itcanbegoodagain

[itcanbegoodagain]

okay i had to sign an nda, so i literally can't tell you anything about my new job, but i'm getting paid to essentially write fanfiction. 13 year old me would QUAKE IN HER BOOTS i cannot believe this is my life

[itcanbegoodagain]

how about peeta comforts katniss after a birthday call from her mother or gale

holy shit, i totally forgot i had this in my drafts. i am so sorry!!! enjoy <3

1195 words. mild, mild sexy times. more fade to black than anything.

--

The phone that rests in our study, used more frequently now with the calls to Dr. Aurelius and Peeta's conversations with Annie, chirps out its bright tone. I take one last sip of tea, standing as I do.

Peeta grins at me, saying, "It must be for you."

I roll my eyes at him. "You think?"

"No need to be a smartass," he calls, leaning into my touch as I gently run my hand over his hair as I pass.

"You were first!" I shoot back as I reach the doorway. My pace quickens a bit, fearing the phone will stop ringing before I can pick it up.

When I reach the desk, I lean over and grab the receiver. "Hello?" I ask, sliding around to sit and angling myself to see out the window. Haymitch's geese are flocking around him as he doles out their food, and I bite back a grin as he curses at one for nipping at him.

"Hi Katniss," my mother's voice floats through the receiver, and the smile I was holding back fades away. "How are you?"

"Mom," I start, "Hey. I'm doing well. Just enjoying the day with Peeta. We'll probably have Haymitch over for dinner." I don't tell her that we've just returned from the lake, where we trekked last night to watch the sunrise this morning. We spent the morning in companionable silence; Peeta painted as I swam.

I can hear the soft, sad smile in her voice as she replies, "That sounds wonderful." There's a brief pause, and I know I'm not going to be the one who breaks it. I gnaw on my thumb nail. "I wanted to - well, say happy birthday, honey. It's not everyday your daughter turns twenty-five."

A small pang hits my chest, but not as severely as it might have in the past. Her daughter. Not the eldest of the two, but only one. "Yeah," I manage. "Who'd have thought I'd make it here?"

Ouch. I wince as it comes out, knowing that it's better for me not to say or think those things. "Mom, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she says softly. "You've been through more than anyone should at your age. I'm glad to hear you're healing."

A lump forms in my throat, and it takes me a moment to speak around it. "Me too."

"I'm proud of you," she continues. "For finding a life for yourself and surrounding it with people who love you. Who you love. Prim would be... she would be beyond happy for you. Proud, too. So would your father."

The last sentence comes out so quietly that I almost miss it. Now, I'm truly in danger of crying, so I don't say anything.

"Katniss?" my mom asks. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah," I get out. "Yes." My chest feels like it's going to implode. They should both be here -- all three of them should be here with me. Instead, it's me, Peeta, and Haymitch, this little family I've carved out for myself.

"You don't have to say anything to that, okay? I just wanted you to hear it." She pauses again. "I don't want to keep you too long, but I wanted to call and say happy birthday, and that I love you. Enjoy your day."

"I will," I whisper. "Thank you. I love you too."

"Tell Peeta and Haymitch I say hello."

"I will," I say again, but the line has already clicked dead.

My hand shakes as I return the phone to its place, and I let my eyes fall shut. I take a deep breath in, hold it, then release it. I repeat this a couple more times, and slowly, my composure begins to return.

When tears no longer threaten to make an appearance, I return to the living room. Peeta isn't here anymore, so I grab my thick strand of yarn, fiddling with it as I walk to the slight sounds coming from the kitchen. Peeta is pulling things from the pantry, beginning lunch preparations.

"My mother called," I say quietly. "She says hello."

He stops, setting down what he's holding. Then he takes a few slow steps over and wraps his arms around my waist, stooping just a bit to do so. He holds me so tight, so fiercely, and lifts me off my feet as he straightens back up.

The steadiness of his heartbeat against my own is reassuring. I can feel the tension seeping out of my bones.

