#haley writes

That had made her smile, even though it hadn’t reached her eyes. When she’d laughed it off and said of course not, he hadn’t pushed her on it. He rarely had. Why hadn’t he?

He hadn’t thought about it after that. She clearly had, though, because weeks later, when they were crawling through the Deep Roads to try to get home, she turned to him while Anders and Fenris were asleep. She’d taken a blow from a hurlock earlier that day and they’d had to camp early, even though she had protested she was fine since Anders had helped.

Am I going to die?

He had shaken his head with a scowl and promised, No, but Bartrand will.

In hindsight, he was too blinded by his own anger to have noticed the haunted look in her eyes. She hadn’t been talking about her injury. He didn’t think she’d been talking about the Deep Roads, either, but she hadn’t said anything else. Instead, she went to sleep, and by the time they were ready to move again, she’d plastered on a confident smile and said, Time waits for no one!

Am I going to die?

Her mother had been killed in the worst way possible, her brother hadn’t come home for the funeral, and their city was on fire because of a book. The nobles were herded like lambs to a slaughter to the upper floor of Viscount’s Keep. The Arishok had beheaded Viscount Dumar and challenged Hawke to a duel. He knew that if he glanced at her hands, her fingers would be digging into the palms of her gloves to keep from shaking. Varric had admired how she always tried to project that she had everything under control, for everyone else’s benefit. Years later, he thought that maybe that wasn’t a good thing, after all.

Nah, he’d said, forcing a jovial tone and wry grin. She didn’t need to know how concerned he was, even as Aveline glanced at him incredulously. He’s just big. Go get him, Hawke.

And she had. She’d emerged as the Champion of Kirkwall. When he toasted to her newfound fame at the Hanged Man, he hadn’t noticed the strain around her smile…or maybe he’d just chosen not to.

Am I going to die?

He was her best man at her wedding. It had been a small, private affair in the garden of the Hawke Estate. She’d gotten ready in her room with Oriana’s help while he’d read through the well-wishers’ letters and the public’s opinion on her impending nuptials in a horrible Orlesian accent, just to hear her laugh. He’d even managed to get a snort out of her when he’d tried his hand at a Starkhaven one.

To get you used to it, he had explained as her eyes had crinkled good-naturedly in his direction through the mirror.

When the time came to go outside, however, she’d seemed to freeze on the stairs, hand clamped tightly around the railing. Her eyes had caught on the recently hung portrait of her mother, delivered a week prior. When her gaze flicked to him, she looked frightened, almost. It wasn’t an expression he saw on her often.

You’ll be fine, Hawke, he told her gently, holding a hand out. Come on. Choir Boy’s waiting.

Later, as he watched her dance with their friends and her new husband, he wondered if he should’ve said more.

Why do you always ask if you’re going to die? Varric had finally asked after Blondie had blown their lives to hell. Why hadn’t he asked sooner? Why did he never talk about anything real with her?

Her hands were shaking, he remembered. She’d just killed their friend, their city was on fire, and she was barely holding it together. The scene was vivid in his mind, despite it being nearly five years ago, because it was one of the few times he could ever remember her holding eye contact with someone.

You told him once that it’s not a good story unless the hero dies.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to respond, with everything going on. Later, they were all too busy with the fallout and reconstruction to help, and the following year, she’d left. To himself, he could admit that he felt ashamed of the way he didn’t write to her as much as he said he would. He had blamed it on being busy with reconstruction and later he’d blamed it on getting caught up with the Inquisition.

I think about dying sometimes, she’d written in one of the letters he truly had meant to reply to but never had, which sounds bad, I know. I’m happy now, but for how much longer? When he’s older, I hope Malcolm takes more after Seb. My family is cursed. Is it wrong to bring a new life into all of that?

Did Choir Boy ever talk to her about her fears? Did he hold her hand and promise they’d work through it? Or did he choose to believe she’d be fine, like Varric had time and time again?

The Inquisitor was watching him with those too-pale eyes that he often struggled to describe heroically in his writing. Her mouth was twisted into an uncomfortable, grim line. A cold feeling washed over him when he realized who was missing. Saoirse’s words echoed in his mind: Am I going to die?

Peeta Mellark. 

He was your constant; your rock. You could rely on him for anything and everything.

He was the steadiest thing you’d had in your life for a long time now, but as he took your wrist and led you upstairs away from the party, you couldn’t help but feel the anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Peeta, what—”

“Why?” he nearly shouts. Peeta is mild mannered. He’s many things, actually; polite, charming, and personable, but angry was not one of them. It didn’t scare you like you’d always expected it to, but rather frustrated you. 

“Why what, Peeta?” you hiss back. 

He looks at you as if you had just grown two heads, his brows knit together in disbelief.

“You’re joking,” he breathes. You shake your head, not understanding what he is trying to get at. You defensively cross your arms, knowing the juvenile element would annoy him, but having nothing to do with your hands increases your already anxious state.

“That guy,”

“That guy?”

“Yes, y/n, yes. That guy that was just a little too friendly with you? So close to you that he was practically crawling under your goddamn skin? What were you thinking?”

You laugh at him, unable to contain it. “I can handle myself perfectly fine. Why are you being such an ass?” you all but shout at him. “It’s none of your business anyway?” 

“Hm, let’s see y/n, he could’ve, god, I don’t know, taken advantage of you?” 

You scoff, unable to handle his cliché statement. 

He brings his hands up and pushes his hair back, looking up at the ceiling as he exhales heavily through his nose. You squint at him, unable to read the emotions on his face. 

“What is up with you?” you whisper, not quite sure if he was able to hear. Your eyes narrow, unsure of what his next words might be. 

“For someone so smart, you can be so goddamn oblivious sometimes, y/l/s.”

