Turandot she is cruel and bloodthirsty. Like yeah, you only now got that? Not when she had a man executed in front of you when you first saw her?

But you still love her and want to marry her despite the bloodthirstyness? Greaaat. Love your morals Calaf.

So then Calaf metaphorically rapes her. Like, I know it's just a kiss but she is clearly unwilling and I'm pretty sure that kiss represents sexual congress with all the talk of stirring her desire.

And ugh, I hate 18th century 'forced kisses are romantic and she's sure to want more' thing. Modern perspective interferes a bit.

But then he gives her his name and puta his life in her hands and she agrees to marry him and it's all happy ending love won, right?

Um, did Calaf forget that his father and Liu just killed themselves not an hour before? That he promised revenge for it?

Real happy union that.

But yeah, both the prince and Turandot are horrible people who deserve each other.

And at first I wanted a fanfiction with a happy ending to fix it, maybe have the three of them end up together...but now I dont like any if the characters and want to rewrite the whole thing to Make them decent people w logical reasons for what they do...and THEN have the three of them end up together.

I've been spoiled with fanfiction usually easily available to fix crappy canon. Except I think this is crappy enough I want a bottom up type rewrite. And I doubt many people care enough about it to have written it so...guess I might have to try.

.

[bill-y]

INURE

Peeta Mellark x male reader

[ We all know who Katniss Everdeen is, but what if Primrose hadn’t been chosen but another boy from another unfortunate family? YOUR family. ]

Info: This is basically a reader insert and I’ve changed a few rules, not ground breaking though. The reader is a bit bland for now but I plan for his actions to be different. Because he has different moral grounds from Katniss and such. Would appreciate feedback! FEEL FREE TO POINT OUT TYPOS. GRAMMARLY SOMETIMES DOESN’T DO MY DYSLEXIC ASS JUSTICE

Part five: Click here, butters, elpacho, last meheecan.

Part six: You're here, dumb!

Part seven: Finally here!

Wattpad account: L0calxDumbass

Peeta and I end up helping Haymitch to his compartment, the reek of vomit and alcohol wasn't exactly pleasant.  Since we couldn't set him down the bed, we ended up hauling him to the bathtub, setting the shower on him. 

Peeta gave me an odd look when I laughed awhile ago; there was no humour in the situation after all. Forming a good impression wasn't really on my agenda. "It's alright; I can take it from here," he said.

I nodded, "Okay," I nodded, putting my lips together. "Do you—need me to call those Capitol people?" I asked, stumbling over my words. My confidence seemed to have been drained at some point.

He shook his head "No, I don't want them," he responded. I nod for the last time and head to my own room, relieved that I don't have to wash putrid vomit off Haymitch's chest hair, or something. Though it would be the perfect "revenge" for the people working here, I get why he doesn't want to see them. 

I wonder, why does he want to help such a wreck? Was he simply kind like the time he gave me bread? Or was he using this to gain Haymitch's favour? A feeling of nervousness bubbled up within me, a kind Peeta Mellark was way more dangerous than an unkind one. Not everyone in the district can afford to be kind, so kind people make such a mark on me.

I looked at the packet of cookies at the table beside the fancy bed—a lump formed in my throat. Kindness would've been nice, but not in this situation. I sighed, taking my attention to the window instead. 

There stood a lonely yellow flower, a dandelion. It took me back to the schoolyard, all those years ago. My eyes had just left Peeta's bruised face when I saw that dandelion; hope rose within me that moment, I plucked it gently from the ground and hurried home. I grabbed a small, broken bucket and grabbed Nal's hand and headed to a meadow. It was filled with the same flowers.

It was the first moment where Nal smiled after our Father's death. He loved the way the flowers smelled and looked. However, he was quite upset because we had to eat them, with the rest of the bakery bread. My father loved his plants, maybe a bit too much. 

I remember countless hours we spent in the woods looking for a specific type of plant, whether for eating or for medicine. He had me memorize them by heart, which took a couple of years because I got distracted halfway through. 

The next day, we were off to school. I hung around the edge of the meadow after, contemplating whether I should jump the fence. My mother couldn't get a job, well, she didn't want to. She thought the whole District would shame her the moment she stepped out of our crumbling home. It made no sense to me; we had nothing to lose anymore.

Which is exactly why I went under the fence, retrieved the old, leather-bound daggers my father made from scraps and wood. It was pretty frail, but if you handle it carefully and throw it properly, it won't break—most of the time.

I didn't go beyond twenty yards that day; I didn't feel confident enough to go deeper, fearing I'd get lost in the forest. I took home a small rabbit that day, we hadn't had meat for months, so it honestly looked like a full course meal, like the one we were served in the tribute train.