My arms are wound tight around his neck, my face buried within them, so it's hard to hear myself when I tell him that I'm okay.

He presses a kiss to the closest part of me he can reach, which happens to be my shoulder, and whispers, "I know."

We stay like that for a minute or two, then Peeta puts me down. He rests his hand on the side of my face, and his thumb runs one swipe along my cheekbone before he returns to lunch preparations.

"Would you like to make the salad or ready the rabbit?"

"The salad," I reply. This will keep my hands busy. I wash them as Peeta measures out the ingredients for my favorite: cheese buns.

We fall into the comfortable routine of making a meal together, and this, too, helps calm me. This is familiar.

"My mother talked about Prim and my father. Said they'd be proud of me," I tell the carrot I'm chopping.

"They would be," Peeta replies. "Absolutely."

"I hope so," I murmur. I don't like admitting it, but these days, I sometimes am proud, too. Life threw everything horrible at me it could, and then some, and here I am, alive, still able to make a peaceful meal with my husband.

A rush of gratitude for what I have hits me, and I pull Peeta into another hug. "Thank you for being here with me. My life is best with you in it."

"You are my life," he whispers. "And everything good about it."

I pull back to look at him, and the love radiating from his eyes is obvious. I kiss him, watching as those beautiful eyes fall shut just before mine do. It's a good thing neither of us had started on the stovetop, seeing as lunch preparations are forgotten for the time being.

He takes me to the couch, touching and whispering love onto every part of my body. It's slow, and gentle, and reminds me that I'm alive. Reminds me that I have a life to live that's no longer clouded with fear and danger. That I can cook with my husband and have sex on our couch and enjoy every moment of it without guilt.

"I love you. I'm grateful for you," I tell him, moving my hips slowly against his. Kiss his mouth, then repeat my love into it until words no longer form on my tongue.

Later, as we are pulling our clothes back on, we get another call. This time, it's Haymitch.

"Are we still doing dinner tonight?" He asks without greeting.

I smile. "Yes, be here at six."

"Alright. Happy birthday, sweetheart."

[itcanbegoodagain]

Peeta finds out that the Katniss plant is sometime referred to as Swamp Potato and this becomes his new favorite nickname for Katniss.

Swamp Potato becomes my sweet little potato becomes just Sweet Potato, (this one drives her a little mad since that’s a completely different plant), sometimes abbreviated to Sweet P. At some point along the line the nickname fades almost completely to an occasional utterance of P (endlessly confusing to the casual observer.)

Until one day Katniss offhandedly praises the toastbaby boy with a ‘good job buddy,’ which Peeta overhears, and paired with the way baby boy sleeps swaddled like a little potato - they begins referring to him as spud.

[itcanbegoodagain]

My therapist just told me my problem is that I need to write more fanfiction.

[itcanbegoodagain]

[itcanbegoodagain]

”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…”.

Mockingjay Chapter 22

[itcanbegoodagain]

Pregnancy Cravings

Word Count: 1288

Rating: N/A

Inspired by this video.

"There's no rules, baby," Peeta says softly, the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement at my frustration. "Do what your instinct tells you to."

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Then, carefully, I dip the brush into the light pink I made, swirling together white and red. I bring it to the canvas and begin to fill in the gentle lines Peeta drew for me. I start at the edges of the petals, bringing the color down in quick strokes. I've learned that if I think too much about how I move the brush, the more I mess up.

A few minutes of silence pass by before Peeta murmurs that I'm doing well, and the primroses look beautiful. I smile, not taking my eyes off the painting in front of me. "Eyes on your own work, Mellark."

He laughs next to me, and I hear him shift before putting his palette down. He holds my head steady, pressing a kiss to the side of it. "What can I get you to eat? I'm going to the kitchen."

"I'm okay," I reply.