“Oh my god, what is with all the stupid riddles tonight? I can’t read your mind! You can’t expect me to just know things,” you exasperate, throwing your hands out in front of you. “For someone who’s supposed to be good at communication, you’re doing a pretty shitty job of displaying it,” you spit, throwing his words right back at him. 

“Fine,” he hisses, starting to move towards you.

You cock your eyebrow at him, your bodies coming closer, nearly closing the gap.

“Fine?” you question.

“Yeah.” he huffs out, repeating the word with an heir of finality, “yeah.” His breath warms your face, the scent of vodka invading your senses.

Your cheeks heat up, suddenly very aware of his proximity. You watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly. He can’t meet your eyes, his heart hammering against his chest so loud that it feels as though you can hear it. His head drops along with his gaze, studying the floor before chancing a glance at you. Peeta lets go of a breathy laugh as words tumble out of his mouth.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he breathes, his words choked, hardly audible, him now looking you right in the eyes. Your stomach does a flip once, unsure of his next words. Blue eyes stare at your e/c ones that are clouded in confusion. You can feel his frustration start to build as he takes a step back from you, his voice rising and hands coming from his sides. 

“I’m in love with you,” he bursts out. 

Oh my god.

You stare at him in shock, his proclamation stunning you. You blink once, twice, as his words echoing through your head.

His hazel eyes bore into your e/c ones, willing you to say something, anything, to let him know you heard him. But yet you stand there, unable to find the words. 

Nothing is coming out.

Say something, you beg yourself, wanting to scream out an answer, yet your mouth continues to remain shut. You swallow hard, your tongue feeling like sandpaper. How could you be so oblivious to his feelings? You and him have known each other since childhood, yet there you are, standing only inches away from him, the truth finally known. It seemed 

The look in his eyes is absolutely heart-wrenching; if you hadn’t just heard him, you’d have thought he had lost his best friend. In a way, you guess, he had. 

Peeta just shakes his head softly, shrugging his shoulders in such a way that makes you want to reach out and take his hand. His dark waves fall over his eyes and he turns around, facing the door.

“I—” you begin, but you know it’s too late. 

“Just, um, forget it, y/n,” his voice soft, small, “I’ll see you in environmental studies.”

He opens the door and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. You want to scream, to tell him to come back.  

“Dammit!” you exclaim, throwing your red solo cup as hard as you can at the wall. The contents spill all over, some of the liquid splashing on you but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

You reach to pull at your loosely braided hair, a habit of yours that came out whenever you were experiencing an excess of negative emotions, before you realize where you are. You harshly rub your eyes with the heels of your hands as you remind yourself to breathe. 

In, out . . . In, out. 

“Get it together,” you tell yourself, taking one last deep breath. “Okay.”

You turn to head back downstairs to the party, nothing on your mind except finding Peeta and setting everything straight, hoping at this point that that was even a possibility anymore. 

God, you hated this part. You hated having to make up. Saying sorry was never your strong suit, your pride always getting in the way. But this? This was not a matter of pride. This was about finally coming to terms with the truth that you so desperately tried to avoid for years. 

You almost trip as you descend the stairs, looking everywhere for Peeta but unable to find him anywhere in the crowd. 

Spotting a head of wavy bronze hair by the water cooler, you rush over to your english lit classmate, who is also a friend of Peeta’s; Finnick Odair. 

“Hey Finnick,” you say once you reach him, trying to keep your voice even. He greets you with his signature smirk before bringing his cup to his lips and taking a sip.

“Ah, y/n, having a good time I trust?”

“Trying to,” you grumble. Finnick gives you a quizzical look before you proceed; “Have you seen Peeta?” You can’t help but notice the slight crack in your voice when you say his name.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “I saw him leave a few minutes ago. Seemed pretty upset.” 

“Yeah, wonder why,” you mutter bitterly, knowing he wouldn’t hear your words above the music. 

You bite your lip, weighing the option of asking Finnick to help you find Peeta. Half of you wanted to go and find him yourself, your need to get the weight off your chest as quickly as possible, the other half of you wanting to stall for as long as you could.

 “Could you text him? Ask him where he is?” 

“Why can’t you?” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, your cheeks burning. “Because, I—” 

“Wait,” Finnick’s smile widens. “Wait, are you the reason he’s upset?” 

Your silence is enough for him. His dopey smile falters for a moment, an emotion that you could only define as realization sweeping over his face. He shakes his head softly, pulling his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and opening his texts. His thumbs glide swiftly across the screen as he compiles a message to send to Peeta. 

You can’t have been standing there for more than a minute when his phone dings. Finnick flashes you the screen. 

From: Pita Bread 

I’m fine... at the pond. 

“Thank you, Finnick, really,” you breathe.

He just nods, taking another sip of his drink. 

You rush out of the frat house the party was being held in, running across the street to Panem University’s main campus, willing your legs to go faster. 

The pond was at the northern end of campus, smack in the middle of Tribute Hall and the Coriolanus Snow Study Center. You see a silhouette sitting on one of the few stone benches surrounding the body of tranquil water, tossing handfuls of what you can only assume is trail mix at the ducks that liked to take up at the pond. 

You slow down, bringing your footfalls to a trot, then silently padding your way over the grass towards him. Your chest is heaving from the exertion as you try to make your breaths even.

“Peeta,” You call out, your voice void of any venom as you stalk towards the boy. You’re almost inclined to slap him because of how he acted. No rational person could expect someone to give them an answer to a question as heavily weighed as that right away. 

He stands up once you reach him, refusing to look you in the eyes. For a fleeting moment, you catch the grief-stricken look in his usually bright eyes and it’s enough to keep you from raising your hand at him. 

“Why did you leave like that?” you breathe out. He shrugs a shoulder with almost casual indifference. “Peeta.” you nearly plead, looking at him as your eyebrows knit together.