My mother isn't the greatest cook, so she burnt a couple of bits, mainly the thighs. But it still filled us. The woods became my second home, escaping the sad atmosphere my mother gave off and the pressure the Peacekeepers would regularly make us feel. 

The hunting started slow, but each time I went under, I went deeper. I stole eggs from nests, jumped from tree to tree and managed to shoot a squirrel or two down. I struggled with the fish; my father would always throw his dagger to the fish with little to no effort. Whenever I'd throw mine, it would miss. It took me a couple of times to figure out the water distorts my vision.

The plants were no effort; I knew which one to pick, which ones were poisonous. The signs of danger used to terrify me back to the fence until I gathered enough courage to climb the tall trees, then I stuck with it, not liking the feeling of being chased. The wild dogs would always leave me alone after a while.

On July 15th, I finally signed up for the tesserae, carrying the first batch of grains and oils in the same broken bucket I used to gather those dandelions. I patched it up with some scrap bark. On the 15th of every month, I would put my name once again. I still had to hunt; grains weren't enough. We still needed soap, milk, thread and many more things we used to have. I began to trade in the hob, learning how to hold my tongue in the process. My father used to trade there as well; he used to do all the talking while I watched, stayed silent. 

And so I simply tossed the game I had to their tables. They caught on fairly quick; I'd only speak up when it came to bargaining or when I'd change what'd I'd buy. Or when I would insult wild dog soup. My father was a charismatic man, always able to persuade people to buy whatever. Not me, though, I was like a sore thumb. Painful, to talk to at least.

My mother wasn't very enthralled with the fact that I had been hunting, too much like my father, she said. That's when we argued, "Don't be stupid like your father!" she shouted. I remember my face contorting to anger, how my fists clenched as she continued to scream. 

I finally exploded, "Why don't you go out and get a job if you don't want me hunting, then? You'd rather we starve?!" I said, slamming the table. "I won't die, I won't end up like father! I won't be Capitol's pig, neither was he!" 

"But if you do die?" She argued back, tears flowing down her cheeks as she gripped both my shoulders. "I'm only thinking of you, Y/n!"

I scoffed, glaring at her, "If you're thinking of us so much, then why aren't you helping us?! If I don't die being accused of rebellion, then I'll die because of those stupid games because of you!"

"Don't blame me for this! It was your father's fault for being brash—" She reasoned, but I cut her off by pushing her off me. I stared at her as if she grew three heads. "They asked you," I whispered, "All you did was nod, you could've lied."

Her green eyes shook at my words, "Lie to the Peacekeepers? The Capitol? And get us killed as well?! I only what your father wanted," 

"They didn't have anything on father! It was your voice that gave it away! It's your fault that he's dead, now we're over here starving because you can't get over yourself—"

Then there was a sting on my cheek. She had slapped me. My eyes landed on a crying Kunal; guilt surged through me, so I ran. I ran to the woods and slept on top of a tree, humming a soft tune to the mockingjays next to me. They listened and sung back. I fell asleep to their lullaby, surprisingly, not falling off.

I found my hand on the same cheek my mother slapped that day. I was going to die the same way I said, how ironic. I won't be able to apologize or tell my mother I loved her anymore. A sigh left my lips as I continued to stare out the window. 

I clenched my fists, punching the wall as my breath hitched. I let out a groan, holding the stinging part of my hand. I glared at the wall, grumbling under my breath before I decided to fall asleep, not wanting to think of my regrets and what I could've done. As I closed my eyes, I only hoped my dreams would be pleasant. 

"Up! Up! Up! It's a big big day!"

Effie Trinket's voice awoke me from my dreamless slumber. I groaned, muttering profanities as she left my compartment. I tried to imagine what it was like in that stupid wig--- well--- head of hers, it made my head hurt.

I had fallen asleep in the green shirt, causing it to become wrinkled, the. Not that I cared, there will be some stylist stripping me anyways. I shuddered at the thought of Capitol people touching me, what a nightmare. My eyes landed on the packet of cookies on my bedside table. I decided to grab it.

I entered the dining compartment, still half-lidded and yawning. Effie Trinket brushes me with a cup of black coffee. She was muttering obscenities, probably because of Haymitch. Peeta held a roll, looking somewhat embarrassed  "Sit down! Sit down!" Haymitch said.

Peeta flashed me a smile, amused by how dishevelled I look. To be fair, I wasn't a morning person, I find waking up to be a tiring task. I rubbed my eyes, the packet of cookies still in my hands as I slid down the chair.

They served an enormous platter of food. I'd hate to admit it, but I was starving. So for the first time, I decided to stab it with the fork, not sure what to do with the cookies so I pocketed them. I figured I'd eat them much. . . much later.