"Yeah, sure, the noises coming from your stomach totally mean you're not hungry," he says with an eye roll I can hear.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye, clearly admitting he's right. "Do we have any leftover cinnamon rolls from yesterday? I could probably eat a whole baker's dozen in three seconds."

"Lemme check." Then he's out the door, taking the warmth of his hands on my head with him.

Cabinets open, then he yells back. "No cinnamon rolls."

Immediately, tears spring into my eyes. They blur my vision slightly, but I focus on the flowers and holding the brush correctly. Slowly, one drips down my face. Down the drain that hope goes.

He walks back into the room, holding a small plate of date bread he made today. "I brought the bread from this morning to hold you over until-" he breaks off. Peeta sets the plate down with a quiet sigh. He nears, frees my hands, then kneels in front of me. He holds my hands to his chest and looks up at me. "What's up, Katniss?"

I sniff, feeling ridiculous, and say, "I just... cinnamon rolls sound really good right now. I wasn't lying when I said I could eat a lot of them."

He laughs quietly. "I know -- you can always eat a lot, even when there isn't a baby asking for more." He brings my hand to his lips for a kiss. "What do you want me to do?"

"Can you make some?" I ask hopefully.

"I don't have everything here," he says, protesting when my face breaks again. "But hey, hey, there is some dough at the bakery that I've had proving since last night. I can go get it and make you some fresh rolls in less than an hour."

"No, Peeta, I don't want you to go all the way there for me."

He smiles, shaking his head a little. "What, like that's the most taxing thing I've ever done for you?"

"Peeta, I'm serious," I cry.

He pulls me into a hug. "Me too, Katniss, okay? I love you and our baby you're carrying, and if you both want some cinnamon rolls, who am I to deny you?"

I brush my hands over my face, wiping away the tears. I look at him, and my heart feels so close to bursting it's hard to breathe. "Are you sure?" I ask quietly.

"There is nothing else I want to do right now," he replies. My stomach does a little flip at his words.

"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."

He grins at me, leaning forward to press a kiss to my lips. I hold him there for a moment, relishing in his warmth and comfort and love.

"I'll be back soon. Get comfy, or keep painting, and there will be cinnamon rolls before you know it." He presses one more kiss to my lips before walking to the doorway. Once there, he pauses for a moment, leaning against the doorway to watch me compose myself. When I start painting again, he taps the wood with his hand a couple times and he's gone.

--

I'm in the living room when I hear the timer go off for the oven. I'm curled up on the couch with a blanket, stroking Buttercup's fur.

Soon, Peeta exits the kitchen with a large plate in hand, a knife and napkins in the other. He sits beside me, setting the plate on the small table before us. "There, fresh and warm. All for you," he tells me, laying an arm across the back of the couch.

I reach forward and grab one with my fingers, ignoring the knife completely. As I bring it close, I get a close whiff of its smell, and my stomach turns. My mouth closes, my face turning away from it and Peeta.

"Katniss?" he asks. "What is it?"

I break down into tears again, putting the roll back on the plate. I cover my face, getting a little bit of frosting on my forehead with the movement.

I cry and laugh simultaneously, not believing the state I'm in right now. This is absolutely stupid. "I..." I begin. I feel his hands on my back, rubbing soothing circles, and I cry harder.

"Katniss," Peeta says again, real concern pushing through.

I drop my hands and look at him, tears running down my cheeks. "I know I said that cinnamon rolls sounded good, but... But they don't anymore. And you went all the way to the bakery to get the dough and make them for me, and I don't even want them anymore, and I'm so picky and ungrateful-"

"Woah, hey," he says, cutting me off. "First of all, you are not picky. You would eat food off the floor. Second, you are not ungrateful, Katniss, okay?" His hands move to my face, brushing away the hair there so he can get a good look at my tear-stained cheeks. "You thank me all the time even though you don't need to. We're married, so you never have to feel bad or thank me for taking care of you. It's the pride of my life."