“What did you expect me to do?” he says feebly. 

You look up at the night sky, inhaling deeply as you hurriedly send off a prayer to whatever higher power that you can say everything you want to say to him, in the way you want to say it. 

In a way that says something to him. Means something. 

The stars seem to twinkle brighter, almost like they received your message. God, this is so hard.

Peeta is still looking anywhere but at you, his focus now on the ducks idling in the water. 

“You could have waited for me,” you say. “I mean, come on! That was… big. A big thing to drop on me,” you add, “so of course I was shocked. But if you had just waited for me . . .” 

“What?” he snorts, finally looking you in the eyes. “What would you have said that couldn’t have possibly made me feel like more of a fool than I already was? What—” 

“I love you,” you blurt. 

Here it goes.

“And not in a ‘you’ve always been there for me, so I’m kind of indebted to you’ kind of way but in a way that’s like, ‘I want to do cheesy stuff with you because I know it will make you smile.’ That’s like, I would do anything, anything to prove to you that I’m worthy of your love. Peeta, you’ve seen everything I was and everything I am, and it just— I just couldn’t believe when you said that . . . But I— I trust you with everything in me and it frightens me, because you know I’ve been hurt before, but I can’t deny that everything feels right when I’m with you. I just. I want another chance. If, if you’ll let me.” You breath the words out, hardly anything but air coming out.  

“Y/n, breathe.” 

“Right,” you exhale, your mind swirling around, making vertigo seem like a walk in the park. 

“You’re not . . . unworthy of love,” Peeta begins but he stops, trying to figure out his words. “What Cato did to you, it doesn’t mean you’re undeserving of love. He’s.. an asshole, who’s going to get what’s coming to him. I— I’m sorry for dropping it on you like that, but seeing you with that guy, he just reminded me so much of Cato, and it made me so mad because I didn’t want you to go through that again, and I.. couldn’t help but think it was my final chance to tell you how I felt.” 

“Final chance?” 

“Y/n, I’ve loved you since like year six.” 

“Peeta, you absolute dumbass!” you exclaim, quickly going to cover your mouth as your own words shock even yourself. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . wow,” a laugh nearly escapes your lips. “We’re both oblivious fools, huh?” 

Peeta’s brows furrow in confusion, as you let out a soft chuckle. His head is tilted slightly to the side, his soft curls falling into his blue eyes. This moment is one you’ll always remember, you think to yourself, already trying to commit it to memory. The way the trees slightly sway from the late summer breeze, the moonlight reflecting off the water; best of all, the glint in Peeta’s eye when your gazes meet. It’s so cheesy, really, but you couldn’t care less. You’ve played it over and over in your head for years, different scenarios always being formulated, but nothing you could have ever dreamt of could compare to this moment. 

“I’ve loved you since year seven,” you tell him, every word of it true. “I can’t believe it took us both this long. Could have avoided the whole Cato fiasco of year twelve, I suppose, if we had just . . . had the gall to tell each other back then, I guess,” you say, the last sentence mumbled.

“Yeah.” Peeta laughs, a genuine deep laugh that reaches his eyes. It rouses the butterflies that have been in the pit of your stomach, the fluttering making you nervous as you watch him scratch the base of his neck almost embarrassedly. 

“So,” you say, dragging the ‘o’ sound. “Pretty sure this is the part where most people would kiss.” 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“No, not you, Peeta. I was talking to the duck behind you,” You frown, unable to contain the scoff that passes your lips. “Yes.. yes, I want to kiss you,” you breathe, your pulse hammering.

You step forward, your hands reaching up, gliding against his cheeks, his hands resting on your waist. In a moment of bravery, you place your lips against his. They’re soft, and he tastes like cedar and bread, and it’s like coming home, being in his arms as his lips move against yours, the breeze chilling your skin but his warming you. 

There are no words spoken between the two of you as you both pull away. His eyes are still closed, his long eyelashes resting against the tops of his cheeks; the corners of his mouth are pulled up slightly. 

God, he’s beautiful. So beautiful. That word is usually reserved for sceneries, sunsets or pretty dresses, but in this moment, you can’t tear your eyes away from him. 

“Finally!” someone shouts, causing the both of you to jump back from each other, acting like two first years getting caught passing notes in class. You look around before your eyes land on Johanna Mason, leaning against the statue of the university founder Alma Coin that’s off to the left of the entrance of the study center. Finnick is with her, his signature smirk gracing his elegant features once more. “We were wondering when you two would have the balls to tell each other how you felt.” 

“It seems everyone knew but you two,” Finnick adds with a deep chuckle. 

“Alright, Finny, I think we should leave the two lovebirds alone.” Johanna says, turning away. “Be safe, you two!” 

“If you need anything,” Finnick winks at Peeta. “You know where to reach me.”  

You laugh softly, leaning your head against Peeta’s chest. His arms wrap around you, encasing you in him. His cheeks rests on the top of your head, his breaths evening out as you listen to his steady heart beat. 

Cas had left early on the 21st, kissing Dean firmly before he was out the door. He had a lead on Lucifer, he said, and it was too important not to at least check it out. The angel had reassured Dean that he would be home for Christmas, but by Christmas Eve morning Dean was losing his faith.

That's why he was laying pitifully in his bed, not able to think of anything but the cold spot beside him.

Dean tossed and turned for an hour, flipping his pillow when he got too hot and tangling the sheets into a twisted mess. He had tangled himself into a mess.

He rolled over into his pillow, desperately trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes when he saw that it was midnight.

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

He was not supposed to be like this. He was a world renowned hunter. He was Dean freaking Winchester. He was -

"Dean?" a deep, familiar voice whispered.

He was hopelessly in love.