I chewed slowly, glare on my face as my eyes struggled to remain open. I didn't even notice the orange juice next to me because of it. Peeta nudged me, handing me a cup of brown, rich liquid. It was quite warm. "They call it hot chocolate," he said. "It's quite good,"

My green eyes moved from him to the cup, then back to him. As if asking for permission. I sniffed, muttering a "thank you," before I took the cup from him. The moment the hot chocolate touched my lips I felt awake.

Not only was it hot, but it was also amazing. I've never tasted anything like this before. Coffee was a luxury, this I cannot even fathom. After I've drained my cup, I put it down and muster a sheepish smile. "Is there more?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

Effie seemed to be excited by my sudden interest. "Glad you're finally appreciating the finer things," she quipped as another cup was passed to me. "Right," I responded, gripping the cup tightly.

I stopped eating when I felt somewhat full, only asking for more hot chocolate. Peeta is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in his hot chocolate.

Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be a mess again by the time we reach the Capitol.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I said, taking a sip of the hot liquid. He grinned, "Here's some advice, stay alive," then he burst out laughing.

My brows furrowed, "Ha. Ha." I let out, unamused. I glanced to Peeta, surprised to see Hardness in his eyes. Usually, he looked mild. "That's very funny," he said as if adding to my remark. He suddenly lashed out at the glass in Haymitch's hands. It shattered, spilling the blood-red liquid on the floor. "Only not to us,"

Haymitch took this opportunity to punch Peeta straight in the jaw, knocking the boy out of his chair before turning around to reach for more spirits. I stopped him, driving a knife into the table, between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers.

I expected some sort of retaliation, but that didn't come. "Oh, well what is this?" he said. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

Peeta rose from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. He started to raise it to the red mark on his jaw.

"No," Haymitch stopped him. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena."

"That’s against the rules," said Peeta. "Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren’t caught, even better," said Haymitch. He turns to me. “Can you hit anything other than the table?"

I shrugged, pulling the knife off the table. "Your head or. . ." I said, before tossing the knife in between the seams of two panels. If I was confident at one thing, it's my aim. But not so much with a bow.

"Stand over here. Both of you," ordered Haymitch, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces. “Well, you’re not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.”

Peeta and I don’t question this. The Hunger Games aren’t a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors. Though I do enjoy the fact that the stylists are likely going to have a hard time styling me.

"All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you," said Haymitch. "But you have to do everything I say,"

Of course, there's a catch. "Fine," Peeta said while I shrugged carelessly, sipping on my hot chocolate. "In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don’t resist," Instructed Haymitch

Oh, well there goes my plan on being a general nuisance. Damn you, Haymitch.

He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains made them easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

Peeta and I stood in silence. My finger raised, mouth opening but I decided it wasn't worth it and awkwardly shuffled to one of the windows. He seemed to have caught on, however. "Nice view, isn't it?" he joked.

"I guess if you're blind," I answered dryly, raising the warm cup to my lips. "Sophisticated darkness, my favourite type," I finished.

He chuckled, walking next to me, the train slowing on cue. My muscles tensed as the sunlight entered the compartment. It was blinding. After my eyes adjusted I finally saw the Capitol.

I would be lying if I said it wasn't beautiful. Rainbow hued buildings that tower to the sky, possibly beyond. Shiny cars rolling on the fancy, clean pavement streets. The cameras failed to capture its beauty. It would've been perfect if not for the fact that the oddly dressed colours, wearing blizzard wigs and painted faces exist.

They looked painfully artificial. I much prefer the natural tones of district 12. "Eugh, how do they look at themselves?" I muttered, catching the attention of Peeta, who chuckled at my comment.

Huh, I forgot that he was there.

The same disgusting people began to point at us, enthralled. I was sickened, they couldn't wait to watch us kill each other like wild wolves. I suppose that's better than ending up at soup.

I stepped back, a scowl on my face. No longer able to stand the obnoxious attires and the mocking smiles of scums. Peeta held his ground, smiling and waving at them.

He only stopped when the train stopped at the station, blocking up from their view. "Who knows?" he said. "Some of them may be rich."

My body seemed to freeze as I took one last sip of the now-luke warm hot chocolate. That's when I realized, I had misjudged him. Not that I can read people well.

Which made sense, if I could I would've known that his father visiting me, offering to help Haymitch only to challenge him and now, waving and smiling at those slugs. He had a plan in mind.

He hasn't accepted his death yet. Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me bread was fighting hard.

And that terrified me.

word count: 2.8k

Hey guys! sorry for the long wait! Had to take a break!

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@nin3s