Without conscious thought, I crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. His arms circle me, pulling me close. Slowly, he rocks us back and forth, and my slight hiccuping sobs grow smaller before they fade away entirely. He presses kisses to the side of my head the whole time, whispering little things about his love for me in my ear.

"Okay?" he asks, minutes later.

I take in a shaky breath. "I'm okay," I tell him quietly. "And I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he replies. "You're doing something incredible, giving over your body for months for something we both get to enjoy for the rest of our lives. I don't have to feel what you do. I want to take care of you, no matter what that looks like."

He pulls my head from his neck. "I love you, Katniss, and the baby you're growing in your stomach. If I wasn't in it for the ups and downs, for the long haul, I wouldn't have married you. But I am, so I did."

"I love you, too," I say, leaning forward to kiss him. It's a little snotty, a little teary, but that's okay. "You make me feel so safe. I wouldn't be able to do this without you."

Peeta hugs me close for a few minutes more. "Katniss," he says quietly, "I can literally feel your stomach growling. What sounds good?"

[itcanbegoodagain]

PEETA POV REC

the title says it all. i found this (incomplete) fic by sparebitofparchment on ao3 that is the series from peeta's POV. it's genuinely fantastic, very canon compliant, and hurts my soul so good. if you haven't read it yet you gotta. i'll give smarter thoughts when i can cause this deserves it

here's the link: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3413680

[itcanbegoodagain]

all the people sympathising with snow and saying they can't hate him anymore after watching tbosas... y'all let awful white men get away with ANYTHING as long as you find them attractive and it SHOWS

[itcanbegoodagain]

I haven’t been able to see songbirds and snakes yet and I am FROTHING AT THE MOUTH. DOING MENTAL GYMNASTICS TO AVOID SPOILERS ONLINE.

[itcanbegoodagain]

i love the idea of annie being vicious before becoming the character we know her as. typically, we see the games as something that changes a person into a killer. if a person goes in a killer, they come out a killer. if a person goes in with clean hands, they come out with them covered in red.

being from district four, her strength and skill is what she, and all the people around her, value most and take the most pride in. she would have had an incredible send-off to the games, her goodbyes would likely have been full of excitement with maybe a little bit of fear she may not come back.

she didn't want to lose herself to the games. she wanted to win and come back home victorious and glorified, to be remembered forever. that's part of what being a victor means, right? but instead, that girl didn't leave the arena. a new one, obliterated by the horror at the wickedness of the games, came out, damaged and, ultimately, not a victor at all.

did her family become ashamed of her? did they shun her, knowing she "wasn't strong enough" for the games? perhaps the only person she could find comfort in was finnick, and we can only guess at the timeline between their respective victories and when they meet.

she was simply a piece in the games. a piece that was useful until she wasn't.

my favorite headcanon about annie (who’s a relatively undeveloped character) is she was a career who trained her entire life and excelled at the academy, that she volunteered to go into the games and was expected to be ruthless and lethal, and seeing her district partner (maybe a boy she knew?) being beheaded was just so traumatizing that it permanently changed her forevermore.

[itcanbegoodagain]

Family

[itcanbegoodagain]

”I give him a kiss, and before he can object any further, I let go and turn to Johanna…”.

Catching Fire Chapter 26

[itcanbegoodagain]

it's okay to be sad. 💛

[itcanbegoodagain]

tis I with a prompt: I request the first time post war Katniss lets Peeta into her bed again 🥺

-

AN : wrote this the night you sent the prompt but I absolutely hated it until now. I finally got around to cleaning this up a bit and now I think it’s cute? Lemme know, all of y’all, if you like it! And my writing muscles are rusty so send me a prompt if you like, to try and work me out please! Can’t make any promises about what’ll trigger my brain but I can sure try! Anywaysss hope y’all enjoy this lil post-mockingjay-pre-epilogue drabble here!

-

I watch with dread as Peeta scrubs away the last bit of sauce still dried to his plate.

“You really don’t have to do that,” I murmur halfheartedly from where I lean against the counter, watching him.