Dean rolled over fast enough to get whiplash. He was out of bed in half a second, rushing towards the shadowy figure in the doorway.

Dean barreled into Cas' arms. Both of them stumbled until Cas' back hit the wall of the corridor. He smashed his lips onto the angel's, sighing happily.

"Merry Christmas, Dean." Cas whispered with a smile.

"You aren't ever leaving me on Christmas again." Dean said, trying to be mad but failing horribly as he kissed him again.

"Deal."

Dean dragged Cas to the kitchen, forcing a cup of hot chocolate into his hands before pulling him to the common room. They collapsed happily under a blanket, Dean wrapped around Cas clingily. The tree still twinkled in the corner where Sam forgot to turn it off.

Dean felt his eyes growing heavier and heavier as the warmth of being happy enveloped him. He slid down until his head was in Cas' lap and closed his eyes contently.

It was Christmas Day in Kansas, and all was well.

So won't you tell me you'll never more roam Christmas and New Years will find you home There'll be no more sorrow no grief and pain And I'll be happy, happy once again

Adrien listened to the chatter exchanged between Alya and Nino, while Marinette remained quiet. She looked tired, which really wasn’t that uncommon, but her fatigue seemed to spill into all of her activities. She had less “pep in her step,” as Alya had said, and her eyes weren’t nearly as bright as they used to be. Not that he meant to pay attention to such things, of course, but it was hard to not notice. Even Chloe, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but herself, had laid off on the harassment. Adrien chalked up his attentiveness to Marinette as nothing more than being a good, concerned friend, but as of late that excuse was becoming harder to sell, even to himself.

It started about four months ago when they came back from summer break. Everyone had gone back to school and while Adrien was physically there, he was mentally absent. Kagami had just gone abroad for school again after they’d broken things off. He would have liked to say it was a mutual breakup, but she was the one who brought it up. Kagami was wise beyond her years so when she told him that his heart wasn’t in the relationship, he knew she was right. He expected his first heartbreak to be gut-wrenching, but it wasn’t. He felt sad, sure, but not in the way that leaves you paralyzed in bed for weeks on end. At the time, he wondered why that was, but the answer was obvious: Marinette. 

When he got to school, it was almost as if she could see the gloomy cloud over his head. She was there for him when no one else seemed to notice, her stuttering and fumbling hardly present in their conversation. In the beginning, he felt almost guilty for confiding in her. It would’ve been ignorant of him to believe she didn’t have problems of her own (who didn’t?), but it was a fact known by many that Marinette Dupain-Chang was one to do whatever she could to help the people she cared for. 

It was then that he noticed it: the butterflies. It was like a tsunami of anxiety, excitement, and shyness all rolled into one whenever she did anything: the way her hair moved in the breeze, her clear laugh that dared him to smile, but most of all, her kindness. Marinette was one of those people that you couldn’t hate. She was that person who helped others even when no one was looking. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself when he started falling for her every move. 

She didn’t know, probably never would, but she had him whipped. 

The blonde was snapped back into reality when his best friend nudged him: “You coming?” Nino’s brow arched in question.

He looked across the street, where his bodyguard was waiting for him, standing by the driver’s side door of the sleek black Audi. Though it’s been the same car since Adrien was like thirteen, it still looked brand new. 

“I forgot my homework,” he said to Nino, calling out to his bodyguard to repeat the same thing. With a barely discernible nod of approval from the bodyguard, Adrien turned back toward the school doors.

Adrien grumbled as he jogged away from his friend group: “Well, Nadia, Paris’ superheroes happen to have vaguely normal lives too if you weren’t aware.”

Plagg floated up from Adrien’s pant pocket and did circles around his owner’s head. “You put too much faith in humans, they don’t think about that kinda stuff. To them, you and Ladybug are untouchable.”

“Yeah, well we’re not,” he mumbled frustratedly. He pressed his palms into his eyes tiredly and took a deep breath before dropping his arms back down to his sides. 

“Plagg claws out,” he muttered. 

Plagg liked to think he knew his miraculous holder quite well. Despite the kwami’s demeanour and seeming distaste toward anything non-cheese related, he did have feelings. Yes, he loved cheese, but he also loved Adrien. He had spent the last two years with Adrien, and he knew something was terribly wrong with his owner. 

He’d ask later. The cat-like kwami entered the ring miraculous, and with that, Adrien Agreste was gone, replaced by Chat Noir. 

The leather-clad hero headed toward the disaster zone, the rain not doing anything to help his vision. He landed on a rooftop near the Akuma attack and swiftly surveyed the scene. Upon not seeing Ladybug anywhere, Chat Noir sent a quick message to Ladybug, highlighting the damage, before swooping in to hold off the Akuma.

xXx

To put it simply, Marinette was struggling. It had been the fifth Akuma attack that week and after two years of being Ladybug, her excuses were becoming weaker and weaker as time went on. Adrien’s abrupt exit was odd, but she didn’t have time to think about it as she felt the ground shake slightly. It didn’t matter how exhausted she was, she couldn’t put off her duties any longer. 

“I uhm, I forgot I had a question for Miss Bustier. I’m going to go see if she’s still around and I’ll uh just stay here until Ladybug and Chat Noir get everything taken care of!” she flashed her friends a thumbs up and with that, she ran back inside the school, toward the locker room. She opened her tiny purse in order for Tikki to emerge. “This is bullshit,” she muttered to herself. 

Tikki gasped in shock. “Marinette!”

“Sorry,” she mumbled half-heartedly, “You wouldn’t happen to care if I maybe just happened to not show up and let Chat handle it?” 

The glare that the small kwami sent her way told her otherwise. “Something about this one tells me that you’ll need all the help you can get,” she told her owner. 

Her stomach twisted with anxiety, both confusion and shock washing over her face. Tikki had never talked about the dangers of an Akuma before, which alarmed Marinette. Shit.

“Tikki, spots on.” 

Ladybug swung with all her might as her trusty yoyo grabbed onto buildings and chimneys, the sounds of destruction nearing. A black blur, undoubtedly Chat, streaked the cloudy, grey sky as an akumatized villain screeched out. Her eyes skimmed over the cobblestone streets in front of her, but nothing could prepare her for the screams of terror and bloodied civilians that scattered the scene below. 

Her feet had only touched down on the ground for a second when she heard him. 

“Nice of you to drop in,” Chat purred, startling her. “You’re late,” he added, his voice icier than expected. 

“Cry about it,” Ladybug responded coldly. 

“Meowch m’lady,” he said in mock hurt. 

“Sorry,” she muttered to her partner as she took him in. His blonde silky hair was plastered to his head from the pouring rain, the droplets permeating the black leather. If the suit wasn’t skin-tight before, it certainly was now. She had to tear her eyes away from the sight of him, her sensibility screaming at her to focus while her eyes wanted nothing more than to drink in every inch of him.

Literally what the fuck, she said to herself. Now was no time to pine for her partner. 

The Akuma that stood before her was physically underwhelming in stature, but her clothing made up for it. The girl in front of them held herself at around 5’3 and couldn’t be more than 18, but her wicked smirk sent a chill through her spine. The girl was clad in an array of green from forest, sage, to mossy shades, the dress that adorned her body looking like that straight from greek mythology. It was made up of grand silks, almost entrancing Ladybug and Chat with the way that the fabric moved like rippling water. It was ethereal, really, but the closer she looked at it the deadlier it became. 

From around the waist and shoulders, long strips of silk floated behind her like the snakes on the head of Medusa. They almost seemed to bend to her will, the fabric defying gravity. Not only were pieces of the dress floating, but so was her long dark hair. In her hand was a staff made from tree trunk like material. Resting atop her head was an obsidian black crown with spikes the length of Ladybug’s hand. 

After looking around at the already distraught state of the street, their evaluation was over: she was not going to be another walk in the park.

“Shit,” Chat breathed out. It was at that moment that the villain opened her mouth to address both the heroes and bystanders. 

“Citizens of Paris, I am Gi Mágissa. I am not here to compromise with your heroes. Others in the past have failed to retrieve what Hawk Moth desires, but I will not: today will be the day that you remember as the fall of Ladybug and Chat Noir.” Her voice resonated as if it was echoing off the walls. She shifted her gaze to the left, her eyes locking with the two of them. 

“Give me your miraculous and I may decide to spare you and your city,” she said in a dangerously low voice. Her voice was smooth, yet it cut right through the two partners like a freezing wind in the dead of winter. Under any other circumstances, her words would be humorous, cheesy even, but this was not like anything else they faced.

Chat laughed as his trademarked smirk appeared. “Funny, because I don’t remember agreeing to that,” he said in mock thoughtfulness, almost like he was trying to recall a memory.

“Chat,” Ladybug hissed, “I’m starting to get the feeling that you won’t be able to joke your way out of this one,”

“C’mon m’lady, live a little.” 

“Yeah, well I might not be alive to do so if you keep being an idiot.” Ladybug could feel the frustration rising in her as Chat continued to appear so casual and relaxed. How could he not sense that this was so much worse than before?

Chat turned to her and she could finally see his eyes. Despite his outward appearance, she saw the nervousness in his gaze. There was almost a buzz in the air, a metallic smell that made them wrinkle their noses: blood, iron maybe. 

= the same night of the attack at training camp =

Todoroki had been separated from all of his classmates, leaving him sprinting through the forest alone as he tried to find his way back to the camp. Using his fire to light the way, he found a beaten path and picked the direction he thought would lead to the others. 

Preferably, Shoto would have run into Midoriya or Shoji by now, or any of the other classmates that had been scattered through the forest, but we don’t always get what we want. The forest seemed to never end, its silence only being broken by his feet hitting the earth at an even pace, until a sound in the distance caught his attention. If you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it, maybe even thought it was your mind playing tricks on you, but Shoto was sharp. He knew he wasn’t alone. He stopped in his tracks, cocking his ear in the direction of the disturbance. 

Another crack.

Todorki’s head whipped, his heart rate increasing as he saw the silhouette. 

Shoto found himself standing face to face with the villain that infiltrated their training camp. 

“Dabi.”

“What? Not happy to see me?” The villain sneered. The fire that Shoto was using as light grew and ice formed near his feet. “I’ll take that as a no.” 

Todoroki let his fire engulf his left side.

“I would have thought you’d be happier seeing your big brother after so many years.”

Shoto’s movements faltered, his fire dying out completely. ‘He’s messing with you,’ he told himself. ‘Touya died years ago.’

Dabi stepped towards Shoto. “You wouldn’t remember me too well, dad sent me away when he saw how my quirk destroyed my body.”

“Touya is dead,” he hissed, “I can see right through your lies.”

“But they’re not lies, Shoto, I’m telling the truth.”

The hero would have believed him if it wasn’t for his reputation. The genuinity in his voice was thick, but the small smirk that grew on Dabi’s lips reminded him who he was talking to.

“You really don’t believe me, do you? I thought you heroes were supposed to give others the benefit of the doubt?”

“Not when they’re psychopaths like you, no.”

“Just like dad, so quick to label people.”

Shoto seethed with anger. “Don’t you dare compare me to him.”

“Hmm, and you got his temper too,” Dabi mused. 