“It’s rude to not wash your own plate after dinner,” he says, his tone somewhat coy. He’s teasing me, I realize. He’s maybe even flirting with me but I can’t be sure and even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to make of it.

“I never wash mine after eating at your house,” I mumble, mostly to myself. I know he doesn’t care about cleaning off my plate for me. I know that he knows that I don’t mind washing his plate either.

But I don’t push the point and neither does he. Because we’re both stalling the inevitable.

It’s past ten at night and it’s time for Peeta to go home now. This time comes every day and we should be more prepared for it by this point, but every single night when the sun has long since left the sky and you can barely make out five feet in front of you without a flashlight, Peeta walks out the front door and my chest aches, as he disappears out into the night.

Ask him to stay, a tiny voice that sounds weirdly like both Haymitch and my mother — at the same exact time — pressures me.

But my tongue won’t cooperate and I can’t make the words form on my lips and I feel my stomach flip as I stutter out an awkward goodbye instead.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” Peeta says evenly, his face smooth and peaceful and totally level as he reaches out and squeezes my hand before moving to grab his coat.

He’s walking towards the door and I feel the familiar dread — the dread that’s been my constant companion for longer than I care to remember — rise up in my stomach and for a split second I want to reach out and grasp his elbow. For a split second I want to grab onto him and stop him from leaving.

And for a moment I plan to ask him to stay, to come upstairs with me, to get into his pajamas and brush his teeth by my side at the sink, to crawl beneath the sheets and hold me until we hear birds begin to chirp with the morning light. In that moment I plan to ask him to do exactly what we used to do on the train, exactly what we used to do every single night, back before everything between us completely shattered beyond recognition.

My hand drops midair before I can make the contact with his arm but it catches his attention just the same.

“What’s wrong?” He inquires, his face becoming concerned.

“Nothing,” I brush off tightly. Instead of saying what I’m thinking, instead of saying what I want, I just force a smile and lightly graze his hand. “Get home safe.”

At that, he shoots me a bemused look. “I live three houses from you. Somehow I think I’ll be fine.”

I nod and chuckle as he leaves, as he disappears into the night, making the shortest of journeys home, unwittingly leaving me to dwell in regret for all the things I wish I’d just come out and said.

As soon as the door shuts between us regret the size of an elephant lands on my chest.

And I know, without a doubt, this is going to be one bad night for me.

-

The funny thing about my nightmares is they never lose their edge. Not with time, not with practice, not with comparison. I’ve seen Cato get eaten by the mutts hundreds of times. I’ve watched Clove stab me with her knives and Brutus chase me through the jungle and Enobaria break my neck with one hand, more than I could possibly count.

I’ve witnessed my sister detonate, as if I’m still standing right there, in the city circle of the Capitol. I’ve witnessed it thousands of times since that day. I’ve witnessed it more often than I’ve managed to actually sleep since that day.

And it never gets easier. It never becomes routine. I’m never ever prepared for it.

Instead I’m left paralyzed as the same dreams plague me over and over and over again.

Other things do change though. I used to thrash around, kicking and screaming as the dreams tortured me for minutes on end. I used to wake up, sweat covered and coiled up in my bedding, trapped in a physical sense that only manages to make my dreams even more intense somehow.

But over time something shifted and somehow, between the bomb that killed my sister and taking down Coin and the trial I scarcely remember, the thrashing stopped and the walking began.

For months now, I’ve woken to find myself in strange rooms, in small crawl spaces I didn’t know existed, inside cupboards and beneath beds no one’s ever used in guest rooms I barely recognize.

But I’ve never found myself outside before. Never, in all the time I’ve dealt with these dreams, have I ever once ended up in my front lawn.

Never, in my wildest imagination, did I picture myself waking from my nightmare, facedown in some dirt, ripping grass from the ground as I let out a rabid scream.