Todoroki’s left side caught fire again. “I said, don’t.” He knew Dabi was just playing with his head, trying to get him to lose his cool, but something about being compared to Todoroki Enji always made Shoto’s blood boil. He didn’t want to have any connection to Endeavour. He was never there for him the way a father should be, not in any way that counted at least. He was always too wrapped up with trying to train Shoto to surpass All Might. It disgusted him, his lack of emotional availability leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Hit a nerve?” The villain laughed. “I know dad can be a dick, but you seem to have a deeper hatred towards him.”

“Stop talking about him like he’s your father. We are not related.”

“Fine, don’t believe me. I can’t force you to take my word for it. It's only a matter of time before dad finally slips up and spills it all,” he chuckled, “the press will have a field day with that. I can see the headlines now, ‘Two Todorokis Confirmed to be Working With the League of Villains!’”

His eyes narrowed on the villain in front of him, confusion sweeping across his features. “Two?”

There was a fleeting moment where a small smirk flashed across Dabis face before he spoke. “Oh, did I forget to mention? My apologies Shoto, I’m here to recruit you.” Todoroki’s confidence faltered. Recruit him? 

“Stop playing your games Dabi.” 

“I’m not playing any games. You’re going to join the league of villains.”

Shoto’s glare was cold, his eyes locked on the man who claimed to be his brother. “What makes you think that I would ever in my right mind join everything I never want to be? I’ve spent my whole life proving to others that I wouldn’t grow up to be the bad guy; why would I throw all that hard work away?”

“Because you have motive,” he said simply. 

“Did you not just hear anything I said to you?” Shoto growled. 

“Oh I heard you loud and clear, Shoto, but not all ‘villains’ are the evil you should be looking to rid the world of,” Dabi told him. “How I see it, the heroes are the ones that should be taken down a peg or two. They’re the bad guys in our story.” The villain approached Todoroki cautiously, scanning the wannabe hero up and down. “I mean look at our father- sorry, I mean your father,” he corrected himself, pretending to care, “- the number two hero, and yet he’s abused his family to further his own self-centred agenda. How much pain and suffering did he put you through when you were just a kid? What did he do to your mother?”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“All the more reason to join us. This life couldn’t have been something you chose- he forced it on you so you could complete what he couldn't, didn’t he?”

“I want to be a hero.”

“No, dad wanted you to be a hero.”

Shoto hesitated; it felt like the air around them had turned stale, nearly suffocating him. It was as though Dabi had backed him into a corner, any escape being blocked. “I want it too,” he said trying to convince Dabi just as much as himself. “I do want to become a hero.”

Dabi noticed how his words wavered; he was doubting. “You can say that as many times as you’d like, but I know it’s not true. Your belief system has been twisted by society, making you think the heroes are the good guys.”

“They are.”

“Most of the heroes today only care about their status,” Dabi told him, his nonchalance almost alarming. “Climbing the ranks and getting money. Our society is corrupt and you know it. By joining us you can help reshape it and make it great again.”

“Have you not gotten it through your thick skull yet?” Shoto whispered, “I’m. Not. In.”

“Give it time, I know you’ll see things from our perspective soon enough. The League has given you a month to decide.”

“For someone who seems so intuitive, you’re stupid for believing that I would give up everything I’ve worked for just to satiate your need to not be the only screw-up in the family.”

“I thought you said that you didn’t believe me?” Dabi challenged. 

“Oh, I can see it now. You definitely get your ignorance from dad,” Shoto deadpanned. 

Every day I’m reminded of him. I’m reminded of him in the woods that I hunt in. I’m reminded of him when I pass the bakery. Most of all, I’m reminded of him when I look at Prim. The way her big blue eyes remind me of how he looked at me after the feast in the arena. Her locks remind me of when I brushed the hair out of his eyes when he was dying in front of me as the hovercraft picked us up. I remember the day we arrived at the Capitol, him being all smiles, waving to the flamboyant people standing only feet away from us on the other side of the train walls. When we came back he couldn’t even meet my eyes. 

At least that’s what I pretended. Still pretend, for that matter. 

It’s been months. Months since I’ve uttered a word to him. I was never an emotional person; never have been. My indifference was what kept me from hurting throughout my life. It’s what helped me win my games. Our games. I want to keep it that way. What we did to survive doesn’t reflect our feelings for each other. I know that. He should know that too. Romantically, we are nothing anymore. But that’s not to say that I don’t pay attention to him. I know that his family doesn’t visit him. I know he lives alone, spending all day roaming his house, much like I do when Prim isn’t around. I know he paints when he gets overwhelmed, and obsessively bakes when he can’t sort through his thoughts. 

But I refuse to miss his presence. 

I had lived without him before the games, so why can’t I do the same now? I function perfectly fine without him. It would be illogical to rely on him when I’m capable of doing so by myself. The star-crossed lover’s act changes nothing, and that’s all it was; an act. We don’t owe each other anything. We finished the games. He saved my life and I saved his. 

We’re even. 

“Katniss!” I hear someone gasp, the click of heels sounding on the walls of my oversized bathroom. My thoughts are chased from the forefront of my mind as I turn to see Effie Trinket, my escort. 

“Hi, Effie,” I respond, plastering on a fake smile. 

“What has happened to you darling?” she breathes, a hint of disgust in her voice. I almost laugh at the look on her face, unable to find it in myself to care about her comment. It has been months since I’ve seen my bubbly escort and prep team, resulting in me “letting myself go” according to Venia. I hardly brush my hair, throwing it into my braid as soon as I wake up, I don’t shave, wax, pluck, trim, or do anything of the sorts that my team would prefer me to do. Before the games, I had no need to do it, so why bother now? I’m not back in the comforts of my home district just to primp myself for others. I’ve never cared about my appearance, really, not until it came to getting sponsors for the games. Then, and only then, did I care about the way my eyebrows were shaped, if my legs were smooth enough or if I had loose hairs in my face. I found it superficial, the way that people in the Capitol fretted over their faces and bodies. 