“Katniss,” I hear a voice softly murmur, like speaking to an injured fawn, terrified of scaring them away. “Katniss, it’s okay.”

And my lips cry for the voice before my brain fully recognizes it. “Peeta?”

“It’s just me,” he says, and I feel his hands grasp the tops of my arms, gently pulling me upright. “It’s only me.”

I pry my swollen eyes open and take in Peeta’s kind, worried face, mere inches away from mine.

“You’re here?” I croak, still groggy and confused. “What’s going on?”

“You were having a nightmare,” he explains, thumbing away my tears as more come pouring out. “But it’s over now. It was just a dream. You’re okay.” His hand cups my cheek softly, holding the weight of my head.

I nod plaintively, my body still completely exhausted despite the fact I was just asleep. “I’m okay,” I try to say but all that comes out is a guttural raspy sound and I watch as his face softens even more.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside,” he whispers, offering me his hand.

I take it without question, but find that I’m not upright for long. The moment I’m standing, my bare feet touching the dewy grass, Peeta bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

I don’t question it though. Maybe secretly I wanted him to do that. I definitely didn’t want to wait around to see if Haymitch came outside, asking why I was screaming at this hour of the day.

Peeta carries me into the house as if I weigh as much as Buttercup, kicking the door shut behind him and walking over to the couch. He sits down with me on his lap and drops his arms, as if to let me decide the next move. I could either crawl away from him, put some distance between us, or I could remain where I am.

To me, the choice barely takes any consideration.

I curl up closer to him, the images from the dream still too fresh to handle alone. I press my face into his neck and fold myself into him and hope he reciprocates in kind.

It doesn’t take more than a second for him to respond. As soon as I initiate it, he’s there, pulling me tighter, cradling me against him, rocking me back and forth like I’m something precious to behold.

“It’s okay,” he repeats again and again and again, as if we entered a time warp and we’re back on the train, back in the Capitol in our little apartment, sharing a bed, guarding against nightmares we stupidly thought would be the height of our troubles. “I have you, Katniss. I won’t let anything hurt you now.”

I cry into the collar of his shirt, drained and shaking and still half-crazed, feeling slightly better only when his fingers begins to smooth my hair away from my face.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Peeta whispers gently, his hand moving from my hair to my lower back, rubbing soft, soothing circles there to alleviate my trembling.

Time begins to pass. My tears dwindle to nothing. I feel the shaking come to an end. Every last ounce of energy I have left seeps from my body. My eyes grow heavy.

And pretty soon, I feel myself lifted once again, into strong, protective arms, cradling me like a baby as they carry me up the stairs and down to the end of the hall.

I’m tucked into bed gently, with the utmost care. The covers are brought up to my chin, my hair is brushed off my forehead and his fingers lightly dance upon my cheek. But it’s not enough. I still crave more.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, and my voice still isn’t mine, it’s someone else, someone who isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants. For who she wants to lay beside her in the darkness.

“Okay,” he murmurs and it sounds like a promise but as he sits down on the side of my bed and takes my hand in his, planting a soft kiss upon the back of it, I know he doesn’t understand what I’m truly asking.

“No, Peeta, that’s not what I meant,” I say, shaking my head, before pushing the covers back. “Can you get in? Can you stay with me?”

I don’t really grasp my word choice and all the underlying meanings until it’s already slipped out and too late to take back again.

But I only have a moment to be filled with regret. Because that’s how long it takes Peeta to slide in beside me.

And as I curl into him, wrapping my leg around his waist, burrowing my face in the curve of his neck, basking in the feeling of utter safety and happiness that I have never, ever found in another pair of arms, he whispers the only thing that could erase my chagrin.

“Always.”

[itcanbegoodagain]

Those grilling hours before capitol balls.

[itcanbegoodagain]

PT 1 !!! I've made like 50 of these and its taking everything in me not to post them all

Pt 2

Pt 3

Pt 4

Pt 5

Pt 6

Pt 7

Pt 8

Pt 9