“According to Venia, I have, what was it? ‘Let myself go’” I inform her with mock formality. She gives me a look before responding. 

“Well, no point in sulking about it now, I’m sure Cinna will be here any minute now,” Effie waves, her hands almost dismissing me in a way. 

Despite Effie’s reassurances, Cinna does not appear at my house for some time. My team scolds me about self-care and how it is “important for a lady to be presentable!” which does nothing but piss me off more. They wax, poke, prod, pluck and do just about everything to bring me back to how I looked right after my first session in the Capitol. There’s not a hair to be found on my body with the exception of my head, and my skin is a smooth, silky consistency that almost feels fake. It’ll stay like that for a while; for the duration of the two months, possibly more, my skin will be void of hair. I don’t know how they manage to do it, but I don’t care to know either. They mean well, they really do, but I can’t help but feel a wave of relief overcome me when their fingers fall from my hair and face. 

“Cinna will be here in a moment for final touches, but we’ll see you on the train!” Octavia trills. On cue, they all exit the room in a flourish of makeup powder and bags upon bags of ointments and strange concoctions. I sigh, relaxing all my muscles in the chain that they sat me on. I pick myself up, hardly breathing in an attempt to not ruin the makeup they applied. 

I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, examining their work. My body is smooth and almost glowing, my face not unrecognizable but simply accentuated. They highlighted my prominent features, making my silver eyes stand out against my olive skin. It makes me look almost… pretty. Stunning, even. Despite the lack of heavy layers of concealer, I find my eyes wandering over my appearance. 

“Admiring their work, I see,” a voice sounds from behind me. Typically, I would jump out of my skin, startled by the sound, but I know this voice; am familiar with it even. 

“Cinna,” I utter, watching him stand in the doorway of my obnoxiously large room. A smile begins to creep onto my lips as I turn around to face him. 

“Hey, Girl on Fire.”

“How are you?” I ask, my question genuine. Cinna is one of the very few Capitolites that I can stand, even have come to love. He’s down to earth, and isn’t tedious or emotional, unlike my prep team. 

“I’m fine. Although I must admit I’m much more interested in knowing how you are,” he grins, the look in his eyes already telling me what he wants to know.  

I groan, reality settling in. “Not you too.” Cinna leads me back to the chair and ushers me to sit down, already rearranging a few strands of hair and pulling out makeup brushes of different sizes. 

“You two are riveting to watch, I don’t think anyone can deny that, not even you,” he states matter-of-factly. 

“Yes, well I prefer not to think about it,” I say bitterly. There’s a very brief silence, me trying to ignore the fact that I know he’s waiting for me to continue. “I haven’t talked to him in over a month, let alone even seen him,” I mutter. 

There’s a pause, undoubtedly Cinna trying to find something to say that won’t make me upset. “And is that a good or bad thing?” he asks cautiously.

“Bad. No, good. It’s good,” I get out, then squint into the mirror in frustration. “I don’t know.” 

Cinna sighs, unsure of how to tell me what I need to hear rather than what I want to hear. He’s not my therapist, and both of us are aware of that. I don’t expect him to give me a solution, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to have one. 

“I can’t sleep,” I state, my voice void of emotion. “There are nightmares. Always,” I mumble to no one in particular. I know he’s listening, but I’m starting to think I’m talking to myself more than anything. “We’ve never talked about it, but I know he would understand. You can’t just go through something like that and not understand,” I breathe. 

This is the most vulnerable I’ve been since I have returned home. And I hate it. I do. 

“You’re right,” Cinna responds. “You should talk to him.”

“I can’t,” I start, but he cuts me off. 

“But you should.” He’s right. I know he is. But I’m too stubborn to admit it; he knows that, yet he doesn’t push me. Instead, we sit in silence as he finishes pulling my hair into two French braids on my head, tied off and into a loose, natural yet neat bun on the crown of my head. 

“All ready,” Cinna informs. I step into the clothes that Cinna laid out; a simple pair of loosely fitted black corduroy pants with cuffed bottoms and a thick beige sweater; fall colours. It’s very pretty, a small portion of the sweater tucked into the pants. He tops it off with black leather gloves, black boots and a warm trench jacket to go over my sweater. Since we won’t be outside for all that long, heavy clothing is unnecessary. I take my own knitted scarf and put it on, descending the stairs with my stylist. My mother nods at me, and I hear Prim coming down the stairs to send me off. 

“Hey little duck,” I say, wrapping her in my arms. “Think you can handle a few weeks without me?”

“Katniss, I’m 14, I’ll be fine,” she exasperates. “But two months is a lot more than a few weeks.” If anyone else had said that to me, I’d laugh at their naivety. Fourteen years of age is nothing, really, but Prim is different. She’s so mature for her age, her actions never failing to surprise me. 

“Alright, I trust you. Gale will be coming to check in on you periodically anyway,” I say, keeping a brave face on as I smile softly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Prim smiles at me and wraps me in her tiny arms. I hug her back, already missing her even though she’s right in front of me. 

Our moment is broken when Effie walks into the house, arms flailing about. 

“Chop chop Katniss, everyone is waiting!” she nearly screeches. I give my sister one last grin before letting go of her hand. I wave slightly to my mother and exit, leaving my family behind. 

“So how is this going to work,” I ask Effie plainly as a bitter wind cuts across my face. I tug the coat around my body, surveying the Victor’s Village; no one seems to be around except for her and me. We descend the stairs and she begins reciting our itinerary, telling me exactly where I will have to be at what time and who I need to talk to for what reason. 

“Effie-”

“And then at 11pm we’ll board the train in 10 because the after-party will be considerably short-”

“Effie-” I interject, cutting off her long winded speech. “Effie, I meant right now, in this moment.” 

Effie pauses as if she was buffering, finally realizing what I am asking. “Right, of course.” she says as if she knew what I was talking about all along. “We’ll leave the Victor’s Village and I will escort you to the train station: we decided that if we stop at the station platform to do press then we will be late for the train, so the reporters and journalists will be waiting for you both beyond the Village gates. You will walk and respond to them in order to save time. Remember to respond with sufficient answers, but do not make each one too thorough or you won’t have enough time to get through everyone. Press will be done once you reach the station, then you’ll board the train for 11: it should take exactly one day and 6 hours to arrive. Understand?” 

My brain almost explodes trying to take in all the information she threw at me. I learned over the past year that Effie stops for nothing, especially nor my lack of information absorption. Peeta had always been the one who listened then relayed the info back to me in a very simplified way. It’s not that I’m dumb, I just find that have little to no time for schedules or itineraries in my life: specifically ones that are made by Effie. 

I try to respond with something that will satisfy her need for confirmation, so I grasp onto the first words that pop into my head. 

“Why isn’t Peeta here yet?”  

“He is already waiting for us outside the gates, dear,” she informs me. I want to ask about why he has a head start on me, but realize it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, at least, not to me. 

“Katniss,” Effie alerts me, “We’re here. Smiles on, shoulders back!” she trills, her mantra agitating me just as much as it did when we first met. 

In a split second, the rapid click of camera’s nearly deafen me. Flashes are going off every which way when I come into view of the reporters. I hate it, I hate it so much, but I still smile and wave to the stupid fucking Capitolites. I think about the amount of money it likely cost to make, manufacture and produce these dumb cameras and wonder how long the entireity of distract twelve could be fed for from just a few lenses. I’m so close to shouting at them when a hand touches the small of my back. I nearly jump 3 feet in the air from the contact, restraining myself from breaking their arm. I whip my head to my left to see the face of none other than Haymitch Abernathy. 

“What?” I snap at him. “Get your hands off me, Haymitch,” I hiss so only he can hear. 

“Nice to see you too sweetheart,” he deadpans, “When you’re done contemplating how to crush my bones, the boy is waiting for you over there.” My eyes follow his hand movement and make contact with bright blue ones. 

Peeta.

He looks ravishing, he does, but I still manage to scowl at him. I’m not mad at him, I remind myself. It would be illogical to be mad at him for nothing, yet I find myself harbouring negative emotions. What could I possibly have against him at this moment? It’s not like we’ve even talked in the past few weeks. 

Maybe that’s exactly why you’re mad, I hear a voice in my head say to me. I want to shout back, frustrated that I feel like this. 

“Go and see him, that’s what they’re all waiting for. The quicker you do this the faster we can leave,” Haymitch tells me as if i don't already know. Fuck.

I turn back to see the Boy with the Bread and lock eyes once more. I put on a lovey-dovey, hopeless romantic face and run towards Peeta as though I haven’t laid eyes on him in months. In reality, I haven’t,  which should make it all the more believable. 

“Peeta!” I shout, my feet carrying me closer to him with every step. A few more feet and we ram into each other, our chests smashing into the others. Instantly, his arms wrap around my waist and my feet dangle above the ground. It’s only been seconds yet I already feel the stone settling into my stomach. I try to say ‘hi’ but my throat feels tight. I try not to let my arms remain limp by my side, so I pull them up around his neck. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do my mind asks me over and over again. I panic, unsure of how to uplay our romance until I think to do the only thing that saved me in that arena last year: kiss him. So that’s what I do. I pull back my face that was previously placed in the curve of his neck and go in for the kill. Our eyes connect and it looks as though he is about to say something but I stop him before he has the chance. I press my lips onto his and feel both his and my body stiffen. I hate this shit, and I always will. I hate it even more when I can feel him loosen under me and moisten my lips with his own. He doesn’t need to fight for dominance, but rather takes control out of fear that I won’t do anything if he doesn’t first. 

A sounding ‘aw’ is heard from the crowd when we break apart. Peeta looks at me with wide eyes as he sets me down from his embrace while I greet the people with a wave. It takes no time before Haymitch and Effie are behind us, ushering the two of us along towards our destination. I zone out almost immediately, letting Peeta take charge of the questions. He nudges me when there is a particular one intended for me, but otherwise leaves me to my own devices. Our hands are intertwined, cold in the brittle wind when a particular question is asked. 

“Katniss! Peeta! There’s been rumours that have been circulating in the Capitol and we’re dying to know the answer!” one asks.

“Ask away then,” Peeta smiles warmly. 

“Are you and Katniss sleeping together?” 

Fuck.

Chaos breaks out almost instantly, yells and shouts uttered all around us. Some ask for the answer while others take the question even further.

“Katniss, is he good in bed?”

“Peeta, does Katniss satisfy your needs?” I freeze, dropping Peeta’s hand as if it burned me. My face must display what I’m feeling since Peeta takes a step away from me. Effie is screeching about our age, reminding people that we are only 17 while Haymitch shouts furiously for people to back off. 

I can’t tell if I’m shaking from anger, disgust, embarrassment, or all three. My eyes flit around like a wild animal when cornered by hunters. I feel exposed, bare, on display for everyone to pick apart and poke at.

Haymitch pushes through the throng of people, his face even redder than the morning after he drinks way too much than he normally does: not red out of embarrassment, like me, but out of anger. 

We’re rushed onto the train in a matter of seconds, peacekeepers pushing the reporters back like a dam does with water. Even though the doors closed, the screams were even louder than before. Once Haymitch, Effie, Peeta and I were all on the train, a deafening silence fell between the four of us. 

“Go and unpack. We’ll see you at dinner,” Hamitch tells us in a dangerously low voice. We know exactly what we will be greeted with then, and I know I’ll be getting the brunt of it.